“It could be better,” he said.
The waiter stopped at our table.
“I don’t suppose you serve Starbucks here, do you?” I asked.
The closest thing to a grin I’d seen in a long time pulled at Jack’s lips. He knew about my frappie addiction. Everybody knew.
“No, sorry,” the waiter said.
Jack ordered an iced tea—though he looked like he sure as heck could use a beer—and I did the same.
I dived right in, hoping to perk up his day.
“Did you know that Elita Winston’s stepdaughter works here at the conference center?” I asked.
Jack nodded. “I’ve spoken with Shannon several times.”
“She’s asking about the investigation?”
“The cops won’t tell her anything,” he said.
“What did you think of her?” I asked, remembering how I’d added Shannon to my mental list of suspects.
“Stressed, upset, worried. Just what you’d expect.”
“Shannon could have been stressed, upset, and worried because her stepmother had been killed—or feeling those same things because she’d murdered her,” I said, then told him what I’d learned about Shannon and the reasons—slim as they were—for suspecting her.
“Motive?” he asked.
“Nothing firm,” I had to admit.
Jack shrugged. He didn’t seem to think much of my concern over Shannon as a suspect, and I couldn’t blame him.
The server brought our drinks and we ordered lunch. Jack got a steak sandwich. I wanted one, too, but asked for a salad instead. Women were supposed to order a salad. I don’t know how that custom got started but I wished it would go away.
“What’s the latest in the investigation?” I asked.
“A possible lead,” Jack said. “A report was filed a few months ago, but no arrest was made. Elita called the police after a verbal confrontation.”
“With who?”
Jack pulled his phone from the pocket of his jacket and swiped through the screens.
“The owner of a hotel chain. Charles Kent,” he said.
My senses jumped to high alert. Oh my God, I’d been suspicious of Charles. Maybe I was right and I’d found the killer.
If Jack had learned about a confrontation between Elita and Charles that had resulted in a police report, the homicide detectives on the case knew, too, and had probably questioned him. I wondered why he hadn’t mentioned it when I spoke to him about Elita earlier?
“He’s here. At the conference. I talked to him,” I said.
I gave Jack the rundown on what I’d learned from Mindy, how Elita had been instrumental in ending Charles’s marriage and leaving him in a financial bind, then causing his ex to lose all of her settlement money in Elita’s failed business venture.
“I could imagine Charles running into Elita somewhere, and his temper finally boiling over into a verbal confrontation. It must have been pretty bad if the police were called,” I said.
“Money pushes people to do things they wouldn’t ordinarily think of doing,” Jack said.
“Maybe those old feelings heated up between them again on Monday when he saw her here at the conference,” I said.
“Maybe,” Jack said, and I could see he was thinking it over.
The server came with our lunches. I eyed Jack’s hearty sandwich with envy, then started on my salad.
“Since there’s no indication of criminal ties or activity,” Jack said, “the motive for Elita’s murder must be something personal.”
“Elita seems like she was kind of a bully,” I said. “She forced Rosalind, her supposed friend, to blow off a huge opportunity and work at her B&B. She snubbed her old friend Mindy. She interfered with Charles’ marriage to the point of ruining it. She convinced a friend to invest in her business then it sank. She didn’t bother to let her stepdaughter know she’d be at the place she worked, then made her look bad to everyone here. And that’s just the stuff I know about.”
Hearing myself lay it out like that made Elita sound even worse. I don’t want to say somebody deserved to die, but jeez.
Jack still seemed super stressed while we finished our lunches, and I felt like a semi-failure because I hadn’t come up with anything definitive that would lead to Elita’s murderer. I had several suspects and a lot of maybes, none of which were getting us anywhere.
“Looks as if the stolen messenger bags are long gone,” Jack said, as he signed our lunch tab.
I was surprised he brought it up since it wasn’t big on his radar, compared to Elita’s murder investigation.
“The stockroom is massive. Employees and outside vendors coming and going. The only surveillance footage is at the exits, and there are multiple exits. Those bags could have been smuggled out of the building dozens of ways,” Jack said, and looked pretty defeated.
“The bags weren’t locked up?”
I figured the stockroom had a cage for high-end items, mainly the expensive liquors served in the bar and restaurants. At a couple thousand a pop, the Titan bags sure as heck qualified as expensive.
“They were in boxes, and stored in the minimum security area. A number of people have access to the keys.” Jack looked annoyed at the measures that had been put in place—obviously, not his decision.
“So whoever stole the bags knew where they were stored, and how to get to them,” I said.
“Severin security has handled these types of giveaways before, with no problems,” Jack said, and his shoulders slumped. “There’s no way to trace the bags.”
I figured the swag vouchers inside the bags had been trashed, so there wasn’t even a hope of finding the thief if someone came forward to claim one of the giveaways.
“The bags could be anywhere by now,” Jack said.
He looked grim. His professional reputation and his business were circling the drain, taking his future along with it.
I reached across the table and laid my hand on his.
“We’ll get this figured out,” I told him.
He turned his wrist and captured my fingers in his. His skin was warm, his grip just strong enough to make my toes curl a little.
“Sure we will,” he said.
He sounded strong, but I saw the look in his eyes. He wasn’t sure we’d figure it out—not sure at all. Not sure he’d survive this, not sure things would ever be the same again.
No way would I let that happen. I was going to find Elita’s murderer, no matter what it took.
Chapter 11
I spent the afternoon in workshops, but really wasn’t listening to much of what was being said. My head was filled with murder.
While the speakers droned on, I pulled out my conference-issued notepad and wrote down the names of my suspects. I noted some common threads linking them to the crime. All of them knew the deal with the labyrinth walk. All of them were physically strong enough to swing a shovel with deadly force. All of them had motive—varying degrees of motive, but who’s to say how much was enough to push someone over the edge?
Rosalind was the front runner, of course. I figured Charles Kent was an obvious second. Shannon’s reasons for being on the outs with Elita seemed slim, but they had that whole family thing going, and everybody knew what it was like dealing with family. My suspicion of Olivia put her fourth on my suspect list, and a distant fourth at that. I considered marking her off, but decided what the heck and left her name there.
As far as I could see, all of my suspects had personal reasons to dislike, maybe even hate Elita, to the point of either initiating a confrontation or being caught up in an escalating situation that resulted in her death.
But why now? Why here? Why at the conference?
All of my suspects—except for I’m-not-so-sure-about-her Olivia who’d only just met Elita, as far as I knew—had known Elita for a long time, so it seemed her death was a crime of opportunity. Something had happened that spurred her murderer into action. Whoever it was had seen something, heard something, or lear
ned something on Monday that had caused him or her to do the unthinkable. Somehow, there’d been a final straw and they couldn’t tolerate Elita any longer.
But what was it?
By the time the last workshop ended, my brain was tired. All my who-did-it-and-why thoughts had worn me down. My day definitely needed a boost. Where was a Starbucks when I desperately needed one?
Kayla and I moved along with the crowd, everyone fanning out in the corridor, going for their phones or chatting about the class. I hadn’t heard from anyone at L.A. Affairs lately—thank God that Priscilla had actually backed off—and I needed to find out what was up with Nadine and my events.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” I said to Kayla.
“I’ll be in the bar,” she said.
I dug out my phone as I stepped out of the flow of people and saw that I had a call from Ty. I’d missed it while I was in the workshop thinking about murder suspects—a topic only marginally more troubling than the thought of actually talking to my ex-official boyfriend.
I’m pretty sure that said something about my feelings for Ty’s we-have-to-talk campaign, but since I hadn’t had any sugar or caffeine lately, I wasn’t positive.
Anyway, the best I could do was send him a text message. I explained that I was elbow-deep in conference duties on behalf of L.A. Affairs—if there was anything Ty understood it was that business came before anything else—and that I would get back to him as soon as I could. I tried to include a string of emojis to prove everything was okay, but couldn’t bring myself to tap them out.
My energy level was low and dealing with Ty didn’t help anything, but my jeez-I-know-I-have-to duties weren’t done. I had to talk to Nadine about my events.
I called her. As soon as I spoke, she put me on hold.
I’m starting to really not like Nadine.
“Look, Haley,” she said, when she came back on the line. “I’ve got your events under control—finally.”
Finally? Finally?
“So stop hounding me.” Nadine hung up.
Okay, now I officially hate Nadine.
Just as I was about to call her back, my phone buzzed and I saw my mom’s name on the ID screen. Not exactly the great pick-me-up I needed. Still, better to get it over with. No way did I want a return call from Mom hanging over me.
“Great news,” Mom announced.
I doubted it but didn’t say so.
“We’ve had showing after showing,” Mom said. “It’s incredible, really.”
“Showings? What do you mean showings?”
“The house,” she said.
“People are there? Already?”
Strangers were in our house? Looking at our things, touching them? I felt violated, somehow.
“My agent is thrilled,” Mom said.
“But I thought—”
“She says I can expect this to continue,” Mom said.
“More showings?” I might have yelled that.
Mom didn’t notice.
“So give me a call with that information I need first thing in the morning,” she said, and ended the call.
Oh my God. Oh my God. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. Of all things for Mom to actually stick with, to follow through on, it had to be selling our family home?
I realized I was walking aimlessly through the main corridor, still clutching my phone. I realized, too, that I had to do something about this situation. I wasn’t sure where my dad was on this whole thing. More than likely, he’d blown off Mom’s talk of selling and had expected her to give the idea her usual brief flirtation then move on, pretty much the same as I had done. My brother and sister were both overseas, too far away to intervene effectively when, apparently, more buyers were expected to pour in.
So it was all on me.
I headed for the front of the conference center, texting as I went, and got my car from the valet. As I pulled away, I glimpsed the air crew milling around the helipad, and wished I could get a ride with them—but only if they could stop by Starbucks on the way.
***
I bypassed a lot of Starbucks as I headed east on the 101 because I knew my favorite mocha frappuccino was waiting for me. I’d texted Detective Shuman—L.A.’s hottest homicide detective—and he’d agreed to meet me on my way to Mom’s house. He even knew which Starbucks to go to—that’s how well we knew each other.
I exited the freeway on Hayvenhurst, then turned onto Ventura Boulevard and pulled into the parking lot. It was almost dark but the street was busy and lit up like daylight, so I spotted Shuman right away seated at a table inside. He was a little older than me, with dark hair and a good build, a boy-next-door kind of look, and had on his usual shirt-tie-jacket combo. He grinned when he saw me get out of the car—Shuman’s got a killer grin.
We’d known each other for a while and had helped out with a few investigations. There was some sort of heat between us, but what with our assorted girlfriends and boyfriends we’d never acted on it—not officially, anyway. Like me, Shuman was all about having one special person in his life. Another reason he was a cool guy.
Shuman rose when I approached and did the manly chair-holding thing while I sat down. A venti mocha frappuccino was already on the table for me; he had his usual black coffee.
“So you’re involved in another murder?” Shuman asked, as he sat down across from me.
I could see he wanted to get right to it. He was doing me a huge favor by carving out a few minutes from either an investigation or his personal time to meet me. I wanted to roll with it but took a long drink of my frappie instead.
I sighed. “I’ve been craving one of these like crazy.”
He raised his eyebrows. “No Starbucks at the convention?”
“No, and I sure as heck could have used one after I found that dead body,” I said.
I hadn’t mentioned in my initial text to Shuman that I was asking for his help because of Jack Bishop. He hadn’t asked for my reasons then, and didn’t seem interested now—or maybe he was just used to me being involved in murders.
“Have you learned anything you can share?” I asked.
“Not much to share,” Shuman said with a shrug. “The detectives assigned to the case haven’t uncovered much. No suspects. No motive.”
I got a little thrill that the detectives, with all of their resources, hadn’t come up with a motive, either—and my four maybe-could-be suspects were looking pretty darn good right now. Still, maybe the cops knew something they were keeping quiet about.
“No suspects at all?” I asked.
“They looked at the family first,” Shuman said. “The victim had no children of her own, three stepdaughters from her marriage to Parnel Alda. Two of them are married with kids, devoting themselves to mom-things. Both have alibis.”
“The other daughter, Shannon, works at the Severin Center,” I said. “She claims she didn’t know Elita was attending the conference until she saw her name on one of the brochures.”
“Nothing’s turned up on her,” Shuman said. “The husband, Elita’s third—”
My brain lit up—and it wasn’t because of the frappuccino.
“Elita was married twice before?”
There’s nothing wrong with taking a few stabs at trying to find wedded bliss, but come on. Three marriages? At some point, you have to wonder what the heck was really going on.
“Number three had a stroke shortly after they were married,” Shuman said. “He’s been in a care facility ever since. You can’t ask for a better alibi than that.”
I took another hit of my frappie. It seemed that Elita had been attempting to make the best of a bad situation by opening the B&B, and carry on with life without her husband. Surely she’d envisioned a brighter future for them both.
“What about Charles Kent?” I asked. I’d mentioned his connection to Elita in my earlier message to Shuman.
“The verbal altercation between Kent and the victim,” Shuman said, nodding. “A report was filed. Nothing mo
re came of it. But it was one hell of a confrontation, according to witnesses.”
It was hard to imagine calm, sedate Charles Kent duking it out verbally with Elita. But that’s the kind of thing a person would do when pushed too far.
“Was Rosalind Russo questioned?” I asked.
“Questioned, but not a suspect.”
Okay, that seemed kind of weird. I’d put Rosalind at the top of my suspect list.
“Did the detectives pin down an alibi for her?” I asked.
“They were vague on that,” he said.
I could imagine Rosalind falling completely apart in front of the homicide detectives. On the surface, she didn’t seem a likely suspect. I mean, really, she’d been too timid to stand up to Elita and get out of her B&B contract, so I could see how the detectives might have a tough time imagining her hitting Elita over the head with a shovel.
“What about employees at Severin?” I asked, hoping he’d mention Olivia.
“Nothing.”
I sighed. “Wow, when you said the detectives didn’t have much, you weren’t kidding.”
Shuman gave me a good natured I-told-you-so grin. I couldn’t think of any other questions—even with the infusion of chocolate and caffeine from my frappuccino.
“Well, thanks for the help,” I said.
I thought he might head out, but he sat there as if he wasn’t in a hurry after all, so I figured this was a good opportunity to catch up—and maybe get some gossip.
“Are you still seeing Brittany?” I asked.
I noted that Shuman’s attire looked a little more pulled together than usual, which made me think maybe he and Brittany had moved in together and she was dressing him. I liked Brittany, and I wanted Shuman to be happy. But I’d pictured her as his transition girlfriend—she’s a lot younger than him—not someone permanent.
“Yes,” he said, with a small smile that looked kind of sad.
“It’s not going so well?”
“It’s not really going anywhere,” he admitted. “What about you? Still seeing that lawyer?”
“Liam. Yes, and it’s kind-of going somewhere.”
Shuman gave me a tell-the-truth frown I’m sure he’d perfected at the police academy.
Messenger Bags and Murder (A Haley Randolph Mystery) Page 9
