Slay Bells and Satchels (Haley Randolph Mystery Series)

by Dorothy Howell

  “—laser cut Op Art large wristlet from their Madison line, with perforated leather in an eyelet lace pattern, an inside open pocket, zip-top closure, fabric lining, available in silver and parchment, that retails for two hundred bucks,” I said.

  Jeez, maybe I should get a life.

  “I don’t need a two-hundred dollar wristlet,” Jasmine said. “What I need is grocery money.”

  “Why don’t you—”

  My throat went dry. I couldn’t say the words, yet I had to.

  I gulped hard and tried again.

  “Why don’t you … return it?” I asked.

  “She didn’t include the receipt. I took it to their store at the Northridge Mall—where I was treated like Julia Roberts on Rodeo Drive before Richard Gere shopped with her, by the way,” Jasmine said. “They would only give me store credit.”

  “I’ll buy it from you.”

  The words popped out of my mouth before I could stop them—not that I wanted to.

  Jasmine just looked at me for a couple of minutes, like she was wondering if she’d heard me right, if I really meant it, what I did to earn that much money, or maybe who I was sleeping with who gave me that kind of cash.

  I saw no reason to get into it with her.

  I grabbed my purse and pulled out the two one-hundred dollar bills I kept hidden in my cosmetic bag. It was my don’t-get-embarrassed-at-checkout-if-my-credit-card-is-declined emergency fund.

  Yeah, okay, this was, technically, Jasmine’s emergency, not mine. But I felt really bad for her and I wanted to do something to help. Plus, the Coach wristlet was awesome.

  I held out the money.

  Jasmine didn’t jump at it. She just stared, then said, “Are you serious?”

  “I never kid about designer handbags,” I told her.

  “Oh, wow.” She collapsed onto the couch again and covered her face with her palms. She sniffed.

  Oh my God, was she crying?

  I’m not good with a crier.

  Jasmine sniffed again, dug her fists into her eyes, then looked up at me. Her eyes were red but—whew!—she wasn’t shedding tears.

  “It’s just that, well, nobody’s ever done something like this for me before,” she said softly.

  “It’s a great wristlet. I’m thrilled to have it,” I said.

  I put the money on the couch, then grabbed the box off of the floor and put the wristlet inside.

  “Thank you,” Jasmine said, gazing up at me. “Thanks so much.”

  I could tell she really meant it. But I’m not big on emotional scenes, so I headed for the door.

  “Let me know about your friend,” Jasmine said, following me.

  It took me a second to realize she was talking about my imaginary friend whom I’d said wanted to share the apartment.

  “Oh, yeah, sure,” I said. “I’ll let you know.”

  “Thanks,” Jasmine called, as I went down the stairs.

  Okay, despite giving her money for the wristlet—which was really as much for me as it was for her—I felt like a jerk. I’d come here using the I-have-a-friend excuse because I’d thought Jasmine might have murdered McKenna. While it sounded as if McKenna hadn’t endeared herself to Jasmine—or anyone else—Jasmine didn’t have any reason to kill her. In fact, keeping her alive would have benefited her greatly, because she could have gotten her back-rent out of McKenna from the astronomical first paycheck she was going to receive from the sitcom.

  I walked to my car.

  Now, of course, somehow I was going to have to find Jasmine a roommate. Or maybe I’d just pay half her rent for her. Or maybe I could get Ty to buy a production company and cast her in some big movie.

  And why hadn’t Ty called me? Where was my official boyfriend when I needed him?

  Crap.

  I got in my car, cranked up the air conditioning and called Ty—which didn’t suit me but there it was. He answered—surprise, surprise—right away.

  “I’m really glad you called,” Ty said. He sounded tired, a little weary. “I had a day like you wouldn’t believe. First thing this morning …”

  His words turned into blah, blah, blah, and I drifted off thinking about McKenna getting her big break landing a role in a sitcom, then getting murdered.

  Wow, was that lousy timing, or what?

  “Haley?” Ty asked.

  I realized he’d finished talking and had probably asked me something.

  “Are you there?” he asked, sounding concerned.

  Honestly, you’d think that by now he’d be used to me not listening to him.

  “I’m here,” I said. “Listen, I’d like us to go to the Christmas charity fundraiser this year. It’s Saturday night. Will you be back by then?”

  I heard some shuffling in the background and imagined Ty checking his calendar.

  “I’ve got a meeting,” he said. “I’ll try to make it, but I can’t guarantee it.”

  One thing about Ty, he never made a promise he couldn’t keep. He maintained a record of 100% reliability on this issue by simply never promising anything.

  “I’ll text you the info, just in case,” I said.

  He was quiet for a few seconds—I thought maybe he’d gotten distracted by the allure of a new spreadsheet—then said, “I miss you, Haley.”

  That was nice to hear. It made my stomach feel warm and kind of gooey.

  But before I could tell him that I missed him, too, he said, “I’ve got to run. I’ll talk to you again soon.”

  He hung up before I could say goodbye.

  Okay, that wasn’t exactly the official boyfriend-girlfriend I-can’t-live-without-you-conversation I’d hoped for.

  I decided my day needed a boost.

  The Coach wristlet I’d bought from Jasmine seemed kind of sad, just sitting there in the box on the seat next to me. I decided a new Breathless handbag to put it in would make us both feel better.

  Just as I was about to pull away from the curb, I caught sight of Jasmine in a faded Saturn driving out of her apartment complex. I was going to wave, but she didn’t see me.

  I wondered if she was headed for the grocery store to stock up using the money I’d just paid her, while here I sat with visions of a new handbag dancing in my head.

  Not a great feeling.

  No way could I go shopping now.

  I admired the fact that she was willing to live the way she lived because she was so devoted to her acting. From what my mom had told me, actors attempting to break into the business weren’t treated all that well on-set. They had financial problems, and Jasmine sure seemed to have more than her share of those. Plus, she had to deal with her mom tempting her with expensive gifts, and trying to marry her off to that guy from high school with the maybe-one-day Kia dealership.

  It was a hard life. It almost sounded like it could be a Lifetime movie.

  A jolt hit my brain—and I hadn’t even had any chocolate recently.

  Sitting upstairs and listening to Jasmine talk, I’d believed everything she said. In fact, I’d gotten so caught up in her story I’d bought that Coach wristlet.

  Now I realized she’d never answered my questions about why, if she was so desperate for money, she’d cancelled on the elf job at Holt’s. I’d asked her if she’d come to the store at all that morning, and she hadn’t responded. Instead, she’d launched into that story about her mom.

  Had she just gotten so wrapped up in her own problems that she’d forgotten I’d asked her those things?

  Or had she used those problems to distract me?

  I thought about it for a minute. Jasmine had seemed genuinely upset and distraught about her mom, the Kia guy, McKenna skipping out, and trying to make rent.

  But maybe she’d fooled me.

  She was, after all, an actress.

  Chapter 7

  Six minutes to go.

  I sat in my car outside Holt’s the next morning, enjoying my last few minutes of freedom—and the mocha frappuccino I’d picked up from Starbucks—before I
had to clock-in. The parking lot was filling up with employees arriving for work. The janitor was in front of the store cleaning the big glass windows.

  Nobody looked happy.

  Since I was forced to wear that elf costume, I was also forced to show up a half hour early so I’d have time to squeeze into the thing, do my makeup, and put on that oh-so attractive Santa hat. Luckily, my apartment was near the store. It only took seven minutes to drive here—six, if I ran the light at the corner—but somehow I’d ended up arriving a few minutes earlier than required.

  Obviously, I was going to have to be more diligent about adhering to my established morning routine so this never happened again.

  I’d awakened thinking about Christmas—thanks to that hideous elf costume, no doubt—and immediately it hit me that now would be a good time to get a jump on my holiday shopping.

  Really, it’s never too early to think about shopping.

  Since I had six minutes to kill, I pulled the list that I’d started this morning over my bowl of Cocoa Puffs from my bag—an awesome Prada tote—and looked it over.

  My BFF Marcie topped my list, of course, as a BFF should. I considered giving her the Coach wristlet I’d bought from Jasmine last night, along with a Coach handbag. I’d love to have it myself, so I knew she would, too.

  Next on the list was my sister. She’d die for a L.A.M.B. tote—who wouldn’t? I’d penciled Mom in for a Ralph Lauren satchel.

  Wow, do I have great gift ideas for friends and family, or what?

  Then it hit me. I should make my own wish list.

  I flipped the paper over, dug a pen from my tote, and wrote my name at the top of the page.

  One of the most annoying things about any gift-giving occasion was when the gift recipient insisted they didn’t know what they wanted, they couldn’t think of anything they needed, blah, blah, blah. I mean, really, how could you not know of something you’d like to have? At any given moment, I could recite ten things I wanted, right off the top of my head.

  Immediately, I jotted down a DKNY crossbody and a Lucky Brand satchel, and since you can never have too many satchels, I added the Ralph Lauren bag I’d thought I’d get for Mom. The image of a Louis Vuitton tote sprang into my head—I get that a lot—so I added it to my list. And what gift-giving occasion would be complete without a clutch bag? A Gucci would do quite nicely, I decided, and wrote that down.

  All of these required matching wallets, of course, so I noted that, too.

  My heart began to beat a little faster just looking at the list.

  Images of Christmas flashed in my mind. Me, surrounded by beautifully wrapped gifts. Me, cutting the ribbons, tearing off wrapping paper, ripping open boxes, tossing aside mounds of tissue paper to discover one gorgeous handbag after another.

  Hang on a minute.

  What if I gave my wish list to my friends and family, and somehow, all of them ended up giving me the exact same purse? Oh my God, that would be awful.

  There was only way to prevent this Christmas nightmare from happening.

  I was going to have to assign gifts this year.

  I glanced at my watch and saw that two minutes remained before I had to clock-in, the exact amount of time necessary to walk into the store at a moderate pace, reach the break room, store my handbag in my locker, and get in line at the time clock with fifteen seconds or less to spare.

  Since Holt’s didn’t pay employees for standing in line, I saw no reason to get there early.

  Still, I didn’t like to be late for work. Holt’s employee attendance policy stated that if you were late for work the cashiers’ supervisor wrote your name on the whiteboard in the break room. This meant a confrontation with Rita—I hate her—and while I actually enjoyed a good confrontation, dealing with Rita—I hate her—isn’t the best way to begin a four-hour stretch in a place I really didn’t want to be.

  Plus, if you got your name on the board four times in one month, you got fired. I wasn’t all that excited about keeping this job, but I wasn’t about to give Rita—I hate her—the satisfaction of dropping the ax on me.

  I put my wish list and pen in my tote and got out of my car. Just as I hit the button to lock the doors, a car zoomed into the space next to me. Detective Shuman got out.

  My heart did its usual little oh-wow flip-flop whenever I saw Shuman—which was bad of me, I know, but there it was.

  Then my heart did an oh-no flip-flop when I realized that Detective Madison might be with him. No way did I want to start off my day dealing with him.

  But then I saw that Shuman was alone. My heart did an oh-whew flip-flop as I walked to the back of my car to meet him.

  Shuman looked pretty good this morning. He had on a brown sport coat with khaki trousers and a yellow shirt. He’d paired these with a teal tie, for no apparent reason. Jeez, where was his girlfriend? Wasn’t she dressing him?

  My heart did a little I’m-glad-and-I-shouldn’t-be flip-flop when I realized this probably meant the two of them weren’t living together yet.

  “Solve McKenna’s murder?” I asked, giving him a smile.

  “Sure did,” he said. “Hers and six more just yesterday.”

  Nothing like a little homicide humor first thing in the morning.

  “You called me yesterday,” Shuman said.

  I figured he’d call me back sometime today when he had time. This was way better—I mean that strictly as a concerned citizen anxious to aid law enforcement, of course.

  “I didn’t know if you’d gotten word that only two of the elves reported back to work after the murder,” I said. “Made me wonder about why the others didn’t show up. Most of them were scared, I guess. But maybe one of them was involved in McKenna’s death somehow.”

  Shuman pulled a little tablet from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Who are they?”

  I gave him Alyssa and Nikki’s names.

  Like most homicide detectives, Shuman was tight-lipped about an ongoing murder investigation. But we’d worked together on a few cases in the past—and I am, after all, me—so he was a little freer with details.

  “The victim was struck on the head with a nutcracker,” Shuman said.

  “The big wooden ones that look kind of like soldiers?” I asked.

  I remembered seeing dozens of them tangled with the other Christmas decorations on the floor of the stockroom the morning I’d found McKenna.

  The image of her being struck on the head with one of those things flashed in my head. I pushed it away.

  “Fingerprints?” I asked.

  “Lots of prints,” he said. “Nothing yet that’s any help.”

  “Motive?” I asked.

  He gave me cop-face—which was way hot, of course—so I knew he wasn’t going to give up anything else, unless I had something to offer.

  “McKenna had just gotten a role in a sitcom,” I said. “Starting at—get this—twenty grand an episode.”

  Shuman’s brows rose, and I was pretty sure I could see his thoughts spinning out a motive. “Professional jealousy?”

  “TV roles don’t have understudies. The production company would just re-cast the part, and there’s no guarantee who they’d pick,” I said.

  “That’s a lot of money up for grabs,” Shuman said.

  Greed was a favorite motive among homicide detectives and murderers alike, and following the money trail usually paid off. I couldn’t disagree that somebody—especially a starving actress—would kill for it. Still, I thought there was something else going on.

  “McKenna wasn’t well liked even before she got the role,” I said.

  Yesterday when I’d left Jasmine’s apartment, I’d wondered if she was just playing me by using her acting skills to avoid answering my questions, and instead make me feel sorry for her. Maybe she was honest and sincere. I couldn’t tell for sure. Either way, I couldn’t hold back with Shuman.

  “Talk to Jasmine Grady,” I said. “She and McKenna were roommates. McKenna skipped out on her owing back-rent. It re
ally left Jasmine in a jam.”

  Shuman jotted down the name.

  “Did you know McKenna was living with her boyfriend?” I asked.

  “Trent Daniels,” Shuman said. “I talked to him yesterday.”

  “McKenna moved in with him after she left Jasmine’s place,” I said. “According to Jasmine, the guy was crazy about her. She just wanted free rent.”

  “If McKenna was using him, he didn’t know it,” Shuman said. “Or maybe he didn’t care.”

  Or maybe Jasmine had made the whole thing up to throw suspicion off of herself.

  “Do you think he really loved her?” I asked.

  “I think he was a little weird. I’ve still got to run a background check on him,” Shuman said. He tapped his tablet. “Money troubles are usually the best leads.”

  We stood there for a couple of minutes, quiet, both of us lost in thought, then Shuman said, “I’d better go.”

  Activity in the parking lot had ceased. No more I’m-desperate-for-a-job employees pulled up, parked, and went inside. That could only mean I was late for my shift.

  “Me, too,” I said.

  Still, we just stood there looking at each other until we both realized what we were doing.

  “See you,” Shuman said, walking away.

  “Yeah, okay,” I said, and headed for the store.

  At the door I stopped and looked back. Shuman stood outside of his car watching me.

  My heart did another flip-flop, and I went inside.

  Already, the Christmas trees on display were lit. “Frosty the Snowman” played on the store’s public address system. The giant toy bag sat at the ready near the fake fireplace.

  I hurried back to the break room. No one was inside, not even Rita—I hate her. I thought that maybe I’d gotten lucky and she was late for work, too, but then I saw my name already written on the whiteboard.

  Damn.

  Yeah, okay, I was late for work because I’d been talking to Shuman in the parking lot, but that was way better than talking to him here in the store. I’d die—absolutely die—if Shuman or anyone else I knew caught me wearing that elf costume.