Beach Bags and Burglaries (A Haley Randolph Mystery)

by Dorothy Howell

  “Why are you so interested in that girl’s murder?” Ben asked, then shook his head. “No. Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  “You don’t?” I asked, stunned. “What kind of reporter are you?”

  “The kind who’s not investigating that story,” Ben told me.

  He tucked his laptop under his arm and walked away.

  Huh. Well, that didn’t go exactly as I’d planned.

  I sat on the bench as the sunlight faded and shadows crept across the fountain. So far, my murder investigation had gotten nowhere. I had no suspects and no motive. Nothing. And my one potential source of info—Ben—wasn’t even interested in the story, which made me believe that he was telling the truth. His presence here at the resort was in no way connected to Jaslyn’s murder.

  Still, I couldn’t believe that Ben was here simply on vacation. Something else was definitely going on with him.

  But I couldn’t worry about that now. I had to come up with some way to find Jaslyn’s killer—and quick.

  People didn’t get murdered for no reason. There had to be something going on with Jaslyn Gordon that had resulted in this horrible crime.

  Mentally, I reviewed all the people at the resort who I needed to talk to—which would have been a heck of a lot easier if I had a mocha Frappuccino available.

  I decided I’d start with Tabitha, the maid I’d seen in the hall outside my room earlier. She’d asked about Jaslyn and seemed to know her pretty well. I figured that Tabitha could probably give me some good info about what was going on in Jaslyn’s life or at least point me toward someone who could.

  My cell phone in my pocket vibrated. I checked the caller ID screen and saw Avery’s name. Oh my God, was she calling because that salesclerk had gotten a Sea Vixen into the shop already?

  My day could really use a boost.

  I leaped off of the bench and pushed the green button on my phone in one smooth, well-practiced motion.

  “Haley, could you meet me in the lobby?” Avery asked.

  This had to be about the Sea Vixen. There was no other reason for Avery to call me.

  Maybe she wanted to escort me to the shop herself. Maybe there was some sort of presentation planned.

  “Sure,” I said, already heading toward the hotel. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  I hurried through the gardens to the hotel entrance and dashed up the stairs and into the lobby. Immediately, I spotted Avery standing by the staircase. I rushed over.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said.

  “No, it’s no problem,” I assured her, bouncing on my toes.

  “This can wait, if you’d rather,” she told me, and gestured down the corridor. “Are your friends expecting you for dinner? I don’t want to keep them waiting.”

  “They’re fine,” I told her, in my get-on-with-it voice.

  “All right, if you’re sure,” she said.

  Avery led the way toward the rear of the hotel and down the long corridor, past the room in which—ugh—the homicide detectives had interviewed me earlier. But instead of turning right toward the shops, Avery opened a small door on the left bearing a tiny sign that read EMPLOYEES ONLY and gestured me in ahead of her.

  Okay, this was weird.

  There was a short hallway in front of me that led to a room with a partially closed door. I glimpsed several people inside and heard the hum of their conversation.

  My weird feeling got weirder.

  A man stepped out of a small office off to my right. He was tall with square shoulders and a trim waist, dressed in a shirt and tie. He had a full head of gray hair, cut short. I guessed his age at fifty, maybe.

  “Miss Randolph, thank you for coming,” he said. “I’m Walt Pemberton, chief of security here at the Rowan Resort.”

  My really weird feeling got even weirder.

  “I’d like to speak with you about a telephone conversation I just had with an acquaintance of yours,” he said. “A homicide detective with the Los Angeles Police Department named Madison.”

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 7

  LAPD’s Detective Madison had been trying for ages to find me guilty of somebody’s murder. He continually twisted evidence and circumstances around so that I looked guilty—in his mind, anyway. I’d never done anything wrong. Really. Well, okay, maybe a few things—but I sure as heck had never murdered anybody. It helped that Madison’s partner, Detective Shuman, had always been on my side. Most always—which wasn’t my fault, either. Okay, yeah, maybe it was.

  Anyway, Detective Madison didn’t like me, which was okay because I didn’t like him either, except that he had—and still could—make my life miserable. And now it looked as if he’d done it again by ratting me out to the head of security at the Rowan Resort.

  “Please, Miss Randolph, have a seat,” Walt Pemberton said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk.

  He spoke as if we were old friends and he just wanted to have a nice chat and catch up on things. No way would I fall for that. I’d been questioned too many times by the police—none of which was my fault—to believe him.

  Then it hit me—oh my God, what if Detective Madison is here? In the next room? Waiting to come in and arrest me? Had Avery lured me into a trap?

  I glanced around. Avery was nowhere to be seen.

  “Miss Randolph?” Pemberton said, a little louder this time.

  I knew I had to play it cool.

  I’m good at that. Kind of.

  I waited another few seconds, then lowered myself into the chair, as if now it suited me to do so. Pemberton took a seat behind his desk.

  The office was small but well appointed. The walls were beige, the furniture a dark wood, and the photos on the wall were black-and-white, back-in-the-day shots of the resort when it was still Sidney Rowan’s home. A computer sat on the corner of his desk. I figured the room down the hall was where the other members of the security team worked.

  “Thank you for coming in,” Pemberton said, and gestured to a credenza on the far wall that held a coffee service. “Would you like something?”

  If he’d offered a mocha Frappuccino, I’d have jumped at it.

  “What’s this about Detective Madison?” I asked.

  Pemberton shrugged. “Professional courtesy. We like to make sure all our bases are covered.”

  I wasn’t sure just what that meant, but I decided it was better—for me, of course—not to dwell on anything to do with Madison.

  I glanced at my wristwatch. “Will this take long? I have friends waiting.”

  I had no idea if Marcie, Bella, and Sandy were standing around somewhere waiting so we could all have dinner together, but I wanted Pemberton to know that friends were expecting me and would notice if I didn’t show up.

  “I won’t keep you for long,” Pemberton said. “I’d like to talk to you about what happened today.”

  Okay, now I was annoyed. I’d already told Detectives Vance and Pearce everything I knew about Jaslyn’s murder—which wasn’t much, really—so I didn’t want to have to go through the whole thing again with this guy. Then I was double-annoyed, thinking that maybe this was their way of checking my story to see if I’d been lying earlier. All law enforcement agencies worked together—including private security firms, it seemed—which caused Luke Warner to pop into my head and triple-annoy me.

  “Your welcome to the Rowan Resort is most unfortunate,” Pemberton said. “My apology, on all counts.”

  I guess he was apologizing for my finding a murder victim, then being questioned by homicide detectives, as if I were a suspect. I hadn’t expected this, but I appreciated it.

  My foul mood dropped back to double-annoyed.

  “Avery told me about your involvement,” he explained, and shook his head. “Believe me, this isn’t the kind of thing that routinely happens here. I’m sorry you got caught up in all of it.”

  Okay, he was being really nice and sounded sincere, plus Avery, it seemed, had gone to the trouble to
pass word up the chain of command that I deserved an official apology, so I relaxed a little and quit visualizing a S.W.A.T. team storming the room and taking me into custody.

  “If I may,” he said, “could I ask if you have any information that might help in the investigation?”

  I guess my irritation showed again, because when I opened my mouth to tell him that I wasn’t involved, he cut me off.

  “That’s okay,” he said. “I understand that these things are confidential.”

  Confidential? What’s so confidential about a murder?

  “But I want you to know we’re taking this seriously,” Pemberton said. “We take all of these matters seriously.”

  All of them? Jeez, how many people had been murdered here?

  “Guest confidentiality is a top priority to us,” Pemberton said. “We have electronic surveillance, but very little of it. Regardless of how tightly we control the video footage, there’s still a chance it will be pirated and released to the public. We can’t have that.”

  What the heck was he talking about?

  “We rely primarily on our own security personnel. Boots on the ground.” Pemberton paused for a moment then said, “Our guests often travel here under assumed names. They wear disguises. Their entourages maintain, as they should, their employers’ right to privacy.”

  Why was he telling me this?

  “But could you tell me, without putting yourself in a compromising situation, if there’s anything you know?” Pemberton asked.

  Did he have me mixed up with someone else?

  I couldn’t think of anything to say—because I had no idea where this conversation was going—so I just sat there with my I’m-really-considering-your-question look on my face, something I’d perfected while nodding off at staff meetings at every job I’d worked.

  I guess my I’m-thinking-hard look was correctly interpreted by Pemberton, because he continued.

  “Anything you could tell us, anything at all, would be helpful,” he said. “Do you recall anything about the theft?”

  Theft? Who said anything about a theft?

  Then it hit me. All this talk about disguises, assumed names, and entourages was about Bella’s lucky panties. I’d been brought in here thinking I was going to be arrested, and all along the head of security was concerned about a pair of stolen panties?

  What was up with him? He had a murder to solve. Who cared about panties—lucky or not?

  “Did you see anyone near your rooms?” Pemberton asked. “Or perhaps someone who was paying undue attention to the arrival of you and your ... your friends?”

  The only people I’d seen upstairs near our rooms were Tabitha and Avery, and both of them had good reasons for being there, so no way was I going to waste any more of my time with this guy talking about this situation.

  I hopped out of my chair. Pemberton rose with me.

  “If I think of anything, I’ll let you know,” I said.

  He must have interpreted my words as a blow-off—which was exactly how I meant them—because he nodded and said, “Thank you.”

  I left the office, went back down the hallway and through the door to the hotel corridor. I was reaching for my cell phone to call Marcie and hook up with them for dinner when something Pemberton had asked me shot through my head.

  He’d asked if anyone was near our rooms and I hadn’t told him about Tabitha approaching me earlier and asking for info about Jaslyn’s murder. At the time I’d figured she was just nervous about a killer being on the loose, but now I wondered if something more was going on with her. She hadn’t had one of those big housekeeping carts with her, which must mean that she wasn’t there during her official duties and hadn’t spotted me by chance.

  Had Tabitha been in the hallway outside our rooms during her off-duty time? Was she waiting for me to show up? And if so, was it simply to ask about Jaslyn’s death? Or had she talked to me and asked those questions to make it look like cover for letting herself into Bella’s room and stealing her panties?

  Jeez, this made no sense. Why would anybody—anybody —want to steal Bella’s panties?

  Of course, I could have gone back inside the security office and told Walt Pemberton about seeing Tabitha. But I wasn’t going to rat her out and get her in trouble, especially since the whole thing was absurd.

  Still, I couldn’t let it go. I decided I should find Tabitha and ask her myself.

  Then something else hit me—I’d never asked Pemberton what Detective Madison had told him about me. I figured it couldn’t be good, given my history with Madison, but I wanted to know the extent of their conversation.

  There was only one way to get that info. I was going to have to call Detective Shuman.

  I found a quiet spot among some shrubbery just outside the rear exit of the hotel and pulled out my cell phone. A few people meandered through the gardens, most heading in the direction of the delicious smells wafting through the air from barbeque grills somewhere nearby. The aroma reminded me that I was hungry and needed to make this call so I could eat, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to scroll through my phone contacts.

  Not that there was a problem between Shuman and me. We’d met about a year ago when I’d started working at Holt’s and Shuman and Madison had come to the store to investigate a murder—long story. The two of us had hit it off and, at times, I’d felt something spark between us; I’m pretty sure Shuman felt it, also.

  But two things had kept us apart—my boyfriend and his girlfriend.

  Shuman had always been there to help me out of a jam, and I’d assisted in some of his investigations. Everything had worked out well for us, professionally speaking. We kept our emotional distance. I had Ty, my official boyfriend—I’m a real stickler about things like that—and Shuman had a girlfriend he was crazy about.

  Then everything changed. The girlfriend was gone—long story—and Shuman was devastated. He showed up at my apartment, an emotional train wreck, looking for ... well, let’s just say he was in need of comfort. I gave it to him, in the form of three beers—which wasn’t exactly what he’d come there hoping for. When he passed out on my sofa, I went to bed; the next morning when I got up, Shuman was gone. I hadn’t seen or talked to him since.

  I didn’t like that our friendship was suffering, but having been in his situation myself I knew that some time was needed to get normalcy back in his life. I didn’t want to wait too long, though, because I didn’t want to lose his friendship—or whatever it was that was going on between us—and what better way to break the ice than to call him about something that would benefit me.

  I hit the button on my phone and heard it ring in my ear. My heart rate rose a little. His voice mail picked up. I left a message asking him to call me as soon as he could. I hung up.

  I was about to call Marcie and see where she, Bella, and Sandy were when I spotted them walking out of the hotel. Marcie and Sandy had changed into sundresses, and Bella wore bright orange capris.

  “There you are,” Marcie called as they walked over. “Come on. We’re heading to dinner.”

  “I’m starving,” Sandy declared.

  “Me too,” Bella said, and adjusted the waistband of her capris. “That’s why I’m wearing my buffet pants.”

  “We want to try the grand patio tonight,” Sandy said. She waved the resort brochure. “I read all about it. The floor is the original stone selected by Sidney Rowan himself and imported from a quarry in Peru.”

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  We followed the path, and the fabulous aromas, through the gardens to a large outdoor dining area amid trees and shrubs alive with twinkle lights. Bright yellow cushions decorated white wicker chairs, and tables were set with fresh flowers and elegant china and crystal. Chefs in big white hats manned the grills and food stations.

  The hostess—another college student, from the look of her—showed us to a table, then we headed for the serving line.

  “Oh, girls, hello,” someone called, and I spotted Geraldin
e and Harvey at a nearby table. We walked over.

  “Are you enjoying the resort?” Geraldine asked, smiling up at us.

  “My lucky panties got stolen,” Bella told her.

  Geraldine drew back a little. Clearly, she wasn’t expecting to hear anything about panties, lucky or not.

  “They’re purple with zebra print trim and a hairdryer appliqué,” Bella said. “Have you seen them?”

  “Well, no. No, I haven’t,” Geraldine said, then rushed ahead, changing the subject—not that I blamed her.

  “I signed up for that art class we talked about, Haley,” Geraldine said. “Did you?”

  I had, of course, totally forgotten about it.

  Geraldine leaned in a bit and lowered her voice, indicating a choice bit of gossip was about to be delivered.

  “The instructor is none other than Colby Rowan herself,” she said.

  Sandy gasped. “She’s one of Sidney Rowan’s daughters. I read about her in People magazine.”

  “She’s the curator of the Rowan family art collection at the resort,” Geraldine said. “She has an art studio and lives right here on the island.”

  “Wow, that is so cool,” Sandy said. “I’m going to take a lesson just so I can meet her.”

  “She could use the support, I’m sure,” Geraldine said, nodding wisely. “Especially after what happened—”

  “You girls enjoy your meals,” Harvey said, nailing his wife with a stern look.

  We took the hint, mumbled something appropriate, and got in line for food.

  “So what happened with Colby Rowan?” Marcie asked as we inched forward.

  “It was so sad,” Sandy said. “She got mixed up, somehow, with this bunch of criminals, or something, a few years ago.”

  “Did they go around stealing panties?” Bella grumbled.

  Sandy thought for a few seconds, then said, “No, I don’t think that was it. I can’t remember, really.”

  Marcie pushed her way a little closer to the rest of us and whispered, “Look who’s headed our way.”

  We all turned and looked, not nearly as slick as we usually were—but we were on vacation—and I spotted a guy wearing a Rowan Resort polo shirt and cargo shorts weaving between the tables, coming toward us.