Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) (12 page)

For a few seconds I considered inviting him
to Mom’s for dinner, but she’d likely freak out if I threw off her
seating chart. Plus, it would bring up questions about my breakup
with Ty and the inevitable are-you-two-serious speculation. I
wouldn’t put Shuman through that.

No way did I want to endure it, either.

Shuman must have figured out what I was
thinking—he was, after all, a detective—because he said, “A couple
of the guys at work invited me to eat with them. I’ll
probably—”

He pulled his cell phone from the pocket of
his sport coat and glanced at the caller ID screen.

“I’ve got to take this,” he said, getting to
his feet and instantly transforming into
super-serious-cop-mode.

“No problem,” I said. “I should get back to
work.”

We exchanged a quick wave and I headed back
to L.A. Affairs.

* * *

“You want to do—what?”

I said it nicely—or as nicely as I could,
under the circumstances.

I was seated in one of the L.A. Affairs’
interview rooms. Across the desk from me were the two girls who’d
volunteered to wrap up preparations for the Pammy Candy
Thanksgiving feast. They were pretty much
interchangeable—mid-twenties, blonde, full on makeup, spandex
dresses, and four-inch pumps—except for their names, of course,
which were Sasha and Poppy.

I’d already forgotten their last names.

I was also a little confused about who was
who.

“Like I said,” the one I’d decided to think
of as Poppy told me, “I think it would be a terrific idea if the
Thanksgiving feast was strictly vegan.”

“Well, if you’re going to do that,” Sasha
said, “I think you should be sure everything is gluten free.”

“And sugar free,” Poppy said.

The feast was set for the day after tomorrow.
Did they really think I could make major changes at this late
date?

“Or we should only serve authentic foods,”
Sasha said.

Apparently so.

“You know,” she went on, “like at the first
Thanksgiving—venison, collards, parsnips, cabbage, spinach. I read
it on the Internet.”

I wondered if she’d read on the Internet
about an event planner who’d gone over the desk after a client who
wanted to completely change the menu two days before the party.

Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my
part.

“Oh, I know!” Poppy said, bouncing in her
chair. “All the guests should come in costumes. How fun would that
be?”

“I love it,” Sasha declared. “Some can be
dressed as pilgrims and some can be Indians.”

“But we should be culturally sensitive. So
only those guests with a verifiable Indian heritage can come as
Indians,” Poppy insisted, then said to me, “You can do that, can’t
you? Check that out?”

I didn’t say anything. Really, what could I
say?

“That’s a good idea,” Sasha agreed. “Oh, I
know! We can get members of the Wampanoag tribe to come. They were
at the very first Thanksgiving. I read that on the Internet,
too.”

“They can do an interpretive dance,” Poppy
exclaimed. “And to make it even more authentic we’ll have wooden
tables, and we’ll have the caterer cook everything over a big open
fire.”

“You know what else I read on the Internet?”
Sasha said. “Back then, there were millions and millions of
passenger pigeons just flying around everywhere. We could get some
actors to put on a play, sort of like an ode to the passenger
pigeon.”

“I love it!” Poppy told her.

They both turned brilliant smiles on me.

“This is going to be the best Thanksgiving
ever,” Sasha declared.

“You can get all of that handled by Thursday,
can’t you?” Poppy asked.

I managed an
I’m-getting-paid-so-I-won’t-say-what-I-really-think smile, and
said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Great,” they said in unison, and rose from
their chairs.

Then something hit me.

“Who asked you to take over preparations for
the feast?” I asked.

“Julia,” Poppy said.

“Patrick’s mother,” Sasha added.

Did Julia pick an odd time to get involved
with the feast, or what?

The two of them left and I headed back to my
office.

Jeez, there must be some way I could find
one—or both—of them guilty of Veronica’s murder so I wouldn’t have
to deal with them again.

My day desperately needed a boost so I went
to the breakroom, poured myself a cup of coffee—generously flavored
with multiple packets of sugar and French Vanilla creamer—and took
it to my office. Since I’d had so much actual work to do this
morning—and not counting my meeting with Shuman—I ‘d been forced to
put off my usual get-the-day-off-to-a-great-start
activities—updating Facebook, checking my bank balance, and reading
my horoscope.

I sat down in my desk chair, sipped my
coffee, and something flew into my head.

The thing about the big announcement Veronica
planned to make on Thanksgiving kept bothering me. I couldn’t shake
the notion that it had something to do with her murder.

Nobody seemed to know what it was, exactly.
There was only speculation that she was leaving Patrick and moving
back home. Yet most everyone had insisted Veronica loved him too
much to ever leave, and Patrick hadn’t even known Veronica intended
to announce something.

I sipped more of my coffee and the caffeine
and sugar sent different possibilities zinging through my head. I
came up with all sorts of ideas, but they were just that,
ideas.

Then something else hit me.

Maybe the announcement didn’t concern
Veronica so much as it did Patrick. Maybe something was going on
with him that she wanted to tell the family about.

I got a weird feeling.

Maybe it was Patrick who wanted a
divorce.

I popped out of my chair and walked to the
window. My brain was buzzing pretty good now as I tried to fit
things together in this whole new way.

The notion that Patrick wanted to end things
seemed contrary to everything I’d heard about their marriage. But
with nothing else to go on, I had to look at things from a
different angle—and they didn’t get much different than this.

Of course, if this did prove true I still
didn’t see how it had anything to do with Veronica’s murder. Still,
it was worth checking out.

I paced across my office and sipped more
coffee—just for the brain boost, of course—and it hit me that if
Patrick really intended to divorce Veronica he wouldn’t likely use
Pike Warner, the firm that had represented his family for
generations. No doubt he’d want to keep his plans under wraps until
he was ready to confront Veronica.

Sure, the Pike Warner attorneys were supposed
to uphold client confidentiality, but let’s face it, things were
leaked all the time, especially where millions of dollars—like in
the Spencer-Taft estate—were at stake.

I needed some inside info. Usually I’d ask
Jack to call his contact at Pike Warner and access the database
that kept track of all lawsuits filed in the state. I couldn’t do
that this time. No way did I want to possibly generate a leak or
start a vicious rumor that could cause major problems for
Patrick—especially if my hunch wasn’t true.

But I knew who I could ask.

I grabbed my cell phone from my handbag—a
chic Prada satchel—then accessed the message log on my office phone
and got the number Liam had left when he’d called last week for an
appointment.

Liam worked at Schrader, Vaughn, and Pickett,
a huge firm as old and respected as Pike Warner. Patrick would
likely go there if he was planning to divorce Veronica. If that
wasn’t the case, Liam could access to the lawsuit database. Either
way he could tell me what, if anything, Patrick was up to.

My stomach started to feel kind of gooey as I
stared out the window and listened to the phone ring. I wasn’t sure
if it was my this-might-be-a-major-clue feeling, or my
this-is-a-hot-guy feeling.

Then I knew.

Liam’s voice came on the line and my belly
got gooier. My toes even curled.

“What do you have when a lawyer's buried up
to his neck in sand?” he asked. “Not enough sand.”

I giggled—jeez, I couldn’t stop giggling when
I talked to him.

I forced myself to calm down and tried for
some small talk.

“How’s your day going?” I asked.

“I have two calls on hold, three people in
front of my desk, and I’m late for a meeting,” Liam said. “But I’m
making them all wait so I can talk to you.”

Wow, I hadn’t expected that.

Okay, now I felt kind of crappy that he was
being so sweet—and I’d just called him to try and get some
information.

I desperately racked my brain to come up with
some less selfish reason to explain my call, but couldn’t—damn, my
sugar and caffeine had let me down—so I went with the truth.

“I was wondering if you could help me out
with a little information,” I said. “I’m planning a Thanksgiving
feast for Patrick Spencer-Taft.”

“Your clients in Calabasas,” Liam said.

He’d actually remembered I’d told him
that?

I hadn’t expected that, either.

“I was working with his wife on the
preparations,” I said.

“I heard what happened,” he said.

“I wanted to find out if Patrick was a client
at your firm,” I said.

I tried to make it sound light and chatty, as
if it somehow related to the Thanksgiving festivities I was
planning.

“What do you call a lawyer who violates
attorney-client privilege?” Liam asked. “Disbarred.”

I guess I had that coming.

At least he didn’t sound offended or
insulted.

“How about dinner tonight?” he asked.

No way had I expected that.

“I’d like it,” I said, then it popped into my
head that I was scheduled for a shift at Holt’s tonight.

Damn. I hate that job.

“No, wait, sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”

He paused, as if waiting for me to give him a
reason. But no way was I telling him about my crappy part-time
sales clerk job.

“Another time?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

“Great,” he said. “Saturday?”

My stomach got gooey all over again. “I can
do Saturday.”

We ended the call. My heart was pounding and
my thoughts were completely scattered.

Before I could stagger back to my desk and
collapse, my cell phone rang. It was Andrea.

“Something weird is going on,” she said.
“You’d better get out here right away.”

Andrea must
have been watching for me because just as I pulled into the
driveway the front door opened and she stepped outside. I had no
idea what weird thing she needed me to take care of, but she didn’t
look terribly upset or panicked.

I hoped that meant there hadn’t been another
murder.

“I got a call from Poppy,” Andrea said, as I
got out of my Honda. “She said all the plans for the feast had
changed.”

Okay, now I might murder someone.

“Then Sasha called saying the same thing,”
she went on. “The construction crew is here. I don’t know whether
to let them keep working or not. What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s changed,” I said, and told her how
Poppy and Sasha had come to my office with their last-minute ideas.
“I’m sticking with the original plan, the one Veronica came up
with. We’re doing this event the way she wanted it done.”

Andrea heaved a sigh. “Thank goodness.”

“I’ll go check on things,” I said.

Andrea went back inside and I circled to the
west side of the house where the feast would take place. The
workmen were busy carrying out the plans we’d discussed for the
dance floor, the bandstand, and the kids’ area. The tables and
chairs would be delivered and set up Thursday morning when the
caterer and servers got there, along with the florist. I found
Lyle, the foreman of the work crew L.A. Affairs often used, and did
a walk-through. There were no problems. Everything was on schedule
and would be finished in plenty of time for the feast.

I looped around to the rear of the house,
expecting to see Brandie and some of the others in the pool or
relaxing on the patio, but nobody was there. I hoped that meant
they were out sightseeing, for Andrea’s sake.

When I stepped through the sliding glass
doors into the family room, I spotted Erika tapping on her iPad.
She must have just arrived because I hadn’t noticed her car in the
driveway when I’d pulled up.

This was the first time I’d seen her since
the day Veronica was murdered. I wondered what she was doing here.
Had Patrick decided to continue with the renovations? Or was she
here for another reason?

She glanced up. “Oh. Haley. Hello.”

Erika looked magnificent, as always—perfect
hair and makeup, impeccably dressed in a YSL business suit. I
couldn’t see one single thing wrong with her appearance—which was
kind of annoying.

If we were in middle school I’d have started
a rumor about her.

We weren’t in middle school, of course—but I
saw no reason not to start something.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” I said. “I’d
heard you were a suspect in Veronica’s murder.”

Okay, that was an outright lie. But I needed
to find out what—if anything—was going on between her and Patrick,
and I didn’t want to waste a lot of time dancing around the
subject.

“What?” Erika’s eyes widened and her mouth
fell open. “That’s outrageous. I had nothing to do with Veronica’s
death. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Her denial seemed a bit over the top to me. I
wasn’t sure whether to believe her or not.

“You were in the house when Veronica was
pushed off the balcony,” I said.

“I came inside with Julia,” she told me.

Considering that I also suspected Julia, I
didn’t see this as an air-tight alibi.