Slay Bells and Satchels (Haley Randolph Mystery Series)

by Dorothy Howell

  The line moved forward and we clocked-in just as the door burst open and Rita, the cashier’s supervisor—I hate her—came in. I put her age at early thirties. She had on her usual outfit—stretch pants and a knit top with a farm animal on it—which did nothing to flatter her I-love-fast-food-and-it-shows figure.

  This morning she’d completed the look by wearing a Holt’s-issued Santa hat. I noticed that all of the employees—except me, of course—had their hats with them.

  “Okay, people, here’s the deal,” Rita announced.

  Since she was blocking the doorway, we had no choice but to stand there and listen to her.

  “We all know that one of us ruined everything for the rest of us yesterday,” Rita said, and glared directly at me.

  Most everyone looked at me.

  “So now the rest of us have to work even harder,” Rita said, giving me the evil eye, “to make up for what one of us did.”

  Jeez, what did I do?

  “So I want everybody to get out on the sales floor and hustle up those charity donations. We can still win this contest. It will be tough now—really tough, thanks to one of us,” Rita said. “Not to mention those poor, underprivileged kids who won’t get much for Christmas this year, because of one of us.”

  The other employees glared at me.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I told them.

  “Yes, you did,” someone said. “You found that dead elf.”

  “And then you told everybody,” somebody else said.

  I got major stink-eye from everyone.

  “So let’s make this contest a success,” Rita declared. “Okay, everybody, all together. Ho-ho-Holt’s for the holidays!”

  Everyone—except me—shouted along with her, then filed out the door.

  Rita blocked my path, then gestured to the clipboard that hung above the time clock.

  “Check the schedule, princess,” she told me, then left.

  I hate my life.

  On the off chance that today I’d been assigned to a department that I merely disliked, rather than one I absolutely detested, I looked at the schedule.

  Huh. I was supposed to report to one of the assistant managers’ offices, along with seven other employees. Okay, that was weird

  I walked down the hallway and saw that the office door was closed. I knew this was the makeshift dressing room for the actresses portraying the store elves, so I figured I was going to be the elf wrangler again today. A sign that read “Knock First” was taped to the door. I knocked.

  Jeanette opened the door. I reeled back in horror, but caught myself before I bolted down the hallway. She was taking this Summer Santa Sale thing way too seriously. Today she had on a brown dress covered with flecks of red and green.

  She looked like a giant fruit cake.

  “Come in, Haley,” Jeanette said.

  I stepped inside and she closed the door behind me.

  Around us, girls were changing into elf costumes, jockeying for position at the mirrors to apply their makeup and style their hair around the Santa hats.

  My friend Sandy was there. So was that kinda-sorta slow girl Colleen, and—wow, there were a lot of Holt’s employees in there. What the heck?

  “Most of the elves quit,” Jeanette said.

  I got a weird feeling.

  “So employees are taking their places,” she said, and yanked a garment off a rack. “Put this on.”

  Oh my God. It was an elf costume.

  “One of the girls will help you with your hair and makeup,” Jeanette said.

  Oh my God. She expected me to wear an elf costume? And a Santa hat? And walk around in the store where everyone could see me?

  “Hurry up,” Jeanette said. “The store opens in twelve minutes.”

  Oh, crap.

  ***

  Of course, the store was packed.

  Kids were running through the aisles, moms were chasing them—well, some of them—teenagers prowled the Juniors Department like roving packs of wolves. Lots of people showed up in Santa suits again today.

  Everyone, it seemed, loved the Summer Santa Sale—everyone but me, of course.

  The elf costume was a killer. Probably, it was comfortable on the actress it had been assigned to. But judging from the way the shorts were riding up, I figured she was a lot shorter than me.

  No way would I leave work today without a serious case of hat-hair. The big, pink circles of rouge on my cheeks made me look like one of those creepy marionettes.

  The green, pointed-toed shoes made it nearly impossible to walk quickly, which was way annoying because now customers could easily catch up to me, forcing me to actually wait on them.

  I didn’t know how my life could get any worse.

  Then I knew exactly how.

  Rita walked up.

  I hate her.

  “Are you asking for charity donations?” she demanded.

  “Of course,” I replied, and eased the donation booklet behind my back. I hadn’t asked for any. Mostly, I’d been hiding out in the stockroom.

  “Are you telling the customers about our Item of the Day?” she asked.

  There was an item of the day?

  “Are you telling them about the extra discount we’re offering for opening a charge account?” she asked.

  No way was I doing that.

  “Are you using our ho-ho-Holt’s-for-the-holidays slogan?” Rita demanded.

  Yeah, okay, I was parading around a midrange department store in a ridiculous elf costume, looking like a complete moron for a pathetic eight dollars an hour. I might, at some point, actually ask a customer for a charity donation. I could even tell them about our Item of the Day—whatever that was. And during a rare planetary alignment, I might mention opening a charge account.

  But I was not—absolutely not—going to chant that ridiculous slogan. Not even if they paid me a hundred bucks an hour. Not if they threatened to torture me by making me style my hair in a side-pony, or wear a denim jacket with blue nail polish, or carry a non-designer handbag—okay, well, I might crumble if that happened.

  Anyway, this was where I’d drawn a line in the sand.

  I was about to scream all of this at Rita when she suddenly walked away.

  Damn. I hate it when that happens.

  I stood there fuming for a couple of minutes. Then I knew what I had to do.

  I had to solve this murder—and quick. It was the only way to get the actresses back to work so I wouldn’t have to wear this stupid get-up anymore—and, of course, prove to Detective Madison that he was once again wrong about me.

  I headed for the Infants Department. I hate that department—I just hate the department, not actual infants—where I’d seen Alyssa Elgin, one of the actresses brave enough to report back to Holt’s this morning. She’d helped me with my hair and makeup in the dressing room.

  “Hi, Alyssa,” I said, walking up.

  She was mid-twenties, I figured, a bit shorter than me, a size four, with red hair and blue eyes.

  “It’s Haley, right?” Alyssa asked.

  I didn’t remember introducing myself this morning, but I’d been so traumatized at the prospect of wearing this elf costume, who knows what I said.

  “It’s really brave of you to come back to work today,” I said. “You know, after what happened yesterday.”

  Alyssa nodded. “Makes me wonder about the other girls who didn’t show up today. Like maybe they were involved, or something.”

  She had a good point, and if I hadn’t been so worked up over my own circumstances I might have seen it already. Detective Shuman flashed in my mind. I wondered if he knew about today’s no-shows.

  “Just you and that other actress came back,” I said.

  “Nikki Taylor,” Alyssa said.

  “I’m not exactly loving this costume,” I said, and—for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last hour—yanked the shorts down where they belonged. “Do you maybe know any other actresses who’d want to work here?”

/>   “We all came from Extra Extra, so you’d have to contact them,” Alyssa said. “It’s a company that sends actors out to work background on television and movies, and some Internet projects. Whatever production needs bodies.”

  I’d heard about companies like that. For a fee, they managed hundreds of people, sending them out on shoots all over Southern California on a daily basis. It was a way for aspiring actors to get some experience, network, and make money while they went on auditions, hunted for an agent, and tried to break into Hollywood.

  Another elf walked over from the Boys Department. I’d seen her in the dressing room this morning. She was the only other actress who’d come back to work today.

  “Hi, Nikki,” I said.

  She was young—eighteen, nineteen at the most—pretty, blonde, blue-eyed, short, and one bad Thai meal away from a size two.

  “Haley’s wondering if we know any other actresses who would want to work here,” Alyssa said. “She’s not crazy about doing it.”

  “You are a little tall for an elf,” Nikki said with a smile.

  Nikki seemed kind of slow. Not I’m-always-a-little-behind-everybody-else slow, more like I’ve-never-had-to-do-much slow.

  “Hey, you know who would definitely want the work?” she said. “Jasmine Grady. She’s totally desperate for money.”

  “Jasmine is an actress?” I asked.

  “She’s totally committed to making it in this business,” Nikki said. She turned to Alyssa. “I’ll text her. She’s even more desperate for money than the rest of us. If she doesn’t find a roommate quick, she’s losing her apartment.”

  “Don’t bother,” Alyssa said. “She was supposed to work here, but she didn’t show up.”

  “Did she get something else?” Nikki asked, and her eyes lit up. “Maybe True Blood? She’d love to work on True Blood.”

  “More like she found out McKenna was working here,” Alyssa pointed out.

  “Oh …yeah,” Nikki said.

  My senses jumped to high alert. I’d intended to work the conversation around to the murder of McKenna Crane, but luckily Alyssa beat me to it.

  “McKenna and Jasmine were friends?” I asked.

  “Used to be roommates,” Alyssa said. “Something major happened between them. Jasmine unfriended her on Facebook.”

  Oh my God. That was major, all right.

  “How would Jasmine have found out McKenna was working here?” Nikki asked.

  “Maybe she was here,” Alyssa said. Her brows shot up in an I’m-just-saying arch. “Maybe she got here early and nobody saw her. She always likes to be early. Then maybe she left … you know, early.”

  Nikki gasped. “Oh my God. Are you saying Jasmine might have murdered McKenna?”

  I gasped, too. Had I just learned the identity of the murderer? Could it be that easy?

  I could stand for something to be easy in my life.

  “I’m not saying anything like that,” Alyssa insisted. “I’m just thinking that, well, maybe it’s possible.”

  I was with Alyssa on this one. Nobody in the store knew any of the actresses, and after they were in their costumes, they all looked kind of alike. Nobody was watching them. McKenna and Jasmine could have gone into the stockroom together completely unnoticed. They could have argued over something. The whole thing could have gotten out of control and nobody would have known.

  Then I remembered the back door in the stockroom. It had been open when I found McKenna’s body stuffed in the giant toy bag. At the time I thought it was because the janitor was taking the trash out to the Dumpster. Now it seemed more sinister. Maybe it was Jasmine’s escape route after she killed McKenna.

  Holt’s had security cameras outside the building. I knew from experience—long story—that the cameras in the back covered the loading dock and a small section of the parking lot. But that was it. Somebody could have slipped out the door and not been seen.

  Still, this was a great lead.

  “Could I get Jasmine’s number?” I asked. “I know somebody who’s looking for a roommate, too.”

  Yeah, okay, it was a total lie, but I had to talk to Jasmine.

  “That would be great,” Nikki said.

  We both pulled out our cell phones and she gave me the info.

  This was way cool. I’d only been investigating the case for a few minutes and already I had a suspect. I’d go see Jasmine right after my shift ended.

  My spirits fell.

  No, wait. I couldn’t see Jasmine.

  I had to go see someone much more deadly than a murder suspect.

  My mom.

  Chapter 5

  My folks still lived in the house I grew up in, a small mansion in La Cañada Flintridge, a town set in the San Gabriel Mountains near Pasadena that overlooked the Los Angeles basin. The house had been left to my mom by her grandmother along with a trust fund. No one knew—or was willing to say—exactly how my great-grandmother had come into such wealth. I thought the bigger mystery was why she’d left it all to my mom, of all people.

  Mom was a former beauty queen. Really. She’d worn the crown of Miss California and had placed third in the Miss America pageant before she’d married my dad.

  Mom still thought she was a beauty queen.

  My dad was an aerospace engineer doing top secret work for the government which gave him, luckily, lots of excuses to be gone from the house for days on end, and unable to tell anyone where he’d been.

  Not that my mom noticed.

  I had an older brother who was an Air Force pilot flying F-16s in the Middle East, and a younger sister who attended UCLA and did some modeling.

  When I was a child, Mom had devoted herself to turning me into a show pony—I mean a pageant queen—like herself. She’d subjected me to every type of lesson imaginable—singing, piano, tap, ballet, modeling—in an all-out effort to discover in me some tiny nugget of actual talent. She’d finally given up when, at age nine, I set fire to the den curtains twirling fire batons—which was a total accident. Really. I swear.

  Anyway, my younger sister had turned out to be a Mom-clone and had filled her stilettos to perfection, much to everyone’s relief.

  As I parked in the circular driveway outside my folks’ house, I decided I should give Detective Shuman a call—strictly in the line of duty, of course. Never mind that he was kind of hot. I had a civic obligation to assist law enforcement in a murder investigation.

  That’s just the kind of model citizen I am.

  I wasn’t sure if Shuman knew about all the elf actresses who’d not reported back for work at Holt’s today. It seemed to me this was a vital clue he should be aware of. I mean, if I’d murdered someone and stuffed her body into a giant toy bag, I wouldn’t have come back to work.

  I pulled out my cell and placed the call. While the phone rang, I wondered if I should mention what Alyssa and Nikki had told me about Jasmine Grady, how she and McKenna had been roommates before something happened to end their friendship.

  I didn’t like the idea of throwing Jasmine out there—although Alyssa hadn’t seemed to mind one bit. I wanted to talk to her first. It sounded as if her life was tough enough already, without being interviewed by homicide detectives.

  But I didn’t get to tell Shuman anything. My call went to voicemail. I left a message asking him to call me and hung up.

  For a couple more minutes I sat in the car looking at my parents’ house. I knew I had to go inside and talk to Mom. Jack had asked for my help. Brooke was depending on me. It was the right thing to do.

  I hate it when I have to do the right thing.

  Juanita, the housekeeper who’d worked for my folks as long as I could remember, met me at the door. We chatted for a couple of minutes. She asked how my life was going and I asked about her two grown daughters. Finally, there was nothing left to do but talk to Mom.

  “She’s in the den,” Juanita said.

  Because Mom seems to think the next step she took might be down a runway, or that the paparazzi was
waiting on the front lawn to take her picture and post it on the giant screen in Times Square, she always dressed to impress—even if it was only to impress herself.

  I found her in the den, stretched out on a chaise, reading Vogue and holding a glass of wine. She wore a Vera Wang dress, three inch heels, and a full complement of jewelry. Her dark hair was styled to perfection and held in place with enough spray to withstand a category five hurricane.

  Just your average housewife, passing the time on a summer afternoon.

  That was my mom.

  “Oh,” she huffed, slapping at a page in the magazine. “You won’t believe what the designers are attempting to do to us this fall.”

  I saw no need to respond.

  “It’s a travesty,” Mom declared.

  There was nothing I could say to that.

  She sipped her wine. “I don’t know what they’re thinking.”

  Note: Mom didn’t ask me about my life but her housekeeper did.

  She got quiet for a moment. She stared across the room, focusing on nothing.

  “Maybe I should start my own fashion line,” she said.

  Mom’s idea of running a business wasn’t like everyone else’s. Her usual process for most any new project was to come up with some wild notion, pour an unseemly amount of money into it, then turn it over to someone else to run.

  Of course, occasionally Mom came up with a winner. Not long ago she’d started a fruit arrangement business that had been the hit of Los Angeles, right up to the point where somebody was poisoned and somebody else was murdered—long story. No way could I go through that again.

  I jumped in.

  “You know, Mom, no matter what the designers are showing, it will look great on you,” I said.

  She thought about it for a few seconds. “I suppose you’re right. But—”

  “Ty and I want to go to the charity event at the Staffords’ this year,” I said, cutting her off and hoping to divert her attention from further thoughts of herself.