Messenger Bags and Murder (A Haley Randolph Mystery) Read online

  “I’ll check it out,” Jack said.

  He paused, looked away, then turned to me again and eased closer.

  “This situation … it could ….” Jack shook his head. I knew what he was thinking. This situation could sink his business permanently.

  “I need your help, Haley.”

  “I’m on it.”

  Jack nodded. “Thanks,” he whispered, and walked away.

  I watched him go, my mind screaming with things I could do to solve Elita Winston’s murder. My cell phone rang, jarring me, yanking me back into the moment.

  Pulling it out of my handbag, it flew into my head that it was my ex-official boyfriend Ty calling, wanting to talk—which I was definitely not up for.

  Then I felt guilty because my first thought hadn’t been that Liam, my current official boyfriend, was calling me back about our date I’d just cancelled.

  Honestly, I wasn’t all that anxious to talk to either of them—and it had nothing to do with watching Jack as he walked away. Nothing. I swear.

  I glanced at my phone. My mom’s name blazed on the screen.

  Crap.

  I let the phone ring, debating whether to answer—which was bad of me, I know. But my mom and I—well, to be generous, I’ll just say that we don’t always click. She’s a former beauty pageant queen, something I have no interest in or ability for. Yet, as obvious as that was from the time I took my first steps, it didn’t stop her from putting me into every conceivable type of class trying to dig out a kernel of actual talent in me. It wasn’t pretty. Nor enjoyable.

  Still, Mom was Mom. I answered her call.

  “Trousdale or Beverly Hills?” she asked.

  I had no idea what she was talking about. Often, she didn’t either—or so it seemed to me.

  “And, of course, there’s Brentwood,” Mom went on. “But Brentwood is so … something. I don’t know. Something. Don’t you think?”

  I didn’t bother to respond.

  “Maybe downtown, one of those gorgeous new high-rise developments,” Mom said. “Going up is the thing now.”

  A faint idea of what she was talking about sparked in my head.

  “It’s near the Beverly Center,” she said. “So convenient.”

  I froze.

  “Of course, there’s always Hancock Park,” Mom said.

  “Mom, are you talking about selling the house and moving?” I asked, panic rising in me.

  “I told you all about it,” she said.

  “No, you didn’t.”

  She didn’t answer, her thoughts elsewhere—on something important to her, I’m sure.

  “You’re selling our house?” I said that kind of loud. The few people in the hallway nearby turned and stared. “Our home? You’re selling our home?”

  Home was a small mansion in the hills of La Cañada Flintridge, a gorgeous community near Pasadena that overlooked the Los Angeles basin. Mom had inherited it decades ago, along with a trust fund, from some long-dead relative. We’d always lived there. I had no memories of living anywhere else. And Mom wanted to sell it?

  A glimmer of hope flared in my head.

  “Does Dad know about this?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course he knows.”

  “And he agreed to it?”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Maybe somewhere along Wilshire.”

  With Mom, I often had to struggle to keep a conversation focused. I think it had something to do with her years on the pageant circuit. For her, staying on point ranked far below walking gracefully in five inch pumps, answering if-I-were-a-color-which-one-would-I-be questions on the fly, and recognizing the subtle difference between ecru and eggshell accessories.

  Mom often ran off half-crazed with some new idea that she soon forgot about. Usually, I let it go and whatever it was eventually played out.

  No way could I let this go and merely hope for the best.

  “Mom? Is Dad okay with selling the house?”

  My dad was an aerospace engineer, the sensible one in the marriage.

  “Well, yes, of course,” Mom said.

  She blabbed on but I stopped listening.

  Oh my God. Oh my God. My parents were selling our home—actually selling it.

  I paced through the corridor, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, trying to get some perspective. My brother and I had moved out, and my sister, still in college and often away on modeling assignments, was hardly ever there. So, yeah, I guess Mom and Dad were free to sell, to move, to start over someplace else.

  But, jeez, to sell, move, start over someplace else? Just like that?

  “So you’ll get back to me on this?” Mom asked, jarring me into reality.

  She didn’t wait for my response, which was just as well because I had no clue what she was talking about.

  “Let me know,” she said, and ended the call.

  She claimed Dad knew and was on board, but what about my brother and sister? Had they been told? Were they okay with it?

  I dashed off a text message to both of them.

  I stood there in the hallway, all sorts of thoughts and memories battering my brain. Mom’s news had shaken me up like a snow globe. I couldn’t seem to process it.

  So what could I do but think about murder instead?

  As I headed down the hallway toward the bar where I’d left Kayla, I did an internet search on my phone. Jack had told me Elita Winston owned a B&B in Lake Arrowhead, so I figured that was a good place to start.

  I found her site quickly and—wow—it looked like an awesome house. Situated along the shoreline, it was a big, two-story home with an A-frame roof and lots of balconies and porches overlooking the lake. There was a gazebo set among lush landscaping for weddings and other outdoor events. A path led to a dock and boat house.

  The interior photos showed several rooms thoughtfully decorated, arranged as if each item had been selected with love and care for a specific spot, giving the home an appealing combo of rustic charm and casual elegance that was hard to pull off. No doubt about it, Elita Winston had excellent taste.

  Elita’s photo was there, too. She wore an awesome Michael Kors business suit. Her hair, nails, and makeup were done to perfection and her accessories were on point, a look hard to pull off without the help of a professional stylist. It made me kind of sad to see her.

  The B&B was taking reservations for its upcoming grand opening, I saw as I clicked through the site. Elita must have been super confident that everything would be ready and would open on schedule. The reputation of what had to be an expensive endeavor was on the line. No way would she want to announce the opening, take reservations, then have to pull back on everything. What a public relations nightmare that would be. Word would spread that she was unreliable, and nobody—nobody—would risk booking an event with her.

  I clicked another tab and saw Rosalind Russo’s photo and the announcement that she was the B&B’s chef, which surprised me. Rosalind was pictured standing in a kitchen, wearing an apron, and smiling the same modest smile I’d seen on the clip when she’d won the competition. The Comfort Food Championship logo was on the page.

  I guess that explained why Elita had been introducing her around the conference earlier. Elita, it seemed, had jumped on Rosalind’s win and newfound celebrity. No doubt Rosalind would be a great draw for the B&B. But I wondered why, of all the opportunities winning the competition would bring her way, Rosalind had agreed to be a chef at Elita’s B&B, all the way out in Lake Arrowhead.

  A zillion other questions flooded my brain, not the least of which was what would happen to the B&B now that Elita was dead. Would it become just another dream that never came to fruition? Did she have family or partners who would take over? Where would that leave Rosalind? And could anyone live up to the high standards Elita apparently had set for her business?

  From everything I’d learned so far, Elita was smart, organized, competent, and capable. She must have been business savvy if she’d gotten an invitation to HPA ahead of her grand openin
g. The B&B she’d fashioned looked awesome and appeared to have a great future.

  So who had wanted her dead?

  And why?

  Chapter 5

  When I got back to the bar, Kayla was still seated at our table, still drinking wine.

  “Nobody seems to know anything,” she said and gestured to the people around us as I sat down. “I haven’t overheard a word.”

  Kayla had excellent eavesdropping skills perfected in the breakroom and hallways at L.A. Affairs, and shared each juicy, gossipy word with little or no prompting, making her everything I ever wanted in a friend.

  “Some grumbling about the labyrinth walk closing,” she said, draining her glass. “I say, good for them for missing it, even if they didn’t stumble over a dead body.”

  The server appeared. I needed to keep a clear head, but sitting here without a drink in front of me was a bar-foul I couldn’t commit. We both ordered another wine.

  “Has Shannon come by yet?” I asked.

  “Nope.” Kayla shook her head. “Maybe she’s too upset. Maybe she quit. Maybe she couldn’t deal with it.”

  Shannon had seemed competent and capable when she’d met us upon our arrival, but she did get kind of rattled when that whole thing about the swag in the messenger bags came up. It was anybody’s guess how she was taking the news about the murder.

  “No sign of the police, either,” Kayla said. She squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds, and frowned. “Oh my God. I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t want to get any more involved than I am. This whole thing has got me mega stressed.”

  “Give it until tomorrow,” I suggested. “Things will look better in the morning.”

  Really, that made no sense, but everybody always said it. My emotional-support skills weren’t the best so I had to go with whatever seemed to work for other people.

  Kayla drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “Yeah, I guess. As long as nothing else bad happens, as long as I don’t have to get involved with it, or hear about it, or deal with it, or … anything.”

  This didn’t seem like a good time to mention that I’d promised to help Jack find the murderer.

  The server dropped off our wine. Kayla grabbed her glass and took a gulp, then squinted across the room.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, and set her glass down. “I’ve got to lay off this stuff. I’m seeing things.”

  I turned and saw Mindy, the receptionist at L.A. Affairs, making her way toward our table. What the heck was she doing here?

  “There you are. I’ve been looking all over for you,” she moaned and dropped into a chair at our table.

  I put Mindy in her forties, a plus-size gal with blonde hair shaped like a mushroom. She’d been our receptionist for a while—too long, really. I think it was a pity hire, which I would be okay with if she could manage the job. She was forever forgetting which clients came into the office, which interview room she’d put them in, who they wanted to see, and why they were there.

  Mindy looked at me. “So, Hannah, where have you been all day?”

  Yeah, and she always got everybody’s name mixed up.

  “It’s Haley.”

  Mindy shook her head and sighed heavily. “Oh, dear. What a day I’ve had.”

  She looked exhausted, stressed, and frazzled—more so than usual.

  “How about some wine?” Kayla asked.

  “No, thank you, Karen,” she said.

  “Kayla,” I told her.

  “You’re sure?” Kayla asked her. “One glass?”

  Mindy sighed again. “I don’t drink socially. It’s mostly work-related.”

  “What are you doing here?” I asked. It came out sounding kind of harsh. But, jeez, come on. Priscilla was losing her mind, worried about L.A. Affairs’ reputation, and she’d sent Mindy—Mindy—to the conference? I didn’t get it.

  “I’m taking care of our booths in the exhibit hall,” Mindy said. “Handing out our brochures, smiling, being pleasant. You know, that sort of thing.”

  I hoped that sort of thing didn’t include answering questions about our services.

  “Everybody is supposed to be nice in the exhibit hall.” Mindy eyed our wine. “They’re not. Not everybody.”

  Kayla and I both sensed major gossip going down, so we leaned forward.

  “People aren’t being nice to you? That’s awful,” Kayla said. “What’s happening?”

  I was glad she spoke first. She sounded way more pleasant than I would have. Sure, I wasn’t a big Mindy fan, but no way did I want somebody treating her badly.

  “Well … Edith has the booth right next to ours—right next to us—and I know she saw me, but she acted like she didn’t even know me. Of course, we haven’t seen each other in a while. Not since she got married. A year or so ago, I think it was. She married up, obviously, though why she didn’t take her new husband’s name I don’t know.” Mindy’s gaze drifted to our wine again. “Well … I guess one glass would be all right, since we’re discussing work.”

  Kayla waved the server over and Mindy ordered a drink, which seemed to be just the reason she needed to keep talking.

  “And it wasn’t just me she wasn’t being nice to,” Mindy went on. “The way she spoke to Olivia. Terrible, just terrible. For a minute, I thought they might come to blows.”

  I accessed the conference info on my phone. Olivia Trent, I read—and was somewhat amazed that Mindy had gotten the name right—was the hostess supervisor. Maybe Olivia’s problems with this Edith person explained why she hadn’t showed up to smooth things over with Kayla and me, since Shannon hadn’t appeared.

  “Move this, add that. Do it now,” Mindy went on. “All of a sudden, Edith had to do a demo. Video. Audio. Music. Wanted it added to her booth. Just like that.”

  Since I’d spent many months planning and executing all sort of events for L.A. Affairs’ rich and famous clients, I knew what it was like to deal with a difficult customer, to shuffle things around at the last minute—and be pleasant while doing it. Not easy—and not the kind of client I’d want to work with again.

  “Who is Edith?” I asked. “What kind of company does she have?”

  The server brought Mindy’s wine. She took a gulp and nodded graciously at Kayla. “This is delicious. You were right, Krystal.”

  “It’s Kayla,” I told her.

  “Obviously, Edna is doing very well—”

  “You mean Edith?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course, that’s what I said,” Mindy said.

  “You said Edna,” I pointed out.

  “Maybe I did. Sometimes I do that,” Mindy said, and touched her finger to her forehead. “I suffered a slight brain injury.”

  “Oh my God, that’s awful,” Kayla said. “What happened?”

  “I don’t remember,” Mindy said. “Anyway, Edith is doing very well, she and her new husband. I saw the photos. He must have selected everything himself because, frankly, Edith’s taste level is questionable. And good taste matters, especially at a bed and breakfast.”

  I got a weird feeling.

  “She owns a B&B?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, up in the mountains,” Mindy said. “Lake Arrowhead which, as you know, isn’t cheap. He must be loaded.”

  Kayla and I exchanged a troubled look.

  “Her name is Edith?” I asked. “You’re sure?”

  “Of course,” Mindy said.

  A this-has-be-a-clue-not-an-incredible-coincidence thought zapped my brain.

  “Are you sure her name’s not Elita?”

  “I’m sure,” Mindy said, taking another drink.

  Damn. So much for uncovering a totally awesome clue.

  “Her name is Edith,” Mindy insisted. “We traveled in the same social circle for a while, back when I was married. I’m positive that’s her name.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Mindy uttered a faint grunt. “Now she’s decided her name is Elita.”

  I nearly sprang out of my chair.


  “You saw Elita Winston? Today? At her booth? Arguing with Olivia Trent?” I asked.

  Mindy sipped and nodded. “Olivia was forced to give in, but I could tell it caused her all kinds of problems and she didn’t like it. And who can blame her?”

  Oh my God, that meant Mindy could have been one of the last people to see Elita alive.

  A dreamy smile came over Mindy’s face. “That chef who won the cooking challenge. I saw her, too. Right there at Edith’s booth. It was so exciting. I’d watched the challenge on television. Every episode. Didn’t miss a single one. I love those shows. I’m quite a good cook, if I say so myself.”

  “Rosalind was there, too, at Elita’s booth, while this problem was going on?” I asked, just to make sure.

  “She looked so embarrassed with Edith carrying on the way she was. I felt sorry for her. I guess she just couldn’t take it any longer because suddenly, she disappeared.” Mindy drained her glass. “I’m not looking forward to working our booth tomorrow, if Edith—Elita, whatever—is going to be there and make another scene.”

  “I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I said.

  We finished our drinks and talked about having dinner, but nobody was up for it. Mindy left, Kayla got a phone call, so I headed outside, thinking some fresh air would be good.

  Standing at the front of the conference center I saw the blaze of high-powered lights at the labyrinth. The police and crime scene techs were still working. A helicopter swept low overhead and descended onto the helipad. I wondered if it was here as part of the investigation or if someone was making a grand entrance.

  No way did I want to go near the labyrinth and everything that was going on there, so I headed in the opposite direction. A sidewalk took me away from the conference center and into a garden lit with twinkle and accent lights. A few other people were there, strolling, talking in low voices.

  Spread out below me in the distance were the lights of Santa Barbara, stretching all the way to the dark expanse of the ocean. I drew in a couple of deep breaths, trying to shake off the anxiety of the day, trying to clear my thoughts. It didn’t help. Elita Winston’s murder was front and center in my mind.