Messenger Bags and Murder (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  “So you’re done with your ex?” he asked.

  “Ty,” I said, and cringed slightly.

  Shuman amped up his cop-stare and I caved.

  “He came to my apartment,” I said.

  “He’s back? Finally? After what, months? Some sort of sabbatical?”

  I nodded. “He told me he was in love with me.”

  Yeah, just like that. Ty had shown up at my apartment—after no word from him forever—and hit me with the news. He loved me. After everything we’d been through, all the problems, the difficulties, the hurt, the breakup, he’d gone away to find himself and that’s what he’d come up with.

  Shuman looked as stunned as I had been that day when I’d looked up at Ty, who’d showed up out of the blue, standing in my living room, saying the words I’d wanted to hear for so long—only I’d been too shocked to react.

  “Yep, that’s what he told me,” I murmured. “He loves me.”

  It was good to say the words aloud. I’d carried that whole thing around with me for a while now. I’d told Marcie on my way into work on Monday morning, but we hadn’t had a chance to talk about it. And, really, I’d been trying hard not to think about any of it this week.

  Shuman glanced away, as if the words had hit him hard—he knew Ty and I had had our ups and downs—then looked at me again.

  “So, what did you say?” he asked.

  “Ty didn’t push me for a response. He said he wants me to think about our future together so we can discuss it.”

  “You’re willing to do that?”

  Here’s where having this conversation with a BFF like Marcie would have been really different. She’d have been livid, or excited, or stunned, or something. We’d have analyzed every second of my conversation with Ty—what he said, how he said it, what his expression was when he said it—but not so with Shuman. With him, it was just a down and dirty Q&A. I was okay with it.

  “He put his feelings for me out there, which is totally unlike him,” I said. “I can’t ignore that.”

  “You know what the past was like with him.”

  “He seems different now. Maybe the future will be different.”

  Shuman studied me for a long moment. “Do what’s best for you.”

  His words and expression caused a funny little feeling in my belly.

  “I will.”

  He gave me a lopsided grin. “You’d better.”

  I grinned back, then drained my frappuccino, and rose from the table.

  Shuman got to his feet. “Let me know if you turn up anything else on the murder.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  I thanked Shuman for his help, and left.

  But I still couldn’t bring myself to think about Ty.

  ***

  It was dark by the time I exited the 134 and wound through the hills to the small mansion that had been my home for as long as I could remember. Two security lights burned in the circular driveway. Several of the second-floor windows glowed yellow.

  I’d driven here with the intention of confronting Mom, demanding to know what the heck she was thinking and how she could bear to sell our family home. I knew my brother and sister would have done the same, if they’d been here. I knew it was up to me to speak for all of us.

  But somehow, I couldn’t make myself get out of the car.

  I gazed up at the house, at the window drapes I’d helped my mom pick out. Past them were the paint colors Mom had driven us all crazy selecting. She’d finally decided on pale blue for the den, and we’d all loved it. Our Christmas tree had stood in the same corner of the living room every year. In the dining room, we’d had holiday meals. The pool out back had been a constant source of family fun—swimming while my dad grilled burgers and Mom watched from a lounge chair in the shade.

  A heaviness settled over me. I hadn’t been very close with my younger sister, and my older brother was always too busy for me. Dad was often kind of distracted because of his work, and Mom—well, Mom was Mom. But thinking back now I recalled how many good times we’d had. Here, in this house. Together.

  I could hardly stomach the thought of strangers buying our home, moving in, likely changing the paint color, ripping up the flooring, doing who-knows-what to the floor plan, the landscaping. Then I imagined those strangers changing nothing, using our things as if they were now theirs, and my stomach hurt worse.

  My thoughts sped ahead into the future. Mom and Dad wouldn’t be alive forever. Sooner or later the house would be sold. Eventually, my brother and sister and I would have to say goodbye to our family home. Things would change. They would end.

  I stared up at the house, thinking of Mom and Dad inside, alone. Maybe it was sad for them. My sister stayed here occasionally, but really, all of their kids were gone. Maybe a new place would be good for them.

  Maybe it was time to let go.

  I drew in a long breath, thinking that, really, all of those wonderful family memories weren’t in the house—they were in my head.

  I started my car and drove away.

  Chapter 12

  It was back to basics on Thursday morning. I dressed in another of my black business suits—really, you can’t have too many black business suits—this one with a tiny white stripe, and paired it with a totally awesome Prada bag. Kayla had gotten up ahead of me and was already gone so I was on my own for coffee and pastries at the breakfast station in the main corridor. I spotted several women who worked at a caterer that I’d talked with during one of yesterday’s workshops. They invited me to join them.

  Always nice to be invited to join.

  We chatted for a bit, then they headed for the morning’s first session, anxious to get there early for seats up front. Weird, huh? Still, they were all really nice so I couldn’t hold it against them.

  I headed for the exhibit hall thinking I’d talk to Rosalind, question her, and get her to confess to murdering Elita. Yeah, I know, it was a long shot, but it was all I had at the moment. Tomorrow was Friday, the last day of the conference, the last day I’d have access to my suspects, the crime scene, the clues. If I didn’t solve Elita’s murder by then, my chances would be pretty darn low, and Jack’s business reputation would continue its death spiral and maybe crash completely.

  My heart did a little pitter-patter as I passed the Titan messenger bag on display. I still hadn’t heard what was going to happen with the planned giveaway tomorrow. Maybe management was holding out hope the bags would be recovered in time for the closing session.

  I spotted Rosalind at Elita’s B&B booth, deep in conversation with Mindy. It was a little early for me to deal with Mindy, so I trekked through the aisles hoping I’d see Shannon or Olivia or Charles Kent; maybe I could get one of them to confess.

  Instead I saw Zander coming out of the hallway that led to the stockroom, pushing his ever-present cart loaded with supplies for the vendors. No doubt about it, he was giving top-notch, Severin-quality service. He must have made a zillion trips to the stockroom this week. He was the only person responsible for replenishing the vendor booths, and not only had he done it with a smile, he’d even refused help. What a great employee.

  Or was he?

  An idea popped into my head, and grew larger. Zander was constantly in and out of the stockroom. His presence was routine—expected, really. He probably knew everyone who worked back there.

  My footsteps slowed as Zander wheeled the cart down the aisle and disappeared.

  Did he know someone well enough to help him steal and smuggle the Titan messenger bags out of the building?

  My heart’s pitter-patter picked up—but for a whole different reason.

  I glanced around, saw no one watching, then headed down the hallway.

  The passageway took a long, slow curve, designed to keep out prying eyes yet was wide enough to move supplies and equipment with ease. The thick carpet and soothing murals ended abruptly, giving way to a concrete floor and bare walls. The light grew brighter and the noise level amped up.


  I stepped into the stockroom and gasped. Wow, this place was enormous—bigger than an aircraft hangar—and it was packed with supplies. I walked forward trying to take it all in.

  Boxes—mountains of boxes, thousands of them—were stacked everywhere. Some of the shelving units reached the ceiling. There were supplies for the hotel guest rooms, the banquet room, the dining rooms, the break-out rooms—table linens, dishes, glasses, serving pieces, carts, tables and chairs. Another area held supplies for housekeeping—sheets, towels, tissues, tiny soaps and shampoo bottles. A huge corner was filled with vacuums, rug shampooers, and cleaning supplies. I spotted two cages, both padlocked. One held zillions of bottles of liquor and mixers, the other was packed with candy. I saw three huge doors that I figured were freezers and refrigerators.

  There were three personnel doors and two loading docks. A laundry truck was backed up to one of the roll-up doors, and two guys were moving a mountain of dirty sheets from a gigantic bin into the truck. At the other door, another truck was being unloaded.

  I spotted another cage, this one about half full of boxes, and figured it was the minimum security area the Titan bags had been stored in because the padlock dangled from a chain and the door stood open.

  At least a dozen men and women moved through the aisles, gathering things, moving things, dumping things. Not one of them—not a single one—looked at me twice, asked why I was there, or what I was doing.

  I headed back toward the hallway that led to the exhibit hall with the sure knowledge that the messenger bags could have been stolen and taken out of the stockroom with ease, any number of ways. Maybe Zander headed up, or was part of, a theft ring. Maybe a Casale lover had been overcome with the desire to roll around in bed with the four bags. There was no way to know. With the massive amount of supplies in the stockroom I doubted there was an inventory control system in place tight enough to track everything from Dom Perignon to miniature shampoo bottles. How would anybody know if something was taken, much less determine who had taken it?

  Jack was right. Those bags were long gone, and there was little hope of discovering who took them, and no hope at all of recovering them.

  Crap.

  I passed through the exhibit hall—Rosalind and Mindy were no longer at the B&B booth—and headed down the main corridor feeling cranky and out of sorts. The Severin Center had lousy security measures in place for the Titan bags that had allowed them to be stolen—and now Jack’s reputation would pay the price for it. And worse, there was nothing I could do to make it better, to help, and to restore Jack’s good name.

  My morning was off to a crappy start—not a good way to start the day. I needed to turn things around.

  At that moment, I found myself longing to be in my office at L.A. Affairs. There was something about the routine, the familiarity, the I’m-in-charge that sounded good.

  I decided to give Nadine a call and check up on the events I’d so perfectly planned for my clients. Maybe that would give my day a boost.

  Of course, dealing with Nadine wasn’t high on my oh-yeah-this-will-be-fun list, and our previous conversations had been difficult—Nadine seemed to know as much about event planning as the family pet. But I decided to give her another chance. After all, she was trying hard, putting in a lot of effort, and working toward getting promoted. I decided I’d approach her with a better attitude and surely she’d be in a better mood than the last two times I’d spoken with her.

  I was wrong.

  “Look, Haley,” she snapped as soon as she answered my call, “these constant interruptions of yours are throwing off my entire day.”

  Okay, so much for my attempt at being positive.

  “Here’s what I’m dealing with,” Nadine went on. “I’m upgrading the fortieth birthday party for Karen Vaughn. I want a carpet woven with her initials inside a heart, big enough to cover the entire venue. A confetti cannon that will explode when she blows out her candles. Then everyone will move outside where a hovering helicopter will shower guests with rose petals.”

  I glanced down at my phone, then put it to my ear again. Did I hear her correctly? Had she actually said those things—and thought they were good ideas?

  “What the heck are you doing?” I said, and managed not to scream—at least, I thought I hadn’t screamed. “Karen is a librarian. She’s quiet, reserved. She doesn’t want—”

  “Oh, and Priscilla’s been trying to hunt you down. And, believe me, she’s not happy.”

  Nadine hung up.

  Crap.

  Bad enough I’d had to deal with Nadine, now Priscilla was looking for me. Jeez, could my day get any worse?

  And then it did.

  My phone rang. Priscilla was calling.

  My already sour mood spiraled down to I-might-have-to-take-somebody-out. No way was I up to listening to Priscilla complain. But neither was I big on suspense.

  “Yes, well, hello, Haley,” Priscilla said when I answered. “I do certainly hope your day is going well and you’re enjoying your time at the conference.”

  She was in total back-down mode. How weird was that?

  “I just want to say once again how proud all of us here at L.A. Affairs are of you and Kayla,” Priscilla went on. “Edie stopped me in the hall just yesterday and commented on it.”

  What the heck was going on with her?

  “You’re doing a fine job representing us at the conference,” she said. “A very fine job.”

  Had she finally had a stroke sitting at her desk?

  Thank God I wasn’t in the office when it happened. No way did I want to be blamed for it—my personnel file couldn’t take the hit.

  “Yes, we’re proud and pleased with everything you’re doing,” Priscilla said. “And I just know everything is going to go exceedingly well tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I asked.

  “Yes. Tomorrow. Your presentation.”

  My … what?

  Priscilla said, “The last day of the conference is always the most exciting. It’s when each first-time attendee takes the stage and delivers an in-depth report on their company.”

  An in-depth …what?

  “Edie and I discussed it and, of course, you were our first choice to give the presentation,” Priscilla said, “because of your public speaking experience listed on your résumé.”

  My résumé? That stupid thing I’d filled out months ago? I’d put public speaking experience on it? And Edie—the head of HR—and Priscilla had believed it? What the heck was wrong with them? Everybody knew a résumé was total crap. It was expected, really. How would anybody ever get a job if they didn’t lie about their qualifications?

  “So, everyone here at the office has total confidence that your presentation in front of the hundreds of elite industry professionals—”

  Everything Priscilla was saying turned into blah, blah, blah.

  I launched into high-panic mode.

  I had to get up in front of hundreds—hundreds—of people? Elite industry professionals? And give a speech? Tomorrow?

  Yeah, okay, I was all right with public speaking. I could do it. But what the heck was I supposed to talk about? How was I going to get a talk prepared this quickly?

  Something Priscilla said broke into my runaway thoughts.

  “—video of our most prestigious events will play as you read the script,” she said. “So just read the script. That’s important. Follow the script. You’ll do that, won’t you, Haley? You’ll follow the script we’ve prepared?”

  She was starting to sound kind of nervous now. Like maybe she thought I’d try to wing it tomorrow in front of hundreds of people—which I might have to do since I had no idea where the script and the presentation video were.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. I was bordering on total panic mode—but no way could I let Priscilla know.

  Immediately, I channeled my mom’s I’m-better-than-you voice, and said, “Yes, about that script.”

  “I know you’ve been rehearsing all week,” Priscilla said
.

  Okay, so that must mean she’d sent everything to me when Kayla and I left L.A. Affairs on Monday.

  Jeez, I really hope that’s what it means.

  “Everyone here is confident you’ll do an outstanding job,” Priscilla said. “Really. We’re not worried. At all. Really. We’re sure you’ll do a fantastic job … following the script.”

  Priscilla ended the call, but I hardly noticed. I’d hoped my day would get better yet it kept getting worse. And now I had to attend another workshop. But at least in there I could tune out most everything.

  I found the workshop that was already underway and slipped into a chair on the back row. Instead of listening to the speakers, I frantically swiped through my messages from Priscilla and—thank God—found everything she’d sent for the presentation I’d have to give tomorrow.

  During the next workshop and lunch, I grabbed a few minutes to read over the script. Not exactly sizzling remarks likely to drive the elite industry professionals in the audience to the door of L.A. Affairs as if it were news of a 75% markdown at Nordstrom, so I wasn’t sure why Priscilla had insisted I not wing it. Still, it would be easier for me if I just read the script. I could stand easy right now.

  When the last workshop thankfully ended, Kayla and I headed down the corridor together.

  “I say we hit the bar,” she said.

  I was just about to challenge her to a race to a table when my phone buzzed.

  “I’ll catch up with you,” I said, and stepped to the side, out of the flow of everybody else who was likely headed for the bar.

  I dug out my phone and saw that Mom was calling.

  Great. Just what I needed at the end of a crappy day.

  Still, there was a chance Mom had forgotten the whole idea of selling the house, giving my day the boost it desperately needed, so I answered.

  “My agent is on the way over,” Mom announced. “She’s so excited. We have multiple offers on the house.”

  “What?”

  Mom yammered on as if I hadn’t screamed the word into the phone, but it all turned into blah, blah, blah.

  There were offers on our home? For real? Someone—lots of people—wanted to buy it? Now? And we’d have to move out? Leave? Never come back? Just like that?