Read Online A Job to Kill For by Janice Kaplan - Free Book Online Page A

open his eyes. “Who knows? Young kids are always a little flaky.”
    “So she just left? You didn’t fire her?”
    “Don’t think so.”
    I hesitated a little longer. Andy probably got a hundred résumés a month from twentysomethings desperate to get a first foot in TV. Most would be grateful to get him coffee and take in his dry cleaning. Cassie had actually worked on shows.
    “Strange that she’d leave,” I said. “Seems like she had the proverbial job to die for.”
    Andy sat up. “She didn’t die on the job.”
    “I know that. I’m just wondering what didn’t work out.”
    Andy stared at me, his face an odd mix of anger and apprehension. “People move on,” he said. “That’s all. She moved on.”
     
     
    I drove west down Pico for a few blocks, took a left, and just before Wilshire Boulevard turned into a small parking lot next to Barneys. One of my clients demanded throw pillows for the Eames sofa I’d found for her den. I’d tried to explain that the designer’s leather, teak, and polished aluminum gem didn’t need anything to clutter its clean lines. But the modern vibe didn’t sing to her. She wanted pillows, and she wanted them handmade, beaded, and one-of-a-kind ornate. I could either stop here or get on a plane to Pakistan.
    Inside Barneys, I skipped by the shoes and paused briefly on the main floor to admire a buttery-soft Lanvin handbag.
    “One of my favorites,” said a saleswoman coming over. “It’s called the Kansas tote.”
    I glanced at the tag. When did four figures become reasonable for a purse? For this price, I could make a down payment on a small ranch in Kansas.
    “I could also recommend the Kentucky velour leather,” she said, displaying another bag.
    Two hundred bucks more. So maybe a horse farm in Lexington. At least I had options.
    “They’re lovely, but not today,” I said, scurrying away. If I browsed bags any longer, I’d end up buying the entire state of Texas.
    Years ago, I’d bought an expensive Givenchy purse and showed it proudly to Dan. From the baffled look on his face, I might have been flaunting a Ziploc sandwich bag.
    “Doesn’t turn you on?” I’d asked.
    “You turn me on,” he’d said, putting his arms around me. “What you wore to bed last night turned me on.”
    “I didn’t wear anything to bed.”
    “Right.”
    If a bare shoulder had more appeal than a shoulder bag, I could save myself a couple of thousand dollars. Apparently no man had ever been attracted to a woman for her hot Birkin.
    I left the accessories department and stepped onto the escalator. Too restless to stand still (Andy Daniels and I had something in common), I walked up the moving stairs and past a woman so skinny she probably hadn’t seen a lettuce leaf since yesterday. I wanted to offer her a candy bar. Hadn’t she heard that the average American woman wore a size 14?
    My cell phone rang and I flipped it open.
    “Is this Mrs. Fields?” asked a slightly gruff man’s voice.
    “Yes it is.”
    “I’m Joey Tartufo. Security officer for Anthropologie. I’m calling about your daughter, Ashley.”
    “Oh my God.” I grabbed the handrail to steady myself. “Is she okay? Wh-what happened?” Had my baby been attacked? Accosted? Had the poor child gotten lost?
    “We caught her shoplifting a pair of gold earrings.”
    “Ashley? Are you sure?” It didn’t make sense. Ashley didn’t even like gold. “She usually wears silver,” I said.
    “These are gold,” he said calmly. “Listen, Mrs. Fields, I’m calling you instead of the police as a courtesy. If you’d like to come over, we’re at 320 North Beverly Drive.”
    “I’m close by. I’ll be right over. Please wait for me,” I said, as if hoping to arrive before he served the soup. Or before he served Ashley with an arrest warrant.
    I spun around on the escalator step and started racing down. The emaciated model looked at me in surprise but stepped aside. A moment later, I jumped onto the first-floor