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

“What, exactly, did Renée mean when she
stormed out of here and said she was going to get what was due
her?” I asked.

Cassie rolled her eyes. “I don’t know for
sure. But I suspect she’s got some crazy moneymaking scheme that
she intended to spring on Veronica and Patrick. But, well, with
Veronica gone I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“Aunt Cassie?”

We turned and saw Brandie standing in the
hallway. I didn’t know how long she’d been there or how much she’d
overheard, but Cassie didn’t seem concerned.

“Can we please go somewhere?” Brandie moaned,
in true teenage fashion. “It’s so boring here.”

“I’m just exhausted,” Cassie said. “But
Andrea said we were getting our own tour guide tomorrow. There’ll
be plenty to do then.”

Brandie slumped against the wall and sighed.
Obviously, tomorrow was too far in the future to satisfy her.

Not that I blamed her.

“Want to go for a drive?” I asked, then added
quickly, “If it’s okay with your family.”

Brandie sprang to life like a missile
launched from a naval destroyer, and rushed over. “Can I go, Aunt
Cassie? Mom won’t care. Can I?”

Cassie glanced up at the second floor, then
nodded. “Melanie is probably taking a nap and I don’t want to wake
her, so, okay, you can go.”

“Yes!” Brandie gave a fist pump and headed
for the door.

“Don’t let her talk you into getting in
trouble,” Cassie said to me.

I wasn’t worried. When it came to finding
trouble I didn’t need any help—and I knew all the shortcuts.

“We’ll be gone a few hours,” I said to
Cassie.

As I followed Brandie through the front door,
I pulled out my cell phone and called Andrea.

“When are you getting here?” she asked as
soon as she answered.

“I’m here already,” I said. “Where are
you?”

“Actually, I’m hiding in the media room,”
Andrea admitted. “Melanie and Renée got into a big argument. I
couldn’t take it.”

“You’re safe to come out,” I told her.
“Melanie is napping and Renée is outside. I’m taking Brandie for a
drive.”

“Thank God,” she said. “You’re a
lifesaver.”

“Let the security guys know Brandie is with
me, will you?” I asked.

The last thing I needed was for someone to
think she’d gone missing.

“Sure. Have fun,” she said, and we ended the
call.

When I got outside, Brandie was bouncing on
her toes next to Veronica’s BMW.

“Let’s take Veronica’s car, okay?” she asked.
“We can put the top down. It’ll be so cool.”

The Beemer would definitely have been cooler
than my Honda, but no way was I taking it.

“I know where the keys are,” Brandie pleaded.
“I can drive.”

“How old are you?” I asked.

She drew herself up a little and said, “I’m
almost sixteen.”

I figured that was teenager-speak for almost
fifteen.

“I know how to drive,” Brandie insisted.
“Everybody my age drives, back home.”

That was probably true, but her experience on
rural two-lane roads was no match for Southern California’s
freeways.

“Do you have a driver’s license?” I
asked.

“Well, no,” she admitted.

“Then I’m driving,” I said, and pointed to my
Honda.

Jeez, who’d have thought I would be the
responsible one?

We got in and I pulled away from the
house.

“I need a Starbucks,” I said.

“Is there really one of those places around
here?” Brandie asked.

I nearly ran up on the curb.

“You don’t have a Starbucks near your house?”
I asked.

Oh my God, how could anybody live in a place
that didn’t have ready access to multiple Starbucks locations?

That alone was reason to move to Los
Angeles.

Brandie didn’t seem to take offense to my
question. She was occupied craning her neck to try and get a look
at the houses that were hidden behind the tall trees and thick
shrubs that had been planted to keep people from doing just
that.

“There’s one over in the next town, but it’s
kind of a long way,” Brandie said. “Mom says it’s too far to drive
to get an overpriced cup of coffee.”

That was probably true—but it wasn’t the
point.

I drove to the Commons shopping center and we
parked outside of Starbucks. Inside, I recommended a mocha
frappuccino—the world’s most fabulous drink—and Brandie went for
it. We both got ventis with extra whip cream and double chocolate
drizzle.

“Oh my God, this is fabulous,” Brandie moaned
after the first sip. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and
snapped a selfie. “I’m posting this on Facebook.”

I hated to think about Brandie going back
home and never enjoying a frappie again. I mean, really, was that
any way to live?

“Give me your phone,” I said.

She looked as if I’d just asked for one of
her kidneys, but finally handed it over. I accessed my Starbucks
account and downloaded their app, then handed the phone back to
her.

“You can use my account,” I said, “and get a
drink whenever you want.”

Brandie looked down at her cell phone as if
it was suddenly worth its weight in gold—which it kind of was, now
that it had a Starbucks app on it.

“And the drinks will be free?” she asked,
looking up at me as if I’d taken on rock star status. “You’d do
that for me?”

“Sure,” I said.

It would be cool to see that she’d used the
app and know she was at Starbucks enjoying a drink I’d introduced
her to. I knew there was a chance Brandie would go back home and
treat all of her friends to multiple drinks at my expense, but if
she did I could just cancel the card.

“That is so cool,” she told me. “Thanks.”

“Have you been to the beach yet?” I
asked.

Her eyes got big. “Can we go? Is it far? Can
we go now?”

“You bet.”

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

We got back into my Honda and I drove to the
101, then headed north—which always feels like west to me—and
exited on Las Virgenes. Most signs of civilization gradually
disappeared as the two lane road wound through the rugged
canyons.

Brandie seemed more interested in the scenery
and taking pics with her cell phone than talking, which was okay
with me. I kept replaying in my head what Cassie had told me.

Renée wasn’t happy and blamed it on Veronica,
claiming she’d cheated her out of money from the candy business
that she felt should be hers. Was that a motive for murder, or
what?

I couldn’t shake the memory of how Renée had
blasted into the house immediately upon arrival, and how she’d been
in there alone for quite some time. She’d even admitted she’d been
all over the house.

Had she really been searching for a bathroom?
Or was that a clever cover story?

And where had Erika been during that same
time? She’d disappeared pretty much as soon as the family got out
of the limo. Did she think this was her chance to murder Veronica?
That having so many new people in the house might create more
suspects? Could she have wanted Patrick back in her life badly
enough to murder Veronica?

Of course, Julia had vanished at the same
time. I had no reason to think she’d want Veronica dead—enough to
actually murder her, that is—but I couldn’t let go of her as a
suspect.

“Oh my God,” Brandie said.

I saw then that a slice of the Pacific Ocean
had appeared ahead of us between the hills.

“This is awesome,” she said.

I was with her on that. Even after living my
whole life here, the sight of the ocean was still cool.

We drove down the winding road and I turned
left on Pacific Coast Highway at Malibu. Brandie’s head swiveled
back and forth as she tried to take in the ocean, the stores,
restaurants, and businesses that lined both sides of the road.

“Want to get your feet wet?” I asked.

“Of course,” Brandie said.

I drove a little further down PCH, then
turned right into the parking lot next to the Santa Monica pier.
The lot was close to the ocean, and there were restaurants, gift
shops, and carnival rides on the pier. I paid the attendant, swung
into a parking spot, and we got out.

“No wonder Veronica loves it out here,”
Brandie said, as she held up her cell phone, taking more
pictures.

“She wasn’t planning to go back home?” I
asked.

“After all the trouble the family put into
keeping her big secret from Patrick and everybody?” Brandie said.
“No way.”

I froze. Oh my God. Veronica had a
secret?

Brandie gasped and pressed her lips
together.

“I wasn’t supposed to say anything,” she told
me. “Oh my God, Mom is going to throw a complete fit if she finds
out I said something.”

I didn’t want to make things worse for
Brandie and I didn’t want to get her in trouble with her mom, but I
wasn’t about to let this slide.

I gave her one of my we’re-cool shrugs and
said, “You might as well tell me now.”

She thought for a second and sighed. “Yeah, I
guess.”

Brandie didn’t say anything—I hate it when
that happens—then finally drew a big breath and said, “We’re not
supposed to talk about Veronica’s parents. Everybody was afraid
that if Patrick knew about them, he wouldn’t want to marry her.
Like our family wouldn’t be good enough, or something. And his
parents would be embarrassed and then they’d get a divorce and
abandon the candy business. Everybody’s life would be ruined.”

Now I was dying to know what the secret was,
but I knew I couldn’t push her.

I hate that, too.

Brandie thought for another minute or so then
said, “Veronica’s dad abandoned her mom when she was just a baby.
He was some total loser, I guess. A druggie, or something. I don’t
know. The family doesn’t talk about him much.”

That hardly seemed secret-worthy to me.

“What about Veronica’s mother?” I asked.

“That’s the thing,” Brandie said. She
hesitated another moment, then said, “She was a druggie, too. She’s
in prison.”

Oh, crap.

“This is
crazy,” Marcie said.

“Yes, but something will turn up,” I
replied.

We were spending our Sunday morning in the
mall at Sherman Oaks continuing our search for a fabulous handbag
and, once again, hadn’t found anything we loved—or even liked. When
we’d done this at the Galleria a few days ago Marcie had suggested
I was being a crab-ass about the whole thing. She’d been
right—Marcie was almost always right—so today I was making an
effort to be upbeat and positive.

“Are you okay?” Marcie asked. “You’ve been
acting weird all day.”

So much for the new me.

“Let’s try Macy’s,” I said.

We’d already checked out the Coach and
Michael Kors stores, Bloomingdales, and a few other shops. Macy’s
was our last hope.

“I met this really annoying guy,” I said, as
we made our way through the crowd. Everything was already decorated
for Christmas and, apparently, lots of people were getting a jump
on their shopping.

“Was he at least good looking?” Marcie
asked.

“Totally handsome,” I said. “A lawyer. Liam
Douglas.”

“Sexy name,” she said, nodding. “Why was he
so annoying?”

I replayed my conversation with Liam in my
head and, really, except for the fact that he’d come at me all
wrong about my clients and their dog’s birthday party, he’d seemed
okay. Well, better than okay—but that wasn’t the point.

“He made me so mad. I couldn’t believe how
upset I got. Then he totally backed off and apologized,” I said.
“I’ll never see him again, anyway.”

“Too bad. Sounds like you two had some sparks
flying,” Marcie said. “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

Under normal circumstances I would have
welcomed a change in topic, but remembering my mom’s Thanksgiving
Day dinner threatened to throw me into crab-ass-mode again.

“Mom’s having people over,” I said.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Marcie knew about my mom.

“I have an event that day, an afternoon
thing. Maybe it will run long and I won’t have to go,” I said.

Of course, I’d never hear the end of it if I
didn’t show up and threw off Mom’s seating chart.

“Are you hanging out with your family?” I
asked.

“Mom hasn’t told me what we’re doing yet, but
we’ll probably go to my grandma’s again,” Marcie said.

Marcie’s family was awesome. Her mom was
terrific. Honestly, I was always a bit envious.

I thought about Veronica. At least my mom
wasn’t in prison—and even that didn’t make me feel better about my
own mother.

My attitude was in a death-spiral, I decided,
as we entered Macy’s. If I didn’t find a handbag here to lift my
spirits, desperate measures would have to be taken.

For a couple of months now I’d been putting
cash away in my underwear drawer to buy myself something fabulous—I
mean, something more fabulous than the fabulous things I often
bought myself. What I had in mind was a Louis Vuitton tote. It was
an iconic bag offering a host of refinements—from the redesigned
interior that featured fresh textiles and heritage details, to the
lining in a selection of bright shades that lent a vivid pop of
color to the timeless Monogram canvas.

Yes, that was the description on their
website.

Yes, I’d memorized it.

How could I not?

I didn’t dare mention any of this to Marcie,
though. She’d try to talk me out of buying it—right now, at least.
She’d explain how Christmas was approaching, how I hadn’t had my
job performance review at L.A. Affairs that would guarantee me a
permanent position there, that the tote cost over three grand, and
blah, blah, blah.

Not that I didn’t appreciate Marcie’s concern
for my finances.