I paused near the racks of greeting cards. Maybe I should call Shuman and suggest he talk to Trent about it, see if he would admit that McKenna was going to dump him and move out. But Shuman might not appreciate my oh-so fabulous suggestions on how to conduct his investigation—which I totally didn’t get—plus, he could have already thought of that, and I didn’t want to look like a moron if he had.
That meant I would have to talk to Trent myself. I didn’t have any contact info for him, but I figured I could find him on Facebook.
I glanced around and didn’t see any other employees—being really tall helps when I’m in stealth mode—so I slipped through the double doors into the stockroom.
Not a creature stirred back here, as usual. Just to make sure I wasn’t interrupted—which is code for caught—I hurried up the big concrete staircase as fast as my pointed-toe elf shoes allowed and dashed between the huge shelving units to the back corner where the lingerie was kept.
I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and logged onto Facebook. Of course, there were more Trent Daniels listed than lights on the Rockefeller Plaza Christmas tree, but I finally found him. I messaged him, explaining that I was a friend of Nikki and Alyssa—which was kind of true—and asked him to contact me about McKenna.
I took a minute to check out his wall. Wow, this guy loved photos. He had a zillion pictures, one for every moment of his life for the past several years, it seemed.
A photo caught my attention. It was the one of McKenna I’d seen in Jasmine’s apartment, where McKenna was dancing and everybody else was standing around watching. Only this picture was different.
Trent must have Photoshopped it because now he was no longer standing in the background. He was on the dance floor with McKenna, and she was gazing up at him like she was having the time of her life.
Okay, that was kind of creepy.
Obviously, Trent loved Facebook. Not only did he post photos, it seemed he also posted absolutely every thought that went through his head.
Until this morning, that is.
He’d posted that he intended to go to Holt’s and see where McKenna had died—which was kind of sad provided, of course, that he hadn’t actually murdered her, as I suspected—but nothing after that.
Huh. I wasn’t sure what that meant. Was he too distraught to comment on his visit? Or was something else going on?
I headed through the stockroom toward the staircase and my cell phone vibrated. My heart did its maybe-it’s-Ty flutter, followed immediately by the all-too-familiar it’s-probably-not-Ty thud.
It was Jasmine.
“Does your friend want to look at my apartment?” she asked, when I answered. “The first of the month is coming up fast.”
She sounded kind of desperate, which didn’t make me feel all that great about lying to her about knowing a possible roommate for her. Yeah, okay, I suspected her of murder—but I still felt bad for her.
“She’s definitely interested,” I said.
If Santa was really watching, I knew which of his lists he’d just put me on.
“But she’s looking at another place, too,” I said, thinking it might cushion the blow when my imaginary friend never materialized.
“Oh.”
I pictured Jasmine slumping into despair, visions of Kia-dealership-guy and Scottsdale dancing in her head.
Not a great feeling.
“Why don’t you come work here at Holt’s?” I told her. “The store manager is desperate for more elves.”
“I’m working on The Closer for the next four days,” she said.
Jasmine sounded really down, so what better time to take advantage of the situation for my own benefit?
“So how come you didn’t show up for the elf job at Holt’s?” I asked.
I’d asked her this at her apartment and she’d evaded my question, distracting me with that rant about her mom. Maybe listening to her answer without getting caught up in her performance would be better.
“I did show up,” Jasmine told me.
I gasped. She’d been at the store? The morning of McKenna’s murder?
“I couldn’t stand to look at McKenna’s face, after she ditched me owing rent,” Jasmine said. She sounded angry now. “So when I got to the store and she was there, I took off.”
“Nobody saw you,” I said, thinking of how both Alyssa and Nikki had said they hadn’t seen her that morning.
“Because everybody—especially McKenna—was busy looking at themselves in the mirror,” Jasmine told me, her voice rising. “I just took off. I ran into the stockroom and out the back door, because I knew if I stayed and McKenna said one word to me, I’d kill her.”
Silence. Neither of us spoke. A really long couple of minutes dragged by.
Finally, Jasmine said, “Look, I didn’t mean I would really kill McKenna. I just meant that I was mad at her.”
“Sure. I understand,” I said.
People said that sort of thing all the time. It didn’t mean anything—usually. But Jasmine had just admitted that she’d been in the stockroom—the scene of the murder.
At least now I knew why the stockroom door was open. What I still didn’t know was a motive for Jasmine—or anyone—to have killed McKenna.
“Tell your friend that if she wants the room, I need to know soon. Otherwise, I’m going to have to find somebody else,” Jasmine said, and hung up.
I tucked my phone into my pocket and went downstairs not feeling all that great. I really didn’t want Jasmine to be the murderer. And I really didn’t want her to have to move back home.
Somehow, I was going to have to find her a roommate—if she didn’t wind up in prison, that is, where she wouldn’t have to worry about rent.
When I got down to the first floor, I left the stockroom through the double doors near the lingerie department.
“This is b.s.,” somebody grumbled.
I spotted Bella standing in the next aisle. Beside her was a U-boat. Empty boxes were piled up around her.
In keeping with the Holt’s Summer Santa Sale theme—and to avoid wearing the mandated Santa hat, no doubt—today she’d sculpted her hair into the shape of reindeer antlers.
I walked over.
“It’s all b.s.,” Bella said, slicing open the last box. She pulled out a wreath decorated with fake, sparkly fruit and a yellow bow. “In a few days, I’m going to have to put all this stuff back in boxes, and carry it all back to the stockroom—until real Christmas, when I’ll have to haul it all out here again.”
“It’s b.s., all right,” I said.
“And we’re not even going to win a prize in the contest, because of you finding that dead elf,” Bella said, and hung the wreath on the display rack.
Jeez, now my very best Holt’s BFF was blaming me?
“It’s not my fault,” I told her. “If the employees want to be mad about something, they should be mad about having to wear those Santa hats. Everybody is going home with hat-hair.”
Bella paused and nodded. “Yeah, that’s b.s., too.”
She hung the last wreath, and I helped her stack the empty boxes onto the U-boat.
“Still, it’d be nice to win a prize. You know, like getting a real Christmas present,” Bella said, and headed for the stockroom, pushing the U-boat ahead of her.
“I know what I’d like to have for Christmas,” a man said.
That voice. I knew that voice.
Oh my God. It was Jack Bishop.
I spun around and there he stood looking way hot in khaki cargo pants, boots, and a navy blue I-work-out-all-the-time-and-it-shows polo shirt.
His gaze traveled from my head to my toes, then back again.
“Yep, I know what’s topping my wish list this year,” he said.
Then I realized—oh my God—I had on that ridiculous elf costume.
I wanted to drop into a hole. Or maybe die. No, wait—I wanted to drop into a hole and die. I couldn’t believe that hotter-than-hot Jack had seen me looking like this.
&
nbsp; I hate my life.
“What was that all about?” he asked, nodding toward Bella as she disappeared into the stockroom.
He looked me up and down again, and his eyes got a smoldering look in them. Jeez, did he actually think I looked good in this costume?
Men are so weird sometimes.
“Exactly what kind of prizes are you giving out?” he asked. “I’m definitely interested in claiming some for myself.”
A warm shiver went through me. Oh my God, only Jack can make a stupid Holt’s contest seem sexy.
I thought it best to stick to the facts.
“It’s this contest we’re having,” I said. “We’re asking for donations from customers so Holt’s can give presents to underprivileged children at Christmas.”
Jack nodded. “Ho-ho-Holt’s for the holidays.”
Somehow that sounded cool when Jack said it. Still, there was no way I was uttering that phrase.
“And the employees of the store that gets the most donations win prizes,” I said.
“Sounds like a good cause,” Jack said. “How’s it going?”
“Not all that great,” I said. “We lost our professional elves and everybody blames me. So I have to wear this costume.”
Jack grinned.
Jack’s got a killer grin.
“You can count on me for a big donation,” he told me.
He said that in his Barry White voice. I’m totally defenseless against his Barry White voice. My knees got weak.
Jack eased closer. He smelled really good.
“A huge donation,” he said. “The biggest you’ve ever had.”
Oh my God. I don’t think Jack was talking about a monetary donation to the children’s charity.
I’m pretty sure my heart actually stopped beating. I think I stopped breathing too—and forget thinking straight.
Then Ty popped into my head. Now? Now of all times, I thought about my official boyfriend—who was on the other side of the continent and hadn’t called me since I don’t know when?
I hate it when that happens.
Still, Ty was my official boyfriend. I was a real stickler about that sort of thing.
“So,” I said, thinking it better to keep the conversation moving. “Are we still on for Saturday?”
Jack gave me one last smoking-hot look, then rolled with the change in topic.
“We’re on,” he said.
“How’s Brooke?”
“She’s a mess,” Jack said.
“You’re on the guest list for the charity event at the Stafford house,” I said. “Your name is Jackson Blair. If anybody asks, you’re an entrepreneur and philanthropist, and owner of Blair Group International in South Africa. Just tell everybody my mother invited you.”
“Good cover,” he said.
“You think we can really pull this off, right?” I asked.
“We?”
“I’ll be there,” I said, then realized I hadn’t mentioned that Ty might be there, too—which was simply an oversight on my part. Really.
Jack gave me another one of his killer grins, and said, “Ho-ho-hold onto your Santa hat. Saturday night will be one hell of a sleigh ride.”
Cool.
Chapter 9
“I’ve got some bad news,” Nikki said.
Honestly, I didn’t think more bad news could exist.
Marcie cancelled on me again last night—for a totally good reason, but still—so I didn’t go shopping for a new gown to wear to the Staffords’ party tonight. Yeah, okay, I could have called someone else or I could have shopped alone, but it’s just not the same.
That meant I’d have to wear something I already owned. Not that I didn’t have a perfectly appropriate dress—which meant that nobody who’d be at the event had seen me in it before—because I did. That wasn’t the point. The point was that it’s fun to go shopping for a special occasion with your BFF.
The only way I could possibly compensate for this disappointment was by carrying the Judith Leiber evening bag Jack had given me a few months ago—long story.
I still didn’t know if Ty would make it back from New York in time to go to the party with me. Since he hadn’t called, I had no way of knowing. True, I could have called him—again. But he knew about the event. I’d asked him to go. I’d texted him the info. No response.
In keeping with my own personal I’m-going-to-be-stubborn-even-if-nobody-gets-hurt-but-me policy, I just wasn’t going to follow up with him. Of course, that meant I might end up walking into the Stafford home without a date, in full view of everybody who was super important, but I’d made up my mind. That’s how annoyed I was with Ty.
Plus, I was supposed to go to my mom’s house this afternoon to get ready for the party. It was a family tradition. Mom scheduled pedis, manis, massages, facials, and had a hairstylist come to her house and she, my sister, and I got ready together, then rode with the tuxedoed men in our lives in the limo mom also arranged.
Usually—well, sometimes—it was fun. But tonight my sister wouldn’t be there, which meant I wouldn’t be able to relax for a nanosecond—not with Mom peppering me with questions about when Ty would arrive, and fears that she’d actually looked at the party guest list she was responsible for compiling, spotted the name Jackson Blair, and would start asking questions.
Absolutely nobody at Holt’s had spoken to me this morning. All I’d gotten from every single employee was double and triple stink-eye because our store was still in last place in the charity donation contest.
The shorts on my elf costume were still riding up. I had a major case of hat-hair, and now Nikki claimed there was more bad news.
I couldn’t take it.
I walked off, leaving her in the Domestics Department. I desperately needed a Snickers bar from the vending machine in the breakroom—at the very minimum. Maybe I’d make a break for it and go to Starbucks. Yeah, that sounded way better.
“Haley, wait,” Nikki called. She caught up to me and jogged alongside. “I think Alyssa is going to quit.”
Oh, crap.
I stopped walking. Great. This was just what I needed to hear. One less elf to solicit donations. No way could the store boost itself out of last place if that happened. Plus, with Alyssa not on duty, Jeanette might want me to work double shifts in this wretched costume.
I hate my life.
“She can’t quit.” I might have said that louder than I should have.
Nikki shrugged. “She said she doesn’t like it here.”
“Nobody likes it here.” I’m pretty sure I yelled that.
“I like it here,” Nikki said.
Good grief.
“Tomorrow is the last day of the sale,” I said. “Alyssa can hang that long, can’t she?”
She made an it’s-my-fault face, and said, “I think I made her mad.”
Nikki was a sweetheart. I couldn’t imagine her doing anything to upset Alyssa—unless she mentioned that whole it’s-all-over-by-age-twenty-five thing, and then I couldn’t blame her for being mad.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Well, you remember what you asked me yesterday?” she said.
Crap. Now I was going to get blamed for this, too?
“You know,” Nikki said, “when you asked about how McKenna got that sitcom role? And I said maybe she won a contest? And then you asked how that worked? And then I said that Alyssa had won a contest? And then you asked—”
“Yeah, yeah, okay, I remember,” I said.
“Well, so I got to thinking about it,” Nikki said. “Like I was wondering what happened at the meeting she won. So I asked her, and she got mad. I mean like my-friend-borrowed-my-favorite-outfit-and-looks-better-in-it kind of mad.”
Wow, that was seriously mad, all right.
“What did Alyssa say?” I asked. “Exactly.”
“She said that what happened with the contest was nobody’s business,” Nikki said. “She said that I shouldn’t have been talking to you about her. She said she’d seen y
ou talking to that detective guy, and that she thought you were trying to blame her for McKenna’s murder.”
“What?”
“Yeah, that’s what she told me,” Nikki said. “I guess Alyssa is really sensitive about that contest she won and the meeting she had, because nothing came of it and, well, McKenna got a great role and nobody even knows why—like she wasn’t even trying, or something.”
“And Alyssa is trying really hard,” I said.
“For a long time.” Nikki cringed. “She’s like really old now. Like almost—”
“Yeah, I got it,” I said.
No way did I want to get into that conversation again.
“Anyway,” she said. “I just thought you’d want to know since, well, Alyssa and I are just about the only people in the store still talking to you because you screwed up the contest for everybody.”
“It wasn’t my fault.” I’m sure I yelled that.
Then I felt bad, of course, because Nikki was really trying to be nice to me.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I said, and it came out sounding nice—considering.
Then something else popped into my head.
“You know Trent Daniels, don’t you?” I asked.
“Sure. The guy who’s lost his mind over McKenna,” she said. “He’s kind of weird.”
“I messaged him yesterday, but I didn’t hear back from him,” I said.
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and my day got a little boost seeing that Nikki had ignored the Holt’s no-cell-phones-on-the-sales-floor policy. Maybe she and I could become kind-of BFFs.
“Wow, this is really strange,” she said, shaking her head. “Trent hasn’t been on Facebook since yesterday morning.”
I remembered reading his last post before he came to the store to talk to Jeanette about seeing the stockroom.
I got a weird feeling.
Nikki dialed a number and held the phone to her ear. After a few seconds, she hung up and said, “His voicemail is full.”
My weird feeling got weirder.
“Wow,” Nikki said. “I hope he’s okay.”
I hoped he wasn’t dead.
***
According to Nikki, Trent Daniels lived in Franklin Village in Hollywood. It was an older, established area of Los Angeles that had held up well over the years. There were tons of apartment buildings and houses—most of them built since back in the nineteen-twenties—squeezed into precious little space. Trees, shrubbery and flowering bushes filled every nook and cranny in between.
Slay Bells and Satchels (Haley Randolph Mystery Series) Page 8
