Messenger Bags and Murder (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  Memories exploded in my head. Blowing out birthday candles; my dad helping me learn to ride my new pink bike in the driveway; hanging out in my room with my friends; my prom date picking me up; my grandparents and cousins visiting. And now another family would be in our home, doing those same things?

  Last night when I’d been at the house, I’d convinced myself that it was time to let go, to move on, and that I would be okay with Mom’s decision to sell. But now that it was a reality—jeez, I didn’t know if I could stand it.

  I realized then that Mom had ended the call and I was staring at nothing, still holding my phone to my ear.

  Oh, crap. Where were my brother and sister when I needed them? If they were here, we could triple-team Mom, maybe turn this thing around.

  I shoved my phone into my handbag. Somehow, I was going to stop this sale. I’d have to do it alone. My brother and sister weren’t here, but they were counting on me. I’d have to figure out something.

  Fortifying myself with a glass of wine seemed a good way to get my brain cells hopping, so I headed to the bar. The place was crowded. All of the conference attendees seemed a little more relaxed and interested in partying since this was our last night here.

  I spotted Kayla seated at a large table. With her were several men and women we’d met in the workshops and at other conference events, everybody laughing, talking, and knocking back drinks—my kind of crowd, usually. Also seated there was Mindy. Charles Kent was beside her. They sat close, their heads leaning together, shoulders touching, talking.

  Great. Just what I needed to see.

  While I was usually annoyed with life on Planet Mindy, I knew things had been tough for her since her husband left and she had to get a job and start over. Honestly, I wished things would improve for her, that she’d find a great place in life and would be happy.

  Only now that it looked like she might have finally connected with someone, it was Charles Kent—the man I suspected of murder.

  What the heck was I supposed to do? Go over there and break them up? Tell Mindy my suspicion? Keep her from making a huge mistake?

  But what if I was wrong? Maybe Charles hadn’t murdered Elita. Maybe he really was a great guy who’d make Mindy happy. If I said something, I would ruin everything.

  Oh, crap.

  I left the bar and went outside.

  It was dark. The night air was cool. No one else was out. Twinkle and accent lights lit the walkway as I headed away from the conference center. I needed some peace, some tranquility, a respite from all the crappy things that had happened today, and found myself approaching the entrance of the labyrinth. No one was here, either, since it was closed for the night.

  Then just ahead of me, barely visible in the pale moonlight, I spotted a figure dressed in black silently unclip the rope that stretched across the entrance, then disappear into the labyrinth.

  My heart rate amped up. Oh my God. Was someone involved with Elita’s death returning to the scene of the crime? The murderer? Who else would be sneaking around out here in the dark, entering the labyrinth after it was closed?

  I sure as heck could use a break solving this crime. Maybe this was it.

  At the entrance to the labyrinth I slipped off my pumps and headed down the walkway. My footsteps were silent as I hurried along, cautiously peering around every curve, trying to spot whoever was ahead of me.

  I’d only been in the labyrinth once, but I knew I was getting close to the exit. I didn’t want whoever was ahead of me to leave and disappear into the woods or make it back to the conference center before I identified them. I rounded the final curve and spotted no one. Darn. I rushed toward the exit and a giant jumped up in front of me.

  I screamed and fell back. He grabbed my wrist. I swung my shoes at him but he blocked my arm. I was about to—well, do something. I didn’t know what—but something—when I heard a familiar voice.

  “Haley?”

  I squinted up at him. “Jack?”

  Oh my God. Jack Bishop. He had on a dark suit, shirt, and tie, making him almost invisible in the night.

  He let go of my wrist, looking annoyed that I was in this isolated area, alone, in the dark.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. “And why did you jump out at me?”

  “I thought you were the murderer.”

  “I thought you were the murderer,” I said.

  “I didn’t murder anybody.”

  “Neither did I,” I said. “But I might murder you now for scaring the crap out of me.”

  I drew in a few big breaths, trying to calm myself, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal. Then I realized I was in an isolated area, in the dark, not alone, but with Jack.

  No way would my heart rate slow down now.

  “So, really, what are you doing out here?” Jack said, sounding reasonable now.

  I clamped onto his arm and pulled on one shoe, then the other. Wow, he was solid. Strong. He smelled great.

  “I just had to get away,” I said.

  “Me, too,” he said, and heaved a heavy sigh.

  I noticed then that Jack’s collar was open and his tie was pulled down. He sounded tired, weary. Kind of like I felt.

  “Not just get away, get far away,” he said. “Maybe just say to hell with everything. Leave. Go somewhere else for a while.”

  That didn’t sound like Jack. Obviously, everything he’d been through this week was weighing more heavily on him than I’d realized.

  Then it hit me how much I wished I could just say to hell with everything, too. I wouldn’t have to answer Ty’s questions, give the presentation tomorrow, figure out my relationship with Liam, see our family home packed up and emptied—or do all the other things that seemed to be hanging over me all of a sudden.

  “Alaska, maybe,” Jack mused.

  “I’ve always wanted to walk on a glacier,” I said.

  “You’d go?”

  Something in his voice seemed to shoot right through me and set every nerve ending on fire. The night got quieter. The moon brighter. The breeze softer. And Jack—he suddenly looked stronger, sturdier, and even more handsome.

  In that instant, I knew I wanted to walk on a glacier with Jack, like I’d never wanted to do anything else in my entire life.

  He eased closer. “Would you?”

  His cell phone rang. He ignored it.

  “Would you go?” he whispered. “With me?”

  “Tonight?” I asked, and my word came out in a breathy sigh.

  His cell phone rang again. He whipped it out of his pocket and hit a button, silencing it.

  “Tonight. Now,” he said, easing even closer. “Right now.”

  “Leave? Walk away from everything?” I asked. “Could you do that, Jack? Really?”

  “Hell yeah.”

  Just like that. No hesitation. No thinking it over.

  Our gazes met and held.

  His cell phone rang again. Jack growled under his breath, whipped it out of his pocket, pressed it to his ear and said, “What?”

  He listened, frowned, then his brows drew closer together.

  “I’ll be right there.” He put his phone away and looked at me, stunned. “The stolen messenger bags have been found.”

  The bags were so totally out of my thoughts, it took me a few seconds to understand what he said.

  “Found? Where?”

  “In the stockroom,” he said. But instead of looking relieved, Jack looked more troubled.

  “What?” I asked, then came back to the moment with a horrifying jolt of reality. “Are the bags okay? Did somebody damage them?”

  “No.” Jack shook his head, still looking bewildered. “The bags are fine. The swag inside of them is gone.”

  Chapter 13

  It was a Louis Vuitton day. Definitely a Louis Vuitton day.

  It was also the last day of the conference.

  The main corridor was nearly empty as I headed for the ba
nquet room where the closing events would take place. I’d taken a little longer to get ready this morning, wanting to look my best standing in front of hundreds of elite industry professionals for the presentation I’d been pressed into giving. I’d gone with an I-take-my-work-seriously-but-I’m-still-fun up-do, a power red business suit, and completed my look with an I-have-excellent-taste Louis Vuitton bag.

  Really, you can never go wrong with a Louis Vuitton bag.

  Nor can your day go wrong after receiving a really nice text from your boyfriend. Liam had messaged me first thing this morning saying he missed me and had something special in mind for us. He’d often surprised me on our dates—so far, all of his ideas of a good surprise were the same as mine—so I was looking forward to learning what he had set up for us.

  Jack popped into my head. Last night we’d talked about escaping, chucking everything, leaving all of our troubles behind. Of course, in the light of a new day everything looked different.

  Damn. I hate it when that happens.

  Honestly, remembering last night with Jack didn’t make me feel so great about myself. I was all about having one special guy in my life and right now that was Liam—although I did still need to figure out what the heck to do about Ty and his we-need-to-talk revelation.

  The image of the Titan messenger bags flew into my head as I turned down the hallway. I’d gone with Jack to the stockroom last night and, sure enough, there they were. All four of them, still in their boxes, in perfect condition—minus the swag that had been inside.

  According to the Severin security guy who’d contacted Jack, they’d received an anonymous tip and located the bags hidden among a stack of similar-looking boxes—I guess the old saying is true: the best place to hide a book is in the library. Everybody, it seemed, was happy.

  Except me. I kept wondering why all the swag wasn’t inside the messenger bags. Why would someone leave the bags, but take the swag? It had no real value—it was just paper vouchers unlikely to be redeemed since the vendors knew they had been stolen—while the bags were crazy expensive.

  Jack had given it an oh-well, not his problem, and the Severin security guys felt pretty much the same. Still, it bugged me.

  I passed the banquet room’s three sets of double doors, all closed, and spotted the sign beside them pointing to the green room. I slipped inside and saw comfy sofas, a couple of tables and chairs, and a buffet laid out with water, coffee, sodas, muffins, pastries, and other snacks including lots of chocolate, thank God.

  Two other women were there whom I’d met in workshops, sitting separately, studying their phones, likely reviewing the presentations they’d give shortly. Kayla was there, too, along with Mindy. I was glad to see them both. A few butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Having friends there helped.

  “Oh my God,” Kayla said, rolling her eyes. “You’re not going to believe who’s here.”

  Okay, so that wasn’t so helpful.

  “I’m sure you’re going to do fine,” Mindy insisted. “No matter what.”

  Yikes! What the heck was going on?

  Kayla nodded toward an open doorway and the short hallway that led to the banquet room. I peeked inside. The chairs were set up theatre style and were filled with hundreds of well-dressed, attentive, HPA attendees. A large stage fronted the room where a man stood at the podium giving a speech while scenes of a construction crew building an elaborate zombie-themed party played on a large screen behind him.

  I spotted Priscilla seated on the front row.

  Oh, crap.

  “Why is she here?” I asked, as I hurried back across the room to Kayla and Mindy. “Did you know she was coming?”

  “No way,” Kayla said.

  “Are you nervous?” Mindy asked.

  I hadn’t been—not until I saw Priscilla front and center, no doubt intending to follow my presentation word-for-word with the script she’d sent. And if she heard a deviation, did she intend to note it in my personnel file, mark it against me at my next employee review, or maybe jump up, rush the stage, and take over?

  “I’m fine,” I insisted—which was a total lie, of course.

  “Don’t worry, this will fix everything,” Kayla insisted, and pulled a bottle of wine out of her tote bag. “Did you see who’s sitting next to Priscilla?”

  I’d been so shocked seeing her I didn’t even notice anyone else.

  “Edie,” Kayla told me before I had a chance to look.

  Yikes! Edie was here? Edie, the head of Human Resources at L.A. Affairs? Oh my God, did she intend to tag-team me with Priscilla if I went off-script? Yank me off of the stage when Priscilla took over my presentation, then fire me in front of the entire audience?

  Shannon walked into the green room and headed straight for me. As my personal hostess, she was obligated to be here to make sure my presentation went off without a hitch.

  Yeah, right.

  I was already rattled, and her being here reminded me that I’d contributed to the upset in her life by complaining about her to Olivia.

  As if to demonstrate how I’d added to her problems, Shannon looked really bad this morning—tense, grim, and a sickly pale that her half-hearted attempt at makeup application couldn’t disguise. Now I felt really icky.

  She stopped in front of me. I could see that being here and having to help me was a stretch for her. I couldn’t blame her. Now I felt even worse that I’d suspected her of murdering her own stepmother.

  “Everything is ready for your presentation,” Shannon told me, her words slow and measured. “Your speech will appear on the prompters, and your DVD will play on the screen behind you. Our tech guy is a professional. You can count on him.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Listen, Shannon, I really appreciate your coming here and making sure everything is set up and ready to go. I know you’re under a lot of pressure, with what happened to Elita, plus your job—”

  “No need to thank me,” she insisted, and straightened her shoulders. “I’m taking a leave of absence effective immediately after your presentation, my last responsibility here.”

  Okay, that surprised me, and it made me feel even more crappy because she had to stay here until my speech was over. I figured her leaving had something to do with Elita’s death—the funeral or a memorial service, or maybe she was just anxious to be with her sisters and the rest of her family.

  Before I could thank her for hanging in here a while longer on my behalf, she whipped out her phone and walked to the other side of the room.

  “You’re up next,” Mindy said, and gave me a concerned, mom-like pat on the shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m okay,” I said, without much enthusiasm. “I was just thinking about Shannon. She’s leaving soon for a family thing.”

  “And that made you miss your family?” Mindy asked.

  “Kind of,” I admitted, then realized it was true. Mom had been blazing in my thoughts all week long, plus my brother and sister, while I wrestled with the prospect of our family home being sold.

  “My mom put the house on the market—the place where I grew up—and it looks like it’s going to sell fast,” I said. “I know I shouldn’t care. I don’t even live there anymore, but—”

  “Of course you should care,” Mindy insisted. “The house is full of memories—good times, family holidays, things that can never come back. They’re locked inside the house. Nobody wants another family living in their memories. It’s a violation.”

  Okay, that kind of made sense—surprisingly so, coming from Mindy.

  “But things have to change eventually, don’t they?” I asked.

  “Yes, things must go forward,” Mindy agreed. “It was hard when my husband left and I had to move out of our home. It helped that I talked to other people who’d been through the same thing. Do you have brothers or sisters you could talk to about it? A friend, maybe? Someone who’s family situation is changing?”

  Before I could answer, Mindy’s face lit up.

  “Oh, I know,”
she announced. “You can talk to Shannon.”

  “What? No—”

  “Shannon? Shannon?” Mindy rose on her toes and waved. “Could you come over here, please? Hannah needs you.”

  Oh, crap.

  Shannon stomped over, gritting her teeth and shooting I-hate-you laser beams from her eyes straight at my heart.

  If looks could have killed, I would have been a smoking hole in the floor.

  “What is it?” Shannon ground out the words.

  “Haley is upset about her parents selling their family home, and I know your dad and Elita decided to turn your family vacation home into a B&B,” Mindy said. “Could you say something to Haley to make her feel better about—”

  “It wasn’t Dad’s idea.” Shannon fired the words as if they were engraved on a ballistic missile blasting skyward. “It was her idea. After he had a stroke. After he was in the care facility, when he couldn’t do anything about it.”

  “Oh ….” Mindy drew back.

  I leaned forward.

  “The house in Lake Arrowhead.” I said. “It was your family vacation home?”

  “She might have married Dad, but the house belonged to the family—not her.” Color rose in Shannon’s cheeks. Her words poured out, bitter and angry. “My sisters and I, we talked to her, tried to reason with her, but no. She claimed it was her house now.”

  “Elita wanted to go ahead with the B&B, knowing the family objected?” I asked. “That was crappy.”

  “She promised she’d think it over, reconsider the idea—”

  Shannon stopped suddenly, her gaze drilling Rosalind as she walked into the green room.

  “What is she doing here?” Shannon demanded.

  “She’s doing a cooking demonstration,” Mindy said.

  “What?” Shannon’s eyes blazed with renewed outrage.

  “Haley?” A woman dressed in a Severin-cream business suit, clutching a tablet, approached. “You’re on.”

  I heard applause in the banquet room.

  “Break a leg,” Mindy said.

  “Give ’em hell,” Kayla called, waving the wine bottle and looping my Louis Vuitton bag over her shoulder.