Slay Bells and Satchels (Haley Randolph Mystery Series) (8 page)

Wow, do I have great gift ideas for friends and family, or what?

Then it hit me. I should make my own wish list.

I flipped the paper over, dug a pen from my tote, and wrote my name at the top of the page.

One of the most annoying things about any gift-giving occasion was when the gift recipient insisted they didn’t know what they wanted, they couldn’t think of anything they needed, blah, blah, blah. I mean, really, how could you
not
know of something you’d like to have? At any given moment, I could recite ten things I wanted, right off the top of my head.

Immediately, I jotted down a DKNY crossbody and a Lucky Brand satchel, and since you can never have too many satchels, I added the Ralph Lauren bag I’d thought I’d get for Mom. The image of a Louis Vuitton tote sprang into my head—I get that a lot—so I added it to my list. And what gift-giving occasion would be complete without a clutch bag? A Gucci would do quite nicely, I decided, and wrote that down.

All of these required matching wallets, of course, so I noted that, too.

My heart began to beat a little faster just looking at the list.

Images of Christmas flashed in my mind. Me, surrounded by beautifully wrapped gifts. Me, cutting the ribbons, tearing off wrapping paper, ripping open boxes, tossing aside mounds of tissue paper to discover one gorgeous handbag after another.

Hang on a minute.

What if I gave my wish list to my friends and family, and somehow, all of them ended up giving me the exact same purse? Oh my God, that would be awful.

There was only way to prevent this Christmas nightmare from happening.

I was going to have to assign gifts this year.

I glanced at my watch and saw that two minutes remained before I had to clock-in, the exact amount of time necessary to walk into the store at a moderate pace, reach the break room, store my handbag in my locker, and get in line at the time clock with fifteen seconds or less to spare.

Since Holt’s didn’t pay employees for standing in line, I saw no reason to get there early.

Still, I didn’t like to be late for work. Holt’s employee attendance policy stated that if you were late for work the cashiers’ supervisor wrote your name on the whiteboard in the break room. This meant a confrontation with Rita—I hate her—and while I actually enjoyed a good confrontation, dealing with Rita—I hate her—isn’t the best way to begin a four-hour stretch in a place I really didn’t want to be.

Plus, if you got your name on the board four times in one month, you got fired. I wasn’t all that excited about keeping this job, but I wasn’t about to give Rita—I hate her—the satisfaction of dropping the ax on me.

I put my wish list and pen in my tote and got out of my car. Just as I hit the button to lock the doors, a car zoomed into the space next to me. Detective Shuman got out.

My heart did its usual little oh-wow flip-flop whenever I saw Shuman—which was bad of me, I know, but there it was.

Then my heart did an oh-no flip-flop when I realized that Detective Madison might be with him. No way did I want to start off my day dealing with him.

But then I saw that Shuman was alone. My heart did an oh-whew flip-flop as I walked to the back of my car to meet him.

Shuman looked pretty good this morning. He had on a brown sport coat with khaki trousers and a yellow shirt. He’d paired these with a teal tie, for no apparent reason. Jeez, where was his girlfriend? Wasn’t she dressing him?

My heart did a little I’m-glad-and-I-shouldn’t-be flip-flop when I realized this probably meant the two of them weren’t living together yet.

“Solve McKenna’s murder?” I asked, giving him a smile.

“Sure did,” he said. “Hers and six more just yesterday.”

Nothing like a little homicide humor first thing in the morning.

“You called me yesterday,” Shuman said.

I figured he’d call me back sometime today when he had time. This was way better—I mean that strictly as a concerned citizen anxious to aid law enforcement, of course.

“I didn’t know if you’d gotten word that only two of the elves reported back to work after the murder,” I said. “Made me wonder about why the others didn’t show up. Most of them were scared, I guess. But maybe one of them was involved in McKenna’s death somehow.”

Shuman pulled a little tablet from the inside pocket of his jacket. “Who are they?”

I gave him Alyssa and Nikki’s names.

Like most homicide detectives, Shuman was tight-lipped about an ongoing murder investigation. But we’d worked together on a few cases in the past—and I am, after all,
me
—so he was a little freer with details.

“The victim was struck on the head with a nutcracker,” Shuman said.

“The big wooden ones that look kind of like soldiers?” I asked.

I remembered seeing dozens of them tangled with the other Christmas decorations on the floor of the stockroom the morning I’d found McKenna.

The image of her being struck on the head with one of those things flashed in my head. I pushed it away.

“Fingerprints?” I asked.

“Lots of prints,” he said. “Nothing yet that’s any help.”

“Motive?” I asked.

He gave me cop-face—which was way hot, of course—so I knew he wasn’t going to give up anything else, unless I had something to offer.

“McKenna had just gotten a role in a sitcom,” I said. “Starting at—get this—twenty grand an episode.”

Shuman’s brows rose, and I was pretty sure I could see his thoughts spinning out a motive. “Professional jealousy?”

“TV roles don’t have understudies. The production company would just re-cast the part, and there’s no guarantee who they’d pick,” I said.

“That’s a lot of money up for grabs,” Shuman said.

Greed was a favorite motive among homicide detectives and murderers alike, and following the money trail usually paid off. I couldn’t disagree that somebody—especially a starving actress—would kill for it. Still, I thought there was something else going on.

“McKenna wasn’t well liked even before she got the role,” I said.

Yesterday when I’d left Jasmine’s apartment, I’d wondered if she was just playing me by using her acting skills to avoid answering my questions, and instead make me feel sorry for her. Maybe she was honest and sincere. I couldn’t tell for sure. Either way, I couldn’t hold back with Shuman.

“Talk to Jasmine Grady,” I said. “She and McKenna were roommates. McKenna skipped out on her owing back-rent. It really left Jasmine in a jam.”

Shuman jotted down the name.

“Did you know McKenna was living with her boyfriend?” I asked.

“Trent Daniels,” Shuman said. “I talked to him yesterday.”

“McKenna moved in with him after she left Jasmine’s place,” I said. “According to Jasmine, the guy was crazy about her. She just wanted free rent.”

“If McKenna was using him, he didn’t know it,” Shuman said. “Or maybe he didn’t care.”

Or maybe Jasmine had made the whole thing up to throw suspicion off of herself.

“Do you think he really loved her?” I asked.

“I think he was a little weird. I’ve still got to run a background check on him,” Shuman said. He tapped his tablet. “Money troubles are usually the best leads.”

We stood there for a couple of minutes, quiet, both of us lost in thought, then Shuman said, “I’d better go.”

Activity in the parking lot had ceased. No more I’m-desperate-for-a-job employees pulled up, parked, and went inside. That could only mean I was late for my shift.

“Me, too,” I said.

Still, we just stood there looking at each other until we both realized what we were doing.

“See you,” Shuman said, walking away.

“Yeah, okay,” I said, and headed for the store.

At the door I stopped and looked back. Shuman stood outside of his car watching me.

My heart did another flip-flop, and I went inside.

Already, the Christmas trees on display were lit. “Frosty the Snowman” played on the store’s public address system. The giant toy bag sat at the ready near the fake fireplace.

I hurried back to the break room. No one was inside, not even Rita—I hate her. I thought that maybe I’d gotten lucky and she was late for work, too, but then I saw my name already written on the whiteboard.

Damn.

Yeah, okay, I was late for work because I’d been talking to Shuman in the parking lot, but that was way better than talking to him here in the store. I’d die—absolutely die—if Shuman or anyone else I knew caught me wearing that elf costume.

I’ve really got to get a handle on my life.

I clocked-in, stowed my tote—after I erased my name from the whiteboard, of course—and went to the elf dressing room down the hall. Mostly Holt’s employees were inside. The only actresses present were Alyssa and Nikki. My spirits dipped a little. None of the other actresses had come back.

Everyone seemed to be in a good mood, talking and laughing, taking turns getting into their costumes behind the privacy curtain. Others applied makeup and styled their hair in front of the mirrors.

“Hi, Haley,” Alyssa said. “How’s it going?”

“I’m still not loving the costume,” I said, grabbing it off the rack. “Can’t you get any of your actress friends to come back to work?”

“Not likely.” She leaned toward the mirror and applied bright red lipstick. “Not with that homicide detective outside the store.”

I caught her gaze in the mirror.

“You mean Detective Shuman?” I asked.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that Alyssa remembered Shuman from the day of McKenna’s murder and recognized him this morning. First of all, Shuman was kind of hot. Second, Alyssa had probably never dealt much with a homicide detective. Both were good reasons for Shuman to stick in her head.

“Does he have any idea who killed McKenna?” Alyssa asked.

Immediately, I felt like I was a homicide detective myself—which was way cool, of course—and reluctant to divulge info about the investigation.

“He’s following a number of leads,” I said.

“Did he talk to Jasmine Grady?” she asked, turning to me. “She was majorly mad when McKenna ditched her owing back-rent.”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“He really needs to talk to Trent,” Alyssa said. “Tell that detective to talk to Trent. Trent Daniels. He was totally in love with her, and she treated him like garbage.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that,” I said.

I went behind the privacy curtain and changed into the elf costume. When I came out, most of the girls were gone. Alyssa was still in front of the mirror.

“Listen, Haley,” she said. “Maybe I should talk to that detective myself, tell him everything about McKenna. She was a real bitch to just about everybody.”

Alyssa seemed concerned about finding McKenna’s killer. But I guess that was normal since she really needed to work and was probably a little afraid that some psycho elf murderer was on the loose in the store and she might be the next victim.

Still, like with Jasmine, I couldn’t be sure whether she was genuinely concerned or if something else was going on. Who knew with actresses?

“I heard that McKenna had just gotten a role in a sitcom,” I said. “Did you know that?”

“Everybody knew it.” Alyssa turned back to the mirror. “McKenna made sure of it.”

“How did that happen?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” Alyssa said.

“She never said?” I asked. “Wasn’t she blabbing about it to everyone?”

“Well, she didn’t tell me,” Alyssa said. “I’d better get out there.”

She grabbed her handbag off the floor to store in her assigned locker in the break room, and my heart did a totally unexpected oh-wow flutter. Alyssa had a Louis Vuitton satchel. It was gorgeous. I definitely needed to add that to my Christmas wish list.

Jeez, how could Alyssa—a struggling actress—afford such a mega expensive bag? I wondered if maybe her mom was tempting her with pricey handbags to try and convince her to give up on acting and come home, as Jasmine’s mother was doing.

Alyssa slung the satchel over her shoulder and disappeared out the door.

My spirits dipped. False alarm.

Alyssa’s satchel was a knock-off—and not even a good one. The handles were wrong, which was always a dead giveaway, plus the classic LVT print had been mixed with their checkerboard pattern in a way that screamed I-can’t-afford-a-genuine-bag-so-I-bought-this-thing.

I’ve got an eye for counterfeit handbags. Marcie and I had been buying knock-off designer bags from the Garment District and giving purse parties for a long time now, so I could spot a fake from a mile away.

By the time I’d put on my elf makeup and Santa hat, I was the last one to leave the dressing room. The store was open now and I could hear the usual commotion from shoppers on the sales floor along with strains of “Winter Wonderland” on the PA.

I spotted Jeanette standing in the hallway. Yikes! How many more fashion fiascos should I be expected to endure for minimum wage?

Today she had on a dress—white, with a black collar and, for no conceivable reason, a yellow ruffle at the hem.

She looked like an over-stuffed Christmas goose.

I expected Jeanette to give me the evil eye for being tardy, but she was busy talking to someone.

He was a big guy, well over six feet tall, maybe mid-twenties with dark hair that had needed a trim at least a month ago. He wore jeans and a faded, slightly stretched-out T-shirt with “Brooks & Dunn” and steer horns printed on the front. Somehow, he looked familiar.

I stopped at the customer service booth. My friend Grace was on duty. We’d worked in the booth together lots of times and shared the same ideas on customer service—none of which would be found in the official Holt’s handbook.

Grace was about my age and attended college—which, for some reason, she actually liked—and always did the coolest things with her hair. Not long ago she’d dyed it Martian green. Topped today with a Santa hat, the look put a whole new spin on Christmas.

Two customers waited in line but Grace ignored them—see why we get along so well?—and brought me one of the charity donation booklets that management insisted had to be stored there.

“We’re not doing so great in the contest,” Grace said. “The other stores are killing us. Looks like we’ll end up with lumps of coal in our stockings.”