Beach Bags and Burglaries (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  “She doesn’t look like a maid, does she?” Marcie said. “More like a beauty pageant contestant than a—”

  “No beauty pageant talk,” I said.

  My mom was a former pageant queen. Actually, she thought she was still a pageant queen. She and my dad lived in the house I’d grown up in with my brother and sister, a small mansion in La Cañada Flintridge that overlooked the L.A. basin. The house had been left to Mom—along with a trust fund—by her grandmother, allowing Mom to take what she saw as her rightful place among the wealthy and privileged of Los Angeles, which was all well and good—unless you’re her daughter and can’t quite live up to her look-at-me-I’m-a-beauty-queen expectations.

  But I’m not thinking about that now. I’m on vacation.

  Jaslyn Gordon looked more like someone who’d be a guest at the resort rather than an employee. She had long, pale blond hair and huge blue eyes, and was exceptionally attractive—movie star attractive. According to the news story, she was a twenty-one-year-old college student working at the resort during semester breaks.

  “How do you go missing on an island?” Marcie said. “How many places could there be to look for someone?”

  “Probably a lot,” I said.

  According to the info provided by the travel agent, Rowan Island—as the old geezer himself had named it—was average size, as islands go. The eastern portion of the island was gently sloping land on which the hotel was situated. Sandy beaches suitable for swimming and water sports swept around to the south side of the island. To the west behind the hotel grounds, the hills grew higher and more rugged, reaching impressive peaks with sheer cliffs that dropped off into the ocean.

  “She must have left the island and nobody realized it,” Marcie said. “You know, like a family emergency or something.”

  Marcie could have been right—she’s almost always right—but I doubted it this time.

  “The security personnel are bound to keep track of who comes and goes from the island. Probably an employee ID card they have to swipe. How else would they know for sure that she’s missing?” I said.

  “Maybe she really did commit suicide by jumping off the cliffs,” Marcie said.

  “Maybe. Or maybe whoever pushed her over the edge left her things there so it would look like she jumped,” I said.

  “Oh, dear,” Marcie mumbled.

  I didn’t like that picture in my head either, so I pushed it out.

  “It sounds like the police aren’t sure what happened,” Marcie said. “The online news reports are still calling her disappearance mysterious.”

  The tram turned onto another narrow road, and the Rowan Hotel came into view. The gray stone building was three stories tall, topped with an additional story of crenulated towers on the corners that made it look like one of those old castles in Europe. Zillions of flowers, shrubs, and palm trees were everywhere. People dressed in comfy casual attire—that surely costs thousands—strolled around, while others climbed into and exited trams.

  “Look!” Sandy shouted, bouncing up and down on the seat in front of us. “It’s Brad Pitt!”

  I spotted a woman carrying a Sea Vixen beach tote.

  “It’s him! It’s him!” Sandy declared.

  Oh my God, the Sea Vixen looked even better than I had imagined. I absolutely had to get one.

  “Where?” Bella asked, bobbing and weaving to get a better look out the window.

  “In that tram! I just saw him!” Sandy said.

  “That’s not Brad Pitt,” Bella insisted.

  “Yes, it is,” Sandy said. “It’s Brad Pitt, isn’t it, Haley?”

  Brad Pitt? Who said anything about Brad Pitt?

  “I’m not so sure,” Marcie said.

  “It was him,” Sandy said. “I know it was him. Oh my God. Angelina must be here, too. And the kids.”

  The tram glided to a silent stop at the foot of the wide stone steps leading to the hotel entrance. The driver hopped out and opened the doors for us as a woman approached. I figured her for a few years older than me. She was tall and slender, with dark hair and that I’m-super-confident look some people naturally have. Her uniform was a little more casual than Millicent’s—burgundy capris and a white polo shirt with the Rowan Resort emblem on it.

  “Welcome. I’m Avery, your personal hostess,” she said, and greeted each of us by name as we piled out of the tram.

  “Oh my God,” Sandy said, throwing her hands in the air. “We just saw Brad Pitt.”

  “It wasn’t Brad Pitt,” Bella insisted. “And if it was, what was he doing going some place by himself? He ought to be with Angelina helping her with all those kids.”

  “The hotel is beautiful,” Marcie said. She gestured to the fourth-floor towers. “The view must be spectacular from up there. I’d love to stay in one of those rooms.”

  “Sorry, but the towers are off-limits to guests, as is the third floor. Family only,” Avery said. “If you’re ready, I can show you to your rooms.”

  We followed her inside. The lobby was a gigantic room with lots of dark wood, huge chandeliers, wall sconces, and a fireplace big enough for eight people to stand in. Heavy pieces of furniture were grouped together, some covered in leather, others in what looked like old tapestries. Oil paintings, statues, and sculptures were everywhere. A few people were sitting around the room, most of them reading.

  No sign of another Sea Vixen beach bag.

  “Where are all the celebrities?” Sandy asked.

  “I’m pretty sure they’re not out looking for that missing girl,” Bella said. She turned to Avery. “What’s up with that, anyway?”

  Avery’s nothing-can-rattle-me expression disappeared for a split second, then she straightened her shoulders and said, “Everyone here is deeply concerned about the missing member of our Rowan Resort family, and we’re working closely with the authorities to ascertain her whereabouts as quickly as possible.”

  I was pretty sure that statement had been written by the resort’s PR staff, but this didn’t seem like the time to say so.

  Apparently, guests at the Rowan Resort didn’t have to stand in line to check-in at the registration desk because Avery led the way up a wide, sweeping staircase to the second floor. We turned right down a carpeted corridor decorated with more sculptures, statues, and paintings.

  “You’re staying in the main structure, our most desirable location,” Avery said. “It’s the original mansion purchased by Mr. Rowan. Two wings were added to the rear of the house to accommodate his family as it grew. Bungalows were built over the years for visitors.”

  “Two wings, plus this big house?” Bella asked, gazing around. “How many kids did he have?”

  Avery smiled. “Mr. Rowan was married six times, producing nine children.”

  “One of his daughters was a model,” Sandy said. “I read all about the family in People magazine.”

  “Many of Mr. Rowan’s children are very accomplished,” Avery said.

  “Another of his daughters was in jail, another one married a European king, and one of his sons died in a skiing accident,” Sandy said.

  “Maybe we should have you conduct tours for us?” Avery said with an easy smile.

  “Wow, that would be so cool,” Sandy said. “But my boyfriend wouldn’t like me to be away from him. He’s an artist.”

  “He does tattoos,” I said.

  “It’s art, Haley,” Sandy said. “That’s why he’s on sabbatical right now. It’s what artists do.”

  “No boyfriend talk,” Marcie said. “Remember our pact?”

  Avery stopped outside of room 212 and presented us with packets from the organizer she carried.

  “Inside is your resort pass. Please present it when you dine or make a selection from one of our shops. It’s also your room key,” Avery said. “My cell phone number is in the packet, also. If you need anything, simply call or text me. I’m available day and night, throughout your stay.”

  Marcie opened the door—we’d decided she and I woul
d share—as Avery gestured for Bella and Sandy to move down the corridor to room 214, which adjoined ours.

  Avery hung back and said, “This is a girl trip?”

  “We decided we needed a break,” I said.

  “So it’s just the four of you?” she asked. “All week?”

  “Yeah, just us,” I told her.

  She looked at me for a few seconds, then headed down the corridor. I went inside our room.

  The place was huge—two queen-size beds, dressers, chests, desks, chairs, a sofa, and an armoire with a TV—decorated in varying tones of dark green, gold, and brown. Everything looked as if it had come from a museum. Large windows let in the gorgeous California sunshine.

  “Would you look at this closet?” Marcie said, opening bifold doors. “Oh my gosh, look—robes.”

  I gazed out the window overlooking the rear of the hotel. Below was a large courtyard bordered by the two hotel wings and the bungalows. It was hard to make out much of anything because of all the trees and landscaping, but I saw several people walking on the paths that meandered through the gardens, fountains, and sculptures.

  Still no sign of anyone with a Sea Vixen beach tote.

  “Somebody unpacked our bags and put everything away,” Marcie said. “Now that’s what I call service.”

  A knock sounded on the door to the adjoining room. Marcie opened it, and Bella and Sandy came in.

  “Wow, this place is fabulous,” Sandy said.

  “Except for that missing girl who might be dead,” Bella said.

  Sandy held up a brochure with a photo of the Rowan Hotel on the cover and said, “There are a million things to do here. They’ve got a movie theater, an outdoor hammock terrace, fresh and salt water pools, horseback riding, a spa, bars, grottos—”

  “What’s a grotto?” Bella asked.

  “According to the brochure, they’re secluded, private pools hidden away in the hills amid lush vegetation,” Sandy said. “Very romantic.”

  Bella rolled her eyes. “I can imagine what goes on in those grottos. No way am I getting in that water.”

  I was with Bella on this one.

  “And the whole place is eco-friendly,” Sandy said. “They use solar heating, deep ocean water cooling, and coconut oil biofuel.”

  For no real reason, the Sea Vixen beach bag popped into my head.

  I gazed out the window again and—oh my God, I spotted a woman carrying a Sea Vixen. That’s the second time I’d seen it on the island.

  Immediately, my senses jumped to high alert. I had to get one. I couldn’t be the only one here who didn’t have one. If I caught up with her, I could ask where she got it and have Avery get me one, too. She said to let her know if we needed anything. That included beach bags, didn’t it?

  “I’m going for a walk,” I announced as I sprinted for the door.

  No way was I letting that woman get away from me.

  I hurried down the stairs to the lobby, then turned right figuring there had to be an exit that opened into the courtyard. I went down a long, wide corridor, past all kinds of rooms, then out into the lush gardens.

  The woman with the Sea Vixen had disappeared, so I took off in the direction of the bungalows, where I’d seen her headed. I figured she wouldn’t be walking very fast and I could catch up with her easily.

  I followed the meandering path, my head swiveling so as not to miss her. I spotted a few women, but none of them carried the Sea Vixen. I kept going.

  I walked past the bungalows and—yikes!—what if she’d gone inside one of them? An all-night stakeout flashed in my mind—which I had no problem doing, of course—but I decided I’d keep moving, just in case.

  The sound of the surf grew louder as I pushed on. Vegetation here was thicker and wilder, with lots of rocks and boulders and swaying palm trees. Finally, the paved path gave way to a sandy beach and rolling ocean waves. I figured that, even though I couldn’t see them, off to my left around the natural curve of the island was the helipad and the dock for the supply boats.

  I stopped and looked around. No sign of the Sea Vixen. In fact, there was no sign of anything. This stretch of beach was deserted. The waves were rough, which I guess was the reason the swimming area was located on a different side of the island.

  Jeez, where was that woman? Where could she have gone?

  I jogged down the beach a short ways but didn’t see her, so I jogged the other way. Still no sign of her.

  And why the heck would she be out here in the first place?

  Then I thought—ugh—maybe she was out here for a hookup with a man. Yeah, okay, no way did I want to walk in on that.

  I figured I must have missed her somehow and that I was sure to run into her—or someone else with the bag—again; I’d seen it twice already and we’d only just arrived. Plus, I could ask Avery if she would help me locate one.

  I headed back toward the path. A flash of color caught my eye. I spotted a swatch of yellow fabric near a big boulder that was almost hidden amid a stand of palm trees.

  I got a weird feeling.

  I walked over.

  My weird feeling got weirder.

  I circled the boulder and spotted a young woman lying on the ground.

  It was Jaslyn Gordon.

  She wasn’t missing anymore.

  She was dead.

  CHAPTER 3

  So far, sticking to our no-men pact hadn’t been a problem for me. I had yet to spot one young, good-looking guy at the Rowan Resort—just a lot of old, gray-haired, pot-bellied geezers who were, I guess, mostly the kind of men who could afford this place.

  But that suited me fine, because I didn’t want anything to do with men during my vacation. In fact, I much preferred it if I didn’t see one single, handsome guy anywhere near my target age range.

  Luckily, the two detectives across from me were firmly in the undesirable-old-guy category, both of them easily a minus ten on my own personal luscious-o-meter.

  I was sitting in yet another this-place-looks-like-a-boring-museum room on the hotel’s first floor, in front of a huge desk that was probably way older than me and all my friends put together. After finding Jaslyn Gordon’s body, I’d come back to the hotel, spotted Avery in the lobby, and given her the news. She hadn’t seemed all that surprised—I guess Rowan Resort employees are trained to roll with anything. She’d made some phone calls, and I’d ended up in this room with these two homicide detectives who wanted to talk to me, which didn’t really suit me.

  I’m not supposed to be dealing with this kind of thing. I’m on vacation.

  They’d introduced themselves as Detectives Vance and Pearce. They looked like a set of really unattractive bookends. Both had gray hair, spreading middles, and questionable taste in their coat–tie–shirt combos.

  “So, Miss Randolph, do you want to tell us how this happened?” Detective Vance asked.

  Homicide detectives always spoke in a way that made you feel guilty—even if you hadn’t done anything. But I was wise to their ways. I’d been in this situation before—long story, no, actually, lots of long stories—and I wasn’t about to fall for their tactics.

  “I went for a walk, and I spotted Jaslyn Gordon’s body on the rocks near the beach,” I said.

  “So you knew the victim?” Detective Pearce asked, as if he’d just made a major breakthrough in the case.

  “I didn’t know her,” I said. “But who else could it have been? I mean, jeez, how many people are missing on this island?”

  Both of them frowned like two pug dogs in the same litter.

  I don’t think they appreciated my commentary.

  I could have pointed out that I’d had experience solving murders—with help from L.A. homicide detective Shuman and private detective Jack Bishop, both of whom looked way hotter than these two guys—but this didn’t seem like a good time to mention it.

  “Why were you in that area of the island?” Detective Pearce wanted to know.

  Why was I still being questioned? It’s n
ot like I was wearing a T-shirt that read I’VE SOLVED MURDERS, LET’S TALK ABOUT IT.

  “It’s isolated,” Detective Vance said. “There was no reason for you to be out there.”

  “Or was there?” Detective Pearce asked, leaning toward me with a you-can-confess-now look on his face.

  As alibis go, I doubted that my I-was-trailing-a-fabulous-beach-tote was a good one so, really, what could I do but ignore their question?

  “Look,” I said. “I was out for a walk. That’s it. I wanted to see the island, so I—”

  The door opened behind me, and the two detectives jerked their heads up to see who had interrupted their interrogation. Seeing this as a possible opening to escape, I turned too and caught a glimpse of a guy ducking out of the room, as if he entered by mistake.

  Hang on a minute.

  Was that—?

  My senses jumped to high alert. My heart started to pound. My thoughts raced trying to match the glimpse I’d gotten to a person I knew.

  Tall, rugged build, maybe thirty, dark brown hair, green eyes, really handsome.

  Then it hit me. Oh my God. Oh my God. Luke Warner.

  Luke was an FBI agent. He’d been working undercover on a case in the L.A. Garment District a few months ago. I was there too, looking for the same murderer. Something had definitely sparked between us—long story—but I’d put an end to it after he—

  I’m not thinking about that now. I’m on vacation.

  But was that really Luke I’d seen coming into the room? Or had my no-men thoughts conjured up a hot guy from my past?

  And if it was Luke, what was he doing here? Why would the FBI be involved?

  “Miss Randolph,” Detective Pearce said, “if you’re not willing to cooperate with us during this interview, we can always go to the station.”

  Okay, now I was a little ticked off. I didn’t like being threatened—and I didn’t like thinking about Luke Warner.

  “Look,” I said. “I went for a walk. I found a body—something that, apparently, you police hadn’t been able to do after searching for two days.”

  They both drew back a little, which was kind of nice.