Clutches and Curses (28 page)

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Authors: Dorothy Howell

BOOK: Clutches and Curses
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“I'll catch up with you later,” I called to Maya as she walked away.
My stomach turned all warm and gooey, just as it always did when I saw Ty. He looked tense and grim, but handsome in his suit, and sort of like the man in the old black-and-white photo. His gaze passed right over me, then bounced back, and he smiled. Ty's got a great smile.
He threw his arms around me in the middle of the hallway, causing people to stream around us, and held me close. He kissed me. It felt good.
“I didn't know you'd be here today,” I said.
“Business,” he said, and nodded toward the hospitality suite.
“I just saw your great-great-great-great-grandparents or something,” I said.
He looked lost for a moment—I get that from him a lot—then nodded. “The exhibit. It's usually at the corporate office.”
“I love that Wallis bag,” I said, then realized where I'd heard the name before. “Is that why you named your boutiques
Wallace?
”
Ty pulled out his phone and glanced at the caller ID screen as he said, “Marketing suggested the spelling be changed for the stores.”
I was about to ask another question when he answered his phone.
I get that a lot, too.
I stood there trying to look like I was working in case Arlene happened by, yet not so available that somebody would stop and ask me an actual question—it's a delicate balance—when I noticed two men in expensive suits and a young woman come out of the hospitality suite and head toward us.
Oh my God. It was Danielle. What was she doing here?
The three of them were smiling and engaged in heavy conversation as they walked by. She didn't notice me.
“Ty?” I tapped his arm. He covered the mouthpiece and looked at me, as I pointed down the hallway. “Do you know that girl? Did you see her in the hospitality suite? Danielle Shepherd?”
“Yes,” he whispered, then turned back to his phone conversation again.
“What was she doing in there?” I wanted to know.
I mean, jeez, if Danielle could go into the hospitality suite, certainly I could go in, too.
“Hang on a minute,” Ty said into his phone, then turned to me. “She sold her line to one of the national chains.”
“What?”
“It was a small acquisition,” Ty said. “A hundred grand, I think, for a—”
Ty kept talking, but I quit listening.
Oh my God. Danielle had sold her accessory line to a major national chain of department stores, and raked in a hundred thousand dollars in the process?
I hate my life.
Well, at least now I could see her collection—before it was on the shelves of a zillion department stores nationally. No way would Danielle be here today, closing a deal, without having her line on display.
Ty had turned back to his phone conversation, so I tapped his arm again, gave him a little wave, and left.
As I headed toward the vendor room, I pulled out the brochure I'd shoved in my back pocket, flipped through it to the back, and found the alphabetical listing of vendors. The place was so big, the room had been drawn out on a map with grid coordinates. I located Danielle's booth, near where the fashion show would take place this afternoon, and headed that way.
She'd gotten a prime location between Coach and Prada, and the walkway was jammed with buyers. I figured if I had to wear this dorky uniform today, I may as well use it to my advantage.
“Excuse me! Excuse me!” I called as I pushed my way through the crowd. “Official business! Please stand aside!”
When I made my way to the display cases, I stopped still in my tracks. I couldn't move. Someone bumped me from behind. Another woman murmured a rude remark and pushed past me.
A cold chill washed over me as I stood there taking in the displays of tote bags, cosmetic cases, scarves, gloves, hats, every fashion accessory imaginable.
I knew who killed Courtney.
C
HAPTER
28
I
t was that stained-glass pattern. The same pattern Courtney had done a gazillion times in art class back in high school. It was used in every piece of the accessory line.
Danielle hadn't designed this collection. Courtney had.
My mind raced—and I hadn't even had any chocolate this morning.
Courtney was the artistic one of their partnership. Mike Ivan had been right. Danielle had lied when she'd told me Courtney handled the business end of things. That must have been Danielle's responsibility all along.
Another thought zapped me—motive. The one piece of this murder puzzle I'd never really found. Danielle had killed Courtney to claim the collection as her own so she could sell it.
Yet another thought zapped me—I hate it when that happens.
Why wouldn't Courtney have gone along with the sale? Surely she could have used her share of the money.
Maybe Danielle wanted it all for herself, I realized. But why be greedy enough to kill Courtney, the goose that laid the golden stained-glass design, so to speak. Fashion lines could go on for years, generating income for decades.
“Can I help you?” the young girl behind the display case asked.
She was young, blond, and looked as if she didn't really want to be there—can you imagine? I didn't recognize her. I figured she was just somebody Danielle hired to man the booth today.
“Where's Danielle?” I asked.
She shrugged. “No clue.”
As much as I wanted to confront Danielle myself, I knew I had to call the cops. My spirits lifted a little. Oh yeah, it would feel way good to tell Detective Dailey and that annoying little mutt Webster that I'd solved their murder for them.
I forced my way through the crowd and headed for the ballroom exit, deciding how best to handle this. Since it was Saturday, I didn't know if the detectives would be—
Hang on a minute.
Mike Ivan was here. Somehow I doubted he'd coincidentally attended the handbag convention because of his love of designer satchels and totes, on the heels of Danielle closing the deal on the sale of the collection.
He'd told me she'd promised him the money she owed him, and said she'd have it shortly. That's why he'd come to Vegas.
I flashed on the image of my disintegrating bones blowing around in the hot desert wind after very-possibly-connected Mike Ivan did away with me for screwing him out of his money by reporting Danielle to the cops before he could collect from her.
Not a great feeling.
I turned in a circle and rose on my toes, scanning the room. Mike wasn't in sight. The place was so huge, so packed with people spread out over so much space, the chances I'd spot him were very small. I had to find a way to contact him.
I pulled out my cell phone—which I wasn't supposed to have on me, but, oh well—and called Jack Bishop as I hurried out of the ballroom toward a quiet area of the foyer. The security guard still stood by the door watching the area like a well-dressed Terminator.
I paced impatiently while the call went through. I had to contact Mike quickly, get this handled before Danielle concluded her business and left. With that kind of money available to her, she'd leave town for sure. Who knew how long it would take law enforcement to find her?
“I need Mike Ivan's phone number,” I said when Jack picked up.
I heard music playing softly in the background, then shut down.
“Where are you?” he asked.
I turned around, watching the crowd as it flowed in and out of the ballroom and down the hallway to the breakout rooms. The security guy was still there. No sign of Mike.
“At the Mandalay Bay,” I said. “Look, I know who killed—”
“I'll be there in twenty minutes,” Jack said. “Sit tight.”
“Twenty minutes?” I asked. “You're in Vegas?”
“On my way to Henderson to kick somebody's ass,” Jack told me. “You wait—”
“I can't wait!” I'm sure I shouted it.
The security guard at the entrance of the ballroom turned his attention to me. I swung away.
“Text me Mike's number,” I said to Jack, then hung up.
“Excuse me?” someone called.
I turned and found two women swathed in polyester with fanny packs fastened around them, looking at me expectantly.
“Where's the Ed Hardy booth?” one of them asked.
Jeez, what was it with old ladies and Ed Hardy–wear?
I had no clue where the booth was, but my Holt's training kicked in automatically.
“Go all the way to the back of the ballroom, then turn left,” I said in my I'm-a-trained-professional voice.
It works every time. The women headed into the ballroom.
A group of four women honed in on me with a where's-the-bathroom look on their faces. I turned sharply and walked away.
I mean, really, people should make an effort to figure things out on their own.
My cell phone chirped and I saw that Jack had texted Mike's number. As I punched it into my phone, the security guard left his post beside the ballroom doors and headed my way.
“Yes?” Mike Ivan said into my ear.
I heard the cacophony of sounds behind him and figured he was still in the vendor room.
“It's Haley,” I said. “Listen, I'm at the handbag convention. Something's happened. I absolutely have to talk to you right this minute.”
“Where?”
He hadn't hesitated. I guess with his lifestyle, he had to be ready to make a move on a moment's notice.
Either that or he was sick of looking at handbags.
I didn't know the layout of the Mandalay Bay beyond the convention center well enough to suggest someplace out of the immediate area. Besides, I wanted to stay close in the hope I could spot Danielle.
“Meet me in the Reef Room by the Jackie Kennedy handbags,” I told him. Somehow, it seemed appropriate.
Mike hung up without saying anything. I guess that meant he'd meet me there; I wasn't really up on possibly-connected-to-the-Russian-mob communications.
I headed for the hallway leading to the breakout rooms. The security guard cut diagonally across the foyer to intercept me, but my long pageant legs and my well-honed ability to dodge Holt's customers—it was like having superpowers, really—allowed me to stride away well ahead of him. I slipped into the mass of people in the hallway and wove my way into the Reef Room. Mike Ivan stood next to the Jackie Kennedy handbag display.
“Did you get your money from Danielle?” I asked. Okay, I kind of just blurted it out, but I was in a hurry and more than a little stressed.
He looked at me as if it were none of my business, which it wasn't, but that wasn't the issue at the moment. Still, better to explain, I decided.
“Danielle murdered Courtney,” I said. “I'm going to call the police but I want to make sure you got your money from her first.”
Mike seemed surprised, but I didn't know if it was because I'd said Danielle was a killer or because of the money thing.
“I collected from her this morning,” he told me. Then he looked disgusted and shook his head. “I always liked Courtney. It was Danielle? You're sure?”
“Absolutely. Look, I've got to go.”
Mike said something, but I didn't hang around to listen. I wanted to find Danielle, make sure she was still here. I only knew one place to start looking.
I hurried back down the hallway, through the foyer, and into the ballroom again. The security guard at the door gave me a hard look, which I ignored.
Jeez, I guessed that if I was his biggest problem security-wise, the convention was in good shape—except there was a murderer on the loose in here somewhere.
For a few seconds, I thought about telling the security guard, but decided against it. In the time it took me to explain everything—then get him and probably his supervisor to believe it—Danielle could be long gone.
Squeezing through the crowd, I made my way back to Danielle's booth. The same young girl was there, showing a cosmetic bag to a customer.
“I need to talk to Danielle,” I said.
The customer glared at me for interrupting. I flashed my conference ID lanyard as if it were a police badge and she backed off.
“She's not here, like I said,” the girl told me
“Where is she?” I asked.
She huffed. “Like I should know.”
“Haley?” someone called.
I spotted Danielle about six deep in the crowd behind me. She looked at the stained-glass collection, then back at me. Neither of us said anything, but I knew we were having the same thought. She'd known all along that once I got a look at the line, I'd know it was Courtney's work, not hers.
Then she surprised me by calling, “It's not what you think,” over the heads of the people between us. “Let me explain.”
She walked away. I followed her through the ballroom and into the foyer. She turned left and finally stopped in front of the massive windows that let in natural sunlight—which was really weird inside a Vegas casino—and offered an awesome view of the Luxor Pyramid, the Mandalay Bay Hotel, and its huge swimming pool.
Danielle turned abruptly and faced me. Hers was hardly the expression of somebody who'd just gotten a hundred grand. Nor did she look as if my knowing she'd murdered Courtney was troublesome in the least.
Either she was playing it really cool, or she had a knife in her purse that she intended to stab me with.
I glanced back at the entrance of the ballroom. No security guard.
Just my luck.
“Courtney designed the collection,” I said, just because I wanted to get my accusation out there first. “You murdered her so you could pass it off as yours and keep all the money for yourself.”
Danielle drew herself up straighter and stared out the window for a moment, then cut her gaze to me. “You shouldn't act like you're all that, Haley. None of this would have happened, if it weren't for you.”
“Me?”
“I was standing right there when Courtney got your Facebook message and learned you were coming to town and wanted to hook up,” Danielle told me. “She couldn't wait for you to get here. That's why she went to the Holt's store to meet you first thing that morning. But not for the reason you think.”
I didn't say anything.
Her expression darkened. “Courtney told me how you didn't really like her back in high school, how you used to make fun of her artwork. She was thrilled to show you what she'd developed it into, and explain how she was an artisan now, selling her line to only the most exclusive clients.”
Okay, that didn't make me feel so great.
Danielle drew in a breath, gazed out of the window for a minute, then turned to me again. “You were right. Courtney was an idiot.”
That didn't make me feel any better.
“A complete idiot,” Danielle said, her voice rising a little. “I told her about the kind of money we could make going commercial, selling the collection to a department store—and I was right. But no. Oh, no. Courtney insisted she was an artisan. Each piece had to be handmade. Stitch by stitch.”
“So you, what, went with her to Holt's that morning? Followed her?” I asked. “Either way, you were inside the store with her. You slashed her with the box cutter. Left her in the dressing room to die.”
“What was I supposed to do?” Danielle demanded. “It was the perfect opportunity. You were coming to the store. She'd told me how you didn't like her, how some guy you wanted to date went out with her instead. I couldn't let that moment slip by and not make the most of it.”
“You set me up,” I said. Hearing Danielle admit to it hit me hard. “That's why you didn't want me to see the collection. You knew I'd recognize it as Courtney's work.”
Danielle just stared at me.
Then I flashed on something else. “You killed Rosalyn Chase.”
She didn't say anything.
“You lied when I talked to you that night. You claimed you were in L.A., but you were really here,” I said, then I thought of something else. “That's why you called me at Rosalyn's house. You wanted to make sure the police would know I was there when they looked at my cell phone records. You did that to try to cover up the fact that you'd murdered her.”
“Which was also your fault,” Danielle pointed out.
I guess, in a way, she was right. I was the one who'd called Danielle, told her I was going to Rosalyn's house to see the collection, and asked her to meet me there. I'd given Danielle the motive and the occasion to commit a second murder and, once again, make me the scapegoat.

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