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

to him? If he was my new boyfriend? Was Ty positively green
with envy, re-thinking our breakup, yearning to cross the bar and
confront Liam?
    Oh my God, were the two hottest guys in the
bar about to throw down in an all-out brawl over me?
    “You’re cut off,” Marcie said.
    She’d known what I was thinking, as only a
long-time bestie can.
    And she was right, of course.
    I pushed my wine glass away.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter 11
    “You only
call me when you want something,” Shuman said.
    “At least I’m calling you,” I pointed
out.
    We were sitting at an outdoor table at the
Starbucks on restaurant row at the Galleria having coffee. As soon
as I’d arrived at L.A. Affairs this morning, I’d gotten a text
message from him asking if I could leave work and meet him
here.
    I can always leave work.
    Shuman had left work, too, it seemed. He was
dressed in his usual slightly mismatched sport-coat-shirt-tie combo
that told me two things—he didn’t have a new girlfriend yet, and he
should let me take him shopping.
    Neither seemed likely to happen.
    Shuman looked calm and relaxed, which I was
happy to see. He was a homicide detective, so his day could take a
dive at any moment. I was glad I’d caught him early.
    “I talked to the detectives investigating the
Spencer-Taft murder,” he said.
    Usually we had to play a who’s-going-first
game with our information but since he hadn’t caught the case, I
figured he wasn’t all that concerned about sharing what he’d
learned.
    “There’s no progress in the investigation,”
he said.
    Not exactly what I was hoping for.
    “No more witnesses, no evidence, and no
motive,” Shuman said.
    “What about the workmen and the household
staff?” I asked.
    “No one with a criminal background. No
apparent motive,” he said.
    Even though Shuman hadn’t pressed me for
information, I wanted him to know that I didn’t intend to withhold
anything. I gave him a rundown of what I’d learned from the family
and what I suspected—none of which was anything conclusive.
    Still, he listened to everything and I could
see him running the info through his cop-brain. After a couple of
minutes he shrugged. I knew what that meant—something major was
going to have to happen if this case was going to be solved.
    “So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
Shuman asked.
    At this point I was as anxious to change the
subject as he was so I said, “Doing the family thing. You?”
    “I don’t know yet,” he said.
    I didn’t think he was the kind of guy who’d
sit in front of the TV in his underwear watching football or a
Dirty Harry marathon all day but, honestly, it didn’t sound so
bad—as long as he was really okay with it.
    For a few seconds I considered inviting him
to Mom’s for dinner, but she’d likely freak out if I threw off her
seating chart. Plus, it would bring up questions about my breakup
with Ty and the inevitable are-you-two-serious speculation. I
wouldn’t put Shuman through that.
    No way did I want to endure it, either.
    Shuman must have figured out what I was
thinking—he was, after all, a detective—because he said, “A couple
of the guys at work invited me to eat with them. I’ll
probably—”
    He pulled his cell phone from the pocket of
his sport coat and glanced at the caller ID screen.
    “I’ve got to take this,” he said, getting to
his feet and instantly transforming into
super-serious-cop-mode.
    “No problem,” I said. “I should get back to
work.”
    We exchanged a quick wave and I headed back
to L.A. Affairs.
     
    * * *
     
    “You want to do—what?”
    I said it nicely—or as nicely as I could,
under the circumstances.
    I was seated in one of the L.A. Affairs’
interview rooms. Across the desk from me were the two girls who’d
volunteered to wrap up preparations for the Pammy Candy
Thanksgiving feast. They were pretty much
interchangeable—mid-twenties, blonde, full on makeup, spandex
dresses, and four-inch