Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery)
Read Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) Online
Authors: Dorothy Howell
Tags: #fiction, #romance, #humor, #cozy mystery, #fashion, #thanksgiving, #handbags, #womens sleuth
By Dorothy Howell
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2015 Dorothy Howell
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment
only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people.
If you would like to share this book with another person, please
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this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your
use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and
purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of
this author.
With love to Stacy, Judy, Seth and Brian
I couldn’t have written this novella without the
support of a lot of people. Some of them are: Stacy Howell, Judith
Branstetter, Martha Cooper, Evie Cook, Webcrafters Design, and
William F. Wu, Ph.D.
Special thanks to the readers and friends who
contributed the lawyer jokes: Carol Beyner, Gina Cresse, Joyce
Meyer, Marilynn Stella, and all the others who wished to remain
anonymous.
The Haley Randolph Mystery Series
Handbags and Homicide
Purses and Poison
Shoulder Bags and Shootings
Clutches and Curses
Slay Bells and Satchels
Tote Bags and Toe Tags
Evening Bags and Executions
Duffel Bags and Drownings
Beach Bags and Burglaries
Fanny Packs and Foul Play
Swag Bags and Swindlers
The Dana Mackenzie Mystery Series
Fatal Debt
Fatal Luck
Fatal Choice
Excerpt from Duffel Bags and Drownings
Excerpt from The Hired Husband
“I’d die for a
new handbag,” Marcie said.
I was ready to kill for one but didn’t say
so. Marcie had been my best friend since forever. She already
knew.
We were at the Galleria in Sherman Oaks, one
of L.A.s many upscale areas, scoping out the shops and boutiques.
Marcie and I shared a love—okay, it was really an obsession, but so
what—of designer handbags.
All things fashion-forward were of supreme
interest to us. But that was to be expected. We were both in our
mid-twenties, smack in the middle of our
we-have-to-look-great-now-before-it’s-too-late years. Marcie was a
petite blonde, and I, Haley Randolph, was tall with dark hair.
Marcie was sensible and level headed, and I—well, I wasn’t. But
that’s not the point. We’re still BFFs and that’s what matters.
Since we’d exhausted all the places we should
have been able to find a terrific handbag, we moved through the
open-air shopping center past the stores, restaurants, and office
spaces toward the parking garage. I had on a fabulous black
business suit, since I was on my lunch hour, and Marcie had taken
the day off from her job at a bank downtown so she had on jeans, a
sweater, and a blazer. We looked great—perfect for a November
afternoon.
“What the heck is wrong with all the
designers?” I asked, as we passed one of the boutiques we’d already
checked out. “All they have to do is design handbags. That’s it.
And I haven’t seen one decent bag in months.”
“It hasn’t been months,” Marcie pointed out.
“Only a few weeks.”
She was right, of course. Marcie was almost
always right.
I was in no mood.
“You’ve been kind of crabby lately,” Marcie
said, as only a BFF can. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I insisted.
Marcie gave me a we’re-best-friends look
which was usually comforting, but not today. My life had been a
roller coaster for a while now, but I’d been doing okay with it. I
had a great job as an event planner at L.A. Affairs and … and
…and—wait. Hang on. Was that the only good thing I had going?
Oh my God. It was.
I still had my will-this-nightmare-ever-end
part-time sales clerk job at the
how-the-heck-does-this-crappy-place-stay-in-business Holt’s
Department Store. My mom was driving me crazy—no, really, crazier
than usual—over prep for her upcoming Thanksgiving dinner that I
was expected to attend. I’d broken up with my hot, handsome,
fabulous official boyfriend Ty Cameron. I was staring down the
barrel of the single girl’s Bermuda Triangle of holidays—Christmas,
New Years, and Valentine’s Day—and lately it seemed that if
civilization were dying, men would rather let it go than date
me.
So was it too much to ask that a designer
somewhere come up with a fabulous new handbag that would soothe my
worries, boost my spirits, and keep me going until things turned
around?
Apparently, it was.
“If you want to talk, I’ll be home late
tonight,” Marcie said. “I’m having dinner with Beau.”
Oh, yeah, and Marcie had a new
boyfriend—which I’m really happy about. Really.
“Have fun,” I said, which I totally
meant.
Marcie had kissed her share of frogs, and
while Beau might not be her prince, he was at least a really nice
guy, good looking with a great job, and liked to go places and do
things with her—which was why I was really happy for her.
Really.
We waved good-bye and Marcie continued on
toward the parking garage. I headed the other way through the
Galleria and crossed the busy Sepulveda and Ventura intersection to
the building that housed L.A. Affairs, an event planning company to
the stars—and everyone else who mattered in Hollywood and Los
Angeles. It was my job to execute fabulous parties for people who
had more money than they knew what to do with so they spent it on
extravagant, outrageous, mine-is-better-than-yours events, then
left it up to me to, somehow, pull it off.
I took the elevator up to the L.A. Affairs
office on the third floor and walked inside. A florist on our
approved list—who wanted us to keep booking them for events—had
decorated the lobby with pumpkins, corn stalks, and mum plants.
Mindy, our receptionist, was at her post. She
was somewhere in her forties, with a waistline that attested to her
total commitment to the Food Network, and blonde hair she’s sprayed
into the shape of a mushroom.
If it’s true that we learn from our mistakes,
Mindy will soon be a genius.
“Are you ready to party?” Mindy
exclaimed.
She’s supposed to chant that ridiculous
slogan to clients, yet for some unknown reason I was continually
bombarded with it.
“I work here,” I told her, for about the
zillionth time. “Okay? I’m an employee. Here. You don’t have to
keep saying that to me.”
Mindy made a pouty face and shook her head.
“Oh, dear, someone is having a bad day.”
I walked away.
Just past the cube farm and the client
interview rooms I turned down the hallway where the offices, supply
room, conference rooms, and breakroom were located. I desperately
needed to hit the snack cabinet. I was long overdue for a chocolate
fix, and the mocha frappuccino—the most fabulous drink in the
world—that I’d gotten after lunch at Starbucks—the most fabulous
place in the world—had worn off.
I ducked into my private office—a great space
with neutral furniture and splashes of blue and yellow, and a huge
window with a view of the Galleria—and was about to drop my handbag
into my desk drawer when my cell phone rang. It was Mom.
Oh crap.
“Good news,” she announced when I
answered.
Mom’s news was seldom good—for me,
anyway.
“I’ve figured out how to remedy my seating
chart problem,” she said
Mom said it as if she’d just hammered out a
peace treaty in the Middle East, and while she did wish for world
peace—she was, after all, a former beauty queen—I’m not sure she
was even aware there were problems in that region of the world.
Really, how could she know if it wasn’t
covered in Vogue?
“Oh?” I murmured, as I dropped into my desk
chair.
“I’ve been quite concerned about your sister
lately,” Mom said.
To the untrained observer, it appeared that
Mom’s seating chart and her concerns for my sister weren’t related.
I knew the connection would be revealed—as long as I was patient
enough to wait.
I’m not usually that patient.
“She hasn’t been herself since she broke up
with Lars,” Mom said.
I had no idea who Lars was.
My sister was a little younger than me. She
attended UCLA, did some modeling, and was a near perfect genetic
copy of our mother.
I wasn’t.
“So,” Mom said, “I’m going to find a dinner
companion for your sister on Thanksgiving.”
I lurched forward in my chair. She was going
to—what?
“That way she won’t be lonely and sad,” Mom
said.
She was going to set up my sister with a
blind date?
“Someone from a good family, of course,” Mom
said. “Young and handsome, well educated.”
What about me? She knew I’d broken up with
Ty.
“Which will also solve my seating chart
problem,” Mom said.
No way did I want my mother to set me up with
somebody—but that’s not the point.
“I’m calling around now to see who’s
eligible,” Mom said. “I’ll let you know.”
She hung up. I jabbed the red button on my
cell phone and tossed it into my handbag.
Oh my God, I couldn’t believe this. My life
was locked in a death spiral and this was what Mom wanted to
do?
The office phone on my desk rang. It was
Mindy.
“Hello? Hello? Haley?” she asked, when I
picked up.
I drew a quick breath, trying to calm
myself.
“Yes, Mindy?”
“Oh, yes, hello. I’d like to speak to Haley,”
Mindy said.
Good grief.
“I’m Haley,” I said.
“Oh, jiminy, so you are,” Mindy said and
giggled. “So, anyway, there’s a Mr. Douglas in the office—no, he’s
on the phone. Yes, he’s on the phone, holding. He wants to come by
and see you right now.”
A man wanted an appointment? In person?
Immediately?
That could only mean one thing—he wanted to
plan a surprise party for his wife or girlfriend. Somebody he
desperately loved, thought the world of, wanted to impress and
flatter, and shower with special moments.
No way.
“Tell him to forget it,” I barked, and hung
up.
Two people had told me today that I was in a
crappy mood. Well, screw them.
I grabbed my handbag and an event portfolio
and left.
As holidays
went, Thanksgiving was definitely the easiest—and believe me, I
know.
After months of meticulous planning and
serious hand-holding with neurotic hostesses over dozens of
this-one-could-send-me-screaming-from-the-building events, I was
ready for something as simple as orchestrating Thanksgiving dinner
for my clients. This would be the calm before the Christmas season
when everyone was stressed-out, overwhelmed, and exhausted by
attempting yet another this-year-it-will-be-perfect holiday.
I mean, really, what special occasion could
be easier than Thanksgiving? You didn’t have to squeeze into a
formal dress, cook over a hot smoky barbecue grill, risk a sunburn,
strain your neck looking up at fireworks, spend a fortune, do major
shopping, or make yourself crazy over what gifts to buy
or—yikes!—what gifts you might get. There was no fighting the
crowds at the mall, the beach, or the ballpark. All you had to do
was put up with your relatives for a few hours and eat—a full bar
helped, too, of course.
The afternoon sun shone bright and clear in
the cloudless sky as I drove on the 101 toward the home of Veronica
and Patrick Spencer-Taft, my this-one-will-be-the-easiest clients.
They lived in Calabasas, an affluent city of multi-million dollar
mansions situated in the hills west of the San Fernando Valley
where celebrities, pop icons, actors, athletes, musicians, and
reality TV stars lived.
Veronica and Patrick weren’t any of those
things. They were a young couple who were super in love—and I’m
really happy for them. Really.