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

island.”
    “Wow, that is so cool,” Sandy said. “I’m going to take a lesson just so I can meet her.”
    “She could use the support, I’m sure,” Geraldine said, nodding wisely. “Especially after what happened—”
    “You girls enjoy your meals,” Harvey said, nailing his wife with a stern look.
    We took the hint, mumbled something appropriate, and got in line for food.
    “So what happened with Colby Rowan?” Marcie asked as we inched forward.
    “It was so sad,” Sandy said. “She got mixed up, somehow, with this bunch of criminals, or something, a few years ago.”
    “Did they go around stealing panties?” Bella grumbled.
    Sandy thought for a few seconds, then said, “No, I don’t think that was it. I can’t remember, really.”
    Marcie pushed her way a little closer to the rest of us and whispered, “Look who’s headed our way.”
    We all turned and looked, not nearly as slick as we usually were—but we were on vacation—and I spotted a guy wearing a Rowan Resort polo shirt and cargo shorts weaving between the tables, coming toward us.
    He was probably one of the college students who worked here. Early twenties, brown hair, maybe an inch or two taller than me. He didn’t look as if he spent much time in the gym, but he was kind of cute.
    “Who’s he?” Bella asked.
    “That’s Sebastian Lane,” Marcie said. “We met him on the beach. He’s the one who was trying to talk to Sandy.”
    “I have a boyfriend,” she pointed out. “Besides, this is our no-men vacation. Aren’t we going to honor our pact?”
    “Won’t be a problem for me,” Bella said, “since I’ve got no lucky panties now.”
    “What does he do here?” I asked.
    Sandy frowned, as if she were trying to recall. She shook her head and said, “I don’t know.”
    That was weird. Men were always yammering on about their job.
    I looked at Marcie, sure she’d have asked him at the beach and remembered what he’d said, but she shook her head.
    “He didn’t say,” she realized.
    Just as the line reached the salad station, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out.
    Shuman was calling.

C HAPTER 8
    “H ey, how’s it going?”
    I answered my phone using my everything-is-strained-between-us-but-I’m-pretending-it’s-not voice.
    “Good. Everything’s good,” Shuman replied, using the same voice.
    I’d left the buffet line and found a quiet spot away from the dining area to take the call, not knowing exactly what to expect from Shuman. Now I knew, and it wasn’t great.
    A minute dragged by with neither of us saying anything because we both knew what we were doing.
    Finally, Shuman said, “So, what’s up?”
    I was relieved to have something concrete to talk to him about—even if it was Jaslyn’s murder.
    I mean that in the nicest way, of course.
    “I was wondering if Madison had accused me of murdering somebody lately,” I said.
    Shuman chuckled. It was good to hear him laugh.
    “You can’t stay out of trouble, can you?” he asked.
    “I didn’t do anything,” I told him.
    “Then why would Madison accuse you of murder?” he asked.
    “He was provoked, I guess,” I said, and gave him a quick rundown on my vacation at the Rowan Resort, Jaslyn Gordon’s murder, and how I’d found her body and then been questioned by two homicide detectives and Walt Pemberton.
    “So Pemberton phoned Madison to get some sort of personal reference, I guess,” I said.
    “How did he know about your history with Madison?” Shuman asked.
    “Good question,” I said. “All I can figure is that this resort is wired-in big-time. Everybody here knows everything about the guests.”
    “The resort probably does routine background checks, since there are so many high-profile guests staying there,” Shuman said.
    I could tell he was in cop mode now. It was kind of hot.
    “That’s creepy,” I said.
    “Better than booking a room for a celebrity stalker,” he said.
    I couldn’t argue with that.
    “Okay, here’s