Duffel Bags And Drownings

By

Dorothy Howell

Copyright © 2014 by Dorothy Howell

DorothyHowellNovels.com

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either
products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Dorothy Howell.

With love to David, Stacy, Judy, Seth, and Brian

Cover art by Evie Cook

http://evie-cook.artistwebsites.com

Editing by William F. Wu

www.williamfwu.com

Ebook conversion by Web Crafters

http://www.webcraftersdesign.com/

Acknowledgement:

I couldn’t have written this novella without the support of a lot of people. Some
of them are: Stacy Howell, Judith Branstetter, David Howell, Evie Cook, the gifted
folks at Webcrafters Design, and William F. Wu, Ph.D.

“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 stakeout? 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.

I’d gone to Priscilla, the office manager at L.A. Affairs, and told her I’d like to
give Cady Faye a try. Priscilla had given me raised eyebrows and a slow headshake,
but I’d persisted. The more Priscilla had resisted, the more I’d wanted to use them—which
I prefer to think of as my generous spirit, not the mile-wide stubborn streak some
people have mentioned, as if it were a personality flaw. Priscilla had finally given
in and agreed to let me use them, but I’d gotten a this-better-work-out grimace from
her.