Slay Bells and Satchels (Haley Randolph Mystery Series)

by Dorothy Howell

  I’d been there with Marcie a couple of months ago. A friend of a friend had wanted to give a purse party so we’d stopped by her place to show her some of our bags. She loved them, of course, and ended up having a heck of a party—nothing says good-time like a couple dozen screaming women elbowing each other and stampeding toward a display table filled with knock-off designer handbags.

  As soon as my shift had ended at Holt’s I’d jumped in my Honda and headed south toward Los Angeles. I needed to talk to Trent and I was more than slightly worried that he seemed to have dropped off the grid yesterday.

  I exited the 101 at Franklin Avenue, then hung a left on Tamarind Avenue. The place had a back-in-the-day vibe to it. There were grocery stores, restaurants, coffee houses, all kinds of shops and businesses within walking distance.

  Along with my concern for Trent, Alyssa had been on my mind. That whole conversation I’d had with Nikki this morning still bugged me. Why the heck would Alyssa think I was trying to pin McKenna’s murder on her?

  Yeah, okay, I did actually think she might be a suspect, but still.

  Anyway, threatening to quit the elf job, getting mad at Nikki, and accusing me of trying to back-stab her with Detective Shuman seemed a bit over the top. Was Alyssa just being dramatic? Maybe. She was, after all, an actress.

  Or like Jasmine, was this Alyssa’s attempt at misdirection? Could be, since there was still that actress thing.

  I guess I’d know for sure if I could come up with a motive for McKenna’s murder.

  Parking was at a premium, as in most of L.A., but I found an empty space at the end of the block and nosed into the curb. I got out and walked to Trent’s apartment building. A few people were out, a mom pushing a stroller, a couple of girls with backpacks, a man carrying a grocery bag.

  The building was pink stucco with a red tile roof. A patch of carefully manicured green grass was out front and vines climbed the walls. The entryway was kind of like a little tunnel that led past two of the first-floor apartments to a courtyard. In the center was a small pool, more grass, shrubs, and palm trees.

  I climbed the metal staircase to the second floor and knocked on the door of apartment number 26. While I waited I looked over the railing at the pool. Six girls were stretched out on lounge chairs sunning themselves.

  I knocked again and rang the bell.

  The door next to Trent’s opened and a guy with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder walked out. He was about my height, dressed in jeans and a black shirt that showed off his gym time, and looked unnaturally well groomed. I figured he was either an actor or a model.

  “Have you seen Trent lately?” I asked. “I’m worried because his—”

  “He keeps to himself. Everybody here keeps to themselves,” he said, then cut around me and went down the stairs.

  The guy didn’t seem to have much going for him in the personality department. Good thing he was pretty, I guess.

  I pounded on Trent’s door and rang his doorbell about a dozen more times but still got no response, so I headed back downstairs and followed the signs to the manager’s office. One of those fake clocks hung on the door, its hands indicating the manager was out and would return five minutes ago.

  A girl waited nearby. I figured her for my age, tall, slender, wearing shorts, a tank top and flip-flops.

  “She’s still not back yet,” she said, gesturing to the sign and looking a little annoyed. “If you’re thinking about moving in here, get used to it. She’s always off somewhere, doing something.”

  “Actually, I’m here to visit Trent Daniels,” I said. “Do you know him?”

  She drew back a little. “Are you a relative, or something?”

  I’m not sure why that mattered, but I rolled with it.

  “No, nothing like that,” I said. “A friend of his hadn’t heard from him in a while, so I said I’d stop by and check on him. He didn’t answer his door.”

  I saw no reason to get into the whole his-girlfriend-was-murdered-and-I-found-her-body thing.

  “That guy is a total recluse,” she said, then mumbled, “a psycho recluse.”

  Okay, here was a choice bit of info about Trent I hadn’t expected.

  “I don’t want to say anything bad about your friend,” she said, “but he’s really weird. He’s always kind of hanging around, watching people, like some kind of crazy stalker. It’s creepy.”

  This wasn’t what I expected to hear about heart-broken Trent Daniels. Creepy, all right.

  I nodded at the sign on the office door, and said, “I can’t wait any longer. I’ll come back later.”

  We exchanged a wave and I left. At the complex entrance, I took the staircase down to the underground parking garage. A couple dozen cars were squeezed into tiny spaces. The ceiling was low. Light filtered in from the exit ramp that led up to the street.

  Luckily, parking slots were assigned. I found the one numbered 26 and saw a Honda Civic, the same car I’d seen Trent drive away in the day he’d come to Holt’s and talked to Jeanette.

  The garage stunk like oil and gasoline, so I jogged up the exit ramp, and walked down the block to my car. Before I got in, I looked back at the apartment building, thinking maybe Trent would suddenly appear.

  Since his car was here, he probably was, too, but there could be a lot of reasons he hadn’t answered the door. Maybe he was in the shower or taking a nap. Maybe he had his iPod cranked up, or he was zoned out playing World of Warcraft.

  Or he could have been lying inside dead.

  I pulled out my cell phone and called Detective Shuman. His voicemail picked up. I’d rather have talked to him in person—strictly to insure that my information was passed along in a clear, concise, comprehensible way, that would maximize my effort to assist law enforcement, of course—but I didn’t want to wait until I could catch Shuman in person. It was Saturday. Maybe he was out doing some fun girlfriend-boyfriend thing.

  Jeez, I wonder what that would be like.

  I left a message detailing my concern that Trent hadn’t been heard from since visiting the store in an attempt to see the location of McKenna’s murder. I also mentioned that Trent had a crazy-psycho-stalker reputation among the girls at his apartment complex and maybe speeding up his background check might be a good idea.

  I hung up and gazed down the block at the building. I imagined Trent skulking around, lurking in the shadows, spying on the girls who lived here.

  McKenna popped into my head.

  Honestly, after hearing how Alyssa, Nikki, Jasmine, and some of the other actresses had talked about McKenna, I hadn’t thought very highly of her.

  Now I could only imagine how desperate she must have been for a place to live if she’d moved in with Trent.

  Chapter 10

  All of us looked great, if I do say so myself, as we rode in the limo to the Stafford house for the Christmas charity event.

  Mom had on a silver Gucci gown which she’d accessorized with ruby jewelry. In true former beauty queen form, her hair and makeup were perfect. She could have—and would have—hit a runway somewhere with minimal prompting.

  Dad looked dignified and handsome in his tuxedo.

  I wore a red strapless gown with a sweetheart bodice. I didn’t have a lot of expensive jewelry but I carried my Judith Leiber bag, which was more than enough to make everyone at the Stafford party jealous.

  Ty had on—well, I didn’t know what Ty had on because he wasn’t there. I didn’t know where he was. He’d texted me earlier and said that he’d meet me at the party.

  Either Mom hadn’t noticed he wasn’t in the limo with us, or she’d simply accepted the explanation I’d given her because she hadn’t grilled me about his absence. Instead, she filled our drive-time with speculation about who would be at the party, what they’d be wearing, and blah, blah, blah. I drifted off. I’m pretty sure my dad did, too.

  Back about a hundred years ago, Orange Grove Boulevard had been home to wealthy families who built spectacular mansions and palat
ial houses, and surrounded them with lush landscaping, intricate gardens, pergolas, fountains, and palm, magnolia, hemlock, and cedar trees. Most of the huge houses had disappeared—along with the families and their money—replaced by smaller homes, apartments, and condos.

  A few of the grand estates remained. The Stafford house was one of them. The place looked like an old Southern mansion, white with big columns rising to the roofline. It sat on two acres of carefully tended grounds.

  I’d been here lots of times when I was a kid. My parents traveled in the same social circle as the Staffords, plus my older brother was around the same age as their son Chris. The Staffords had hosted Easter egg hunts, Fourth of July, and Christmas parties for us kids.

  Our limo pulled into line with the other Town Cars, Jags, Bentleys, and Mercedes and we crept slowly up the circular driveway. Even though it was summer and not quite dark yet, it looked as if jolly old Saint Nick might arrive at any moment.

  Tiny twinkle lights covered the hedges and shrubbery, and were wrapped around the towering palm trees. Santa Claus stood by a sleigh, waving as cars drove past. An ice rink had been set up, surrounded by lush greenery. Skaters wearing red plaid costumes and ear muffs glided across the ice. A troupe of acrobats dressed in elf costumes performed stunts amid a stack of huge, gift-wrapped packages.

  A sea of potted poinsettia plants covered the wide steps that led to the entrance of the house and a huge wreath hung above the door. A half-dozen carolers dressed in Old English costumes sang holiday songs.

  Valets in red vests descended on our limo. Mom took Dad’s arm. I followed them inside.

  Two women welcomed us while another woman consulted the guest list—just why Mom wasn’t handling this duty, I didn’t know, except that her idea of taking charge of something really meant finding someone capable to whom it could be delegated.

  It was really for the best.

  I figured the women in the reception line for somewhere on the high side of sixty. None of them seemed to realize the fashion clock hadn’t stopped in the eighties. The three of them standing together looked like the Battle of the Big Hair.

  I wondered if Jack had arrived yet, but since I was in stealth-mode big-time, I couldn’t lean over and check out the list.

  The foyer and spacious living room were a crush of elegant gowns and tuxedos, a tribute to capitalism at its designer best. The women wore traditional Christmas colors of red, green, blue, gold, or silver. There were lots of pretend hugs and air kisses, everyone careful not to create a wrinkle or a makeup smudge.

  The Staffords—or more likely the Staffords’ servants and the design company they’d hired—had gone all out decorating the house for the occasion. Lighted trees and elegant displays of all things Christmas were in every room. Strains of music from a string quartet wafted above the conversations of the guests.

  Mom and Dad were immediately sucked into the crowd. I made a break for the bar.

  Laughter drew me down the hallway to one of the Staffords’ massive sitting rooms were a bar had been set up. Guests were packed in there like toys in Santa’s bag on Christmas Eve night. I made my way to the bar and asked for a glass of red wine. The bartender passed it to me just as a hard body eased up against mine.

  Ty flew into my head—then out again just as quickly. He was my official boyfriend and we’d been doing the mattress mambo for a while now, so I knew whoever was brushing against me definitely wasn’t Ty.

  I looked over my shoulder. Jack Bishop.

  I lingered for a few seconds—which was really bad of me, I know—then stepped away. It wasn’t easy, but that’s how serious I am about having an official boyfriend.

  Not that he was here to notice, of course.

  Jack gave me a little grin. My knees wobbled.

  Oh my God. He looked insanely handsome in his tuxedo.

  “Good evening, Miss Randolph,” he said, and signaled the bartender for a bourbon on the rocks.

  Oh, wow. This was so cool. We were in private-detective-mode already.

  “Jackson Blair,” I said. “Glad you could make it.”

  He took his drink, then rested his hand—it was really warm—on the small of my back. We wove through the crowd and found a spot near the doorway.

  “I see you dressed for the occasion,” he said, dipping his gaze to take in my gown.

  “Red seemed appropriate,” I said.

  “You look like a Christmas gift,” Jack said, and eased a little closer. “A gift that should be unwrapped … very slowly.”

  My stomach got all warm and gooey.

  I thought it better to change the subject.

  “How’s Brooke doing?” I asked.

  Jack sipped his drink. “Not so good.”

  “She must be excited about what you’re doing tonight,” I said.

  “She doesn’t know.”

  It took a few seconds—my brain function seemed to have slowed down for some reason—to understand what he meant.

  “You don’t want Brooke to get her hopes up,” I said, “in case you don’t get the results you want tonight.”

  Jack angled closer. “I’ll get what I want tonight.”

  He was making it really tough for me to stay in private-detective-mode.

  I took a step back and said, “So what’s the plan?”

  Jack patted the pocket of his jacket. “I’ll get video, enough to prove the little girl is in the house.”

  “Security?”

  “Guards are still patrolling the grounds, discreetly, but none are in the house,” Jack said. “They would be noticed. Guests would comment, ask questions. The Staffords want everything to seem perfectly normal.”

  “When are you doing it?” I asked.

  “Right away,” Jack said.

  I figured it would be better to wait until later in the evening, when the guests all had a little more to drink and were hunkered down, distracted by conversations with friends. But I could see that Jack had a point, too. Better to get in and out quickly before suspicion was aroused in any way.

  “Do you know how to get to the nursery?” I asked.

  Jack shrugged. “Follow the trail of toys.”

  If that was Jack’s plan, I saw a gaping hole in it. I’d told him at the restaurant on the night I met Brooke that this house was huge. I figured he’d pull the building plans from the county records, or something, but I guess he hadn’t.

  “It’s not that easy,” I said. “The house was built back in the day when rich people were paranoid about their kids getting kidnapped. The nursery is on the third floor. It’s a maze. I know because we used to play hide-and-seek up there.”

  I got Jack’s little grin again.

  “Then you’ll have to come with me,” he said.

  Oh my God. This was way cool—no, it was way cooler than cool. Jack wanted me with him on a covert op.

  Where was my best friend when I needed her? I absolutely had to tell Marcie right away. But I held back. The mission came first.

  Immediately, a plan flashed in my mind—which was kind of surprising, considering I hadn’t had any chocolate since arriving and only a half glass of wine.

  “The house has three staircases,” I said. “We’ll use the one near the kitchen.”

  “After you,” Jack said, gesturing with his hand.

  We left our glasses with a passing waiter and I led the way past the living room and foyer, toward the east wing of the house. The place was packed with people. The noise level had spun up considerably.

  The crowd thinned as we walked down the hallway past the entrance to the formal dining room. By the time we passed the family breakfast nook, the butler’s panty and the kitchen, we encountered only the catering staff and none of them gave us a second look.

  The staircase was steep and narrow, since it was designed to be used mostly by the house servants, and not all that easy to climb in a tight fitting gown, a strapless bra, and three-inch heels.

  Jack trotted behind me, completely at ease, which wa
s really annoying.

  “You owe me,” I said, trying desperately to control my breathing and not pant like a grandma at the Christmas closeout sale when we finally reached the third floor.

  “Sounds fair,” Jack said, still looking crisp and breathing normally. “How about I surprise you with something?”

  “I want a Breathless handbag,” I told him, and leaned against the wall—just to revitalize myself for the sake of the operation and not because I hadn’t been to the gym in a week.

  “You’ll like my surprise better,” he told me.

  He braced both hands against the wall, locking me in front of him.

  Jeez, I didn’t remember it being so hot up here on the third floor.

  “In fact,” Jack whispered, “you’ll like it two, maybe three times on the same evening.”

  I lost my breath completely.

  A wild, crazy heat rolled off of Jack that made me think about doing wild, crazy things—which I would never do, of course, because I have an official boyfriend.

  “The nursery is this way,” I said.

  I ducked under his arm and headed down the hallway.

  Dim light radiated from a few wall sconces. The Oriental carpet runner and the wallpaper looked new.

  Jack followed as I turned a corner, then another, went down a corridor, and turned yet another corner. Yeah, okay, at this point I didn’t know exactly where I was, but, jeez, I hadn’t been up here in years, and how the heck was I supposed to think straight with Jack close to me still radiating nuclear-grade heat?

  He stopped and grabbed my hand, pulling me up short.

  “Somebody’s coming,” he whispered.

  I went still, straining my ears. “I don’t hear—”

  “Shh. Footsteps, getting closer.”

  I didn’t hear anything, but that didn’t stop me from going into panic mode.