Duffel Bags And Drownings (12 page)

I spun around and saw Dan’s head bobbing in the water next to me. He caught my arm
and pulled me to the side of the pool. I grabbed the edge.

“Stay here,” he said.

Dan dived under again. One of the electricians went in after him. A few seconds later
they came to the surface holding Cady between them. As soon as her head cleared the
water, she started screaming.

* * *

The Brannocks’ St. Patrick’s Day party was a rip-roaring success—or so it seemed as
I looked out onto the backyard through their kitchen window. The police had already
left, thankfully before the party guests showed up, after taking statements from everyone,
gathering evidence, and taking Cady away. Nadine and Xander Brannock had given Dan
and me dry clothes to change into; the electrician had gone home with everyone’s thanks.

“More coffee?”

I was seated at their kitchen table, grateful that the Brannocks’ housekeeper had
made a pot just for me.

My hair was still wet, my makeup was ruined, and I had on Nadine’s yoga pants and
a sweatshirt. Not a look I’d have gone for under other circumstances, but I was okay
with it for now.

“Sure,” I said, and held out my cup.

She filled it and moved away as voices drifted in from the direction of their dining
room. Nadine and Xander walked into the kitchen. Dan was with them. He had on what
I guessed were sweats that belonged to Xander.

Detective Elliston, whom I’d seen here early but who hadn’t bothered to jump into
the pool to save me, had left.

“Feeling better?” Xander asked.

“I’m good,” I said.

Neither Nadine nor Xander seemed troubled that a murderer had been at their house,
that their pool was nearly the scene of another crime, or that the police had been
there. They both worked in Hollywood. It was just another party to them.

“Let me know if you need anything, Haley,” Nadine said. She nodded toward the backyard.
“We’d better get back out there. Xander?”

He followed her out the door.

Dan joined me at the table. The housekeeper brought him a cup of coffee, then disappeared.

“I guess I owe you for pulling me out of the pool,” I said.

Dan grinned. “All part of the service, ma’am.”

“How did you get here?” I asked.

I remembered yelling at one of the electricians to call the police just before Cady
knocked me into the pool, but I couldn’t understand how Dan could have gotten to the
Brannocks’ so quickly.

“I wish I could say I donned my superhero cape and flew,” Dan said, “but Elliston
and I were already here questioning Faye Delaney.”

I guess I hadn’t seen their plain vanilla detective car because, like me, they’d had
to park on a different street and walk over.

“You figured out what was up with Cady and her divorce?” I asked. “I was way ahead
of you, wasn’t I?”

“The receptionist in Horowitz’s office was anxious to tell us everything,” he said.
“By the time we got to the catering company, everybody was gone. One of the girls
there told us where Faye and Cady had gone.”

“Did Faye know any of this?” I asked.

Dan shook his head. “Claimed she didn’t.”

I felt kind of sorry for Faye. She’d learned about her family problems in the worst
way, and not only had she lost her business but her sister as well.

I couldn’t help wondering which troubled her the most.

I wondered, too, about the duffel bag she’d kept in her office. Had she known it belonged
to Cady? Did she have any idea what Cady was up to? Did she suspect she’d killed Jeri?

Good questions, but ones I figured I could only speculate about.

There was no need speculating about whether Faye would open another catering business,
however. I knew she would—hopefully, without any family involvement.

Dan and I sat at the table for a few more minutes and just as I thought we were about
to have yet another middle-school moment, he rose from his chair.

“I’d better go,” he said. “Lots of paperwork to take care of.”

I nodded and got up. We walked outside. Twinkle lights illuminated the darkness. Music
flowed from the backyard, joined by raised voices and laughter. I’d put together a
heck of a party, all right.

“Thanks again for saving my life,” I said.

Dan just stood there for a few seconds, then said. “I wish things had turned out differently.”

“You mean you wish you hadn’t saved me?” I asked.

“I wish I weren’t leaving,” he said. “My sister lives in Fresno. Her husband died
last year in a car accident. She’s having trouble with her teenage boys. I’m taking
a leave of absence for a while to help out.”

“Oh.”

I hadn’t expected that I wouldn’t see him again soon—or that I’d feel so disappointed
about it.

He gave me a little wave and left.

“Haley? Haley?” someone called.

Nadine hurried toward me. Beside her was a tiny gray haired woman sporting a green
track suit, light-up leprechaun earrings, and a sparkling shamrock broach.

“This is my mom Lorelei,” Nadine said. “She’s very impressed with the event you put
together for us.”

“Well, everything is marvelous, just marvelous,” Lorelei said. “I’d love for you to
handle my next event. It’s quite large, and it’s coming up soon. Can you do that?”

I’d definitely need to redeem myself at L.A. Affairs after word got out what had happened
at the Brannock event.

“I’ll have to clear it with my office manager,” I said.

“Haley works for L.A. Affairs,” Nadine explained.

“Well, of course, I should have known. Your company does wonderful work. I’ve used
them before, many times,” Lorelei said. “In fact, I’m going to call Priscilla first
thing in the morning. I’m going to insist that you handle our luncheon, Haley.”

I got a weird feeling.

“A luncheon?” I asked.

“Yes, our organization has an annual luncheon.”

My weird feeling got weirder.

“Perhaps you’ve heard of us?” Lorelei said. “We’re the Daughters of the Southland.”

Oh, crap.

THE END

Dear Reader,

There’s more Haley out there! If you enjoyed this novella, check out the other books
in the series. All of them are available in hardcover, paperback, and ebook editions.

The Haley Randolph Mystery Series:

Handbags and Homicide

Purses and Poison

Shoulder Bags and Shootings

Clutches and Curses

Slay Bells and Satchels (A Christmas Novella)

Tote Bags and Toe Tags

Evening Bags and Executions

Beach Bags and Burglaries (Coming July, 2014)

Looking for even more mystery? Meet Dana Mackenzie, my newest amateur sleuth, in Fatal
Debt.

If you’re in the mood for a little romance, I also write historical romance novels
under the pen name Judith Stacy. Check them out at
www.JudithStacy.com
.

More information is available at
www.DorothyHowellNovels.com
. Join my
Dorothy Howell Novels Facebook page
, and follow me on twitter @DHowellNovels.

Thanks for giving the Haley Randolph series a try!

Happy reading!

Dorothy

“Repo the Sullivans’s TV,” Manny said, gesturing to the print-out on his desk.

“What? The Sullivans? No way,” I told him.

“Today,” he said. “They’re too far past due. We can’t carry them.”

“Come on, Manny, not the Sullivans,” I said. “They’re nice people. They’ve had an
account with us for twenty years, or something. I can’t repossess their television.”

Manny Franco who, technically, was my supervisor—though I disagreed with the disparity
in our positions on many levels—lowered himself into his chair and dug his heels into
the carpet to roll himself up to his desk.

“We never should have made that loan. They can’t afford it,” he said, swiping his
damp forehead with his palm.

Manny was always stressed. He was only an inch taller than me—and at five-feet, nine-inches
I’m tall for a girl—and outweighed me by at least a hundred pounds. He wore his black
hair long and slicked back in waves. His suits always looked a little rumpled and
his collar a size too small.

I was sitting in the chair beside Manny’s desk in the office of Mid-America Financial
Services, a nationwide consumer finance company that granted personal loans, second
mortgages, and did some dealer financing for things like TVs, stereos, and furniture.

I’d worked all sorts of jobs in the past few years. Data entry, waitressing, sales
clerk, then a good job as an admin assistant for a major corporation that went under,
taking me with it. Piercing ears at the mall landed me the job at Mid-America.

Something about snapping on latex gloves and driving a metal spike through the flesh
of infants and children had impressed Mr. Burrows, the branch manager, and he’d hired
me several months ago as an asset manager.

While that might sound like a fabulous job—that came with a fabulous salary—not so.
But the big three-oh was on the horizon, I’d been unemployed
forever
, and I was still working on my B.A., so I didn’t have a lot of options. Like many
other people in the country, I’d been desperate for a paycheck. Besides, I hadn’t
decided what my future held—beyond taking over the world, the only thing I knew for
sure I wanted to do with my life.

I liked justice. I liked the scales to balance, which was one of the things that appealed
to me about my job with Mid-America. It gave me a chance to be judge, jury, and executioner,
at times, to mete out a little justice for my customer’s benefit and, sometimes, for
Mid-America’s benefit.

I didn’t like it when things didn’t even out.

According to Mid-America, the position of asset manager required that I telephoned
customers who were behind on their payments and work with them to get their accounts
up to date. I was okay with helping people get back on their feet, financially—I remember
well the Summer of Spam, as I thought of it, when I was ten years old and my dad lost
his job.

I was also expected to take whatever steps were necessary to collect Mid-America’s
accounts, including pursuing legal action and repossessing collateral. No way was
I doing that, so I put my own twist on the position.

“The Sullivans are doing okay,” I said to Manny, even though I knew they weren’t.
But I liked them, two sweet old people, both in their sixties.

“Repo the TV, Dana,” Manny said.

“Mr. Sullivan lost his part-time job,” I said.

Manny was unmoved. He’d heard this story a zillion times.

“He has another job lined up,” I said, even though I knew it wasn’t true. “They’ll
have the money soon.”

Manny’s gaze narrowed, studying me, like he thought maybe I was just shining him on—which
I was. But I’m as good at the stare-down as anybody so I gazed right back at Manny
without blinking an eye.

“I have to answer to Corporate on this,” he said.

Corporate. What a bunch of jackasses.

“Pick up the TV, Dana. Now,” Manny said, then turned to his computer. I gathered my
stuff and left the office with one thought burning in my mind: how the heck was I
going to get out of repoing the Sullivans’ television and still keep my job?

* * *

I fumed as I drove out of Mid-America’s parking lot and headed for the freeway. Luckily,
I had on a favorite pants and jacket outfit, the sun shone bright, and I was treated
to a gorgeous late October day here in Santa Flores.

The city was, admittedly, not one of Southern California’s finest, even though it
was situated half-way between Los Angeles and Palm Springs, at the base of the mountains
leading up to the Big Bear and Lake Arrowhead ski resorts. But don’t let that prestigious
location give you any ideas. A few years back Santa Flores was dubbed the Murder Capital
of America.

Yes, the Murder Capital of America was my home. A place where you could get killed
for your shoes. I’d lived there all my life. My whole family lived there too, except
my older brother who’d married and moved up north about a year ago; Mom’s still giving
him “another month or so” before she’s sure he’ll move back.

Like a lot of other places, things had gone badly for Santa Flores in the last few
decades. The steel mill shut down, the railroad yard moved, the Air Force base closed.
Gangs moved in from L.A. The real estate bubble burst. Businesses closed. The only
thing on the upswing was the number of people out of work.

I took the 215 freeway north and exited on State Street—the Sullivans had been behind
on their account so many times I knew the way to their house without my GPS—then made
my way to Devon, a nice area—once—but that was before I was born. Gangs had brought
drugs and violence. Some of the houses were abandoned, long ago falling to ruin. A
few families valiantly kept up their yards and painted over the graffiti on their
fences; most just hung on.

As I parked outside the chain link fence that surrounded the Sullivans’ little stucco
home, I noted the place needed painting. The grass was dead. Old lawn chairs and broken
flower pots were overturned beside the porch.

Despite everything, Arthur and Gladys Sullivan were sweet, loveable old people, the
kind you couldn’t say no to—though Mid-America should have said “no” to their last
loan request. They were on a fixed income; their budget was tight. They’d needed five
hundred dollars to fix their car, and Mr. Sullivan needed that car to get to his part-time
job. Mid-America had approved the loan, picking up their 42-inch Sony television for
collateral.