Swag Bags and Swindlers Read online

  While Marcie and I were different in appearance—she was blond and petite—we were in complete sync in our crazed devotion to designer handbags. We’d started a business selling knockoffs at purse parties that had brought in serious cash. Both of us were always on alert for the next “it” bag, and Marcie had definitely found one this morning.

  I’d clicked on the link she’d sent and there before my eyes appeared the Sassy, the most gorgeous satchel I’d ever seen in to-die-for blue leather. My heart had actually started to beat faster at the sight. I absolutely had to have one—and I knew Marcie felt the same, which was why we were BFFs.

  I munched on another chocolate chip cookie and let the Sassy satchel fill my mind as I mentally reviewed my wardrobe. A handbag in that particular shade of blue would look great with—wait. Hang on. The Sassy wouldn’t go with anything I already owned. Oh, well. I’d just have to go shopping.

  Just as I was visualizing Marcie and me hitting all our favorite stores, Kayla nudged me again.

  “Yes, Haley has stepped up,” Priscilla said, standing at the podium again, smiling and gesturing toward me.

  Damn. She’d just announced how I’d saved the day by taking over Suzie’s events and I’d missed my moment.

  “Seriously?” Eve asked, as if she couldn’t believe it. “Seriously?”

  I glanced around. Everyone was staring at me. Wow, they all looked as if I was the office hero, all right.

  “So,” Priscilla continued, “see Haley if you have any questions.”

  She blabbed on for a few more minutes, then the meeting broke up. Everyone headed for the door.

  “Haley?” Priscilla called, making her way toward me. “I’ll bring Suzie’s files to you as soon as possible.”

  “Great,” I said, and couldn’t help but note that all the other employees were eyeing me, envious, probably, that I’d beaten everyone else to Suzie’s events.

  “You know, Haley,” a girl next to me said, “that new brand of pumpkin-flavored coffee creamer we just got is really good.”

  Okay, that was weird. But some people showed their adulation in odd ways.

  “Thanks,” I said, and smiled as the crowd funneled out the door of the conference room into the hallway.

  I headed for my office—which I loved. It was my private sanctuary filled with neutral furniture and accented with splashes of blue and yellow. The best feature was the big window where I could stand and look out onto the Sepulveda and Ventura intersection, and the Sherman Oaks Galleria across the street.

  One of the things I loved most about my office was that I didn’t have to stay in it if I didn’t want to. L.A. Affairs had no problem—at least not one that had been mentioned to me—with event planners spending vast amounts of time checking out venues, talking with clients, and coordinating with vendors in person. This, of course, made L.A. Affairs the perfect job for me and I saw no reason not to take full advantage of it.

  I grabbed one of my event portfolios and my handbag, and left my office.

  “Haley?” Mindy called as I passed her desk. “You know, I just love a fine-point pen.”

  Jeez, was she getting weirder all the time, or what?

  “Good to know,” I said, as I breezed out the door.

  I took the elevator to the parking garage, got into my Honda, and headed east on Ventura Boulevard toward Studio City.

  My biggest upcoming event—and my excuse for getting out of the office—was the high-profile fiftieth anniversary gala for Hollywood Haven, a retirement home for entertainers. The star-studded celebration would take place at the iconic Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel on Hollywood Boulevard, complete with a red carpet, dinner, dancing, and a salute to the Golden Age of Hollywood.

  I’d been coordinating the event with the home’s assistant director, Derrick Ellery, one of the few people in the place under the age of sixty. Luckily, Derrick was much younger than that—probably midthirties—and he’d been a dream to work with.

  I drove into the parking lot and found a spot near the entrance. The Hollywood Haven property was huge, a sprawling complex that had been built in the sixties. The one-story building was laid out in a large U shape with a central courtyard and lush gardens, walking trails, and fountains fanning out in all directions. The building’s dark wood and towering trees gave it a calm, restful feel.

  The residents had all had careers in the entertainment field—singers, dancers, actors, playwrights, songwriters, screenwriters, circus performers, musicians, acrobats—really, just about everything imaginable. People who’d worked in related fields were also allowed to retire at Hollywood Haven—talent agents, studio personnel, in-house attorneys, and production crew members.

  I’d been there a half dozen times or so since I’d started planning the gala. Derrick and the rest of the staff were super nice, courteous, and easygoing. I’d met only a few of the residents, none of whom had much input on the event. Everything was rolling along smoothly with everyone at Hollywood Haven.

  Still, something about the place gave me a weird vibe—which I ignored. The gala prep was going well. Derrick had loved everything I suggested. He hadn’t fought me on anything or made any outrageous requests. And, really, all that mattered was that the event turned out great, regardless of my vibe antenna.

  I gathered my things and walked in through the main entrance. The spacious lobby had thick carpeting, a massive chandelier, and a couple of comfy seating groups. Every area I’d seen so far at Hollywood Haven was immaculate and upscale—probably because the A-list stars whose donations helped keep the place running figured they might end up here one day and wanted it to look nice.

  Karen, the receptionist, was at the front desk, a long counter sort of like the ones in a hotel lobby, talking on the phone. She’d seen fifty, easily, but was fighting it with regular visits to the hair salon to cover the gray—can’t say that I blamed her. I was supposed to sign in, but since I’d been here so many times, I just smiled and waved. Karen smiled and waved back, and I headed down the hallway where the offices were located.

  I had a number of things I needed to finalize with Derrick for the anniversary gala. Since Hollywood Haven was funded, in part, by big name celebrities who would be in attendance the night of the gala, I’d figured Derrick would be worried beyond all reason that there would be problems. Not so. Derrick was really cool about everything.

  I paused outside his office door, gave it a quick knock, and pushed it open.

  “Hi, Derrick,” I said. “I just need to—”

  But Derrick wasn’t seated at his desk. He was lying on the floor beside it.

  Derrick didn’t seem so cool right now.

  Derrick seemed dead.

  Since this was a retirement home, finding someone dead wasn’t an unusual occurrence, apparently. Karen had calmly picked up her telephone and started making calls when I’d gone to her and reported what I’d discovered.

  But Derrick wasn’t simply dead. He’d been murdered.

  I hadn’t mentioned that fact to Karen because the place was full of old people in precarious states of health, and I didn’t want to be responsible for shocking any of them into a premature heart attack.

  When I’d seen Derrick sprawled on the floor beside his desk, there was no missing the huge bloodstain that had soaked the front of his white shirt and saturated the beige carpet beneath him. I’d taken a quick look around his office, then pulled the door closed—careful not to touch the knob—and headed for Karen’s reception desk in the lobby.

  No way did I want to hang around while the police and the crime scene techs went about their jobs, so I headed outside. I had some quick thinking to do—which was so much easier if I had a Starbucks mocha Frappuccino, my favorite drink in the entire world—yet I had no choice but to push on with my brain cells functioning in as-is condition.

  I followed one of the paths that led through the gardens at the front of the building and wound my way through the grounds. Behind me, the parking lot was crowded with official
police vehicles. So far, I hadn’t seen any of the residents hanging around to get a look at what was going on.

  But, jeez, everybody here was old. Guess they’d already seen it all.

  Under different circumstances, I’d use this opportunity to hunker down and spend some quality time doing an Internet search for the Sassy satchel that Marcie and I absolutely had to have, but all I could think about was my future.

  This look-at-me-I’m-responsible thing was really weird.

  What if—yikes!—somebody at L.A. Affairs learned that Derrick Ellery had been murdered, thereby possibly putting Hollywood Haven’s fiftieth anniversary gala in jeopardy—along with my permanent, full-time employee status?

  My life flashed in front of me—Priscilla downgrading my job performance, being told I’d have to wait months to be reevaluated, having to continue working at Holt’s.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. What would I do?

  I drew in a breath to calm myself.

  If word somehow reached L.A. Affairs, I’d have to downplay Derrick’s role in the gala prep. That would be a total lie, of course, but what else could I do? Whatever it took, I was going to quit my job at Holt’s.

  My cell phone rang. I whipped it out of my handbag hoping it was Marcie—she’s really good at calming me down—but I saw Karen’s name on the caller ID screen instead.

  “The detectives are looking for you,” she said when I answered.

  Wow, she sounded super calm. I figured this was the same voice she used when ordering Chinese takeout. This whole finding-a-dead-body thing must be really routine for her.

  I wondered if that was a category on her job performance evaluation. If so, she’d aced it.

  “They want to talk to you,” Karen said.

  I was in no mood.

  No way did I want to talk to homicide detectives right now. I’d done that in the past and they’d always had a way of rattling me with their suggestions that I’d done something wrong just because I’d found the victim. They’d pushed and prodded, made nasty remarks, turned on their cop we-think-you-did-it X-ray vision, and accused me of all kinds of things.

  Still, I couldn’t avoid talking to them. I had to do it. But nobody said I had to make it easy for them.

  “I’ll be right there,” I said, and hung up.

  I headed back through the gardens, mentally rehearsing how I’d deal with these detectives. One-word answers, for sure. Absolutely no volunteering information. I’d have to keep this interview short and to the point—no matter what they said or how they treated me.

  As I approached the building’s front entrance, two gray-haired, average-looking men dressed in can-I-keep-wearing-these-until-I-retire coats and ties stepped outside. Detectives, for sure. They spotted me and came down the steps.

  “Miss Randolph?” one of them said.

  “Yes,” I said, and steeled myself for the verbal throw-down that was about to happen.

  “I’m Detective Walker. This is my partner, Detective Teague,” he said, and nodded to the man beside him. “You walked in on a bad scene, Miss Randolph. Are you all right?”

  “Would you like to go inside?” Detective Teague asked. “Would you like to sit down?”

  “Can we get you something to drink?” Detective Walker asked.

  Okay, these two looked and acted like two sweet old grandpas, but no way was I falling for their tricks.

  “No, thank you,” I said.

  “I understand you found the victim?” Detective Walker asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I’m so sorry you had to see that.”

  Detective Teague pulled a little notebook from his pocket. “If you don’t mind, could I get your contact information?”

  I gave it to him and he wrote it down.

  “Now, can you tell us what happened?” he asked. “Do you feel up to it?”

  Wow, these two were good. Attempting to lull me into a false sense of security, no doubt. But they weren’t fooling me. I saw through their charade.

  “When I arrived, Derrick’s office door was ajar,” I said. “I knocked, pushed it open, stepped inside, and saw him lying on the floor beside his desk. There was no one else in the room, no one climbing out the window. I backed out of the room and alerted the receptionist.”

  Detective Teague jotted down the info, then said, “Well, I guess that’s it.”

  That’s—what?

  “We appreciate your help, Miss Randolph,” Detective Walker said.

  Wait. What was going on?

  “Thank you for your cooperation,” Detective Teague said.

  That’s all they were going to ask me? What the heck kind of detectives were they?

  “I doubt we’ll need anything more, Miss Randolph,” he said, “but you never know.”

  “We’ll contact you if we need to,” Detective Walker said.

  I mean, jeez, come on. I found the body. I was their prime witness. There were a zillion other things they could have asked me. But they were just going to let me leave? What kind of investigation were they running?

  “Have a nice day,” Detective Teague said.

  Detective Walker nodded politely and they walked away.

  I stood there feeling slightly miffed. Didn’t these two realize how important I was? How could they have thrown me a few softball questions, then let the whole thing drop?

  Of course, I’d held my own and not given them much of a chance to ask anything, but still. Maybe I was finally getting the hang of this whole cop-interview thing.

  Since there was no use in going inside Hollywood Haven again, I decided to leave. My steps felt quicker and lighter as I headed for my car. Obviously, I’d have to make contact with someone else at Hollywood Haven regarding their anniversary gala, but for now there was nothing I could do.

  Except, I realized, stop by Macy’s—one of my all-time favorite stores—and see if they had a Sassy satchel in stock.

  Oh, yeah, my day just got a lot better.

  As I crossed the parking lot toward my car, my cell phone chimed. I pulled it from my handbag and saw that I had a text message from Shuman, an LAPD detective I’d known for a while now.

  We’d been through a lot of stuff together—strictly professional, of course. Well, it was mostly professional. Nothing romantic, though we’d seemed to share a come-hither attraction in the past that neither of us had acted on, except for that one time—long story.

  I hadn’t seen Shuman in a while, so I wondered why he was texting me. I accessed his message and read, If you are contacted by homicide detectives DO NOT talk to them.

  Oh, crap.

  CHAPTER 3

  “This is b.s.,” Bella said. “Serious b.s.”

  “Seriously?” I mumbled.

  We were standing in line for the time clock in the breakroom of Holt’s Department Store along with several other employees, all of us waiting for our this-day-will-neverend shift to begin. Nearby were other employees helping themselves to snacks from the vending machines, heating up their dinner in the microwave, or staring blankly into space wondering where it had all gone so wrong.

  Or maybe that was just me.

  Had I really been snookered by those two old homicide detectives at Hollywood Haven today? I’d thought I was being so smart, controlling the interview, limiting myself to short, factual responses. But I realized that, after receiving Shuman’s text message, apparently I’d been outmaneuvered.

  What I still couldn’t figure out was how he’d learned so quickly that I was involved in the murder of Derrick Ellery. I was glad he’d texted me, telling me not to talk to the cops, but it sure as heck would have been nice if his warning had gotten to me a few minutes sooner.

  I’d texted Shuman back immediately—I’m not big on suspense—and asked him what was going on. I hadn’t heard from him yet.

  Someone jostled me from behind and I realized the line was moving forward. I punched in my employee number and pressed my fingertip on the reader of the high-tech
time clock, then followed Bella out of the breakroom.

  Bella, chocolate to my vanilla, had been one of my Holt’s BFFs since I started working here. She didn’t like it here any better than I did—thus our BFF status.

  Honestly, I wasn’t cut out for customer service—unless I was the customer being serviced, of course. The Holt’s merchandise was beyond hideous, even for a midrange department store, the customers actually wanted to be waited on, and the store management had certain standards they constantly pushed the salesclerks to maintain—for a lousy nine bucks an hour.

  Bella had hung in there at Holt’s for a good reason though—the pursuit of her dream career. She was saving for beauty school with the intention of one day becoming the hairdresser to the stars. In the meantime, she practiced different looks with her own hair.

  I sensed that Bella was feeling restless, perhaps longing to somehow escape daily life, because tonight she’d sculpted her hair into the shape of a hot air balloon atop her head.

  “Seriously,” Bella grumbled. “That is seriously some serious b.s.”

  I’d been so consumed with my own thoughts I hadn’t really been listening to Bella—which was bad of me, I know—but she didn’t seem to notice.

  “Suspicious activity,” she said. “That’s what they told me. But there’s nothing suspicious about it. Somebody was out-and-out trying to charge stuff on my Visa account.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “Somebody hacked your account?”

  “Tried to,” Bella said. “But the Visa people didn’t let the charge go through. They blocked it, then called me and said somebody in Peru was trying to charge ten pairs of Levi’s jeans on my card.”

  “That’s suspicious, all right,” I agreed.

  “That’s b.s.,” she replied. “That’s what it is—b.s.”

  “How did they get your Visa account number?” I asked.

  “Beats me,” Bella said. “And I had just paid that thing off. I don’t want nothing else charged on it.”

  Bella had recently come into a large sum of money and had used it to pay off some bills, help out her nana, and add to her beauty school savings.