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

from my mind.
    I could really use a mocha frappuccino right now to steady my nerves.
    Trent Daniels popped into my head. Of my two yeah-they-really-could-have-done-it suspects, and my one I’m-suspicious-but-don’t-have-any-actual-reason-to-be suspect, Trent was the only one I hadn’t spoken with yet. Shuman had told me he’d talked with him already and had picked up some weirdness but not a he-did-it vibe, but I didn’t know whether Shuman had brought up McKenna’s big sitcom break.
    I paused near the racks of greeting cards. Maybe I should call Shuman and suggest he talk to Trent about it, see if he would admit that McKenna was going to dump him and move out. But Shuman might not appreciate my oh-so fabulous suggestions on how to conduct his investigation—which I totally didn’t get—plus, he could have already thought of that, and I didn’t want to look like a moron if he had.
    That meant I would have to talk to Trent myself. I didn’t have any contact info for him, but I figured I could find him on Facebook.
    I glanced around and didn’t see any other employees—being really tall helps when I’m in stealth mode—so I slipped through the double doors into the stockroom.
    Not a creature stirred back here, as usual. Just to make sure I wasn’t interrupted—which is code for
caught
—I hurried up the big concrete staircase as fast as my pointed-toe elf shoes allowed and dashed between the huge shelving units to the back corner where the lingerie was kept.
    I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and logged onto Facebook. Of course, there were more Trent Daniels listed than lights on the Rockefeller Plaza Christmas tree, but I finally found him. I messaged him, explaining that I was a friend of Nikki and Alyssa—which was kind of true—and asked him to contact me about McKenna.
    I took a minute to check out his wall. Wow, this guy loved photos. He had a zillion pictures, one for every moment of his life for the past several years, it seemed.
    A photo caught my attention. It was the one of McKenna I’d seen in Jasmine’s apartment, where McKenna was dancing and everybody else was standing around watching. Only this picture was different.
    Trent must have Photoshopped it because now he was no longer standing in the background. He was on the dance floor with McKenna, and she was gazing up at him like she was having the time of her life.
    Okay, that was kind of creepy.
    Obviously, Trent loved Facebook. Not only did he post photos, it seemed he also posted absolutely every thought that went through his head.
    Until this morning, that is.
    He’d posted that he intended to go to Holt’s and see where McKenna had died—which was kind of sad provided, of course, that he hadn’t actually murdered her, as I suspected—but nothing after that.
    Huh. I wasn’t sure what that meant. Was he too distraught to comment on his visit? Or was something else going on?
    I headed through the stockroom toward the staircase and my cell phone vibrated. My heart did its maybe-it’s-Ty flutter, followed immediately by the all-too-familiar it’s-probably-not-Ty thud.
    It was Jasmine.
    “Does your friend want to look at my apartment?” she asked, when I answered. “The first of the month is coming up fast.”
    She sounded kind of desperate, which didn’t make me feel all that great about lying to her about knowing a possible roommate for her. Yeah, okay, I suspected her of murder—but I still felt bad for her.
    “She’s definitely interested,” I said.
    If Santa was really watching, I knew which of his lists he’d just put me on.
    “But she’s looking at another place, too,” I said, thinking it might cushion the blow when my imaginary friend never materialized.
    “Oh.”
    I pictured Jasmine slumping into despair, visions of Kia-dealership-guy and Scottsdale dancing in her head.
    Not a great feeling.
    “Why don’t you come work here at Holt’s?” I told her. “The store manager is desperate for more