Slay Bells and Satchels (Haley Randolph Mystery Series) by Dorothy Howell Read Free Book Online Page A

long as I could remember, met me at the door. We chatted for a couple of minutes. She asked how my life was going and I asked about her two grown daughters. Finally, there was nothing left to do but talk to Mom.
    “She’s in the den,” Juanita said.
    Because Mom seems to think the next step she took might be down a runway, or that the paparazzi was waiting on the front lawn to take her picture and post it on the giant screen in Times Square, she always dressed to impress—even if it was only to impress herself.
    I found her in the den, stretched out on a chaise, reading
Vogue
and holding a glass of wine. She wore a Vera Wang dress, three inch heels, and a full complement of jewelry. Her dark hair was styled to perfection and held in place with enough spray to withstand a category five hurricane.
    Just your average housewife, passing the time on a summer afternoon.
    That was my mom.
    “Oh,” she huffed, slapping at a page in the magazine. “You won’t
believe
what the designers are attempting to do to us this fall.”
    I saw no need to respond.
    “It’s a travesty,” Mom declared.
    There was nothing I could say to that.
    She sipped her wine. “I don’t know what they’re thinking.”
    Note: Mom didn’t ask me about my life but her housekeeper did.
    She got quiet for a moment. She stared across the room, focusing on nothing.
    “Maybe I should start my own fashion line,” she said.
    Mom’s idea of running a business wasn’t like everyone else’s. Her usual process for most any new project was to come up with some wild notion, pour an unseemly amount of money into it, then turn it over to someone else to run.
    Of course, occasionally Mom came up with a winner. Not long ago she’d started a fruit arrangement business that had been the hit of Los Angeles, right up to the point where somebody was poisoned and somebody else was murdered—long story. No way could I go through that again.
    I jumped in.
    “You know, Mom, no matter what the designers are showing, it will look great on you,” I said.
    She thought about it for a few seconds. “I suppose you’re right. But—”
    “Ty and I want to go to the charity event at the Staffords’ this year,” I said, cutting her off and hoping to divert her attention from further thoughts of herself.
    Okay, that was a total lie. Ty didn’t even know about the Staffords’ party, or if he did, he hadn’t mentioned it to me. But he’d be okay with going. His family had been perched high atop the L.A. social ladder for generations and routinely involved itself with this sort of event.
    “You do? That would be lovely,” Mom said.
    Right away, I saw her thoughts turn like a laser-guided bomb to my relationship with Ty. He was handsome, wealthy, and successful, which made him among the most highly-coveted bachelors. I knew she was thinking
wedding
.
    “How is Ty?” she asked.
    “He’s great,” I said.
    Okay, that was sort-of a lie. I had no idea if he was great or not, since I hadn’t heard from him in a while.
    I knew I had to change the subject again before Mom started making suggestions for my head piece and bouquet.
    “Do you have a dress for the Staffords’ party?” I asked. “I’d love to see it.”
    “Oh, well, of course.”
    Mom set her wine glass aside and rose from the chaise. I followed her upstairs as she blabbed on about something. I, of course, ignored her with practiced ease, a skill I’d learned at a very young age which had served me well at every job I’d had, every class I’d taken, and every meeting I’d attended.
    The house had been built back in the twenties or thirties, maybe. It had high ceilings and expansive spaces, statuary niches, dark wood and hand-carved crown moldings. A few years ago, Mom had knocked out some of the walls in the back of the house and created a huge master suite. It had four walk-in closets—one for each season—and another tiny one that my dad was allowed to use.
    Mom had consulted with a decorator for