Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) by Dorothy Howell

with Veronica’s murder.
Did it involve Pammy Candy? Or something personal?
    Yet how personal could it be if Veronica
hadn’t told Patrick? When I’d brought it up at L.A. Affairs, he
hadn’t known anything about it.
    At least now I could delete Renée’s name from
my list of suspects. She wanted Veronica alive and well to start
her fanny pack business. No way would she have killed her.
    That left me with three suspects—Julia, who
had no motive that I’d uncovered; Erika who might, or might not,
have been trying to get Patrick back; and a blackmailer who, at
this point, was just a figment of my imagination.
    Crap.
     
    * * *
     
    When I left the Spencer-Taft house, I called
Marcie.
    Really, there are times when only your BFF
will do.
    We decided to meet at a bar downtown near the
bank where she worked.
    Really, there are times when only wine will
do.
    Since I was driving against the heavy traffic
coming out of Los Angeles, the commute didn’t take as long as I’d
thought. I parked in a lot and headed up Figueroa Street. Marcie
wouldn’t be off work for a few more minutes, so I sent her a text
letting her know I’d arrived and would meet her at the bar.
    We’d met there before so I knew it was an
upscale place that attracted a business-suit clientele, and I’d be
safe sitting alone until she arrived—not that I expected to be
surrounded by hot looking guys wanting to buy me drinks, but,
really, it would be nice.
    My cell phone rang. I pulled it from of my
handbag and stepped out of the flow of pedestrians on the sidewalk.
Jack was calling.
    Oh, yeah. My day had just improved
considerably.
    “What have you learned?” he asked when I
answered my phone.
    Jack sounded tense, all-business. He had a
lot on him. A great deal was at stake. He was depending on me to
help solve this case but, really, I hadn’t come up with anything
spectacular that could break it wide open.
    Not a great feeling.
    “I’m working a few leads,” I said, hoping
that speaking in accepted private investigator lingo would make it
sound as if I’d actually accomplished something.
    I rushed ahead with a question just in
case.
    “Did you uncover anything on the possible
blackmailer?” I asked.
    “No, nothing,” Jack said. “Keep digging.”
    “I will,” I promised, and we ended the
call.
    I slid my phone into my handbag and continued
down the sidewalk toward the bar.
    Detective Shuman still hadn’t returned my
call. Hopefully that meant he was busy gathering info about the
murder through his LAPD contacts, and would be in touch soon.
    The bar was dimly lit and humming with
conversations and the clinking of glasses when I walked in. I
snagged a high table in the corner. When the waitress came over, I
ordered.
    I’m a real stickler for not drinking and
driving, so usually I have soda or juice. But after the day I’d
had, I figured I could make an exception and have a glass of
wine.
    My cell phone rang. It was my mom.
    One glass of wine wasn’t going to cut it.
    “Great news,” Mom announced when I
answered.
    Luckily, the waitress brought my wine so I
didn’t have to say anything.
    Not that it mattered.
    “I’ve found the perfect man,” Mom declared.
“Your sister is going to be thrilled with him.”
    I doubted it, but didn’t say so. Instead, I
gulped down some of the wine.
    “He comes from a wonderful family, he’s a
great dresser, and he has a good job,” Mom said.
    Yet he was willing to be set up on a blind
date on Thanksgiving?
    Sounded like a major red flag to me, but Mom
didn’t ask my opinion
    I downed more wine.
    “Of course, there’s another man who’s been
recommended also,” Mom said. “I’m considering both of them.”
    Mom kept talking—and I kept drinking—so
everything she said turned into blah-blah-blah until I heard her
say, “So I’m really thinking Cuban. Doesn’t that sound
wonderful?”
    My sister’s date would be Cuban?
    “Sounds great,” I said—which was kind of bad
of me, I know,