Slay Bells and Satchels (Haley Randolph Mystery Series) (3 page)

A few customers had gathered outside the red velvet ropes that cordoned off the fireplace and others were busy filling out contest entry forms at the little tables set up nearby. I circled around to the back of the display so the customers wouldn’t overhear.

“What’s going on?” I asked Sandy. “Where are the elves?”

“Jeanette told me to run the drawing,” Sandy said. “The elves were completely traumatized by the news. I guess they all know each other.”

I wondered if they knew that girl who used to work here at Holt’s—I can never remember her name—the one who used to stink up the break room with her diet meals. She’d lost eighty pounds, or something, gone blonde, swapped her glasses for contacts, and gotten an agent. Last I heard she was doing really great, modeling for print ads.

I hate her, of course.

“So, anyway,” Sandy said, “Jeanette let them have the day off—with pay.”

“With—what?”

How come I didn’t get the day off—with pay? I’d found the dead elf. Didn’t she think I might be traumatized, too?

More likely Jeanette figured the elves might sue Holt’s and I wouldn’t.

Neither Ty nor I had ever come right out and told Jeanette we were dating, but I’m sure she knew—long story. Ty preferred to keep his personal life quiet, which was understandable, but I didn’t see any reason why I shouldn’t get some preferential treatment around here out of the deal.

“Are the elves coming back tomorrow?” I asked Sandy.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Most of them were really upset about what happened. They were afraid.”

I doubted some whack-job, psycho elf murderer was on the loose, but you never knew. This was, after all, L.A.

“And you know what this means for our contest,” Sandy said.

There was a contest?

“All the employees are really excited about winning a big prize,” she said.

Then I remembered that we were supposed to hit up customers for a donation to the children’s Christmas toy charity drive, and that the store that collected the most money won a prize.

“Without those elves here, I don’t know if we have a chance of winning,” Sandy said. “I wish you hadn’t told everybody about that dead elf in the stockroom.”

“What was I supposed to do?
Leave
her there?”

Sandy shook her head. “Some of the employees think you blew our chances of pulling off a big win.”

“The prizes were probably really lame, anyway,” I said.

“Still,” Sandy said. “I’m just saying.”

“Whatever. I’ve got to go,” I said.

I headed through the store again in the general direction of the Domestics Department, but was in no rush to actually report there, or do any actual work.

I thought I’d done enough for Holt’s today.

Since Jeanette and most of the department managers were probably still in the offices dealing with the police investigation, I saw no reason not to take full advantage of the situation.

I walked to the Shoe Department, careful—as always—to keep my eyes straight forward and move at a rapid pace to discourage customers from attempting to stop me and ask for help. I hurried between the racks of shoes, and slipped into the stockroom.

The Shoe Department had its own stockroom. Since the shelves had to be replenished so often, management didn’t want employees abandoning the sales floor for long periods of time to fetch shoes from the big stockroom at the back of the store.

I guess they thought some employees might take advantage of the situation and just hang out in there. I mean, really,
who
would do such a thing?

Anyway, the Shoe Department stockroom was filled with shelves of shoes, of course, but it also had a little desk, chair and telephone for the department manager to use.

Like management didn’t think anyone would take advantage of those things?

Inside the stockroom, I closed the door, dropped into the desk chair, and whipped out my cell phone.

My day needed a boost. So what could lift my spirits better than talking to my official boyfriend?

I punched in Ty’s number, my mind filling with the image of him.

At this time of day he would be at the Holt’s corporate headquarters in downtown Los Angeles. He’d be wearing one of his expensive suits with a perfectly coordinated shirt and tie, his light brown hair combed carefully into place. He’d be sitting at his ridiculously overpriced desk, in his bigger-than-most-two-bedroom-apartments office, with an amazing view that jacked up the price of the building to equal the gross national product of most South American countries. He’d be making decisions that involved millions of dollars and affected the lives of thousands of people. He’d see my name on his caller I.D. screen. He’d stop everything. All the problems facing Holt’s would have to come to a standstill because I was calling. He’d answer on the first ring because he would be so thrilled to talk to me.

Just before the sixth ring when his voicemail would pick up—I know this because I’d heard his phone ring a few billion times—Ty answered.

“Yeah?” he said.

“Hi,” I said. “How’s your morning?”

“What? Hang on.” I heard him talking to someone in the background, then he came back on the line. “Haley? Yeah, what’s up?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I just had a rough morning and I wanted to—”

“Hang on.” Ty spoke to someone for a minute or so, then came back to me. “I heard what happened this morning.”

I doubted he’d heard that I’d found the body, or that my old nemesis Detective Madison was on the case and had already decided I was a suspect.

I saw no reason to tell Ty those things.

“P.R. already has a lid on it,” Ty said. “I don’t think it will affect sales.”

“You’re being a really crappy boyfriend right now,” I told him.

Ty went silent. I pictured him frozen in place, thinking, analyzing what I’d said, trying to determine whether I was right or wrong, and envisioning what the ramifications of taking each side of the issue would mean to our future—mostly, because Ty was definitely a male, whether this would impact how soon I’d have sex with him again.

Ty’s no dummy. He came to his decision in about three seconds.

“You really had a rough morning, babe,” he said. “The whole thing must have been terribly upsetting. I hate you had to go through that. You shouldn’t be exposed to that sort of thing.”

“You could ease my troubles by taking me out to dinner tonight,” I offered.

“Oh.”

I guess that was my answer.

“I’m heading to New York,” Ty said, shifting into business mode again.

“Now?” I asked.

“Something came up,” he said. I heard voices in the background again, and things being shuffled around. “I’ll only be there a couple of days. When I come back I’ll take you any place you’d like. I promise.”

“You’re
really
being a crappy boyfriend right now,” I said.

“Yes, I know, and I’m sorry,” Ty said. “But I’ll make it up to you. I swear.”

“You’d better,” I told him.

“I will. I’ll talk to you later,” he said, and hung up.

I rose from the chair and shoved my cell phone into my pocket. Crap. So much for my day getting a boost.

I couldn’t help but notice that Ty hadn’t asked me to accompany him to New York. I’d been to Europe with him on a business trip—long story—and, surprise-surprise, he was no fun. Still, it would have been nice to be invited, and with a murder investigation underway and me a sort-of suspect, it would be a great time for me to leave town.

Another more depressing thought flew into my head.

What if Ty had already spoken to the homicide detectives? What if he knew I was a suspect? Could that have been why he left town so suddenly? And didn’t ask me to go with him?

Not a great feeling.

I wasn’t quite up to facing the Domestics Department yet, but since the cops were probably still in the main stockroom, and everybody knew to look for me in the break room—my all-time favorite hiding place—I figured I’d just hang out in here for a while. Maybe I’d give Marcie a call and see what was up with our next purse party, or schedule a mani and pedi for myself—that would improve my day.

My cell phone buzzed.

My heart jumped. Was it Ty? Had he cancelled his New York trip? Had it just occurred to him that he should have invited me to go with him? Was he on his way here to sweep me off of my feet?

I yanked my phone from my pocket and read the name on the caller I.D. screen. I gasped aloud and my heart thudded against my ribcage.

Oh my God. Jack Bishop was calling.

Jack was a super-hot private detective. I met him last fall when I’d worked at the law firm of Pike Warner—long story. He still worked there doing investigations—all of which just
had
to be really cool—and also took some cases on the side.

He had gorgeous dark hair, deep blue eyes, and a fantastic build. We’ve traded favors—strictly professional, of course—for the past few months, helping each other out with investigations.

“I’m dealing with a pressing situation,” Jack said when I answered.

He spoke in his Barry White voice, the one that made my stomach feel hot and gooey, and my toes curl.

“Would you call this a problem?” I asked.

“A big one,” he said. “A very big one. I’d like to share it with you.”

I tried to say something, but I couldn’t seem to form a complete sentence.

“I need relief, Haley,” Jack said. “And you—only you—have the necessary, shall we say, unique abilities to relieve this pressing situation.”

Oh my God. I collapsed into the desk chair.

“Meet me tonight at eight,” Jack said. “Wear something short.”

I didn’t wear something short.

Well, okay, it was kind of short—but it wasn’t my fault. My mother was a former beauty queen. Really. Though my chromosomal line up had somehow mismatched on her beauty, poise, and any-actual-talent genes, I’d inherited her long pageant legs. So skirts that were a normal length on most everybody else were super short on me.

I walked into the restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard where Jack had asked me to meet him at a little after eight o’clock. The place was decorated with dark wood, faux stone, and low, amber lighting like just about every other place these days. A restaurant was on the right with big windows that looked out onto the busy street. A bar was on the left.

The girl behind the hostess stand smiled when I walked up.

“I’m meeting someone,” I said.

“Jack?” she asked.

When I nodded, she looked like she might have been jealous. I couldn’t be sure, but I hoped so.

She led the way into the bar.

The place wasn’t exactly packed but lots of people sat on stools at the bar and at the tables surrounding it. There was no band playing or DJ bumping tunes.

I didn’t really know what to expect from my meeting with Jack tonight, although all sorts of scenarios had whipped around in my head—which was bad of me, I know, especially since my official boyfriend was out of town, but there it was. Yet never in my wildest dreams—and I’ve have some really crazy ones—did I expect to find Jack seated at a romantic corner table with another woman.

I figured her for late twenties. Ordinary looking—attractive, but ordinary. Tired, maybe. She had on minimal makeup. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and approximately ten days overdue for a fresh cut. She wore a simple white blouse over denim capris.

Jack looked hot—
way
hot—in jeans and a snug, green Henley shirt.

His head was leaned close to hers. She said something I couldn’t hear. Jack glanced at his watch, spoke to her, and patted her arm.

I wondered if I’d wasted my totally awesome outfit, a black look-at-my-legs skirt, a dark-haired-girls-get-noticed-in-red tank top, slightly slutty heels, and a beyond gorgeous Chanel satchel.

Only one way to find out.

“Hi,” I said, walking up.

Jack rose from his chair, but before he could say anything, the woman shot to her feet.

“Haley?” she asked, looking at me as if I were some long lost relative.

I glanced at Jack, then said, “Yeah, I’m Haley.”

She dashed around the table and threw her arms around me.

“Thank you. Thank you for coming,” she said, squeezing me. “Thank you.”

I hit Jack with a what-the-heck look and he pried her off of me.

“Let’s all sit down,” he said.

She drew back and I saw tears standing in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just a little emotional these days.”

“Haley, this is Brooke Stafford,” Jack said, as we all sat down.

The waitress appeared. Jack ordered another beer; the white wine in front of Brooke looked as if it hadn’t been touched.

“Just a soda,” I said, since I was driving.

“Brooke’s involved with a delicate situation,” Jack began. “It seems—”

“My in-laws kidnapped my daughter,” she blurted out.

I reeled back a little. “What?”

“They have her. They won’t give her back. They claim they don’t have her.” Brooke’s words came out in a frantic rush. Tears sprang from her eyes. “They say that if I don’t have her, then she must be dead. I must have killed her!”

“It’s okay,” Jack said softly.

He pulled her onto his shoulder and she buried her face against his neck. After a minute or so, she sat up again and swiped at her tears.

“I’m sorry,” Brooke said, sniffing.

“Brooke’s husband died six months ago,” Jack said. “Chris Stafford.”

A jolt hit me.

“Oh, my God. You’re
that
Brooke Stafford?” I asked.

The Staffords lived in a mansion on Pasadena’s Orange Grove Boulevard that had been in their family for a couple of generations. I knew this because the social circle my parents traveled in often intersected that of the Staffords.

They were what my mother referred to as “old money,” which meant they were not only loaded but also connected to civic, social and business leaders. None of those ties, however, saved them from the ultimate heartache when in January of this year their son Chris—their only child—had been killed in a car crash.