Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) (17 page)

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.

I could have tried out Cady Faye Catering on
a small, simple event, but I’d gone with something bigger—a St.
Patrick’s Day party being given by Xander and Nadine Brannock, a
young, up and coming Hollywood couple. I’d figured that at a
rip-roaring St. Pat’s bash I could see how Cady Faye operated—plus
hardly any of the guests would be sober enough the next day to
remember the food at all.

I circled to the back of the shopping center
and parked at the rear entrance alongside two of Cady Faye’s
delivery vans. Nearby were a truck unloading bread and a van from
Maisie’s Costume Shop, as well as a couple dozen other vehicles.
Another catering delivery van was backed up to the open double
doors. Cady Faye was expanding so construction work was underway on
both sides of their shop. I grabbed my portfolio and squeezed past
the delivery van into their small receiving area.

Inside, a line of workers in white smocks and
hairnets carried boxes and trays to the van, preparing to head out
for a luncheon somewhere, apparently. A dozen or so guys and
girls—servers, I figured, since they looked like college
students—milled around, some wearing a Cady Faye Catering uniform,
others in street clothes. Construction workers hauled around
equipment. The place smelled like sawdust and fresh baked
bread.

I spotted Faye Delaney right away. She was an
average looking late-thirties gal with sensible hair and
comfortable shoes. She was talking to a leprechaun—or, at least, a
young woman in a leprechaun costume.

The costume was beyond cool—green vest, bow
tie, and jacket over a white shirt, green below-the-knee pants,
green and white striped knee socks, and black buckle shoes. The
girl looked great in it. She was a couple of years younger than me,
tall with brown hair. She’d probably look great in anything

Neither she nor Faye looked happy.

As I walked closer I heard Faye say, “I don’t
know why she can’t get here on time. Especially today. She knows
full well that—”

“Oh, hi,” the leprechaun said to me, cutting
Faye off.

Faye spotted me and instantly morphed into
everything’s-great mode.

“Haley, so good to see you,” she said,
smiling broadly. She gestured to the leprechaun beside her. “This
is Jeri Sutton, one of my hardest working employees. She’s trying
on the costume for the Brannock party for me. What do you
think?”

“Looks great,” I said.

“Maisie’s Costume Shop is here fitting the
servers,” Faye said, and managed a brave smile. “On top of
everything else that’s going on.”

I glanced around at the hustle and bustle
that bordered on chaos.

“But it’s nothing we can’t handle,” Faye
said.

“I’ll go look for Cady,” Jeri said. “Somebody
said they thought they saw her here a few minutes ago.”

“Thank you, Jeri,” Faye said, and exhaled
heavily. “But don’t be gone too long. I need you to model that
costume with a skirt.”

Jeri moved away and Faye said to me, “She’s
one of my trusted agents. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
She’s in culinary school, you know.”

I didn’t, but Faye kept talking before I
could say anything.

“Let me show you our newest toy.” She talked
as we walked, telling me about upcoming events.

The place was a bit of a maze, since they’d
taken over the stores on each side of their original shop.
Construction workers, the catering staff and servers were coming
and going as we passed storage rooms, the huge kitchen, a cool
room, and a utility room and janitor’s closet.

Faye stopped at the entrance to one of the
rooms and gestured grandly.

“The ice room,” she announced. “We’re the
first catering company in the area to have one.”

I walked inside. Bare walls, a concrete
floor, harsh overhead lighting, several chest freezers, and some
sort of hoist. There was a big open water tank sitting atop a metal
frame about eight feet off the floor with steps leading up to it
and hoses sprouting from it.

I guess Faye picked up on my where’s-the-ice
expression because she said, “It’s for making ice sculptures.”

“I thought they were cut out of big blocks of
ice with a chain saw,” I said.

“They can be, but look.” Faye opened a big
metal door across the room. Inside was a huge walk-in freezer and
shelves lined with dozens of ice sculptures ranging in size from a
few inches to several feet—green shamrocks, stars, leprechauns,
rainbows, and just about everything else Irish you could think
of.

“Cool,” I said. “These will look great at the
party.”

“We can make them for any occasion,” Faye
said. “Let me tell you how it’s done.”

She closed the freezer door and launched into
an explanation of how colored water was mixed in the big tank, then
pumped into rubber molds and lowered into chest freezers by a
hoist, and then everything turned into blah-blah-blah and I drifted
off.

That happens a lot.

Edie, Priscilla, and whatever the heck was
going on at L.A. Affairs popped into my head. I wondered if I could
find a way to stay out of the office for the rest of the day. Maybe
tomorrow, too. I mean, jeez, if I wasn’t there, they couldn’t fire
me, right?

Faye jarred me back to reality by walking
away. I followed, pulled the door closed, and we headed toward what
I thought was the front of building—my sense of direction isn’t the
greatest—where the display room and offices were located.

We stopped at the entrance to the employee
lounge. Inside were tables and chairs, vending machines, a fridge
and microwave. On one wall was a bulletin board pinned with
announcements, and on another ran a row of lockers; duffel bags and
backpacks were piled up under them.

Near the restrooms, two clothing racks held
leprechaun costumes. Guy servers rotated in and out trying them on,
while the girls sat idle at the tables. I’d worked with Maisie’s
Costume Shop on other events and knew they’d do a great job.

Maisie, a stout woman in her forties who
owned the shop, checked the fit on each server as they came out of
the restroom, and her assistant Wendy entered their sizes on her
iPad.

“Hey, Haley,” Wendy called.

Like most of the wardrobe people I’d met,
Wendy had a fashion-forward sense of style that bordered on
outrageous. Today she had on boots, tights, shorts, a tank, and
vest in progressive shades of purple. But since she probably didn’t
weigh a hundred pounds on a rainy day, she really pulled it
off.

Faye’s cell phone rang. She stepped away and
answered it.

“Awesome costumes,” I said.

Wendy gestured toward the clothing racks. “We
brought skirts for the girls. Jeri is going to try on one so we can
see how it looks. What do you think?”

“I think it will be great,” I said, “as long
as the servers don’t look better than the guests.”

Wendy laughed, then stopped as Fay’s voice
rose.

“She didn’t get back to you?” she said into
her phone. “She assured me she would. I’m so sorry. I’ll get on it
right away. Yes, of course. You have my word.”

Faye snapped her phone closed and exclaimed,
“Has anyone seen Cady?”

“Wasn’t she here just a minute ago?” someone
asked.

“I thought I saw her car out front when I
came in,” one of the girls said.

“Well, is she here, or not?” Faye asked,
looking more annoyed by the second. “And where is Jeri? She’s
supposed to try on the skirt with her costume. Why aren’t people
here, where they’re supposed to be? Things have to get done.”

“I’ll look for them,” one of the girls
said.

“Me, too,” another one added.

“All of you,” Faye said, “please, look for
them. And tell them to report back to me immediately.”

Faye blew out a big breath as the girls
hurried out of the room, then caught sight of me standing
nearby.

“Oh, Haley,” she said. “Please don’t think
this sort of thing happens often. Really, we’re all dedicated to
the success of this business. I’m sure Cady is here somewhere and
she’s anxious to go over the menu with you.”

“No problem,” I said.

I thought there definitely was a problem but
this didn’t seem like the time to say so.

“I’ll look for them, too,” I said.

Honestly, I didn’t know how I’d have any
better luck finding Cady and Jeri than anyone else, but it seemed
like a great excuse to get away and call Kayla at the office to see
if there’d been any new developments.

I walked along the hallways amid the hustle
and bustle of the people who were doing actual work, and called
Kayla’s cell phone. Her voicemail picked up so I left a message. I
tried the office line. Her voicemail picked up there, too.

Yikes! Did that mean Kayla was in with Edie
and Priscilla getting fired? Of course, if that happened, it might
be safe for me to go back to the office.

I mean that in the nicest way, of course.

I tucked my cell phone into my handbag and
strolled along, trying to look as if I intended to actually
accomplish something. It did seem weird that both Cady and Jeri
were nowhere to be found. Maybe they’d both slipped out to a nearby
Starbuck—I’d done that myself a time or two during the workday.

I opened doors along the hallway and peered
inside. One was a storage closet containing plates, glasses, bowls
and cups. Nobody there. The next door was linen storage; plenty of
tablecloths and napkins but no people. The one after that was the
ice room. I pulled the door open and looked inside. No one there
either, except—

Something was strange about the room. I heard
water dripping.

I got a weird feeling

Water pooled on the floor under the big tank.
I hadn’t noticed that when I was in here earlier.

My weird feeling got weirder.

I looked up and saw a black shoe sticking out
of the water tank. Yikes!

I raced up the stairs. Facedown in the water
was a leprechaun. Dead.

Historical
Romantic Adventure from Harlequin Historicals

Written under Dorothy’s pen name Judith Stacy

Hired Help?

With her father’s business empire crumbling
around her, Miss Rachel Branford will try anything to save her
family’s name. Even if it means offering handsome financial
consultant Mitch Kincade a room in her house—and four times his
usual fee!

Or Hired Husband?

Abandoned at an orphanage, Mitch has
struggled to gain wealth and power. But all that changes when he
finds himself tempted by Rachel’s money—then Rachel herself.
Especially when drawn into a contract of marriage!

THE HIRED HUSBAND

By

Judith Stacy

Prologue

Los Angeles, 1897

“I now pronounce you man and wife.” The
minister closed his Bible. “You may kiss the bride.”

Rachel Branford glared up at her new husband.
“If you even think about kissing me, Mitch Kincade, I swear I’ll
bite your lip off.”

She stomped away.

Mitch stood at the altar watching his bride
storm past the rows of empty pews, her quick footsteps echoing
through the silent church. Back stiff, dark hair drawn in a severe
knot beneath her hat, she wore her least favorite dress—she’d made
a point of telling him so, the one time she’d spoken to him this
morning.

The woman could throw a blanket of frost over
everything around her, no doubt about it.

And still, he wanted her.

Even if she couldn’t stand him.

Not that he blamed her, Mitch conceded, as he
watched her bustle bobbing down the aisle. Not after the disaster
her father had caused and her brother had compounded, the mess that
she’d been left to fix … with her body.

But she’d given her word and she’d stuck by
it. She’d gone through with the wedding. Why wouldn’t she? Rachel
had as much at stake in this marriage as he did.

Now, through that series of unfortunate
circumstances, Mitch stood on the verge of having the one thing
he’d fought for, sweated blood over and dreamed of for years. So
close he could taste it.

“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord,” Mitch
mumbled

“Excuse me?” the minister asked.

Mitch glanced back at him. “Nothing. Never
mind,” he said.

The minister shifted uncomfortably. “Well,
uh, congratulations.” He cleared his throat. “And … good luck.”

You’ll need it, his tone implied.

Mitch didn’t disagree.

Drawing in a breath, he popped on his bowler
and headed down the aisle after his bride. He’d have what he wanted
from Rachel Branford.

One way or the other.

All of Dorothy’s mysteries and the historical
romances she writes as Judith Stacy are available online and at
bookstores everywhere.

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