Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) Read online

  FANNY PACKS AND FOUL PLAY

  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 purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading 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.

  Books by Dorothy Howell

  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

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Dear Reader

  Excerpt from Duffel Bags and Drownings

  Excerpt from The Hired Husband

  Chapter 1

  “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 draw
er 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.

  Chapter 2

  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.

  Veronica had come to the L.A. Affairs office several weeks ago for help with a Thanksgiving Day feast she and Patrick wanted to throw for their employees to thank them for their hard work. I’d liked her right away. She was about my age, a petite blue-eyed blonde transplant from Arkansas, Alabama, Amarillo—I don’t know, one of the A places—who radiated what-the-heck-let’s-do-it excitement about everything.

  Veronica and Patrick had started Pammy Candy a year or so ago and it had skyrocketed, enabling them to move out of their Culver City newlywed’s bungalow and buy a huge place in one of the most trendy locations in the Los Angeles area.

  Patrick didn’t need the candy business income. He was from an old money family—as demonstrated by his hyphenated last name—that had settled here generations ago and helped found Los Angeles.

  Veronica, however, was a different story—a way different story.

  I exited the freeway and wound through the hills to the street where Veronica and Patrick were making their new home. It was gorgeous—and I’m really happy for them. Really.

  They’d purchased the property a couple of months ago and were splitting their time between here and their Culver City bungalow while major renovations were underway. The construction guys were working overtime, trying to get everything finished in time for the Thanksgiving feast.

  I eased up behind a plumbing company van stopped at the neighborhood’s security gate and waited until the guard let it through. I pulled forward and showed the guard my driver’s license. Even though I’d been here numerous times, he still looked closely at my picture and checked his list of approved visitors before opening the gate.

  “Enjoy your visit, Miss Randolph,” he said.

  “Thanks,” I called, and drove through.

  I caught up with the van a few moments later. The neighborhood streets rambled through the canyons and hills, all heavily landscaped to keep out any stalker, paparazzi, or tourist who might somehow slip in.

  At the Spencer-Taft house—really, it was a mansion—the plumbing van pulled around back. I parked my Honda in the circular driveway alongside a Mazda. A white convertible BMW, a black Bentley, and a silver Mercedes were nearby.

  I’d been here several times to discuss the Thanksgiving feast with Veronica. She was super busy working at Pammy Candy with Patrick and overseeing the renovations at the house, so I’d met with her here to accommodate her schedule—plus it was a good excuse for me to get out of the office.

  The house had a Mediterranean vibe with eight bedrooms, ten bathrooms, a media room, a game room, a fabulous kitchen, and servants’ quarters, among other extravagances. Out back were a patio, pool, and spa set among lush landscaping, an organic garden, a koi pond, and a breathtaking view of the canyons and mountains.

  I grabbed the L.A. Affairs event portfolio and reached for my handbag, a Burberry satchel. The bag had seemed the perfect complement to my business suit when I’d selected it this morning, but now I wasn’t feeling so great about it.

  Yeah, okay, it was a terrific purse, and it had been a major must-have when I’d bought it. But, jeez, that was a long time ago—two, maybe three weeks. Time had moved on and I desperately needed something new. Marcie hadn’t seemed all that troubled about this major
glitch in my life today at lunch, which I didn’t get—I’m mean, come on, it wasn’t like I’d just lost my first baby tooth.

  Obviously, I was going to have to ramp up my efforts to find a new, totally awesome handbag.

  There was a lot of commotion at the front of the house as I got out of my Honda. Landscapers were digging trenches, laying new irrigation pipe, weeding the flower beds, and cutting back overgrown plants. Scaffolding had been erected near the massive double front doors and three electricians were installing light fixtures. Workmen were unloading pallets of decorative stone from a delivery truck.

  The job foreman stood with two women, holding an iPad, pointing and explaining something. Veronica wasn’t with them, which didn’t surprise me.

  One of the women was Patrick’s mother, Julia Spencer-Taft.

  I didn’t actually hate her—yet, anyway—but she was pushing me in that direction big-time.

  Julia was mid-fifties, tall with perfectly coiffed dark hair, and displayed understated elegance and exquisite taste in her ultra-expensive clothing. She carried herself with a regal I’ve-been-better-than-you-for-generations way that was, I’m sure, engrained in her DNA.

  Standing beside her was Erika, the decorator who was masterminding the changes to the interior of the house. I didn’t especially like her, either, though I wasn’t sure why. She was around my age, tall, blonde, and gorgeous—which I guess was reason enough.

  I’d crossed paths with the oh-so-charming Julia Spencer-Taft a few times since planning began for the Thanksgiving event. She didn’t know me personally but she was aware of L.A. Affairs’ reputation so she had to at least act as if she liked me. Erika had been pleasant—after she checked out the Louis Vuitton satchel I’d had with me that first day and decided, I suppose, that I was good enough for her to speak with.

  But now it was go-time. I had to put aside my dislike for Julia and Erika and see to it that Veronica and Patrick put on a Thanksgiving feast that would wow their employees. This didn’t suit me, of course, but there it was—and it had nothing to do with the fact that two people had said I was in a crabby mood today.