Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) Page 8

  “He’s in interview room number two,” Mindy said. “Two. Yes, it’s two. Or maybe one. No, it’s definitely two.”

  I told her thanks—at least, I meant to—and hung up.

  I yanked open my desk drawer, checked my hair and makeup in the mirror I kept in my handbag, and hurried out of my office.

  Oh my God, was Liam back? He had a way of dropping by unannounced. He’d been here once today already. Why would he come back?

  A dozen reasons zinged through my head—most of them involving how fabulous he hopefully thought I was—as I hurried down the hall to interview room two. I paused, composed myself as much as I could, and walked inside.

  Oh my God.

  Patrick Spencer-Taft sat in front of the desk.

  Every ounce of yay-for-me drained away and I felt kind of ashamed for thinking of myself when Patrick—and so many other people—were going through really rough times.

  He looked up when I walked in and got to his feet. He moved slowly, as if all the life had gone out of him.

  Patrick was a good-looking guy. Tall, with dark wavy hair, a nice build, and an easy smile. Only right now he wasn’t smiling, and he looked as if nothing was easy for him.

  He stepped forward and we hugged. I wanted to say how sorry I was about Veronica but he waved me off, as if another condolence was more than he could bear. I took the chair beside his, and we sat down.

  I figured he was there to tell me the Thanksgiving feast he and Veronica had been planning was off. I’d expected as much. It would be incredibly sad to plan a memorial service for her but if that’s what Patrick wanted, I’d do it.

  We sat in silence for a moment before he spoke.

  “Thank you for helping out with the family,” he said. “I appreciate it, and I know … I know Veronica would have, too.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just nodded.

  “I want to go ahead with the Thanksgiving feast,” he said. “Veronica would have wanted it. She loved Pammy Candy and all the employees who worked there. We promised them a special day and she wouldn’t want to let them down.”

  I still couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “She felt the business brought happiness to everyone who worked there and to everyone who ate the candy,” Patrick said. “I’d like to do this as a tribute to her. A day of thanks for loved ones, good health, jobs, friends, and family.”

  “Veronica told me several times how much she loved the company you two were building,” I said.

  “She had plans—big plans,” Patrick said, and managed a weak smile. “She wanted to expand the factory and put in a gift shop, have tours, put in a café for the customers.”

  “Sounds great,” I said.

  Patrick nodded, then turned away and rubbed his eyes. He was quiet for a moment before turning to me again.

  “I just don’t understand,” he said, and sounded truly lost. “How could this have happened? Who would want to hurt her?”

  He didn’t, of course, expect me to come up with an answer but since he seemed to want to talk about it, I decided to see if I could get any useful info.

  “Was anything unusual going on?” I asked.

  Patrick shook his head. “Nothing different. The same kind of things that had been going on for weeks.”

  “Did Veronica seem upset?”

  “No,” Patrick insisted. “Well, yes, a little.”

  “Did you two disagree about something? Argue, maybe?”

  He uttered a bitter laugh. “The only thing we ever disagreed about was money.”

  Okay, that surprised me. Patrick was a multi-millionaire. He hadn’t struck me as a tight-wad, but maybe I’d misjudged him. Before I could ask, he went on.

  “She was always afraid she was spending too much money,” Patrick said, and smiled as if it were her most endearing quality. “I told her to stop worrying, we had plenty of money. But, well, she came from a family that struggled financially. Lately, she even went out of her way to give me long explanations about what she was doing with the money.”

  “For the house renovations?” I asked.

  “No, it was for her personal things. Clothes, spa treatments, her hair and nails. That sort of thing,” Patrick said. “It seemed to bother her more lately. She kept telling me how much she loved me, as if she were worried about our marriage. I didn’t care how much she spent. I just wanted her to be happy.”

  I understood Veronica’s concern over money, especially given her background, but she and Patrick had been married for over a year. It was odd that she was suddenly distressed about money, and worried that Patrick would be upset with her over how much she was spending.

  “Did this have anything to do with the Thanksgiving Day announcement?” I asked.

  Patrick took a few seconds to process my question, then shook his head.

  “I don’t know anything about an announcement,” he said. “Please go ahead with the feast, as planned. Veronica would have wanted it, and I want our employees to know the company will continue despite … despite everything.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “A couple of friends have offered to handle the last minute details,” he said. “Andrea knows about them.”

  “I’ll contact her right away,” I said.

  Patrick sat there for a few more seconds as if trying to muster the energy to rise. Finally he got to his feet.

  “Thank you, Haley, for everything.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll make sure everything is perfect for the feast.”

  He managed another small smile, and left.

  I wondered what announcement Veronica intended to make. Patrick didn’t know anything about it, giving me the icky feeling that she’d withheld it from him. I could only imagine why.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about Veronica’s apparent guilt over the money she was spending on personal things. Was that, in fact, what she was spending money on?

  Or was she skimming cash out of their joint account to buy a plane ticket back home?

  Or maybe pay a blackmailer?

  Chapter 10

  By late afternoon I’d done all the work I could stand for one day, mostly making sure everything was set for the Spencer-Taft Thanksgiving feast, so I headed out to Calabasas. When I pulled up in front of the house, I saw that Veronica’s BMW was no longer parked in the driveway and figured someone had finally put it in the garage. I hoped that meant things were getting back to normal—or as normal as they could be under the circumstances.

  I’d called Jack and Shuman during the drive over—the 101 was always a crawl at this time of day—but neither of them answered. I’d tried Marcie next and had passed a few stop-and-go miles discussing our next move in the there-has-to-be-one-out-there-somewhere handbag search. We were running out of places to shop.

  My last-resort Louis Vuitton tote was looking better and better.

  Andrea met me at the door. She looked a little weary, as if her personal assistant job had turned into a babysitting assignment.

  “Patrick found out Julia had pulled the cooks and housekeepers,” she said as we walked into the entryway.

  I figured Julia had sent the staff packing, thinking Veronica’s family would leave sooner if forced to fend for themselves. I wasn’t sure why Julia cared one way or the other. She hadn’t exactly taken over the hostessing duties.

  “That was crappy of her,” I said.

  Andrea nodded and said, “The agency sent people over so things are a little more bearable now.”

  “No more arguments between the sisters?” I asked.

  “If only.” She rolled her eyes. “Makes me glad I’m an only child.”

  “Are they home?” I asked.

  “I’d lined up a winery tour and tasting for them in Temecula today but they cut it short and came back early. Everything seems to wear them out. All but Brandie, of course,” Andrea said. “Everyone who isn’t napping is at the pool.”

  We headed toward the rear of the h
ouse and I said, “Patrick came by the office today and told me he wants to go ahead with the Thanksgiving feast.”

  She nodded. “I’ll text you the names of the friends who want to help with the details.”

  We entered a large family room with floor-to-ceiling windows that featured a view of the pool and spa, set among lush landscaping. The room had tile floors, comfy furniture, a wet bar and mini kitchen, and beach-themed décor. Outside, Brandie lay on a float in the pool. Melanie was stretched out on a chaise in the shade.

  “I have to make some calls,” Andrea said. “The construction crews should have been out here already. There’s still a lot to do before the feast.”

  I walked outside into the glorious Southern California weather. Melanie and Brandie spotted me at the same time.

  “Oh my God, Haley, you’re here,” Brandie exclaimed and rolled off of her float into waist-deep water. “Let’s go to Starbucks, okay?”

  It sounded like a great idea. I should have stopped on my way over but I’d been too consumed by my conversation with Marcie—that’s how upset I was about not finding a fabulous handbag.

  “Oh, you and that Starbucks,” Melanie complained. “That’s all I’ve heard about lately.”

  Brandie shot her mother a resentful look, then dove into the water and swam toward the far end of the pool.

  Melanie got to her feet and walked to where I stood by one of the umbrella tables.

  “All she wants to do is go places,” she complained. “She thinks we can just call the limo anytime we want and be squired around town. She has a pool, a spa, gardens to walk in, a media room, everything, and it doesn’t suit her. She wants to get one of those Starbucks drinks and act like she’s a California girl like you see on TV.”

  I thought Brandie’s idea was a great one.

  This didn’t seem like a good time to mention it.

  Melanie watched her daughter swim laps for a moment, then turned to me again and sighed heavily.

  “You really haven’t caught any of us at our best, Haley. This thing with Veronica, well, it’s turned us into something we’re not.”

  “It’s a tough time for everyone,” I said because, really, it was.

  “That’s no excuse,” Melanie insisted. “I’m sorry you had to witness the tail end of that argument I had with Renée. She’s been worse than ever on this trip.”

  Since Melanie had brought up the incident, my maybe-this-will-result-in-something-that’s-good-for-me instincts took over.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “Another one of Renée’s big ideas,” Melanie grumbled. “She was always coming up with some sort of business scheme she wanted Veronica and Patrick to buy into.”

  “To make up for the candy business?” I asked.

  Melanie nodded. “This time she wanted them to front the money to manufacture those fanny packs.”

  Yikes! Fanny packs had had their moment a number of years ago. While there was nothing wrong with them and they were indeed functional, the market for them would be very limited.

  “Renée had the idea of making one for every season,” Melanie said. “She had us all wear them out here to demonstrate how great they looked.”

  I remembered seeing all the gals wearing them when they got out of the limo—bright orange with bedazzled turkeys on the front.

  Not exactly a fashion statement I envisioned catching on.

  I wasn’t sure how Veronica would have felt about them. She dressed in fashion-forward clothing but I knew she had a stylist who helped her. Of course, if she felt guilty about the Pammy Candy situation, she might have gone along with the idea just to appease Renée.

  “Had Renée talked to Veronica about the fanny packs before you arrived?” I asked.

  “Of course,” Melanie said. “She practically ran over Veronica with the idea, sent her emails and text messages with design ideas and photographs of the bags she’d had a local company make. She thought it was the least Veronica and Patrick could do after they stole the candy business right out from under--”

  She stopped and pressed her lips together, realizing she’d said too much.

  “Cassie told me,” I said, to ease her embarrassment.

  Melanie looked as if this didn’t surprise her, either. “Well, none of it matters now.”

  With Veronica gone, I couldn’t see Patrick investing money in, and heading up, a manufacturing company—especially one that turned out seasonal, bedazzled fanny packs.

  “Of course, Renée could have been right and they might have caught on,” Melanie said. “It’s just one more thing we’ll never know the answer to. This trip has been filled with what-ifs.”

  It took a few seconds before I realized what Melanie was saying.

  “You mean Veronica’s announcement?” I asked.

  She brightened. “Did she tell you what it was?”

  “No,” I said. “Somebody mentioned it.”

  Melanie looked disappointed. “I guess we’ll never know. All I can do is wonder. You know, that kind of thing—the not knowing—really gets to me.”

  It was getting to me, too, because I couldn’t help but feel as if it had something to do with Veronica’s murder. Did it involve Pammy Candy? Or something personal?

  Yet how personal could it be if Veronica hadn’t told Patrick? When I’d brought it up at L.A. Affairs, he hadn’t known anything about it.

  At least now I could delete Renée’s name from my list of suspects. She wanted Veronica alive and well to start her fanny pack business. No way would she have killed her.

  That left me with three suspects—Julia, who had no motive that I’d uncovered; Erika who might, or might not, have been trying to get Patrick back; and a blackmailer who, at this point, was just a figment of my imagination.

  Crap.

  * * *

  When I left the Spencer-Taft house, I called Marcie.

  Really, there are times when only your BFF will do.

  We decided to meet at a bar downtown near the bank where she worked.

  Really, there are times when only wine will do.

  Since I was driving against the heavy traffic coming out of Los Angeles, the commute didn’t take as long as I’d thought. I parked in a lot and headed up Figueroa Street. Marcie wouldn’t be off work for a few more minutes, so I sent her a text letting her know I’d arrived and would meet her at the bar.

  We’d met there before so I knew it was an upscale place that attracted a business-suit clientele, and I’d be safe sitting alone until she arrived—not that I expected to be surrounded by hot looking guys wanting to buy me drinks, but, really, it would be nice.

  My cell phone rang. I pulled it from of my handbag and stepped out of the flow of pedestrians on the sidewalk. Jack was calling.

  Oh, yeah. My day had just improved considerably.

  “What have you learned?” he asked when I answered my phone.

  Jack sounded tense, all-business. He had a lot on him. A great deal was at stake. He was depending on me to help solve this case but, really, I hadn’t come up with anything spectacular that could break it wide open.

  Not a great feeling.

  “I’m working a few leads,” I said, hoping that speaking in accepted private investigator lingo would make it sound as if I’d actually accomplished something.

  I rushed ahead with a question just in case.

  “Did you uncover anything on the possible blackmailer?” I asked.

  “No, nothing,” Jack said. “Keep digging.”

  “I will,” I promised, and we ended the call.

  I slid my phone into my handbag and continued down the sidewalk toward the bar.

  Detective Shuman still hadn’t returned my call. Hopefully that meant he was busy gathering info about the murder through his LAPD contacts, and would be in touch soon.

  The bar was dimly lit and humming with conversations and the clinking of glasses when I walked in. I snagged a high table in the corner. When the waitress came over, I ordere
d.

  I’m a real stickler for not drinking and driving, so usually I have soda or juice. But after the day I’d had, I figured I could make an exception and have a glass of wine.

  My cell phone rang. It was my mom.

  One glass of wine wasn’t going to cut it.

  “Great news,” Mom announced when I answered.

  Luckily, the waitress brought my wine so I didn’t have to say anything.

  Not that it mattered.

  “I’ve found the perfect man,” Mom declared. “Your sister is going to be thrilled with him.”

  I doubted it, but didn’t say so. Instead, I gulped down some of the wine.

  “He comes from a wonderful family, he’s a great dresser, and he has a good job,” Mom said.

  Yet he was willing to be set up on a blind date on Thanksgiving?

  Sounded like a major red flag to me, but Mom didn’t ask my opinion

  I downed more wine.

  “Of course, there’s another man who’s been recommended also,” Mom said. “I’m considering both of them.”

  Mom kept talking—and I kept drinking—so everything she said turned into blah-blah-blah until I heard her say, “So I’m really thinking Cuban. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

  My sister’s date would be Cuban?

  “Sounds great,” I said—which was kind of bad of me, I know, but what else could I say?

  I drained my glass and asked. “What time are you serving?”

  “Two o’clock,” Mom said.

  The Spencer-Taft feast was going to be served at noon, so there was a chance I’d be delayed and wouldn’t make it to Mom’s on time—if I was lucky, that is.

  “I’ll keep you informed,” Mom promised, and we ended the call.

  I reached for my wine glass, then saw that it was empty. Jeez, when had that happened?

  Just as I was searching the crowd for the waitress, a fresh glass appeared on my table. I looked up and saw that Liam had placed it there.

  “Here,” he said, and pushed the glass closer. “Drink this until I start to look good.”

  “I’m going to need another one of these,” I told him.

  He grinned.

  Liam had a great grin. He looked great, too, dressed in a navy blue pinstriped business suit and a maroon shirt and tie combo, holding a beer.