Backpacks and Betrayals (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  “Which designer?” I asked.

  Libby shook her head. “I don’t know. Rayna didn’t say.”

  “You heard this from Rayna? Directly?”

  “Oh, yes. I saw her in the breakroom one day. She was upset, so she told me,” Libby said. “Do you … do you think it might have something to do with Rayna maybe getting killed?”

  It was, of course, the first thing that had popped into my head.

  “You told the homicide detectives, didn’t you?” I asked.

  “The detectives?” Libby’s eyes widened. She shook her head frantically. “I can’t let KGE get into trouble. I can’t cause Katrina a problem. She’s a great person. She’s wonderful. She gave me this job when I couldn’t model anymore. Oh my God. Oh my God. If she hadn’t done that—”

  Libby was on the verge of going completely bat-crazy.

  I’m not good with people who go completely bat-crazy.

  “It’s okay.” I attempted to calm her down by waving my hands—which, by the way, almost never works—and said, “You’re not going to get the agency in trouble. If there’s a lawsuit, Katrina already knows about it. The detectives will find out. They’re really good at doing background stuff.”

  Libby froze and clamped her mouth closed for a moment, then said, “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  I was sure the homicide detectives would learn about the lawsuit in no time and, like me, they’d easily imagine some crazed fashion designer desperate to avoid a scandal and possible financial ruin getting rid of a witness who could bring years of work crashing down. Millions of dollars were at stake, as were the reputations and livelihoods of hundreds of people.

  Libby’s bat-crazy frenzy lessened slightly to semi-panic mode.

  “You won’t tell anybody, will you?” she asked. “Please, don’t say anything. Katrina wouldn’t want word getting out. You know how people talk, how they stretch things, make them into something they’re not.”

  Of course I knew, given that I was occasionally one of those people—not something I was particularly proud of, but there it was.

  Libby came closer, looking more desperate, and reached for me. For an instant I thought she might grab me, drop to her knees, and beg.

  “It’s okay,” I said, backing up a few steps. “I won’t say anything.”

  “I just … I can’t let Katrina down,” Libby said.

  Libby had mentioned that Katrina had given her a job when she couldn’t model anymore. I’m sure that meant a lot to Libby—as it would to anyone—but to have instilled this kind of loyalty in her seemed over the top.

  But maybe not, I realized. People did all kinds of crazy things when they needed a job, when they were facing a financial crisis and staring head-on into their lives changing for the worse. Who was I to question Libby’s actions? After all, I’d taken a job at the crappier-than-crappy Holt’s Department Store when I’d needed money.

  “Don’t worry,” I said, then forced a little smile. “I don’t work here, remember? Who would I tell?”

  Libby seemed to relax a little and offered a faint smile in return.

  “You’re right,” she said, then glanced down the hallway and seemed to spin herself up again. “I’ve got to go.”

  She didn’t say good-bye or wait for a response from me, just yanked her KGE backpack higher on her shoulder and hurried away.

  I couldn’t bring myself to use the staircase Rayna had died on, so I walked to the rear of the building and took the stairs to the first floor. The smell of paint hit me immediately.

  Clark flashed in my head. He’d been rambling around in my thoughts since yesterday. I wondered if he’d heard anything more about Rayna’s death. I decided I should talk to him again—strictly in the line of duty, of course, not because he was really good looking.

  None of the offices at this end of the building were occupied—not surprising since the views here were of other buildings, making them less desirable to tenants. I glanced down the long hallway to the lobby and the front entrance. Several people were coming and going. The security guard stood at his post, his back to me.

  The smell of fresh paint led me to the space across the hall from the staircase. The door was open. Inside was a suite of offices, one large, main room with a corridor leading to what I guessed were smaller offices, and maybe a breakroom and restrooms.

  The main room held no furniture. Drop cloths, paint buckets, and all kinds of equipment were stacked in the corner. The walls were I-have-no-imagination-white.

  There was no sign of Clark but I figured that since the door was open, he had to be here somewhere.

  “Hello?” I called, as I crossed the room.

  I headed down the narrow corridor past two small offices. The doors stood open and I saw that the walls were painted a trendy pale gray. I walked farther down the hall to an office at the rear of the suite. A ladder was set up and painting equipment was positioned around the room. One of the walls was covered in gray. Still, no sign of Clark.

  I was no professional painter but I could see that he was changing the color of the office walls from white to gray, and that he’d started with the offices at the rear of the suite and was working his way toward the main room.

  A thought zinged into my head.

  Yesterday, had Clark really left his work—possibly climbed down a ladder and put aside his brush or roller—to walk into the corridor over and over to look down the hall? For what—or, more likely, who? Who could he have been expecting to see approaching?

  Who could have been that important?

  This end of the building was quiet. None of the offices were occupied. Had anybody actually seen what Clark had been doing?

  Another, slightly disturbing thought flew into my head.

  Was it just an incredible coincidence that Clark had looked down the hallway and seen Rayna lying at the foot of the staircase at the same moment I rushed down to check on her?

  I hadn’t seen him come out of the office. He’d just suddenly appeared.

  An uneasy feeling shot through me. I turned to leave.

  Clark blocked the doorway.

  Chapter 6

  Yesterday, I’d thought how good looking Clark was. Tall, with broad shoulders and bulging biceps that resulted from hours of painting. He must have been incredibly strong. Now, with him looming over me, blocking the doorway, I thought how he easily he could have hurled Rayna down the staircase.

  “Hungry?” he asked, and held up the pizza box he’d brought in with him. “Pepperoni. It’s a classic.”

  Clark smiled easily and fished a can of soda from his pocket. “There’s a vending machine next door. I can get you something to drink, if you’d like.”

  Aside from his intimidating size and my completely unfounded suspicion, he came across like an okay guy. Still, I kept my invisible something’s-not-right-here defensive shield up, thinking I might be able to get some info from him.

  “No, thanks,” I said. “But you go ahead and eat. Don’t let it get cold.”

  He balanced the pizza box on top of a five-gallon paint can and popped the top on his soda.

  “Good color,” I said, gesturing to the walls.

  Clark grinned. “Every color starts to look like every other color after I’ve spent hours staring at it.”

  “Do you work for the building management company?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I’m filling in. The guy who was supposed to handle the job had a family problem.”

  “And one of the days you’re here, somebody gets killed,” I said, trying for what-are-the-chances irony.

  “Yeah, look, I still feel bad about the cops coming down on you,” he said. “They haven’t been back, have they?”

  Was he genuinely concerned about me? Or was he fishing for some info about the investigation?

  “I haven’t heard from them,” I said. “Have you?”

  “Not a word,” he said, and sipped his soda.

  Either he didn’t know anything more or h
e was really good at holding back—neither of which suited me.

  “Have you talked to any of the models from KGE?” I asked.

  “Not likely. I don’t get a lot of women willing to talk to me when I smell and look like this,” he said. “So either you’re nose-blind, or a really nice person.”

  “I’m not nose-blind,” I told him. “And I’m not all that nice.”

  He gave me a that’s-cool nod. We looked at each other for a while and I got the feeling something was sparking between us, like maybe he was about to ask me to go out with him.

  The thought startled me. Why would I think something like that? I hardly knew the guy and, earlier, I’d gotten a he-could-be-trouble vibe from him. Plus, I was kind of seeing Liam. We were dating and it wasn’t serious—we hadn’t discussed being exclusive, but still.

  A cell phone dinged. I noticed then that it was sitting atop one of the unopened cans of paint.

  “I see you found your phone,” I said. He looked confused so I added, “Yesterday, in the hallway. You didn’t have it.”

  “It always turns up,” he said.

  “By the way, did whoever you were waiting for yesterday show up?” I asked.

  “You’ve got a great memory,” Clark said. “Remind me never to try and pull anything over on you.”

  “You’d better remember that on your own,” I told him.

  He grinned, then said, “I’ve got to get back to work.”

  He backed out of the room, my invitation to leave, obviously. He followed me through the office suite to the main corridor and the door that led out the rear of the building.

  “I guess I’ll see you around,” he said, as he held the door open and I walked outside.

  “How much longer will you be working here?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “A while.”

  I walked a few feet and glanced back. Clark stood in the doorway, watching. I waved; he waved, then disappeared inside.

  Something didn’t sit right with me about that guy—and I was sure it wasn’t because of the paint fumes I’d inhaled.

  Clark had evaded most of my questions and he’d given me no new info. Was he hiding something? Or was he a nice guy who simply didn’t want to give up a lot of info to somebody he’d just met?

  I couldn’t be sure so I added Clark’s name to my mental suspect list. Now, all I needed was some evidence.

  I remembered that Libby had mentioned the employee parking lot was located near the side exit, so I circled the building. I spotted a van with the name “Paint Masters,” along with contact info and a cool logo featuring cans of paint, on the side. I pulled out my cell phone and snapped a pic.

  After the day I’d had so far, I decided I definitely deserved a Starbucks—really it takes very little for me to decide I deserve a Starbucks—so I headed for Lankershim Boulevard.

  When I’d left L.A. Affairs earlier I’d had no suspects in Rayna’s murder. Now I had several.

  For starters, there was Ivy, Rayna’s rival for all the clients who’d come available thanks to Colleen’s departure from KGE. Ivy had an excellent motive for doing away with Rayna. Plus, Peri had told me that she and Rayna didn’t get along.

  One of the parties in the lawsuit that Rayna had gotten involved with might definitely benefit by eliminating her as a witness. I’d have to find out what that whole thing was about and put a name to a suspect.

  I waited at the corner for the light to change, then crossed with the other pedestrians.

  Thinking about the lawsuit made me think of Liam, which was definitely more pleasant than my mental list of murder suspects—except that I felt just the tiniest bit guilty about my sort-of-kind-of attraction to Clark even though, technically, it was in the line of duty.

  I considered asking Liam to dig up some info on the lawsuit that involved Rayna. He was an attorney and had ready access to that sort of info, but he was also a stickler about confidentiality—which was admirable but inconvenient for me.

  By the time I reached Starbucks I’d nixed the notion of asking Liam for help. I’d get the info from another source, somehow.

  I ordered my drink, paid with my awesome gold card, and headed outside again. The afternoon was beautiful so I decided that everything at L.A. Affairs could wait a bit longer while I indulged in two of my favorite things—a mocha frappuccino and shopping.

  I window-shopped my way along Magnolia Boulevard, checking out the fashions. Just as I stopped to admire a terrific display of maxi skirts—wham—it hit me that Libby might have a motive for murdering Rayna.

  That kind of thing just happens to me.

  It’s a gift, really.

  Libby was totally devoted to Katrina—which I still didn’t get, despite the whole she-gave-her-a-job-thing—so I could see how Libby would want to shield Katrina from any sort of trouble. Having one of the KGE models involved in a lawsuit with a design company could have a major impact on the agency. Designers would be reluctant to book KGE models. Girls would think twice about signing with the agency, fearful it might somehow lead to legal entanglements.

  Had Libby, due to some screwball sense of loyalty, killed Rayna to end KGE’s involvement in the lawsuit?

  I headed down the street and drained the last of my brain-boosting chocolate, sugar, and caffeine frappie, hoping it would be enough to keep me going, and tossed the cup in a trashcan.

  I thought back to the day of the murder. When I’d left my meeting in Peri’s office and returned to the lobby, Ivy was missing and Libby had rushed in looking panicked and scattered. Was that because she’d just pushed Rayna down the stairs?

  Honestly, Libby most always looked panicked and scattered. And being thankful for a job and loyal to your boss was a long way from murder.

  Still, I added her to my you-might-have-done-it-but-I-have-no-evidence heap of suspects.

  I crossed the street and walked along Lankershim again. Something about the day Rayna was killed kept hopping around in my head but I hadn’t been able to pin it down. Then my thoughts shot off in an unexpected direction.

  Peri had arrived late for our meeting despite always being punctual. It was totally unlike her. Could she have murdered Rayna?

  Yeah, I suppose she could have, but why?

  I had no idea. Jeez, this whole murder investigation was—

  Wait. Hang on.

  I froze on the sidewalk. My gaze locked onto a shop window.

  Handbags. Gorgeous handbags. Gorgeous beyond all reason handbags. Oh my God, how had I not noticed this store before?

  I dashed to the display window. Inside were three bags, each distinctively styled and heavily embellished with exquisite details. These were unique, one-of-a-kind handbags made of tapestry, silk, velvet, wool, and other I-can-die-happy-now fabrics. They were chic, classic, trendy, and edgy—and soon they would be mine.

  Immediately, I knew exactly what kind of outfit I should wear with each of the bags. The visions exploded in my mind.

  Then something else hit me.

  I could take one of the clutches to my cousin’s wedding and finally—finally—give everyone in my family something fabulous to say about me.

  Oh my God, I absolutely had to call Marcie and share this must-see-and-drool moment.

  I raced to the door and pushed. It didn’t budge.

  What the heck?

  Oh my God, the place was closed? In the middle of the afternoon? How could this happen?

  I stepped back and saw a small sign discretely placed on the door that read DESIGNS BY DARBY, APPOINTMENTS AVAILABLE.

  I felt slightly light-headed.

  Oh, wow. This wasn’t merely a shop offering artisan bags—it was an exclusive handbag shop, catering to an upscale, discerning clientele. The fashion-elite shopped here—and I totally deserved, and absolutely had, to get inside.

  I paced along the storefront peering through the windows at the shelves and display tables inside. Through a door on the rear wall I spotted a workroom, the place where handbag-magic happened. The
space was cluttered with bolts of fabric, embellishments, a sewing machine, and several handbags in various stages of completion.

  The urge to get inside, see everything up close, feel the fabrics, touch the ribbons, bows, and buttons, nearly overwhelmed me.

  I whipped out my cell phone and called the number on the sign. A recording picked up and a woman identifying herself as Darby invited me to leave a message. I stated that I was interested in her designs and managed to sound discerning and upscale—which meant I didn’t scream.

  I hung up, took a photo of the bags in the display window, and sent it to Marcie. I knew she would flip-out—as a BFF and fellow handbag aficionado would—when she saw them.

  A few minutes passed while I tried to calm myself—I’m not really good at calming myself—drawing in some deep breaths and trying to relax. Darby might call me back at any moment and I feared she might refuse to grant me an appointment if I sounded like a crazed psycho.

  Not that I blamed her, of course.

  Deep breaths and relaxation attempts did nothing to calm me, so I decided it was best to move along with my day. I needed to get back to my office at L.A. Affairs. I had a number of events to handle and tending to them would keep my mind off of the gorgeous handbags. Probably. Maybe. Well, it was worth a try.

  I headed down the sidewalk, then froze.

  Walking toward me was the second most gorgeous thing I’d seen today—Jack Bishop.

  Chapter 7

  Jack Bishop was a private detective, a guy so hot he deserved his own TV series. He was tall, built, and had gorgeous eyes and dark hair. Today he had on nice pants, a collar-shirt, and a sport coat.

  I’d met Jack at one of my many I-thought-that-would-have-turned-out-better jobs, a law firm where I worked in accounts payable and he’d done consulting work. We’d joined forces on several cases—what I liked to think of as a superhero team. There had always been some sort of spark between us but we’d kept it professional because I’d been involved with my now-ex-official-boyfriend Ty; I’m a complete old lady about that sort of thing.