Backpacks and Betrayals (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  I hung the backpack on the hook on the back of the door. It was surprisingly heavy. Models, apparently, had to haul a lot of stuff around with them to do their fittings.

  I wondered why Rayna had left it all inside the bag when she’d dropped it off. Then I remembered Darby saying that she made the KGE models a priority, and repaired them right away. I imagined Rayna dropping off her backpack—intending to return in a few minutes—then heading for KGE, going up the stairs, and confronting whoever had pushed her to her death.

  Not a great picture. I forced it out of my head.

  I unzipped the main compartment and peeked inside. It was stuffed with shapewear, black tank tops and leggings, and four pairs of shoes each with a different heel-height.

  It made me sad—and slightly creeped out—seeing things that had belonged to Rayna when she was alive.

  It hit me then that if there really was some vital evidence in the backpack, the police might need it for evidence and now my fingerprints and DNA were all over it. Oops. Guess I should have thought of that sooner.

  Well, too late now. Besides, there might be nothing of any importance inside, and I didn’t want to look like an idiot over the whole thing if it turned out to be another dead end.

  I closed the compartment and opened the smaller one on the front of the backpack. I peered inside and—bingo—I spotted a book of vouchers. I pulled it out.

  It was the size of a hardcover novel. The pages were sectioned off in sets of threes, with each page a different color—white, which was the original, pink that was designated for the designer, and a yellow page which stayed in the book.

  Each voucher had been completed by Rayna, indicating what designer she’d worked for, the date, her hourly rate and the number of hours she’d spent at the fitting. KGE’s logo and address were on each page.

  Flipping through the vouchers, I saw that Rayna’s last fitting had been a week ago. Prior to that, she’d worked sporadically, an hour here, two hours there, for the last several months, confirming what I already knew.

  Not exactly the hot evidence I’d hoped for.

  Crap.

  I dug deeper into the compartment and pulled out a handful of papers. Receipts, mostly, from fast-food restaurants where Rayna must have stopped to eat, and from Wal-Mart where she’d purchased two new bras. There was a coupon for a discount on an oil change, her cell phone bill, and a stack of blank invoices.

  Invoices? What the heck?

  I looked them over and saw that they were designed to be filled out with the same information as the KGE vouchers, but in the corner was a logo that featured a measuring tape and scissors, and Rayna’s name, address, and phone number.

  Some of the random thoughts that had zipped around my brain, connected.

  What if Rayna hadn’t been content with the few modeling opportunities KGE sent her way? What if, all along, she’d been working independently, billing the designers directly, and keeping it a secret from KGE? Was that why she’d been on her cell phone with Chyna Baine at Emerald Graffiti?

  KGE was having financial trouble. Losing Rayna’s income would be one more blow. What if KGE had found out what she was doing?

  Was it a motive for someone to resort to murder?

  I ran down my mental list of suspects at KGE.

  First, there was Ivy. With Rayna out of the way, all of Colleen’s clients would go to her. But what did that have to do with Rayna working independently? I didn’t see a connection.

  I’d wondered about Peri and Libby. Both of them had been out of the office that day during the time Rayna had been murdered. They had opportunity. But what about a motive? Would either of them have pushed Rayna down the stairs because she worked independently?

  I thought about Peri. In her position she, like Melody, must have noticed, or at least suspected, the agency was in financial trouble. How would she feel about Rayna deserting KGE in its time of need?

  And Libby? Her income came directly from Katrina, not KGE. So why would she care that Rayna’s actions impacted the agency?

  Now I wondered about Katrina. She’d been out of the office during the time of Rayna’s murder. I’d wondered if her financial problems were somehow linked to Rayna’s death. Since I hadn’t had any real evidence, I hadn’t considered Katrina a suspect.

  I did now.

  Of everyone at the agency, Katrina had the most to lose by Rayna going independent. Plus, she hated everything to do with Emerald Graffiti. Had she somehow found out that Rayna was working for them, confronted her on the stairs, totally lost it, and pushed her down?

  I could see Katrina going bat-crazy, no problem. But murdering Rayna? Yes, she could have done that.

  Yet it seemed to me that confronting Rayna and pushing her down the stairs was an act that went deeper than dislike for a design company and the loss of the agency’s income from her fittings.

  My thoughts cycled back through my suspect list.

  Which of them had something more at stake in this whole thing? Something beyond the obvious. A motive that—

  My brain made the jump to light speed and I knew.

  I yanked out my cell phone and called Detective Shuman. His voicemail picked up and I said, “I know who murdered Rayna.”

  Chapter 15

  I shoved everything into Rayna’s backpack, grabbed it, and hurried out of the restroom. When I’d spoken with Peri earlier, she’d told me Katrina was in the KGE office. I doubted she’d leave, knowing I was on the way. I had to get up there right away—but not to talk about the fashion crawl.

  As I dashed up the staircase, I heard the click of heels ahead of me. Rounding the curve I spotted Libby nearing the top, balancing a take-out tray in each hand, one holding large drink cups, the other piled high with food wrapped in paper. Her KGE backpack hung over one shoulder.

  “Libby?” I called.

  She didn’t stop, though I was sure she’d heard me.

  “Libby!”

  I turned on the speed and reached the top of the stairs as she did, then stepped in front of her to get her to stop.

  “Hey, Libby, what’s the rush?” I asked and managed to sound friendly and casual, though my heart was racing—but not from climbing the stairs.

  “Oh, Haley, hi,” she said, trying to skirt around me. “I’ve got to go.”

  I dodged to the right, cutting her off and said, “I need to talk to you.”

  “I can’t. I really can’t. Not now.” She gestured to the two take-out trays with her chin. “Katrina is waiting for this.”

  I knew that, with Katrina in the throes of a major meltdown, she was probably being more demanding than usual.

  Libby moved to the left. I blocked her again. No way would I let her get past me.

  “I have news for Katrina,” I told her, using my this-is-something-great voice.

  Libby paused and gave me a suspicious look. “What sort of news?”

  “Good news,” I told her, and made it sound cheerful.

  She glanced down the hallway toward the KGE office, then looked at me again.

  “I know Katrina is having a rough day,” I said. “So I thought you’d like to tell her yourself.”

  Libby’s expression brightened slightly. Surely, she’d be thankful that Katrina received some good news right now, and delivering it herself would be a real plus.

  “Okay, what is it?” she asked.

  A cell phone rang. She glanced at her KGE backpack, and I could see her anxiety spin up again, which told me that it was probably Katrina calling, wanting to know where Libby was and why she hadn’t brought her food yet.

  I said, “I found Rayna’s backpack.”

  I held it up. Libby gasped softly. Color rose in her cheeks.

  “I know Katrina is big on everyone being accountable for their backpack,” I said. “So you can tell her it’s been located.”

  Libby’s cell phone rang again. This time she didn’t move, just stood there staring at the backpack.

  “And more good news,�
� I told her. “You know that lawsuit you told me about, the one that involved Rayna that you said might have been the reason she was murdered?”

  Libby looked at me now. The pink in her cheeks drained away.

  “I found out there never was a lawsuit,” I said.

  I guessed that Libby had invented the lawsuit story to throw suspicion onto someone outside the KGE agency, and conjure up some misdirection and a mysterious suspect. I had to hand it to her, it had worked for a while.

  “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” I told her.

  Libby looked down the hallway again. “I have to go.”

  She tried to get around me, but I stepped in front of her.

  “You made it up, didn’t you,” I said. “You wanted it to seem like there was another motive for Rayna’s death.”

  “No, no, I …”

  “You saw Rayna that day,” I said. “Here, on the stairs.”

  I was winging it now, taking my best guess at what had happened.

  “She was on her phone,” I said. “You overheard her conversation. You knew she was talking to Chyna at Emerald Graffiti.”

  Libby shifted back and forth, struggling with the take-out trays. “Yes, okay, yes. I heard her on the phone. But—”

  “You realized that Rayna was working independently,” I said. “You knew that she would get all of Colleen’s clients and then she’d turn her back on KGE, and cut the agency out of their commission.”

  A flash of anger crossed Libby’s face. I knew I’d guessed correctly.

  “That money belonged to the agency,” Libby insisted. “Rayna had no right to go independent with those clients. I couldn’t believe she would betray Katrina like that, and be so disloyal to her.”

  At the heart of the screwball relationship between Libby and Katrina was Libby’s loyalty to her. I couldn’t really fault her for it—to a point.

  “But Rayna didn’t see it that way,” I said. “She didn’t think there was anything wrong with what she was doing.”

  “You wouldn’t believe the awful things she said about Katrina.” Libby’s emotions amped up, her anger rising. “She said that everybody at the agency hated Katrina. They called her awful names behind her back. She claimed that Katrina could have done more to get clients for her so she wouldn’t have to do without things, waiting for the fit modeling to take off.”

  “Rayna’s life was rough,” I told her. “Maybe Katrina could have done more.”

  “Katrina is a wonderful person,” Libby insisted. “If it hadn’t been for her, I’d have been forced to move back to that dreadful little town, and work at some horrible place, and listen to everybody’s I-told-you-so. I couldn’t believe people were saying those terrible things about Katrina, and that Rayna was trying to screw the agency out of money.”

  “So you confronted Rayna,” I said and gestured to the staircase. “Here. On the steps.”

  “I was going to show Katrina what she was doing,” Libby declared. “I was going to let her see what Rayna was up to.”

  The whole thing came clear to me then.

  “So you grabbed for her cell phone?” I said.

  “I only wanted to show it to Katrina. I didn’t mean for—”

  “Libby!”

  We both spun around and spotted Katrina barreling toward us.

  “Oh my God,” Libby moaned.

  “Libby! Libby!”

  “I’m sorry, Katrina. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  Libby rushed forward just as I turned, and we bumped into each other. One of the take-out trays flew into the air. It hit with a splash as the four drink cups burst open and soda drenched the floor and the stairs.

  Libby screamed. She dropped the sandwich tray, then screamed again.

  “Oh my God! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!”

  Katrina butted between us, stepped in the soda, and slid forward. She teetered on the top step for a second before Libby grabbed her arm. I lunged for them, but I was too late. Both of them tumbled down the stairs.

  Oh, crap.

  * * *

  “What’s wrong with these people?” Bella mumbled.

  “I think it’s great,” Sandy insisted. “Don’t you, Haley?”

  I looked again at the dozens of chairs set up near the Holt’s entrance, filled with customers who were anxious—or, more likely, had nothing better to do on a Friday evening—to see the new spring clothing line make its debut on the stage and runway that had been set up. A curtain shielded the girls Holt’s had hired to model the fashions for the grand reveal—or, probably, to keep the audience from bolting if they got a look at the clothes before the show started.

  “I’m with Bella on this one,” I told her.

  When I’d reported for my shift a few minutes ago, I summoned the courage to look at the so-called collection. It was stunning—but not in a good way.

  It included bandana-print dresses in purple, orange, and teal; sleeveless dresses adorned with poppies, daffodils, and daisies; lounge dresses with gathers in all the wrong places; embroidered and appliquéd caftans with what-were-they-thinking side splits; and a three-tiered crinkle-cotton dress with, for no apparent reason, a bunny on the front.

  There were many other garments but after seeing those, I’d had to turn away—and that’s saying something after what I’d seen at KGE yesterday.

  I doubted the image of Katrina and Libby, limbs entangled, careening down the staircase, would ever disappear completely from my mind, nor would the sight of their crumpled and twisted bodies at the foot of the stairs. I’d called 9-1-1 and the paramedics had gotten there in minutes. The police followed shortly.

  The old guy security guard—spying on me, I’m sure—had been at the other end of the hallway and saw Katrina slip in the soda, causing her and Libby to tumble down the stairs. I think it irked him to have to tell the police that he’d witnessed the accident and that I was in no way at fault.

  “The best part is,” Sandy said, “now we get to find out who won the customer service contest. Jeanette is going to announce all the winners before the fashion show starts.”

  My spirits lifted a little. After what I’d been through lately, I figured I was somehow owed the third-place Starbucks gift card prize.

  “Here comes Jeanette,” Bella said.

  She was headed toward us down the main aisle wearing a mustard yellow mohair skirt and jacket.

  She looked like a blonde Big Foot.

  “Lord have mercy,” Bella mumbled. “That’s from the new spring collection.”

  Now I was doubly glad I hadn’t looked at the entire line.

  No way did I want to be too close to Jeanette’s outfit—just in case fashion cooties actually existed—so I eased away down one of the aisles. As I was about to duck behind a display of who’s-big-idea-was-this blouse-vest combos, I caught sight of Detective Shuman entering the store.

  I knew he wasn’t there to shop.

  He saw me right away and walked over.

  “You doing okay?” he asked.

  Even though he still wore his cop-clothes, he sounded like a friend. I couldn’t help smiling, especially after the day I’d had at L.A. Affairs.

  I’d been on the phone constantly, juggling calls from vendors, the caterer, and reps for the VIPs demanding to know if the fashion crawl was going forward. News surrounding Katrina, the major sponsor, word of Rayna’s murder that had somehow leaked, plus the problem with the homeless had everybody in a near panic. I’d left the office with a headache and no definite word on the crawl—but it didn’t look good.

  “I still have some ugly pictures in my head, but they’ll fade,” I said. “Have you heard anything new?”

  Shuman nodded and said, “Katrina will make it, but her recovery and rehab will be a long one. Two broken legs, along with her other injuries, won’t be easy to come back from.”

  That, of course, meant an uncertain future for KGE. Katrina was in deep financial trouble. She’d bet everything on the fashion crawl, t
hinking she could sell her vacant, money-draining buildings or, at least, find some tenants. It seemed that gamble might take the model agency down with it.

  “And Libby?” I asked.

  “Another few days in the hospital and she’ll be discharged.”

  “And face murder charges,” I said.

  Libby had put up with a lot—a pittance of a salary that forced her to wear cheap clothes and steal food from the office fridge, all because of Katrina.

  “Maybe not,” Shuman said.

  “What?”

  “The detectives on the case interviewed her this morning,” Shuman said. “She’s denying everything.”

  Okay, that ticked me off.

  “But she confessed,” I told him. “She’s guilty. Rayna fell down those stairs because of her. She told me everything that happened.”

  “It’s your word against hers.”

  Now I was really ticked off.

  “You believe me, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he told me. “But unless some evidence is found that implicates her, it’s not looking good.”

  I huffed, totally out of sorts now. It wasn’t right that Libby had caused Rayna’s death—and might walk away as if nothing had happened.

  “The detectives can’t find any evidence?” I demanded. “Nothing?”

  Shuman gave me a tiny cop-grin. “There’s a partial fingerprint on Rayna’s cell phone. The lab hadn’t been able to identify it. Now we have a suspect to match it to.”

  Libby had told me she’d tried to get the cell phone away from Rayna so she could show it to Katrina. I knew that partial print would be hers.

  “Okay,” I said. “I feel better about the whole thing now.”

  Shuman glanced at his watch and a different kind of grin pulled at his lips.

  “I’ve got to run,” he said, and walked away.

  Obviously, he had a date with Brittany tonight. And, yes, of course I was happy for him, but it was Friday night and here I was stuck working in Holt’s.