Slay Bells and Satchels (Haley Randolph Mystery Series) (11 page)

No way did I want to get into
that
conversation again.

“Anyway,” she said. “I just thought you’d want to know since, well, Alyssa and I are just about the only people in the store still talking to you because you screwed up the contest for everybody.”

“It wasn’t my fault.” I’m sure I yelled that.

Then I felt bad, of course, because Nikki was really trying to be nice to me.

“Thanks for letting me know,” I said, and it came out sounding nice—considering.

Then something else popped into my head.

“You know Trent Daniels, don’t you?” I asked.

“Sure. The guy who’s lost his mind over McKenna,” she said. “He’s kind of weird.”

“I messaged him yesterday, but I didn’t hear back from him,” I said.

She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and my day got a little boost seeing that Nikki had ignored the Holt’s no-cell-phones-on-the-sales-floor policy. Maybe she and I could become kind-of BFFs.

“Wow, this is really strange,” she said, shaking her head. “Trent hasn’t been on Facebook since yesterday morning.”

I remembered reading his last post before he came to the store to talk to Jeanette about seeing the stockroom.

I got a weird feeling.

Nikki dialed a number and held the phone to her ear. After a few seconds, she hung up and said, “His voicemail is full.”

My weird feeling got weirder.

“Wow,” Nikki said. “I hope he’s okay.”

I hoped he wasn’t dead.

***

According to Nikki, Trent Daniels lived in Franklin Village in Hollywood. It was an older, established area of Los Angeles that had held up well over the years. There were tons of apartment buildings and houses—most of them built since back in the nineteen-twenties—squeezed into precious little space. Trees, shrubbery and flowering bushes filled every nook and cranny in between.

I’d been there with Marcie a couple of months ago. A friend of a friend had wanted to give a purse party so we’d stopped by her place to show her some of our bags. She loved them, of course, and ended up having a heck of a party—nothing says good-time like a couple dozen screaming women elbowing each other and stampeding toward a display table filled with knock-off designer handbags.

As soon as my shift had ended at Holt’s I’d jumped in my Honda and headed south toward Los Angeles. I needed to talk to Trent and I was more than slightly worried that he seemed to have dropped off the grid yesterday.

I exited the 101 at Franklin Avenue, then hung a left on Tamarind Avenue. The place had a back-in-the-day vibe to it. There were grocery stores, restaurants, coffee houses, all kinds of shops and businesses within walking distance.

Along with my concern for Trent, Alyssa had been on my mind. That whole conversation I’d had with Nikki this morning still bugged me. Why the heck would Alyssa think I was trying to pin McKenna’s murder on her?

Yeah, okay, I did actually think she might be a suspect, but still.

Anyway, threatening to quit the elf job, getting mad at Nikki, and accusing me of trying to back-stab her with Detective Shuman seemed a bit over the top. Was Alyssa just being dramatic? Maybe. She was, after all, an actress.

Or like Jasmine, was this Alyssa’s attempt at misdirection? Could be, since there was still that actress thing.

I guess I’d know for sure if I could come up with a motive for McKenna’s murder.

Parking was at a premium, as in most of L.A., but I found an empty space at the end of the block and nosed into the curb. I got out and walked to Trent’s apartment building. A few people were out, a mom pushing a stroller, a couple of girls with backpacks, a man carrying a grocery bag.

The building was pink stucco with a red tile roof. A patch of carefully manicured green grass was out front and vines climbed the walls. The entryway was kind of like a little tunnel that led past two of the first-floor apartments to a courtyard. In the center was a small pool, more grass, shrubs, and palm trees.

I climbed the metal staircase to the second floor and knocked on the door of apartment number 26. While I waited I looked over the railing at the pool. Six girls were stretched out on lounge chairs sunning themselves.

I knocked again and rang the bell.

The door next to Trent’s opened and a guy with a messenger bag slung over his shoulder walked out. He was about my height, dressed in jeans and a black shirt that showed off his gym time, and looked unnaturally well groomed. I figured he was either an actor or a model.

“Have you seen Trent lately?” I asked. “I’m worried because his—”

“He keeps to himself. Everybody here keeps to themselves,” he said, then cut around me and went down the stairs.

The guy didn’t seem to have much going for him in the personality department. Good thing he was pretty, I guess.

I pounded on Trent’s door and rang his doorbell about a dozen more times but still got no response, so I headed back downstairs and followed the signs to the manager’s office. One of those fake clocks hung on the door, its hands indicating the manager was out and would return five minutes ago.

A girl waited nearby. I figured her for my age, tall, slender, wearing shorts, a tank top and flip-flops.

“She’s still not back yet,” she said, gesturing to the sign and looking a little annoyed. “If you’re thinking about moving in here, get used to it. She’s always off somewhere, doing something.”

“Actually, I’m here to visit Trent Daniels,” I said. “Do you know him?”

She drew back a little. “Are you a relative, or something?”

I’m not sure why that mattered, but I rolled with it.

“No, nothing like that,” I said. “A friend of his hadn’t heard from him in a while, so I said I’d stop by and check on him. He didn’t answer his door.”

I saw no reason to get into the whole his-girlfriend-was-murdered-and-I-found-her-body thing.

“That guy is a total recluse,” she said, then mumbled, “a psycho recluse.”

Okay, here was a choice bit of info about Trent I hadn’t expected.

“I don’t want to say anything bad about your friend,” she said, “but he’s really weird. He’s always kind of hanging around, watching people, like some kind of crazy stalker. It’s creepy.”

This wasn’t what I expected to hear about heart-broken Trent Daniels. Creepy, all right.

I nodded at the sign on the office door, and said, “I can’t wait any longer. I’ll come back later.”

We exchanged a wave and I left. At the complex entrance, I took the staircase down to the underground parking garage. A couple dozen cars were squeezed into tiny spaces. The ceiling was low. Light filtered in from the exit ramp that led up to the street.

Luckily, parking slots were assigned. I found the one numbered 26 and saw a Honda Civic, the same car I’d seen Trent drive away in the day he’d come to Holt’s and talked to Jeanette.

The garage stunk like oil and gasoline, so I jogged up the exit ramp, and walked down the block to my car. Before I got in, I looked back at the apartment building, thinking maybe Trent would suddenly appear.

Since his car was here, he probably was, too, but there could be a lot of reasons he hadn’t answered the door. Maybe he was in the shower or taking a nap. Maybe he had his iPod cranked up, or he was zoned out playing World of Warcraft.

Or he could have been lying inside dead.

I pulled out my cell phone and called Detective Shuman. His voicemail picked up. I’d rather have talked to him in person—strictly to insure that my information was passed along in a clear, concise, comprehensible way, that would maximize my effort to assist law enforcement, of course—but I didn’t want to wait until I could catch Shuman in person. It was Saturday. Maybe he was out doing some fun girlfriend-boyfriend thing.

Jeez, I wonder what that would be like.

I left a message detailing my concern that Trent hadn’t been heard from since visiting the store in an attempt to see the location of McKenna’s murder. I also mentioned that Trent had a crazy-psycho-stalker reputation among the girls at his apartment complex and maybe speeding up his background check might be a good idea.

I hung up and gazed down the block at the building. I imagined Trent skulking around, lurking in the shadows, spying on the girls who lived here.

McKenna popped into my head.

Honestly, after hearing how Alyssa, Nikki, Jasmine, and some of the other actresses had talked about McKenna, I hadn’t thought very highly of her.

Now I could only imagine how desperate she must have been for a place to live if she’d moved in with Trent.

All of us looked great, if I do say so myself, as we rode in the limo to the Stafford house for the Christmas charity event.

Mom had on a silver Gucci gown which she’d accessorized with ruby jewelry. In true former beauty queen form, her hair and makeup were perfect. She could have—and would have—hit a runway somewhere with minimal prompting.

Dad looked dignified and handsome in his tuxedo.

I wore a red strapless gown with a sweetheart bodice. I didn’t have a lot of expensive jewelry but I carried my Judith Leiber bag, which was more than enough to make everyone at the Stafford party jealous.

Ty had on—well, I didn’t know what Ty had on because he wasn’t there. I didn’t know where he was. He’d texted me earlier and said that he’d meet me at the party.

Either Mom hadn’t noticed he wasn’t in the limo with us, or she’d simply accepted the explanation I’d given her because she hadn’t grilled me about his absence. Instead, she filled our drive-time with speculation about who would be at the party, what they’d be wearing, and blah, blah, blah. I drifted off. I’m pretty sure my dad did, too.

Back about a hundred years ago, Orange Grove Boulevard had been home to wealthy families who built spectacular mansions and palatial houses, and surrounded them with lush landscaping, intricate gardens, pergolas, fountains, and palm, magnolia, hemlock, and cedar trees. Most of the huge houses had disappeared—along with the families and their money—replaced by smaller homes, apartments, and condos.

A few of the grand estates remained. The Stafford house was one of them. The place looked like an old Southern mansion, white with big columns rising to the roofline. It sat on two acres of carefully tended grounds.

I’d been here lots of times when I was a kid. My parents traveled in the same social circle as the Staffords, plus my older brother was around the same age as their son Chris. The Staffords had hosted Easter egg hunts, Fourth of July, and Christmas parties for us kids.

Our limo pulled into line with the other Town Cars, Jags, Bentleys, and Mercedes and we crept slowly up the circular driveway. Even though it was summer and not quite dark yet, it looked as if jolly old Saint Nick might arrive at any moment.

Tiny twinkle lights covered the hedges and shrubbery, and were wrapped around the towering palm trees. Santa Claus stood by a sleigh, waving as cars drove past. An ice rink had been set up, surrounded by lush greenery. Skaters wearing red plaid costumes and ear muffs glided across the ice. A troupe of acrobats dressed in elf costumes performed stunts amid a stack of huge, gift-wrapped packages.

A sea of potted poinsettia plants covered the wide steps that led to the entrance of the house and a huge wreath hung above the door. A half-dozen carolers dressed in Old English costumes sang holiday songs.

Valets in red vests descended on our limo. Mom took Dad’s arm. I followed them inside.

Two women welcomed us while another woman consulted the guest list—just why Mom wasn’t handling this duty, I didn’t know, except that her idea of taking charge of something really meant finding someone capable to whom it could be delegated.

It was really for the best.

I figured the women in the reception line for somewhere on the high side of sixty. None of them seemed to realize the fashion clock hadn’t stopped in the eighties. The three of them standing together looked like the Battle of the Big Hair.

I wondered if Jack had arrived yet, but since I was in stealth-mode big-time, I couldn’t lean over and check out the list.

The foyer and spacious living room were a crush of elegant gowns and tuxedos, a tribute to capitalism at its designer best. The women wore traditional Christmas colors of red, green, blue, gold, or silver. There were lots of pretend hugs and air kisses, everyone careful not to create a wrinkle or a makeup smudge.

The Staffords—or more likely the Staffords’ servants and the design company they’d hired—had gone all out decorating the house for the occasion. Lighted trees and elegant displays of all things Christmas were in every room. Strains of music from a string quartet wafted above the conversations of the guests.

Mom and Dad were immediately sucked into the crowd. I made a break for the bar.

Laughter drew me down the hallway to one of the Staffords’ massive sitting rooms were a bar had been set up. Guests were packed in there like toys in Santa’s bag on Christmas Eve night. I made my way to the bar and asked for a glass of red wine. The bartender passed it to me just as a hard body eased up against mine.

Ty flew into my head—then out again just as quickly. He was my official boyfriend and we’d been doing the mattress mambo for a while now, so I knew whoever was brushing against me definitely wasn’t Ty.

I looked over my shoulder. Jack Bishop.

I lingered for a few seconds—which was really bad of me, I know—then stepped away. It wasn’t easy, but
that’s
how serious I am about having an official boyfriend.

Not that he was here to notice, of course.

Jack gave me a little grin. My knees wobbled.

Oh my God. He looked insanely handsome in his tuxedo.

“Good evening, Miss Randolph,” he said, and signaled the bartender for a bourbon on the rocks.

Oh, wow. This was so cool. We were in private-detective-mode already.

“Jackson Blair,” I said. “Glad you could make it.”

He took his drink, then rested his hand—it was really warm—on the small of my back. We wove through the crowd and found a spot near the doorway.

“I see you dressed for the occasion,” he said, dipping his gaze to take in my gown.