Part-time sleuth and full-time fashionista Haley Randolph just won an all-expenses-paid vacay at the Rowan Resort, a ridiculously exclusive island getaway that caters to the whims of millionaires, royalty, and Hollywood A-listers. With her three BFF's--Marcie, Bella, and Sandy--along for the ride, the only thing she's missing is the Sea Vixen, the season's hottest beach bag. . . The island has everything Haley imagined: pristine beaches, posh accommodations, and possibly Brad Pitt. But trouble soon looms on the horizon when Jaslyn Gordon, a maid at the island resort, goes missing. And while practically looting the resort for a Sea Vixen beach bag, Haley of course finds the maid--on the beach. . .and clearly dead. Everyone at the resort says Jaslyn's death was just an accident, but Haley thinks there's a lot going unsaid. . .especially when she spots hunky FBI agent Luke Warner. He claims to be on the island only for a wedding but Haley's not buying it. Haley's faced down clever criminals before and always come out on top, but this malicious murderer might be too crafty. And though she's dying to get her hands on a Sea Vixen, she also wants to live long enough to be seen with it! Praise For Dorothy Howell And Her Haley Randolph Mysteries! Evening Bags And Executions "Enjoyable. . .an unlikely but engaging sleuth." -- Publishers Weekly Tote Bags And Toe Tags "The well-crafted plot, humor, and designer details will appeal to fans of Laura Levine and MaryJanice Davidson." -- Booklist Clutches And Curses "Frothy. . ..The well-crafted plot offers plenty of red herrings." -- Publishers Weekly Shoulder Bags And Shootings "Recommend this series to fans of lightweight, humorous mysteries." -- Booklist Purses And Poison "A treat for those with a passion for fashion. No doubt this sassy heroine's in for a long run." -- Kirkus Reviews Handbags And Homicide "Fashionistas take note: Dorothy Howell's delightful Handbags and Homicide dangles shopping to die for and a murder in store in a breezy debut mystery as sure to please as a Notorious handbag." --Carolyn Hart, author of Death Walked In "Dorothy Howell is one funny lady. I laughed out loud as I followed Haley's adventures tracking down both a killer and a Louis Vuitton organizer in this fast-paced, fun-filled page turner. I recommend it highly." --Laura Levine, author of Death of a Neighborhood Witch
Release date:
July 29, 2014
Publisher:
Kensington
Print pages:
304
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I gazed across the ocean at the island shrouded in fog—or maybe it was cloud cover, or haze, or smog. I don’t know. This was the California coast. It could have been anything.
“I didn’t book us on Alcatraz,” I told her.
“Is it Skull Island?” Bella asked.
I looked again at the outline of the stone hotel and the thick vegetation on the hills rising behind it. Yeah, okay, it did kind of look like Skull Island.
Bella and I were standing in the valet line outside the Rowan Resort welcome center. We’d just caravanned from Los Angeles, our friends Marcie and Sandy following us.
Two cars had been required for the trip because each of us had brought multiple suitcases, garment bags, totes, and duffels, all of which were absolutely necessary—I mean, jeez, we were staying a whole week.
We were all dressed in the latest resort wear. I had maxed out an impressive number of credit cards for the occasion.
I was willing to do more, of course. Vogue magazine had declared the Sea Vixen—a gorgeous polka dot beach tote—the it bag of the season, and I absolutely had to have one. In the last few days I’d scoured every high-end shop in L.A. and hadn’t located one. It was majorly disappointing, but no way was I giving up the search.
Sandy jumped out of Marcie’s car, while Marcie sat behind the wheel fiddling with her cell phone.
“Wow, Haley, this is totally awesome,” Sandy said. “I can’t wait to get there!”
According to the itinerary provided by the travel agent, we would relax in the comfort of the VIP lounge until we were picked up by a limo and driven to a helicopter for the flight to our all-expense-paid vacation at one of the world’s most exclusive locations. The Rowan Resort catered to the every whim of A-list celebrities, royalty, and millionaires, offering privacy and seclusion amid ultra luxurious accommodations.
So you might be wondering why I, Haley Randolph, a part-time salesclerk at the I-don’t-tell-anyone-I-work-there Holt’s Department Store—although I’m quick to mention my way cool job as an event planner at L.A. Affairs—could afford such a fantastic vacation for not only myself but my three BFFs. Honestly, the whole thing was a bit hazy to me, too.
Not long ago I won a contest at Holt’s—long story—and the grand prize was a seven-day cruise. I’d also won yet another contest at Holt’s—again, long story—but the so-called prize required that I work at the Holt’s corporate office, something I had no interest in doing, so I’d put that whole thing on ignore.
Anyway, when I called the travel agency to ask about booking the cruise, I was told the prize had been upgraded to a week at the Rowan Resort, which was cooler than cool, of course, and that absolutely anything and everything was mine for the asking.
I had no idea why the prize had been changed, but I rolled with it.
Seeing no reason not to take advantage of the situation, I immediately asked my three BFFs to come with me. I mean, really, who else would I invite?
Marcie and I had been friends forever. We’re both twenty-four years old, but that’s where any resemblance ended. She was short and a blonde. I was a five-foot-nine brunette.
We could pass for a ventriloquist act.
I’d met Bella—standing side by side we looked like piano keys—and Sandy—a redhead whose mother had, apparently, identified a little too closely with Olivia Newton-John in Grease—about a year ago when I took the salesclerk job at Holt’s.
So you also might be wondering why I didn’t have a boyfriend to take with me on this fabulous vacation. Actually, I had a boyfriend. His name was Ty Cameron. Ty was the fifth generation in his family to run the chain of Holt’s Department Stores. He was handsome, smart, and generous, and he looked great in an Armani suit.
We broke up.
I’m not thinking about that now. I’m on vacation.
An army of valets swarmed around our cars—even though Marcie’s Toyota and my Honda weren’t the Jaguars, Porsches, and Mercedes they were used to seeing here at the welcome center—as a woman in a burgundy suit greeted us. A gold name tag that read MILLICENT, HOSTESS was pinned to her lapel.
“Welcome,” she cooed. “How was your drive, Miss Randolph?”
I had no idea how she knew who I was. Maybe searching guest info on the Internet was part of the service.
“Is Brad Pitt here? I saw online that he was here,” Sandy said. “Oh my God, I’d die if I saw Brad Pitt.”
Millicent gave Sandy an indulgent smile, then ignored her comment and gestured toward the doors of the welcome center. “Your lounge is waiting.”
Bella cast another glance at the island. “We’ve got to fly to that place?”
“The Rowan Resort is a quick flight—”
Millicent stopped midsentence and did a double-take at Bella’s hair.
That happens a lot.
Bella’s goal was to be a hairdresser to the stars—she worked at Holt’s to save for beauty school—and she practiced on her own hair. Today, in keeping with the tropical theme of our vacation, she’d styled a dolphin atop her head.
Millicent recovered and said, “It’s a quick flight in one of our luxury helicopters.”
“There’s no bridge?” Bella asked.
Millicent displayed yet another indulgent smile. “The island is miles from the mainland. A bridge across that expanse of the Pacific Ocean is an engineering impossibility.”
“What about one of those ferry boats?” Bella asked.
“A ferry once took guests and family members back and forth, but that was many years ago,” Millicent explained. “Now our guests fly in using one of our helicopters.”
“That’s the only way to get on and off that island?” Bella asked.
Millicent gave her an I-give-excellent-customer-service-no-matter-what smile, then said, “A dock is located on the north side of the island where supply boats come in. But you needn’t concern yourself with them. Our security personnel are on duty at the dock and helipad, ensuring complete privacy during your stay.”
Millicent didn’t hang around to answer more questions. She headed inside, leaving us to follow.
“Haley, this is so cool. We’re going to see all kinds of celebrities, I just know it,” Sandy said as she hurried past me.
Bella threw another look at the island, then followed Sandy inside.
Marcie finally got out of her car, her gaze still glued to her cell phone.
“Did he text you?” I asked.
She looked up. “What? Oh. Oh, no. It’s—it’s something else.”
We walked inside the welcome center, a large room that looked as if somebody’s great-grandmother had decorated it. It was filled with statues, paintings, and if-you-weigh-more-than-eighty-pounds-don’t-sit-here furniture.
My Sea Vixen beach bag would have definitely brightened up the place.
Millicent held open a door on our right and said, “Your lounge.”
We filed inside. The dimly lit room was cool and quiet. Accent lighting beamed down on black-and-white photos mounted on the walls. Several seating groups were scattered around. A guy in a burgundy vest and tie stood behind a bar, and a cart filled with food was nearby.
A man and woman had claimed the comfy chairs closest to the bar. They were gray-haired, a little thick around the middle. Definitely not celebrities. More like a couple whose kids had treated them to the trip of a lifetime for their wedding anniversary.
Marcie, Sandy, Bella, and I sat down, and the bartender was on us immediately. He rolled the food cart over and took our drink orders.
“That’s him,” Marcie said, nodding toward one of the photos on the wall. “That’s Sidney Rowan. I saw his picture on the Internet. He bought the mansion and the island back in the day, and later it was turned into a hotel and resort.”
In the photo, which from the depicted clothing, hair, and makeup looked like it had been taken a few decades ago, Sidney Rowan had on a tuxedo and stood between two young women decked out in evening attire. He was tall, thin, and handsome in an old-school way, and kind of looked like that guy who danced all the time in those black-and-white movies.
“Yes, that’s right,” Millicent said, suddenly popping up in front of us. “Mr. Rowan amassed an empire that reached every corner of the globe, then purchased his home on the island for occasions when he needed to get away from it all.”
The bartender served our drinks, and we loaded our plates with delicacies from the buffet cart.
“Looks like he knew all the big stars back then,” Sandy said, pointing to the photographs.
“That’s Elizabeth Taylor,” Bella said. “How old is that guy?”
“He’s a recluse,” said the woman seated near the bar. “He hasn’t been seen in decades. Nobody knows if he’s even alive now.”
Millicent smiled her I’m-ignoring-that-comment smile and said, “The main structure was built in the thirties. After Mr. Rowan purchased it in the sixties, additions were made to accommodate his growing family, and guest bungalows were built for his many friends and business associates. Receiving an invitation to the island was highly prized.”
Millicent’s comments started to sound like a history lesson. I drifted off.
That happens a lot.
I got yanked back into reality when Marcie nudged me with her elbow.
“It’s been all over the Internet,” she whispered.
Something was all over the Internet?
“They’re trying to keep it quiet,” she said, “but bloggers and celebrity sites are making a big deal out of it.”
I’ve been kind of out of the loop for a while.
“It’s nothing,” Millicent said. She was definitely in backpedal mode. “Speculation and conjecture, unfortunately, broadcast by people who have no actual knowledge of the event or the facts.”
“That girl might be dead,” insisted the woman near the bar. “Nobody just disappears—not off of an island. The whole thing is suspicious and very mysterious. She might even have been murdered.”
“Was she a celebrity?” Sandy asked.
“Murdered?” Bella demanded. “A girl on that island was murdered?”
“Thank goodness it wasn’t Jennifer Aniston,” Sandy said. “I love Jennifer Aniston.”
“She was an employee,” Millicent said, as if that somehow made her possible death okay. “And nothing definite has been determined. She’s missing. That’s all. There’s no reason to suspect foul play.”
“The police were called in. The island was searched. They can’t find her,” the woman declared.
“There’s no reason to worry,” Millicent insisted. “This happened only yesterday.”
“Yesterday?” Bella echoed. She waved to the bartender. “Bring me a bourbon on the rocks—make it a double.”
“Does JLo know about this?” Sandy asked. “I read in People that she comes to the resort a lot.”
“There’s absolutely nothing to be alarmed about,” Millicent said.
“Nothing to be alarmed about?” the woman exclaimed. “Somebody may have died!”
“Enough!” Her husband pushed to his feet. “It’s nothing but gossip. I’m not listening to another word of this.”
“But, Harvey—”
“Get our limo,” he barked at Millicent. “Come along, Geraldine. We’re going to the island, and I don’t want to hear any more of this nonsense.”
Millicent scurried to a door at the rear of the room and flung it open. Sunlight poured inside.
“You ladies can remain here as long as you’d like,” she said. “Your limo will take you to the helicopter at your convenience.”
The couple disappeared out the door. Millicent followed.
“Is that true?” Bella asked. “Did somebody really go missing, maybe get murdered out there?”
“Nobody knows for sure,” Marcie said. “Right now it’s just a lot of speculation.”
“And it wasn’t a celebrity,” Sandy added. “Wow, I wonder if that old guy who owns the resort knows about this? I mean, if he’s not dead, too.”
I kept up on celebrity news, and nearly everybody on the planet knew there had been all kinds of rumors for years about Sidney Rowan. He’d been labeled an eccentric recluse who wielded power over his global, multibillion-dollar empire from a chalet in Switzerland, a Buddhist temple in Nepal, a penthouse in Las Vegas—all sorts of places. There had been reported sightings of him in Paris, Belize, Moscow, most everywhere. But none of them had been confirmed by a legitimate news source—nor had anyone proved whether the old geezer was really alive or dead.
“I don’t like hearing about dead people when I’m on vacay. Gives me the heebie-jeebies,” Bella said. “Plus, I’m not loving that whole stuck-on-an-island thing, especially with all those bushes and trees and snakes and big bugs, and who knows what else.”
“Are you sure you want to go to the resort?” I asked.
Bella stewed for a minute, then stood up.
“Yeah, I’ll go,” she said. “But if we get captured by some psycho jungle tribe like you see in the movies and they demand a virgin sacrifice, we’re in big trouble.”
Nobody disagreed.
Millicent came into the lounge, and I told her we were ready to leave. She darted outside again.
“Hang on a second,” I said as we headed for the door. “Remember our pact?”
The four of us formed a circle, and I could see that we were all thinking over the decision we’d made when we undertook this trip.
Things hadn’t been great for any of us, dating wise. Marcie had a first date with a guy who seemed great but hadn’t bothered to tweet, text, call, e-mail, or Facebook her since that night. Sandy’s tattoo artist boyfriend had left on sabbatical without her. Bella wasn’t all that anxious to get involved with a man, fearing he’d distract her from saving for beauty school. I, of course, had just broken up with my official boyfriend, Ty.
“No men, and no men-talk,” I said. “No complaining, no whining, no moaning about the men in our lives. This is a girl trip. We’re going to relax, have fun, enjoy ourselves, and not waste our emotion, time, and effort on them. Agreed?”
“You bet,” Marcie said.
“Sounds good to me,” Sandy said.
“I got no problem with it,” Bella said. “But I brought my lucky panties, just in case.”
Bella and Sandy headed out the door, but Marcie stayed put.
“Have you seen the latest news?” she asked.
I got a weird feeling.
“It’s all over the Internet,” she repeated.
My weird feeling got weirder.
“That girl who’s gone missing at the resort?” Marcie gestured to her phone. “They found her driver’s license and cell phone at the top of the cliffs on the back side of the island. Bloggers are speculating that she either jumped—or was pushed. She really might have been murdered.”
Oh, crap.
“So who is she?” I asked.
“Her name is Jaslyn Gordon,” Marcie said. “According to the news reports, she’s a maid at the hotel.”
We’d just completed our surprisingly smooth helicopter flight to the island and were now riding in the air-conditioned comfort of a tram—sort of like the ones in Jurassic Park, except there were no dinosaurs—traveling along a narrow, paved road that wound through what the resort’s Web site had termed “lush foliage.”
I’m still thinking Jurassic Park—or maybe Skull Island.
Marcie handed me her cell phone. “That’s her.”
I looked at the photo posted online with the news story about how Jaslyn Gordon had disappeared from the Rowan Resort.
“She doesn’t look like a maid, does she?” Marcie said. “More like a beauty pageant contestant than a—”
“No beauty pageant talk,” I said.
My mom was a former pageant queen. Actually, she thought she was still a pageant queen. She and my dad lived in the house I’d grown up in with my brother and sister, a small mansion in La Cañada Flintridge that overlooked the L.A. basin. The house had been left to Mom—along with a trust fund—by her grandmother, allowing Mom to take what she saw as her rightful place among the wealthy and privileged of Los Angeles, which was all well and good—unless you’re her daughter and can’t quite live up to her look-at-me-I’m-a-beauty-queen expectations.
But I’m not thinking about that now. I’m on vacation.
Jaslyn Gordon looked more like someone who’d be a guest at the resort rather than an employee. She had long, pale blond hair and huge blue eyes, and was exceptionally attractive—movie star attractive. According to the news story, she was a twenty-one-year-old college student working at the resort during semester breaks.
“How do you go missing on an island?” Marcie said. “How many places could there be to look for someone?”
“Probably a lot,” I said.
According to the info provided by the travel agent, Rowan Island—as the old geezer himself had named it—was average size, as islands go. The eastern portion of the island was gently sloping land on which the hotel was situated. Sandy beaches suitable for swimming and water sports swept around to the south side of the island. To the west behind the hotel grounds, the hills grew higher and more rugged, reaching impressive peaks with sheer cliffs that dropped off into the ocean.
“She must have left the island and nobody realized it,” Marcie said. “You know, like a family emergency or something.”
Marcie could have been right—she’s almost always right—but I doubted it this time.
“The security personnel are bound to keep track of who comes and goes from the island. Probably an employee ID card they have to swipe. How else would they know for sure that she’s missing?” I said.
“Maybe she really did commit suicide by jumping off the cliffs,” Marcie said.
“Maybe. Or maybe whoever pushed her over the edge left her things there so it would look like she jumped,” I said.
“Oh, dear,” Marcie mumbled.
I didn’t like that picture in my head either, so I pushed it out.
“It sounds like the police aren’t sure what happened,” Marcie said. “The online news reports are still calling her disappearance mysterious.”
The tram turned onto another narrow road, and the Rowan Hotel came into view. The gray stone building was three stories tall, topped with an additional story of crenulated towers on the corners that made it look like one of those old castles in Europe. Zillions of flowers, shrubs, and palm trees were everywhere. People dressed in comfy casual attire—that surely costs thousands—strolled around, while others climbed into and exited trams.
“Look!” Sandy shouted, bouncing up and down on the seat in front of us. “It’s Brad Pitt!”
I spotted a woman carrying a Sea Vixen beach tote.
“It’s him! It’s him!” Sandy declared.
Oh my God, the Sea Vixen looked even better than I had imagined. I absolutely had to get one.
“Where?” Bella asked, bobbing and weaving to get a better look out the window.
“It was him,” Sandy said. “I know it was him. Oh my God. Angelina must be here, too. And the kids.”
The tram glided to a silent stop at the foot of the wide stone steps leading to the hotel entrance. The driver hopped out and opened the doors for us as a woman approached. I figured her for a few years older than me. She was tall and slender, with dark hair and that I’m-super-confident look some people naturally have. Her uniform was a little more casual than Millicent’s—burgundy capris and a white polo shirt with the Rowan Resort emblem on it.
“Welcome. I’m Avery, your personal hostess,” she said, and greeted each of us by name as we piled out of the tram.
“Oh my God,” Sandy said, throwing her hands in the air. “We ju. . .
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