Backpacks and Betrayals (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  BACKPACKS AND BETRAYALS

  By Dorothy Howell

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2016 Dorothy Howell

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  With love to Stacy, Judy, Seth and Brian

  The author is extremely grateful for the love, support, and help of many people. Some of them are: Stacy Howell, Judith Branstetter, Brian Branstetter, Seth Branstetter, Martha Cooper, Evie Cook, William F. Wu, Ph.D., and the talented people at Web Crafters Design.

  Books by Dorothy Howell/Judith Stacy

  BOOKS BY DOROTHY HOWELL

  The Haley Randolph Mystery Series

  Handbags and Homicide

  Purses and Poison

  Shoulder Bags and Shootings

  Clutches and Curses

  Tote Bags and Toe Tags

  Evening Bags and Executions

  Beach Bags and Burglaries

  Swag Bags and Swindlers

  Slay Bells and Satchels

  Duffel Bags and Drownings

  Fanny Packs and Foul Play

  Pocketbooks and Pistols

  The Dana Mackenzie Mystery Series

  Fatal Debt

  Fatal Luck

  Fatal Choice

  ROMANCES BY JUDITH STACY

  Outlaw Love

  The Marriage Mishap

  The Heart of a Hero

  The Dreammaker

  The Blushing Bride

  Written in the Heart

  The Last Bride in Texas

  The Nanny

  Married by Midnight

  Cheyenne Wife

  The Widow's Little Secret

  Maggie and the Law

  The One Month Marriage

  The Hired Husband

  Jared’s Runaway Woman

  Christmas Wishes

  Wild West Wager

  “Three Brides and a Wedding Dress” in Spring Brides

  “A Place to Belong” in Stay for Christmas

  “Courting Miss Perfect” in Stetsons, Spring, and Wedding Rings

  “Texas Cinderella” in Happily Ever After in the West

  “Waiting for Christmas” in All a Cowboy Wants for Christmas

  ROMANCES BY DOROTHY HOWELL

  Defiant Enchantress

  Anna’s Treasure

  Tea Time

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Excerpt from Fatal Luck

  Excerpt from The Last Bride in Texas

  Chapter One

  You never know when something good is going to happen to you—that’s what I always say. Or maybe somebody else said it. Or I heard it somewhere—on TV, maybe, or I read it on the internet. I don’t know. I can’t remember.

  Anyway, something totally fantastic happened and I, Haley Randolph, with my brunettes-look-smart hair and my five-foot-nine-is-really-tall-for-a-girl height, had jumped on the opportunity. Okay, really, I hadn’t simply jumped. I’d actually hurled myself out of my chair, waved both arms in the air, and shouted, “I’ll do it!” before anyone else in the meeting even realized what was going on.

  This was, of course, in direction violation of my personal don’t-volunteer-for-anything policy that had served me well through … actually, my entire 25 years of life. I prided myself on my commitment to adhering to this policy.

  But I also prided myself on my flexibility. So when Priscilla, the office manager at L.A. Affairs where I worked as an event planner, had announced that the North Hollywood—more affectionately known as NoHo—Arts District’s fashion crawl was our newest client, I knew this was something way good that I had to claim for myself.

  So here I was walking down Lankershim Boulevard in North Hollywood on a brilliantly beautiful Southern California day—looking somewhat brilliantly beautiful myself in my black Donna Karan business suit which I’d accessorized with an awesome Chanel tote—heading for the KGE Model Agency, the fashion crawl’s major sponsor.

  The NoHo Arts District was home to an über-eclectic mix of theaters, art galleries, restaurants and shops, an urban mix of all things artistic. It wasn’t unusual to spot a group of actors running lines, dancers practicing their moves, or musicians rehearsing a song—all of which seemed kind of out-there to me, but who was I to judge? Most people have some weirdness about them.

  I mean that in the nicest way, of course.

  Scattered among the artsy locations along Lankershim Boulevard and the adjoining streets were office buildings, banks, and a smattering of stores and shops for normal folks. Traffic was brisk, the sidewalks well-traveled with people dressed in everything from edgy bohemian to classic business suits.

  The KGE Model Agency was located on the second floor of a two-story contemporary glass and concrete structure that had just undergone a major renovation. Many of the tenants had vacated the building and new ones were slowly moving in, leaving much of the office space currently unoccupied.

  KGE billed itself as a full service agency that booked models for runway, print, and fittings. I’d been here many times talking with Peri, the office manager, about the fashion crawl. I’d worked at L.A. Affairs for a while now and had staged a lot of events, many of them for Hollywood insiders, stars, and celebrities, so I’d dealt with my share of problem clients. Luckily, Peri wasn’t one of them—so far, anyway; the crawl was coming up soon, so anything could happen.

  Since it was well past the usual lunch hour, the building’s lobby was pretty quiet when I walked inside. Set around the large, contemporary, jeez-this-place-looks-totally-uninviting space were seating groups, a couple of fountains, and some maybe-these-will-warm-up-the-place planters teeming with greenery which looked to me like it was fake.

  A uniformed security guard stood behind a granite counter in front of a bank of elevators. He was an old guy, probably in his fifties, so I didn’t know how much actual security he could provide. I figured that, at best, he would be a credible witness if something went down.

  A wide staircase on the left side of the lobby swept up to the second floor. Whoever had designed the building must have been some sort of fitness freak because there were stairs at both ends of the building and at the mid-point—and not the narrow kind meant for use only during an emergency. These were grand, mosaic and marble curving staircases that almost demanded to be used.

  Obviously, the architect who’d come up with this oh-so-brilliant idea was a man who’d never spent a day in three-inch pumps.

  For some odd reason, I always saw steps in public places as something of a personal challenge—not that I’m competitive, or anything, but at the gym I often find myself racing the stranger next to me on the stationary bike—so I ignored the elevators and headed up the stairs.

  My mom was a former beauty pageant queen. Really. The one gene I’d inherited from her—not her stunning beauty; I was merely pretty, according to the whispers
of everyone who’d ever laid eyes on the two of us—was the ability to walk well in stilettos. I trotted up the steps with what Mom would describe as displaying the ease and grace of Scarlet on the staircase at Twelve Oaks, and headed down the long hallway that ran through the middle of the building.

  Office suites were on both sides, and some of them were fronted by smoked glass walls which put every reception and lobby area on display as if inside a fishbowl. This, of course, forced the receptionists to actually work. They couldn’t sluff off and internet shop, or post on Facebook, or even book a pedi without every passerby peering inside, seeing their every move.

  No way could I work under those conditions.

  Halfway down the corridor I pushed open the door to KGE. Their lobby walls were covered with framed photos of the models they represented, beautiful men and women with perfectly sculpted faces and bodies striking a variety of this-looks-sexy poses. KGE’s logo—the company’s letters entwined in neon yellow and run through with a purple lightning bolt—was mounted on the wall behind the reception desk.

  I guessed the bolt of electricity was meant to demonstrate the power of the agency, but to me it said that landing a job as a model was as rare as being struck by lightning.

  Three young women who’d made the cut were seated in the small lobby. I knew they were KGE models because they carried black backpacks with the agency’s logo on the front, and because, even though they were a variety of sizes, shapes, and colors—including a plus-size—they were all blindingly gorgeous.

  Misty—I think she made up her own name—was the receptionist. She sat behind a high counter studying her fingernails. I figured she was maybe 19, a size two, and had shoulder length blonde hair with pink tips. Misty was dressed to the max, obviously totally on board with the heightened fashion awareness expected from anyone who worked at this kind of agency.

  I glanced down the hallway beside the reception desk where the private offices and conference rooms were located. I’d made an appointment with Peri this morning before I left L.A. Affairs. She was crazy punctual so I expected to spot her coming to the lobby to meet me, but I didn’t see her.

  I waited a couple of minutes, and just as I was seriously considering asking Misty to let Peri know I’d arrived—and maybe get a look at her nails, which she seemed totally fascinated with—the door swung open and Peri walked into the lobby from the hallway.

  Peri had a definite office-manager vibe to her. I figured her for a year or so older than me. She had short brown hair cut in a chic style and, apparently, had ice water flowing through her veins since I’d never seen her even slightly rattled over anything that went down.

  Today she was dressed in a fabulous gray YSL suit. Immediately, I mentally paired her outfit with a black Gucci clutch. The vision just popped into my head. Somehow, I’d developed the ability to instantly match the perfect bag to any outfit—sort of like a superpower.

  I had a thing for designer handbags. To say I was simply crazy about them would do my obsession a disservice. My best friend Marcie Hanover was equally enthralled, which was one of the reasons we’d been BFFs forever.

  “Hi, Haley,” Peri said. “Have you been waiting long?”

  “Just got here,” I said, then forced some enthusiasm into my voice and asked, “Is Katrina here?”

  I don’t like Katrina.

  “No, thank God,” Peri said.

  Nobody likes Katrina.

  “Come on back,” she said.

  We walked down the hallway into Peri’s office, a contemporary space with a floor-to-ceiling glass wall that overlooked Lankershim Boulevard. KGE definitely had a prime location in the building.

  Peri dropped into the chair behind her neat, organized desk. I took a seat on the other side.

  “How’s it going? Any problems?” she asked, squaring off a stack of papers and laying them aside.

  “Everything is on schedule,” I told her as I pulled the L.A. Affairs portfolio that I used to keep track of the event details out of my tote bag.

  The KGE agency was the major sponsor and the founding force behind the NoHo fashion crawl, an event that was the brainchild of Katrina Granger, the owner.

  Everyone referred to her as Hurricane Katrina.

  Not to her face, of course.

  I’d met Katrina during my initial planning meeting for the crawl and—yikes!—she was somewhere between awful and run-while-you-still-can.

  Obviously, someone had fed her after midnight.

  Katrina had turned everything over to Peri, thankfully, and we’d hit it off big-time. Peri had been a dream to work with, and despite Katrina’s occasional interference, the event was coming together easily.

  Hundreds of visitors were expected for the crawl and would be treated to everything that screamed fashion. A number of pop-up showrooms would feature upcoming clothing lines from many of the major designers. Fashion preview shows were scheduled throughout the event.

  Kiosks would offer eyewear, jewelry, and accessories. A beauty bar would promote skin care, makeup, fragrance, and the latest in tools for waxing and facials. New trends in hair design would be presented. Fashion experts would appear on panels to discuss a number of topics.

  This would be the first fashion crawl staged in NoHo. Everything had to be perfect. A ton of money had been invested. Reputations—and future events—were on the line.

  Peri lifted a folder from the corner of her desk and presented it to me. “Here’s the addendum.”

  The crawl was huge so the responsibilities had been divvied up between the sponsors. I was handling everything KGE had committed to—the agency’s model showroom and recruitment center, the food and dessert stations, and the all-important VIP after-party.

  KGE had decided to add the dessert stations after the original contract with L.A. Affairs had been negotiated. Our legal department usually handled all the details but since this was a last minute change, I’d offered to pick up the signed addendum to speed things along. L.A. Affairs wouldn’t proceed with anything without the original written authorization.

  “Great,” I said, tucking the folder into my tote bag.

  We discussed the caterer’s suggestions for the after-party. I wasn’t crazy about some of the recommendations and neither was Peri so we came up with some ideas of our own—one of the reasons I liked doing event planning face-to-face.

  “I’ll run it by Katrina and get back with you,” Peri promised.

  “And I’ll email you the info on the dessert stations as soon as I get it,” I said. “The caterer is anxious to get started.”

  We left her office and headed down the hallway, then both of us slowed when we heard voices in the lobby—well, just one voice, really.

  Hurricane Katrina had blown in.

  Since there was no means of escape, I braced myself and followed Peri into the lobby.

  Two of the three models I’d seen earlier were on their feet holding their KGE backpacks in front of them like body armor. Misty stood ramrod straight behind the reception desk looking like she was preparing to make a hostage video. Katrina had planted herself in the center of the lobby.

  “We’re all accountable,” she announced, giving major stink-eye and swinging both arms around. “Each and every one of you. You’re accountable.”

  Katrina was a full-figured gal, tall, with jet black hair. Her modeling days—if she’d ever had them—were well behind her. I figured her for fifty, easily. Yet that didn’t stop her from dressing as if she were a twenty-year-old runway waif. Her style was—well, jeez, I didn’t know what kind of style she was going for.

  Today, as usual, she had full-on makeup complete with metallic eyeshadows. She wore a burgundy sweater with leather armholes, a denim maxi skirt, and red boots generously embellished with rhinestones. She didn’t exactly pull it off but, of course, nobody was going to tell her.

  “No exceptions. Everyone is accountable,” Katrina declared, her gaze sweeping the room like a malfunctioning Terminator. She wagged her finger
at me. “Even this girl.”

  I was the driving force behind the success for her fashion crawl and she hadn’t bothered to remember my name. Nice, huh?

  Since Peri and I had walked in during the middle of Katrina’s tirade, I had no idea what everyone—including me, apparently—was supposed to be accountable for, nor did I care.

  This was one of the things I liked about my job: I could leave most any place, most any time I wanted.

  “From now on—”

  Katrina froze and swept the lobby once more.

  “Where is Libby?” she demanded. “Libby? Libby?”

  She called Libby’s name as if she were hiding under a chair—which nobody would blame her for, of course—and would now come crawling out.

  Libby had the unenviable job of being Katrina’s personal assistant. I’d dealt with Libby a few times since the planning for the fashion crawl began. She was completely devoted to Katrina, which I didn’t get.

  Katrina drilled everyone in the room with her laser glare, as if one of us knew where Libby was and simply refused to tell her. Luckily, we were all saved when Libby appeared through the smoked glass wall, rushing through the hallway. She burst into the KGE office looking a little more harried than usual.

  “I’m late. I’m late. I know I’m late,” she declared, breathing heavily and looking up at Katrina as if her life depended on hearing that she wasn’t in trouble.

  I figured Libby for maybe 24 years old. She was petite, blonde, and pretty, and always dressed as fashionably as her surely meager PA salary allowed. Today she wore a navy blue business suit, a blouse with a bow at the throat, and sensible pumps.

  She looked like she’d borrowed the outfit from her mom for a job interview.

  “I dropped off your dry cleaning and went by the bank, like you wanted,” Libby said, still huffing and puffing. “I got your car washed and delivered those papers. Everything’s done. All of it. Just like you wanted.”