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

figured led to the bathroom and bedrooms. Vertical blinds covered the windows and the slider that led to a balcony.
    The place was small and furnished with a couch covered with a worn-looking quilt, TV tables for end tables, a television sitting on a wooden crate, and a beanbag chair with duct tape running up the side and across the top. A laptop was set up on a card table. There were lots of framed photographs and a few decorator items. Everything was probably discount store or flea market finds, but I figured it was the best she could afford. Still, the place looked cold and empty.
    I guess she really wanted to become an actress if she was okay with living like this.
    I mean that in the nicest way, of course.
    “Want something to drink?” Jasmine asked, heading for the kitchen. “I’ve got some soda.”
    “Just water,” I called. “I’ve had too many sodas today already.”
    That wasn’t true, of course, but I felt guilty drinking anything that cost her actual money.
    I ambled over to the card table and looked at the framed photographs surrounding the laptop. They were mostly shots of Jasmine and her friends, laughing, mugging for the camera, wearing shorts outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater, super short dresses outside a club, and bathing suits at the beach, each outfit fully accessorized, of course. My gaze jumped to their handbags—old habit—and I noted a Dooney & Bourke barrel, a Prada hobo, a Gucci tote and a Burberry satchel—all knock-offs.
    I spotted another photo on the floor half buried under a stack of Jasmine’s headshots. I picked it up.
    It was a picture of McKenna. I’d only seen her that one time, dead, stuffed inside the giant toy bag, but I recognized her. In the photo she was at a party at someone’s house, dancing. Her dress was hiked up a little, her arms were in the air, her long red hair was swinging. She was alone on the dance floor. In the background, a crowd of people were holding drinks, talking, laughing. I didn’t recognize any of them.
    Sensing Jasmine behind me, I turned and held up the photo.
    “I guess you heard about McKenna,” I said.
    She passed me a glass of water. “It’s all over Facebook.”
    “You two used to be friends?” I asked, even though I already knew.
    “Roommates,” Jasmine said. “McKenna didn’t have a lot of friends.”
    I laid the picture aside. “She looks popular here,” I said.
    “She was popular until you got to know her,” she said, then nodded toward the hallway. “You want to see the bedroom?”
    The tour didn’t take two minutes. Jasmine pointed out the shared bathroom. The bedroom she wanted to rent out contained a mattress set on a frame and a chest of drawers somebody had painted purple and covered with ’N Sync stickers.
    I caught a glimpse of Jasmine’s bedroom next door. A mattress lay on the floor. Her clothes were stacked on a couple of TV trays.
    These weren’t exactly five-star accommodations, but everything was clean, and I guess if you were desperate—which I figured most actresses were—this was at least a roof over your head.
    “So this friend of yours,” Jasmine said, leading the way back to the living room. “She’s got a job, right? She’ll pay her half on time?”
    “Sure. No problem,” I said. “She had a couple of questions.”
    Jasmine plopped down on the couch and curled her legs beneath her.
    “I don’t care what she does as long as she pays me on the first,” she told me.
    Okay, now I was feeling kind of bad for pretending I knew someone who wanted to rent the room. But what could I do except roll with it?
    “How come McKenna moved out?” I asked, as I sat down on the other end of the couch and put my glass on the card table. “Does the apartment have, you know, unwanted roommates like bugs or something?”
    “McKenna was always late with her rent money. She got way behind. I had to make up the difference because it’s my name on the lease,” Jasmine said. “Then she skipped out on