CHAPTER 22
Instead of parking at the curb outside of Nuovo, I turned the corner, swung into the parking garage, took the ramp up, and pulled into an empty slot on the second level. The place was about half full, which wasn’t unusual for late afternoon. Moms with school-age kids had already headed home, and working women were still slaving away at their jobs.
My first instinct was to straight-arm the door to Nuovo, march up to the counter, and demand to know just where the heck my Mystique clutch was, and why nobody had called me yesterday.
But, really, I was pretty sure I knew the answer to both of those questions.
I didn’t want to think the worst of someone—in this case, Chandra—but it seemed obvious to me that she’d stolen the Mystique I’d seen her carrying the other day from the shipment of handbags, and had been shining me on with that excuse about the shipment being delayed. Added to my I’m-sure-I’m-right suspicion was Elise’s comment that the store had suffered a rash of supposedly waylaid merchandise.
But as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t just barge into the shop and make that sort of accusation. After all, I could be wrong—I doubted it, but it was possible—and throwing down that sort of claim was hard to come back from. No way did I want to alienate anyone in the shop and jeopardize my eighty-percent employee discount.
We’ve all got our priorities.
I decided to take things slow—which I really didn’t like doing, usually—and dug my cell phone from my handbag as I headed down the stairs to the ground floor level. I called Nuovo. Chandra answered.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Randolph,” she said. “I’m so pleased to hear from you. You were on my list for today.”
I froze on the sidewalk. She’d intended to call and let me know my Mystique had arrived?
Jeez, and I’d thought sure she’d stolen the handbag meant for me.
Okay, so I was wrong.
I didn’t feel so great about myself.
“I wanted to let you know that our shipment of Mystique bags hasn’t arrived yet,” Chandra said.
I knew I wasn’t wrong.
Am I awesome, or what?
“You didn’t receive a shipment yesterday?” I asked, just to be sure.
“I’m so sorry, but we didn’t. I’ll let you know the moment we get your bag, of course,” Chandra said. “Unless you’d prefer to make a different selection? We have the latest styles from all the best designers in stock. I could give you an even better discount on one of those.”
No way was I settling for anything less than a Mystique, nor was I falling for her oh-so-obvious attempt to throw me off and cover her tracks by steering me to a different bag.
“I might do that,” I lied. “What time do you get off today?”
“I’ll be here for another hour,” she said. “But if you want to come in later, I’ll be happy to stay. Just let me know.”
“Thanks,” I said, and we ended the call.
I walked to the end of the block and gazed down the street at Nuovo. I was really tempted to go inside and confront anyone and everyone who happened to be there right now.
I’m not good at holding back.
Instead, I did what anybody who suspected that a crime had been committed would have done—I headed to Macy’s to do some shopping.
* * *
“What are we doing?” Detective Shuman asked.
“We’re on a stakeout,” I told him.
“We are?”
“Just roll with it.”
Okay, so this wasn’t the sort of stakeout a homicide detective was used to. I got that. But the most fabulous clutch bag in the entire history of all known civilization was involved, so what else could I do?
We were seated on a bench in a small courtyard amid a maze of upscale office buildings. To our left were the rear exits of a line of shops, and to our right was the parking garage designated for employees only.
The shop I was watching, of course, was Nuovo. Chandra had told me when her shift ended. I figured she’d leave through the store’s rear door and head for her car in the parking garage.
I wasn’t sure exactly what I intended to do when I saw her, but I was confident I’d know when the moment presented itself.
While I’d been shopping at Macy’s, Shuman had texted me stating he had some info to share, so I’d told him to meet me here.
I mean, really, if you’re going to be on a stakeout, why not do it with a trained professional—who also happened to be a hot-looking guy who was fun to hang out with?
We made a bit of a mismatched pair—me in my black business suit and Shuman in his questionable-fashion combo, a navy-blue sport coat and a yellow shirt that he’d paired, apparently for no good reason, with a turquoise necktie. Still, we were inconspicuous and semi-undercover enough not to raise eyebrows since the people coming and going around us hadn’t given us a second look.
I figured Shuman’s day had been easy, or as easy as a homicide detective’s day can get. He seemed relaxed, but I sensed the undercurrent of caution and suspicion that seemed to always flow through him. I guess that came with the job. It was probably tough to completely let down your guard when spending your days seeing the absolute worst in people.
“Did you find anything new on Asha’s murder investigation?” Shuman asked.
He’d texted me because he had info to share, but, of course, he wasn’t going to be the first one to divulge anything. I wished I could accommodate him.
“Nothing,” I said. “Honestly, I’ve been spending most of my time putting together the festival for Holt’s. It’s a super rush. Everybody at the corporate office and at the store is stressing out over it, wanting to make sure it goes smoothly for the investigative journalists who’ll be there.”
He nodded.
“It would help if Asha’s murder was solved before they got here,” I said. “Have you come up with anything?”
Shuman didn’t answer right away.
I think he enjoyed making me wait—which I totally understood since I have some control issues on my own, or so I’ve been told.
Finally, he said, “I talked to George Wright at the auto repair shop.”
“Did he confess?” I asked.
“Yes, but not to Asha’s murder,” he said. “He admitted paying what amounted to bribery to her for advertisements on her Exposer website.”
I felt a spark of anger.
“He took out ads, expensive ads, to keep her from writing bad things about his business?” I asked.
“Yes, he did.”
“Those must have cost him a fortune,” I said. “How could they not, considering Asha’s lavish lifestyle?”
“Cheaper than having his business’s reputation ruined,” Shuman said. “He has a family, a mortgage, a couple of kids heading for college. He couldn’t afford to take the financial hit.”
My opinion of Asha sunk even lower, though I hadn’t thought that was possible.
“Did he know she was dead?” I asked.
Shuman nodded. “He’d heard.”
“The news probably perked up his day considerably,” I said, which, I know, wasn’t a very nice thought, but still. “No more paying for overpriced ads he didn’t want.”
“Which is why he lashed out at you when you showed up at his garage,” Shuman said. “He thought you were taking over the site from Asha.”
Wow, I hadn’t thought about that—and I didn’t feel so great knowing that my presence had caused him so much grief.
“No wonder he was so upset with me,” I said.
Then something else hit me.
“This makes him a suspect in Asha’s murder,” I said.
“He had motive,” Shuman agreed. “If he got rid of Asha he wouldn’t have to fork out money for those ads, and he wouldn’t have to worry that she’d ruin his business with one of her reviews.”
“Does he have an alibi?”
“Says he was at the garage that day,” Shuman said. “He’s in and out, running errands. He owns the place so nobody keeps track of him. Pinning down his exact schedule on the day of the murder would take some work.”
“What about Valerie Roderick?” I asked.
“Her alibi checks out.”
I was relieved to drop Valerie from my mental list of suspects.
Nuovo’s rear door opened and Chandra walked out. She had on the same plain black dress all the clerks wore, and her hair was in a neat bun. A large tote bag was hooked over her shoulder.
She studied her cell phone as she hurried toward the parking garage. I studied her tote bag.
It was made of simple cotton fabric printed with yellow, blue, and orange flip-flops, and had a heavy braided cloth handle.
Definitely not a designer bag.
The sides bulged and she struggled to keep the straps from falling off of her shoulder. The bag was filled with something—my Mystique clutch, maybe?
“Wait here,” I told Shuman, and got to my feet.
“Where are you going?” He sounded concerned, maybe slightly alarmed.
“Just wait here. I’ll be right back.”
He might have said something else, but I didn’t hang around to listen. I cut across the sidewalk and intercepted Chandra just before she reached the parking garage.
“What’s in the bag?” I demanded, planting myself in front of her.
She stopped short. Her head jerked up. A few what-the-heck seconds passed before she recognized me.
“Oh, Ms. Randolph, how nice to—”
“Save it for the store,” I told her, and pointed to her tote bag. “Show me what’s in there.”
Chandra drew back and straightened her shoulders. “This is my personal stuff. You have no right to see it.”
“No?” I nodded toward Shuman. “Well, he does.”
She turned. Shuman was on his feet, frowning, and watching us.
“He’s an LAPD detective,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “He is not. He’s your boyfriend.”
“Are you kidding? Look at how he’s dressed,” I said.
She gave Shuman the once-over and her expression darkened. “Oh. Yeah, that’s bad.”
“Look, Chandra, everybody knows shipments have been supposedly lost. You’re stealing merchandise from the store,” I said. “You’ve been smuggling it out in that tote bag, thinking nobody would notice because the thing is so crappy.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she told me. “I’m off work, and I don’t have to listen to this.”
Chandra cut around me and disappeared into the parking garage. I let her go. What else could I do, short of starting a throw-down?
“I thought I was about to see a chick fight.” Shuman appeared next to me. “What was that about?”
“A handbag.”
He didn’t seem surprised.
“How about a Starbucks?” he asked.
Shuman knew me well.
It was way cool.
“Come on,” he said. “We’ll go talk about murder. Not only is George Wright now a suspect, but so are the dozens of other business owners who advertised on Asha’s website.”
Oh, crap.