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

said.
    “He really needs to talk to Trent,” Alyssa said. “Tell that detective to talk to Trent. Trent Daniels. He was totally in love with her, and she treated him like garbage.”
    “Yeah, I’ll do that,” I said.
    I went behind the privacy curtain and changed into the elf costume. When I came out, most of the girls were gone. Alyssa was still in front of the mirror.
    “Listen, Haley,” she said. “Maybe I should talk to that detective myself, tell him everything about McKenna. She was a real bitch to just about everybody.”
    Alyssa seemed concerned about finding McKenna’s killer. But I guess that was normal since she really needed to work and was probably a little afraid that some psycho elf murderer was on the loose in the store and she might be the next victim.
    Still, like with Jasmine, I couldn’t be sure whether she was genuinely concerned or if something else was going on. Who knew with actresses?
    “I heard that McKenna had just gotten a role in a sitcom,” I said. “Did you know that?”
    “Everybody knew it.” Alyssa turned back to the mirror. “McKenna made sure of it.”
    “How did that happen?” I asked.
    “I have no idea,” Alyssa said.
    “She never said?” I asked. “Wasn’t she blabbing about it to everyone?”
    “Well, she didn’t tell me,” Alyssa said. “I’d better get out there.”
    She grabbed her handbag off the floor to store in her assigned locker in the break room, and my heart did a totally unexpected oh-wow flutter. Alyssa had a Louis Vuitton satchel. It was gorgeous. I definitely needed to add that to my Christmas wish list.
    Jeez, how could Alyssa—a struggling actress—afford such a mega expensive bag? I wondered if maybe her mom was tempting her with pricey handbags to try and convince her to give up on acting and come home, as Jasmine’s mother was doing.
    Alyssa slung the satchel over her shoulder and disappeared out the door.
    My spirits dipped. False alarm.
    Alyssa’s satchel was a knock-off—and not even a good one. The handles were wrong, which was always a dead giveaway, plus the classic LVT print had been mixed with their checkerboard pattern in a way that screamed I-can’t-afford-a-genuine-bag-so-I-bought-this-thing.
    I’ve got an eye for counterfeit handbags. Marcie and I had been buying knock-off designer bags from the Garment District and giving purse parties for a long time now, so I could spot a fake from a mile away.
    By the time I’d put on my elf makeup and Santa hat, I was the last one to leave the dressing room. The store was open now and I could hear the usual commotion from shoppers on the sales floor along with strains of “Winter Wonderland” on the PA.
    I spotted Jeanette standing in the hallway. Yikes! How many more fashion fiascos should I be expected to endure for minimum wage?
    Today she had on a dress—white, with a black collar and, for no conceivable reason, a yellow ruffle at the hem.
    She looked like an over-stuffed Christmas goose.
    I expected Jeanette to give me the evil eye for being tardy, but she was busy talking to someone.
    He was a big guy, well over six feet tall, maybe mid-twenties with dark hair that had needed a trim at least a month ago. He wore jeans and a faded, slightly stretched-out T-shirt with “Brooks & Dunn” and steer horns printed on the front. Somehow, he looked familiar.
    I stopped at the customer service booth. My friend Grace was on duty. We’d worked in the booth together lots of times and shared the same ideas on customer service—none of which would be found in the official Holt’s handbook.
    Grace was about my age and attended college—which, for some reason, she actually liked—and always did the coolest things with her hair. Not long ago she’d dyed it Martian green. Topped today with a Santa hat, the look put a whole new spin on Christmas.
    Two customers waited in line but Grace ignored them—see why we get along so well?—and brought me one of the charity donation booklets