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

weeks—eventually driving the old gal to abandon her chosen profession and go to work as a Wal-mart greeter—and had finally decided on a color scheme of beige and white. One of Mom’s talents—or gifts, as she likes to call them—was recognizing the subtle differences between ecru, beige, eggshell, cream, tan, linen, and taupe, and neon white, snow white, bright white, winter white, alabaster, ivory, and just plain white.
    I’m pretty sure that’s on her résumé.
    “I don’t know whether I should wear the gold Halston, or the red YSL,” Mom said, throwing open the doors of one of her closets.
    I settled into a chair—I’m pretty sure it was alabaster—near the patio doors that overlooked the flower garden.
    “Red for this time of year?” I asked. “Are you going patriotic?”
    Mom froze. She turned to me with an on-my-god look on her face.
    I get that a lot.
    “The event is a fundraiser for Christmas,” she told me. “The theme for the evening is Christmas. Everyone will be dressed in Christmas attire. Black tie. Had you forgotten that?”
    Yes, believe it or not, I had.
    This seemed like an excellent time to change the subject.
    “I met an actress the other day,” I said.
    Luckily, Mom had gotten distracted by the gowns in her closet and didn’t ask any questions about how or where. I’d never actually gotten around to telling her that I worked for Holt’s. I never got around to telling my mom a lot of things.
    I’m not even sure she knew where I lived.
    “So I was wondering,” I said. “Did you ever want to be an actress?”
    Mom came out of the closet with a silver beaded Gucci gown.
    “Acting? Oh, no, never,” she said. She held the dress up, tilted her head left, then right. “It’s very demeaning. Living hand to mouth, barely making ends meet, borrowing money from friends and family. Actors spend most of their time looking for work, trying to get an agent.”
    “The actress I met was working as an extra,” I said.
    “Even worse,” Mom said. “Background people are herded around like cattle, yelled at, talked down to. They’re underpaid, sometimes.”
    “It doesn’t sound very glamorous,” I said.
    Mom held the gown in front of her and studied her reflection in the mirror. “And, of course, there’s the issue of the casting couch,” she said.
    No way was I talking about sex with my mom.
    I sprang out of my chair.
    “I’ve got to get to class,” I said.
    Mom knew I attended college—although I’m not sure she knew which one—but she didn’t know I wasn’t taking any classes during the summer quarter, allowing me to use my all-time favorite excuse to leave most any place, at most any time.
    “I’ll add Ty and me to the Staffords’ guest list on my way out,” I said, heading for the door.
    Mom said something but I didn’t hang around long enough to listen.
    I went downstairs to the room at the back of the house that Mom used for an office. It was decorated in browns and deep reds, with just a touch of pewter. A big mahogany desk sat in the middle of the room, surrounded by pictures of herself.
    I pulled up a chair and logged on to Mom’s computer. I’d figured out her password long ago—her own name—so I had no trouble accessing the file containing the guest list for the charity event at the Stafford house.
    Nobody got into one of these things without an invitation, and nobody got an invitation unless they were
somebody
, or knew
somebody
. Putting Ty and me on the list wouldn’t raise an eyebrow, but adding Jack’s name would create two different problems.
    First, if I used his real name and something went sideways while he was searching the house for little Hope, everything could be traced back to not only Jack and Brooke, but also the Pike Warner law firm.
    Second, if I used his real name nobody would know who he was, somebody would question why he’d been invited, and everything might hit the fan after all.
    I knew how to get around both of those