Backpacks and Betrayals (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

“I’ll see what else I can turn up,” he promised.

  We left the stockroom together and walked to the front of the store.

  “Tell Brittany I said hi,” I told him.

  Shuman gave me one final grin, and headed out.

  I stood there for a few minutes, staring outside. It was dark now. The security lighting in the parking lot wasn’t anything to brag about, casting everything in deep shadows. Vehicles pulled in and out of spaces and drove through the aisles. The store would close in a few minutes but several customers straggled in. I watched Shuman until he disappeared among the parked cars.

  Ty flew into my head again. No way could I think about that whole thing, so I pushed him out of my thoughts—not always an easy thing to do, especially tonight.

  I forced the image of my kind-of boyfriend Liam into my brain. We hadn’t seen much of each other lately because he was preparing for a big case. At least, that’s what he told me. He’d apologized and promised to make it up to me.

  I chose to think it was true—not that he’d lost interest in our turtles-move-faster relationship—and that he wasn’t on a date tonight with someone else. I’d told him it was okay, that he should work on his case, and that I already had plans for a fun evening with friends, which wasn’t true, of course. I just didn’t want to look like I was waiting around for him to ask me out.

  I milled around in the junior’s clothing department pretending to size a rack of dresses until Rita’s voice over the P.A. announced that the store was closing. Customers drifted out. The cashiers shut down their registers.

  Liam flew into my head again. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and checked for messages. Maybe he’d sent me something really thoughtful and caring since it was Saturday night—everyone’s official date night—and we couldn’t be together. I looked at the screen. Nothing.

  Okay, that was disappointing—which made me think of my relationship with Ty. No way did I want to dwell on that. Jack popped into my head, and I wondered what he was doing tonight. Was he on a date? Working a mega-cool case?

  My spirits plummeted further—I mean, jeez, how could they not? Even Shuman had a date tonight. He’d looked really handsome when he’d been at the store earlier talking about Rayna’s death.

  The memory of our conversation perked me up a little—which just shows how upset I was, if thoughts of a murder investigation could make me feel better—and I remembered how weird it had struck me that no one had said anything bad about Rayna. Nobody. Not one single person.

  How could that be?

  Then it hit me.

  Maybe the cops weren’t talking to the right people.

  ***

  It was a Louis Vuitton day. Definitely a Louis Vuitton day.

  Since it was Sunday and I wasn’t working at Holt’s, I’d selected a fashion-forward, trendy outfit of black cigarette pants, a white oversized shirt topped with a short gray jacket, and stiletto booties, all of which enhanced my look-at-me Louis Vuitton satchel.

  Yes, I’d put a lot of effort into looking casual.

  But what else could I do? I was on my way to meet Darby at her handbag boutique, so it was essential that I upped my fashion game to the max. What if she thought I wasn’t worthy of her fantastic handbags? What if she refused to sell one to me?

  No way could I deal with that—especially since Marcie wasn’t with me. She’d had a family thing to do today—she had a great family and actually enjoyed spending time with them, which I simultaneously thought was weird and was a little envious of—so she couldn’t join me.

  It was majorly disappointing, plus a little troubling since Marcie’s absence meant I’d have nobody there to hold me back and keep me from buying every handbag in the shop. I’d have to control myself.

  I’m not good at controlling myself.

  I parked my Honda in the lot near the KGE office and headed to the boutique. Clark flashed in my head as I passed the building and I wondered if he was inside, painting. I wondered, too, if Libby was on duty today and what outrageous errands Katrina might have her ping-ponging around town to accomplish.

  My heartrate picked up as I approached the boutique and spotted the handbags in the window. My breath caught—yes, they were as fabulous as I remembered. I paused at the door, drew in a calming breath—which did absolutely no good—and was about to go inside when my cell phone buzzed.

  I hate it when that happens.

  I froze for a second, debating whether or not to answer, then grabbed it and checked the time. I was a few minutes early for the appointment, and since I didn’t want to look anxious, I checked the caller ID screen. Mom was calling.

  Crap.

  No way did I want to talk to her right now.

  I was about to ignore her call when it hit me that by now Mom’s siblings had surely exhausted all of my cousins’ fabulous, world changing, altruistic accomplishments. There couldn’t be anymore great news to share—and make me feel like crap. I mean, really, how much more could they achieve?

  Besides, I was about to purchase a chic, sophisticated handbag that would wow all my family members at the wedding. Nothing could ruin my day now. Not even talking to Mom.

  “Good news about your brother,” Mom announced when I answered.

  I relaxed. Whew! If she’d called to share something about my brother, I would definitely want to hear it. He’d been stationed overseas for a long time, flying F-16s in the Middle East. I missed him.

  “He’s coming home for the wedding?” I asked.

  “No,” Mom said. “It’s something even better.”

  From the I-can-brag-about-this-to-everyone tone in her voice, I doubted it would be something better for me.

  “He’s going to fly with the Thunderbirds,” Mom said.

  The Thunderbirds? My brother was going to be flying with the United States Air Force Thunderbirds? The aerial demonstration team that wowed spectators at air shows worldwide with their daring aerobatic maneuvers, whose pilots were the best of the best of the best?

  Yeah, I was happy for my brother but—not to sound selfish—what about me? Now, not only would my mom have something to brag about at the wedding, my dad would, too.

  Mom blabbed on but, honestly, I wasn’t listening. I made what might, or might not, have been appropriate remarks—I don’t think Mom was listening, either—until we finally hung up. I dropped my cell phone into my handbag.

  A minute or so passed, then I forced myself to rally.

  I can do that when I have to.

  Just steps away was a fantastic handbag boutique. Inside awaited an array of the most totally awesome bags ever conceived, and soon one—or more—of them would be mine. With it tucked into my hand, strategically positioned to call attention to it without looking showy, I would walk into that wedding and blow everyone away with my excellent taste.

  I relaxed and opened the door. I could almost hear the handbags calling my name.

  A wave of peacefulness washed over me as I stepped inside the boutique and took in the sights and scents of the luxury items. The shop was tiny yet elegantly appointed with about a dozen beautiful bags artfully displayed. In the corner was a seating group where clients could discuss and examine the purses in comfort. A cash register was discreetly situated on a small desk.

  The brocade curtain over the doorway to the workroom parted and a young woman a few years older than me walked out. She was short, with red hair she’d twisted into a loose knot atop her head, and was dressed in chic Boho style in a denim jumpsuit over an orange T-shirt, four-inch platforms, and a print scarf that pulled the look together.

  “You must be Darby,” I said, and introduced myself.

  “I’m really jazzed you like my work,” she said.

  We shared a we-love-handbags smile.

  “I make all of them by hand in my workroom,” Darby said, and nodded toward the room she’d just exited.

  I glanced through the open curtain and saw bolts of fabric, an array of threads, and bins of what I guessed were emb
ellishments and hardware for the purses. There was a big worktable, a sewing machine, and some other equipment I didn’t recognize. Two partially completed handbags lay among the clutter.

  Now that I was in Darby’s boutique, this close to the fabulous bags, no way could I take a chance that she wouldn’t think I was worthy of owning one. I had to impress her with my mad fashion skills.

  “I’m one of the event planners for the fashion crawl,” I said.

  “Cool,” she said and did, indeed, look impressed.

  “I’m working with KGE Models,” I said, and nodded in the direction of their office building.

  Darby cringed slightly.

  Yikes! Did that mean she knew Hurricane Katrina and now thought I was as crazy as she was? Did she deem me guilty by association and unworthy of one of her handbags?

  I immediately shifted into back-down mode.

  “Everybody who works there is really cool,” I said. “Well, almost everybody.”

  Darby nodded. “I know a lot of the girls. They’re in here all the time. The woman who runs the place is always a topic of conversation.”

  “Katrina.”

  “Hurricane Katrina,” Darby said.

  We shared a that-woman-is-crazy bonding moment, then Darby gestured to the handbags on display and asked, “Are you getting a gift for someone?”

  “Yes,” I said. “For myself.”

  She gave me a been-there smile. “A special occasion?”

  “My cousin is getting married. It’s a huge thing. Everybody in the family is attending,” I said, then admitted, “I’m not looking forward to it.”

  As if she could read my mind, her face morphed into an I’m-so-sorry-you-have-to-go-through-that expression, and said, “Yeah, I know. My grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary is coming up. There’s going to be huge party. Everybody will be there.”

  We shared a silent family-events-never-go-well moment.

  “But you’ll have one of your fantastic bags with you,” I pointed out because, really, how could things go badly if you dressed and looked terrific?

  “It would be better if I showed up with a date,” Darby told me.

  Her words hit home with me. I’d have to bring a plus-one to my cousin’s wedding. At first blush, it would seem that asking my kind-of boyfriend Liam to attend with me would be the way to go. But I wasn’t all that hot about subjecting him to my family, since I really liked him and didn’t want to put him through their poorly disguised could-this-guy-finally-be-the-one Q&A. And, of course, there was no way I wanted him to hear all the less than stellar remember-that-time things from my past that my family seemed hell-bent on always bringing up.

  “Take your time looking at the bags,” Darby said. “I’ll be in the workroom if you have questions.”

  She disappeared through the curtained doorway, and I forced myself not to run to the displays. I channeled my mom’s pageant walk, and glided across the shop.

  Each handbag was unique. The fabric, hardware, and detailed styling—even the linings—were exquisite. The name of these heavenly creations was gracefully inscribed on a small placard alongside each bag.

  Immediately, I loved every one of them. Oh my God, how would I ever choose? Jeez, I really needed Marcie here right now.

  Then one of the bags practically jumped off of its display. It was a black beaded clutch with a white crystal clasp. Not only was it gorgeous, but it was the absolute perfect bag to compliment the dress I’d planned to wear to my cousin’s wedding.

  The little sign next to it indicated it was the Domino. I peeked inside and saw that it had a black and white polka-dot lining. It took everything I had not to scream. Oh my God, this was the one, the bag I absolutely had to have.

  I must have made some sort of mewling sound—or maybe it was an actual scream—because Darby came out of the workroom.

  “This one,” I said, pointing and, I think, panting. “The Domino. This one. I have to have it.”

  Darby smiled, as another handbag lover would, and said, “It’s one of my favorites.”

  The vision popped into my head of me gliding through my cousin’s wedding, carrying the Domino, and everyone there seeing it and being totally jealous. Finally—finally—my family would have something great to say about me.

  “I’ll write up your order,” Darby said and grabbed her iPad from the counter next to the cash register.

  My excitement dipped. “I can’t take this one?”

  “It’s for display. I make every bag individually for each client,” she said, pecking on the keyboard.

  “No, really, it’s okay,” I said. “I’m good with taking this one.”

  Darby shook her head. “I never let a display bag out of the shop. My clients get only top quality work, not a bag that’s been sitting in a display window and has been handled by a lot of different people.”

  “Okay, that makes sense,” I said, because, of course, I preferred a fresh bag. “I’ll need it in two weeks.”

  Darby stopped typing.

  I got a weird feeling.

  She looked up at me. “The soonest I can get this bag for you is in six weeks.”

  “Six weeks?”

  “I make each bag myself, no help from anyone. I have orders ahead of yours that I have to fill.”

  “Six weeks?”

  “Sorry. That’s the best I can do.”

  Oh, crap.

  Chapter 9

  Katrina appeared to be in major meltdown mode when I approached the KGE office on Monday morning and spotted her through the glass wall. She was in the lobby, waving her arms around and yelling at one of the models. My first thought was, of course, to run since it was way too early in the day to deal with one of her tirades.

  But the model she was grilling looked young and scared. She was backed up against the wall, holding her backpack in front of her, looking like she either wanted to cry or suddenly develop a superpower that would allow her to disappear into a puff of smoke.

  No way was I going to let that pass.

  I burst through the office door and said, “Good morning, Katrina.”

  She either didn’t hear me or didn’t want to acknowledge my presence because she kept shouting.

  “You’re accountable,” she told the model. “Each and every one of you is accountable and you’re no exception.”

  Jeez, what was with the accountable thing? Katrina had been ranting about it—whatever it was—when I’d been here before.

  “Katrina!” Yeah, I’d shouted her name.

  She spun around, invisible how-dare-you daggers shooting from her eyes.

  “Great news!” I gave her a huge I-don’t-care-if-you-know-it’s-fake smile. “Everybody loves your suggestions for the crawl! It’s turning out fabulous!”

  From her expression, I could see she had no idea who I was—not that I cared.

  Behind her, the model saw her chance and broke for the door, just as I’d hoped she would.

  “The fashion crawl is going to totally rock—all because of you!” I told her.

  Now, not only did Katrina not know who I was, she also had no idea what I was talking about.

  “Everybody is in awe of you,” I said, then gave her a little finger wave. “Got to run.”

  While she was still standing there with her mouth slightly gaped open, I dashed down the hallway beside the receptionist’s desk. I couldn’t imagine that Katrina would follow me but if she did, I didn’t want to drag Peri into the chaos by going into her office. Instead, I ducked into the breakroom.

  The place looked like every other breakroom I’d been in—microwave, sink, cupboards, tables and chairs, a bulletin board with notices pinned to it. There was a refrigerator on the back wall. A girl was holding the door open, staring inside. She was tall, blonde, probably a few years older than me, dressed in black leggings and a black tank top. I recognized her from her photo on the KGE website. She was Ivy, one of the agency’s plus-size fit models.

  She was also one of my murder s
uspects—no, really, my prime suspect since she’d been competing with Rayna for the clients that had come available due to Colleen’s departure from the agency.

  A this-is-perfect jolt zipped through me. Now was my chance to wheedle some information—and maybe a confession—out of her.

  Just as I was ready to launch into my oh-so-clever questioning, Ivy slammed the refrigerator door and muttered, “Damnit.”

  She noticed me then but didn’t seem surprised—or concerned. More like she could bite the head off of a small animal—or maybe me—at any moment.

  “My snack is gone,” she said and clenched her fists. “Again!”

  “Somebody took your food?” I asked. Jeez, no wonder she looked so crabby. “Who’d do something like that?”

  “Oh, I know who did it,” Ivy said, her voice rising. “The same person who always takes it.”

  Okay, now I was outraged along with her.

  “Who?” I demanded.

  Ivy pressed her lips together, simmering, then said, “The office golden child, so there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Who?” I asked again.

  “Libby.” Ivy shot the name at me as if firing it out of a cannon. She huffed and puffed for another minute, then said, “I don’t know if she’s some kind of psycho, or just broke all the time.”

  Given what Libby continually put up with working for Katrina, I was leaning toward psycho. Yet I’d noticed that Libby’s clothing and accessories were nowhere near as nice or fashion-forward as everyone else who worked at the agency, so maybe she had a problem managing her money.

  “Libby should get a job that pays better,” I said.

  “She’s so stupid. I can’t stand her.” Ivy opened one of the cupboards, then slammed the door. “Oh my God, I hate this place. There’s never anything to eat in here anymore.”

  Before I could say anything—I was totally on board with needing plenty of snacks to get through the work day—Ivy spun around.

  “Look at me. I’m plus-size. I can’t lose weight. I get measured all the time. If I change, even a fraction of an inch, I don’t fit my clients’ specs and I’m out of a job. But Hurricane Katrina is too damn stingy to stock the snack cabinet anymore. She doesn’t mind taking a huge chunk of my pay, though.”