Messenger Bags and Murder (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  Mindy hadn’t heard Elita was dead. Apparently, the conference center was keeping it quiet and, possibly, had no intention of announcing it. Their PR department was, no doubt, working overtime to deal with the news. I wondered what reason they would give for Elita’s absence—if they addressed it at all.

  That made me think about Olivia Trent. As the hostess supervisor, she wouldn’t have stepped into the situation with Elita’s demands for changes to her booth unless the assigned hostess had been unable to deal with the last minute, somewhat outrageous, additions Elita wanted. When that sort of thing happened, it often escalated the problem rather than eased it.

  One thing was certain—no matter how difficult Elita had been, the whole incident would have looked bad to everyone up the Severin supervision chain. The equipment, and the time and manpower needed to install it, cut into the conference profit. And, of course, it looked bad that nobody had anticipated the requests and prepared for them. Also, according to Mindy, the situation had risen into a full-on confrontation, something that could blow back on Olivia for not effectively dealing with an unhappy client.

  I strolled along the walkway, imagining myself in Olivia’s position. There would be explanations she’d have to give. Her competence might be called into question. Maybe her job would be on the line.

  All because of Elita.

  And now Elita had been murdered.

  I wondered, too, what had prompted the changes to the booth. Mindy had said Elita wanted audio and video installed for a demonstration. Did she intend to showcase Rosalind’s culinary skills? Elita had treated her like a show pony, so it made sense that she’d push Rosalind’s celebrity as far as she could to publicize her B&B.

  But was Elita behind the changes? Or was it Rosalind?

  Maybe Rosalind had insisted on the demo. Maybe she felt entitled, after winning the nationally televised cooking championship. Maybe the modest, timid smiles I’d seen on her face were calculated, fake, a way to make herself look humble and, therefore, sympathetic and deserving.

  Really, I had no way of knowing, at this point.

  I needed to find out more about Rosalind and Olivia. I’d get on that first thing tomorrow. A warm glow ignited in my chest thinking that now I had two suspects I could tell Jack about.

  My phone chimed. I dug it out of my handbag and saw that I had a message from Priscilla, wanting an update. I was tempted to ask her why the heck she’d sent Mindy here to represent L.A. Affairs, but decided to let it go for now. I also wanted to know who Priscilla had assigned to handle my events while I was here, but decided that, too, could wait until tomorrow.

  Really, there’s only so much I can handle at once.

  I tapped an enthusiastic message to Priscilla—sprinkled liberally with emojis, which proved everything was great—and sent it. As I was tucking my phone away, it chimed again, signaling another text message.

  The image of Ty flew into my head. He’d been okay with me needing time to think things over, but he wouldn’t wait for long. Had his patience run out?

  Then Mom appeared in my thoughts. Was she wanting my response to whatever the heck she’d asked me about earlier?

  I braced myself and looked at my phone. Liam’s name appeared.

  Jeez, why do I always think of him last?

  His text said he missed me, but understood my work situation. It was sprinkled liberally with emoji’s—which proved everything was great. Right?

  I tucked my phone away and headed back toward the conference center. Lights still blazed at the crime scene. The helicopter lifted off.

  I thought about Jack. I wondered how he was holding up. I wondered if he’d made any progress on the investigation.

  I wondered where he was sleeping tonight.

  Chapter 6

  Kayla claimed she never ate breakfast—her way of not admitting she had a hangover, which I was totally onboard with since I’d made the same claim a time or two myself—so I left her in the room we shared and headed for the conference area. I’d selected a totally awesome gray suit with a do-I-know-how-to-accessorize-or-what Coach satchel, and felt pretty darn good.

  The suit and pumps were just the excuse I needed to blow off the conference’s recommended morning bird walk—I mean, really, a bird walk?—but since Priscilla was tracking our every movement as if we were a parolees with ankle bracelets, I stepped outside and snapped a selfie in front of some bushes. I sent it to her along with a glowing report on all the birds I’d seen, complete with lots of hey-this-thing-is-great emojis.

  As I crossed the lobby and walked down the main corridor, I saw that the double doors to the exhibit hall were still closed. I spotted a breakfast station set up nearby, manned by a Severin employee doling out coffee and pastries. Several conference attendees clustered around it while others chatted and worked their phones.

  Coffee and pastries—really, caffeine and sugar. Just the boost my morning needed. The only way it could have been better was if I were at a Starbucks—the best place on the planet—having my favorite drink in the entire universe, the mocha frappuccino.

  I headed for the breakfast station then froze when I spotted something even more delectable—Jack Bishop. My heart rate picked up a little.

  Oh my God, he looked fabulous. He had on a dark suit and conservative necktie, and was standing with two hot looking guys, both of whom were tall and muscular—as if all they did was workout and eat kale—and were totally handsome dressed in great suits. Though I didn’t know them personally, I was positive they worked for Jack. They were just the sort of security guys he employed.

  Jeez, if only I could get him to let me assist with the hiring—of course, there’d be the problem of how many tissues I’d go through with all the drooling I’d be doing. I was positive I could push through.

  Jack finished his conversation and the two guys moved away. He spotted me and walked over.

  I really wished I could do a slow motion hair flip right now.

  “Anything new?” I asked.

  Up close, I could see the tight lines around his eyes and mouth, the worry etched in his brow. I wasn’t used to seeing Jack this way. I didn’t like it. It made me worry, too.

  He glanced around and moved closer. Wow, he smelled great.

  “The detectives reviewed the surveillance tape,” he said in a low voice. “There’s no coverage at the labyrinth walk, so nothing helpful there. The gardeners admitted they left their equipment near the crime scene, but said it wasn’t unusual since it’s out of sight of the guests. Severin management confirmed it.”

  Jack hadn’t held back the info—which was unusual for him, and told me how desperate he was for any help I could give him. It also meant the cops were still looping Jack in on developments, a good sign.

  “So the detectives are thinking the murderer knew the equipment would be there?” I asked. “An employee?”

  He shrugged. “Or anybody who’d walked the grounds, looking for a place and method to murder somebody.”

  “Still, likely an employee,” I said. “The area near the labyrinth exit is rugged, compared to the rest of the grounds. A guest wouldn’t likely go there.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “I got some background on the victim. Married. Grown kids. No criminal activity. No red flags, so far.”

  I thought about telling Jack what Mindy had mentioned in the bar yesterday about how Elita had re-married and hadn’t changed her name, but didn’t see how it fit into the murder investigation. Besides, I knew his office staff would find out on their own.

  “There was a confrontation between Elita and the hostess supervisor yesterday,” I said. “It got ugly.”

  Jack’s brows rose, telling me he hadn’t heard this.

  “Her name is Olivia Trent. I’m going to talk to her today,” I said. “Have the detectives spoken with Rosalind Russo?”

  His lip twitched. “They haven’t made that connection yet.”

  I took that to mean Jack hadn’t passed along the info on Rosalind that I�
�d given him yesterday. I didn’t blame him for not sharing. He’d want—need—to solve this murder himself, if he had any hope of salvaging the reputation of his business. I knew, too, that the homicide detectives would find their way to Rosalind, sooner rather than later, which meant Jack had to solve it fast.

  “I’ll let you know what I find out,” I said.

  Jack nodded and left.

  Kayla and I were expected to attend one of the workshops this morning. No way could I face a kill-me-when-I-doze-off presentation without a brain boost. I grabbed a doughnut and coffee—thank God there was French vanilla creamer—at the breakfast station and settled at one of the tall tables nearby.

  The crowd in the main corridor had picked up, and surged forward when a Severin employee unlocked the doors to the exhibit hall. Immediately, my gaze locked onto the Titan messenger bag on display.

  Sure, Jack had a much bigger problem on his hands, but I wondered who—if anyone—was looking for the stolen bags. The theft was a huge deal. Four bags, costing thousands of dollars. They’d have to be replaced, along with the donated swag, before the giveaway at the end of the conference—no way to back out now, with the display bag prominently featured for everyone to see and drool over.

  Who was liable for the loss? The HPA conference? Severin? Jack? Somebody was going to have to shell out major bucks to make this right—and deal with the blow back to everyone’s reputation if word got out about the theft.

  And what about the swag inside each of the stolen bags? If anyone came forward trying to use one of the vouchers, would it be honored? Or would they be accused of receiving stolen merchandise and face a police investigation?

  I sipped my coffee and finished my doughnut. Yeah, okay, the bags were totally hot, raging-fantastic. But who would want four—I mean, really, four—of them? What could be done with them? Sell them, or maybe give them as gifts. So that meant the thief could be a Casale lover, or a plain old criminal looking to move the bags for a quick profit—both of which would make recovering them almost impossible.

  Not great news for Jack’s reputation.

  I checked the time on my phone—no text from Priscilla, thank God—and saw that the first workshop would begin shortly. I could have sat there and had more coffee or another doughnut—tempting, yes—or I could have gotten a jump on the day’s activities, reviewed the conference schedule, planned all the things I could do to promote L.A. Affairs and enhance our reputation among the conference attendees—the thing Kayla and I had been sent here for.

  No way. Not when Jack needed my help to solve a murder, and outrageously fabulous Titan messenger bags had to be recovered.

  I dumped my trash and headed into the exhibit hall. Rows of vendor booths wound around the huge room. There was a low rumble of conversations as people moved through the aisles.

  After getting momentarily distracted by the Titan messenger bag on display—and noticing the swag donation brochures had been removed—I moved along with the crowd. Right away I spotted Mindy manning the L.A. Affairs booth.

  Our booth looked good, stocked with brochures, business cards, and photos of some of the extravagant events L.A. Affairs had staged. I recognized several of the parties I’d handled. Cool.

  “Would you like a brochure?” Mindy asked, holding one out.

  Good grief.

  “It’s me,” I said. “Haley.”

  Mindy frowned.

  “I work here,” I added.

  “Oh, yes. Of course, Hannah.”

  “Haley,” I told her. She didn’t seem to hear me so I pushed on. “How’s it going?”

  Honestly, I wasn’t all that interested in how much traffic our booth was getting, and yeah, sure, that sounded kind of bad of me. What I wanted was to catch Rosalind here and, hopefully, Olivia, too, so I could talk to them and either mark them off of my I-think-you-did-it suspect list, or get them to whoo-hoo-look-at-me-go confess. I needed to find them quickly. I didn’t have forever to solve Elita’s murder.

  “Everybody is so friendly, and is saying such nice things about us. Our brochures are going fast. I had to re-order already.” Mindy’s smile vanished as she nodded toward the booth next to ours. “All’s quiet over there, thank goodness.”

  No one was manning Elita’s booth and no brochures were on display. Prominently positioned was Rosalind’s photo featuring the Comfort Food Championship logo. No mention of a scheduled cooking demo.

  “Has Rosalind been here yet?” I asked.

  Mindy ignored my question, or wasn’t paying attention, or wasn’t listening. I don’t know which. I never know what’s going on with her.

  “I’m surprised Edith—or Elita, or whatever—isn’t here yet,” Mindy said, still eyeing the B&B booth.

  Obviously, Mindy still hadn’t learned that Elita was dead. I had heard no official announcement from the conference. Apparently, as I suspected, they were going to keep a lid on the whole thing.

  “I hope Rosalind gets here soon,” Mindy said, and sighed. “I can’t wait to see her cooking demonstration.”

  I couldn’t wait to ask her if she had an alibi for Elita’s murder.

  “What about Olivia?” I asked. “Has she been by yet?”

  “Oh, Zander, that was quick,” Mindy said, doing a little finger wave at somebody behind me.

  Again, she ignored my question. Good thing I was so self-confident. I could get a complex.

  A guy in a Severin polo shirt, pushing a cart loaded with boxes, stopped at the booth. He was blonde, maybe a college student, kind of hot looking. I recognized him from yesterday at the Titan messenger bag display when he’d delivered brochures there.

  He flashed a big smile. “I’m here to serve,” he said, and started unloading L.A. Affair tri-folds from one of the boxes.

  “Zander keeps all the booths stocked,” Mindy said to me. “I don’t have to go to the stockroom for anything. In fact, none of the vendors bother going back there.”

  At the word stockroom, visions of the other portion of my life popped into my head. Despite my oh-so fabulous position at L.A. Affairs, I still had my part-time job at Holt’s Department Store—long story. While I did a bang-up job as an event planner, I’d put my own spin on my sales clerk duties, which included hiding out from customers in the store’s stockroom.

  The image of my ex-official boyfriend Ty flamed in my head, along with the things that had happened with him in the Holt’s stockroom. Nothing naughty, just … well, anyway, I couldn’t think about that now. Ty had given me the shock of my life a few days ago when he’d showed up at my apartment. I’d dodged a response but … well, I couldn’t think about that now, either.

  “Thank you, Zander,” Mindy said, bringing me back to the moment.

  “Let me know when you need anything else. I’m just a text message away.” Zander nodded to Elita’s booth. “I’m sure I’ll be back as soon as she gets here.”

  He moved on and I decided I should do the same.

  The crowd was starting to thin out as I walked through the aisles. I pretended to look at the exhibits—most of them looked totally awesome, and not one of them seemed like the kind of company you’d find in your spam folder—but I was really trying to spot Rosalind or Olivia. My cell phone chirped so I grabbed it from my handbag and saw a text from Kayla telling me to meet her at the workshop we were supposed to attend.

  Okay, having to do actual conference functions while at the conference was really annoying, but I didn’t have a choice. Then, thankfully, as I was headed for the door I spotted Olivia Trent.

  I recognized her from her photo on the Severin website. I put her at mid-thirties, average height and build, with brown hair pulled back in a no-nonsense low ponytail. She was talking with a guy at one of the vendor booths, smiling and nodding, looking as if her morning was off to a great start.

  I was about to make her day.

  When she moved away from the booth, I stepped up and blocked her path. Olivia drew back, startled.

  “Oh, yes, hello
,” she said, marshalling her required Severin I’m-always-pleasant smile. “Can I help you …?”

  “Haley Randolph. L.A. Affairs,” I told her, and didn’t sound the least bit Severin-like. “I’m very disappointed in your conference.”

  Okay, I could have come out of the gate with a nicer comment, but I figured I’d put her on the defensive immediately, and in her desperation to smooth things over with me I could catch her off guard with my questions about Elita’s murder.

  That’s how all we super-cool sort-of private investigators roll.

  Olivia drew herself up straighter and presented me with her I-can-fix-this expression.

  “What seems to be the trouble?” she asked.

  “I found a dead body here.”

  Her I-can-fix-this expression vanished quicker than a Betsy Johnson handbag on a Macy’s after-Christmas sale table.

  “And no one, not one single person from Severin, has spoken with us,” I told her.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but I didn’t give her a chance. Thanks to having witnessed my beauty queen mom’s I’m-better-than-you attitude with which she’d plowed through entire management chains from receptionist to corporate president, I knew I had this.

  “Kayla, L.A. Affairs’ other representative here, is completely distraught. I’m not sure she’ll be able to continue with the conference,” I told her.

  Kayla could, of course, as long as the wine held out.

  “Frankly, I’m appalled by the indifference that has been shown to Kayla and me,” I said. “I expected Severin to have higher standards.”

  I kept going, figuring I was rolling pretty good.

  “As you know, this is our first experience at HPA. So far, I’ve been able to keep the news from my management team at L.A. Affairs.” I executed one of my mom’s haughty eyebrow bobs, a favorite of hers. “But after the lack of concern from everyone here at Severin, I’m not sure why I should continue to do so.”

  “Shannon hasn’t spoken to you?” Olivia asked, and looked genuinely surprised.

  “She most certainly has not,” I told her. “Where is she? Is she as upset by this horrific news as Kayla? Is she being ignored by Severin also?”