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

think that if I looked for him again, I’d head to the back of the hotel. Thus, being the crafty sort-of kind-of private investigator that I was, I headed once again for the front of the hotel.
    Outside, the sun was sliding into the Pacific, lighting the low clouds with stunning shades of orange. A number of trams unloaded weary beachgoers. I strolled through the walkways and, sure enough, spotted Ben sitting on a bench beside a fountain decorated with ceramic frogs. He was in his writing trance, staring at his laptop screen, pounding on the keys. I crept up, then slipped around the bench and plopped down beside him.
    Ben cut his eyes to me and growled—yes, actually growled. It was kind of hot.
    “Why do you keep showing up?” Ben demanded.
    “Maybe because you need help dressing,” I said, and tugged on the sleeve of his tired-looking, stretched-out polo shirt.
    Wow, there was a good muscle under there. I hadn’t expected that.
    “There’s nothing wrong with my clothes,” Ben insisted.
    “This is the same shirt and pants you were wearing when I saw you ages ago,” I told him. “How about if I give you a makeover?”
    “Go away,” he said, and turned back to his laptop.
    “Don’t you want to look your best so you can hook up with some hot-looking chick?” I asked. “I mean, why wouldn’t you—if you’re really not here investigating a story?”
    Ben turned to me again, his eyes narrowed, his jaw set. His nose flared a little and his chest expanded. Wow, that was way hot. If he’d only growl again.
    I gave myself a mental shake.
    “Because you’re here investigating Jaslyn Gordon’s murder, aren’t you,” I said. “Admit it. You are.”
    Ben drew a breath and closed the lid of his laptop.
    “I can tell you without a moment’s hesitation,” he said, “that I am absolutely not here to investigate a murder—although I’d gladly investigate yours, if the situation presented itself.”
    This, I hadn’t expected—which didn’t suit me, of course.
    “I know why you’re here,” I insisted. “You’re on a story. You have to be. A reporter like you wouldn’t be at an expensive resort like this unless there was some huge story—”
    “Quiet,” he told me, glancing around to make sure we weren’t being overheard.
    I glanced around, too. It made me feel very covert.
    “Nobody can know—or even suspect—that I’m a reporter,” Ben said quietly.
    “So maybe you’d better tell me what I want to know,” I said, thinking a little blackmail might work.
    Ben glared at me and clamped his mouth shut. My attempt at blackmail definitely hadn’t worked. I had to try something different.
    “Okay, look,” I said. “I can help you and you can help me. I happen to have inside information about Jaslyn Gordon’s murder.”
    “Why are you so interested in that girl’s murder?” Ben asked, then shook his head. “No. Never mind. I don’t want to know.”
    “You don’t?” I asked, stunned. “What kind of reporter are you?”
    “The kind who’s not investigating that story,” Ben told me.
    He tucked his laptop under his arm and walked away.
    Huh. Well, that didn’t go exactly as I’d planned.
    I sat on the bench as the sunlight faded and shadows crept across the fountain. So far, my murder investigation had gotten nowhere. I had no suspects and no motive. Nothing. And my one potential source of info—Ben—wasn’t even interested in the story, which made me believe that he was telling the truth. His presence here at the resort was in no way connected to Jaslyn’s murder.
    Still, I couldn’t believe that Ben was here simply on vacation. Something else was definitely going on with him.
    But I couldn’t worry about that now. I had to come up with some way to find Jaslyn’s killer—and quick.
    People didn’t get murdered for no reason. There had to be something going on with Jaslyn Gordon that had resulted in this horrible crime.
    Mentally, I reviewed all the people at the resort who