Tote Bags and Toe Tags (7 page)

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Authors: Dorothy Howell

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Adela walked into my office and stood in front of my desk. She looked a little rigid and tense.
“I should have given this to you earlier,” she said, in what I guessed would be the closest thing to an apology I'd ever get from upper management. She held out an envelope. “Things have been so ... difficult.”
I rose from my seat and took the envelope. I ripped it open and found a credit card and slip of paper with a PIN. The words D
EMPSEY
R
OWLAND
were embossed on the card and in the corner was the company logo.
“It's a corporate credit card,” Adela explained. “A card with your name on it will be ready soon.”
Light beamed down from above—I swear—reflecting off the card.
“You're to use it to purchase everything necessary for corporate events,” Adela said.
Angels—really—began to sing.
“It goes without saying,” Adela said, “that Dempsey Rowland events are all top rate, first-class. We have global reach. We have international clients, strong political ties, and high government connections. We have superior standards and a reputation for excellence to uphold.”
I started to get light-headed.
“Use the card at your discretion, Haley,” Adela said. “And remember, only the best will do for Dempsey Rowland.”
Adela left my office. I collapsed into my chair.
Oh my God.
Oh my God
.
I love my job.
C
HAPTER
7
I
was tempted to use the my-boyfriend-was-in-a-car-crash excuse—which I intended to upgrade to a-
horrendous
-car-crash—but since I was just calling Holt's to cancel my evening shift, I didn't mention it. Besides, Jeanette, the store manager, already kind of knew I was involved with Ty, though she'd never mentioned it, and by now she would already know about his car accident.
As I hung up with Holt's, I whipped into a strip mall near my apartment and picked up Chinese take-out. It was one of Ty's favorites, but I felt kind of crappy not preparing him a home-cooked meal after his accident—not that I'd ever done that, but still.
Shuman's girlfriend, Amanda, popped into my mind as I parked outside my apartment. Maybe I should redo my entire kitchen and make German food for Ty like she was doing for Shuman. Maybe Ty and I could have a dinner party and invite our friends. Then everyone could see Ty look at me the way Shuman looked at Amanda—which Ty did. I'm certain of it. Really.
My apartment was silent when I went inside. I kicked off my shoes, set the take-out on the kitchen counter, and tiptoed to my bedroom at the end of the hall. The blinds were drawn and the lights were off. Ty was still sleeping, still lying in the same position he'd been in when I left him there hours ago.
I changed into sweats and grabbed the jeans and polo shirt Ty had worn today. The bloodstains were pretty bad but I had mad skills when it came to washing clothes.
My laundry room—which consisted of a washer, dryer, and some shelves—was situated in the hallway of my apartment, next to a coat closet and my second bedroom. I opened the bifold doors and went to work, soaking the stains with three different stain removers, concentrated detergent, dry bleach, then liquid bleach, all of which was probably against some EPA regulation, but, oh well.
I turned on the washer as I searched the pockets of Ty's jeans. I found his phone, wallet, and a couple of dollar bills and some coins wadded together with a receipt. I unfolded it and saw that it was for a soda purchased from a Chevron station in Acton, a community about fifteen minutes south of Palmdale. Ty must have stopped there for a cold drink before his accident.
My doorbell rang as I shoved his clothes into the washer. I closed the bifold doors, dropped Ty's phone, wallet, and money on the kitchen counter, then took a look through the peephole in my front door. Amber waited outside, holding a garment bag and a small duffle.
“How is he?” she asked, when I let her in.
“Sleeping,” I said.
“Still?” she asked, looking troubled. “He doesn't have a head injury, does he? Did the doctors tell you to watch for signs of a concussion?”
Was Ty lying in my bedroom, dead? At this very moment? And I hadn't noticed? Jeez, what kind of girlfriend was I?
Good thing I didn't go into the medical field.
“I was just about to check on him again,” I said to Amber, which was a total lie, of course, but one I figured needed to be told.
“Where should I put these?” she asked, hefting the garment bag and duffle a little higher.
I pointed behind me as I hurried down the hallway. “In there. It's really packed. Just shove them in as best you can.”
Ty—thank goodness—was breathing steadily, so I closed the door and went back to the kitchen. Amber was plugging Ty's phone into a wall charger she must have brought with her.
“I hope his phone wasn't damaged in the crash,” Amber said. “His entire life is in this thing.”
“Want some Chinese?” I asked.
She eyed the take-out cartons for a second, then shook her head. “Can't. Too much to do.”
I followed her to my front door.
“I'll let Corporate know Ty won't be in tomorrow morning,” Amber said. “There's some mix-up with his auto insurance company about the Porsche. I'll get it straightened out. Other than that, everything is handled. I'll have all the details for Ty as soon as he needs them.”
“You rock,” I said.
Amber gave me a grateful smile and left.
 
First-date sex was good—not that I've ever done that myself, of course—third-date sex was great—no comment—and so was make-up sex, but so far I liked car-crash sex the best.
Ty woke up early the next morning well rested from his twelve-plus hours of pain medication–induced sleep, which benefited me in the best way possible—twice. I told him Amber had brought his clothes over last night, but he said he wasn't going into the office today. Then he fell back to sleep while I showered, dressed, and left for work.
My afterglow was humming along nicely as traffic crawled south on the 405, so when my phone rang and I saw Mom's name on the caller I.D. screen, I didn't even cringe.
“Something terrible has happened,” Mom said when I answered.
My afterglow shattered. Oh my God—Juanita. I'd forgotten all about her.
“What is it?” I asked, visions of having to dive across three lanes of traffic and head to the morgue to identify her body bouncing around in my head.
“The caterer I want is already booked elsewhere,” Mom said.
The caterer? What the heck was she talking about?
She huffed irritably. “I explained to them in detail how important this dinner party was, but they absolutely refused to work with me.”
“What about Juanita?” I asked.
“What about her?”
“Did she come to work today?” I asked, and managed not to scream into the phone. “Did she call? Have you heard from her at all?”
“You were supposed to handle that, Haley,” Mom said. “Frankly, I'm a little disappointed in you.”
Great.
“I'm working on it, Mom. I'll let you know something soon,” I said, and hung up.
With one eye on the freeway traffic, I scrolled through my address book—which was against the law, I know, but this was an emergency—and punched in the phone number of Mom's accountant.
The old geezer who handled Mom's trust fund was nearly ninety and acted as if the money were
his
. He also seemed to think there was some sort of accountant–client confidentiality, like lawyers and priests, and always gave me a hard time if I called for something Mom needed.
Luckily, his secretary answered my call. She blamed my mom for causing the old guy's last two heart attacks—which was probably true—so she gave me Juanita's home address and phone numbers without question. I wanted her to text them to me, but since she was in her eighties and had tried to sign her name with a fork the last time I was in there, I copied the info down on a Pizza Hut receipt while steering with my knee.
 
When I stepped off the elevator into the reception area of Dempsey Rowland, I was pleased to see that at least something—besides the great car-crash sex—was going well for me this morning. Two dozen balloons, a cake, and a bag of birthday decorations sat on Camille's desk.
I'd called the bakery mentioned in Patty's notes before leaving work yesterday and ordered the cake for today's birthday girl. Then I'd figured that, hey, what was a birthday celebration without balloons to go along with the decorations? I'd Googled party supply stores and found one on Wilshire Boulevard. Just like the bakery, they'd happily agreed to deliver everything—thanks in no small part to the exorbitant up-charge I'd agreed to and charged to my Dempsey Rowland corporate credit card.
The halls were almost empty—I was super-early today—as I made my way to my office juggling the giant bouquet of balloons, cake, party supplies, and my purse, a totally fabulous Prada satchel. I passed a few people, most of whom looked at me kind of funny, and saw Mr. Dempsey talking with somebody I didn't recognize.
Jeez, that guy always came in early. If I owned the place, no way would I be the first one through the door every morning.
As I struggled to open my office door, I caught sight of two other men who were also there way early. Detectives Shuman and Madison, headed straight for me.
I doubted they'd come to tell me they'd solved Violet's murder.
My stomach did its good-grief-what-now twist, which was only marginally better than its good-grief-am-I-about-to-be-arrested-now twist.
“Stay away from there!” Detective Madison shouted. “That's a sealed crime scene!”
I guess with me partially hidden behind the bouquet of two dozen balloons, he couldn't see that I was trying to get into Patty's office next door to Constance's. Still, it didn't stop two employees who were walking by from turning to stare at me.
Not a great feeling.
I ignored Madison, went into my office, and dropped everything on my desk. The two detectives were on me before the balloons stopped bobbing.
Shuman looked pretty good for so early in the day. Neat, pressed, clean, crisp, wearing a navy blue sport coat and a nice stripped tie. I wondered if Amanda had dressed him this morning. I wondered if they'd had anything close to car-crash sex this morning—which was really bad of me, I know, but there it was.
“Oh, so you have your own office now,” Madison said, and made it sound as if it were some sort of crime. “That didn't take long—especially since the background investigation for your security clearance is suspended indefinitely.”
It took a second for me to realize why he'd said that, then it occurred to me that Dempsey Rowland was probably having trouble filling the head of security position—since the last person who had it was murdered.
“Maybe if you could manage to find Violet's killer, the background investigation could proceed,” I told him.
Madison's sneer turned into a nasty frown. He gave me what I thought was homicide detective–stink-eye, and left my office. Shuman stayed.
“How was the German food?” I asked.
“Great,” he said, and grinned, making me think there was such a thing as German-food sex, and it must be pretty darn good.
Shuman nodded toward the hallway. “Your own office, huh?”
I stepped outside and saw a little plaque with my name on it next to the door. Wow, I hadn't noticed it when I came in. I figured this must be good news. Surely Dempsey Rowland wouldn't fire me if they'd gone to the trouble to make me a nameplate.
Yeah, okay, that was a stretch, but I really,
really
wanted to keep this job.
I glanced next door and saw that Constance's name plaque was missing. Huh, that was weird. Then I figured Adela had probably taken it down to discourage looky-loos from breaking in, or maybe out of respect for Violet.
The crime scene tape was pulled away and the door to Constance's office was open, so I figured Detective Madison was inside.
“Something new going on?” I asked.
Shuman didn't answer my question, but said, “Did you know any of the three people who were hired with you?”
I rolled my eyes. “Let me guess. Madison thinks it's some kind of conspiracy. I got a bunch of my friends hired at the same time as cover so I could murder Violet. Right?”
Shuman gave me cop face. “Is that a ‘yes'?”
“You know it isn't,” I told him. Then I realized he wasn't asking me a question. He was trying to tell me something.
“You think one of the other new hires was involved?” I asked.
“I didn't say that.”
Okay, this was kind of cool, Shuman and me talking cop-code in a murder investigation.
I wonder if he talks to Amanda that way.
“I spoke with one of them the morning of Violet's murder,” I said. “Max Corwin.”
Shuman's cop face held, but I saw a little light sparkle in his eyes—
that's
how well I know him—and realized I was on to something.
I wonder if Amanda knew what that little sparkle meant.
“Max seemed like he was worried,” I said, remembering the conversation I'd had with him in the breakroom that morning. “He talked about how the background investigations would be on hold for a while, but it wouldn't affect us because we were already hired.”
Shuman nodded slowly
“I got the impression Max worried a lot,” I said.
“He should,” Shuman said softly.
Madison came out of Constance's office, pulling the door shut behind him. He locked it—I figured he'd gotten the key from somebody in security or maybe H.R.—and stuck the crime scene tape back in place.
A jolt of something hit me—sort of like when you see the latest Betsey Johnson bag in a shop window and you hit the brakes and desperately look for a parking place so you don't miss a great opportunity.

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