Messenger Bags and Murder (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  Bliss must have realized that, too, because she gestured grandly to the labyrinth entrance.

  “Walk at your leisure. You’ll easily see the exit and the path back to the conference center,” she said. “May you have a journey of self-discovery that brings you joy and peace.”

  Kayla and I paused in front of the tall shrubs, snapped selfies for Priscilla, and headed into the labyrinth. The walkway was just wide enough for us to walk side-by-side and the shrubs that bordered it were taller than me, giving it a tunnel effect. Moonbeams lit the way, along with minimal lighting that ran alongside the path.

  “Are you feeling any internal peace yet?” Kayla asked, as we followed the curving trail.

  “No,” I said.

  “How about tranquility?” she asked.

  “Not a bit,” I said.

  “I say we look for some tranquility at the bar.”

  I couldn’t disagree.

  We picked up our pace and followed the winding route until we finally spotted a break in the wall of shrubs up ahead.

  “The exit. Thank God,” Kayla said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  But as we drew closer, I saw something lying across the path just outside the labyrinth.

  I got a weird feeling.

  It was a woman. Moonbeams highlighted blood and yucky stuff that covered a big smashed-in spot on her head.

  Oh, crap.

  No way was I feeling any internal peace or tranquility now.

  She was dead.

  Chapter 3

  “Oh my God,” Kayla gasped. “Is she—”

  “Yes.”

  “—dead?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dead?”

  The woman lay just steps outside the labyrinth exit, sprawled across the path and onto the grass. Blood pooled around her and glistened in her blonde hair from the huge dent in her skull.

  “Murdered,” I said.

  “Murdered? Are you—are you … sure?” Kayla asked.

  Obviously, this was Kayla’s first homicide. Wish I could say the same for myself.

  “Do you know who she is?” I asked.

  “What? No.”

  We both hesitated a moment, then leaned a little closer. I figured the woman for mid-40s, trim, dressed in a well-accessorized, bright red pantsuit that I knew immediately was by Zac Posen.

  Kayla gasped again. “I saw her. In the conference center. Oh my God. She was with that celebrity chef. You saw them, too.”

  “I did?”

  “The chef from the TV show. She was just named champion of one of those cooking competitions.” Panic crept into Kayla’s voice. “Oh my God. They were together. Is that chef dead, too?”

  Kayla was on the edge of losing it—not that I blamed her—so I caught her arm and turned her away from the body.

  “Go back through the labyrinth,” I said. “If you see anybody, make them to go back—but don’t tell them why, just say somebody is sick. We don’t want anybody to panic. Then tell what’s-her-name at the entrance not to send anybody else through.”

  She gulped hard, gave me a quick nod, and hurried away.

  I stepped through the labyrinth exit—careful not to disturb anything—and looked around. The wooded area had been left pretty much in its natural state; nothing had been trimmed, cut, or sculpted. The only lighting was along the walkway back to the conference center and the moonlight that filtered through the tall trees. Nothing moved. No sign of the possibly dead celebrity chef.

  I called Jack.

  My call went to voicemail. I hung up and called back. Jack always answered my calls. I hoped his failure to pick up meant he was doing something fun, because I was pretty sure it would be the last fun thing that would happen to him this week.

  My call went to voicemail again. I called back.

  It was Jack’s first time at the conference, the first time his company was providing security here. He’d scored a huge opportunity. And somebody had been murdered on his watch.

  Not good.

  Jack picked up.

  “I can’t talk now,” he said in a hushed voice. “I’m dealing with something.”

  “I know. I’m at the conference, too,” I told him. “You found out what happened already? Wow. Impressive.”

  “If stolen messenger bags are my biggest problem this week, I can relax.”

  “Messenger bags? What are you talking—oh my God, the Titan messenger bags were stolen?” I might have said that kind of loud.

  Jack didn’t respond. I felt the tension coming through my phone.

  “Talk to me, Haley,” he finally said. “Are stolen messenger bags my biggest problem? Can I relax?”

  “I wouldn’t wait for internal peace or tranquility,” I said. “You’ve got a really big problem.”

  ***

  “That’s her.” Kayla turned her phone toward me. “Rosalind Russo, the celebrity chef.”

  We were seated in the conference center bar drinking wine—which we both really deserved, after the labyrinth walk. I’d waited until Jack and two of his guys showed up, and hung around long enough to give him a quick rundown of what had happened. No way did I want to be there when the homicide detectives and crime scene techs showed up.

  “It was the Comfort Food Championship. Six weekly challenges on one of the food networks. The series is huge,” Kayla said.

  The bar was busy but quiet—even here everyone spoke in a low voice.

  “Rosalind won,” she said. “The show just aired. See?”

  I watched on Kayla’s phone as confetti rained down on a group of apron-clad contestants in a faux kitchen, forcing we’re-on-camera-so-we-have-to-look-like-good-sports smiles. In the center was Rosalind Russo tearfully laughing while looking genuinely surprised and modest. She was probably mid-thirties, with brown hair twisted in a neat up-do, and a waistline that indicated she’d put a lot of effort into tasting her own creations.

  “I saw Rosalind with the … the victim,” Kayla said, and knocked back her wine again. “When Shannon showed us the Titan messenger bag. You must have noticed them.”

  My thoughts spun back until they landed on the woman in the bright red pantsuit I’d spotted as she worked the room; Rosalind had been alongside her.

  “So what’s Rosalind doing here?” I asked, and sipped my wine. “Wouldn’t the network have all sorts of publicity lined up for her? Flashier publicity than this place? I mean, really, a conference appearance for a TV celebrity?”

  “You’d think,” Kayla said and laid her phone aside. “Do you suppose we’ll have to talk to the police about … you know?”

  I was ready to launch into my this-is-how-you-talk-to-homicide-detectives speech, but I was afraid it would create questions that I didn’t want to answer.

  “We saw nothing, so there’s nothing much to tell them,” I pointed out.

  “Yeah, I guess.” Kayla gulped down the rest of her wine and signaled the server for another. She fidgeted for a moment, then said, “So that means somebody here is a murderer.”

  Her gaze darted around the room full of strangers, and I knew what she was thinking. But there was nothing I could say to make her feel better. I wasn’t feeling so great myself.

  “Are we safe here?” Kayla asked. “Your friend who’s handling security, Jack. He knows what he’s doing?”

  “He does,” I said. “And the police have started investigating already.”

  The server brought Kayla’s wine. She drained half the glass.

  “Do you think they’ll cancel the conference?” she asked.

  “More likely they’ll ignore the whole thing. No way would HPA or Severin want any negative publicity,” I said.

  “But shouldn’t they say something to us?” Kayla asked. “We found a dead body on their grounds.”

  It did seem kind of weird that Shannon, our personal hostess, hadn’t sought us out to offer an apology, or an explanation—or made some kind of overture that might head off a lawsuit. I mean, jeez, we could have at least been
offered a complimentary cheese tray or something.

  “They’ll pretend like it’s nothing? Just sweep it under the rug?” Kayla looked majorly rattled, and the numerous glasses of wine she’d consumed didn’t seem to be helping.

  “Are you going to be okay here?” I asked. “Do you want to leave?”

  “Do you?” she asked, as if she hoped I did so we could grab our bags and make a run for it.

  “I don’t think we’re in any danger,” I said.

  She drained her glass. “But what if the—the murderer saw us at the labyrinth exit? What if whoever did it thinks we can identify him?”

  Yeah, well, okay, there’s that.

  Jeez, trying to sound reasonable and comforting was taking its toll on me.

  “Look,” I said. “If you’re afraid and you want to leave, you should call Priscilla.”

  Kayla mumbled a curse, then moaned. “Priscilla. You know she’ll tell Edie, and Edie will plaster it all over my personnel file. Priscilla will hold it against me forever if I leave and throw shade over the reputation of L.A. Affairs. She’ll assign me every crappy event that comes along.”

  Yeah, Kayla would likely end up being the office radiation canary, and neither of us wanted that to happen.

  “So let’s not mention anything to Priscilla, or anyone at L.A. Affairs,” I said.

  Priscilla had been so wound up when we left the office this morning I figured learning now that Kayla and I had been involved with a murder—no matter how innocently—might push Priscilla into a full blown stroke. No way did I want that noted in my permanent record.

  “Okay.” Kayla nodded. “I guess nothing bad can happen for the rest of the conference, after this.”

  She hadn’t been with me when I’d phoned Jack and he’d told me the Titan messenger bags had been stolen, so she didn’t know that something else bad had already happened. No way was I telling her—or anyone else at the conference. I’d seen that the bag in the display case in the exhibit hall was still in place when we got back from the labyrinth so, hopefully, the theft of the other four bags could be kept quiet. It was a break for Jack and his security team.

  “So,” Kayla began, as if she were anxious to move on to a different topic of conversation. “Did you have to put any major plans on hold to come up here this week?”

  “Nothing on hold,” I said, and finished my wine.

  I had put something major on ignore, though. That whole situation with my ex-official boyfriend Ty Cameron—the one Marcie had nearly lost her mind over when I’d told her about my last conversation with him on the phone this morning on my way into the office—would have to be dealt with. I wasn’t anxious to tackle the subject. Being here at the conference was a good excuse to avoid the whole thing.

  Still, the image of tall, handsome Ty sped through my brain. His family had owned the Holt’s Department Store chain for five generations, which was where we’d met when I took a job as a sales clerk there last year—long story. Our relationship wasn’t exactly as smooth as silk PJs over freshly shaved legs. We’d decided to break up—no, actually, Ty made the decision and I’d gone along with it. Then he left. For three months. Three months without a call, a text, an email. Nothing. Then he showed up at my apartment.

  “You didn’t have anything going on this week?” Kayla asked. “Aren’t you still dating that lawyer?”

  Yes, of course, I was dating Liam Douglas—and I hadn’t forgotten about him. Really.

  Liam was tall, with blonde hair and gorgeous eyes, and a good build. He was handsome, funny, smart, and not only listened when I told him things but actually remembered what I’d said. Our relationship was moving at Grandma-on-a-walker speed, but so far it was working for both of us.

  “Liam and I are still together,” I said. “In fact, I have a date with him—”

  Oh, crap.

  I had a date scheduled with him tonight—tonight—and I’d totally forgotten to tell him I’d left town. But that could have happened to anybody. Right? It didn’t mean something was wrong with our relationship. Right?

  Well, okay, maybe it did.

  No time to think about that now.

  I hopped out of the chair and grabbed my handbag.

  “I’m going to give him a quick call,” I said.

  I dashed between the tables debating whether I could get away with a text message or if I should suck it up and call him. I mean, really, how awful was it that I’d forgotten our date? Liam was entitled to be hurt, or even angry, and I wasn’t all that anxious to face the consequences of my actions—which was bad of me, I know.

  But I’m not big on suspense. I decided this was a phone-call-worthy screw-up, and if Liam was upset, well, I deserved to hear about it.

  Outside the bar I headed down the main corridor and paused near the exhibit hall entrance. Not a lot of people were around. I pulled out my phone and tapped Liam’s name on my contact list, and paced aimlessly until his voicemail picked up.

  I launched into an explanation that I’d had to leave on business unexpectedly and that I was sorry I had to cancel our date.

  I saw no reason to mention that I’d known about it since early this morning.

  As a way to boost my apology, I said I was sorry yet again and ended the call. Then I dashed off a text message with one more apology and even included an emoji sad face and a heart—which proves … well, something. I don’t know what.

  But no way could I figure it out at that moment because Jack Bishop was in the hallway, headed toward me.

  Chapter 4

  Jack strode through the hallway toward me looking awesome in a charcoal gray Tom Ford suit, white shirt, and conservative blue necktie. But he wasn’t just a handsome face and a gorgeous body. He was the kind of guy who could handle anything—anything. Nothing threw him. He possessed a solid core of confidence and strength, and radiated an everything-will-be-okay vibe.

  This was the first time I ever saw a crack in that look.

  Jack stopped in front of me. “What did you see out there?”

  No “hi”, no “hello,” no clever comment. Yeah, Jack was majorly stressed, all right.

  I’d hit the highlights when we’d been at the labyrinth. I understood his need to hear it all again.

  I figured he’d already been grilled by the homicide detectives, the Severin security team, and the HPA staff who’d hired him to make sure nothing like this happened. Likely, he’d face them again in the coming days until the murder was solved.

  “Kayla and I got to the labyrinth at our appointed time,” I told him. “We waited our turn, then went in.”

  “Your turn?” Jack asked.

  “The monitor—what’s-her-name, Bliss—made us wait.”

  “She deliberately held you back?”

  I nodded. Jack’s frown deepened.

  “Bliss said that everyone was afforded the solitude of time alone in the labyrinth,” I explained.

  At the time, it had made sense. Now I wondered if she’d held us back for another reason, a more sinister reason. I could see that Jack thought the same.

  “Nobody was in the labyrinth when we went through,” I said. “When we got to the exit I saw the victim on the ground. I spotted no one nearby, or in the wooded area, or on the path back to the conference center.”

  “Nobody?” Jack asked.

  “Nobody,” I said, and felt like I’d disappointed him, somehow. “Who was she? Did you find out?”

  I wasn’t sure how much info the homicide detectives on the scene had shared with Jack. They could be weird about that sort of thing.

  “Elita Winston,” Jack said. “She owned a bed and breakfast at Lake Arrowhead.”

  Lake Arrowhead was in the San Bernardino Mountains about three hours east of here. Lots of recreation, boating, camping, family activities. Lots of huge vacation homes along the shoreline owned by the wealthy anxious to get out of Los Angeles and into the fresh air.

  “Gardening equipment was discovered nearby,” Jack said. “Looks as if a
shovel was the murder weapon.”

  An ugly picture formed in my mind of Elita Winston exiting the labyrinth, then being struck on the head. I tried to push the image away, but couldn’t.

  “Who was with her in the labyrinth?” I asked.

  “According to the monitor, she went through alone.”

  Okay, that was kind of weird.

  “So, what are the detectives thinking?” I asked.

  Jack shrugged, as if the cops—or anybody—had only a best guess at the moment.

  “There’s speculation that someone followed her there, then waited until she went through the labyrinth and confronted her,” he said. “An argument, maybe, that escalated.”

  “Or somebody was lying in wait for her at the exit,” I said.

  “How would the murderer have known when she’d go through?” Jack shook his head. “Risky.”

  “Not really,” I said. “All the first-time attendees at the conference had priority through the labyrinth. There was a schedule. Everybody was assigned a departure time.”

  Jack sank deeper into thought. I could almost see his mind working, trying to fit the information together.

  “What about Rosalind Russo?” I asked. “Have the detectives talked to her?”

  Jack’s gaze came up quickly. I got a little thrill that, obviously, he hadn’t learned about her yet.

  “She just won a cooking competition on television,” I explained. “The Comfort Food Championship. It was a pretty big deal.”

  “What’s she doing here?” Jack asked.

  “Beats me,” I said. “I saw her with the victim earlier.”

  Kayla had reminded me that I’d seen them briefly when we were with Shannon looking at the messenger bag on display in the exhibit hall. The image of Rosalind and Elita played through my mind. Elita, dressed in a designer business suit—red, to get noticed, and accessorizes right off a Neiman Marcus mannequin—and Rosalind in a mouse-brown dress and flats. Rosalind hadn’t seemed to be enjoying the meet-and-greet as much as Elita.

  “Elita was introducing her to everybody,” I said. “Kind of showing her off.”