Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) (2 page)

Veronica had come to the L.A. Affairs office
several weeks ago for help with a Thanksgiving Day feast she and
Patrick wanted to throw for their employees to thank them for their
hard work. I’d liked her right away. She was about my age, a petite
blue-eyed blonde transplant from Arkansas, Alabama, Amarillo—I
don’t know, one of the A places—who radiated
what-the-heck-let’s-do-it excitement about everything.

Veronica and Patrick had started Pammy Candy
a year or so ago and it had skyrocketed, enabling them to move out
of their Culver City newlywed’s bungalow and buy a huge place in
one of the most trendy locations in the Los Angeles area.

Patrick didn’t need the candy business
income. He was from an old money family—as demonstrated by his
hyphenated last name—that had settled here generations ago and
helped found Los Angeles.

Veronica, however, was a different story—a
way different story.

I exited the freeway and wound through the
hills to the street where Veronica and Patrick were making their
new home. It was gorgeous—and I’m really happy for them.
Really.

They’d purchased the property a couple of
months ago and were splitting their time between here and their
Culver City bungalow while major renovations were underway. The
construction guys were working overtime, trying to get everything
finished in time for the Thanksgiving feast.

I eased up behind a plumbing company van
stopped at the neighborhood’s security gate and waited until the
guard let it through. I pulled forward and showed the guard my
driver’s license. Even though I’d been here numerous times, he
still looked closely at my picture and checked his list of approved
visitors before opening the gate.

“Enjoy your visit, Miss Randolph,” he
said.

“Thanks,” I called, and drove through.

I caught up with the van a few moments later.
The neighborhood streets rambled through the canyons and hills, all
heavily landscaped to keep out any stalker, paparazzi, or tourist
who might somehow slip in.

At the Spencer-Taft house—really, it was a
mansion—the plumbing van pulled around back. I parked my Honda in
the circular driveway alongside a Mazda. A white convertible BMW, a
black Bentley, and a silver Mercedes were nearby.

I’d been here several times to discuss the
Thanksgiving feast with Veronica. She was super busy working at
Pammy Candy with Patrick and overseeing the renovations at the
house, so I’d met with her here to accommodate her schedule—plus it
was a good excuse for me to get out of the office.

The house had a Mediterranean vibe with eight
bedrooms, ten bathrooms, a media room, a game room, a fabulous
kitchen, and servants’ quarters, among other extravagances. Out
back were a patio, pool, and spa set among lush landscaping, an
organic garden, a koi pond, and a breathtaking view of the canyons
and mountains.

I grabbed the L.A. Affairs event portfolio
and reached for my handbag, a Burberry satchel. The bag had seemed
the perfect complement to my business suit when I’d selected it
this morning, but now I wasn’t feeling so great about it.

Yeah, okay, it was a terrific purse, and it
had been a major must-have when I’d bought it. But, jeez, that was
a long time ago—two, maybe three weeks. Time had moved on and I
desperately needed something new. Marcie hadn’t seemed all that
troubled about this major glitch in my life today at lunch, which I
didn’t get—I’m mean, come on, it wasn’t like I’d just lost my first
baby tooth.

Obviously, I was going to have to ramp up my
efforts to find a new, totally awesome handbag.

There was a lot of commotion at the front of
the house as I got out of my Honda. Landscapers were digging
trenches, laying new irrigation pipe, weeding the flower beds, and
cutting back overgrown plants. Scaffolding had been erected near
the massive double front doors and three electricians were
installing light fixtures. Workmen were unloading pallets of
decorative stone from a delivery truck.

The job foreman stood with two women, holding
an iPad, pointing and explaining something. Veronica wasn’t with
them, which didn’t surprise me.

One of the women was Patrick’s mother, Julia
Spencer-Taft.

I didn’t actually hate her—yet, anyway—but
she was pushing me in that direction big-time.

Julia was mid-fifties, tall with perfectly
coiffed dark hair, and displayed understated elegance and exquisite
taste in her ultra-expensive clothing. She carried herself with a
regal I’ve-been-better-than-you-for-generations way that was, I’m
sure, engrained in her DNA.

Standing beside her was Erika, the decorator
who was masterminding the changes to the interior of the house. I
didn’t especially like her, either, though I wasn’t sure why. She
was around my age, tall, blonde, and gorgeous—which I guess was
reason enough.

I’d crossed paths with the oh-so-charming
Julia Spencer-Taft a few times since planning began for the
Thanksgiving event. She didn’t know me personally but she was aware
of L.A. Affairs’ reputation so she had to at least act as if she
liked me. Erika had been pleasant—after she checked out the Louis
Vuitton satchel I’d had with me that first day and decided, I
suppose, that I was good enough for her to speak with.

But now it was go-time. I had to put aside my
dislike for Julia and Erika and see to it that Veronica and Patrick
put on a Thanksgiving feast that would wow their employees. This
didn’t suit me, of course, but there it was—and it had nothing to
do with the fact that two people had said I was in a crabby mood
today.

“No, no, that simply won’t do,” Julia said to
the foreman as I walked up. She huffed irritably. “It is the
absolute height of bad taste.”

Erika drew back from the iPad as if she’d
smelled something stinky and then exchanged a knowing look with
Julia.

“Horrid beyond words,” she agreed.

Julia held up a carefully manicured hand and
the foreman had the good sense to move the iPad away from her.

“Completely unacceptable,” Julia decreed.

“I discussed this with Veronica,” the foreman
said. “She liked the design and wanted to—”

Julia drew herself up and averted her eyes,
indicating she had no intention of gazing upon so hideous a sight
any longer or listening to his explanation—especially if it
involved Veronica.

He stepped back and said, “I’ll have another
design ready for you later today.”

She didn’t acknowledge him as he walked away,
which I’m sure he was grateful for.

“Hello,” I said, using my
I-get-paid-to-be-nice-to-snooty-people-like-you voice.

They gave me the standard
you’re-the-hired-help greeting.

“Where’s Veronica?” I asked. No way did I
want to involve either of them with the Thanksgiving feast
planning, if I didn’t have to.

“Inside,” Julia told me and pursed her lips,
“probably envisioning mauve carpeting and brass bath fixtures.”

Erika snickered.

Yeah, I was on the verge of clicking these
two onto my mental I-hate-you list.

The front door opened and Andrea, Veronica’s
personal assistant, walked out carrying the tools of her trade, an
iPad and a cell phone.

“Hi, Haley,” she said, as she joined us.

Andrea was about my age, short with dark
hair. She managed to look both fashion-forward and competent at the
same time—not easy to pull off.

“Veronica is in the master suite,” she said,
and nodded toward the house. “She should be down any minute.
Today’s the big day.”

I remembered then that some of Veronica’s
relatives from back east were scheduled to arrive this afternoon
for a visit. She’d been super excited about having her own family
close by, for a change.

And, really, who could blame her?

Andrea glanced at her wristwatch. “They
should arrive shortly.”

Julia uttered a barely audible grunt and
shared another knowing look with Erika.

“It seems the Thanksgiving plans are shaping
up great,” Andrea said, with more enthusiasm than was
necessary.

“Veronica does appear to enjoy a good meal,”
Julia commented, causing Erika to put on a very poor attempt at
suppressing a smile.

“Oh, here they come,” Andrea said.

Everyone turned as a black limousine
approached, then pulled into the circular driveway. The doors
opened and three women and a teenage girl piled out.

Erika gasped.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Julia muttered.

“I’ll call Veronica,” Andrea said, and put
her cell phone to her ear.

The four guests were in high spirits,
smiling, chatting, and directing the chauffeur as he unloaded their
luggage.

“I’ve never seen so much traffic in all my
born days,” one of the women declared.

“And expensive cars everywhere you look,”
another exclaimed.

“Can you believe this weather?” the third one
said, giving herself a little shake.

I figured all of the women for somewhere on
the high side of fifty. Two of them had on stretch pants and
T-shirts, and the other wore a lavender track suit. They all had
fanny packs belted around their waists. None of them wore makeup.
Their hair was I’m-over-forty short.

The teenager had on jeans, sneakers, and a
sweatshirt. Her blonde hair was in a loose ponytail and she had
earbuds plugged into her ears which, it seemed, was a universal
accessory for someone her age, fourteen or fifteen, I guessed.

“Welcome,” Andrea said, joining them.

They turned and gasped as they looked up at
the house.

“Oh my Lord, would you look at this place,”
one of them said.

“It’s just like one of those mansions on TV,”
another said.

“Maybe we can film one of those reality shows
here,” the woman in the track suit said.

They all laughed. The teenager girl ignored
them; she seemed more interested in the construction guys.

“I’m Andrea, Veronica’s assistant,” Andrea
said.

“Did you hear that?” one of the women asked,
nudging the other two. “Our little Veronica has her own
assistant.”

“We’re just proud as punch of her,” another
of them added.

Andrea gestured toward the house and said,
“Veronica is upstairs. She’ll be down in a second.”

“Can’t wait a second—long ride,” the woman in
the track suit declared, then darted past Andrea into the
house.

Andrea, who had studied photos of her
employer’s guests—standard procedure for a top tier P.A.—introduced
everyone.

“May I present Veronica’s aunts Melanie and
Cassie? Her aunt Renée just went inside. And this is Melanie’s
daughter, Brandie,” she said, drawing me into their circle. “This
is Haley Randolph. She’s the event planner for the Thanksgiving Day
dinner.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I said, and
really it was. The women were thoroughly enjoying themselves,
completely thrilled by the new sights they were experiencing. The
teenage girl looked embarrassed, as a teenager would.

“An event planner?” Melanie gasped.

“That must be more fun than a Friday
afternoon off,” Cassie declared.

I couldn’t help smiling. Yeah, I liked these
gals.

I expected the introductions to continue but
when I glanced around, I realized that Julia and Erika had
disappeared. Andrea did, too, then recovered by motioning the
guests toward the front door.

“Please come inside,” she said, and they
headed into the house.

Andrea hung back and whispered, “I can’t
imagine what’s delaying Veronica. She’s been so excited about their
arrival.”

“Where’s Patrick?” I asked.

“At the factory,” she said. “He’ll be here
later.”

“I’ll check on Veronica,” I offered, since it
would be extremely bad form for Andrea to abandon the guests.

“Great, thanks,” Andrea said. “The master
suite is in the east wing. Turn right at the top of the
stairs.”

I followed everyone into the entryway. Even
though I’d been here before I was still awed by the place. The
vaulted ceiling soared past the second story and a massive
staircase swept down to the marble floor. There were exquisite
chandeliers and statuary niches. Huge rooms opened up in all
directions, some of them furnished and decorated, others occupied
by workmen who were laying carpet and painting. The whole thing
could have come off looking like a don’t-touch-anything museum, but
the warm colors and softened design features made it welcoming.

“Would you just look at this place?” Melanie
murmured, craning her neck to take in everything.

“It’s beautiful,” Cassie agreed, shaking her
head in wonder.

Brandie broke tradition with teenagers
everywhere by staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed.

“I’ve got an emergency,” Renée declared as
she scampered into the entryway from one of the other rooms. “I’ve
been all over this house and I can’t find a bathroom.”

“Oh, you and your old bladder,” Melanie
declared. “We can’t take you anywhere.”

“You can take me anywhere,” Renée told her,
“as long as there’s a bathroom close by.”

“This way,” Andrea said, gesturing to a hall
on the left.

She threw me a please-hurry look. I headed up
the staircase as she herded everyone out of the entryway.

When I reached the second floor I heard
hammering and a drill running somewhere off to my left where I
figured the guest bedrooms were located. I turned right. At the end
of a short hallway, double doors stood open so I walked inside.

The master suite was absolutely huge, with a
retreat, a spacious bathroom, and four walk-in closets that I could
readily spot. It was decorated in varying shades of blue, giving it
a welcoming, restful vibe. Glass sliders led out to a balcony that
overlooked the east side of the property and the wooded area that
provided privacy.

“Veronica?” I called.

She didn’t answer.