Beach Bags and Burglaries (A Haley Randolph Mystery) (18 page)

I
found Ben seated at a table in the garden outside the hotel snack bar, working on his laptop. A wrapper from a package of peanut butter crackers and a plastic water bottle sat nearby. He had on the same pants and polo shirt I’d seen him in for days, which looked as rumpled as ever. His whiskers had thickened.

I sat down in the chair next to him.

“Go away,” Ben said, not bothering to look up from the laptop screen.

“Are you growing a beard?” I asked.

His gaze darted to me, then returned to the laptop.

“Really, Ben, I mean this in the nicest way, but you look like crap,” I said. “Honestly, the beard is not working for you. And those same clothes? Why the heck don’t you change?”

He ignored me.

“Look, I’ll go to your room with you,” I offered. “Even
you
would have packed more than one outfit for this assignment. I’ll put together a great look for you that will—”

Hang on a minute.

I looked again at the meager snacks, his scraggly beard, his tired shirt and pants, and it hit me.

Oh, crap.

“You’re not a guest here,” I said.

Ben kept his gaze glued to his laptop.

“You’re not on assignment,” I said.

“Shh!” Ben glanced around frantically. “Be quiet.”

“Oh my God. I’m right, aren’t I,” I said.

“Keep your voice down,” he hissed, throwing surreptitious glances around us. “You’re going to get me thrown out of this place.”

I leaned in and said, “You’re like a stowaway or something.”

“All right, all right,” Ben said, slamming the lid down on his laptop. He turned to me. “Yes. Yes, I sneaked aboard the supply ship and slipped onto the resort grounds after dark, and I’ve been hiding out ever since, dodging security and the staff. Okay? Are you happy now?”

“Where have you been sleeping?” I asked.

Ben fumed for a bit, then said, “The hammock terrace, the beach, the sun porch, wherever.”

I glanced at the wrapper of peanut butter crackers.

“Have you had anything decent to eat?” I asked.

“I’m okay,” he insisted. “Just drop it, will you?”

No way was I letting this go.

I got up from the table. Ben caught my wrist.

“You’re not going to rat me out, are you?” he asked.

“Just stay here,” I told him.

I went into the snack bar, ordered a double cheeseburger all the way, fries, and two chocolate milkshakes, then took them outside and put them on the table in front of Ben.

I kept one of the shakes for myself, of course.

Ben glared at me, then picked up the burger. He wolfed down the whole meal in just a few minutes.

“Thank you,” he said softly, licking the tips of his fingers.

“You’re welcome,” I said, and passed him a napkin.

“I’m still not going to tell you about the story I’m working on,” he said.

“I know.”

We sat there for a while, sipping our shakes, not saying anything. Sitting quietly wasn’t what I did best, but for some reason enjoying the silence with Ben was nice.

“Okay. Fine. I’ll tell you about my story,” Ben said. “But don’t you breathe a single word about it to anyone.”

“I won’t,” I said.

“Swear it,” he told me.

“I swear it,” I said. “I swear it on my Sea Vixen.”

“You’re what?”

Honestly, why couldn’t men keep up with fashion trends?

“It’s a fabulous beach tote,” I said. “I’m absolutely dying for it, and the shop here is holding one for me from their next shipment.”

“Whatever,” Ben said, waving away my words.

He scooted his chair over until we were elbow to elbow.

“Like I told you before,” he said quietly, “I got a tip about thefts from A-list celebrities.”

Visions of mounds of jewelry, boxes of cash, designer clothing, artwork, and Bentleys filled my head.

“Their things have been showing up for sale on the Internet,” Ben said. “It’s caused all kinds of problems.”

“Don’t rich, famous people have insurance to cover that kind of thing?” I asked.

Ben shook his head and said, “Panties.”

Jeez, had all that food sent Ben’s thought waves off in a totally crazy direction? I know my chocolate shake had my brain cells hopping pretty good. Still, I wasn’t following him.

He must have read the confusion in my face because he said, “Panties. Bras. Thongs. That’s what’s being stolen.”

“Underwear?” I asked.

“It’s an underground Internet site,” Ben explained, gesturing at his laptop. “Celebrity-panty-raid-dot-com.”

Okay, I couldn’t help it. My mouth fell open.

“Somebody is actually stealing underwear from stars and selling it on the Internet?” I asked. I shook my head. “Who would want somebody else’s used panties?”

“Lots of people, and they’re paying thousands for it,” Ben said. “It’s an auction site. Winning bids for top A-list stars reach into the tens of thousands of dollars.”

I didn’t think my mouth could fall open any farther, but it did.

“It’s an invasion of privacy of epic proportion,” Ben said. “Plus, this kind of purchase can encourage overzealous fans, which is never good. These stars have husbands and wives, some of whom aren’t stars themselves and can’t deal with this sort of thing, and aren’t happy they can’t protect their spouse from such a personal theft. The whole thing is driving security teams crazy. People are getting fired over it.”

Wow, I guess I’d never thought about that sort of thing happening—over, ugh, already-worn underwear.

I glanced around, seeing the people near us in a whole different way.

“No wonder there’s so much undercover security at this place,” I said.

“Yeah, and like I told you the other day, there’s a possible connection to this resort,” Ben said. “I haven’t found anything definite yet, but I’m closing in on something. The site has been teasing a killer item from a megastar for a couple of days now. If it’s who I think it is, I’m going to be all over it. The story will be a lock.”

“If you find the culprit and break the story, it will be a huge deal,” I said, remembering what he had told me earlier. “Those celebrity TV shows will be all over it—and you. You’ll be on talk shows around the clock, no doubt about it. Bloggers will go crazy for the story.”

Ben nodded. “And I’ll have my pick of jobs.”

Something else occurred to me.

“Does your editor know you’re doing this?” I asked.

Ben glanced away. “I’m freelancing on this one.”

I could see that he was really out on a limb with this story. If it went the way he expected, he’d be the golden boy of the media. But if the story turned out to be nothing—or worse, if he reported it and it was later proved wrong—well, I didn’t want to think about how far he’d fall.

I didn’t like thinking that Ben’s entire future was at stake but, really, there was nothing I could do to help. I cared about Ben, but celebrities and their undergarment problems were way down on my priority list.

I’d hunted down Ben to ask him if he knew whether Sebastian was working undercover for resort security, as I suspected, hoping he could confirm my suspicion and I could feel better about encouraging Sandy to date Sebastian. Obviously, that question was pointless now. Ben was doing everything he could to avoid the hotel’s security personnel so as not to get dumped onto the next outbound supply boat, and maybe prosecuted for trespassing.

I didn’t see how Ben could be of any help but, for some reason, I couldn’t walk away when he had so much on the line.

“If I see anything suspicious, I’ll let you know,” I said.

Ben didn’t seem to hear me. He opened his laptop and started typing.

“Oh my God, you’ll never guess who we saw when we left the spa,” Sandy declared when we all met up again. She covered her mouth with both palms, then shook her hands as if she were doing a jazz routine. “You’ll never—ever—guess.”

Bella looked back and forth between Sandy and Marcie. “Was it Brad Pitt? Did I miss Brad Pitt? Damn.”

Sandy shook her head, drew in a star-stuck breath and said, “Chris Hemsworth.”

“Chris Hemsworth? You saw Chris Hemsworth?” Bella demanded, her gaze darting around the garden as if he might be lurking behind a fern plant.

“Really?” I asked Marcie.

She shrugged and threw an apologetic smile Sandy’s way.

“I wasn’t sure it was really him,” she said.

“Of course it was him,” Sandy insisted, then collapsed into a dreamy smile. “Wow, he looked fantastic.”

We all just stood there for a minute, thinking about how fantastic-looking Chris Hemsworth was.

“I’m hungry,” Bella said, breaking the spell. “How about we get something to eat?”

Sandy pulled the resort brochure from her pocket.

“Let’s try the barbeque pavilion,” she said. “It’s one of the resort’s original structures. It was built with imported oak inlaid with rosewood, featuring carvings that portray Dionysus, the Greek god of vegetation and wine.”

Sandy pointed to the photo in the brochure. I thought the guy looked more like Clint Eastwood in his
Rawhide
days, but didn’t say so.

We all agreed that barbeque sounded good, so Sandy led the way through the resort grounds to a big, round, open-air pavilion surrounded by tall shade trees. It kind of looked like a dining hall at summer camp—if you attended summer camp in Switzerland. The huge stone grills and ovens were manned by a dozen chefs. Tables were made of distressed wood and decorated with lanterns and red-checkered linens—which was, I figured, as close as Rowan Resort guests ever came to roughing it.

As we approached the hostess stand, Sandy flung out both arms and stopped dead in her tracks.

She swung around to us and whispered, “Oh my God. Look who’s here. It’s that really hot guy from that TV show. The one in Hawaii. He’s taking out his cell phone, standing by that bench. ”

Immediately, we all jumped to high alert, stretching up and craning our necks—but trying to look casual at the same time, a standard celebrity-sighting move—at the guy Sandy was trying hard not to nod toward.

Marcie gasped. “I see him.”

“I see him, too,” Bella agreed. “He’s calling somebody.”

“Maybe he’s calling Chris Hemsworth,” Sandy said.

“He’s standing next to—hey, wait a minute,” Bella said. “That’s not him.”

“Yes, it is,” Sandy insisted.

“That’s another guy Haley knows. I’ve seen him in the store,” Bella declared.

I scooted around Marcie for a better look, and—oh my God, it was Jack Bishop. What was he doing here?

Bella gave me stink-eye. “Have you got
another
hot-looking man on this island?”

All my BFFs were mad-dogging me, so what could I say but, “No, absolutely not.”

My cell phone rang.

I yanked it out of my pocket and saw Jack’s name on the caller ID screen.

Crap.

“Okay, fine,” I said. “I know him.”

“He’d better have a brother,” Bella told me.

I hit the green button on my phone, waved, and said, “Over here.”

Somehow, Jack knew where
here
was, because he immediately hung up and started walking our way.

“Are you sure he’s not a movie star?” Sandy asked.

“He should be,” Bella said.

I couldn’t disagree. Jack was super-hot. Today he had on khaki cargo pants, an olive green shirt, and CAT boots.

“Hello, ladies,” Jack said when he joined us.

“Have you got a brother?” Bella asked.

“Get us a table,” I said to my friends. “I’ll catch up with you in a few minutes.”

They all just stood there—not that I blamed them, of course.

I walked away. As I expected, Jack followed.

“What are you doing here?” I asked when we stopped beneath a shade tree.

“I could ask you the same thing,” Jack said, and gave me a disapproving look. “You’re not vacationing.”

I wasn’t in the mood to explain myself to Jack. What I did on my own time was none of his business. Yeah, okay, I’d called him, involved him in Jaslyn’s murder, and asked for his help with my investigation, but still.

I guess Jack picked up on my don’t-ask mood, because he said, “I’m here with the security team for Tate Manning’s wedding.”

It took me a second to realize he meant Yasmin and Tate-Tate-Tate, and remember what she’d told me.

“The Heart of Amour for her bouquet,” I said. “You’re guarding a necklace?”

Jack nodded. “Among other duties.”

“Is she making a big deal out of the murder of Jaslyn Gordon?” I asked.

“There are safety concerns,” he said.

The only danger Yasmin was in came from me, but I didn’t think this was the best time to mention it.

I guess Jack didn’t want to talk about Princess Yasmin any more than I did, because he changed the subject.

“I found more info on Jaslyn’s brother,” he said. “He’s a druggie.”

Talk of murder, drug addicts, and jail terms was more appealing to me than Yasmin’s wedding, which says something about
her
, not
me
.

“Was he arrested for possession?” I asked.

Jack nodded. “And other things. One of which was selling stolen property to support his drug habit.”

I got a maybe-I-solved-the-crime tingle in my belly.

“Any connection to the Colby Rowan robberies?” I asked.

Jack gave me a look like my question had come out of left field, bringing on the more familiar I-haven’t-solved-the-crime anti-tingle.

“What about them?” he asked.

I filled him in on what I’d learned about Colby’s criminal acquaintances, her crime spree, jail time, and missing accomplice. Jack listened, but I had the feeling he already knew about it.

I doubted he’d learned it from
People
magazine.

“Jaslyn and her brother were close,” Jack said. “She visited him in prison.”

Having a brother who was a criminal—and who had criminal friends in and out of prison—could have tied to her murder somehow. I just didn’t know how.

“Did you find any connection between her brother and Jaslyn’s job here at the resort?” I asked.

“Not yet,” Jack said.

I was about to ask another question when movement off to my right caught my attention. I turned and saw Walt Pemberton, the head of Rowan Resort security, half hidden behind a palm tree. He was watching me.