Duffel Bags and Drownings
By
Dorothy Howell
Copyright © 2014 by Dorothy Howell
DorothyHowellNovels.com
These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Dorothy Howell.
With love to David, Stacy, Judy, Seth, and Brian
Cover art by Evie Cook
http://evie-cook.artistwebsites.com
Editing by William F. Wu
www.williamfwu.com
Ebook conversion by Web Crafters
http://www.webcraftersdesign.com/
Acknowledgement:
I couldn’t have written this novella without the support of a lot of people. Some of them are: Stacy Howell, Judith Branstetter, David Howell, Evie Cook, the gifted folks at Webcrafters Design, and William F. Wu, Ph.D.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
A Haley Randolph Booklist
Excerpt from Fatal Debt
Excerpt from Maggie and the Law
Chapter 1
“Something major is going down,” Kyla murmured. “Have you heard anything?”
I hadn’t but, of course, I wanted to.
“What’s up?” I asked, filling my cup from the giant coffee maker on the counter.
We were squeezed into the breakroom of L.A. Affairs, the event planning company where we both worked as assistant planners, along with a dozen or so other employees all intent on delaying the start of our work day by spending an inordinate amount of time chatting about what we’d done the night before, what we planned to do today, and how we were going to get out of most of it—or maybe that was just me.
Kayla glanced around, then whispered, “Priscilla stopped Edie in the hallway.”
Kayla—tall, dark haired, and about my age—had worked here longer that I had, so no way would I completely dismiss her warning. Still, the office manager stopping the head of H.R. in the hallway first thing in the morning, while troubling, was no reason to panic—especially before I’d had my first cup of breakroom-stalling-to-get-to-work coffee.
“They were whispering,” Kayla said.
Okay, whispering in the hallway definitely amped things up. But, again, no need to panic. I, Haley Randolph, with my long pageant legs stretching me to an enviable five-foot-nine, my doesn’t-it-make-me-look-smart dark hair, and my I’m-staring-down-25-years-old-and-not-panicking outlook on life, had been through this sort of thing before and knew it could mean absolutely nothing.
In the past few years I’d worked more than my share of jobs: life guard, receptionist, file clerk, and two weeks at a pet store. Add to that a bang-up job in the accounting department of the prestigious we-could-take-over-the-world Pike Warner law firm that could have worked out well for me if it hadn’t been for that whole administrative-leave-investigation-pending thing—long story. I’d landed at yet another fabulous company—another long story—where things hadn’t worked out exactly as I’d hoped—none of which was my fault, of course.
The only job I’d managed to hold onto was a crappy part-time sales clerk position at the equally crappy Holt’s Department Store which I intended to ditch—complete with the take-this-job-and-shove-it speech I’d rehearsed since my second day of employment there and the series of Olympic caliber cartwheels and backflips I intended to execute on the way out of their front door—as soon as my probation was up at L.A. Affairs.
The office was located in a high rise at Sepulveda and Ventura Boulevards in the upscale area of Sherman Oaks, part of Los Angeles, amid other office buildings, banks, apartment complexes, and the terrific shops and restaurants just across the street at the Sherman Oaks Galleria. L.A. Affairs prided itself for its reputation as event planners to the stars, catering to upscale clients, the rich and famous, the power brokers and insiders of Los Angeles and Hollywood—plus anyone else who could afford our astronomical fees.
“It could be nothing,” I said, emptying a packet of sugar into my coffee.
“Or it could be something,” Kayla said, as she poured herself a cup. She gave me a quick nod over her shoulder. “Listen.”
I noticed then that the early morning chatter in the breakroom was more subdued than usual. Not a good sign.
I dumped two more sugars into my cup.
Eve, another assistant planner, wormed her way between Kayla and me. Eve was a petite redhead who was a few years older than me. She was a huge gossip so, of course, I’d become her BFF right away.
“Oh my God, something’s up,” Eve said, as she fumbled to fill her coffee cup. “Something big.”
Kayla and I immediately leaned closer.
“What have you heard?” Kayla whispered.
“Nothing,” Eve told us. “It’s what I saw.”
Kayla and I exchanged a this-is-definitely-something-major eyebrow bob.
“Priscilla and Edie were whispering in the hallway,” Eve said. She paused, indicating the worst part of her story was about to be revealed, and said, “Then they went into Edie’s office.”
Oh my God. Kayla had been right. Something major was definitely going down. I grabbed two more sugar packets and dumped them into my coffee.
“And,” Eve announced, holding Kayla and me both in but-wait-there’s-more suspense, “they closed the door.”
Oh, yeah. This was bad, all right.
“Do you think they’re going to lay someone off?” Kayla asked.
“Or fire someone,” Eve said. “Maybe more than one person.”
“Several people?” Kayla asked, shaking her head. “Who?”
Kayla and Eve both turned to me, and I got an all-too-familiar sick feeling in my belly. I’d been one of the last people hired at L.A. Affairs. Did that mean I’d be one of the first to go?
“Maybe they’ll fire Vanessa,” I said, and tried for a this-could-work-out-great smile.
Vanessa Lord was the senior planner I was assigned to—though we almost never spoke. She hated me, and I hated her back, of course. Vanessa brought the biggest clients to the firm, which made her the biggest bitch in the firm, unfortunately.
“They’ll never let Vanessa go,” Kayla said. She managed a small smile. “But we can always hope.”
“Keep your eyes open and your heads down today,” Eve advised and left.
“Let me know if you hear anything,” Kayla said, as she grabbed her coffee and headed out of the breakroom.
I topped off my cup with a generous amount of French vanilla creamer befitting the stress of the morning, and followed her out. In the hallway, I saw that the door to Edie’s office was still closed. Not a good sign. I paused as I passed by—which was kind of bad of me, I know—and leaned closer. I heard murmurs but nothing specific—like my name being bandied about—so I went to my office.
I loved my office, my private sanctuary. It had a neutral desk, chair, bookcase, and credenza, and was accented with vibrant shades of blues and yellows. My favorite part was the large window that gave me a fabulous view of the Galleria across the street, and the surrounding area.
I had plenty of work to do, all sorts of events that I was in various stages of plann
ing, but no way could I face them right now, not with this whole somebody-could-get-the-axe-today-and-it-could-be-me thing hanging over my head.
I walked to the window and looked down at the traffic creeping along the crowded streets, and the people rushing to get wherever they were going, and sipped my coffee. I had to admit to myself that this was an occasion when still having an official boyfriend to talk to would be good.
Ty Cameron was my last official boyfriend. He was absolutely gorgeous, super smart, organized, competent and professional, the fifth generation of his family to run the chain of Holt’s Department Stores. If we were still together I could call him, talk this over, and he’d make me feel better—if he wasn’t in a meeting, or on an international conference call, and had time to talk, of course.
We’d broken up for obvious reasons.
I sipped my coffee and thought about calling my best friend Marcie Hanover. She worked at a bank in downtown Los Angeles and was always available to discuss a problem, a fabulous new handbag I’d seen, or just about anything, as a BFF would.
But this didn’t seem like a good time to call her.
It seemed like a good time to leave.
No way did I want to be around when Edie’s office door opened, she and Priscilla walked out with personnel folders in their hands—possibly one with my name on it—and started calling people in. So naturally, fleeing my private sanctuary was the only thing to do.
I got my handbag—a terrific Chanel bag that perfectly accessorized my awesome navy blue business suit—grabbed an event portfolio, and left.
***
I got my Honda from the parking garage and headed west on Ventura Boulevard toward Encino. Traffic wasn’t bad, considering, so it didn’t take long before I reached the shopping center where Cady Faye Catering, my excuse to get out of the office, was located.
As I made the left turn into their parking lot, a black Land Rover pulled out of the driveway and turned right. I caught a glimpse of the driver. Oh my God, it was Jack Bishop. I nearly ran up on the curb.
Jack Bishop was a private detective, the hottest hottie in P.I. hot-land. Tall, dark haired, rugged build, and really good looking. I’d helped him out on some of his cases and he’d returned the favor a few times—strictly professional, of course.
For a couple of seconds I considered doing a whip-around and following Jack—just to be sociable, of course—but it was a total high school move and I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I did wonder, though, why Jack had been at this shopping center.
Was he on a case? A stakeout? Maybe involved in some high-stakes, international, super-secret job?
His life was so much cooler than mine.
I glanced at the businesses that occupied the complex with Cady Faye Catering—a dry cleaners, a real estate office, a dentist, a scrapbooking store, a gift shop, a nail place, and a restaurant specializing in vegetarian tacos. I preferred to think that a totally hot private detective wouldn’t shop at any of those places, but I guess even Jack Bishop needed to get his teeth cleaned or his shirts pressed.
I cruised past the stores and the large display window that had “Cady Faye Catering” printed on it in large white letters. I’d been inside their shop on my first visit here a few weeks ago and knew there were comfortable seating areas, books with photos taken at previous Cady Faye catered events, all set in tasteful décor befitting their upscale clientele.
Cady Faye Catering had built a great reputation over the past few years and had asked to be added to the L.A. Affairs’ list of approved vendors. None of the other planners had wanted to take a chance on them. L.A. Affairs lived or died by its reputation so none of the planners wanted to make a mistake—and possibly lose their job—by giving something as important as the selection of the caterer to a company no one had worked with before.
I’d learned about Cady Faye—owned and operated by two sisters, Cady Wills and Faye Delaney—a few months ago when I’d stopped by my parents’ house as the caterers were setting up for one of Mom’s dinner parties. My mom was a former pageant queen—really—who thought she was still a pageant queen, so no way would she cook for her own party. She’d never complained about Cady Faye’s food or service—and believe me, if Mom hadn’t liked anything about them she’d have said so multiple times—which assured me they’d done a great job.
I’d gone to Priscilla, the office manager at L.A. Affairs, and told her I’d like to give Cady Faye a try. Priscilla had given me raised eyebrows and a slow headshake, but I’d persisted. The more Priscilla had resisted, the more I’d wanted to use them—which I prefer to think of as my generous spirit, not the mile-wide stubborn streak some people have mentioned, as if it were a personality flaw. Priscilla had finally given in and agreed to let me use them, but I’d gotten a this-better-work-out grimace from her.
I could have tried out Cady Faye Catering on a small, simple event, but I’d gone with something bigger—a St. Patrick’s Day party being given by Xander and Nadine Brannock, a young, up and coming Hollywood couple. I’d figured that at a rip-roaring St. Pat’s bash I could see how Cady Faye operated—plus hardly any of the guests would be sober enough the next day to remember the food at all.
I circled to the back of the shopping center and parked at the rear entrance alongside two of Cady Faye’s delivery vans. Nearby were a truck unloading bread and a van from Maisie’s Costume Shop, as well as a couple dozen other vehicles. Another catering delivery van was backed up to the open double doors. Cady Faye was expanding so construction work was underway on both sides of their shop. I grabbed my portfolio and squeezed past the delivery van into their small receiving area.
Inside, a line of workers in white smocks and hairnets carried boxes and trays to the van, preparing to head out for a luncheon somewhere, apparently. A dozen or so guys and girls—servers, I figured, since they looked like college students—milled around, some wearing a Cady Faye Catering uniform, others in street clothes. Construction workers hauled around equipment. The place smelled like sawdust and fresh baked bread.
I spotted Faye Delaney right away. She was an average looking late-thirties gal with sensible hair and comfortable shoes. She was talking to a leprechaun—or, at least, a young woman in a leprechaun costume.
The costume was beyond cool—green vest, bow tie, and jacket over a white shirt, green below-the-knee pants, green and white striped knee socks, and black buckle shoes. The girl looked great in it. She was a couple of years younger than me, tall with brown hair. She’d probably look great in anything
Neither she nor Faye looked happy.
As I walked closer I heard Faye say, “I don’t know why she can’t get here on time. Especially today. She knows full well that—”
“Oh, hi,” the leprechaun said to me, cutting Faye off.
Faye spotted me and instantly morphed into everything’s-great mode.
“Haley, so good to see you,” she said, smiling broadly. She gestured to the leprechaun beside her. “This is Jeri Sutton, one of my hardest working employees. She’s trying on the costume for the Brannock party for me. What do you think?”
“Looks great,” I said.
“Maisie’s Costume Shop is here fitting the servers,” Faye said, and managed a brave smile. “On top of everything else that’s going on.”
I glanced around at the hustle and bustle that bordered on chaos.
“But it’s nothing we can’t handle,” Faye said.
“I’ll go look for Cady,” Jeri said. “Somebody said they thought they saw her here a few minutes ago.”
“Thank you, Jeri,” Faye said, and exhaled heavily. “But don’t be gone too long. I need you to model that costume with a skirt.”
Jeri moved away and Faye said to me, “She’s one of my trusted agents. I don’t know what I’d do without her. She’s in culinary school, you know.”
I didn’t, but Faye kept talking before I could say anything.
“Let me show you our newest toy.” She talked as we walked, telli
ng me about upcoming events.
The place was a bit of a maze, since they’d taken over the stores on each side of their original shop. Construction workers, the catering staff and servers were coming and going as we passed storage rooms, the huge kitchen, a cool room, and a utility room and janitor’s closet.
Faye stopped at the entrance to one of the rooms and gestured grandly.
“The ice room,” she announced. “We’re the first catering company in the area to have one.”
I walked inside. Bare walls, a concrete floor, harsh overhead lighting, several chest freezers, and some sort of hoist. There was a big open water tank sitting atop a metal frame about eight feet off the floor with steps leading up to it and hoses sprouting from it.
I guess Faye picked up on my where’s-the-ice expression because she said, “It’s for making ice sculptures.”
“I thought they were cut out of big blocks of ice with a chain saw,” I said.
“They can be, but look.” Faye opened a big metal door across the room. Inside was a huge walk-in freezer and shelves lined with dozens of ice sculptures ranging in size from a few inches to several feet—green shamrocks, stars, leprechauns, rainbows, and just about everything else Irish you could think of.
“Cool,” I said. “These will look great at the party.”
“We can make them for any occasion,” Faye said. “Let me tell you how it’s done.”
She closed the freezer door and launched into an explanation of how colored water was mixed in the big tank, then pumped into rubber molds and lowered into chest freezers by a hoist, and then everything turned into blah-blah-blah and I drifted off.
That happens a lot.
Edie, Priscilla, and whatever the heck was going on at L.A. Affairs popped into my head. I wondered if I could find a way to stay out of the office for the rest of the day. Maybe tomorrow, too. I mean, jeez, if I wasn’t there, they couldn’t fire me, right?
Faye jarred me back to reality by walking away. I followed, pulled the door closed, and we headed toward what I thought was the front of building—my sense of direction isn’t the greatest—where the display room and offices were located.
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