Beach Bags and Burglaries (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  “Do you really expect me to believe you’d give up this lucrative Web site that easily?” I asked.

  “My job here is ending in a few weeks,” Sebastian said. “I’ll leave the island. I won’t have access to the hotel rooms.”

  Okay, that made me feel a little better. But I couldn’t control what Sebastian did—not now, anyway. Not with Ben’s I’ll-be-famous story on the line.

  “And about Sandy,” Sebastian said. “Yes, I did lie to her about my job here, but I couldn’t help it. It’s confidential. I signed an agreement.”

  I couldn’t really argue with that.

  “I like Sandy. I really do,” he said. “I want to keep seeing her, if I can. Please don’t ruin things between us.”

  Jeez, how did I get in the middle of so many important decisions involving other people? I’m on vacation.

  “You’d better not hurt her,” I told him.

  “I won’t,” he said. “I swear. I won’t.”

  I fumed for a minute, then said, “Okay, I won’t tell anybody—as long as nothing bad happens.”

  “Nothing bad is going to happen,” Sebastian said. “How could it?”

  Good question.

  CHAPTER 21

  Marcie, Bella, Sandy, and I chose to wear sundresses in a variety of colors—except pink, of course—and, really, we all looked great when we showed up for Yasmin’s bachelorette garden party.

  Guests were greeted at what the resort brochure had termed the summer house, which wasn’t really a house but an outdoor covered area with a white roof held up with white pillars, and a flagstone floor, all surrounded by green plants and shrubs.

  “Everything is handled,” Joy said quietly as I walked past. “You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

  Good to know—even though I wasn’t worried about the event in the first place.

  We walked through the vine-covered arbor, and I was pleased to see that my vision of the event had turned out well. Pink, white, and a touch of mint green abounded. The linens were crisp, and the china and crystal sparkled. A bartender and two waitresses, all dressed in Rowan Resort burgundy uniforms, were busy serving drinks.

  Really, it’s never too early to start drinking at a function such as this.

  The stage and runway were set up for the fashion show, and a flat screen played a DVD of Yasmin’s photos. About a dozen or so young women were clustered in a small group watching the DVD, squealing and giggling each time they saw themselves flash on the screen. I recognized most of them; others must have been Yasmin and Tate-Tate-Tate’s family members

  Nearby stood Yasmin’s mother, Deandra, and her aunt Elnora, both dressed in pastel Gucci dresses, four-inch pumps, with full-on jewelry and makeup. From the looks on their faces, I doubted neither would have squealed or giggled if they’d see themselves on TV.

  “Looks like there might be hope for this party after all,” Bella murmured as she nodded toward the rear of the area.

  Two dark-haired men dressed in gray suits, brilliant white shirts, conservative neckties, and sunglasses stood at each end of a small table. Wow, they looked great.

  “I knew he had a brother,” Bella whispered.

  Then it hit me—one of the men was Jack Bishop. I didn’t know the other guy.

  I realized then that on the table between them, the Heart of Amour pendant rested on a pedestal.

  “I’ll get us a table—right by him,” Bella said. She headed toward Jack and his fellow security guard, Marcie and Sandy close behind.

  “Hey, where are all the young studs?” asked a woman beside me.

  “With no shirts on,” I added.

  We looked at each other and, immediately, I knew we’d connected—though to see us you’d never think we had anything in common. She was a tiny woman—probably no more than ninety pounds on a rainy day—with silver hair, in a yellow dress trimmed with leopard print. I figured her for seventy-plus, easily.

  She squinted up at me. “You’re Haley.”

  I don’t usually like to admit to anything, especially where strangers are concerned, but I had a good feeling about her.

  “I’m Francine. Yasmin’s grandmother,” she said, before I could answer. “Ada showed me pictures of you two shopping in London not long ago.”

  “You’re Ada’s friend,” I realized, and couldn’t help smiling.

  “And you’re dating Ada’s grandson,” she said, and threw arms around me. “I am so glad to meet you. Thanks so much for jumping in and helping with the wedding.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said, but couldn’t quite bring myself to add the expected glad-I-could-do-it.

  “So this is what passes for a bachelorette party these days, huh?” Francine said, gazing around the summer house. She shook her head. “Looks like a real yawner to me.”

  “It’s the latest thing,” I said. “Yasmin wanted it.”

  Francine uttered a disgusted grunt. “Figures.”

  I was liking her more and more every minute.

  “When’s Ty getting here?” she asked.

  Hearing Ty’s name spoke aloud gave me a little jolt.

  I ignored it.

  When I’d spoken with Ada the other day I’d wondered if Ty had told her we’d broken up. Apparently, he hadn’t—or if he had, the news hadn’t traveled far enough to reach Francine.

  I could have kept my mouth shut and let Francine think Ty and I were still a couple, but I didn’t see any sense in it.

  “Actually, Ty and I broke up,” I said.

  “His idea or yours?” Francine asked.

  Okay, I wasn’t all that excited about rehashing our breakup, but Francine didn’t sound judgmental, so I rolled with it.

  “It was his idea,” I said. “But I went along with it.”

  “He’ll come back,” she said.

  She sounded sure of herself, as if she knew Ty well—and maybe she did, since she and Ada had been friends for so long.

  “I doubt it,” I told her.

  Francine shook her head. “Those Cameron men. What a bunch of workaholic worrywarts. Always looking for perfection.”

  “Ty sure as heck never found perfection with me,” I told her.

  “Has he called you?” she asked.

  “No,” I said. “I heard he’s busy with some big acquisition.”

  “Figures. Distracting himself with work,” Francine said. “The Cameron men expect perfection in themselves. If something goes wrong, if they think they’ve made a mistake, they lock up. Ty will figure out what he’s done. He’ll get over it. He’ll call you.”

  I shook my head. “I’m not sure I want to get back together with Ty.”

  “Ada told me all about you two,” Francine said. “Ty can’t be very attentive, and you don’t want to be smothered. You’re perfect for each other.”

  I just stared at her. I’d never thought of our relationship in quite that way. Was it really that simple?

  Luckily, a commotion among the guests took our attention; I didn’t want to think about Ty and me anymore.

  “Oh, my word,” Francine muttered, shaking her head.

  Yasmin was making her grand entrance into the party through the arbor. She had on a pink floral print dress, pink shoes, pink accessories, and a wide-brimmed pink hat trimmed with huge flower blossoms.

  She looked like she was going to the Kentucky Derby.

  I figured this was a good time to find my friends. I spotted them seated at a table near the Heart of Amour and its security team.

  Honestly, I was more than a little irked by the whole my-wedding-is-so-special-my-bouquet-pendant-needs-its-own-guards thing. I mean, really, how pretentious can you get? This was a lot—even for Yasmin.

  I walked over and sidled up next to Jack. He was in private detective mode. His jaw was set, his shoulders squared, his expression unreadable behind the sunglasses.

  It was a really hot look on him.

  “Are you supposed to thwart a robbery attempt?” I asked.

  “Grab it and t
ake off,” Jack said, then switched to his Barry White voice. “You’ll be glad you did.”

  Oh my God.

  I plopped down in a chair at the table with my friends.

  “Damn, it’s hot today,” I said.

  Bella glanced up at Jack. “You’re telling me.”

  Another dozen guests arrived and the festivities got under way. The food was delicious and the signature drink—something pink—helped considerably, when Yasmin got up to address the gathering. I listened for about three seconds, then it all turned into blah, blah, blah.

  I didn’t know how I would get through the wedding ceremony and the reception. I had to get out of it somehow.

  Just as I was considering whether I could actually get away with my Uncle-Bob-died excuse, or if the tried and true touch-of-the-stomach-flu might work better, I spotted a Sea Vixen beach tote on the arm of a woman crossing the hotel grounds. Immediately, my senses jumped to high alert. I leaned back in my chair to get a better look at her. I couldn’t see her all that well from this distance—just the vague impression of a small, dark-haired woman—but she looked familiar. Still, I knew she was definitely not one of the two women who’d gotten the totes from the hotel shop’s last shipment. That could only mean—

  Oh my God. Oh my God.

  Had the shop gotten in another shipment of Sea Vixen totes and not told me? Had they given my bag away to some other woman—again?

  No way was I sitting still for another of their “hold list” screw-ups.

  “I have to go,” I said to Marcie, and managed not to scream the words.

  At least, I don’t think I screamed.

  I bolted out of my chair, skirted the edge of the gathering, and rushed out of the summer house through the arbor. I followed the path through the hotel grounds, bobbing and weaving my way around fountains, benches, shrubs, and planters of flowers, keeping the woman in sight.

  My first instinct, of course, was to grab the Sea Vixen off of her arm while screaming mine-mine-mine—anyone in my position would do the same—but I decided to take it slow. I didn’t want to cause a huge scene and have resort security get involved. Somehow, I didn’t think Walt Pemberton would be all that sympathetic to my situation.

  I hung back, following the woman. I figured that when she stopped I would rush forward—without looking like I was rushing, of course—and oh-so casually ask her where and when she got her tote. It was possible, of course, that she’d had it for a while and the hotel shop had not, in fact, failed to notify me that my tote had arrived. I decided to play it cool.

  I hate playing it cool.

  I picked up my pace and was closing in on her when she left the path and headed down the narrow road that led to the employee dorm.

  Okay, that was weird. Why would a hotel guest be headed there?

  I slowed down, putting a little more distance between us, and watched as she kept going. But instead of veering left to the dorms, she turned right and walked up to the dock. A boat was tied off, swaying with the swell of the ocean waves. I didn’t know much about watercraft, but I knew this wasn’t the supply boat. It was small, with Unexpected Opportunity painted on its white hull. A man jumped off, spoke with the woman, then took a package she pulled out of her Sea Vixen tote.

  What the heck was going on?

  I scrambled behind a hedge and crouched down, peeking through the bushes as the woman headed back in my direction. She drew closer, and I realized why she’d looked slightly familiar when I’d first spotted her. It was Colby Rowan. Sandy had pointed her out on this very stretch of road.

  Then it hit me that nothing illegal or immoral was going on—which was kind of disappointing—but, rather, something dull and boring.

  Sandy had told me that Colby created works of art at her studio here on the island and sold them internationally. Colby was simply shipping something to a buyer, or a gallery, or whoever handled those kinds of transactions, and she was using a private courier service—she couldn’t very well send something that valuable via the postal service.

  I hung out behind the hedge until Colby walked past—I figured I might startle her if I suddenly jumped out in front of her—and followed her to the hotel grounds, through the gardens, to one of the bungalows. She went inside and closed the door.

  I stood near several small palms, deciding what to do. I really wanted to ask Colby where and when she’d gotten her Sea Vixen, but I didn’t want her to think I was stalking her, or anything, since she was, after all, a kind-of sort-of celebrity.

  Besides, it was an excellent excuse not to go back to Yasmin’s so-called bachelorette party.

  My spirits lifted as I knocked on the door of Colby’s bungalow, and I imagined her opening up, inviting me inside, and the two of us bonding over our love for the Sea Vixen tote. We could become lifelong friends. Really.

  The door opened and Colby stared out at me. I’d heard somewhere that she was in her thirties, but she looked older and kind of hard—apparently, serious facial moisturizers aren’t allowed in prison.

  “I don’t give lessons without an appointment,” she said, and pushed the door closed in my face.

  I caught it with my hand.

  “I’m not here for a lesson,” I said. “I saw you just now carrying a Sea Vixen beach tote, and I wanted to ask you where you got it.”

  “You’re mistaken,” Colby said.

  Okay, now I was seriously confused.

  “The polka dot tote,” I said. “It’s an awesome bag. I’m dying to get one.”

  “I don’t own a polka dot tote,” Colby said.

  “But I saw you—”

  “Good day,” she said, and pushed the door shut.

  I stood there staring at the door for a couple of minutes, then stepped back.

  What the heck was going on? I knew—knew—I hadn’t lost sight of Colby since I spotted her earlier. I knew I’d seen her with a Sea Vixen, and I knew I’d seen her go into her bungalow.

  Why would she deny the whole thing? Why would she lie?

  I had no idea.

  CHAPTER 22

  Foran ultraexclusive—which is code for ultraexpen-sive—resort that catered to Hollywood stars and international millionaires, there was a heck of a lot of crime associated with the Rowan Resort.

  I left Colby’s bungalow and wandered aimlessly through the gardens—though not aimlessly enough that I’d end up at Yasmin’s idiotic bachelorette party—thinking about all the criminal activity I’d uncovered here. Yeah, okay, it was nothing hard-core—except for Jaslyn’s murder—but still it seemed to me that this place had more than its share of wrongdoing.

  The weird part was that all the crimes were, somehow, connected to Jaslyn Gordon.

  Colby, who shared the love of art with Jaslyn, had been involved in robberies in Los Angeles, done jail time, and one of her accomplices was still on the lam. Gabe Braxton, Jaslyn’s boyfriend, had been arrested for assault and domestic violence, though none of the charges stuck. Jaslyn Gordon had a brother who was currently serving time. Sebastian ran a Web site auctioning off stolen underwear that, conceivably, Jaslyn could have been involved with—even though Sebastian denied it—since she was a hotel maid and had access to celebrities’ clothing while cleaning their rooms.

  The even weirder part was that I’d uncovered absolutely nothing—no evidence, no rumors, no wild speculation—that Jaslyn herself had been involved in any of those criminal activities. So if she hadn’t been a part of it, why had she been murdered? How could it be that the only person not involved was dead? It didn’t make any sense.

  I turned down a different path and walked onto a small, wooden arched bridge. A waterfall splashed down some rocks, then flowed under the bridge. It was quiet here, peaceful. Not a lot of hotel guests were around. I stood there looking at the water and thinking.

  Of course, the people connected with Jaslyn who had been in trouble with the law weren’t the only ones I had concerns about. I’d considered Avery’s possible involvement with Jaslyn’s
murder. She’d been unhappy with Jaslyn’s blatant disregard for employee policies and had, I’m sure, been called on the carpet because of it. Maybe upper management had threatened Avery with her job if she couldn’t keep her team members in line—and out of the library—and Avery had let her anger with Jaslyn get the best of her.

  Hang on a second.

  Oh my God—the library.

  According to what I’d been told, Jaslyn had become obsessed with the library. Had she discovered the hidden door in the bookcase, realized the secret passageways connected to guests’ rooms, and threatened to go public with the story?

  If so, the media frenzy would be epic. Rowan Resort would undoubtedly be hit with multibillion-dollar lawsuits from everyone who’d ever vacationed here. Walt Pemberton, as chief of resort security, would have a great deal of explaining to do; no doubt he’d be fired and would never find a job working in security again.

  Was that a reason to murder someone?

  Yeah, I thought it was.

  Really, I wouldn’t mind finding Pemberton guilty of most anything, since I’d seen him creeping around, spying on me; he’d probably instructed his undercover personnel to keep me under surveillance, too.

  Then something else hit me. What if Jaslyn had seen Sebastian come out of the hidden passageway in the library, as I had? What if she’d confronted him, demanded answers?

  My thoughts skipped ahead, and I got a weird feeling thinking that maybe Sebastian had murdered Jaslyn. He didn’t really strike me as the type, but you never knew about people. Like some of the other employees I’d met here, Sebastian was desperate for money to pay his college tuition and expenses. Maybe in an all-out panic, he’d killed Jaslyn.

  I stood on the bridge for a few more minutes, running all the scenarios through my head—jeez, a hit of chocolate would sure help right now—and finally decided that I needed more evidence, more info.

  I knew one place to find it.

  I trekked through the gardens, into the hotel, and up the stairs to the second floor. Just as I’d figured, the housekeeping staff was still busy cleaning the guest rooms. I walked the corridor stopping wherever I saw one of the big carts and finally spotted Tabitha inside a room, pulling sheets off of one of the beds.