Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) (16 page)

“I love this bag.” I might have said that
kind of loud.

Liam leaned back a little.

“I absolutely must have it.” Yeah, I really
said that too loud. I offered him a quick smile. “I’m kind of a nut
about designer handbags.”

“To designer handbags,” he said, and lifted
his wine glass. We toasted and drank, then he said. “I can ask my
sister to hold one for you.”

“I need two,” I said. “One for my best friend
Marcie.”

“No problem,” he said.

Oh my God, this was my best Thanksgiving
ever.

Then something hit me.

“Hey, wait,” I said. “Aren’t you supposed to
spend Thanksgiving with your family?”

“Mom had us going to dinner at the house of a
friend of hers,” Liam said. “Some place out in La Cañada
Flintridge.”

Wow, that was a coincidence. My mom and dad
lived in La Cañada Flintridge.

“Mom had been friends with this woman for
years,” Liam said. “Don’t laugh, but my mom used to be in beauty
pageants.”

Okay, that was weird. My mom used to be in
beauty pageants.

“There was some talk about a daughter who was
a model,” he said.

Huh. My sister did some modeling.

“I think it was a set up,” he said

I got a weird feeling.

Liam shook his head. “It didn’t sound like a
great idea to me—the setup or the dinner.”

My weird feeling got totally weird.

“She was serving Cuban food,” he said.
“Crazy, huh?”

Oh my God—oh my God.

Liam was the guy. The one Mom had picked out
for my sister.

Oh, crap.

THE END

Dear Reader,

There’s more Haley out there! If you enjoyed
this novella, check out the other books in the series. They’re
available in hardcover, paperback, and ebook editions.

Looking for even more mystery? Meet Dana
Mackenzie, my newest amateur sleuth, in
Fatal Debt
,
Fatal
Luck
, and
Fatal Choice
. The trilogy is available in
paperback and ebook editions at your favorite online bookstore.

I also write historical romance novels under
the pen name Judith Stacy. Check them out at
http://www.JudithStacy.com
.

More information is available at
http://www.DorothyHowellNovels.com
,
where there’s always a giveaway going on!

Join my Dorothy Howell Novels
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, sign up for
my
newsletter
, and follow me on twitter
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Thanks for adding my books to your library
and recommending me to your friends and family.

Happy reading!

Dorothy

Keep reading for a peek at another Haley Randolph
novella
Duffel Bags and Drownings

Plus

If you’re feeling romantic, check out the excerpt
that follows from

The Hired Husband

one of the many historical romances Dorothy
writes

under her pen name Judith Stacy

DUFFEL BAGS AND DROWNINGS

By

Dorothy Howell

Chapter One

“Something major is going down,” Kyla murmured. “Have
you heard anything?”

I hadn’t but, of course, I wanted to.

“What’s up?” I asked, filling my cup from the
giant coffee maker on the counter.

We were squeezed into the breakroom of L.A.
Affairs, the event planning company where we both worked as
assistant planners, along with a dozen or so other employees all
intent on delaying the start of our work day by spending an
inordinate amount of time chatting about what we’d done the night
before, what we planned to do today, and how we were going to get
out of most of it—or maybe that was just me.

Kayla glanced around, then whispered,
“Priscilla stopped Edie in the hallway.”

Kayla--tall, dark haired, and about my
age—had worked here longer that I had, so no way would I completely
dismiss her warning. Still, the office manager stopping the head of
H.R. in the hallway first thing in the morning, while troubling,
was no reason to panic—especially before I’d had my first cup of
breakroom stalling-to-get-to-work coffee.

“They were whispering,” Kayla said.

Okay, whispering in the hallway definitely
amped things up. But, again, no need to panic. I, Haley Randolph,
with my long pageant legs stretching me to an enviable
five-foot-nine, my doesn’t-it-make-me-look-smart dark hair, and my
I’m-staring-down-25-years-old-and-not-panicking outlook on life,
had been through this sort of thing before and knew it could mean
absolutely nothing.

In the past few years I’d worked more than my
share of jobs: life guard, receptionist, file clerk, and two weeks
at a pet store. Add to that a bang-up job in the accounting
department of the prestigious we-could-take-over-the-world Pike
Warner law firm that could have worked out well for me if it hadn’t
been for that whole administrative-leave-investigation-pending
thing—long story. I’d landed at yet another fabulous
company—another long story—where things hadn’t worked out exactly
as I’d hoped—none of which was my fault, of course.

The only job I’d managed to hold onto was a
crappy part-time sales clerk position at the equally crappy Holt’s
Department Store which I intended to ditch—complete with the
take-this-job-and-shove-it speech I’d rehearsed since my second day
of employment there and the series of Olympic caliber cartwheels
and backflips I intended to execute on the way out of their front
door—as soon as my probation was up at L.A. Affairs.

The office was located in a high rise at
Sepulveda and Ventura Boulevards in the upscale area of Sherman
Oaks, part of Los Angeles, amid other office buildings, banks,
apartment complexes, and the terrific shops and restaurants just
across the street at the Sherman Oaks Galleria. L.A. Affairs prided
itself for its reputation as event planners to the stars, catering
to upscale clients, the rich and famous, the power brokers and
insiders of Los Angeles and Hollywood—plus anyone else who could
afford our astronomical fees.

“It could be nothing,” I said, emptying a
packet of sugar into my coffee.

“Or it could be something,” Kayla said, as
she poured herself a cup. She gave me a quick nod over her
shoulder. “Listen.”

I noticed then that the early morning chatter
in the breakroom was more subdued than usual. Not a good sign.

I dumped two more sugars into my cup.

Eve, another assistant planner, wormed her
way between Kayla and me. Eve was a petite redhead who was a few
years older than me. She was a huge gossip so, of course, I’d
become her BFF right away.

“Oh my God, something’s up,” Eve said, as she
fumbled to fill her coffee cup. “Something big.”

Kayla and I immediately leaned closer.

“What have you heard?” Kayla whispered.

“Nothing,” Eve told us. “It’s what I
saw.”

Kayla and I exchanged a
this-is-definitely-something-major eyebrow bob.

“Priscilla and Edie were whispering in the
hallway,” Eve said. She paused, indicating the worst part of her
story was about to be revealed, and said, “Then they went into
Edie’s office.”

Oh my God. Kayla had been right. Something
major was definitely going down. I grabbed two more sugar packets
and dumped them into my coffee.

“And,” Eve announced, holding Kayla and me
both in but-wait-there’s-more suspense, “they closed the door.”

Oh, yeah. This was bad, all right.

“Do you think they’re going to lay someone
off?” Kayla asked.

“Or fire someone,” Eve said. “Maybe more than
one person.”

“Several people?” Kayla asked, shaking her
head. “Who?”

Kayla and Eve both turned to me, and I got an
all-too-familiar sick feeling in my belly. I’d been one of the last
people hired at L.A. Affairs. Did that mean I’d be one of the first
to go?

“Maybe they’ll fire Vanessa,” I said, and
tried for a this-could-work-out-great smile.

Vanessa Lord was the senior planner I was
assigned to—though we almost never spoke. She hated me, and I hated
her back, of course. Vanessa brought the biggest clients to the
firm, which made her the biggest bitch in the firm,
unfortunately.

“They’ll never let Vanessa go,” Kayla said.
She managed a small smile. “But we can always hope.”

“Keep your eyes open and your heads down
today,” Eve advised and left.

“Let me know if you hear anything,” Kayla
said, as she grabbed her coffee and headed out of the
breakroom.

I topped off my cup with a generous amount of
French vanilla creamer befitting the stress of the morning, and
followed her out. In the hallway, I saw that the door to Edie’s
office was still closed. Not a good sign. I paused as I passed
by—which was kind of bad of me, I know—and leaned closer. I heard
murmurs but nothing specific—like my name being bandied about—so I
went to my office.

I loved my office, my private sanctuary. It
had a neutral desk, chair, bookcase, and credenza, and was accented
with vibrant shades of blues and yellows. My favorite part was the
large window that gave me a fabulous view of the Galleria across
the street, and the surrounding area.

I had plenty of work to do, all sorts of
events that I was in various stages of planning, but no way could I
face them right now, not with this whole
somebody-could-get-the-axe-today-and-it-could-be-me thing hanging
over my head.

I walked to the window and looked down at the
traffic creeping along the crowded streets, and the people rushing
to get wherever they were going, and sipped my coffee. I had to
admit to myself that this was an occasion when still having an
official boyfriend to talk to would be good.

Ty Cameron was my last official boyfriend. He
was absolutely gorgeous, super smart, organized, competent and
professional, the fifth generation of his family to run the chain
of Holt’s Department Stores. If we were still together I could call
him, talk this over, and he’d make me feel better—if he wasn’t in a
meeting, or on an international conference call, and had time to
talk, of course.

We’d broken up for obvious reasons.

I sipped my coffee and thought about calling
my best friend Marcie Hanover. She worked at a bank in downtown Los
Angeles and was always available to discuss a problem, a fabulous
new handbag I’d seen, or just about anything, as a BFF would.

But this didn’t seem like a good time to call
her.

It seemed like a good time to leave.

No way did I want to be around when Edie’s
office door opened, she and Priscilla walked out with personnel
folders in their hands—possibly one with my name on it—and started
calling people in. So naturally, fleeing my private sanctuary was
the only thing to do.

I got my handbag—a terrific Chanel bag that
perfectly accessorized my awesome navy blue business suit—grabbed
an event portfolio, and left.

* * *

I got my Honda from the parking garage and
headed west on Ventura Boulevard toward Encino. Traffic wasn’t bad,
considering, so it didn’t take long before I reached the shopping
center where Cady Faye Catering, my excuse to get out of the
office, was located.

As I made the left turn into their parking
lot, a black Land Rover pulled out of the driveway and turned
right. I caught a glimpse of the driver. Oh my God, it was Jack
Bishop. I nearly ran up on the curb.

Jack Bishop was a private detective, the
hottest hottie in P.I. hot-land. Tall, dark haired, rugged build,
and really good looking. I’d helped him out on some of his cases
and he’d returned the favor a few times—strictly professional, of
course.

For a couple of seconds I considered doing a
whip-around and following Jack—just to be sociable, of course—but
it was a total high school move and I couldn’t quite bring myself
to do it. I did wonder, though, why Jack had been at this shopping
center.

Was he on a case? A stake out? Maybe involved
in some high-stakes, international, super-secret job?

His life was so much cooler than mine.

I glanced at the businesses that occupied the
complex with Cady Faye Catering—a dry cleaners, a real estate
office, a dentist, a scrapbooking store, a gift shop, a nail place,
and a restaurant specializing in vegetarian tacos. I preferred to
think that a totally hot private detective wouldn’t shop at any of
those places, but I guess even Jack Bishop needed to get his teeth
cleaned or his shirts pressed.

I cruised past the stores and the large
display window that had “Cady Faye Catering” printed on it in large
white letters. I’d been inside their shop on my first visit here a
few weeks ago and knew there were comfortable seating areas, books
with photos taken at previous Cady Faye catered events, all set in
tasteful décor befitting their upscale clientele.

Cady Faye Catering had built a great
reputation over the past few years and had asked to be added to the
L.A. Affairs’ list of approved vendors. None of the other planners
had wanted to take a chance on them. L.A. Affairs lived or died by
its reputation so none of the planners wanted to make a mistake—and
possibly lose their job—by giving something as important as the
selection of the caterer to a company no one had worked with
before.

I’d learned about Cady Faye—owned and
operated by two sisters, Cady Wills and Faye Delaney—a few months
ago when I’d stopped by my parents’ house as the caterers were
setting up for one of Mom’s dinner parties. My mom was a former
pageant queen—really—who thought she was still a pageant queen, so
no way would she cook for her own party. She’d never complained
about Cady Faye’s food or service—and believe me, if Mom hadn’t
liked anything about them she’d have said so multiple times—which
assured me they’d done a great job.