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Authors: Dorothy Howell

BOOK: Tote Bags and Toe Tags
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I can't say she was gorgeous. Pretty, though, in a no-nonsense way, the kind of person who always got picked to head up a committee or something because they looked smart, competent, and capable, and would make everybody else assigned to the project look good.
Shuman sure found her fascinating. He stood close as she studied the stand mixers that were on display. He watched her expressions, moved when she moved.
Oh my God. She was Shuman's girlfriend, I realized, the lawyer who worked in the district attorney's office. They were shopping.
How come Ty never went shopping with me?
Shuman didn't take his eyes off of her, as if every word she spoke, every movement she made, was absolutely captivating.
Well, maybe we'd never gone shopping, but Ty always looked at me that way.
Seeing them together, bending their heads to talk, studying the display, discussing options, smiling at each other, laughing at some private joke, gave me a weird feeling, somehow.
I walked over. Shuman didn't look surprised to see me.
Maybe it wasn't a coincidence they'd chosen this Holt's store to shop in.
“Haley, this is Amanda Payton,” he said, making introductions.
“I found my grandmother's German cookbook, so I'm redoing my entire kitchen,” Amanda said, smiling broadly. Definitely a woman on a mission. She touched Shuman's arm. “He claims he's never eaten German food before, so I'm going to rock his world.”
Shuman shook his head and gave her a teasing grin. “I don't know about that.”
“You're going to love it,” Amanda declared. “Haley, you'll have to come eat with us one night. Oh, I know. We'll have a dinner party.”
“Sounds great,” I said.
Ty and I had never had a dinner party, but we could. He'd love it. Kind of. Sort of. Well, maybe.
“Perfect. We'll invite the—” Amanda stopped, pulled her cell phone out of her tote and checked the caller I.D. screen. She looked at Shuman. “Sorry, I have to take this.”
Amanda answered her phone as she walked away. I watched Shuman as he followed her with his gaze.
Yeah, Ty had looked at me that way before. I'm sure he had.
“She seems really nice,” I said.
“She's awesome,” Shuman mumbled, his eyes still on her.
Ty thought I was awesome. Probably.
After a few more seconds, Shuman turned to me, his expression decidedly different.
“Violet Hamilton was murdered,” Shuman said. “Blunt force trauma to the back of her head.”
“I don't suppose you caught the killer already?” I asked.
“Did you see anyone or anything unusual in the office?” he asked.
Shuman had become pretty good about sharing info with me, but he wasn't about to give up anything without getting something from me first.
“I noticed that lots of people had reported early for work, which seemed kind of odd to me. But maybe that's expected there,” I said. “I guess the strangest thing is that Violet was in that particular office.”
“Why's that?” Shuman asked.
“It wasn't her office. It belonged to Constance Addison,” I said.
“So why were you in there?” he asked.
“Constance is my supervisor.”
“Great,” Shuman muttered, and shook his head.
“That doesn't mean I killed her,” I pointed out.
“But it's another reason to tie you to the crime,” Shuman said.
“Which is exactly what Madison is looking for. Right?”
Shuman didn't say anything. He didn't have to. I knew he agreed with me. But Detective Madison was his partner. He wasn't about to say something against him.
“Anything on the security tapes?” I asked.
“We've got all the footage from the lobby and the parking garage. It's a big building,” Shuman said. “It's going to take a while to go through them, see if there's anybody who doesn't belong.”
“We all have to show our I.D. card to the guards in the lobby,” I said.
“Those things are stolen, duplicated, and falsified all the time,” Shuman said. He shook his head. “We don't even know if the murderer was a Dempsey Rowland employee. Someone could have come from one of the other companies on another floor.”
“Murder weapon?” I asked.
Shuman shrugged. “We're looking for it.”
I guess a lot of murder investigations seem kind of hopeless in the beginning. I guess, too, that Shuman was used to it but still didn't like it.
“I'll let you know if I find out anything,” I told him.
He didn't jump at my offer.
“There's a murderer in that office building, Haley. Watch yourself,” Shuman said, and for a couple of seconds—okay, maybe just one—I thought I saw the same expression he'd used when he looked at Amanda.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.
C
HAPTER
5
I
absolutely had to find that Temptress handbag. It was the only thing that could salvage the crappy week I was having. I'd been strong, stuck to my it's-a-whole-new-me plan, and hadn't had a mocha frappuccino in
forever,
but I didn't know how much longer I could hold out.
The realization came to me the next morning as I pulled yet another months' old business suit from my closet. So far I'd been getting by wearing my old Pike Warner clothes from last fall for my interview and the first day of work at Dempsey Rowland, but I was sick of them. Too many bad memories. Nothing less than some new clothes could lift my spirits—except the Temptress to go along with them, of course.
I'd been given a lot of gift cards from department stores for graduation presents, but after Violet had burst my I'm-going-to-make-bank-working-here bubble during orientation with that whole background investigation/security clearance thing, I hadn't been too excited about laying in a supply of black, brown, and navy blue business suits.
But who knew when all that would be sorted out. Days? Weeks? Months, maybe? I definitely had to get some new clothes.
My cell phone rang, which was weird because it was only a little after 7:30, way early for anyone to call.
My stomach did its this-can't-be-good roll. What if it was Adela from Dempsey Rowland? What if she was calling to tell me they'd completed my background check already, and not to bother coming to work today?
Since I'm not big on suspense, I looked at the caller I.D. screen. Mom was calling. Okay, this was way weird.
“Haley, you have to come over immediately,” Mom said when I answered. “Something terrible has happened.”
With her history of holding the crowns of Miss California and third runner-up in the Miss America contest, Mom lived in what I call the “pageant universe.” The pageant universe—complete with its own time zone—existed in an alternate reality. Time, space, and the three dimensions the rest of us live in didn't apply to Mom.
Her frantic phone call at this early hour insisting something terrible had happened didn't upset me. For Mom, it could mean that her
Vanity Fair
had arrived in the mail with a crease in the cover, or that some hapless shoe salesman in Neiman Marcus had brought her open-toe, slingback pumps in the size that fit her, rather than the size she actually wore.
“I've got to get to work,” I said.
“It's Juanita,” Mom said.
Juanita was Mom's housekeeper. She'd worked there for as long as I could remember.
“What's up with Juanita?” I asked.
“She's dead.”
 
I grew up in a great house in La Cañada Flintridge that was built back in the 1920s, or something, and had been left to my mom by her grandmother, along with a trust fund. Nobody in the family knew—or was willing to tell—exactly what my great-grandmother had done to acquire what amounted to a small mansion on a prestigious hillside that overlooked the L.A. basin, or to establish a trust fund for my mother, of all people.
In another yet unexplained twist of fate, Mom had been grateful enough to give me, her oldest female child, great-grandma's name. So here I was attempting to skip lightly through life with the middle name of “Thelma.”
Leave it to family.
It was a great house to grow up in. I couldn't remember living anywhere else. I lived there with my older brother—now an air force pilot flying F-16s in the Middle East—along with my younger sister, who attended college and modeled. And my dad, of course, who was an aerospace engineer. In what I thought of as one of life's greatest mysteries—sort of like the origin of the pyramids—Dad had somehow managed to stay married to my mom all these years.
As far back as I could remember, we'd had a lot of household staff—believe me, Mom went through quite a few people. Gardeners, housekeepers, an herb garden advisor—organic food, anyone?—window washers, a pool service, an indoor plant service—Mom's interpretation of going green—a tropical fish tank service, nannies, chimney sweeps, decorators, landscape architects, mural artists, caterers, cooks, a Feng Shui master, a sand castle–building coach—don't ask—not to mention the parade of personal assistants Mom had, no doubt, sent running back to college determined to get a real job.
But Juanita had always been there. I couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been in the house offering a kind smile, quiet words of encouragement, and promises of better things to come.
And, believe me, I needed it, especially during those years when Mom had subjected me to a battery of lessons—singing, tap, modeling, ballet, piano—in a desperate attempt to unearth some tiny nugget of natural talent in me. Juanita had even been there for me when I set fire to the den curtains while twirling fire batons—it was an accident, I swear. Kind of. Sort of. Well, anyway, the incident had gotten me out of taking any more lessons—that and the fact that my little sister became Mom's Mini-Me.
I didn't wait to hear what else Mom had to say about Juanita's death. I threw on the first business suit I got my hands on in my closet, then called Dempsey Rowland and left a message on Constance's voicemail that I'd be late for work, using the I-have-a-flat-tire excuse—everybody knew it was a lie, but, oh well—and hauled out to Mom's house.
I was frantic. I hadn't asked Mom for details about Juanita's death on the phone because I knew she wouldn't make any sense and I wouldn't have the patience to try and figure it out—which pretty much summed up the ongoing state of our mother-daughter relationship.
I swung into the circular driveway in front of my folks' house, dreading the thought of seeing ambulances, fire trucks, cop cars, and plain vanilla detective-mobiles parked in front, maybe even a news helicopter circling overhead. I didn't want to see one of those big ugly black body bags, knowing Juanita was inside it.
But when I pulled up, the driveway was empty. Huh. That was odd. Had emergency services come and gone already? Had Juanita died a few days ago and Mom forgot to tell me?
I left my car and hurried to the door. It opened as I approached. Mom stood in the foyer wearing a silk caftan, gold earrings, necklace, and bracelet, and two-inch heels. She had on makeup and her hair was styled in a tight updo.
Mom always dressed as if
Extra
would burst into her home at any second and film her for a “Former Beauty Queens, Where Are They Now?” segment, or something.
“Oh my gosh, Mom, what happened to Juanita?” I asked.
“That's exactly what I'd like to know,” she announced as she closed the front door.
I looked around. I saw no one. The house was deadly silent. No low voices of detectives, no squawking police radios, no sign of my dad or sister.
“Where is everybody?” I asked.
“Good question,” she said to me, and headed through the house toward the kitchen.
Mom bypassed the kitchen, of course, and went straight into the little dining room nearby. She stood by the glass slider and gazed outside in a pageant stance—chin high, shoulders up, back straight—as if she suspected the paparazzi were lurking in the rose bushes snapping photos.
“You told me Juanita was dead,” I said, and flung my hands out. “Where is she?”
Mom turned to her right, as if offering her profile to the nonexistent photographers outside. “I have no idea,” she said.
“Then how do you know she's dead?” I asked.
“She isn't here,” Mom said, as if the answer were obvious. “She reports for work at seven-thirty and she's not here. She must be dead.”
I'm pretty sure I was switched at birth.
“It's not even eight-thirty yet,” I said. “Maybe she's just running late.”
“Juanita is never late. Not once in all these years,” Mom said.
Okay, that was true, but there were a lot of reasons she might have been late today.
“Maybe she's sick, or her car broke down, or she overslept, or she had a family emergency,” I said. “Maybe she had a flat tire.”
Mom dismissed my words with a wave of her slender hand. “She would have called.”
Okay, that was true, too. Still, there had to be an explanation—other than that she was dead.
“Have you called her house?” I asked.
Mom gazed across the room for a long moment, then turned to me. “Why would I possibly have her phone number?”
“Do you have her home address?” I asked.
“Really, Haley, I insist you take this situation seriously,” she said.
“You could call your accountant,” I said.
“Who?” Mom looked totally lost now.
Jeez, I really hope the day doesn't come that my life depends on Mom.
“He makes out Juanita's paycheck every week,” I said. “He has her contact information.”
Mom pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her caftan and touched it to the corner of her eye. “I have to know what happened to her, Haley,” she said. “I absolutely have to know.”
Now, I felt kind of crappy for thinking bad things about Mom. After all, Juanita had been with us for years. She was part of the family.
Mom drew a breath. “I have a dinner party scheduled for later in the week and I certainly can't get a decent caterer at this late date.”
Oh,
please,
let me have been switched at birth.
“I'm going to report Juanita's death to the police,” Mom told me.
I glanced at my watch. “She's only an hour late. I think it's a little too soon to call the police.”
“It's never too early to notify the authorities,” Mom insisted. “That's what they're for—much like household staff.”
For a moment I considered giving her Detective Madison's phone number just so Mom could ruin his day, but thought better of it.
“I'll take care of it,” I said. “I'll make some calls and try to locate Juanita. If nothing turns up, I'll call the police.”
“Excellent,” Mom said. “Meanwhile, I'll try and find a good caterer.”
I left the house and got in my car, not all that worried about Juanita. Anything could have happened to delay her arrival this morning, like maybe she'd skimmed enough of Mom's jewelry and silver over the years to retire—which she totally deserved—so I saw no need to investigate her supposed death yet.
I pulled out of Mom's driveway just ahead of a yellow VW Beetle and headed to work.
 
“Miss Randolph?”
Camille, the receptionist at Dempsey Rowland, called my name as I stepped off the elevator. I ignored her. She scared the crap out of me, frankly. I figured her for mid-sixties, tall and rail thin. She must have had some work done because the skin around her eyes was drawn back so tight I don't think her eyelids closed anymore. Her gray hair looked like she'd styled it with a leaf blower.
“Miss Randolph!” she called again.
I stopped and turned back, pretending I'd just heard her.
Camille waved a small pink piece of paper at me. “You have a message.”
I walked over and took it. It was from one of those “While You Were Out” message pads.
“Adela would like you to report to H.R. immediately,” Camille said.
Just why she couldn't have told me what the message was before I walked over here, I didn't know.
Nor did I know why she was giving me the message on a slip of paper.
“Don't you e-mail the messages to the employees when you get them?” I asked.
“I think a personal touch is much better,” Camille said. She made what probably would have been a frown, if her face had been able to move, then said, “I don't really like all that e-mail business. Too complicated.”
I remembered that when I'd first gone into Adela's office for my interview, she'd had a paper file for me, rather than one on the computer.
“I guess Dempsey Rowland employees aren't much for technology,” I said.
I'm pretty sure that came out sounding pleasant instead of a what-the-heck-is-the-matter-with-you-people kind of thing. Well, okay,
kind of
sure.
Camille smiled—I think.
“I just saw Ruth with a laptop,” she said. “That's progress, I suppose. If you like that sort of thing.”
I didn't know who Ruth was but I sincerely hoped she was using her laptop for something more important than a doorstop.
“Adela would like you to report to H.R. immediately,” Camille said, waving her finger—which looked like an eagle talon—toward the pink note in my hand.

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