I woke the next morning thinking about Shannon and not feeling so great about myself—not the best way to start a new day.
I rolled out of bed and got ready ahead of Kayla—today I selected a navy blue pinstripe suit and jazzed it up with a Betsy Johnson shoulder bag—and told her I’d meet her at the first workshop, then left our room. The breakfast station was set up in the main corridor again this morning, so I grabbed a cup of coffee and a pastry—wishful thoughts of a mocha frappuccino from Starbucks dancing in my head—and found a spot at one of the tall tables. I definitely needed a caffeine and sugar boost to tackle my morning.
The thing with Shannon was really bothering me. I’d ratted her out to Olivia for totally ignoring Kayla and me after finding Elita’s body, and gotten her into trouble—and all along it was Shannon’s own stepmother who’d been murdered.
Of course, I hadn’t known that at the time. Obviously, Shannon had been trying to carry on. Maybe staying on the job at the conference center was easier than facing her sisters and the rest of her family. Maybe she was too overcome with guilt for arranging Elita’s presence at the place that got her murdered. It seemed odd to me that she would continue working even under those circumstances, but who was I to judge? People handled situations—especially anything to do with family—in different ways.
Getting Shannon into trouble with her supervisor was surely that one extra thing she hadn’t needed to deal with. I owed her an apology.
The crowd milling around and moving through the main corridor seemed tense this morning. Day three of the conference meant the newness had worn off, and the workshops, luncheons, and events seemed like a grind. Some people would start to miss their loved ones, others would worry about what was happening at their jobs, and most everyone would be concerned about all the work that was piling up in their absence. Tomorrow, everyone would lighten up because the end would be in sight. We just had to get through today.
After I finished my coffee and pastry and dumped my trash, my cell phone rang. Ty’s name appeared on the caller ID screen. I cringed slightly—not a good sign. He wanted to talk about our last conversation at my apartment, the one that had turned my world upside down. I’d put him off. No way was I up to dealing with it now—not with the Shannon thing uppermost in my mind. I let his call go to voicemail.
I headed down the main corridor and into the exhibit hall. I didn’t know where I’d find Shannon this morning but I figured this was a good place to start. I didn’t want to text her with a request to meet, figuring she’d think I wanted to complain to her about something else. Not a good way to start off an apology.
I spotted Zander right away—jeez, that guy must have already walked a hundred miles pushing that cart through the exhibit hall—loaded down with more brochures for the vendor booths. I fell in step beside him.
“Seriously, you ought to ask for some help with this job,” I said.
He gave me a big smile and waved one hand around. “This is my domain and I am its king.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Zander seemed to really love what he was doing.
“I’m looking for Shannon,” I said. “Have you seen her this morning?”
He thought for a few seconds, then shook his head. “Not this morning. Not yesterday. Monday. Yeah, late on Monday. Saw her talking to this year’s problem vendor. There’s always one.”
“You mean Elita Winston? From the B&B?” I asked.
“That’s the one,” Zander said. “Shannon is pretty easy going—you know, as easy going as anybody can be at this place—but even she couldn’t make that woman happy. If I see Shannon I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.”
“Thanks,” I said, as he headed down the aisle.
Before I could even take in what Zander had said, Shannon appeared in the crowd. She seemed surprised—and not the least bit pleased—to see me.
She walked over, her shoulders straight, her chin up. She still looked pale and stressed, same as when I’d seen her before. But now I knew it was for a different reason.
“Hello, Haley. Do you need anything? Is there something I can help you with?” she said, with enough chill in her voice to freeze me on the spot.
“Look,” I said. “I’m sorry I complained about you and got you into trouble with Olivia. I didn’t know Elita was your stepmother.”
Shannon’s already rigid frame seemed to lock up tighter.
“I wouldn’t have said anything, if I’d known you two were related,” I went on. “I can only imagine how guilty you must feel, pushing to get her the invitation to attend the conference and then she’s—”
“I had nothing to do with that.” Shannon blasted the words at me. “I didn’t know she was coming to the conference. I had no idea she’d be here. I was totally surprised to see her name on the brochure.”
I guess she was talking about the brochure she’d showed Kayla and me at the messenger bag giveaway display when we’d arrived at the conference. I remembered that she’d seemed kind of weird when Zander had delivered them. Now I knew why.
“You saw her here, right?” I asked, remembering the remark Zander had made. “You two talked about that new B&B of hers?”
“It isn’t hers,” Shannon insisted. “It belongs to—”
She clamped her mouth shut and gave herself a little shake. “As I said, let me know if I can assist you or Kayla in any way.”
She pushed past me without another word.
I didn’t know if Shannon plain old didn’t like me—she’d totally blown off my apology—or if something else was going on.
As I left the exhibit hall and headed down the main corridor, I tried to put the pieces together in my head. Zander had seen Shannon and Elita talking Monday before the labyrinth walk, and said that they both seemed upset. Was it because of all of Elita’s demands for changes—reprinting the messenger bag swag brochures, redoing her booth for the cooking demo? Did Shannon think it reflected badly on her, since Elita was her stepmother?
Nobody wanted to be associated with that person.
Maybe it was simply the shock of finding out her stepmother was participating in the conference that had upset Shannon. Apparently, Elita hadn’t let her know she’d be here. What did that say about their relationship? Did that mean it was bad—bad enough to turn deadly?
The thought buzzed in my head as I turned down the hallway, moving along with the flow of other people heading for the workshop.
Should I consider Shannon a murder suspect? She knew when Elita would go through the labyrinth. She knew the layout of convention center grounds. She appeared physically able to wield a shovel with deadly force.
Obviously, I needed more info.
I grabbed my phone and called the hottest homicide cop in L.A.
***
I managed to get through the two morning workshops without dozing off. It helped that Kayla was there and we passed notes back and forth sharing our opinions of some of our L.A. Affairs co-workers—yeah, just like in sixth grade. Liam sent me a text asking how I was doing and saying that he missed me, which was really nice; I responded that I missed Starbucks—and him, of course—along with lots of emojis. Then my morning got a mega-boost when Jack texted asking if I’d have lunch with him.
When the workshop broke up, Kayla was totally onboard with me blowing off the official conference luncheon—she knew how hot Jack was—and promised to cover it for us. I hit the restroom, freshened my makeup and fluffed my hair—yes, I know, my lunch with Jack was all about business but so what—then found him waiting at a table in the small dining room at the rear of the conference center.
He looked awesome in yet another suit and tie. He rose when I approached and held my chair for me—I don’t know how that got to be a custom but I liked it—and sat down again.
The restaurant was about half full, since most everyone was in the official HPA luncheon. The atmosphere was subdued, reflecting the cream and pale blue color scheme, and the pastoral murals. One wall was sets of French doors that provided a spectacular view of the landscaped grounds and gardens, and a glimpse of the tennis courts and the helipad.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“It could be better,” he said.
The waiter stopped at our table.
“I don’t suppose you serve Starbucks here, do you?” I asked.
The closest thing to a grin I’d seen in a long time pulled at Jack’s lips. He knew about my frappie addiction. Everybody knew.
“No, sorry,” the waiter said.
Jack ordered an iced tea—though he looked like he sure as heck could use a beer—and I did the same.
I dived right in, hoping to perk up his day.
“Did you know that Elita Winston’s stepdaughter works here at the conference center?” I asked.
Jack nodded. “I’ve spoken with Shannon several times.”
“She’s asking about the investigation?”
“The cops won’t tell her anything,” he said.
“What did you think of her?” I asked, remembering how I’d added Shannon to my mental list of suspects.
“Stressed, upset, worried. Just what you’d expect.”
“Shannon could have been stressed, upset, and worried because her stepmother had been killed—or feeling those same things because she’d murdered her,” I said, then told him what I’d learned about Shannon and the reasons—slim as they were—for suspecting her.
“Motive?” he asked.
“Nothing firm,” I had to admit.
Jack shrugged. He didn’t seem to think much of my concern over Shannon as a suspect, and I couldn’t blame him.
The server brought our drinks and we ordered lunch. Jack got a steak sandwich. I wanted one, too, but asked for a salad instead. Women were supposed to order a salad. I don’t know how that custom got started but I wished it would go away.
“What’s the latest in the investigation?” I asked.
“A possible lead,” Jack said. “A report was filed a few months ago, but no arrest was made. Elita called the police after a verbal confrontation.”
“With who?”
Jack pulled his phone from the pocket of his jacket and swiped through the screens.
“The owner of a hotel chain. Charles Kent,” he said.
My senses jumped to high alert. Oh my God, I’d been suspicious of Charles. Maybe I was right and I’d found the killer.
If Jack had learned about a confrontation between Elita and Charles that had resulted in a police report, the homicide detectives on the case knew, too, and had probably questioned him. I wondered why he hadn’t mentioned it when I spoke to him about Elita earlier?
“He’s here. At the conference. I talked to him,” I said.
I gave Jack the rundown on what I’d learned from Mindy, how Elita had been instrumental in ending Charles’s marriage and leaving him in a financial bind, then causing his ex to lose all of her settlement money in Elita’s failed business venture.
“I could imagine Charles running into Elita somewhere, and his temper finally boiling over into a verbal confrontation. It must have been pretty bad if the police were called,” I said.
“Money pushes people to do things they wouldn’t ordinarily think of doing,” Jack said.
“Maybe those old feelings heated up between them again on Monday when he saw her here at the conference,” I said.
“Maybe,” Jack said, and I could see he was thinking it over.
The server came with our lunches. I eyed Jack’s hearty sandwich with envy, then started on my salad.
“Since there’s no indication of criminal ties or activity,” Jack said, “the motive for Elita’s murder must be something personal.”
“Elita seems like she was kind of a bully,” I said. “She forced Rosalind, her supposed friend, to blow off a huge opportunity and work at her B&B. She snubbed her old friend Mindy. She interfered with Charles’ marriage to the point of ruining it. She convinced a friend to invest in her business then it sank. She didn’t bother to let her stepdaughter know she’d be at the place she worked, then made her look bad to everyone here. And that’s just the stuff I know about.”
Hearing myself lay it out like that made Elita sound even worse. I don’t want to say somebody deserved to die, but jeez.
Jack still seemed super stressed while we finished our lunches, and I felt like a semi-failure because I hadn’t come up with anything definitive that would lead to Elita’s murderer. I had several suspects and a lot of maybes, none of which were getting us anywhere.
“Looks as if the stolen messenger bags are long gone,” Jack said, as he signed our lunch tab.
I was surprised he brought it up since it wasn’t big on his radar, compared to Elita’s murder investigation.
“The stockroom is massive. Employees and outside vendors coming and going. The only surveillance footage is at the exits, and there are multiple exits. Those bags could have been smuggled out of the building dozens of ways,” Jack said, and looked pretty defeated.
“The bags weren’t locked up?”
I figured the stockroom had a cage for high-end items, mainly the expensive liquors served in the bar and restaurants. At a couple thousand a pop, the Titan bags sure as heck qualified as expensive.
“They were in boxes, and stored in the minimum security area. A number of people have access to the keys.” Jack looked annoyed at the measures that had been put in place—obviously, not his decision.
“So whoever stole the bags knew where they were stored, and how to get to them,” I said.
“Severin security has handled these types of giveaways before, with no problems,” Jack said, and his shoulders slumped. “There’s no way to trace the bags.”
I figured the swag vouchers inside the bags had been trashed, so there wasn’t even a hope of finding the thief if someone came forward to claim one of the giveaways.
“The bags could be anywhere by now,” Jack said.
He looked grim. His professional reputation and his business were circling the drain, taking his future along with it.
I reached across the table and laid my hand on his.
“We’ll get this figured out,” I told him.
He turned his wrist and captured my fingers in his. His skin was warm, his grip just strong enough to make my toes curl a little.
“Sure we will,” he said.
He sounded strong, but I saw the look in his eyes. He wasn’t sure we’d figure it out—not sure at all. Not sure he’d survive this, not sure things would ever be the same again.
No way would I let that happen. I was going to find Elita’s murderer, no matter what it took.