Beach Bags and Burglaries (A Haley Randolph Mystery) (16 page)

We were quiet for another minute, then Avery sat up straight in her chair as if she’d just realized that she’d let her I’m-a-Rowan-Resort-employee shield slip a little.

“Again, I’m very sorry about the situation with your bag,” Avery said, then drew in a sharp, fortifying breath. “I fully expect you to report this to Mr. Cameron.”

Report it to Mr. Cameron? What the heck did Ty’s dad have to do with anything?

Avery pressed on, saying, “He’s one of our frequent guests, and we truly appreciate his business. If you’d like me to explain the situation to him, I’ll be happy to do so. In fact, my supervisor will personally handle the conversation as soon as he arrives.”

What the heck was she talking about?

“When who arrives?” I asked.

“Mr. Cameron,” Avery said. “He’s joining you, isn’t he?”

Then it hit me.

“Ty?” I might have said that kind of loud.

“Yes, I know you’d initially said this was a girls-only vacation,” Avery said. “But after he called, I assumed he’d be arriving shortly.”

Ty had called the Rowan Resort? He’d talked to Avery? She thought he was coming here?

This made no sense and, really, I didn’t want to try to understand it—I’m on vacation.

I got up and left.

H
aving my look-at-me-and-be-jealous Sea Vixen tote bag slip through my fingers was a tough blow to deal with—especially so early in the day. But I’d survived other tragedies, so I knew I could survive this one. In fact, I was determined to. This vacation had sustained a number of maybe-I-should-just-pack-up-and-go-home incidents, but I intended to push through.

Of course, it would be easier if I had a mocha Frappuccino to sustain me.

I left the shop, walked down the endless no-man’s-land corridor to the hotel’s main hallway figuring that a nice meal—heavy on the desserts—with the three best BFFs in the entire world was just what I needed to give my day a boost. I was reaching for my cell phone to call Marcie when I noticed a commotion up ahead in the hotel lobby. A large party of about a dozen people was making its way inside, causing heads to turn.

Wow, maybe this was some big celebrity checking into the hotel. It would be cool to see who it was and tell Sandy. She’d be so impressed.

I walked a little faster, pretending I wasn’t staring or the least bit interested, of course—a trait passed on to me genetically by my more-than-slightly-snooty pageant queen mom—and got to the lobby just as a Rowan Resort hostess was motioning all of them up the stairs. I bobbed and weaved a little, trying to get a better look at the woman at the center of the group, whom everyone was fussing over, to see who she was—and find out what she was wearing and how she’d styled her hair, of course. My BFFs deserved all the details I could get.

I stepped in front of another guest—hey, I can’t help it that I’m tall—and got a partial view.

Wow, she looked great, all right, maybe my age, blond, terrific figure. I didn’t recognize her, but I knew that anybody who caused this much hubbub must be a famous celebrity. I skirted around a wingback chair and came just short of elbowing aside a couple of old ladies to get a better look at her face, and—

Oh my God.
Oh my God
.

It was
that girl
. The one who used to work at Holt’s and stunk up the breakroom with those microwaveable diet meals of hers—the girl whose name I can never remember. She lost like a hundred pounds or something, ditched her glasses for contacts, quit Holt’s, and headed for Hollywood. I’d seen her in print ads, then a shampoo commercial. And now she had an
entourage?

One of the old ladies next to me must have read my expression, because she nodded wisely and said, “She’s a soap star. She’s fabulous. Absolutely fabulous.”

Oh, crap. This was too much. Just too much.

I mean, I was happy for her, of course. But, jeez, why couldn’t I have an entourage? Or a cool undercover job? Or at least an official boyfriend? I didn’t even have a fabulous Sea Vixen beach tote.

I hate my life—and I’m on vacation.

I decided that no way could I face my BFFs and pretend to have a good time right now. At this point, there was nothing to do but go upstairs and take a nap.

Even
I
know when it’s time to take a breather.

I waited a minute or two for what’s-her-name’s entourage to clear the stairs, then dashed up to the second floor, anxious for the solitude. Three housekeeping carts were in the hallway. I spotted Tabitha going into a room, three doors down from mine.

Avery flashed in my head—which didn’t suit me because I really wanted to lie down—and I remembered what she’d told me about Jaslyn helping out a different team that was assigned to clean some of the downstairs rooms. Somebody had told me that Jaslyn had requested a transfer off of Avery’s team, but I’d wondered if the idea had actually come from Avery.

I didn’t know who to believe, but I knew that no matter who initiated the request—Avery or Jaslyn—it would look bad for Avery. It would indicate she couldn’t keep her own team member in line, something that surely would come up at Avery’s next employee performance review.

I’d wondered if this situation had somehow escalated to murder, and I could still see that happening—jobs at the Rowan Resort paid big bucks, plus if you could make it here, you could make it anywhere, so I could understand Avery’s desire to be successful in her position.

But I needed the real story, and I didn’t think I was getting it from Avery. I couldn’t help feeling as if something else was going on, and I figured Tabitha could tell me.

I walked down the corridor to the room I’d seen her disappear into. The door was propped open, and a big housekeeping cart was parked just outside. I squeezed around it and went in.

The curtains were open, flooding the room with bright sunlight, brilliantly illuminating the complete disaster. Jeez, it looked like a fabric bomb had gone off in there. Dresses, skirts, shirts, shorts, capris, bathing suits, cover-ups, and jeans were scattered on the floor and across both beds, along with the sheets, pillows, and blankets. Food wrappers, soda cans, and beer bottles covered almost every flat surface. What a mess. What was wrong with people?

Tabitha was at the desk tossing out trash. I didn’t envy her job.

Maybe I could find her another place to work.

She saw me and gasped. Her gaze darted around the room like a cornered mouse looking for a hole to scurry into.

“It’s just me,” I said. “I need to ask you something.”

Now her gaze whipped to the door.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she said. “I could get in major trouble if you’re in here.”

“It won’t take a second,” I said.

She shook her head. “I can’t get fired. I need this job. I lost my financial aid last semester because I was sick, and I don’t qualify for any scholarships. I can’t lose this job.”

Tabitha sounded frantic and desperate, and honestly, I couldn’t blame her. But I didn’t know when I’d see her again, and I needed to put this thing with Jaslyn and Avery to rest, one way or the other.

“Just one quick question,” I said, and pushed on before she could protest again. “Did Jaslyn request a transfer to the team that cleaned downstairs? Or did Avery request it?”

“Oh, God, not this again,” Tabitha said, and started to tremble. “All I know is that Jaslyn told me that when she helped out the downstairs team, something weird was going on in the library.”

“How could something weird go on in a library?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Tabitha said. “I guess she thought it wasn’t being properly cleaned or something, because she kept talking about the condition of the stuff in there. And she kept going back to check on it, even though she knew she wasn’t supposed to, and even after Avery had talked to her about it.”

“Jaslyn risked losing her job over dusty books?” I asked.

“She was like that,” Tabitha said. “She’d get on some cause that she was passionate about, and it was like she was in some other crazy zone or something.”

“So she requested the transfer?” I asked, bringing our conversation back to my original question.

“I guess. She said she wanted to keep watch on things,” Tabitha said. She glanced at the door. “Please, Miss Randolph, please. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“Sure, I understand. I won’t bother you again,” I said.

“Please don’t. I can’t lose this job,” Tabitha said.

“I won’t,” I said. “I swear.”

I headed for the door.

“Miss Randolph?” Tabitha called.

I turned around.

Tabitha took a deep breath, then said, “Jaslyn told me she was going to complain to upper management.”

“Did she?” I asked.

Tabitha shook her head. “I don’t think she had ... time.”

“When did she tell you that?” I asked.

Tabitha gulped hard. “The day before she was murdered.”

Oh, crap.

“Miss Randolph? Miss Randolph?”

I heard my name, but no way was I stopping, because I knew it was Joy calling—I heard the unmistakable
clack, clack, clack
of her pumps on the concrete walkway behind me.

I’d managed to take an it’s-okay-because-I’m-on-vacation nap and awakened refreshed and rejuvenated to find a text message from Marcie. She was playing tennis, and we were all getting together for an early dinner.

I’d put on yet another fabulous I-have-great-taste-in-almost-everything outfit, this one denim capris and a sparkling white T-shirt, with tropical yellow, orange, and green accessories.

I looked terrific.

Maybe I should date myself.

I felt terrific, too, so no way did I want to ruin my good mojo by talking to Joy about Yasmin and Tate-Tate-Tate’s wedding.

“Haley?”

Joy appeared at my elbow. Wow, she could really move in those pumps. I was definitely going to have to up my game.

“What is it?” I asked, not even bothering to pretend I hadn’t heard her calling my name over and over again.

Joy didn’t seem to notice.

“I wanted you to know that everything has been arranged for Yasmin’s bachelorette party,” she said.

“I don’t care,” I said.

Joy didn’t seem to notice that either, because she kept talking.

“Now, there are just a couple of other things we need to go over.” She flipped open her iPad. “First, there’s a situation with the—oh, here’s our MOB now.”

Joy stopped in front of two women who were standing near one of the resort’s many fountains. I stopped too, not because I cared if I’d look rude in front of the mother of the bride if I kept walking but because I hoped that Yasmin’s grandmother was nearby and would join us. Ty’s grandmother had specifically called to thank me for helping with the wedding, and since I liked Ada and Ada liked Yasmin’s grandmother, I figured I’d like her, too.

It would be nice to actually like someone in Yasmin’s wedding party.

Joy took care of the formalities, introducing me to Yasmin’s mother Deandra and her aunt Elnora. Both women—sisters, obviously—were approaching fifty, had perfectly coiffed brown hair and full-on makeup, and wore YSL dresses—like, somehow, nobody had told them the wedding was at an island resort.

“So you’re the one who wanted to be part of Yasmin’s wedding,” Deandra said.

Or maybe it was Elnora. I’d already gotten their names mixed up.

Both of them gave my outfit the once-over; I felt like I was a beagle at that Westminster dog show, with both of them judging me.

“Are you married, Haley?” Elnora—I guess—asked.

“No,” I said, and smiled.

“Oh.” Elnora’s nose and mouth pinched together, as if she’d just smelled something stinky. “Well, don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll find someone special very soon.”

Did I have a scarlet “single” emblazoned on the front of my shirt?

“Yes, of course she will,” Deandra said, nodding thoughtfully but giving my T-shirt a dubious glance. “No need to worry. You’re not very old, are you, Haley? You’re only, what, twenty-one?”

“I’ll be twenty-five soon,” I said.

“Oh, dear,” Deandra murmured. “You’re
that
old?”

“She still has some time left to find that special someone,” Elnora said, as if she were throwing me a bone.

“Really, I’m in no hurry to get married,” I said.

“Well, you want to have children, of course,” Deandra said.

Okay, these two gals were starting to work my nerves big-time. Still, I managed to smile pleasantly and say, “I’m not in a hurry for that, either.”

Elnora gave me another unattractive frown and said, “I have to admit that I’m concerned about you, Haley. You’re twenty-four years old, already.”

“In just a few more years you’ll have an increased risk of birth defects, Down syndrome, miscarriage,” Deandra said.

“And the older you are, the less likely it is that you’ll be able to get pregnant. So I think that having a child soon is something you should definitely consider,” Elnora said.

How did my reproduction system become a topic of conversation—with strangers?

They both stared at me waiting, I guess, for me to announce that I intended to shack up with the next guy who walked past and get moving on the whole baby thing.

I said nothing.

“We just want you to be happy,” Deandra assured me.

Elnora nodded in agreement.

Both of them probably suffered severe neck strain from constantly turning up their noses at everyone and everything, and sticking them into other people’s business.

I guess they were done with me then, because Deandra turned to Joy and said, “I’ve rethought the napkins for the reception.”

Joy snapped to attention and rushed in with her iPad. I made my escape.

I hadn’t gotten very far when I spotted Sandy sitting alone on a bench that was shaped like a butterfly, surrounded by ferns and red flowers.

She looked up as I approached but said nothing.

I don’t have great people skills, yet even
I
could see that something was troubling her. Luckily, Sandy isn’t one to hold back.

“Sebastian wants us to see each other after vacation,” she said, and sounded upset at the prospect.

I was upset, too—but for a totally different reason.

“But I have a boyfriend,” she said.

And I had encouraged her to hang out with Sebastian who, after my Internet search, wasn’t looking like such a great guy to me.

“Dump him,” I said.

Sandy gasped and drew back a little.

Okay, maybe my advice was a bit harsh.

I tried to soften it by saying, “And in the interest of fairness, dump your tattoo artist boyfriend, too.”

That didn’t seem to help—though I thought it was a fabulous idea.

Sandy sighed heavily and said, “I don’t know what to do. I really like Sebastian but, well, I just met him.”

“You should go slow,” I said, when what I really wanted to do was repeat my dump-him suggestion. “And if you’re even thinking about him, maybe you should take another look at your tattoo boyfriend and ask yourself if he’s really the right guy for you.”

That, I decided, was an idea worthy of a
Cosmo
article.

Maybe I should write a column for them.

Sandy thought for a minute. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.”

“Just give it more time,” I said, even though I’m not a wait-and-see kind of gal. “Find out how you feel about Sebastian while you’re here, then decide what to do after you go home.”