Tote Bags and Toe Tags (20 page)

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Authors: Dorothy Howell

BOOK: Tote Bags and Toe Tags
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The house Max had entered looked just like all the other homes here. The neighborhood was well established, the houses probably thirty years old, the kind of place where couples hunkered for the long haul of raising their kids. SUVs and minivans lined the street and filled driveways. Bikes, tricycles, and toys were scattered across the front lawns.
I watched the windows, thinking maybe I could spot Max or someone else and figure out what was going on there. But the blinds were closed so I figured he'd gone into the kitchen on the back of the—
Wait a minute.
Hanging by the front door was one of those wooden signs with the names of the family members carved into it. I'd seen one of those before, just recently, I realized. It was hanging by the front door of Max's house in El Segundo. This one looked just like it except that the names were different.
I locked my gaze onto the sign. The names read Max, Melanie, Misty, Mace, Miles.
I fell back in my seat, trying desperately to come up with some reasonable explanation. But I couldn't. All I could figure was that—oh my God—Max had
two
families.
That sure as heck was a good reason to change jobs every year or so, as Detective Shuman had told me Max had done. It was one whale of a reason to be concerned about a background investigation.
And an excellent motive for murder.
C
HAPTER
20
“Y
ou want me to—”
I couldn't get the words out.
I tried again.
“You're suggesting that I—”
The words hung in my throat. They wouldn't come out. I gave it another try.
“You think that I should—”
Forget it.
I stared down at Evelyn seated behind her desk in the Holt's office. I couldn't—
could not
—believe what she had just said to me. If it had been anybody but Evelyn, I might have gone across the desk after her like a spider monkey.
I mean, jeez, I'd worked all day at Dempsey Rowland, given up my chance to claim—yeah, okay, some other woman's—Temptress tote at Nordstrom, to follow Max Corwin out to Northridge.
And now
this?
“Remember? At your training review, we talked about how you'd missed several of the training sessions,” Evelyn said, sounding completely reasonable, “and your need to make them up on a timely basis.”
Yeah, I knew Evelyn had mentioned it, but I didn't think she really
meant
it.
I am, after all,
me.
“So, as I said, I worked out a schedule that will allow you to complete your missed sessions quickly,” Evelyn explained.
She pointed to the computer printout she'd placed on the desk a few minutes ago, the one that had rendered me momentarily speechless.
“Since you missed the facilitator-led, in-store sessions, you can use the CBT version,” Evelyn said, then added, “That's computer based training.”
Which was code for clear-the-room-of-sharp-objects-because-a-suicide-attempt-was-likely.
Evelyn gestured to yet another printout. “I've set everything up so you can do the CBT training this weekend. That means you'll work a full eight hours on Saturday and on Sunday.”
Eight hours—for two straight days—isolated alone in a room, reading the Holt's policies and procedures. Nobody to talk to. No way to slip away for candy—just to keep my energy level up, of course.
“And don't forget, you'll have a test at the end of each segment,” Evelyn said.
A test? Yikes! That meant I'd have to actually pay attention to what I was reading—and remember it. How was I supposed to text my friends and update my Facebook page under those conditions?
Evelyn gave me a kind smile. “I know this is a taxing schedule. So don't worry if you don't pass some of the tests. You can continue the training sessions into next week, if need be.”
More of this? Into next week? Was this nightmare ever going to end?
No way—
no way
—could I sit through this.
“Actually, Evelyn,” I said, and managed to sound calm and self-assured, “the other clerks who went through the training told me everything about it. Absolutely everything. I feel completely confident that I'm up to speed on all the new policies and procedures.”
“I'm so glad all the employees are sharing information,” Evelyn said with a broad smile. The corners of her mouth turned down. “But everyone must go through the training and learn the material firsthand. That way, there is no misunderstanding or misinterpretation.”
I didn't want to get rough with Evelyn, but I couldn't just sit here and let this happen.
I tried another tactic.
“As much as I appreciate Holt's desire to keep every employee well trained—”
I almost gagged when I said that.
“I just don't feel right not being on the sales floor. Rita is such a conscientious cashiers' supervisor. I can't leave her shorthanded,” I said.
My temples started to throb.
“And I certainly don't want to diminish the high standards of service Holt's is known for, by not being available to help customers,” I said.
My right eye began twitching.
“I understand completely,” Evelyn said. “But you must go through the training, Haley. I've already had your schedule approved by the corporate office.”
No. No, no, no. There
had
to be a way out of this.
Maybe I could get some sort of special dispensation. Or a waiver. Maybe I could bribe someone. Yeah, that might work.
Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't even consider doing something like that, but these weren't normal circumstances. We were talking about training. That elevated the situation to a whole other level. Desperate measures were called for.
Maybe I could have sex with someone at Corporate.
Hang on a minute.
I was already having sex with someone at Corporate.
Oh my God. Ty. I could just have him sign a waiver and—poof!—this whole training thing would go away.
Whew!
“Thanks so much for working out the training schedule for me,” I said, rising from my chair. “I really appreciate everything.”
Evelyn smiled. “You're very welcome, Haley.”
I left the office.
I love being me.
 
I left Holt's feeling pretty darn good about myself. Yeah, okay, maybe it was kind of crappy for me to get out of the training when all the other employees had to endure it, but I didn't see anything wrong with special treatment—as long as it benefited me, of course.
I walked into the near-empty parking lot with the other employees. Only a few cars were left. The security lights had been cut back—Holt's claimed it was to reduce their carbon footprint, but I'm pretty sure they were more concerned about their electric bill.
My spirits lifted a little when I saw a man standing beside my car. His back was to me, but I knew it was Jack Bishop. I'd called him earlier and he'd said he would find me. It was way cool—but I wished he could have found me in some hot club looking hot, instead of here at Holt's.
“Hey, you found me,” I called, as I walked up.
He turned around. I froze.
Oh my God. It wasn't Jack. It was Mike Ivan.
How had he found me here? How did he know I worked at this Holt's store? Did he know absolutely everything about me?
Mike gave me a hint of a grin.
“I didn't want to scare you this time,” he said.
Like having a maybe-connected-to-the-Russian-mob guy even knowing who I was
wouldn't
be scary?
I forced myself to calm down.
“I got you the information you asked about,” Mike said.
It took me a minute to recall that I'd asked Mike about checking for a Russian or Romanian connection to Juanita's disappearance. My concern for Juanita zapped me.
“What did you find out?” I asked. “Is Juanita okay?”
He shook his head. “I got nothing. Whatever happened to your friend, it has nothing to do with any of my distant—and I emphasize
distant
—associates.”
I felt a little let down. Of course, I was glad Juanita hadn't been kidnapped by some crazy Romanian band of gypsies or the Russian mob, but if something like that hadn't befallen her, where was she? What had happened to her?
“Listen, Mike,” I said. “I really appreciate this. Sincerely I do.”
“You want me to look somewhere else?” he asked.
I shook my head. “I can't think where else to check. I've called all the usual places—hospitals, police, morgues—and gotten nothing.”
We were quiet again while I ran the list of places to look for Juanita through my head. I didn't come up with anything new. In fact, I was stumped.
“Sorry I couldn't help,” Mike said.
“Thanks, Mike,” I said.
We just looked at each other for a few more seconds.
“We're even now,” I said. “Favors swapped. We're square.”
He hesitated a minute, then nodded. “Sounds right to me.”
Mike walked away through the darkened parking lot, and disappeared into the shadows.
Twin high-beam headlights hit me and I spotted a big car barreling through the parking lot toward me.
Mob hit
flashed in my mind. Was somebody about to run down Mike? Would I be the only witness? Forced to testify, then whisked away into the federal Witness Protection Program?
A black Land Rover slid to a stop near me and Jack Bishop jumped out.
Mob hit
with Jack and me forced into WITSEC together bloomed in my head—which was really bad of me, I know.
Jack didn't look anxious to be forced into anything that included me at the moment. In fact, he looked downright angry—always a hot look.
“What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, and stabbed his finger at the parking lot where Mike had disappeared. “That was Mike Ivan, wasn't it? I told you to stay away from him.”
What was it with men sometimes? They actually expected you to do something just because they told you to.
I decided not to get into it with Jack.
“Mike and I are even now,” I said. “I did him a favor, he did me a favor. That's the end of it.”
Jack wouldn't let it go.
“That man is dangerous, Haley,” Jack said. “Steer clear of him. If you need something, come to me—not him.”
Jack stared hard at me for a few seconds. I stared right back. He looked away first.
“So what do you need?” he asked.
Now, I was the one who didn't want to let it go.
“Are you sure you're finished being all worked up?” I asked.
“I'm not likely to be finished getting worked up over you anytime soon,” he said, and gave me a wicked little grin.
I'm completely helpless against Jack's grin.
“Okay, so here's the deal,” I said, thinking it better to stick to business. “I'm hearing a lot about Dempsey Rowland and lawsuits. I need to find out who's suing who, and why.”
“You think this is connected to the murder?” Jack asked.
He was all business now—which was kind of disappointing, but for the best.
“Maybe,” I said. “I'm not sure, but it's worth checking out.”
Jack gave it a few seconds' thought, then nodded. “I'll get back to you.”
He walked around to the driver's side of my car. I punched the remote and he opened the door for me. I moved to climb in, but he blocked me with his body.
“I knew you'd contact Mike Ivan,” he said, gazing down at me.
It hit me then that Jack Bishop knew me better than Ty—my official boyfriend.
Jack edged a little closer. “Maybe I need to hang a little tighter with you.”
My heart started to beat faster. Jeez, Jack smelled great, and some kind of crazy heat rolled away from him—the kind of heat that could make me do crazy things.
But not crazy enough to make me forget I had an official boyfriend.
“I'd hate to see you embarrass yourself, when you can't keep up,” I told him, with a wicked little grin of my own.
I put my hand against his chest—oh my God, did he have great muscles—and gave him a little nudge. Jack stood fast for about two seconds, then stepped off.
I got in my car and drove away.
 
“Surprise!”
Oh, no. What now?
Ty had that you're-going-to-love-this smile on his face when he met me at the door of my apartment. Immediately, I braced myself.
“Remember when you mentioned Detective Shuman and his girlfriend cooking German food and planning a dinner party?” Ty asked, blocking my entrance.
My mind raced. Oh my God. What did that mean? How had Ty interpreted my statement? Was I about to be serenaded by an oompah band of musicians dressed in lederhosen? Did my entire apartment smell like sauerkraut, because he'd been cooking all evening?
Of course, maybe a good strong German beer wouldn't be so bad right now.
“Ta-da!” Ty stepped back. He waved his arm and gestured grandly into my apartment.
I walked inside. The first thing I noticed was that all the packing paper from yesterday's TV was piled up on my couch. The television was tuned to a baseball game with the sound cranked up to only-dogs-can-hear-this level. A beer bottle sat on my coffee table—no coaster.
The next thing I saw was what appeared to be a light armored army vehicle partially assembled in the middle of my living room. It was surrounded by nuts, bolts, and other metal parts I didn't recognize. Thrown into the mix were several power tools, a thick orange extension cord, bubble wrap, more packing paper, and a huge red, white, and blue shipping box with G
RILLIN'
A
MERICA
printed on the side.

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