Beach Bags and Burglaries (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  Wow, news—particularly bad news—really traveled fast these days. Only a few hours ago the police were saying it was an accident—or that’s what Avery had told me. It made me wonder if she actually knew the real story, or if that was what the resort management had instructed their employees to report.

  “They have a suspect,” Geraldine said.

  Oh, crap. I hope it wasn’t me.

  “And they’re working on leads,” she said. “That’s what the report said online, anyway.”

  Luke Warner flashed in my head. He was an FBI agent. He’d worked undercover—which was what had caused our whole problem a few months ago. Was the story he’d told me about being here for a wedding the truth? Or was he really here undercover?

  And what about Ben Oliver? No way was he here for vacation, so he must be undercover too, following a story.

  Both Luke and Ben were working undercover? How come I couldn’t do something cool like that? I wanted to be undercover somewhere, too.

  Maybe I need to reevaluate my life.

  “Shh,” Geraldine said, and lowered her voice. “Here comes Harvey,”

  I followed her line of vision and saw her husband approach. Harvey looked a lot like Geraldine, both graying, both with thick middles, both wearing ho-hum resort wear.

  “Don’t say anything to him about that girl being murdered,” Geraldine whispered. “Harvey doesn’t want to hear anything bad on vacation.”

  Can’t say that I blame him.

  Harvey joined us, and I introduced myself. If he remembered me from the welcome center, he gave no indication.

  “Great place, great place,” he said, gesturing to the hotel in general. “Have you seen the library?”

  This place had a library?

  “The Rowan estate has an impressive book collection,” he said.

  Somebody wanted to spend their vacation reading?

  “Several pieces of art are in there, too,” he added.

  And looking at art?

  Maybe I should go to Disneyland next time.

  “There’s an art curator on the premises at all times,” Geraldine said. “I read it in the resort brochure. One of the members of the Rowan family.”

  “The art collection on display here at the resort is extensive,” Harvey said.

  “Sidney Rowan was an avid collector,” Geraldine added.

  “Do you enjoy art, Haley?” Harvey asked.

  Did doodling on an Etch-A-Sketch count?

  “You can take lessons right here at the resort,” Geraldine said, then paused for a few seconds and said, “Maybe I’ll do that. You should too, Haley. It’s very relaxing.”

  I thought about it for a second. Sitting in front of an easel dabbing paint onto a canvas always made a person look superintellectual—almost as much as sitting in Starbucks, wearing a scarf, and typing on a laptop.

  “I’ll check it out,” I said.

  “Let’s have a look at the restaurants,” Harvey said. “I want to see them all so we can decide where to have dinner.”

  “Will you join us, Haley?” Geraldine asked.

  “No, thanks, I’m meeting friends,” I said, and glanced around the lobby. Where the heck was Bella, anyway?

  Geraldine rose, picked up the Sea Vixen, and left with Harvey.

  My senses jumped to high alert. Geraldine had said she’d found a Sea Vixen at one of the resort’s shops. I had to find it.

  I was about to take off when I saw Sandy and Marcie walk into the lobby from outside. They were still dressed in their beachwear, and seemed to be involved in a deep discussion.

  “We’ll let Haley decide,” Sandy said as they walked up.

  Marcie gave her a have-at-it wave.

  “I met this guy on the beach,” Sandy said. “His name is Sebastian and he works here. I didn’t want to talk to him, and Marcie thinks I should have.”

  “It was only a conversation,” Marcie said. “Besides, he was really good-looking.”

  “Vacation flings never work out,” Sandy said.

  How had I gotten into the middle of this?

  “He liked you,” Marcie said.

  I had to find a Sea Vixen tote.

  “I already have a boyfriend,” Sandy insisted. “Besides, this is our no-men vacation. Right, Haley?”

  The vision of the very last tote being snatched from the shelf while I stood here zapped my brain.

  “Right, Haley?” Sandy asked again.

  I had to get this discussion over with so I could find that shop.

  “Right,” I said.

  “See?” Sandy said. “Haley is committed to our pact, and so am I. She didn’t run after a good-looking man today, did you, Haley?”

  Jeez, did hunting down Ben count?

  “Or get all crazy and girlie because a good-looking man talked to her,” Sandy said. “Right, Haley?”

  Had I gotten all crazy and girlie talking to Luke Warner?

  “Haley?” Sandy asked.

  Yikes! I had.

  They both stared at me, waiting for an answer. But I couldn’t tell them the truth.

  Thankfully, I didn’t have to respond, because Bella appeared out of nowhere and pushed her way into our group.

  “This is b.s.,” Bella announced, scowling and planting her hands on her hips.

  I’d seen Bella angry only one time—and it wasn’t pretty.

  Sandy gasped. “What happened?”

  “I was robbed,” Bella declared. “Somebody stole my lucky panties.”

  We all just stared at her.

  “Stole them right out of my room,” Bella said.

  “Somebody stole your panties?” Marcie asked.

  “My lucky panties,” Bella declared. “What kind of place is this, anyway?”

  “Maybe you just forgot to pack them,” Marcie said.

  “I’d never forget my lucky panties on vacation,” she told us.

  “The hotel staff unpacked for us,” Sandy said. “Maybe whoever put your things away put them in the wrong drawer or something.”

  “I looked everywhere,” Bella said, still fuming. “I already talked to that woman—what’s her name, Avery?—and told her all about it. She said she was sure they hadn’t been stolen. But if they’re not in my room—and I’m sure as heck not wearing them—what else could have happened to them? Nothing, that’s what. Somebody stole my lucky panties.”

  “Haley!”

  A gut-wrenching scream caused us all to jump. I turned and saw Yasmin, still dressed in her bride-to-be pink beach ensemble, rushing toward our little group. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her fists were clinched, and her mouth hung open as she sobbed.

  It wasn’t a good look for her.

  “Haley, you have to help me,” she said as she pushed her way between Bella and Sandy. “You all have to help me. You have to!”

  Nobody said anything.

  “My guests have cancelled! Almost all of them!” Yasmin leaned her head back and cried harder.

  Around us, other people in the lobby stared.

  Yasmin shook her fists in the air. “All because that stupid girl got herself murdered!”

  I didn’t need the Hubble to see where this was going.

  I backed away, but Yasmin lunged and grabbed my arm.

  “You all have to come to my wedding!” she screamed. “You have to!”

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 6

  “No way,” I said. “Forget it. I’m not going to that wedding.”

  “But if guests aren’t there, her wedding will be ruined,” Marcie said.

  “No,” I told her.

  “Where’s your compassion?” Marcie asked. “Just look at her.”

  Yasmin had collapsed into a chair. Her arms hung at her sides, her head was thrown back, and she was bawling so loud that the other lobby guests had gotten up and moved.

  “I’m not doing it,” I told Marcie. “Look, when I said earlier that I hated her, I meant it.”

  “Oh my God,” Yasmin wailed. “My weddi
ng! My wedding! What’s going to happen to my wedding!”

  Sandy looked at me. “She’s really upset.”

  “What is Tate going to think?” Yasmin screamed.

  “She can’t have a wedding with just family and a couple of guests,” Sandy said.

  “Yes, she can,” I insisted. “She’ll still be married, no matter how many people are there.”

  “And, oh my God, what will happen if there’s no one to catch my bouquet? What if I’m the one who breaks the Heart of Amour chain of weddings?” Yasmin panted for a few seconds, then let out another sob. “Tate’s family will talk about me forever!”

  Sandy shrugged. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt to go to the wedding.”

  Bella rolled her eyes at Yasmin and said to me, “I’m with you.”

  “It’s no big deal, really,” Sandy said. “All we have to do is show up for the ceremony, which won’t take long. Then we can go to the reception. It might be fun.”

  “And it isn’t for a few more days,” Marcie said. “There’s a good chance the police will solve the murder by then, and if that happens, her guests will come after all.”

  Yasmin’s caterwauling was giving me a headache, and I was annoyed beyond belief.

  This wasn’t supposed to happen—I’m on vacation.

  “Okay, fine,” I told them. “We’ll go—if she’ll just shut up.”

  “Yasmin,” Marcie said.

  She kept crying.

  “Yasmin!” Marcie shook her arm. “We’ll go to your wedding.”

  She sniffed and blinked up at Marcie, then looked at all of us. “You will? You’ll all go?”

  “Sure,” Marcie said, and gave her an everything-will-be-fine smile.

  Yasmin burst out crying again.

  Good grief.

  “I’m out of here,” I said.

  I guess everyone’s good intentions had played out.

  Marcie headed for the stairs, pulling Sandy along with her, and said, “We’ll change and meet you and Bella back here for dinner.”

  “I’m going to find that head security guy and see what he’s doing to find my lucky panties,” Bella said, and walked away.

  I headed across the lobby, then heard sniffing and panting behind me. Yasmin jumped in front of me. She drew in a really long breath and swiped at her face with her palms.

  “You’re saving my wedding, Haley,” she whispered, then gulped a few times. “And to thank you, to really thank you, I’m going to throw my bouquet directly at you.”

  Oh, crap.

  She sniffed. “Tate will be so proud of me.”

  I hate my life—but I’m not supposed to. I’m on vacation.

  Yasmin headed up the lobby staircase and I shot eye-daggers at her—which she didn’t see, but still.

  No way was I going to that wedding. No way was I waiting around for the cops to solve Jaslyn’s murder so the guests would show up and get me off the hook. I would find the killer myself.

  Right after I found the Sea Vixen.

  Everybody has their priorities.

  I headed down the long corridor at the rear of the hotel, searching for the shop where Geraldine had bought her she-doesn’t-deserve-it-but-I-do tote. I followed the signs, turned down a corridor, then another.

  Jeez, how big was this place?

  Finally, I came upon a row of shops, their windows displaying high-end clothing and accessories for men, women, and children. My senses perked up. The Sea Vixen was here, only steps away. I could feel it.

  I have a sixth sense about handbags. It’s a gift, really.

  Immediately, I was drawn into one of the shops. There, at the entrance, stood a shelving unit filled with all sorts of bags: satchels, clutches, shoulder bags, cross-bodies, and—oh my God, totes—all in buttery leather, fabulous textiles, patterns, solids, a rainbow of colors.

  This was where Geraldine had found her Sea Vixen—it had to be. My heart began to beat faster. The Sea Vixen was here. Here. I was mere seconds away from claiming one for myself.

  “Can I help you?” someone asked.

  I spotted a salesclerk in a Rowan Resort burgundy uniform standing nearby. I noted she hadn’t come too close. Apparently, I was giving off an I’m-a-crazed-shopper vibe.

  I forced myself to calm down and channeled my pageant queen mom’s I’m-better-than-you attitude.

  “I’m looking for a Sea Vixen tote bag,” I said.

  “Oh, dear,” the clerk said and frowned. “I just sold the last one.”

  “What?” I’m pretty sure I said that too loud.

  She didn’t back off, as I expected her to. This place catered to celebrities, so I guessed she was used to dealing with lunatics.

  “Yes, I sold it just a few minutes ago,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

  Sorry? She was sorry? I was within minutes of buying the most fabulous tote of the season and she was sorry?

  She glanced at the telephone behind the counter. Oh my God, was she thinking about calling security?

  I drew in a breath, and steadied myself. “No problem. I’ll check with the other shops.”

  I got her oh-dear frown again. “All the shops have sold out. It’s such a popular bag.”

  Like that was supposed to be a comfort? Of course it was popular. Would anyone vacationing here want it if it weren’t?

  “We’re expecting another shipment,” the clerk told me with a see-how-helpful-I-am smile.

  “When?” I demanded. “Exactly.”

  “It could be at any time. The supply ships come in several times a day,” she said. “Would you like me to hold one for you?”

  I resisted the urge to turn a cartwheel and said, “Yes, please.”

  She moved behind the counter and wrote my name, room number, and cell phone number in a little book.

  “Call me as soon as it comes in,” I said. “Day or night.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “No matter where I am on the island, I’ll come immediately,” I told her.

  “If there’s a delay reaching you, I’ll call your personal hostess,” she assured me. “I’ll contact Avery and alert her to the situation.”

  I had no idea how this salesclerk knew that Avery was my personal hostess, but I rolled with it.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She looked relieved when I left.

  This had taken longer than I’d anticipated, I realized as I left the shop. I had to get moving on my investigation. I had a wedding to avoid and a murder to solve, and I knew just where to start.

  Regardless of what Ben claimed, I knew there was no way he’d be at this resort unless he was investigating a story—and what story could he possibly be checking into but the death of Jaslyn Gordon?

  If I used the hotel’s house phone to call his room, I knew he wouldn’t answer. I had his cell phone number from a few months ago, but if I called he’d see my name on the caller ID screen and wouldn’t pick up, so I didn’t bother trying. That meant I was going to have to do what women had been doing since the dawn of time to find a man—hunt him down on foot.

  Immediately, my I’d-really-like-to-be-a-cool-private-investigator skills sprang up—they usually worked better with a mocha Frappuccino, but I was willing to tough it out.

  I remembered that Ben liked to do his writing outside. I also knew he was avoiding me like the plague—not a great feeling, but oh well. Since I’d seen him earlier near the front of the hotel I figured he’d think that if I looked for him again, I’d head to the back of the hotel. Thus, being the crafty sort-of kind-of private investigator that I was, I headed once again for the front of the hotel.

  Outside, the sun was sliding into the Pacific, lighting the low clouds with stunning shades of orange. A number of trams unloaded weary beachgoers. I strolled through the walkways and, sure enough, spotted Ben sitting on a bench beside a fountain decorated with ceramic frogs. He was in his writing trance, staring at his laptop screen, pounding on the keys. I crept up, then slipped around the bench and plopped down
beside him.

  Ben cut his eyes to me and growled—yes, actually growled. It was kind of hot.

  “Why do you keep showing up?” Ben demanded.

  “Maybe because you need help dressing,” I said, and tugged on the sleeve of his tired-looking, stretched-out polo shirt.

  Wow, there was a good muscle under there. I hadn’t expected that.

  “There’s nothing wrong with my clothes,” Ben insisted.

  “This is the same shirt and pants you were wearing when I saw you ages ago,” I told him. “How about if I give you a makeover?”

  “Go away,” he said, and turned back to his laptop.

  “Don’t you want to look your best so you can hook up with some hot-looking chick?” I asked. “I mean, why wouldn’t you—if you’re really not here investigating a story?”

  Ben turned to me again, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set. His nose flared a little and his chest expanded. Wow, that was way hot. If he’d only growl again.

  I gave myself a mental shake.

  “Because you’re here investigating Jaslyn Gordon’s murder, aren’t you,” I said. “Admit it. You are.”

  Ben drew a breath and closed the lid of his laptop.

  “I can tell you without a moment’s hesitation,” he said, “that I am absolutely not here to investigate a murder—although I’d gladly investigate yours, if the situation presented itself.”

  This, I hadn’t expected—which didn’t suit me, of course.

  “I know why you’re here,” I insisted. “You’re on a story. You have to be. A reporter like you wouldn’t be at an expensive resort like this unless there was some huge story—”

  “Quiet,” he told me, glancing around to make sure we weren’t being overheard.

  I glanced around, too. It made me feel very covert.

  “Nobody can know—or even suspect—that I’m a reporter,” Ben said quietly.

  “So maybe you’d better tell me what I want to know,” I said, thinking a little blackmail might work.

  Ben glared at me and clamped his mouth shut. My attempt at blackmail definitely hadn’t worked. I had to try something different.

  “Okay, look,” I said. “I can help you and you can help me. I happen to have inside information about Jaslyn Gordon’s murder.”