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Authors: Dorothy Howell

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Yuck. This job was sounding worse and worse.
Maybe I should just confess that my alma mater was really the University of Mixology and get a fun job bartending at a cool club somewhere.
Ty grinned at me. “Knowing how you like to buy things, it's a natural job for you.”
My spirits lifted. I'd buy things? That's what the job was all about?
“Every company has to buy things,” Ty said. “Hotel chains, cruise lines, movie studios, theme parks. And department stores, of course.”
Oh, wow. I could work at one of those cool places? Buying things? With the experience I'd gain working in the Dempsey Rowland contract department?
My thoughts raced ahead. Maybe I could work at someplace really fantastic like Universal Studios or Disneyland—or maybe even Neiman Marcus. I could spend my workdays buying thousands—no millions—of dollars' worth of merchandise. Talk about the ultimate shopping experience.
My brain locked up, and a feeling of horror swept over me—sort of like when you spot the perfect bag in the Nordstrom display case and realize you don't have quite enough credit left on your Visa card.
To get one of those fabulous jobs meant I'd have to keep my job at Dempsey Rowland. And to do that, I'd have to pass my security check and get clear of this murder accusation.
Impossible? Maybe not.
Stranger things had happened.
The person doing my background investigation might not look all that deep, or might not question what the “UM” I'd put on my résumé actually stood for. I'm mean, jeez, you're always hearing those news reports about a guy who'd never been to medical school working for a big hospital as a doctor, or a lawyer who'd faked her credentials after graduating from community college. It could happen to me, right?
“Anything new on the murder investigation?” Ty asked.
“I ran into Shuman at the store tonight,” I said.
I saw no need to mention he'd come there specifically to ask me if I was impeding the investigation by hiding evidence.
“Detective Shuman.” Ty nodded thoughtfully. “Detective Madison's partner.”
Ty had met both of them a few months back when they'd investigated deaths at the Holt's store.
“Shuman said they have some leads,” I said. Then, anxious to change the subject, I said, “He was in the store a few days ago with his girlfriend. She was experimenting with German food and mentioned having a dinner party.”
“Would you like to go?” he asked.
“Sounds like fun.”
Ty was quiet for a couple of minutes, then gave me a big smile.
Oh, jeez, what now?
“I have another surprise,” he said.
I considered bolting for the door, but he took my hand and led me into the kitchen.
“Ta-da!” he said, pointing to a huge metal box sitting on the counter.
Okay, so maybe this wouldn't be so bad.
“You bought a tool box?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “It's your lunch box.”
My—what?
“I know you're working diligently to stick with your new plan to eat healthier, and I know it's hard to find nutritious food when you're in an office all day,” Ty explained. “So I'm going to pack your lunch for you.”
He was going to—what?
“Every day,” he promised. “You'll never have to be tempted by chocolate or chips or any of that junk food in the vending machines again.”
Oh, great.
C
HAPTER
18
I
t was fruit and fiber day, apparently.
I gazed into the lunch box Ty had proudly presented to me on my way out of my apartment this morning. Inside was a variety of fruits and nuts, along with packages of things that were purported to be food and that probably tasted like shredded shoe boxes.
Yuck.
Not that I didn't appreciate all the trouble Ty had gone to. He'd been thoughtful and considerate helping with my whole-new-me plan. Just the sort of thing an involved, committed, devoted boyfriend should do.
I guess. Ty had never been an involved, committed, devoted boyfriend before.
I stashed the lunch box under my desk and sat back in my chair. I'd spent most of the morning doing actual work, so I figured I was due a little me-time.
True, in the past Ty hadn't been the kind of boyfriend I wanted, and he'd known that. He'd explained—more times than I wanted to hear—that his position at Holt's made it impossible for him to be the sort of boyfriend I deserved.
So now he was doing that—or at least he was being the kind of boyfriend he thought I wanted. But he'd been so different lately I couldn't help but wonder what the heck was going on.
Was it just that he'd had a scary wake-up call after his car accident? Or was something else happening?
That whole thing about him canceling his appointments, renting a car, changing clothes at a convenience store, then going to Palmdale for no known reason still bothered me.
I didn't know what he had been doing with his days, since he wasn't going to Holt's now. He never gave me any real info when I asked. I figured that he deserved some downtime. He'd been running Holt's twenty-four-seven for years so it was okay to sit around and do nothing—although I did hope that today he'd clean up that mess he'd left in my living room.
I got up from my desk chair and picked up my purse—a stunning Marc Jacobs satchel. I desperately needed to have lunch with Marcie today. Ty's whole world's-best-boyfriend thing was starting to work my nerves ever so slightly, and I needed her advice.
But today I had other lunch plans. I left my office.
 
I recognized Dale Winslow right away. As I walked up to the outdoor café on Figueroa Street where she'd agreed to meet me after I'd phoned her yesterday, I spotted her at one of the tables, the only woman there alone.
Even seated, I could see she was tall and willowy with long legs and arms. I figured her for about my age. She had light brown hair and blue eyes, and she wore denim capris, a white shirt, and a gauzy coverup teamed with chunky jewelry that gave her casual look an air of sophistication. Hanging on the back of her chair was a—oh my God, she had a Temptress tote. Immediately, I knew we'd be BFFs.
“Dale?” I asked, as I approached the table.
She smiled up at me. “Haley?”
“I love your bag,” I said. I might have moaned when I said that.
Dale threw a quick glance at my satchel—jeez, was I ever glad I'd armed myself with a Marc Jacobs today—and touched her Temptress tote.
“I picked it up just this morning,” she said. “You wouldn't believe what I went through to get it.”
“Tell me,” I said, and dropped into the chair facing her. “And don't leave out
anything.”
“I was on a waiting list for weeks,” Dale said. “When the sales clerk called this morning, I rushed to the store only to be told there had been a mix-up and they'd given my bag to someone else.”
“Oh, no!” I imagined the devastating pain she must have experienced at that moment, and my own heart ached.
“I told the clerk that I'd come there to get a Temptress, and I wasn't leaving without one,” Dale told me. “So I went to the stock room myself and took one off the shelf.”
Oh, yeah. Dale and I would be BFs
forever.
She smiled. “By that time the clerk had called her supervisor and we were all in the stock room together. They said I could buy it—”
“Like you'd leave without it,” I said.
“Exactly,” Dale agreed. She patted the tote again and smiled. “So I have a Temptress.”
“Which store was it?” I asked.
“Nordstrom at The Grove,” she said.
I made a mental note to go there immediately after work. If they had them in stock, I'd get one—no matter what.
The waiter appeared and I was relieved when Dale ordered a tuna sandwich. That meant I could order something decent to eat, instead of a crappy salad I always felt forced to eat when dining with other females.
“Sorry about your grandmother,” I said, figuring it was time to get down to business.
Grief tightened Dale's expression. “It's been awful. Just awful.”
The waiter brought the ice teas we'd ordered. I stirred in two sugars, rather than the substitutes—just to keep my brain functioning at peak level, of course.
“Grandma devoted her life to Dempsey Rowland,” Dale said. “I never thought she'd actually be murdered there.”
“Everybody I've talked to said Violet was the backbone of the company,” I said. “Any idea who'd want to hurt her?”
Dale shrugged. “Let's face it, when you work anywhere, you're going to make enemies as well as friends. But I don't know of anyone who'd push it this far.”
Our sandwiches came. The waiter fussed over us for another minute or so, then left
“You two were close?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer, and bit into my sandwich.
“Very,” Dale said, and managed a little smile. “Grandma was the best. She stepped up like you wouldn't believe after my mom died. She pushed me, which I didn't like at the time, of course, but I'm glad she did. She paid for my private school, college, everything.”
“I heard that Violet wanted you to work for Dempsey Rowland with her,” I said.
I'd been told there was a big blowup between Violet and Dale over the whole thing. Office gossip has a way of getting stretched out of shape sometimes—not that I would ever do that, of course—so I wanted Dale's take on it.
“Oh, that.” Dale rolled her eyes and put her sandwich down. “I thought the job was a lock—and so did Grandma. She was livid when it fell through.”
“You mean Dempsey Rowland refused to hire you?” I asked.
Dale started in on her sandwich again. “I'd just graduated from Harvard with my MBA, but I had no work experience. Maybe that was it.”
Okay, this was weird. I'd been hired just a few months after Dale had been rejected. She had an MBA from Harvard. I had a BA—supposedly—from University of Michigan. Dale had a recommendation from a founder of the company. I'd been referred by a friend of a friend.
“Grandma wanted me to sue,” Dale said.
“Sue Dempsey Rowland?” I asked. “Her own company?”
“It wouldn't have been the first time they'd been sued,” she said.
“Couldn't Violet get Mr. Dempsey to step in on your behalf when H.R. turned you down?” I asked.
“I guess not,” Dale said.
Okay, that was even weirder.
“Grandma was adamant that I bring suit, but I didn't want to. It hardly seemed the best way to start my career. You know how these company bigwigs talk at their lunches and golf games,” Dale said. “I didn't want to get a bad reputation before I even got a job—not that I've had any offers yet.”
“You're still not working?” I asked, a little surprised. “You seem like just the kind of person any company would want.”
“I'm sending out résumés every day,” Dale said. “I wanted to stay here in L.A. to be close to Grandma, but now, well, I guess it doesn't matter.”
We were quiet for a few minutes, neither of us interested in finishing our lunches.
“It's good that you're doing the memorial service for Grandma. I'm surprised, frankly, that the company is allowing it,” Dale said. “But I don't want to attend. Getting through the funeral was hard enough.”
“I understand,” I said. Then, for some odd reason, Ty popped into my head. “Listen, my boyfriend runs Holt's Department Stores—yeah, I know the clothes are awful—but he's a Harvard grad, too, so if you'd like, I'll mention you to him.”
Her eyes widened. “That would be great.”
“E-mail me your résumé,” I said, and we both whipped out our cell phones and entered each other's info. Dale sent me her résumé.
“Thank you so much, Haley. I really appreciate this,” she said. “Oh, listen. Have you contacted any of the Dempsey Rowland retirees about the memorial service?”
“Not yet,” I said.
“A number of Grandma's longtime friends retired in the past year or so. She stayed in touch with almost all of them,” Dale said. “You should call Erma Pomeroy. She was one of the first people hired after the company was founded. She and Grandma were really close. Erma worked in payroll so she knew everybody who worked at the company. She can give you a list of names to invite.”
Dale scrolled through her phone and e-mailed Erma Pomeroy's number to me.
“Thanks for meeting me,” I said. “Lunch is on me.”
I passed the waiter my Dempsey Rowland corporate card. I figured the company would want to pay for Dale's lunch—and mine, of course—since her grandmother had been killed there. Right? Well, okay, maybe not. But I was doing it anyway.
We said good-bye and, as I headed back to work, I sent Ty an e-mail about Dale and attached her résumé.
I was feeling really great about doing a good deed and was considering treating myself to a Starbucks as I stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor.
The reception area was crowded with about a dozen men in suits, typical for early afternoon when so many employees were headed out for lunch, or just returning. A FedEx guy stood at the reception desk zapping a stack of packages with his handheld computer.
“Haley?” Camille called from behind her reception desk.
I kept walking but the lobby was packed, slowing my escape.
“Haley?” Camille called, louder this time. “There's someone here to see you.”
Just then, a really hot-looking guy in a tuxedo rose from one of the lobby chairs. He was a little younger than me, maybe, with jet black hair, a strong chin, and killer blue eyes. He must have been one of those men who spend their every waking moment in the gym because he had a smoking hot body—not that I really noticed or anything, since I have an official boyfriend who was devoting himself to me completely.
“Haley Randolph?” the guy asked, looking at me.
A few of the men standing in the lobby gave him the eye also.
“Yes,” I said.
“This is from Ty,” he announced. He picked up a guitar from a case lying on the floor, and started singing “Close to You.”
What the heck?
He sang—loud.
He played his guitar—loud.
All the men in the lobby stopped and stared. The FedEx guy turned to look. Camille leaned across the reception desk to get a better view.
Oh my God, what was this guy doing?
Heat swept up my back—and not because he looked so hot.
From the corner of my eye, I saw three more men venture out of their offices down the hallway and stare.
Tuxedo guy kept singing.
I felt my cheeks turn red and—and, oh, jeez, what if I perspired in my new suit?
The song dragged on with tuxedo guy belting out lyrics about birds showing up, stars crashing down, moon dust and starlight—or something. I don't know, it was all too humiliating to comprehend.
Finally—thank God—the song ended. The singer whipped a single red rose from inside his guitar case and presented it to me with a flourish.
“Ty wants you to know he's thinking of you,” he said.
“Great,” I mumbled, then snatched the rose from his hand and hurried back to my office.
When I got there, I dashed inside and slammed the door, ready to—oh, jeez, not again.
A large arrangement of red roses sat on my desk, wedged between the white and yellow bouquets Ty had already sent. Good grief, my office was starting to look like a mortuary.
I shoved the single red rose into the bouquet and plopped down at my desk. The whole incident had been more embarrassing than anything. I knew Ty meant well, but, jeez, couldn't he do something more private?
I knew I should call and thank him for the flowers and the singer, but I couldn't quite bring myself to do it yet. Then my office door burst open and I wished I had.

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