Clutches and Curses (6 page)

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Authors: Dorothy Howell

BOOK: Clutches and Curses
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Second of all, the teachers loved her—or maybe they just felt sorry for her. I don't know. Courtney was in my art class and for an entire semester everything she drew, sketched, painted, and sculpted had the same stupid stained-glass pattern. At the school art fair that spring, Courtney's painting got first place—but only because the teacher helped her with it—mine got second. At graduation, she got a couple of scholarships and some awards—not that I thought I deserved them, but still.
Then, of course, there was that thing with Robbie Freedman.
I clicked onto the “alumni” icon. A list of Monroe graduates' names along with their accomplishments filled the screen. Jeez, when did the school start doing this?
I scrolled through a few of the names I remembered from high school. Most people had already graduated college, some were in med school or law school. One guy had opened his own dot-com company and was already a millionaire. A girl—who'd definitely had some work done, judging from the photo she'd posted—was starring in a Broadway play. Everybody was doing big things.
Everybody but me.
Not a good feeling.
Then it hit me. Oh my God, lots of graduates from Monroe had probably logged onto the site, wondering what I'd done with my life. I paged down and clicked my name. Nothing came up.
Jeez, I couldn't let people think I hadn't accomplished anything. Of course, I couldn't let them know what I'd actually done, either.
I set up an alumni account with a password, and paused, my fingers on the keyboard trying to decide what to write. Absolute truthfulness in this sort of situation wasn't required. I mean, half of the graduating class had probably stretched their accomplishments, right?
Then it occurred to me that no matter how far I stretched the things I'd done, nobody from Monroe High School would be impressed. So I typed in that I did undercover work but couldn't disclose anything more, as a matter of national security. Just enough info to be intriguing and make me sound important, without actually entering any facts that might prove embarrassing in the future if some Monroe alumni checked into them and decided to rat me out.
Some things never change, even after high school.
I clicked on Courtney's page on the Web site and was surprised to see the only info she'd listed was her move to Henderson. I'm not sure what I expected to find. Certainly not that she had some big career going. Courtney never struck me as being that bright.
I entered her name into a search engine and eventually found an article about women and small businesses that she'd been mentioned in for the local newspaper. Wow, Courtney had started a fashion accessory business? When did that happen? I kept searching and, half an hour later, I had her address.
I packed up my laptop and left.
C
HAPTER
6
M
y GPS took me to the Bay Breeze Apartments on Warm Springs Road, a sprawling complex in a nice area of Henderson. The buildings were sand-colored stucco with red tile roofs. Lots of pine and palm trees, green belts, plants, and flowers. I wound my way through the maze of driveways and speed bumps and pulled into a parking spot outside Courtney's apartment.
The place seemed quiet. Too quiet. Not much traffic, lots of open parking slots. I sat in my car wondering what was up. I mean, Courtney had been murdered. Where were her family and friends? Everybody congregates s
omewhere
at a time like this. If they weren't here, where would I find them?
Only one way to find out.
I left my car and rang the doorbell. I'd done this sort of thing before but still didn't like it. It's not easy walking into a home full of mourners. I didn't top anyone's list of who to call during an emotional crisis. A party, yes, but not something like this.
After a few minutes, I rang the bell again. I was thinking that maybe I'd just leave a note or something, when I heard sounds from inside and the door opened.
A tall guy—I figured him for thirty—squinted down at me. He was thin—too thin, really, which only men can be.
He had black hair, a goatee, and enough tattoos to cause strangers to look twice—and not because they figured he was starring in his own reality show. He wore jeans and a tired-looking T-shirt.
“Yeah?” he said.
He didn't exactly look overcome with grief, but hey, who was I to judge?
“I'm an old friend of Courtney's,” I said and introduced myself. No need to get into the whole I-found-her-dead-at-Holt's thing.
He didn't respond. Instantly, I panicked.
What if this guy was Courtney's brother or boyfriend or something, and the cops hadn't notified him that she was dead yet? What if he asked me why I was here? What would I say?
I wished I'd checked Courtney's Facebook page back at Starbucks so maybe I'd know who this guy was. But I'd been afraid to. I figured Detective Webster was monitoring it and would try to make something of it—something that would benefit the cops—so no way was I doing that.
I was ready to make a break for my car when the guy said, “Guess you heard.”
I
really
hoped he was asking if I'd heard about Courtney's death.
Just to play it safe, I said, “I heard.”
“Detectives were here earlier,” he said. “Thought maybe you were them. I'm Tony Hubbard. Come on in.”
He walked back into the apartment. I followed.
The layout of the place seemed typical. Living room/ dining room combo, small galley kitchen, hallways leading to bedrooms and bathrooms.
From the looks of Courtney's apartment, I figured she hadn't lived there very long. Basic furniture—TV, stereo, sofa, end tables—was in place, but that was about it. No pictures on the wall, no plants, nothing that showcased the personality of the occupants.
It was weird. I mean, why would you not decorate your apartment? Yeah, okay, so maybe she didn't have much money, but who needs money? That's what credit cards are for. Right?
“Want a beer?” Tony asked, as he headed into the kitchen.
“Sure,” I said, and followed.
He pulled two cold ones out of the fridge and passed one to me. I cracked it open and asked, “So you're Courtney's . . .?”
“We've been together for a couple of months now,” Tony said, and made a sweeping motion with his beer can. I took that to mean he lived in the apartment with Courtney and they were official boyfriend–girlfriend.
“Does Courtney have family around here?” I asked, glancing around the silent, desolate apartment.
“Nah,” Tony said, tipping up his beer. “They're too religious for Sin City.”
I nodded as if I completely understood. I didn't, of course. I hadn't known—or cared—anything about Courtney or her family back in high school.
“What did the cops say?” I asked.
Tony grunted. “Nothing. Just asked a bunch of dumb-ass questions—like I was supposed to know what the hell Courtney was doing.”
“Do they have any idea who did it?” I asked.
“Cops are idiots,” he told me.
I decided it best to keep silent on that and changed the subject.
“I knew Courtney in L.A.,” I said.
Tony squared his shoulders. He puffed out his chest like men do when they're mad. It's usually kind of hot, but not this time. This time, all I could think was that I was alone in this apartment with a kind of creepy guy I didn't really know. Nobody knew I was here. Nobody expected me to return.
Not a great feeling.
Tony took a step toward me. “Did Mike send you?”
I took a step back. “Who's Mike?”
“Mike from L.A.,” he told me, as if that explained everything—and made him madder because he'd had to say it.
I knew a half-dozen guys named Mike, but I wasn't going to admit to it—certainly not at a time like this.
Luckily, I can lie convincingly in a crisis. It's a gift, really.
“I don't know any Mike,” I said.
That seemed to make him even madder. “You don't know Mike Ivan?” Tony asked.
I chugged my beer. Since it appeared I might die in the next thirty seconds, I may as well go out with beer breath.
“So who is he?” I asked.
Tony glared at me, as if sizing me up, trying to decide if I was lying or not. I guess I passed some sort of mental test, because he drained his beer and tossed the can into the trash.
“Some lying bastard who's giving Courtney a hard time,” he said, and opened the refrigerator. “He won't leave her alone.”
“An old boyfriend?” I asked.
He glared at me again, then reached into the fridge for another beer. I decided it best to keep the conversation moving.
“How long has Courtney lived in Henderson?” I asked. “We kind of lost touch after high school.”
“Since last fall, I guess,” he said, and opened another beer.
Seemed he'd moved in with her pretty quickly. Interesting.
Ty flashed into my head. He'd asked me to move in with him but nothing had come of it. And he still hadn't called me.
I centered my thoughts back to the present. This was no time to get caught up in a why-hasn't-he-called, is-there-something-wrong-with-me mental loop.
I glanced around expecting to see signs of Courtney's fashion accessory line that the online article had mentioned—hats, gloves, scarves, belts, something. Nothing was here. The report was kind of old. I wondered if the company had gone belly-up already.
“So what's going to happen to Courtney's business now that she's . . . gone?” I asked.
Tony tipped up his beer.
“Guess that partner of hers will figure it out,” he said.
The article hadn't mentioned a partner, which seemed odd. But maybe the partner wasn't so hot for the publicity.
“Did they run the company here?” I asked, glancing around again.
“Danielle talked her into renting a place,” Tony told me. “Some kind of workroom. Eastern something.”
I finished my beer and tossed the can into the trash, then fished a pen and slip of paper from my tote. I jotted down my name and phone number.
“Can somebody give me a call about the . . . you know, funeral?” I asked.
Tony shrugged. “Yeah, sure.”
I laid the paper on the counter and left. Outside, I noticed a Harley Davidson parked a few spaces down and wondered if it was Tony's. He looked like a motorcycle kind of guy. He didn't, however, look like the kind of guy Courtney would hook up with.
But what did I know? High school was a long time ago.
I got into my car and left.
A lot could have changed for Courtney since I'd known her back at Monroe High. Maybe things had changed with her family, too, but I couldn't stop wondering where the heck they were at a time like this. Surely they knew about Courtney's death by now. Why weren't they here taking care of things?
I turned onto Warm Springs Road. That guy Mike popped into my thoughts. I figured him for Courtney's ex by the way Tony talked about him; that would explain why he was, apparently, stalking her.
Detective Dailey flashed in my mind. He and Webster had been to Courtney's apartment and talked to Tony. Surely they'd learned about Mike and were checking him out.
I got a yucky feeling in my stomach.
Or had they already decided they needed to look no further than me?
Oh, crap.
I pulled to a stop at a red light and looked around. I'd been to Vegas a lot but hadn't often ventured into Henderson. I wasn't sure where I was, exactly, but I knew the Sunset Station Casino was around here somewhere.
I thought about hitting the slots, even though I wasn't exactly feeling lucky lately. But I could sure use the money, if I got on a hot streak.
Marcie had told me not to gamble with that whole I've-been-cursed thing hanging over me, and she's almost always right about things.
I really hate it when other people are right.
When the light changed, I swung into the parking lot of a strip mall and pulled out my phone. I hadn't heard it ring but it might have.
Yeah, okay, Courtney's apartment had been as silent as the vacuum of space, and I hadn't turned on the car stereo, so I'd have definitely been able to hear it ring, but still.
I checked messages. No one (translation: Ty) had called.
At this point, there was only one thing to do—go shopping.
The Delicious handbag bloomed in my mind, crowding out all else, bringing everything into focus.
So what if I was a murder suspect? So what if my official boyfriend hadn't called me? So what if I'd—possibly, but I still doubted it—been cursed? So what if my financial situation was more precarious than walking in four-inch stilettos?
The important thing was that I wanted that bag. And if I got it—the hottest, hardest to find, most gorgeous bag in the entire world—wouldn't that prove I wasn't cursed?
Yes, of course it would. Then I could call Marcie with my fabulous news, tell her there was definitely no curse on me, and hit the slots.
I accessed the Internet on my cell phone, found the nearest mall, and took off.
 
Okay, so maybe I really was cursed.
The thought came to me once again as I crawled into bed for the night. I'd combed every store in the mall that might conceivably carry the Delicious handbag, and not one single bag was available.
I still hadn't heard from Ty.
Marcie hadn't called me, either. She was probably out shopping with friends or something, while I was stuck in this crappy motel, helping open a crappy store, because I had a crappy job—which was all my own doing, I know, but still.
Mom hadn't called me, either, which was good, usually. But she'd never said a word about my not going to beauty-queen-spa-week with her. Had she felt obligated to invite me? I was, after all, her only other daughter. Was she secretly glad I hadn't gone?
I've got to get a grip on my life.
 
I awoke with a start. The room was dark. No light streamed in from around the heavy curtains on the windows. I glanced at the clock on my bedside table. The neon green digits glowed 3:14.
Sitting up, I tried to figure out what had awakened me, though my brain wasn't exactly running at peak performance level.
Bad dream? No, I didn't remember anything. Must have been—
Voices rumbled in the hallway.
Okay, no big deal, I decided, and lay down again. Just a couple of guests coming in late.
I closed my eyes and drifted off to sleep.

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