Beach Bags and Burglaries (A Haley Randolph Mystery) (20 page)

F
oran ultraexclusive—which is code for ultraexpen-sive—resort that catered to Hollywood stars and international millionaires, there was a heck of a lot of crime associated with the Rowan Resort.

I left Colby’s bungalow and wandered aimlessly through the gardens—though not aimlessly enough that I’d end up at Yasmin’s idiotic bachelorette party—thinking about all the criminal activity I’d uncovered here. Yeah, okay, it was nothing hard-core—except for Jaslyn’s murder—but still it seemed to me that this place had more than its share of wrongdoing.

The weird part was that all the crimes were, somehow, connected to Jaslyn Gordon.

Colby, who shared the love of art with Jaslyn, had been involved in robberies in Los Angeles, done jail time, and one of her accomplices was still on the lam. Gabe Braxton, Jaslyn’s boyfriend, had been arrested for assault and domestic violence, though none of the charges stuck. Jaslyn Gordon had a brother who was currently serving time. Sebastian ran a Web site auctioning off stolen underwear that, conceivably, Jaslyn could have been involved with—even though Sebastian denied it—since she was a hotel maid and had access to celebrities’ clothing while cleaning their rooms.

The even weirder part was that I’d uncovered absolutely nothing—no evidence, no rumors, no wild speculation—that Jaslyn herself had been involved in any of those criminal activities. So if she hadn’t been a part of it, why had she been murdered? How could it be that the only person
not
involved was dead? It didn’t make any sense.

I turned down a different path and walked onto a small, wooden arched bridge. A waterfall splashed down some rocks, then flowed under the bridge. It was quiet here, peaceful. Not a lot of hotel guests were around. I stood there looking at the water and thinking.

Of course, the people connected with Jaslyn who had been in trouble with the law weren’t the only ones I had concerns about. I’d considered Avery’s possible involvement with Jaslyn’s murder. She’d been unhappy with Jaslyn’s blatant disregard for employee policies and had, I’m sure, been called on the carpet because of it. Maybe upper management had threatened Avery with her job if she couldn’t keep her team members in line—and out of the library—and Avery had let her anger with Jaslyn get the best of her.

Hang on a second.

Oh my God—the library.

According to what I’d been told, Jaslyn had become obsessed with the library. Had she discovered the hidden door in the bookcase, realized the secret passageways connected to guests’ rooms, and threatened to go public with the story?

If so, the media frenzy would be epic. Rowan Resort would undoubtedly be hit with multibillion-dollar lawsuits from everyone who’d ever vacationed here. Walt Pemberton, as chief of resort security, would have a great deal of explaining to do; no doubt he’d be fired and would never find a job working in security again.

Was that a reason to murder someone?

Yeah, I thought it was.

Really, I wouldn’t mind finding Pemberton guilty of most anything, since I’d seen him creeping around, spying on me; he’d probably instructed his undercover personnel to keep me under surveillance, too.

Then something else hit me. What if Jaslyn had seen Sebastian come out of the hidden passageway in the library, as I had? What if she’d confronted him, demanded answers?

My thoughts skipped ahead, and I got a weird feeling thinking that maybe Sebastian had murdered Jaslyn. He didn’t really strike me as the type, but you never knew about people. Like some of the other employees I’d met here, Sebastian was desperate for money to pay his college tuition and expenses. Maybe in an all-out panic, he’d killed Jaslyn.

I stood on the bridge for a few more minutes, running all the scenarios through my head—jeez, a hit of chocolate would sure help right now—and finally decided that I needed more evidence, more info.

I knew one place to find it.

I trekked through the gardens, into the hotel, and up the stairs to the second floor. Just as I’d figured, the housekeeping staff was still busy cleaning the guest rooms. I walked the corridor stopping wherever I saw one of the big carts and finally spotted Tabitha inside a room, pulling sheets off of one of the beds.

“Tabitha?” I said as I walked in.

She squealed, spun around, clutching the sheet in front of her. Wow, was she skittish or what?

“Oh, Miss Randolph, it’s you.” She heaved a heavy, relieved sigh and plopped down on the bed.

“Sorry,” I said.

I don’t think my apology helped. Her hands trembled. She gulped big breaths. Her face went white, and it looked like she might pass out.

Jeez, I really hope she doesn’t faint. I’m not great in a medical emergency.

I eased closer and sat down on the edge of the bed opposite her. This sent her into a worse panic.

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she whispered, twisting the sheet in her fingers. “Nobody is supposed to come into the rooms when we’re cleaning. I told you that before. You’re going to get me into serious trouble.”

“I just need to ask you something,” I said.

Tabitha drew the sheet up and held it against her chest like a shield.

“I don’t want to answer any more questions,” she said.

Like any good investigator, I ignored her remark.

“Why did Jaslyn keep going to the library?” I asked.

“I already told you everything I know,” Tabitha said.

“Are you certain?” I asked.

“Of course I’m certain,” she told me.

I didn’t want to come out and ask her if Jaslyn had confided in her that she’d discovered the hidden door in the library bookcase, just in case Jaslyn hadn’t told her. I’d promised Sebastian I wouldn’t divulge his secret, and I intended to keep my word—unless I found some solid evidence that he’d murdered Jaslyn, of course.

Tabitha glanced at the doorway and, for a few seconds, I thought she might make a break for it. I tried a new approach.

“Did Jaslyn talk to Walt Pemberton?” I asked.

She looked totally lost now, and asked, “Who’s he?”

Huh. Not exactly the key piece of incriminating evidence I’d hoped for.

I pushed on.

“You told me Jaslyn said she was going to talk to upper management about something,” I said. “Do you know who she intended to speak with?”

“She didn’t tell me, and I didn’t ask,” Tabitha said. “The only person she ever talked to was Colby Rowan. They talked about art and stuff.”

“What stuff?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Jaslyn didn’t tell me everything,” Tabitha insisted.

“She must have told you something more,” I said.

Tabitha rubbed her temples and stared at the floor. She looked like she might crack at any second.

No way would she make a good spy.

“She—she told me that Colby had showed her some books about art in her bungalow one day,” Tabitha said. “She told me Colby promised to introduce her to some of her art friends at the galleries in New York. She told me she’d miss their talks after Colby left because nobody else on the island understood art like she did. She said that—”

“Hang on a second,” I said. “Colby was leaving?”

Tabitha nodded. “Yes. In a few weeks.”

“Where was she going?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” she told me. “But Jaslyn didn’t think she was coming back. Ever.”

This whole in-a-few-weeks thing rang a bell. Joy had mentioned she was coordinating a huge event scheduled to take place in a few weeks. Sebastian had claimed that his supersecret-highly-confidential-you-can’t-make-me-tell job was ending in a few weeks. And Colby was planning to leave the island in a few weeks?

“Do you—do you think that has anything to do with Jaslyn’s murder?” Tabitha asked in a faint whisper, as if she were afraid to ask the question—or maybe more afraid of what the answer might be.

“I don’t know,” I said because, really, I didn’t.

Tabitha’s eyes grew round and her breathing became labored.

“Don’t tell anybody that I talked to you,” she said, latching onto my arm. “Please. Please, don’t tell anybody what I said. I don’t want to get into trouble. I don’t want anything else bad to happen.”

“It’s okay. Really, it’s okay,” I said.

I tried for my you-can-trust-me smile, but I couldn’t quite pull it off.

I always have trouble pulling that one off.

“I won’t bother you with this again,” I said.

“That’s what you told me the last time,” Tabitha said.

“This time, I swear.”

“You swore last time, too.”

Crap.

“Okay, well, this time I’m triple-swearing,” I said.

I guess that sunk in, because she let go of my arm. I figured it was a good time to leave before Tabitha found a personal injury lawyer and sued me for willful infliction of emotional distress or something.

I left the room, squeezed around the housekeeping cart parked outside, and—oh, crap—spotted Avery three doors down. She saw me, too, and knew I’d come out of a room that wasn’t mine. Her spine stiffened and her jaw tightened in that universal oh-my-God-what-did-I-just-witness stunned expression that, believe it or not, I’ve had directed at me many times.

So what could I do but go on the offensive?

“There you are, Avery,” I said in my mom’s I’m-better-than-you voice, as I walked toward her. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

It was a total lie, of course, but that’s what being on the offensive was all about, right? And, I hoped, it would keep Tabitha out of trouble.

“Just an hour ago I saw another woman with a Sea Vixen beach tote,” I said, as if I’d just witnessed an invasion of California by the North Koreans. “Where is
my
bag? I was assured I would get one from the next shipment. What is going on?”

Avery immediately shifted into total back-down mode.

“I don’t understand,” she said, and reached for her cell phone. “But I’ll find out. I’ll call Patricia right now.”

“I would like us to go see her in person,” I told her.

Really, I didn’t want to go to the shop in person, since the whole thing was a big, fat lie. But I figured that if I got Avery away from here, it would keep Tabitha from getting an earful about unauthorized guests in the rooms.

It was the best I could do, at the moment.

“Yes. Of course. Whatever you want,” Avery said.

We walked through the corridor together and down the stairs. When we got to the lobby, I stopped.

“This is too upsetting,” I announced, touching the tip of my little finger to the corner of my eye.

I detected a slight this-is-really-convenient eyebrow bob from Avery, but I pushed on.

“You go talk to Patricia and call me when you know something,” I said.

Avery wouldn’t dare refuse. She nodded and continued across the lobby. I ducked out the front entrance.

I did a quick mental calculation and decided that if I went back to Yasmin’s bachelorette party now, it would almost be over. Perfect timing.

As I passed the fountain with the water shooting out of the sea horse’s nose, I heard someone call my name. I stopped, then realized—oh my God, I’d actually stopped. What had happened to my Holt’s avoid-the-customer-at-all-cost training I’d engrained in myself since starting work there?

This was not all right—even though I’m on vacation.

“Haley, look at this.”

Ben bounded up beside me, his laptop tucked under his arm.

He looked more ragged than the last time I’d seen him. Sleeping wherever, eating whatever, and wearing the same clothes had taken its toll.

“You’ve got to give those khakis and that polo a rest,” I told him, and even managed to say it nicely.

“You have to see this,” he said, pulling me toward a nearby bench.

“Do you need something to eat?” I asked, sitting down.

“It’s happening,” Ben said, and dropped onto the bench. “Just like I thought.”

He opened his laptop and started pecking at the keys.

“I’m taking you shopping,” I told him.

He ignored me.

“Let’s go get you some food,” I said.

“Here.” Ben pointed at the screen. “Look. Look at this. It’s just like I told you.”

Both hands clinched into fists, he looked at his laptop with such intensity it startled me.

“See?” he said. “That’s the Web site I told you about.”

I looked at the screen and saw “Celebrity Panty Raid” across the top of the page in black, lacy letters.

“Check this out.” Ben clicked on a red thong icon, then typed into a search box.

I leaned closer and saw that panties were up for auction.

“This is the big item I told you about. They’ve been teasing it for a couple of days,” Ben said. “It proves this site is tied to the Rowan Resort.”

I looked again but didn’t see anything spectacular, just a pair of purple panties trimmed with zebra print and some kind of weird-looking appliqué on the front.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“These are Beyoncé’s panties,” Ben said.

Okay, so here I was sitting on a bench at an exclusive resort, on my vacation, with a reporter, looking at a photo of Beyoncé’s panties.

What has my life become?

“These panties are going to make everything in my life good again,” Ben declared.

“Is your blood sugar low?” I asked.

“This proves what I’ve been saying,” Ben said.

“Are you on some medication that you, maybe, skipped for the last few days?” I asked.

“The tip I got was right,” Ben said. “Finally, I can break a story that will get me noticed.”

“I don’t think you’re properly hydrated,” I said.

“Look at these panties,” he insisted, pointing at the screen. “Beyoncé’s panties. They’re all the proof I need to show that the Rowan Resort is connected to Celebrity Panty Raid.”

“This is a pair of panties, Ben,” I said. “They don’t prove anything.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he said, and started hitting the keyboard again. “Look at this.”

The screen changed, and I saw a photo of the ocean and a sandy beach. People were in the water, playing in the sand, and lying on chaises. A thatched-roofed bar was nearby.

“That’s here,” I realized.