Clutches and Curses (8 page)

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Authors: Dorothy Howell

BOOK: Clutches and Curses
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“I told him not to come,” Preston said.
“What?”
I screamed that.
Preston didn't seem to notice. He shook his head wearily.
“The last thing I need is those folks from Corporate here,” he told me. “They're somewhat . . . out of touch, I guess you could say.”
I collapsed onto the chair in front of his desk, exhausted.
Preston looked kind of tired, too. His white shirt was a little rumpled, his tie a bit askew. A homicide investigation during his very first management assignment—before the store even opened—had already taken its toll.
I saw no reason to demoralize him further by pointing out that the rough ride had only just begun.
I also saw no reason not to pump him for info while in his weakened condition—strictly to further the investigation, of course.
“What have the cops told you?” I asked.
“Nothing.” Preston's already rounded shoulders drooped a little lower. “They keep coming back, looking at things, asking questions.”
“Did they take the store surveillance footage?” I asked.
“The cameras aren't hooked up yet,” he said, then waved toward the sales floor. “That's top priority today.”
“What about the parking lot?” I asked.
Preston looked mildly perturbed. “The complex owners didn't have cameras operating. They hadn't paid the security company, or some such nonsense. It's borderline criminal, if you ask me. We expected certain standards when we took this property and now—”
He stopped talking and took a deep breath to rein in his temper. I couldn't blame him for being angry.
“So, anyway, Haley, I wanted to thank you for handling everything the way you did yesterday,” Preston said. He looked a little embarrassed now. “Honestly, I was a bit stunned by the whole thing. I appreciate your jumping in the way you did and pointing me in the right direction.”
Not wanting to explain that this wasn't my first murder, I just said, “Glad I could help.” It sounded kind of lame, under the circumstances, but what else could I say?
“You're one of our most experienced employees, you know,” Preston said.
If that were true, a murder victim in the store was the least of Preston's problems.
“So,” he announced, pulling in a breath and squaring his shoulders. “I'd like to do something for the store employees, a sort of reward for what they endured yesterday, and I'd like your input on it.”
Doing something nice for the employees always seemed like a good idea to me.
“Sure,” I told him.
“Excellent,” he declared and rose from his desk. “I'll count on you.”
I left Preston's office. Since my department assignment hadn't been indicated on the easel at the front of the store, I figured I'd have to hunt down Fay and ask her.
Of course, it might take me awhile to find her.
As I strolled past the breakroom, two men walking side by side turned down the hallway and headed toward me.
Detectives Dailey and that rat-dog partner of his, Detective Webster.
I froze in my tracks.
They kept coming.
“Just the person we want to talk to,” Webster sneered.
“About what?” I blurted out.
They stopped in front of me. Detective Dailey looked down at me.
“Robbie Freedman,” he said.
Oh, crap.
C
HAPTER
8
P
reston ran out of his office faster than teen girls headed to a blowout sale at the mall when Detective Dailey asked if we could use the room.
I guess his appreciation for my help yesterday only went so far.
Webster dragged a chair around to the power side of the desk and sat down next to Dailey. He pulled out his notebook, flicked his pen, and glared at me.
“I guess this means you two haven't solved the murder yet,” I said, just to be snotty, as I sat down.
“We're closing in on a suspect,” Detective Dailey said.
Jeez, I hope he didn't mean me.
I think maybe he did.
Not a great feeling.
“Tell us about Robbie Freedman,” Dailey said.
The first thought that jetted through my brain was to lie. I couldn't help it. It was some sort of natural defense mechanism, I think.
My next thought was to wonder who at Monroe High School had ratted me out to the cops about Robbie.
The third thing that flashed in my head was to wonder if whoever-it-was had also told them I didn't like Courtney back in high school, how I'd made fun of those awful stained-glass windowpane art projects she did over and over again, and how I talked about how stupid she was.
My fourth thought was that I needed a whole new life.
This was not the time, however, to dwell on that. I'd have plenty of opportunity to do that later—hopefully, not in an orange jumpsuit.
Back in the day, I'd made no secret of my dislike for Courtney—though I was surprised the whole thing was memorable enough all these years later that someone would report it to the cops. High school was all about liking or not liking somebody. Guess I was a standout—but not in a good way.
I mentally ditched the thought of lying about Robbie. It's usually not a good idea to lie to detectives—believe me, I know this from personal experience—so why risk it? Besides, the fact that I knew Robbie didn't mean I'd killed Courtney.
Unless you were a homicide detective desperate to solve a high-profile case, that is.
Crap.
“Miss Randolph?” Detective Webster said, making the name sound like
Stupid
.
“I knew Robbie in high school,” I said. “But I guess you already know that.”
“You bet we do,” Webster said, narrowing his beady little eyes.
Somebody should put him on a leash.
“There was a romantic rivalry involving you, Robbie, and Courtney?” Detective Dailey asked.
“Something like that,” I said.
Actually, it was nothing like that.
Back in the day, I'd thought Robbie was hot, really hot. So hot, I couldn't get up nerve enough to talk to him. Every time I tried, I got all nervous and jittery, and I knew I'd make a fool of myself.
That's
how hot he was.
I know it's hard to believe I was ever that awkward, but that was six—or maybe seven, I'm not very quick with math—years ago. A lot has changed since then.
I'd mentioned my feelings for him to Courtney, and the next thing I knew, she and Robbie started going out. It wasn't fair. I saw him
first
.
Anyway, they dated through our entire senior year and I saw them together all the time. Plus, Courtney talked about him to me in class and when she hung around with me and my friends—totally uninvited, of course.
I don't think she did it to be mean—which irritated me even more. She just didn't have a clue what she was doing. She was really weird like that. She never seemed to
get
anything.
“We can talk about this at the police station,” Detective Webster barked.
Anger shot through me. Bad enough that I was forced to recall and relive those awful days in high school. I sure didn't like being threatened at the same time—especially by someone who'd probably taken his cousin to the prom.
“I don't know what you're making such a big deal about,” I said, none too kindly. “Robbie, Courtney, and I went to the same high school—along with a lot of other kids. Courtney and Robbie dated. I never dated Robbie.”
“But you wanted to,” Detective Dailey said.
He used that really mellow voice of his, the one that made you want to confess to
something
. No way was I falling for that. Plus, it made me really mad.
“If you think I came all the way to Henderson, got Courtney to come to the store, then murdered her because of some old high school crush, you're wrong,” I told them. I stood up and glared at them. “And if that's all you've got, your investigation is in a lot of trouble.”
Detective Dailey leaned back in his chair a little. Webster opened his mouth like he was getting ready to say something, but I beat him to it.
“We're done,” I told him. I gave them big-time stink-eye for another second or two, then stomped out of the room.
Halfway down the hall, Fay rushed up to me.
“Where've you been?” she demanded. “You're supposed to be stocking in children's, okay?”
I was in no mood.
“I hate children's,” I all but screamed at her. “Don't put me in that department again.”
“Now, look here,” she told me. “You don't get to decide where—”
“Ever!”
I walked away.
 
Like most big companies, Holt's left nothing to chance. Least of all the stocking of their store shelves and the intelligence of their employees—whom they hired—to do it correctly.
I stood in the children's clothing department—which I do still and always will hate—looking at the merchandizing diagram I'd been provided. On it was a grainy black-and-white illustration of the shelving unit each piece of clothing was to be displayed on, along with explicit instructions of where the clothing should be placed on the shelf.
There were also all kind of codes, numbers, and abbreviations which the company's trainers had probably told me about during orientation back when I was hired. I'd drifted off in orientation.
I'd been at this for hours, bringing boxes from the stock room on a U-boat, finding a box cutter—luckily, there were dozens of them in bowls all over the store—opening the boxes, and stocking the shelves, then taking the packing paper and boxes back to the stock room. And, of course, starting the process all over again.
My anger from talking to Detectives Dailey and Webster this morning had worn off a little. I was still disappointed that Ty hadn't been here today and more than slightly put off that he hadn't called yet.
And, it seemed, I really might have to find a psychic.
I glanced at my watch, for about the millionth time, and saw that my lunch hour had finally arrived. Since we were all part-time employees—translation: no benefits—we weren't allowed to work more than a limited number of hours per week. Back in Santa Clarita, that meant I worked four-hour shifts, several days each week. Here, they had us working eight-hour shifts. It made for a very long day—one that included an hour-long lunch break.
Personally, I would rather have had a half-hour break and gone home sooner, but I had no say in the matter. You'd think that because I was doing the wild thing with the big man, as Preston had put it, I'd have a little more pull around here—although I might have if Ty would ever call me.
In the breakroom, I punched out, got my purse from my assigned locker, and left the store.
Since I wasn't all that familiar with the area, I decided to eat at one of the restaurants in the shopping center. I walked a couple of doors down to a little mom-and-pop sandwich shop café next to a dry cleaner.
Vegas was hot—and I'm not talking about the action on The Strip. In the summer—which, technically, was only a couple of weeks away—temperatures routinely shot to over a hundred degrees and stayed there. And all that stuff about it not really feeling hot here because it was a
dry
heat was just a lot of b.s. Living in Vegas was like living in a pizza oven.
I got to the little café just before I started to sweat, got in line, and studied the menu posted behind the counter. I was debating between a double cheeseburger with a chocolate shake or a patty melt with a fries–onion rings combo, when the girl in front of me in line turned around.
“OMG!” she exclaimed. “You're at Holt's! MT! LOL!”
She looked like she was about eighteen years old, short, cute, thin, with blond hair and way too much enthusiasm to suit me at the moment. She was also speaking text. Luckily, I spoke it also. I wanted to tell her to QI—quit it—but I figured she'd think I was JK—just kidding.
“You're at Holt's, too, huh? Yeah, that's laugh-out-loud funny, all right,” I said, though the thought hadn't even registered on my internal laugh-ometer.
“This is like my very first job ever,” she said, waving her hands and bobbing her head like everything was still LOL funny.
“You picked a winner of a place to start,” I said.
It was the nicest thing I could think of to say. Really.
“I'm TH! Let's GF together!” she said.
Translation: she was
too hungry
and wanted to
get food
together.
This didn't suit me. First of all, I was in a crappy mood. Secondly, I didn't like eating with women who were smaller than me. They always ordered a salad, making it impossible for me to order the Trucker's Big Rig Delight, or something equally loaded with fat, calories, cholesterol, and carbohydrates—my four favorite food groups. And forget about dessert.
“I'm Taylor,” she said, still smiling, still flapping her hands around and wiggling her head back and forth. “I'm SG to find somebody to eat with!”
I introduced myself and decided that if she was s
o glad
to eat lunch with somebody, there was no chance of getting rid of her. I would just have to suck it up and make an effort.
I hate it when I have to make an effort.
We went through the line, ordered salads, and found a table near the window to wait for our food. I got a soda—the kind with the real sugar, not that substitute stuff—and gulped down half of it, improving my outlook somewhat.
“OMG!” Taylor said. She gripped the table with both hands, her eyes huge. “Did you hear the LN?”
“What latest news would that be?” I asked.
“That girl who got killed in our store yesterday?” she said. “They think they know who did it.”
Okay, that was weird. Detective Dailey and that annoying mongrel of a partner of his had just been in the store this morning asking me more questions.
“I saw it on the Internet,” Taylor said.
That explained it. News on the Internet wasn't always news, more like somebody's opinion.
“Here's the LN,” Taylor said, leaning toward me. “That girl who got killed? It could have been her CBF who did it.”
“Her current boyfriend?” I asked, just to be sure. Text is a language with many dialects. I wanted to be certain.
“Yes! He's a complete CA!”
“Crazy ass?”
“Yes!” Taylor said again. “OMG. He's like a psycho or something. He's been in prison. Real prison. Not like a little jail or something. It's like a big jail—like prison!”
“OMG!” I shouted.
The waitress brought our salads, and Taylor kept talking about what she'd read on the Internet. I drifted off.
All I could think of was how I'd met Courtney's CA CBF, the charming and oh-so-delightful Tony Hubbard. And not only had I met him, I'd been alone with him in her apartment.
I'd definitely gotten a weird vibe from him—or maybe that's the sort of vibe everyone who's been in
real prison
gave off. I don't know. But something wasn't right there.
Damn. I should have questioned him further while I had the chance.
Regardless of what the Internet was reporting—and I use that term loosely—the homicide detectives were still investigating, evidenced by the crappy mood they'd put me in this morning.
But why were they focused on that whole me-and-Robbie-Freedman thing? Especially if they had an in-your-face suspect like Tony Hubbard?
Taylor brought me back to reality by commenting on my handbag. My mood improved. I figured if she knew a Marc Jacobs purse on sight—you'd be amazed at how many people don't—she couldn't be all bad.
We sat in the café and talked, and I was eyeing the menu, seriously considering getting a strawberry sundae—just so I'd know if I could recommend the place to other people, of course—when a guy walked past our table. He stopped, backed up, stopped again, and stared down at us.

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