Читать книгу Purses and Poison - Dorothy Howell - Страница 13

It was a Fendi day. Definitely a Fendi day.

The January weather was fabulous, as always in the Golden State, as I walked along Wilshire Boulevard. Shirtsleeve weather, as my father’s relatives from back East like to say, on the rare occasions when they can tolerate my mother long enough to visit. They’re always impressed by it while I, a native, take it for granted. I freely admit to being a California-weather wimp. Extreme heat, cold, or humidity and I freak out.

I’d selected the Fendi bag this morning because it so perfectly complemented the Chanel suit I had on—the kind I used to wear every day before last fall—and I needed to present just the right image. Facing down a vice president at the prestigious, old-money Golden State Bank & Trust would take some finesse—something I’m a little short on, but hey, that’s what the Fendi and Chanel were for.

A reverent hush hung over the lobby of the GSB&T as I walked through the big glass door. It was exquisitely appointed in rich dark wood, sumptuous leather furniture, and fine artwork. Their branch offices that spread out across the West offered a more contemporary look, catering to the masses. But here at their main office, old money, good taste, and quiet sophistication reigned supreme. It was sort of like being in someone’s rich grandmother’s house.

The bank’s greeter, a young woman wearing a gray skirt, a navy blue blazer, and a necktie, for some reason, approached.

“Good morning, ma’am,” she said quietly, giving me the GSB&T smile called for in their customer care handbook, no doubt. “How may I assist you?”

I hoisted my Louis Vuitton organizer—a surprise gift from Ty, which proved he was crazy about me, didn’t it?—so she could see it and be jealous.

“I’m here to see Bradley,” I told her, managing to sound as if calling unannounced on a vice president at the B & T were the most routine of events.

“Is Mr. Olsen expecting you?” the greeter asked.

“No,” I told her, giving her an eyebrow bob that indicated making an appointment was oh so far beneath me.

I may not have gotten my mom’s looks, but I can summon her I’m-better-than-you gene when I need it.

And I needed it today. I didn’t know if Bradley Olsen’s secretary would schedule an appointment for me if I called—I’m pretty sure my picture, with a red circle and a line drawn through it, was plastered next to her telephone—but I figured if I showed up, he wouldn’t refuse to see me.

The Golden State Bank & Trust had gotten caught up in that whole mess last fall, and while you’d think Bradley Olsen would be grateful that their involvement was settled quietly—meaning no lawsuit or unseemly publicity—I just didn’t know how he’d feel about being reminded of the whole thing. When I’d brought Evelyn in here before Christmas to open that account with my settlement money, Mr. Olsen didn’t seem all that glad to see me.

“Tell him Haley Randolph is here,” I told the greeter. “And Ty Cameron will be joining us momentarily.”

Ty wasn’t coming—he didn’t even know I was here—but what was the point of having a sort-of boyfriend if you couldn’t use him, occasionally?

The customer greeter must have recognized the Cameron name as one of their biggest and oldest depositors—I think their account number is “one”—because she invited me to be seated, offered to bring me coffee, then took off. As I’d discovered last fall, the B & T was anxious to make the Camerons happy.

A moment later, the customer greeter returned and escorted me though the silent corridors, the heels of my Jimmy Choos clicking on the marble floor, and into Bradley Olsen’s well-appointed office.

He stood next to a desk big enough to land a squadron of F-22s on, and was as impeccable as his surroundings. Already over the hump and into his fifties, I guessed. Tall, trim, a touch of gray at his temples, an expensive suit and conservative necktie.

He didn’t look surprised to see me—or glad, either.

“Good morning, Miss Randolph,” he said, and gestured to a chair. “Please, have a seat. Can I offer you coffee? Tea, perhaps?”

“No, thank you,” I said, and sat down, placing my Fendi bag and Louis Vuitton organizer on the edge of his desk where he would be sure to see them and know that I deserved to be here.

He sat and an awkward moment passed until he finally said, “So, how is Ms. Croft?”

“Evelyn?” I was surprised he remembered her. The new account we opened with a mere eighty grand was hardly cause for excitement at the Golden State B & T.

“Fully recovered,” I reported. Physically, that was true. I didn’t think Evelyn would want me telling the bank VP that she was too afraid to walk out her own front door these days.

“I’m so glad to hear that.” Mr. Olsen looked relieved. “Really, I’m so glad. Please give her my warmest regards.”

Another uncomfortable moment passed as he glanced from me to his office doorway.

“Should we wait for Mr. Cameron?” Mr. Olsen asked.

I made a show of looking at my watch, then shook my head.

“He must have been delayed. There’s a situation with advertisers,” I said, which could have been true. I’d heard him on the phone handling all sorts of problems every time we’d been out together.

“For Wallace Incorporated?” Olsen asked.

Wallace Inc. was the new store Ty was opening, his own venture separate from Holt’s. The deal had been in the works for months. Golden State Bank & Trust was handling the financing, or something. Ty had explained it but I’d drifted off.

Olsen frowned. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

Oh God, now he thought there was a problem with Ty opening the store on time.

“Nothing Ty can’t handle,” I said, and waved my hand to demonstrate that it was no big deal.

Olsen’s frown deepened. “So there is a problem.”

“No. There’s no problem,” I insisted, and forced a smile. “It’s a situation. That’s all. Just a simple, routine, everyday situation.”

He frowned for another moment, then scratched a note on a slip of paper, and turned to me again. “So, Miss Randolph, what can I do for you this morning?”

“I’d like some information,” I said.

Mr. Olsen’s smile returned, as if he could see this would be easy and he could hand me off to an assistant and get on to dealing with people more important than me.

I took a piece of paper from my Louis Vuitton organizer and handed it to him. On it, Evelyn had written everything she knew about her neighbor Cecil Hartley, whom she believed had been murdered by his new girlfriend.

“I’d like you to give me information on this man,” I said.

Mr. Olsen slipped on his reading glasses and stared down at the paper for a moment.

“I don’t understand,” he said, looking at me over the top of his glasses.

“It’s all right there,” I said. To Evelyn’s information, I’d added a list of info I needed. “His credit cards, when he last used them, where they were used. That sort of thing.”

Mr. Olsen frowned a completely new kind of frown.

“This is highly irregular,” he told me.

I knew that. I also knew that Cecil Hartley was probably alive and well. Evelyn had told me he’d bought a new motor home a few months ago, so I figured he and the new girlfriend were on some cross-country adventure—or whatever it was old people did in those things—and would return home sooner or later.

But Evelyn had been adamant—too many crime dramas on the Lifetime Channel, I suspect—and convinced beyond all doubt that Barb, the new girlfriend, had somehow done Cecil in. So I figured if I could show her that he was using his credit cards somewhere, it would prove he was alive and kicking. I also figured that the easiest way to get that information was from Bradley Olsen.

Only Bradley Olsen didn’t seem all that anxious to help out.

He stared at me, completely stunned, as if I’d just asked him to take off his clothes—yuck—and dance on the desk.

“This is also illegal,” he said, his voice getting a little higher. “I can’t simply check into someone’s credit history on a whim. There are policies and procedures, federal laws and government regulations. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Of course I know that,” I said—really I didn’t, but no need to tell him that.

At this point, I could have reminded him of the incident last fall when he and the Golden State Bank & Trust had come way close to a huge scandal, but had been saved from public humiliation by yours truly—okay, it was really Ty, but he wouldn’t have done it if it hadn’t been for me. Anyway, I could have said that. I didn’t want to, though. Nobody likes being reminded of their screwups.

I know this from personal experience.

But I didn’t see any reason to actually tell him the truth, either. That complicating things sometimes.

So I said, “It’s for Evelyn. She’s thinking of investing with this guy and I think he’s up to no good. Preying on her because she’s lonely.”

Olsen’s expression morphed back into concerned-banker mode. Or so I thought until he said, “Ms. Croft is lonely? Why, I assumed she had a husband, children. Surely a woman like her would have a very full life.”

Okay, that was weird. But he seemed to be on my side now, so I went with it.

“I’m afraid this Cecil Hartley is some sort of gigolo,” I said. “I don’t want to see her get hurt.”

“Neither do I. So, yes, of course. Of course, I’ll check into it. I can’t have a lovely lady like Ms. Croft—” He stopped suddenly and said, “That is, I owe it to her as a Golden State Bank and Trust customer to thoroughly investigate any business opportunity.”

I figured I should get out of there while things were still going my way, but I couldn’t resist adding, “I’ll be sure to let Ty know how helpful you’ve been.”

Of course, there was no way I’d ever mention this to Ty.

Olsen pushed to his feet and stood tall. “I’ll get on it immediately,” he declared.

Bradley Olsen, man on a mission.

It seemed a shame to ruin a perfectly wonderful day by going to work, but that’s what my life was these days.

I swung into a parking space at my apartment complex and sat there for a moment contemplating things. I had just enough time to get inside, change clothes, then call my best friend, Marcie, at work before I headed to Holt’s. I needed to talk to her about this whole Ty-going-to-Europe thing. And, of course, tell her about the school supplies I’d just bought.

After leaving Bradley Olsen’s office this morning I’d stopped by the mall to check on that Judith Leiber evening bag I was dying to have. It was still in the case, still gorgeous. I stayed until the security guard started to stare. But I could hardly tear myself away. I felt sort of like a soldier saying good-bye to a lover in one of those old war movies.

I’m pretty sure it called my name when I left.

So, to ease my heartache, I’d taken a quick turn through the mall just to see what was new in the stores. It’s important to stay on top of all the latest fashion trends. And wouldn’t you know it, Nordstrom had awesome new Kate Spade bags that had just arrived.

That left me in a bit of a dilemma, since I’d promised myself that I wouldn’t spend money on anything except essentials and things I needed for school. Then it occurred to me that the purse would look great with the new pair of jeans I’d bought last week for school, so technically, that made the bag a school expense. So what could I do but buy it? Along with a matching wallet, of course.

You know, if it weren’t for the homework, this school thing wouldn’t be so bad.

I got out of my car and popped my trunk to get out my packages, and noticed a car door opening at a nearby space. Detective Shuman got out.

I froze. What was Shuman doing here? At my apartment? In the middle of the afternoon?

Then I gulped. Oh my God. Oh my God. Was he here to arrest me?

My gaze darted from car to car. Was Detective Madison here, too? He wouldn’t want to miss this.

Should I jump behind the wheel? Tear out of the parking lot? I envisioned videotape shot from a news chopper above the L.A. freeways as I led a caravan of police cars on a high-speed chase to the Mexican border. But how would I live down there? What would become of me?

I’m definitely taking Spanish next semester.

Detective Shuman walked over and I saw that he was alone.

“I don’t see Madison, so I guess I’m not under arrest,” I said.

“Not today,” he said.

Shuman looked kind of good, with the afternoon sunlight shining on his brown hair. It gave him golden highlights that I hadn’t noticed before. Since that crab-ass Madison wasn’t with him, I figured this visit wasn’t about police business. Probably something to do with his girlfriend.

I pulled my shopping bags out of the trunk.

“I won a latte machine at the Holt’s prize raffle,” I said, nodding to the box Bella had put in my trunk. “Bring it upstairs and we’ll try it out.”

“I don’t think that’s a latte machine,” Shuman said, after a quick peek into the trunk. “I need to talk to you about Claudia Gray’s murder.”

“You found the murderer already?” I asked, hoping that somehow a miracle had happened and this nightmare was over.

Shuman shook his head. “No. I want to find out why you lied about what you were doing in the stockroom that day.”