Clutches and Curses (21 page)

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Authors: Dorothy Howell

BOOK: Clutches and Curses
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Oh, crap. What was I going to do?
Well, I certainly wasn't going to fall apart in the lobby of the Culver Inn.
I pulled myself together and channeled my mother's I'm-better-than-you attitude.
“I demand to speak with the manager,” I informed Melanie.
“That would be Bradley,” she replied, still smiling as she gestured behind her. Through an open office door, I saw him seated at a desk, giving me a nasty, mustache-twirling smirk.
That little creep. He'd done this on purpose. I'd defended Maya when he'd bitched her out. He knew we were friends. And now he was trying to force me out, same as he was doing to her.
Well, I'd just show him.
I wouldn't leave this place now for anything. They couldn't dynamite me out of that room.
I gave Bradley my I'll-get-even-with-you, triple stink-eye death ray—it doesn't get any worse than that—and left.
 
By the time I arrived at Holt's, I'd calmed down a little—but only a little—and only because it occurred to me that I would get paid in two days. Two days wasn't that far away. If I could hold out until payday, I'd be okay, for a while anyway.
I clocked in, stored my purse—a delightful Chloe clutch that I hoped the rest of my day would live up to—and walked to the front of the store to check today's assignment.
The jewelry department. It could have been worse—it can always be worse at Holt's. I headed that way when someone called my name.
“Haley? Haley Randolph?”
I turned and saw a guy standing next to a display of T-shirts in the Juniors department. Tall, good looking, warm brown hair, nicely dressed in khaki pants and a black polo shirt.
Oh, wow, had my day suddenly gotten better or what?
I didn't think I'd ever seen him before, but something about him seemed familiar. He grinned and walked toward me.
Oh my God.
Robbie Freedman.
C
HAPTER
21
R
obbie looked as surprised to see me as I was to see him.
“Is that really you?” he asked, looking me up and down and shaking his head in wonder.
“It's really me,” I said, and my heart started to pound a little harder.
I knew I had an official boyfriend who was handsome and wealthy and brilliant, and my heart should have been pounding a little harder over
him
, not this guy. But Robbie was my high school crush. How could I
not
feel this way?
“And that's really you,” I said to Robbie, which was really lame.
Just like high school. Jeez . . .
He looked confused and glanced around the store. “What are you doing working
here?
”
Now my heart started to race faster—but for an entirely different reason.
No way did I want Robbie to know I had a crappy sales-clerk job in a crappy department store. I leaned a little closer—he smelled really good—and lowered my voice.
“I'm working undercover,” I whispered.
Okay, jeez, what else could I say? I didn't want Robbie—of all people—to know I'd accomplished nearly nothing since high school.
Anyone in my place would have done the same thing. Really.
“Undercover?” Robbie looked impressed. “State or federal?”
What the heck was he talking about—and why was he asking anything at all? Everything about undercover work should be kept on the down-low. Everybody knew that. Had he never watched a movie or TV show?
So what could I say but, “I can't really get into it.”
Robbie nodded thoughtfully and I rushed ahead before he could ask anything else.
“What are you doing here?”
“Courtney,” he said, as if that explained anything.
Damn. It was just like being back in high school again. Robbie and Courtney, Robbie and Courtney, blah, blah, blah.
Wait. Oh, crap. Did he know she was dead?
Since I'm not good at tiptoeing around a problem and I'm not big on suspense, I just asked. “You heard what happened, right?”
Robbie looked pained as he nodded his head.
“That's why I'm here,” he said, waving his arm, taking in the store. “I just wanted to see where it . . . happened.”
Okay, Courtney was
dead,
and Robbie was still more interested in her than in me.
I hate my life.
“Where do you live?” I asked, anxious to move on to a Courtney-free topic.
“Reno,” Robbie said. “You?”
“L.A.”
“Still?” he asked.
L.A. was a fabulous place with lots of great things going on, but the way Robbie said it made me sound like a loser who still lived at home.
Not a great feeling.
“I was surprised she'd moved to Vegas,” Robbie said. “Not really her style.”
Since it didn't look like I'd get a reprieve from Courtney-Courtney-Courtney, I decided to roll with it and maybe get some info that would benefit me.
“You and Courtney kept in touch?” I asked.
He sighed heavily, as if the memory pained him.
“We broke up the summer after graduation,” he said. “Courtney wanted to move to an artists' colony in New Mexico. I wasn't up for it.”
Courtney in an artists' colony? No way. She'd nearly driven me—and most everyone else including the teacher—crazy in art class with that stained-glass pattern she used over and over again.
But at least now I knew why she and Robbie had broken up and, apparently, it wasn't because he'd suddenly come to his senses and realized it was me he'd loved all along, and dumped her.
“Courtney always liked that artsy stuff,” Robbie said. “She got it from her parents, I think. They never stopped being hippies. She was a scholarship student at Monroe, remember?”
I'd probably known that at some point in high school, but I'd forgotten it.
It hit me then that the bohemian lifestyle might have still appealed to Courtney. She'd been raised that way—right now her parents were off on some trek through Turkey. Her spartan apartment wasn't exactly a tribute to capitalism, and she obviously had no head for business.
Had she wanted Scott Wagner to head out with her on some transcendental journey in search of higher consciousness, or some b.s. like that? Was that the reason they'd broken up?
Realizing you're not really compatible with the person you're in love with could shatter your life. Had Scott been so devastated he'd joined the marines and shipped out to Iraq?
“Have you heard about the funeral arrangements?” I asked. Maybe he'd know, since I wasn't having much luck getting info from Danielle.
“What funeral arrangements?” Robbie asked. “I checked with the police. Nobody's claimed Courtney's remains.”
That seemed odd. I thought Danielle would have been able to contact Courtney's parents by now. Maybe they were in some village cut off from civilization or something.
“I guess her mom and dad aren't back from Turkey yet,” I said.
An awkward moment passed, then Robbie said, “Any idea who killed Courtney?”
I guess he figured my undercover work here at Holt's was connected to her death.
“No,” I said.
“Who would have a reason to murder her?” He looked troubled, and I thought the question was rhetorical. Then he said, “Do you know?”
Something about Robbie's tone made me wonder if maybe he was a teacher now, and I fought off the urge to blab everything I knew about Courtney's death.
A few seconds dragged by with Robbie watching me, waiting for an answer. When I didn't say anything, he finally said, “I'd better go.”
“Are you heading back to Reno?” I asked.
“I'm seeing a friend tonight,” Robbie said.
I waited, thinking maybe he'd suggest we get together or something. He didn't.
“Good seeing you, Haley,” Robbie said.
“Yeah, you too,” I said.
Robbie left the store. I watched as he nodded to the security guard at the front door and disappeared into the parking lot.
It kind of hurt my feelings that Robbie hadn't asked for my cell phone number or my e-mail address—which was bad of me, of course, since I had an official boyfriend—but there it was.
Maybe I shouldn't have been surprised, given that he'd driven all the way from Reno—about a seven-hour drive—just to see the spot where Courtney had been killed.
I headed for the jewelry department. Mindless shelf stocking seemed appealing at the moment.
When I turned down the aisle, I spotted Taylor putting bracelets on a display carousel, bobbing her head and smiling even though no one was around. I couldn't hack a morning with her. No way.
Many times in life, instructions are mistaken for directives, commands, or absolutes when, in fact, they are merely suggestions. Through years of careful study and close adherence to my personal this-suits-me-better outlook on life, I've learned to tell the difference. It's an art, really.
I kept walking.
I spotted two girls I'd worked with in housewares stocking flip-flops in the accessories department. I liked the accessories department, I liked flip-flops, and I liked Monica and Kay. They were both about my age and neither one took their jobs at Holt's too seriously. Surely, this was a sign my day was improving.
I grabbed a box from the U-boat and joined them.
“I've got a dentist appointment,” Monica was saying when I walked up.
“Are you getting a lip wax?” Kay asked.
Monica grinned. “You bet.”
Not exactly the flip-flop-matching-beach-bag talk I'd expected, but this was just as good.
Everybody—except for men, for some reason—understood the importance of a lip wax before a dental appointment. Dentists ranged from not-so-hot, to hot, to way-hot, and if you were a new patient, you didn't always know which you'd get. Regardless, it was no time to look like you had a Chia Pet growing on your upper lip. It was hard enough to look attractive squinting under a florescent light, wearing a paper bib, with a suction hose hooked over your lip like a bass at a fishing derby.
I was just about to chime in with a my-dentist-is-way-hot contribution to the conversation when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I yanked it out expecting it to be Danielle or Madam CeeCee—oh yeah, and a call from my official boyfriend might be nice—but it was Bella, my tied-with-Sandy-for-best-friend-at-Holt's in Santa Clarita.
“Want to hear some b.s.?” Bella demanded when I answered.
I love hearing b.s.
She didn't give me a chance to say so.
“Our paychecks are going to be late,” Bella declared.
“What?”
“Late,” she said again. “Is that some b.s., or what?”
“What—I don't—but they can't—
why?
”
“The time clock blew up. Remember?” Bella said.
Oh my God. I'd forgotten all about it.
“Everything electrical in the store has been shot to hell ever since,” Bella said. “Jeanette says we're not going to get paid this week. They're going to double up the payroll next week—if the problem gets straightened out.”
This was awful, horrible, terrible—worse than showing up at a function with a tote when you should have brought a clutch.
How was I going to live for an entire extra week without a paycheck? I had eighty-two bucks to my name.
Maybe all of this could have been avoided if Madam CeeCee had called me back. Shouldn't she have known this would happen? I could have applied for another credit card or something.
“When are you coming back?” Bella asked. “This place is too damn boring without you.”
That was nice to hear. But there was no way I could leave Vegas now. I didn't have enough gas money to make the trip.
“I'm not sure,” I said.
“You doing a lot of gambling?” Bella asked. “Winning some big pots?”
I didn't want to tell her that my curse had followed me here and I didn't dare gamble.
“With no paycheck this week,” I said, “I'd better stay out of the casinos.”
“Hell, no. This is the best time to gamble,” Bella told me. “Throw yourself out there. Take a chance. That's what gambling is all about. Go for it, girl.”
Maybe that wasn't the best advice in the world, but it did sound like fun.
“I've got to go,” Bella said, her voice low and rushed. “That cow Rita is heading this way. Eat a buffet for me, okay? See you.”
The line went dead. I closed my phone.
Jeez, I really missed Bella.
“Haley,” Monica called, “I've got a great idea.”
I missed Sandy, too.
“We should take one of those jet helicopter tours over the Grand Canyon,” Monica said. “Doesn't that sound like fun?”
“Yeah, fun,” I mumbled.
I missed Marcie. I missed my apartment and my own bed.
Monica and Kay gave a little cheer and high-fived each other over the flip-flop display.
 
Rosalyn Chase's home on Elkhurst Place in Henderson wasn't far from the Green Valley Casino, I noted, as my GPS unit sent me in that direction. I'd made arrangements with Rosalyn to meet at her house tonight to get a look at pieces from Danielle and Courtney's fashion accessory line, but now I was thinking I might be a little late getting there.
My financial situation was dire, no doubt about it. So maybe it was time to do something drastic—hit the casinos—as Bella had suggested on the phone this morning.
The image flashed in my head. Me feeding my last quarter into the slot machine, reels spinning, lights flashing, landing on the big-winner combination.
Oh, yeah. I liked that scenario.
Then, of course, just the opposite popped into my head.
Feeding in my last quarter, the slot machine gobbling it up, giving nothing in return.
I didn't like that image so much.
But what was I going to do? I needed money. Where was I going to get enough to live on until Holt's came through with my paycheck next week?
I slammed on the brakes to keep from rear-ending the car in front of me stopped at a traffic light, as an utterly horrible idea came to me: I could return everything I'd bought since I came to Vegas.

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