Swag Bags and Swindlers

by Dorothy Howell

  I headed down the hallway toward the residents’ wing and heard piano music coming from the dayroom. Several voices were raised in song, something I didn’t recognize. Not that I wanted to sing along but, jeez, it would be nice to hear a tune and some lyrics that were familiar.

  At the last moment I changed directions. I really needed to talk to the gals about the swag bags, but that could wait. The rumor Priscilla had told me about this morning could sink the entire event. I had to run it to ground.

  I suspected that Mr. Stewart was behind the not so subtle innuendos that the gala would be canceled, so I walked down the hallway to his office. His door was closed. I knocked. When I didn’t get a response I knocked again. Another minute dragged by. I pressed my ear close to the door, listening for voices. Nothing.

  There was the possibility that Mr. Stewart had left his office, so I knocked once more—a little harder this time—then turned to leave. I’d taken only two steps when the office door opened.

  “Yes? Yes? What is it?” Mr. Stewart called.

  He looked out of sorts and slightly rumpled standing in the doorway. His hair stuck up in the back and he blinked his eyes as if trying to get me into focus.

  Oh my God. Had he been napping?

  Mr. Stewart leaned his head back slightly to peer at me through the lower portion of his eyeglass lenses. His expression soured.

  “You’re that girl from the event-planning company,” he said, then waved me away with both hands. “I don’t have time for this. I’m very busy. I’m in the middle of something important.”

  “I’m sure you are,” I told him, in my we’re-on-the-same-side voice. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “What?” he asked, completely thrown by my answer.

  “I know about the rumors,” I told him.

  “You . . . you do?”

  He looked a little nervous now, as if he hadn’t expected anyone would approach him about the matter. I hadn’t told him exactly what the rumors were about, but he looked as if he already knew—which made me pretty darn sure that I was right in suspecting that he was the one who started them.

  “These rumors are detrimental to the future and the reputation of Hollywood Haven,” I said.

  He waved me away again. “Rumors make the rounds all the time. It’s nothing.”

  “Word is spreading that the gala will be canceled,” I said.

  “You don’t need to concern yourself with this,” Mr. Stewart told me.

  “It’s my job to handle absolutely everything that involves your event,” I said. “And I want to assure you that this rumor is absolutely not true. The gala is going forward. Everything is arranged, handled, ready, and on schedule.”

  He didn’t look relieved, as I expected someone in his position would when faced with the collapse of a major event in front of everyone who mattered in Hollywood and Los Angeles.

  I wasn’t sure why, exactly, Mr. Stewart was so opposed to the gala. At first I’d thought he simply didn’t want to fool with it after Derrick was murdered and he thought he’d be stuck with handling the arrangements. But then he’d turned the prep over to Rosalind—along with just about everything else that had to do with the running of Hollywood Haven, it seemed. All I could figure now was that Mr. Stewart knew his job was in jeopardy—probably serious jeopardy—and he didn’t want to see Internet and newspaper headlines the day after the event that read, HOLLYWOOD HAVEN CELEBRATES 50TH; HEAD HONCHO GETS AXED.

  Not a great way to end a career.

  “I’m doing absolutely everything to make Hollywood Haven’s fiftieth gala a night to remember,” I said.

  From the look on Mr. Stewart’s face, I got the feeling he wasn’t happy to hear my assurances. I also got the feeling that there was little I could say on any subject that would make him happy. So I figured what the heck? Why not press him for some info on Derrick’s murder?

  I eased a little closer and, using my we’re-best-friends-now voice, said, “You know, there are other rumors going around. Rumors about Derrick Ellery’s murder. And you.”

  I expected a startled who-me from him, a flat-out denial, or some outraged indignation, but I got none of that. A confession would have been nice, but I didn’t get that either.

  “You were seen coming out of Derrick’s office shortly before he was found dead,” I said.

  His gaze zinged down the hallway to the door to Derrick’s office, then farther into the lobby. His expression shifted and I knew he’d made the connection. Someone there had seen him.

  “It’s nonsense. I went to Derrick’s office frequently,” Mr. Stewart said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I have work to do.”

  He went back into his office and closed the door.

  Huh. That hadn’t exactly gone as I’d planned.

  Either Mr. Stewart had ice water in his veins, or he was innocent. I didn’t know which. Maybe I could get some info from Karen.

  I headed back to the lobby. Still no sign of her at the front desk. I’d thought she’d slipped away for a smoke, but maybe she was with Detectives Walker and Teague, giving her statement about seeing Mr. Stewart outside Derrick’s office. She’d told me she planned to get a list together of everyone she’d seen that day and call the detectives this morning. Surely, they’d want to talk to her immediately.

  Without Karen on duty to tell me which rooms belonged to Delores, Trudy, and Shana so I could ask them about the swag bag items they’d come up with, I had no way to locate them except by mere chance. But I’d run into them several times before, so I figured what the heck.

  I took the hallway of the residents’ wing—this time the song being played on the piano was vaguely familiar—hoping I could catch one or all of the gals in the dayroom. They weren’t there, so I stepped outside.

  The grounds surrounding Hollywood Haven were extensive and lushly landscaped, making it unlikely that I could spot them unless they were seated near the door. They weren’t.

  Just for gee-whiz I headed down one of the walkways, stretching up over the shrubs and short palms—it’s great to be tall—hoping I might catch a glimpse of them. I didn’t. I gave up and went back inside.

  All was quiet in the dayroom. The singers and pianist had abandoned their musical performance. Several groups of residents were clustered together, some playing cards, others working on a jigsaw puzzle.

  I decided I’d take one more shot at finding Karen at the front desk. Just as I stepped into the hallway, commotion off to my right caught my attention. I turned and—yikes!—what the heck was going on?

  The two families I’d seen earlier in the lobby waiting for the facility tour plodded toward me, Rosalind out in front. Their faces were ashen. Their jaws hung loose and their eyes were glazed.

  It looked kind of like a zombie walk.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked, as I rushed over.

  My words didn’t seem to register at first, but finally Rosalind looked at me.

  “It’s Karen,” she said. “We found her. On the tour. Out back. Shot. She’s . . . she’s dead.”

  CHAPTER 20

  “This is quite a coincidence,” Detective Walker said.

  “Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Even though it was a rhetorical question, I wasn’t about to let it pass unchallenged.

  “No,” I said. “Nothing about it seems coincidental to me.”

  I was sitting across the desk from Detectives Walker and Teague in an office they’d commandeered at Hollywood Haven, being asked some uncomfortable questions and getting semi-major stink-eye from them.

  Rosalind had come out of her I-found-a-dead-body stupor pretty quickly and made the necessary calls. Two patrol units pulled up right away followed in short order by the usual contingent of law enforcement officials, including Detectives Walker and Teague.

  I’d hung around—being the first person to leave the scene of a murder isn’t usually a good idea. I’d wanted to make sure Karen had talked to the detectives today about seeing Mr. Stewart go into Derrick’s
office shortly before he’d been murdered. Now, Teague and Walker were eyeing me and giving off a definite we-think-you-did-it vibe.

  “You have to admit, Miss Randolph,” Detective Walker said, “it’s suspicious that two people have been murdered and you were here, at the scene of the crime, both times.”

  “I’m working on their anniversary gala,” I said, which I’m sure I’d already told them a couple zillion times. “There are numerous things that must be finalized. I have to be here to handle them.”

  “And those things just happened to require your presence here on the days two people were murdered?” Detective Teague asked.

  Okay, when he put it that way it didn’t sound so great for me. Obviously, I had to turn this conversation around.

  “Karen intended to talk to you today,” I said. “Did she?”

  “About what?” Detective Walker asked.

  “Mr. Stewart,” I said. “She saw him outside Derrick Ellery’s office shortly before his body was discovered. She said it was unusual. Mr. Stewart rarely went to Derrick’s office.”

  It was kind of bad of me to throw Mr. Stewart in front of the bus like that, but I was only repeating what Karen had told me. Besides, I had my own suspicions about Mr. Stewart.

  The detectives exchanged a look. This was news to them. Karen obviously hadn’t had a chance to contact them before she was murdered.

  I did a mental fist pump—I knew something about their investigation that they didn’t.

  “You were aware of this new information?” Detective Teague asked.

  “Karen told me all about it last Friday,” I said. “She was upset because she hadn’t remembered it when you’d interviewed her.”

  “Did she tell anyone else?” Detective Walker asked.

  “Nobody that I know of.”

  “So it was just you. You’re the only one who knew she was about to name names. And now Karen is dead. And you’re here again at the scene of a murder,” he said. “Have I got that chronological sequence correct?”

  I thought it better not to answer.

  “I find myself wondering if it was Mr. Stewart that Karen spotted outside Derrick’s office,” Detective Teague said.

  “You were outside that office shortly before his death, weren’t you, Miss Randolph?” Detective Walker asked.

  Oh my God. Now they were double-teaming me. And, really, what they were insinuating kind of made sense—and made me seem guilty.

  I’d had enough of these guys.

  I shot to my feet, drew myself up into my mom’s I’m-better-than-you pageant stance, and said, “I’ve answered all of your questions. I’ve told you everything I know—several times. I’ve cooperated. If you have any more questions, you can call my lawyer.”

  I powered my way out of the office, through the lobby, out the front door, and across the parking lot. I absolutely had to get out of there—and I absolutely had to get a lawyer, one of these days.

  I jumped into my car and sped away.

  Of course, I made for the nearest Starbucks. Thank goodness it was close by. I pulled into the drive-through line, my brain cells bulging with everything that had happened at Hollywood Haven.

  Karen was dead. She’d been murdered—shot, just like Derrick Ellery.

  It didn’t take a homicide detective to figure out that whoever had killed Derrick had also murdered Karen. The motive this time was clear—somebody didn’t want Karen blabbing to the cops about the person she’d seen outside Derrick’s office the day he was murdered.

  I pulled forward with the line of cars and ordered a thought-boosting venti mocha Frappuccino.

  The obvious suspect was Mr. Stewart. I’d spoken with him earlier and told him that he’d been spotted leaving Derrick’s office. Even though I hadn’t told him who, exactly, intended to rat him out, it wouldn’t have been hard for him to realize it was Karen. After all, the front desk was at the end of the corridor with a direct view of Derrick’s doorway.

  After I’d left Mr. Stewart’s office, could he have found Karen? Confronted her? Then shot her?

  It was possible—and I didn’t feel so great knowing I might have set that chain of events into motion.

  At the pickup window I paid, took a long, much-needed sip of my Frappie, and turned onto Ventura Boulevard. A lot of really unpleasant images of Karen zinged around in my head as I drove.

  Then, thank goodness, something else hit me.

  Mr. Stewart wasn’t the only suspect in Derrick’s murder. There were others—and they might have overheard Karen and I talking in the lobby last Friday when she’d blurted out that she intended to contact the homicide detectives today with new information about who she’d seen outside Derrick’s office. One of those suspects might have murdered Karen.

  I thought back to our conversation in the lobby, trying to remember who’d been there. Emily and Alden the Great. Ida and Sylvia, too. Mr. Stewart had been there. Vida and Rosalind had passed by the reception desk. Delores, Trudy, and Shana were seated nearby filling out the form for Shana’s lost earrings.

  Three of them were suspects—Vida, Sylvia, and Mr. Stewart. Had one of them shot Karen? If so, they’d have also murdered Derrick. Yet I didn’t have any compelling evidence.

  Obviously, I was going to have to dig deeper and I was ready to do it—no matter how many mocha Frappuccinos it took.

  By the time I’d arrived at L.A. Affairs I’d finished my Frappie and I’d called all the vendors who’d been working hard to put the gala together. I assured them the rumors were untrue and unfounded, and that the event was still a go. Everyone was relieved—especially me when I confirmed that none of the companies had dropped the gala from their calendars and scheduled something else.

  I stopped by Priscilla’s office to share the good news with her—and so she could notate it in my permanent record, of course. She was seated at her desk, sipping coffee, staring at her computer screen and pecking on the keyboard with one long, freshly manicured fingernail.

  Obviously, her day hadn’t been as stressful as mine.

  “The situation with the Hollywood Haven anniversary gala is under control,” I announced from the doorway.

  I said it in a slightly breathless, TV-morning-news-reporter kind of way to convey the dire situation I’d just single-handedly averted.

  “It’s not canceling?” Priscilla asked, a note of caution in her voice, like she wasn’t sure she believed me.

  As if I’d make an outlandish statement like that if it weren’t true.

  Well, okay, I might—but luckily I didn’t have to.

  “I went straight to the director,” I told her, like that old geezer was actually on top of things at Hollywood Haven and I hadn’t caught him holed up in his office napping when I’d arrived.

  “You did?” she asked, sounding impressed.

  “He told me he didn’t know where the rumor had come from or how it had gotten started,” I said, which was true.

  I still thought he was lying, but Priscilla didn’t need to know that.

  “I assured him that everything for the event was handled and would proceed on schedule,” I said.

  Priscilla slumped in her chair. “That’s good news.”

  “I called all the event vendors and told them that nothing had changed. The gala is a go,” I said.

  “So, no more problems?” she asked.

  I saw no need to tell her about yet another murder at the retirement home. Really, what was the point?

  “None that I can see,” I told her.

  “You’re sure?” she asked.

  “Positive.”

  “There’s nothing?” she asked.

  Okay, now she was kind of getting on my nerves.

  “As you know, Priscilla,” I said in my I’m-going-to-steamroll-over-you-now voice, “an event is a highly fluid situation. Things change quickly. Problems pop up. But no matter what happens, I will handle it.”

  She nodded slowly, taking in my words and, hopefully, mentally composing her favo
rable comments for my job performance review.

  I glanced at my watch and said, “I have another appointment.”

  I didn’t, but I thought it was best to look busy—and leave before Priscilla thought up another question about the Hollywood Haven gala.

  “Haley?”

  I’d taken only a few steps down the hallway when I heard Priscilla call my name. My own personal take on Holt’s training kicked in immediately, so I was tempted to pretend I hadn’t heard her and keep walking. But with my entire future resting on my job performance review, I turned back.

  “About the lightbulbs you had replaced in the ladies’ room,” Priscilla said.

  Damn. I knew I should have kept walking.

  “They’re too bright,” she said.

  “They’re—what?”

  “One of the girls in accounting complained,” Priscilla said.

  Somebody claimed the lightbulbs in the restroom were too bright? Jeez, how did she manage when she went outside into the sunlight?

  “Have them changed, will you?” she asked.

  “I’ll check into it,” I said, and mentally shuffled that task to the very bottom of my priority list.

  When I got to my office I opened my handbag and fished out my cell phone, and something caught my eye. I dug past my wallet and cosmetic bag—both Coach in their classic black signature pattern—and spotted earrings.

  Shana’s ruby and diamond earrings. I’d totally forgotten to give them to her today. And not only that, I realized, I had a box of stuff in my car I had to figure out how to return.

  I needed to decide how best to handle that situation but, luckily, my cell phone rang, so I could put that whole thing off for a while.

  Then I looked at the caller ID screen. It was Mom.

  Oh, crap.

  “I’ve had a brilliant idea,” she announced when I answered.

  Note: she hadn’t said hello or even asked how I was.

  “I’m good, Mom, thanks for asking,” I said.

  She rolled right past that.

  “I’ve decided I should work in a museum,” Mom said. “I love art and it fits in perfectly with my educational background.”