Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) (11 page)

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
ordered.

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.

“What’s black and brown and looks good on a
lawyer?” he asked. “A Doberman pinscher.”

I gave him his grin right back—which I
sincerely hoped was as hot as his was.

“How do you stop a lawyer from drowning?” he
asked. “Shoot him before he hits the water.”

Okay, now I laughed. He laughed, too, then
gestured to the empty wine glass.

“Rough day at the event planning business?”
he asked.

Jeez, he must have seen me chugging it down
when I was on the phone with Mom—not exactly the image I wanted to
project.

“I was just finalizing some plans for
Thanksgiving,” I said.

“Family or clients?” he asked.

He sat down in the chair next to mine. Wow,
he smelled great. Some kind of heat was rolling off of him, somehow
urging me to snuggle closer—even though I hadn’t touched my second
wine yet.

“I’m staging a feast out in Calabasas,” I
said, “then going to my mom’s house.”

He nodded. “My mom’s got the whole family
going somewhere, doing something. She hasn’t told me where I’m
supposed to show up yet. Probably my grandma’s in San Diego.”

I thought it was kind of cool that he was
spending the holiday with his family and seemed to be okay with
it.

Obviously, his family was more fun than
mine.

“Hi there,” Marcie said.

I realized she’d joined us at the table. Liam
stood and held the chair while she sat on the other side of me.
They introduced themselves.

“I should have known I wouldn’t be lucky
enough to catch you here alone,” he said to me, and favored both of
us with a smile. “You ladies enjoy your evening.”

Liam gave me one last long, lingering look—or
maybe that’s how I looked at him—then joined a group of men
standing at the bar.

“Oh my God,” Marcie whispered. “He’s
gorgeous.”

I tried for a nonchalant shrug, but didn’t
pull it off.

“Did he ask you out?” she wanted to know.
“You’d be crazy not to—”

Marcie suddenly latched onto my arm with a
something-major-is-going-down death-grip, and leaned closer.

“Ty’s here,” she told me.

All my senses jumped to high alert.

Ty Cameron, my ex-official-boyfriend was
here? In this bar? Just steps away? Oh my God, why hadn’t I noticed
him?

And more importantly, why hadn’t he noticed
me?

I shifted into stealth mode and swept the
bar. The place was packed with good looking men dressed in
expensive suits, crowded together at—

Oh my God, there he was, looking as handsome
as ever, impeccably dressed, seated with two other guys. I was
relieved he wasn’t with a date, but concerned that he was here.

Ty was a workaholic. At this time of day he
was usually still elbow-deep in the running of the Holt’s
Department Store chain, plus its other holdings. Ty definitely
wasn’t the kind of guy to knock off early, head for a bar, and belt
down a few with his buddies.

What the heck was going on with him?

“Do you think he saw you talking to Liam?”
Marcie whispered.

My emotions spun up even higher.

Had Ty seen me? Would he come over? Talk to
me?

Was he wondering who Liam was? Why I was
talking to him? If he was my new boyfriend? Was Ty positively green
with envy, re-thinking our breakup, yearning to cross the bar and
confront Liam?

Oh my God, were the two hottest guys in the
bar about to throw down in an all-out brawl over me?

“You’re cut off,” Marcie said.

She’d known what I was thinking, as only a
long-time bestie can.

And she was right, of course.

I pushed my wine glass away.

“You only
call me when you want something,” Shuman said.

“At least I’m calling you,” I pointed
out.

We were sitting at an outdoor table at the
Starbucks on restaurant row at the Galleria having coffee. As soon
as I’d arrived at L.A. Affairs this morning, I’d gotten a text
message from him asking if I could leave work and meet him
here.

I can always leave work.

Shuman had left work, too, it seemed. He was
dressed in his usual slightly mismatched sport-coat-shirt-tie combo
that told me two things—he didn’t have a new girlfriend yet, and he
should let me take him shopping.

Neither seemed likely to happen.

Shuman looked calm and relaxed, which I was
happy to see. He was a homicide detective, so his day could take a
dive at any moment. I was glad I’d caught him early.

“I talked to the detectives investigating the
Spencer-Taft murder,” he said.

Usually we had to play a who’s-going-first
game with our information but since he hadn’t caught the case, I
figured he wasn’t all that concerned about sharing what he’d
learned.

“There’s no progress in the investigation,”
he said.

Not exactly what I was hoping for.

“No more witnesses, no evidence, and no
motive,” Shuman said.

“What about the workmen and the household
staff?” I asked.

“No one with a criminal background. No
apparent motive,” he said.

Even though Shuman hadn’t pressed me for
information, I wanted him to know that I didn’t intend to withhold
anything. I gave him a rundown of what I’d learned from the family
and what I suspected—none of which was anything conclusive.

Still, he listened to everything and I could
see him running the info through his cop-brain. After a couple of
minutes he shrugged. I knew what that meant—something major was
going to have to happen if this case was going to be solved.

“So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
Shuman asked.

At this point I was as anxious to change the
subject as he was so I said, “Doing the family thing. You?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said.

I didn’t think he was the kind of guy who’d
sit in front of the TV in his underwear watching football or a
Dirty Harry marathon all day but, honestly, it didn’t sound so
bad—as long as he was really okay with it.