Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) (6 page)

“Here’s what we’ll do,” I said. “I’ll have
the security team put a female in the house. You tell the aunts
that she’s from a concierge service and is in charge of taking them
on tours and things. That way they won’t become alarmed, but
they’ll be protected.”

I knew Jack would go along with it—and it was
totally cool to think I’d come up with a helpful idea.

Not that I’m desperate to impress Jack, or
anything. Really.

Andrea nodded. “I can sell that. No
problem.”

“Are you going to be okay here, keeping an
eye on the family?” I asked. “You could be in danger, too.”

She shrugged. “I need the work. I’ll stay
until I’m no longer needed.”

I slid down off of the stool and said,
“You’ll let me know if you recall something out of the ordinary
with Veronica, or the family, or anything?”

“Of course,” she promised. “I don’t know
what’s up with the Thanksgiving feast for the employees. I’ll try
to approach Patrick about it soon.”

“I’ll keep going forward with it until I hear
differently.”

I dropped my soda can in the recycle bin,
then wound my way through the big house and out to my Honda. The
white BMW that belonged to Veronica was still parked there,
alongside Andrea’s Mazda.

My head was full of suspects as I pulled
away—not a difficult list to compile, since I pretty much knew
everyone who had been at the house the day of the murder.

Julia was there. While she was hardly a
loving mother-in-law, she was devoted to Patrick. She knew how much
he loved Veronica. They’d been married for well over a year. For
Julia to have suddenly lost it and thrown Veronica over the
balcony, something major must have happened. I couldn’t imagine
what it might have been so I knew of no motive—yet she’d
disappeared shortly after the family arrived and gone, presumably,
into the house.

Erika had disappeared along with Julia. I
hadn’t actually seen either one of them go inside. Were they
together? Had one—or both—of them gone in? Or were they on the
grounds overseeing the renovations with one of the workmen?

Erika was the interior decorator. If Veronica
was dead she would likely be out of a job, so what could her motive
have been for murder?

I pulled up to the security gate. Cars were
stopped on the opposite side as the guard consulted his approved
list of visitors. It reminded me again how difficult it was to gain
access to the area.

The exit gate swung open and I drove through.
Yesterday, a murderer had done the same. The mental image gave me a
creepy feeling so I forced my thoughts back to possible
suspects.

What about Renée? She’d rushed into the house
immediately upon arrival, claiming she needed to find a bathroom.
She’d been alone inside for a while, then admitted that her search
had taken her all over the residence. Did that include the master
suite? Could she have dashed upstairs, found it, seen Veronica and
pushed her over the balcony?

Sure, it was possible. But why would she do
it?

When I’d gone upstairs to find Veronica, I’d
heard noise from a work crew nearby. Was one of them some psycho
killer, or something, who’d pushed her off the balcony in a crazed
fit of rage?

I wondered, too, about the cooks and maids
Julia had sent to take care of Veronica’s house guests. Andrea said
they’d worked for Julia for years and, presumably, were beyond
approach.

But they were also devoted to Julia. Would
they have done away with Veronica because of some whacked-out sense
of loyalty? Could Julia have decided to get rid of her
daughter-in-law and somehow gotten them to do her dirty work for
her?

Was I stretching for suspects?

Oh, yeah. I was.

My brain definitely needed a boost. The soda
I’d had with Andrea just wasn’t cutting it so I headed for the
Commons, the shopping center that served the upscale Calabasas
residents. I knew a Starbucks was there.

I knew where all the Starbucks were.

As so many Southern California days were,
this one was gorgeous. I decided I owed it to myself to enjoy the
weather a bit—plus, it was a good reason to delay my return to the
office—so I parked and went inside.

The place smelled great, of course, and a
number of people were scattered around the room, reading, working
on a laptop, or chatting with friends as they sipped their coffees.
I ordered my all-time favorite drink in the entire universe, a
mocha frappuccino, and paid for it with the company’s gift card I’d
registered online.

I didn’t know how the heck I’d missed it, but
I’d recently learned that Starbucks had a loyalty program that
tracked your purchases—you got a cool star for each one—and awarded
special discounts and free items after you’d accumulated a certain
number of stars. The whole thing was tracked online. There was even
a mobile app. I was within six purchases of moving up to the next
level—whatever that was. I hadn’t read their web site instructions
all that carefully.

That happens a lot.

I got my frappie and look a long sip as I
walked outside. Just as I was about to find a table at their
outdoor seating area and let my brain rest, Liam Douglas flew into
my thoughts.

I didn’t really want to like him—he’d been a
total jackass—but there was something about him that made me feel
shaky inside.

But maybe that was just my
frappuccino—chocolate and caffeine could have that effect, couldn’t
it?

My cell phone rang. Andrea’s name appeared on
the caller ID screen. A jolt flew though me. Oh my God, had
something else horrible happened?

“I thought of something,” she said when I
answered.

She didn’t sound upset, which made me relax a
little—or as much as is possible while drinking a frappuccino,
making a mental list of murder suspects, and remembering a hot
guy.

“This may be nothing,” she said. “In fact,
I’m sure it’s nothing. Really, I shouldn’t have even called.”

I hate it when people do that.

“What is it?” I asked, and managed to sound
patient.

“I don’t want to get anyone in trouble,”
Andrea said. “And I don’t want to get myself into hot water.”

I knew she—and every other personal assistant
who worked for a wealthy family—had signed a confidentially
agreement upon accepting employment. Andrea could get sued for
divulging info—or worse, ruin her reputation and never get hired
again.

“You won’t tell anyone I was the one who said
it, will you?” she asked.

“I’m great at keeping secrets,” I said.

Which was totally true. Just last week Kayla
at L.A. Affairs had told me a huge secret—and I’d told hardly
anyone.

I could, however, keep my mouth shut about
the info Andrea was about to share—if it was, in fact, something
that might get her fired.

She was quiet for another few seconds then
said, “Like I said, it’s probably nothing. But Erika, the interior
decorator? She and Patrick used to date.”

I took a big gulp of my frappuccino—and I
definitely needed it. Oh my God, was this my first solid motive in
Veronica’s murder?

“They dated—seriously dated?” I asked.

“From what I heard, they were practically
engaged—until Patrick made that trip back east and came home
married to Veronica.”

Oh, crap.

“This is b.s.,”
Bella said, peering inside her brown paper lunch sack. “Nothing but
b.s.”

We were seated at a table in the breakroom at
Holt’s Department Store, the crappier than crappy place where I had
a crappy part-time job as a sales clerk. This was where I’d met my
ex-official-boyfriend Ty Cameron.

His family had owned the chain of stores for
five generations, and Ty was the latest to be completely obsessed
with its operation to the exclusion of everything else—including
me. Thus, our breakup.

Other employees were seated at nearby tables
eating, talking, or flipping through the vast selection of outdated
magazines. Someone had decorated the place with honey-comb turkeys
and paper cut-outs of pumpkins and pilgrims. Hanging next to the
fridge was a teaser about the mystery merchandise that would be
revealed on Black Friday—an old Holt’s tradition. There were other
posters extolling the wonders of the store’s current marketing
campaign, the Stuff-It Sale.

Really.

I’d worked here for about a year now and
Bella had become one of my BFFs along with Sandy, who sat at the
table with us.

Bella, mocha to my vanilla, was saving for
beauty school. She intended to be a hairdresser to the stars and
practiced different styles—to be generous and because we’re
besties, I’ll call them unique—on herself.

In the spirit of the upcoming Thanksgiving
holiday she’d fashioned a pumpkin atop her hair—at least I thought
it was a pumpkin. I couldn’t be sure—which told me Bella wasn’t
having her best day.

Really, I guess none of us were having our
best day since it was Saturday and we were stuck here for hours
instead of out doing something fun.

“What’s wrong?” Sandy asked.

Like Bella, Sandy was around the same age as
me. She was kind of tall with hair she regularly switched from
blonde to red, then back again. Today it was somewhere in the
middle.

Sandy always seemed to find the best in any
situation—which was kind of annoying at times—except when it came
to picking a boyfriend. She’d been dating the same idiot for as
long as I’d known her, a tattoo artist she’d met on the Internet
who continually treated her bad. For some reason, she didn’t see
it. She absolutely refused to break up with him—despite my repeated
attempts to share my oh-so fabulous good advice.

Go figure.

“Somebody stole my string cheese,” Bella
grumbled.

She picked up her sack lunch and dumped the
contents onto the table. Out came a sandwich, chips, chocolate
cookies, yogurt, and string cheese.

“Isn’t that string cheese?” I asked—I mean,
somebody had to.

“I packed three,” Bella declared. “There’s
only two here.”

“Are you sure?” Sandy asked. “Because
yesterday I was sure I’d put a bag of Fritos in my lunch but I
didn’t.”

“Somebody stole your Fritos,” Bella told her.
“Just like they stole my string cheese.”

“Is anything missing from your lunch, Haley?”
Sandy asked.

“Besides flavor and nutrition?” I asked,
gesturing to the reportedly-ham sandwich I’d gotten out of the
breakroom vending machine.

“What the hell is going on at this place?”
Bella grumbled. “What kind of person would steal food out of
somebody else’s lunch sack?”

Sandy leaned in—sensing possible gossip,
Bella and I immediately leaned in too—and whispered, “Maybe it was
one of the new people.”

We sprang into stealth mode, all of us
sitting back, darting our gazes around the room at the other
employees. With the official kick off of the holiday season coming
up, Holt’s had hired a ton of new sales clerks. They were all
seasonal workers, here only until the first of January.

All the new faces I spotted seated around the
breakroom looked as tired and worn out—and kind of shell-shocked—as
all of us permanent employees.

Retail work had that effect on people.

If one of them had stolen Bella’s string
cheese it wasn’t readily apparent, not that I could see,
anyway.

The breakroom door swung open and banged
against the wall. I didn’t have to look in that direction to know
that Rita, the cashiers’ supervisor, had burst into the room.

Rita was about as wide as she was tall—which
would have been okay except that she continually dressed in stretch
pants and knit tops with farm animals on the front.

Her goal in life was to make lives
miserable—especially mine.

“Your lunch break is over, princess,” she
barked at me.

I hate her.

“I have four more minutes,” I told her. It
wasn’t true, but so what.

“Some kids just dumped half the greeting
cards onto the floor,” Rita said. “You need to go pick them
up.”

I was about to make the kindest remark I
could think of regarding Rita and what I thought she could do with
the greeting cards—it did not involve me picking them up—when a
girl hopped up from the table next to ours and said, “I’ll do it,
Rita. No problem. I was finished eating anyway.”

Okay, that was weird.

And disappointing—for Rita, anyway. She
glared at me and I glared back—yes, just like eighth grade.

“I’m glad to help out,” the girl said.
“Anything I can do, just let me know. That’s what I’m here
for.”

“Thank you, Gerri,” Rita said. She mad-dogged
me until Gerri dumped her trash and clocked-in, and the two of them
left the breakroom.

“She’s one of the new people,” Sandy
said.

I figured, because I hadn’t seen her before.
She was probably early twenties with dark hair, and kind of average
in height, weight, and looks.

“What was she eating for lunch?” Bella
demanded.

“Gerri’s a really hard worker,” Sandy said.
“We were in the shoe department yesterday and, wow, she was
shelving merchandise like a ninja. I think she’s hoping they’ll
keep her on after Christmas, or maybe give her more hours.”

“More hours in this place? No thanks,” I
said.

“I ought to check out her trash,” Bella
mumbled.

“She probably needs the money,” Sandy said.
“Especially with Christmas coming up.”

I couldn’t argue with that. And, really, the
income from Holt’s had been a lifesaver when I’d started here last
year. I was lucky to have a full time job at L.A. Affairs that paid
well, but since my benefits hadn’t kicked in yet, I was sticking it
out here because of the medical coverage.