Free Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) by Dorothy Howell Page B

grabbed her lunch sack from the refrigerator. “Nobody better
try to take my string cheese again—or anything else. I’m keeping
watch.”
    This seemed like overkill to me, but I didn’t
say anything. I’d seen Bella angry a few times. No way was I
commenting.
    I glanced at the schedule hanging by the time
clock as I punched in my employee code and pressed my finger to the
scanner, and saw that I was assigned to the housewares department.
I’d worked there before, and while I didn’t love it, I knew that my
assignment for the night could have been worse.
    Things can always be worse at Holt’s.
    When I left the breakroom I spotted Sandy
straightening T-shirts on a display table in the women’s
department. Not wanting to miss an opportunity to delay the actual
start of my shift, I walked over.
    “I think Bella’s losing it,” I said, and
glanced toward the breakroom.
    Sandy nodded. “She’s been checking on her
lunch over and over, all day.”
    “It is really crappy to steal somebody’s
food,” I said, and picked up a T-shirt so it would look like I was
working. I wasn’t, of course.
    “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Sandy
asked.
    Not this again.
    “My mom is having people over,” I said.
    “Moms always decide what everybody is doing
for the holidays,” Sandy said, folding another shirt. “My mom said
my boyfriend could have dinner with us, but he won’t.”
    “Why not?” I asked, and managed to keep the
okay-that’s-crappy tone out of my voice.
    “He doesn’t want to meet my family,” Sandy
explained.
    I hate that guy. Sandy deserves somebody so
much better.
    I drew a breath, forcing myself not to get
upset and said, “That must have hurt your feelings.”
    “Well, yeah, kind of,” Sandy said, then gave
me a bright smile. “But he’s really nice to me most of the
time.”
    Good grief.
    “There’s no roll-over plan in relationships,”
I told her.
    Sandy looked lost.
    “Just because he’s nice to you most of the
time,” I said, “it doesn’t make up for him being crappy to you at
other times.”
    She still looked lost.
    I gave up.
    The aisles were crowded as I snaked my way
toward the housewares department, which was also jammed with
shoppers. Wading in and straightening stock—while avoiding eye
contact with customers—seemed like more than I could manage at the
moment. Besides, I had important personal business to attend to
and, really, why shouldn’t I take care of it on company time?
    I cut down another aisle and slipped through
the double doors into the stockroom. It was quiet, except for the
dreadful music the store always played which was thankfully
interrupted from time to time by an announcement over the public
address system. I made my way between the giant shelving units,
past the mannequin farm, the janitor’s closet, and the receiving
dock, and bounded up the big concrete stairs to the second
floor.
    This part of the stockroom wasn’t just quiet,
it was creepy quiet. The shelving units reached the ceiling and
were crammed with small, light-weight items. All of the store’s
clothing hung from tall racks, each item still wrapped in plastic.
There were rows and rows of lingerie and shapewear.
    I didn’t like coming up here—long story—but
it was the perfect spot for me to take care of some personal
business since almost nobody came up here at this time of the
day.
    At the top of the staircase I turned left and
found a secluded spot in the back corner between the shelving
units. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and called Jack. He
answered right away.
    “Have you talked to Patrick yet?” I
asked.
    “This morning,” Jack said.
    He sounded tense. I heard nothing in the
background so I had no idea where he was or what he was doing, but
I was pretty sure he wasn’t hiding out in the stockroom during a
crappy part-time job like I was.
    I saw no need to mention it.
    “He said nothing unusual had been going on in
the past several weeks,” Jack said.