Free Beach Bags and Burglaries (A Haley Randolph Mystery) by Dorothy Howell

about a year ago when I’d started working at Holt’s and Shuman and Madison had come to the store to investigate a murder—long story. The two of us had hit it off and, at times, I’d felt something spark between us; I’m pretty sure Shuman felt it, also.
    But two things had kept us apart—my boyfriend and his girlfriend.
    Shuman had always been there to help me out of a jam, and I’d assisted in some of his investigations. Everything had worked out well for us, professionally speaking. We kept our emotional distance. I had Ty, my official boyfriend—I’m a real stickler about things like that—and Shuman had a girlfriend he was crazy about.
    Then everything changed. The girlfriend was gone—long story—and Shuman was devastated. He showed up at my apartment, an emotional train wreck, looking for ... well, let’s just say he was in need of comfort. I gave it to him, in the form of three beers—which wasn’t exactly what he’d come there hoping for. When he passed out on my sofa, I went to bed; the next morning when I got up, Shuman was gone. I hadn’t seen or talked to him since.
    I didn’t like that our friendship was suffering, but having been in his situation myself I knew that some time was needed to get normalcy back in his life. I didn’t want to wait too long, though, because I didn’t want to lose his friendship—or whatever it was that was going on between us—and what better way to break the ice than to call him about something that would benefit me.
    I hit the button on my phone and heard it ring in my ear. My heart rate rose a little. His voice mail picked up. I left a message asking him to call me as soon as he could. I hung up.
    I was about to call Marcie and see where she, Bella, and Sandy were when I spotted them walking out of the hotel. Marcie and Sandy had changed into sundresses, and Bella wore bright orange capris.
    “There you are,” Marcie called as they walked over. “Come on. We’re heading to dinner.”
    “I’m starving,” Sandy declared.
    “Me too,” Bella said, and adjusted the waistband of her capris. “That’s why I’m wearing my buffet pants.”
    “We want to try the grand patio tonight,” Sandy said. She waved the resort brochure. “I read all about it. The floor is the original stone selected by Sidney Rowan himself and imported from a quarry in Peru.”
    “Sounds great,” I said.
    We followed the path, and the fabulous aromas, through the gardens to a large outdoor dining area amid trees and shrubs alive with twinkle lights. Bright yellow cushions decorated white wicker chairs, and tables were set with fresh flowers and elegant china and crystal. Chefs in big white hats manned the grills and food stations.
    The hostess—another college student, from the look of her—showed us to a table, then we headed for the serving line.
    “Oh, girls, hello,” someone called, and I spotted Geraldine and Harvey at a nearby table. We walked over.
    “Are you enjoying the resort?” Geraldine asked, smiling up at us.
    “My lucky panties got stolen,” Bella told her.
    Geraldine drew back a little. Clearly, she wasn’t expecting to hear anything about panties, lucky or not.
    “They’re purple with zebra print trim and a hairdryer appliqué,” Bella said. “Have you seen them?”
    “Well, no. No, I haven’t,” Geraldine said, then rushed ahead, changing the subject—not that I blamed her.
    “I signed up for that art class we talked about, Haley,” Geraldine said. “Did you?”
    I had, of course, totally forgotten about it.
    Geraldine leaned in a bit and lowered her voice, indicating a choice bit of gossip was about to be delivered.
    “The instructor is none other than Colby Rowan herself,” she said.
    Sandy gasped. “She’s one of Sidney Rowan’s daughters. I read about her in People magazine.”
    “She’s the curator of the Rowan family art collection at the resort,” Geraldine said. “She has an art studio and lives right here on the