Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  The place smelled great, of course, and a number of people were scattered around the room, reading, working on a laptop, or chatting with friends as they sipped their coffees. I ordered my all-time favorite drink in the entire universe, a mocha frappuccino, and paid for it with the company’s gift card I’d registered online.

  I didn’t know how the heck I’d missed it, but I’d recently learned that Starbucks had a loyalty program that tracked your purchases—you got a cool star for each one—and awarded special discounts and free items after you’d accumulated a certain number of stars. The whole thing was tracked online. There was even a mobile app. I was within six purchases of moving up to the next level—whatever that was. I hadn’t read their web site instructions all that carefully.

  That happens a lot.

  I got my frappie and look a long sip as I walked outside. Just as I was about to find a table at their outdoor seating area and let my brain rest, Liam Douglas flew into my thoughts.

  I didn’t really want to like him—he’d been a total jackass—but there was something about him that made me feel shaky inside.

  But maybe that was just my frappuccino—chocolate and caffeine could have that effect, couldn’t it?

  My cell phone rang. Andrea’s name appeared on the caller ID screen. A jolt flew though me. Oh my God, had something else horrible happened?

  “I thought of something,” she said when I answered.

  She didn’t sound upset, which made me relax a little—or as much as is possible while drinking a frappuccino, making a mental list of murder suspects, and remembering a hot guy.

  “This may be nothing,” she said. “In fact, I’m sure it’s nothing. Really, I shouldn’t have even called.”

  I hate it when people do that.

  “What is it?” I asked, and managed to sound patient.

  “I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,” Andrea said. “And I don’t want to get myself into hot water.”

  I knew she—and every other personal assistant who worked for a wealthy family—had signed a confidentially agreement upon accepting employment. Andrea could get sued for divulging info—or worse, ruin her reputation and never get hired again.

  “You won’t tell anyone I was the one who said it, will you?” she asked.

  “I’m great at keeping secrets,” I said.

  Which was totally true. Just last week Kayla at L.A. Affairs had told me a huge secret—and I’d told hardly anyone.

  I could, however, keep my mouth shut about the info Andrea was about to share—if it was, in fact, something that might get her fired.

  She was quiet for another few seconds then said, “Like I said, it’s probably nothing. But Erika, the interior decorator? She and Patrick used to date.”

  I took a big gulp of my frappuccino—and I definitely needed it. Oh my God, was this my first solid motive in Veronica’s murder?

  “They dated—seriously dated?” I asked.

  “From what I heard, they were practically engaged—until Patrick made that trip back east and came home married to Veronica.”

  Oh, crap.

  Chapter 6

  “This is b.s.,” Bella said, peering inside her brown paper lunch sack. “Nothing but b.s.”

  We were seated at a table in the breakroom at Holt’s Department Store, the crappier than crappy place where I had a crappy part-time job as a sales clerk. This was where I’d met my ex-official-boyfriend Ty Cameron.

  His family had owned the chain of stores for five generations, and Ty was the latest to be completely obsessed with its operation to the exclusion of everything else—including me. Thus, our breakup.

  Other employees were seated at nearby tables eating, talking, or flipping through the vast selection of outdated magazines. Someone had decorated the place with honey-comb turkeys and paper cut-outs of pumpkins and pilgrims. Hanging next to the fridge was a teaser about the mystery merchandise that would be revealed on Black Friday—an old Holt’s tradition. There were other posters extolling the wonders of the store’s current marketing campaign, the Stuff-It Sale.

  Really.

  I’d worked here for about a year now and Bella had become one of my BFFs along with Sandy, who sat at the table with us.

  Bella, mocha to my vanilla, was saving for beauty school. She intended to be a hairdresser to the stars and practiced different styles—to be generous and because we’re besties, I’ll call them unique—on herself.

  In the spirit of the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday she’d fashioned a pumpkin atop her hair—at least I thought it was a pumpkin. I couldn’t be sure—which told me Bella wasn’t having her best day.

  Really, I guess none of us were having our best day since it was Saturday and we were stuck here for hours instead of out doing something fun.

  “What’s wrong?” Sandy asked.

  Like Bella, Sandy was around the same age as me. She was kind of tall with hair she regularly switched from blonde to red, then back again. Today it was somewhere in the middle.

  Sandy always seemed to find the best in any situation—which was kind of annoying at times—except when it came to picking a boyfriend. She’d been dating the same idiot for as long as I’d known her, a tattoo artist she’d met on the Internet who continually treated her bad. For some reason, she didn’t see it. She absolutely refused to break up with him—despite my repeated attempts to share my oh-so fabulous good advice.

  Go figure.

  “Somebody stole my string cheese,” Bella grumbled.

  She picked up her sack lunch and dumped the contents onto the table. Out came a sandwich, chips, chocolate cookies, yogurt, and string cheese.

  “Isn’t that string cheese?” I asked—I mean, somebody had to.

  “I packed three,” Bella declared. “There’s only two here.”

  “Are you sure?” Sandy asked. “Because yesterday I was sure I’d put a bag of Fritos in my lunch but I didn’t.”

  “Somebody stole your Fritos,” Bella told her. “Just like they stole my string cheese.”

  “Is anything missing from your lunch, Haley?” Sandy asked.

  “Besides flavor and nutrition?” I asked, gesturing to the reportedly-ham sandwich I’d gotten out of the breakroom vending machine.

  “What the hell is going on at this place?” Bella grumbled. “What kind of person would steal food out of somebody else’s lunch sack?”

  Sandy leaned in—sensing possible gossip, Bella and I immediately leaned in too—and whispered, “Maybe it was one of the new people.”

  We sprang into stealth mode, all of us sitting back, darting our gazes around the room at the other employees. With the official kick off of the holiday season coming up, Holt’s had hired a ton of new sales clerks. They were all seasonal workers, here only until the first of January.

  All the new faces I spotted seated around the breakroom looked as tired and worn out—and kind of shell-shocked—as all of us permanent employees.

  Retail work had that effect on people.

  If one of them had stolen Bella’s string cheese it wasn’t readily apparent, not that I could see, anyway.

  The breakroom door swung open and banged against the wall. I didn’t have to look in that direction to know that Rita, the cashiers’ supervisor, had burst into the room.

  Rita was about as wide as she was tall—which would have been okay except that she continually dressed in stretch pants and knit tops with farm animals on the front.

  Her goal in life was to make lives miserable—especially mine.

  “Your lunch break is over, princess,” she barked at me.

  I hate her.

  “I have four more minutes,” I told her. It wasn’t true, but so what.

  “Some kids just dumped half the greeting cards onto the floor,” Rita said. “You need to go pick them up.”

  I was about to make the kindest remark I could think of regarding Rita and what I thought she could do with the greeting cards—it did not involve me picking them up—when a girl
hopped up from the table next to ours and said, “I’ll do it, Rita. No problem. I was finished eating anyway.”

  Okay, that was weird.

  And disappointing—for Rita, anyway. She glared at me and I glared back—yes, just like eighth grade.

  “I’m glad to help out,” the girl said. “Anything I can do, just let me know. That’s what I’m here for.”

  “Thank you, Gerri,” Rita said. She mad-dogged me until Gerri dumped her trash and clocked-in, and the two of them left the breakroom.

  “She’s one of the new people,” Sandy said.

  I figured, because I hadn’t seen her before. She was probably early twenties with dark hair, and kind of average in height, weight, and looks.

  “What was she eating for lunch?” Bella demanded.

  “Gerri’s a really hard worker,” Sandy said. “We were in the shoe department yesterday and, wow, she was shelving merchandise like a ninja. I think she’s hoping they’ll keep her on after Christmas, or maybe give her more hours.”

  “More hours in this place? No thanks,” I said.

  “I ought to check out her trash,” Bella mumbled.

  “She probably needs the money,” Sandy said. “Especially with Christmas coming up.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. And, really, the income from Holt’s had been a lifesaver when I’d started here last year. I was lucky to have a full time job at L.A. Affairs that paid well, but since my benefits hadn’t kicked in yet, I was sticking it out here because of the medical coverage.

  Being responsible is inconvenient at times.

  My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and saw that Jack was calling.

  “Gotta go,” I said, as I sprang out of my chair.

  “Must be a hot guy,” Sandy said.

  “Ask him if he’s got a brother,” Bella called, as I dashed out of the breakroom.

  No way did I want to have a conversation with Jack in front of anyone, so I hit the green button on my phone as I raced down the hallway past the managers’ offices and the customer service booth. I pushed through the swinging doors and went into the stockroom.

  “The undercover investigator will be in place tomorrow,” Jack said when I answered.

  He sounded tense, deeply entrenched in private-detective mode—which was way hot.

  I’d talked with him yesterday about putting one of his people in the Spencer-Taft mansion for extra security under the guise of someone from a concierge service, and he’d liked it. I was glad he was making it happen.

  “Did anything pop on the work crews?” I asked.

  “Everybody’s clean, so far,” Jack said. “Still checking.”

  I paced through the aisles of the stockroom. It was quiet back here, except for the store’s canned music track that played faintly. The shelves were all jammed with Christmas merchandise that would be displayed on Black Friday.

  Andrea had told me that Erika and Patrick had dated, and I hadn’t told Jack yet. I wasn’t sure if it was old news or something relevant to Veronica’s murder, and I hadn’t wanted to look like I was just talking crap about Erika—not to Jack, anyway—nor did I want to tell him something he already knew.

  But neither did I want to look as if I hadn’t come up with anything new that would move the investigation forward—which, I know, was kind of shallow of me, but there it was.

  “Did you know that Patrick and Erika used to date?” I asked.

  Jack was quiet for a few seconds so I knew this was something he hadn’t heard, which was totally awesome because now, for a change, I was the hot one.

  I gave him the run down on what Andrea had shared with me, then added, “So I’m wondering if it was really over between Patrick and Erika.”

  “It must have been, if she was decorating their house,” Jack said.

  I shook my head as I paced. Men. They really knew so little about the devious ways of women.

  “Maybe not,” I said. “It could mean she definitely wasn’t over Patrick and wanted to get into the house and do away with Veronica. Then she would be in the perfect position to swoop in and take Patrick.”

  “Who hired Erika?” Jack asked.

  “I’m going out there this afternoon,” I said. “I’ll find out.”

  “Good,” Jack said. He shifted to his Barry White voice and said, “Thanks, Haley.”

  My breath caught. I’m totally helpless against his Barry White voice.

  He ended the call before I could say anything—which was good, because I couldn’t think of anything to say, anyway.

  * * *

  I hadn’t really planned on going out to Calabasas this afternoon but while talking to Jack I’d decided I should. I was worried about Veronica’s family, even though Jack had security personnel on the property, and I wanted to check on things personally. Plus, I’d told Andrea I’d help out.

  Of course, more info was definitely needed from the family and I figured I would be in a better position to root it out than someone who was investigating the murder in an official capacity. Homicide detectives tended to put people off—or maybe that was just me.

  I swung by my apartment after my shift ended at Holt’s—my fabulous apartment, which I totally loved, was only a few minutes from the store—and freshened my hair and makeup, and changed into pants and a sweater that were nicer than the jeans and T-shirt I’d worked in all day. I headed out to Calabasas and called Andrea as I merged onto the 101.

  “I wanted to come by,” I said, when she answered. “Will you let the gate guard know?”

  “Sure,” she said. “I’ll put you on the permanent list.”

  “How’s it going?”

  “Okay,” Andrea said, then paused a few seconds and added, “but kind of boring, really. They toured Universal Studios yesterday so they’re exhausted—the aunts, anyway. This was supposed to be their first full day with Veronica and Patrick, so that’s not helping.”

  “How’s Patrick holding up?” I asked.

  “He asked me to move into the house while Veronica’s family is here, to look after them and try to keep them entertained,” Andrea said.

  “Wow, that’s tough,” I said. “Can you do that?”

  “For what he’s paying me? You bet,” Andrea said. “But other than that, I haven’t heard anything. Nobody’s been here or called.”

  I figured Patrick would be too consumed with grief—and understandably so—to concern himself with the house guests. He’d done all he could by having Andrea stay with them.

  “What about Julia?” I asked. “Hasn’t she checked on them?”

  “Not once.”

  Okay, I knew Julia might be upset too, but that was crappy.

  “Oh, by the way,” I said, shifting into wanna-be private detective mode, “who hired Erika to decorate the house?”

  “Veronica,” Andrea said.

  That surprised me.

  “Somebody must have recommended her,” I said because, really, Erika didn’t work for the kind of decorator service you’d find in your spam folder.

  “She was already involved with the renovations when I came on board,” Andrea explained. She was quiet for a moment, thinking, then said, “I don’t know who suggested her to Veronica. Nobody mentioned it.”

  “Did she know about Erika and Patrick’s past?” I asked.

  “Maybe. I don’t know,” Andrea said. “But I doubt it would have mattered. She was absolutely secure in Patrick’s love for her.”

  Wow, she must have really believed in Patrick.

  “I couldn’t have tolerated an old girlfriend that close,” I said, and felt an age-old wave of jealousy zing though me.

  “Me either,” Andrea said. “But that was Veronica. She always thought the best of everybody.”

  Had that led to her murder? I wondered.

  “I’ll be there soon,” I said, and we ended the call.

  I wondered, too, if maybe Patrick’s love wasn’t as all-consuming as Veronica—and everyone else, apparently—thought it was.
Had he had second thoughts about marrying her? Had he hired Erika hoping to ignite an old flame? Could the two of them have plotted to get rid of Veronica?

  I didn’t like to think about that so, luckily, my cell phone rang. Then I saw that it was Mom.

  Maybe the call wasn’t so lucky an interruption, after all.

  “Good news,” Mom declared, when I answered.

  I didn’t need a crystal ball to predict that Mom’s good news had nothing to do with me.

  “I’ve found several eligible bachelors to invite to Thanksgiving dinner for your sister,” she told me.

  I should have my own psychic hotline.

  “I’ve discussed these young men in depth with a number of my friends,” Mom went on, “and two of them are extremely promising. Others are less so. One I was forced to disregard completely. I’ll keep looking, of course. There’s still plenty of time. I’m confident I’ll find the perfect man.”

  Not that I wished anything bad for my sister, but I kind of hoped Mom wouldn’t find anyone to set her up with because I didn’t want to be the only one there without a date. I could just imagine all the questions I’d get from family members I seldom saw and from whoever else Mom had invited. Some of them knew that I’d dated Ty but probably hadn’t learned that we’d broken up.

  I didn’t want my personal life on parade, fielding questions, seeing the disappointed too-bad-it-didn’t-work-out expressions on their faces, then having to listen to their well-intended pep talks about how they were certain the right man for me was out there somewhere and eventually I’d find him.

  And as if that wouldn’t be bad enough, who knew what Mom would actually serve for dinner? Last year she’d gone with Russian food—although the vodka had helped everybody get through the day much easier.

  Then, for some reason, Liam Douglas flew into my head.

  Where the heck had he come from? Why was I thinking about him? Him, of all people?

  Well, he was incredibly good looking. And, even though he’d been a total jerk when we’d first met, he’d apologized. He’d even told a funny joke about lawyers. That counted for something, right?