Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  We’d broken up for obvious reasons.

  I sipped my coffee and thought about calling my best friend Marcie Hanover. She worked at a bank in downtown Los Angeles and was always available to discuss a problem, a fabulous new handbag I’d seen, or just about anything, as a BFF would.

  But this didn’t seem like a good time to call her.

  It seemed like a good time to leave.

  No way did I want to be around when Edie’s office door opened, she and Priscilla walked out with personnel folders in their hands—possibly one with my name on it—and started calling people in. So naturally, fleeing my private sanctuary was the only thing to do.

  I got my handbag—a terrific Chanel bag that perfectly accessorized my awesome navy blue business suit—grabbed an event portfolio, and left.

  * * *

  I got my Honda from the parking garage and headed west on Ventura Boulevard toward Encino. Traffic wasn’t bad, considering, so it didn’t take long before I reached the shopping center where Cady Faye Catering, my excuse to get out of the office, was located.

  As I made the left turn into their parking lot, a black Land Rover pulled out of the driveway and turned right. I caught a glimpse of the driver. Oh my God, it was Jack Bishop. I nearly ran up on the curb.

  Jack Bishop was a private detective, the hottest hottie in P.I. hot-land. Tall, dark haired, rugged build, and really good looking. I’d helped him out on some of his cases and he’d returned the favor a few times—strictly professional, of course.

  For a couple of seconds I considered doing a whip-around and following Jack—just to be sociable, of course—but it was a total high school move and I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I did wonder, though, why Jack had been at this shopping center.

  Was he on a case? A stake out? Maybe involved in some high-stakes, international, super-secret job?

  His life was so much cooler than mine.

  I glanced at the businesses that occupied the complex with Cady Faye Catering—a dry cleaners, a real estate office, a dentist, a scrapbooking store, a gift shop, a nail place, and a restaurant specializing in vegetarian tacos. I preferred to think that a totally hot private detective wouldn’t shop at any of those places, but I guess even Jack Bishop needed to get his teeth cleaned or his shirts pressed.

  I cruised past the stores and the large display window that had “Cady Faye Catering” printed on it in large white letters. I’d been inside their shop on my first visit here a few weeks ago and knew there were comfortable seating areas, books with photos taken at previous Cady Faye catered events, all set in tasteful décor befitting their upscale clientele.

  Cady Faye Catering had built a great reputation over the past few years and had asked to be added to the L.A. Affairs’ list of approved vendors. None of the other planners had wanted to take a chance on them. L.A. Affairs lived or died by its reputation so none of the planners wanted to make a mistake—and possibly lose their job—by giving something as important as the selection of the caterer to a company no one had worked with before.

  I’d learned about Cady Faye—owned and operated by two sisters, Cady Wills and Faye Delaney—a few months ago when I’d stopped by my parents’ house as the caterers were setting up for one of Mom’s dinner parties. My mom was a former pageant queen—really—who thought she was still a pageant queen, so no way would she cook for her own party. She’d never complained about Cady Faye’s food or service—and believe me, if Mom hadn’t liked anything about them she’d have said so multiple times—which assured me they’d done a great job.

  I’d gone to Priscilla, the office manager at L.A. Affairs, and told her I’d like to give Cady Faye a try. Priscilla had given me raised eyebrows and a slow headshake, but I’d persisted. The more Priscilla had resisted, the more I’d wanted to use them—which I prefer to think of as my generous spirit, not the mile-wide stubborn streak some people have mentioned, as if it were a personality flaw. Priscilla had finally given in and agreed to let me use them, but I’d gotten a this-better-work-out grimace from her.

  I could have tried out Cady Faye Catering on a small, simple event, but I’d gone with something bigger—a St. Patrick’s Day party being given by Xander and Nadine Brannock, a young, up and coming Hollywood couple. I’d figured that at a rip-roaring St. Pat’s bash I could see how Cady Faye operated—plus hardly any of the guests would be sober enough the next day to remember the food at all.

  I circled to the back of the shopping center and parked at the rear entrance alongside two of Cady Faye’s delivery vans. Nearby were a truck unloading bread and a van from Maisie’s Costume Shop, as well as a couple dozen other vehicles. Another catering delivery van was backed up to the open double doors. Cady Faye was expanding so construction work was underway on both sides of their shop. I grabbed my portfolio and squeezed past the delivery van into their small receiving area.

  Inside, a line of workers in white smocks and hairnets carried boxes and trays to the van, preparing to head out for a luncheon somewhere, apparently. A dozen or so guys and girls—servers, I figured, since they looked like college students—milled around, some wearing a Cady Faye Catering uniform, others in street clothes. Construction workers hauled around equipment. The place smelled like sawdust and fresh baked bread.

  I spotted Faye Delaney right away. She was an average looking late-thirties gal with sensible hair and comfortable shoes. She was talking to a leprechaun—or, at least, a young woman in a leprechaun costume.

  The costume was beyond cool—green vest, bow tie, and jacket over a white shirt, green below-the-knee pants, green and white striped knee socks, and black buckle shoes. The girl looked great in it. She was a couple of years younger than me, tall with brown hair. She’d probably look great in anything

  Neither she nor Faye looked happy.

  As I walked closer I heard Faye say, “I don’t know why she can’t get here on time. Especially today. She knows full well that—”

  “Oh, hi,” the leprechaun said to me, cutting Faye off.

  Faye spotted me and instantly morphed into everything’s-great mode.

  “Haley, so good to see you,” she said, smiling broadly. She gestured to the leprechaun beside her. “This is Jeri Sutton, one of my hardest working employees. She’s trying on the costume for the Brannock party for me. What do you think?”

  “Looks great,” I said.

  “Maisie’s Costume Shop is here fitting the servers,” Faye said, and managed a brave smile. “On top of everything else that’s going on.”

  I glanced around at the hustle and bustle that bordered on chaos.

  “But it’s nothing we can’t handle,” Faye said.

  “I’ll go look for Cady,” Jeri said. “Somebody said they thought they saw her here a few minutes ago.”

  “Thank you, Jeri,” Faye said, and exhaled heavily. “But don’t be gone too long. I need you to model that costume with a skirt.”

  Jeri moved away and Faye said to me, “She’s one of my trusted agents. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s in culinary school, you know.”

  I didn’t, but Faye kept talking before I could say anything.

  “Let me show you our newest toy.” She talked as we walked, telling me about upcoming events.

  The place was a bit of a maze, since they’d taken over the stores on each side of their original shop. Construction workers, the catering staff and servers were coming and going as we passed storage rooms, the huge kitchen, a cool room, and a utility room and janitor’s closet.

  Faye stopped at the entrance to one of the rooms and gestured grandly.

  “The ice room,” she announced. “We’re the first catering company in the area to have one.”

  I walked inside. Bare walls, a concrete floor, harsh overhead lighting, several chest freezers, and some sort of hoist. There was a big open water tank sitting atop a metal frame about eight feet off the floor with steps leading up to it and hoses sprouting from it.

  I guess Faye picked
up on my where’s-the-ice expression because she said, “It’s for making ice sculptures.”

  “I thought they were cut out of big blocks of ice with a chain saw,” I said.

  “They can be, but look.” Faye opened a big metal door across the room. Inside was a huge walk-in freezer and shelves lined with dozens of ice sculptures ranging in size from a few inches to several feet—green shamrocks, stars, leprechauns, rainbows, and just about everything else Irish you could think of.

  “Cool,” I said. “These will look great at the party.”

  “We can make them for any occasion,” Faye said. “Let me tell you how it’s done.”

  She closed the freezer door and launched into an explanation of how colored water was mixed in the big tank, then pumped into rubber molds and lowered into chest freezers by a hoist, and then everything turned into blah-blah-blah and I drifted off.

  That happens a lot.

  Edie, Priscilla, and whatever the heck was going on at L.A. Affairs popped into my head. I wondered if I could find a way to stay out of the office for the rest of the day. Maybe tomorrow, too. I mean, jeez, if I wasn’t there, they couldn’t fire me, right?

  Faye jarred me back to reality by walking away. I followed, pulled the door closed, and we headed toward what I thought was the front of building—my sense of direction isn’t the greatest—where the display room and offices were located.

  We stopped at the entrance to the employee lounge. Inside were tables and chairs, vending machines, a fridge and microwave. On one wall was a bulletin board pinned with announcements, and on another ran a row of lockers; duffel bags and backpacks were piled up under them.

  Near the restrooms, two clothing racks held leprechaun costumes. Guy servers rotated in and out trying them on, while the girls sat idle at the tables. I’d worked with Maisie’s Costume Shop on other events and knew they’d do a great job.

  Maisie, a stout woman in her forties who owned the shop, checked the fit on each server as they came out of the restroom, and her assistant Wendy entered their sizes on her iPad.

  “Hey, Haley,” Wendy called.

  Like most of the wardrobe people I’d met, Wendy had a fashion-forward sense of style that bordered on outrageous. Today she had on boots, tights, shorts, a tank, and vest in progressive shades of purple. But since she probably didn’t weigh a hundred pounds on a rainy day, she really pulled it off.

  Faye’s cell phone rang. She stepped away and answered it.

  “Awesome costumes,” I said.

  Wendy gestured toward the clothing racks. “We brought skirts for the girls. Jeri is going to try on one so we can see how it looks. What do you think?”

  “I think it will be great,” I said, “as long as the servers don’t look better than the guests.”

  Wendy laughed, then stopped as Fay’s voice rose.

  “She didn’t get back to you?” she said into her phone. “She assured me she would. I’m so sorry. I’ll get on it right away. Yes, of course. You have my word.”

  Faye snapped her phone closed and exclaimed, “Has anyone seen Cady?”

  “Wasn’t she here just a minute ago?” someone asked.

  “I thought I saw her car out front when I came in,” one of the girls said.

  “Well, is she here, or not?” Faye asked, looking more annoyed by the second. “And where is Jeri? She’s supposed to try on the skirt with her costume. Why aren’t people here, where they’re supposed to be? Things have to get done.”

  “I’ll look for them,” one of the girls said.

  “Me, too,” another one added.

  “All of you,” Faye said, “please, look for them. And tell them to report back to me immediately.”

  Faye blew out a big breath as the girls hurried out of the room, then caught sight of me standing nearby.

  “Oh, Haley,” she said. “Please don’t think this sort of thing happens often. Really, we’re all dedicated to the success of this business. I’m sure Cady is here somewhere and she’s anxious to go over the menu with you.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  I thought there definitely was a problem but this didn’t seem like the time to say so.

  “I’ll look for them, too,” I said.

  Honestly, I didn’t know how I’d have any better luck finding Cady and Jeri than anyone else, but it seemed like a great excuse to get away and call Kayla at the office to see if there’d been any new developments.

  I walked along the hallways amid the hustle and bustle of the people who were doing actual work, and called Kayla’s cell phone. Her voicemail picked up so I left a message. I tried the office line. Her voicemail picked up there, too.

  Yikes! Did that mean Kayla was in with Edie and Priscilla getting fired? Of course, if that happened, it might be safe for me to go back to the office.

  I mean that in the nicest way, of course.

  I tucked my cell phone into my handbag and strolled along, trying to look as if I intended to actually accomplish something. It did seem weird that both Cady and Jeri were nowhere to be found. Maybe they’d both slipped out to a nearby Starbuck—I’d done that myself a time or two during the workday.

  I opened doors along the hallway and peered inside. One was a storage closet containing plates, glasses, bowls and cups. Nobody there. The next door was linen storage; plenty of tablecloths and napkins but no people. The one after that was the ice room. I pulled the door open and looked inside. No one there either, except—

  Something was strange about the room. I heard water dripping.

  I got a weird feeling

  Water pooled on the floor under the big tank. I hadn’t noticed that when I was in here earlier.

  My weird feeling got weirder.

  I looked up and saw a black shoe sticking out of the water tank. Yikes!

  I raced up the stairs. Facedown in the water was a leprechaun. Dead.

  THE HIRED HUSBAND

  Historical Romantic Adventure from Harlequin Historicals

  Written under Dorothy’s pen name Judith Stacy

  Hired Help?

  With her father’s business empire crumbling around her, Miss Rachel Branford will try anything to save her family’s name. Even if it means offering handsome financial consultant Mitch Kincade a room in her house—and four times his usual fee!

  Or Hired Husband?

  Abandoned at an orphanage, Mitch has struggled to gain wealth and power. But all that changes when he finds himself tempted by Rachel’s money—then Rachel herself. Especially when drawn into a contract of marriage!

  THE HIRED HUSBAND

  By

  Judith Stacy

  Prologue

  Los Angeles, 1897

  “I now pronounce you man and wife.” The minister closed his Bible. “You may kiss the bride.”

  Rachel Branford glared up at her new husband. “If you even think about kissing me, Mitch Kincade, I swear I’ll bite your lip off.”

  She stomped away.

  Mitch stood at the altar watching his bride storm past the rows of empty pews, her quick footsteps echoing through the silent church. Back stiff, dark hair drawn in a severe knot beneath her hat, she wore her least favorite dress—she’d made a point of telling him so, the one time she’d spoken to him this morning.

  The woman could throw a blanket of frost over everything around her, no doubt about it.

  And still, he wanted her.

  Even if she couldn’t stand him.

  Not that he blamed her, Mitch conceded, as he watched her bustle bobbing down the aisle. Not after the disaster her father had caused and her brother had compounded, the mess that she’d been left to fix … with her body.

  But she’d given her word and she’d stuck by it. She’d gone through with the wedding. Why wouldn’t she? Rachel had as much at stake in this marriage as he did.

  Now, through that series of unfortunate circumstances, Mitch stood on the verge of having the one thing he’d fought for, sweated blood over and dreamed of for years. So
close he could taste it.

  “Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” Mitch mumbled

  “Excuse me?” the minister asked.

  Mitch glanced back at him. “Nothing. Never mind,” he said.

  The minister shifted uncomfortably. “Well, uh, congratulations.” He cleared his throat. “And … good luck.”

  You’ll need it, his tone implied.

  Mitch didn’t disagree.

  Drawing in a breath, he popped on his bowler and headed down the aisle after his bride. He’d have what he wanted from Rachel Branford.

  One way or the other.

  All of Dorothy’s mysteries and the historical romances she writes as Judith Stacy are available online and at bookstores everywhere.

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