Clutches and Curses (19 page)

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Authors: Dorothy Howell

BOOK: Clutches and Curses
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C
HAPTER
19
A
t lunch time, I got in my car and headed down Valle Verde Road looking for a place to eat. I didn't want to eat in the Holt's breakroom, fearing I might actually take out Fay after the run-in we'd had in men's underwear this morning, nor did I want to get caught up in idle chatter and gossip with the other employees.
Almost everyone in the store had gone out of their way to tell me about fun and exciting things I could do while I was in Vegas, but, honestly, I was in no mood for that sort of thing. Right now, only a BFF should be forced to put up with me, or an official boyfriend—and I had neither immediately available.
I spotted a Burger King, hit the drive-through, and found a spot to park where I could eat my lunch in peace. Generally, a burger wasn't a stress-relieving food, but I followed it up with a chocolate milkshake, so that helped.
Now, I had calls to make.
The first was to Madam CeeCee, the all-knowing—and hopefully all-telling—psychic who would advise me on breaking the curse put on me by that freaky old lady in the Santa Clarita Holt's store. I hoped Madam CeeCee's powers crossed state lines.
I scrolled through the address book in my cell phone and punched in her number. It rang three times, and her voicemail picked up.
Okay, that was weird. Shouldn't she have known I was calling? She was a psychic, wasn't she?
I left a message and my call-back number.
For a few minutes, I watched the traffic whizzing past as I sucked down the last of my shake and debated my next call. I needed information on Danielle Shepherd. She was the only link I had to Courtney's before-Tony boyfriend, a guy who might—or might not—make a viable murder suspect. I wouldn't know until I found out who he was and talked to him.
Danielle still hadn't returned my calls, but looking at it logically—something I usually preferred not to do—that meant nothing. She barely knew me, she had business and financial problems to solve, plus a funeral to plan.
I probably could have let it go and found some other way to learn the identity of Courtney's mystery boyfriend, but that whole whose-TV-was-in-Danielle's-van thing bothered me.
I needed more info on Danielle.
Jack would be the obvious guy to ask. He was already up to speed on the case.
Plus, he was way hot.
I knew he'd help, if I asked.
Plus, he was way hot.
But Jack had actual cases to work—the kind that paid money. Plus, he was way hot—and I had a boyfriend who wanted me to move in with him.
I hate my life.
I scrolled through my address book and punched in the number for Detective Shuman of the LAPD. Shuman and I had history. Nothing romantic. Our relationship was strictly business. But still.
“Shuman.”
He answered rushed. All detectives sounded rushed, in my experience. I think they were trained that way at the academy so people would think they were doing more than they really were.
Maybe I should try that at work.
“How's it going?” I asked.
“Hang on.”
I heard noise in the background, the dull roar of too many voices in too small a space. A restaurant, maybe. It dimmed, then stopped.
I imagined Shuman outside on the street wearing a shirt-tie-sport coat combo that didn't quite blend because he'd picked them out himself. Dark hair blowing in the gentle Southern California breeze. Handsome.
“What's new, Haley?”
Shuman sounded friendly now, relaxed.
“Murder,” I said.
“I asked what was
new?
” he said, and chuckled.
Some—okay, most—of our history involved murder investigations. We'd had our ups and downs—yeah, okay, mostly because of me—but we'd gotten over our problems.
“I need some background on a woman named Danielle Shepherd,” I said. “Can you help me out?”
Shuman didn't answer right away. I pictured him pacing the street, then stopping suddenly.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Vegas.”
“Out of my jurisdiction.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “Mike Ivan, as in Ivanov, as in the Russian mob in L.A. He's involved.”
Shuman was silent.
“Maybe,” I added.
Jack had said Mike Ivan ran legitimate businesses, and maybe that was true. But those guys were experts at hiding their illegal activities behind a maze of corporations and offshore accounts.
At least, that's how they did it on TV.
I felt bad for throwing Mike in front of the LAPD bus, so to speak, but they, along with the FBI, DEA, Homeland Security, and most other branches of federal law enforcement probably already had him on their radar.
And if Jack had been misinformed about Mike and he was involved in Courtney's murder, I wanted Shuman to have the info first. I figured it couldn't do his career—and his willingness to help me in the future, of course—any harm.
“Send me a text with what you've got,” Shuman said. He was in big-time cop mode now.
“Thanks,” I said.
He didn't answer, just hung up. I imagined him frowning his cop frown—which was kind of hot—and heading back into the restaurant.
I spent a few minutes texting him everything I knew, then drove back to Holt's. I turned into the parking lot and spotted Cliff at the corner of the building having a smoke with two guys who appeared to be doofing their way through life, much like Cliff.
The Nevada chapter of the ufology club, obviously.
Crossing the wide parking lot on foot in the blazing mid-day desert heat was preferable to having to listen to the latest on the alien invasion of Vegas—jeez, what's happened to my life?—so I circled the lot with the intention of finding a spot as far away from those guys as I could. As I cruised past the Pizza Hut, I spotted a banged-up white Ford Taurus parked near the door.
I hit the brakes, jumped out, and peered inside.
Worn upholstery. Fast-food bags. Empty drink cups.
Oh my God, this was Cliff's car.
I got into my Honda, crossed the parking lot, and rolled up beside Cliff and his friends.
I buzzed down my window. “Hey, Cliff?”
He looked up, took a few second to react, then ambled over. The guys with him, Eric and Dwayne, I presumed, hung back, watching me as if I might beam up at any second.
“Hey, Dana, how's it going?” Cliff said, leaning on my open window.
“The police found your car?” I asked.
“No way, man. Like, I don't think they're even looking,” he said.
“I found it,” I said.
“Whoa, dude.” Cliff looked totally confused. “What?”
“It's parked in front of the Pizza Hut,” I said.
“No way.” He gazed across the parking lot, then at me again. “How'd it get there?”
I didn't need Madam CeeCee to figure this one out.
“Did you drive over for lunch?” I asked. “Then maybe forgot you drove, and walked back?”
“Wow, that is so cool. That is so
Dana
,” Cliff declared, smiling and nodding his head. He turned to his friends still cowering beside the store. “Hey, dudes, come here! You gotta meet Dana!”
“Some other time,” I said quickly, and drove away.
Jeez, why couldn't I get beamed into another life?
 
It was a Fendi evening. Definitely a Fendi evening.
After finishing my shift at Holt's, I ran by the Culver Inn and changed into black pants and sweater—always classics—and grabbed my Fendi bag to complete the be-jealous-of-me look I was going for. Nothing less than a Fendi would do tonight. I was going to the meeting of the handbag club and I knew every woman there would bring her best.
Maya had told me the club met at a boutique in a shopping center near the Green Valley Resort and Casino, just a few miles from the Culver Inn. She catered the event. It would have been more fun if we could have gone together. But I was glad she had the work, especially since it looked as if she might lose her job catering the breakfast buffet, if that little weasel Bradley got his way.
I still hate him.
I drove past the resort and casino and into the shopping center parking lot. The District, as it was called, featured wide promenades with benches, lush landscaping, and trees with white lights that fronted all sorts of shops. There were restaurants and bars, and a park with a carousel.
I followed a group of well-dressed women carrying fabulous handbags to a boutique called Fashion Utopia. The window was artfully filled with a wide variety of well-known designer purses, plus gorgeous bags I'd never seen before.
My heart rate skyrocketed.
Where was Marcie at a time like this? She would
so
love this place. I'd have to tell her all about it. Maybe, when her ankle got better, we could come back together.
I hoisted my Fendi higher and went inside.
About two dozen white folding chairs had been squeezed into the center of the store, surrounded by displays of jewelry, shawls, hats, gloves, wallets, totes, handbags, and just about every other fashion accessory you could imagine. Most of the chairs were occupied. Another half dozen or so women were on their feet, working the room.
Everyone was talking and laughing. Everybody had a glass of wine. Spirits were high.
Immediately I spied a Marc Jacobs, a Betsey Johnson, two Michael Kors, an Isabella Fiore, two—no three—Pradas. Gorgeous bags everywhere.
My knees felt weak. Oh my God. What if someone here had a Delicious bag? I'd faint for sure.
At the counter near the cash register, I spotted Maya putting the finishing touches on the refreshments. No canned Cheez-Whiz and Ritz crackers for this group. Trays of shrimp, crab, beef, puffed pastries, cheeses, all sorts of sauces beautifully presented. Impressive. Way beyond the offerings at the Culver Inn breakfast buffet. Maya had a great culinary future—if she got the money she needed to see it through.
“Welcome, welcome!”
A fiftyish woman with platinum blond hair, a deep suntan, white jumpsuit, and gold shoes came at me, arms open.
“I see a new face!” she declared. “I'm Poppy!”
My mom would have loved her—or maybe hated her. I'm not sure. It's hard to predict which way women will go sometimes.
I introduced myself.
“Ladies? Ladies?” Poppy called. The room quieted and everyone turned to us. Poppy gestured at me as if I were a prize on a game show, and said, “This is Haley!”
All the women called out a greeting or raised a wine glass in my direction.
“Majesta is our guest artisan tonight,” Poppy said, pointing at a woman across the room.
Majesta—whom I'm pretty sure made up her own name—was swathed in a long purple print skirt and a massive shawl. She dipped her chin demurely. She had an exotic look to her—as an artisan would, I suppose.
“These are her bags. She makes them by hand in her studio. All of them are original works of art,” Poppy declared, pointing to the bags arranged at the front of the room. “Aren't they breathtaking!”
Heads bobbed in agreement around the room.
Oh, yeah, they were gorgeous, all right. Floral and geometric patterns in fabrics that, even from across the room, I could see were exquisite.
My palms started to itch. I absolutely
had
to see the linings.
“Your bags are absolutely fantastic,” I agreed.
Majesta dipped her head, graciously accepting my compliment.
“She's presenting at the handbag convention! All the major department stores want to buy her collection,” Poppy exclaimed, then wagged her finger. “But nooo. We're not going to let her go commercial with these beautiful bags, now are we, ladies!”
The women paused in their wine sipping to nod in agreement.
“You have a complete collection to show at the handbag convention? That's a major accomplishment,” I said.
Danielle and Courtney popped into my mind. They'd surely put hours and hours of work into their line, even though it had come to nothing.
“I have friends who had a fashion accessory line,” I said, “but just couldn't make it work.”
“Did you hear that, ladies? Haley has friends with an accessory line,” Poppy called out. “Maybe we can get them here for our next meeting!”
Oh, crap. Why had I referred to Danielle as my friend—I couldn't even get her to return my phone calls. And I certainly didn't want to mention that her business partner was dead. That might spoil the mood.

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