Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) (5 page)

Oh my God. It was a party for their dog.
Their dog.

“You call two dogs humping in somebody’s
backyard a sexual assault?” I demanded.

Liam looked up at me

“Is this your idea of a joke?” I slammed my
fists on the desk and shot to my feet. “What kind of a sick twist
are you?”

He drew back and looked slightly concerned
for his safety. Obviously, he hadn’t expected this response from
me—which made me even madder.

“I sat here riddled with guilt, sickened by
the idea, and all along this supposed assault involved a dog?”

I’m pretty sure I shouted that.

“And you knew it?”

I definitely yelled that.

Liam continued to gaze at me, but he didn’t
look angry or upset. He looked pleased, or something, and he
actually started to grin.

Oh my God, he was not grinning.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about your stupid
lawsuit! I don’t care if it costs a billion dollars to settle, I’m
not helping you with it! And don’t you ever come here again!” I
screamed.

I stormed out of the interview room, down the
hallway, and into my office. My breathing was labored, my knees
shook, and I was on the very edge of perspiring.

I couldn’t remember when I’d been so
completely furious—with anyone. And that’s saying a lot because
some of my clients were real jerks—not to mention some of the guys
I’d dated, some of the guys my friends had dated, and, of course,
my mother.

I stomped to the window and gazed out,
desperate to catch a glimpse of something—anything—pleasant so I
could calm myself. That Liam Douglas was infuriating and I was
close to completely losing control—and just when I’d sworn to be a
nicer person.

A minute or two passed while I drew in
calming breaths and forced myself to think happy thoughts.

I’m not really good at calming breaths or
happy thoughts.

At this point, I realized, nothing would help
but a massive amount of chocolate.

I remembered that I’d gotten two bags of
M&Ms from the snack cabinet in the breakroom this morning so I
whipped around to grab them off of my desk and—oh my God. That
horrible Liam stood in my office doorway.

My heart rate shot up at the sight of him—but
for a totally different reason this time.

“How can a pregnant woman tell if she’s
carrying a future lawyer?” Liam asked. “She has an uncontrollable
craving for bologna.”

I laughed—I didn’t want to, but it flew out.
I clamped my lips together so I couldn’t do it again.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and walked into my
office. “I handled that badly. When you walked in and I saw you, I
…”

“I inspired you to act like a jerk?” I
asked.

“You inspired me to stop thinking clearly,”
he said.

He looked slightly mystified and, of course,
so was I. We both just stood staring at each other, then he
grinned.

He had a great grin.

Not that I cared.

Really.

“Maybe we can take another run at this some
other time?” he asked.

“I don’t think so,” I said.

His grin got wider—which was really weird—and
he simply nodded and left my office.

I staggered to my desk chair and
collapsed.

I’d barely caught my breath when my cell
phone rang. Jack Bishop was calling.

Oh my God, two totally hot guys within
minutes of each other?

I nearly fell out of the chair.

“I just got word from the cops,” Jack said,
when I answered. “It’s official. Veronica Spencer-Taft was
murdered.”

Chapter 5

Jack waited in the hallway outside the entrance to
L.A. Affairs while I walked out. He’d called from the parking
garage and asked me to meet him so we could talk in person.

Today he had on jeans, a white dress shirt,
and a sport coat, and he looked great. But I noticed a little
strain around his eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday. I figured
he was getting pressure from the Pike Warner law firm on behalf of
the Spencer-Taft family to come up with some answers in Veronica’s
death.

“It’s official?” I asked. “She was
murdered?”

Jack nodded. “The techs calculated the
trajectory of the fall and the body’s impact on the patio. It
didn’t add up. The detectives found a witness, one of the
construction workers, who saw her go over the railing. She didn’t
jump, and it was no accident. Someone pushed her.”

Jack didn’t give any more details but I could
imagine what the scene had looked like. Veronica grasping for a
handhold, horror on her face as she tumbled.

Too awful, I decided, and pushed on with
another question.

“Did the witness see who did it?” I asked.
“Male, female? Old, young? Anything?”

“Nothing,” Jack said. He was quiet for a few
seconds then said, “Look, I’m heading up this thing. The family
wants answers and prefers their own security team over the
cops.”

This wasn’t unusual among the caliber of
people who could afford to retain personal security. I knew it
meant there was a great deal of pressure on Jack from all sides.
Expectations were high. His reputation was at stake.

“With the cops ruling the death a murder,” he
said, “it could mean the family has been targeted. There’s the
possibility of kidnapping, extortion, robbery. I’ve put
round-the-clock security on the house but I need more.”

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Find out everything you can about the
family,” Jack said, “especially those relatives who just showed
up.”

Veronica’s three aunts and young cousin had
seemed perfectly harmless to me. But was it something more than a
coincidence that Veronica had been murdered moments after they
arrived?

“Find out everything you can about the staff
and what went on in that house, especially on the day of the
murder,” Jack said.

Normally I would have been thrilled at the
opportunity to help Jack with a case—his life is so much cooler
than mine—but this time the circumstances were grim, sobering.

“You got it,” I told him.

“Stay in touch,” he said, then headed for the
elevator.

I went back inside L.A. Affairs, grabbed my
handbag and the Spencer-Taft event portfolio, and headed out.

* * *

“No way,” Andrea said. “No way would Veronica
take her own life.”

We were standing in the entryway of the
Calabasas mansion and I’d flat-out asked her about Julia’s
assertion that Veronica had jumped from the balcony. Even though
Jack had told me the police had concluded it was murder, I wanted
Andrea’s take on the situation.

“You’re sure?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” she told me. “Come in. Let’s
talk.”

She led the way down the hall in the west
wing of the house, past several rooms—including the one I’d been
held hostage in with the family yesterday—and into the kitchen. The
place was huge, with miles of cabinets, state-of-the-art
appliances, and magnificent tile, granite, and woodwork. Dishes,
pots, and pans had been washed and left to dry beside the sink;
apparently, the house guests were cooking for themselves.

“Where is everybody?” I asked.

I’d seen no workers at the front of the house
when I’d pulled up, but had spotted two of Jack’s security team
patrolling the grounds. No construction was underway inside the
house. It was completely empty and silent.

“I’d booked all sorts of tours and outings
for Veronica’s family,” Andrea explained as she opened the
refrigerator door. “None of them were up to sightseeing but there
was nothing for them to do here, so they went. I just put them in a
limo a few minutes ago.”

“I guess Patrick’s not staying here?” I
said.

I couldn’t imagine he’d ever want to sleep in
the master suite again.

I wouldn’t.

“He spoke to Veronica’s family last night,”
Andrea said. She grabbed a soda and passed it to me. “He’s a real
mess. He might be staying at his parents’ place in Hancock
Park.”

Hancock Park was a very prestigious section
of Los Angeles, populated by sedate, wealthy, old-money families,
just the sort of location the Spencer-Tafts would call home.

“Or he might have gone back to the house in
Culver City that he and Veronica lived in,” Andrea said, and took a
soda for herself. “They were splitting their time between there and
here, depending on which rooms were being renovated.”

I didn’t like thinking of Patrick alone in
the house he’d shared with his new bride, remembering all of their
time together, recalling their special moments. Too sad.

“He’d probably be better off at his parents’
house,” I said.

“That would certainly suit Julia,” Andrea
said, and opened her soda.

I did the same, took a sip and said, “Julia
didn’t seem all that thrilled with Patrick’s choice in a wife.”

Andrea led the way to a worktable and we
climbed up onto high stools.

“Veronica was struggling with lots of things,
certainly with her mother-in-law,” Andrea told me. “But she
wouldn’t kill herself. She was very secure in Patrick’s love. She
had plans for this house, plans to expand the candy company. She
hoped that Brandie would like it here and want to visit more often,
maybe even come here for college.”

Okay, that was weird. Julia had told me
Veronica intended to leave California and return to her family.

“So she wasn’t planning to go back home?” I
asked.

Andrea looked shocked. “Of course not. She’d
never leave Patrick—but wait.”

She looked shocked—which I took as a good
sign. But then she shook her head and said, “No. No, it couldn’t
be.”

“What?” I asked.

“Veronica had some kind of announcement she
intended to make on Thanksgiving Day,” Andrea said.

“About what?”

“She didn’t tell me, but I figured it was
about expanding the business, since the employees were going to be
here for the feast,” Andrea said. She shook her head. “It could
have been something personal—but absolutely not that she was moving
back home.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“Positive,” Andrea told me.

My belly felt queasy as a thought slammed
into my head.

“Do you think maybe … maybe Veronica was
pregnant?” I asked.

“Absolutely not. I ran all her errands. I
picked up her prescriptions. She was on birth control—and she was a
fanatic about it,” Andrea said. “She wouldn’t have left Patrick and
she wouldn’t have thrown herself off that balcony.”

She seemed certain that Veronica hadn’t taken
her own life and that she was happy here, yet Julia seemed equally
sure that just the opposite was true. Had Veronica told Julia about
her plan to leave, and not mentioned it to Andrea? Possibly.

Something hit me then.

“What about Veronica’s mom and dad?” I asked.
“Why didn’t they come out with her aunts and Brandie?”

“Her dad passed away a long time go,” Andrea
said, “and her mom has some health problems and can’t travel.”

We sat in silence for a few minutes. I didn’t
know how much the police had told the family or how much of it had
filtered down to Andrea, but if Jack’s concerns were spot-on—and I
had no reason to doubt them—everyone in the house could be at
risk.

“Did you hear the police had determined the
cause of death?” I asked. When Andrea shook her head I said,
“Veronica didn’t jump from the balcony. She was pushed.”

Andrea gasped and pressed both palms to her
cheeks. Tears pooled in her eyes.

“She … she was murdered?” she managed to
ask.

I nodded.

She took a few minutes to compose herself,
wiped her eyes and sighed heavily.

“Veronica was so full of life, so full of
energy. She was one of the nicest, sweetest people I’d ever met,”
Andrea said.

“Did anything seem unusual about the day
Veronica died?” I asked. “Was there anyone here who shouldn’t have
been?”

“Just the staff,” Andrea said. “Two cooks and
two housekeepers. But all of them had worked for Julia for
years.”

“And all of the workmen doing the renovations
had been vetted by their employers?” I asked.

“Of course,” Andrea insisted. “Nobody running
a business that catered to the types of people who live in this
area would send anyone to the home of one of their clients without
doing a background check. They wouldn’t want to be responsible for
unleashing a stalker or undercover reporter, or something like
that, on them. Anyone who did that would be out of business in a
heartbeat.”

“Did Veronica seem different in the last week
or so?” I asked, and sipped my soda.

Andrea thought for a moment and said, “She’d
seemed a little more stressed than usual, but who can blame her?
Her family was coming and she wanted to get the house ready for
them, and for the Thanksgiving feast she and Patrick were hosting
for the Pammy Candy employees. And, of course, there were the usual
things everybody deals with at this time of year for the
holidays.”

Everything Andrea described seemed like
normal stuff—except that, somehow, Veronica had been murdered.

Andrea shuddered. “The killer had been right
here in this house?”

“That’s what it looks like,” I said, and
Jack’s concerns came back to me again. “Listen, you should know
there’s a possibility the family has been targeted, for some
reason.”

Andrea didn’t look all the surprised. She’d
worked as a personal assistant for other high-profile people in Los
Angeles, and knew what to expect.

“Maybe it would be best if the family went
back home,” she said, then shook her head, as if reconsidering her
own suggestion. “But we’d have to tell them why. And if word got
out?”

We both knew the media feeding-frenzy that
would ensue if the story broke—the murder of a young woman from a
wealthy family, out-of-town relatives fleeing in panic, and a
Calabasas mansion on lock down. The speculation would be endless,
the Spencer-Taft family would be furious, and Jack would be held
responsible for not keeping an air-tight security lid on the
incident.