Evening Bags and Executions (10 page)

Why was she calling me at this time of night?

Why was she calling me at all?

I didn't want to answer, but I was afraid she might tell Sheridan Adams that I wasn't available 24-7 and I'd end up getting fired from L.A. Affairs.

“Ringo Starr,” Eleanor said, when I answered my phone. “What was his real last name?”

Oh, jeez, another Beatles pop quiz.

I hate my life.

“Uh, well, that's a really interesting story,” I said, stalling—which I don't know why I bothered to do since I had no clue what the correct answer was. I think it's just part of my survival instinct.

“As I recall, Ringo changed his name,” I said, “because, well, because—”

“You don't know, do you,” Eleanor declared.

“Well, actually—”

She hung up.

Crap.

I hung up and sat there for a minute. No way was I in the mood for Chinese now. I headed home.

I was slightly annoyed with Ringo Starr for changing his name, and more than a little put out with Jack Bishop for suddenly being so sensitive. I was irritated with Detective Shuman because he hadn't called me back—which was really crappy of me, but there it was—plus, I was aggravated that I couldn't stop thinking about Ty.

Honestly, I'd had just about enough of the male species for one evening.

I swung into a parking space at my apartment complex. Just as I got out of my car I spotted Cody Ewing climbing out of a pickup truck nearby.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. It came out sounding kind of harsh.

He shrugged and gave me a little grin. “Waiting on you.”

I was in no mood.

“Yeah, I figured that,” I said. “I wasn't expecting you.”

“I know,” he said, and nodded. “But I figured I'd come by, take a chance that it'd be okay if I put in an hour or so on your place.”

I shook my head. “Tonight's not a good night.”

Cody reached into his truck and pulled out a bag. “I brought ice cream.”

“Really, it's not a good time,” I said, though I could hear resolve weakening.

“Chocolate Fudge Brownie.” He pulled the container out of the bag.

Oh my God. Ben & Jerry's—the good stuff.

Jeez, I had to let him come in now, didn't I? I couldn't be rude—after he'd gone to all the trouble of bringing ice cream.

“Okay, you can come up,” I said.

Cody grabbed his toolbox out of the bed of his truck and followed me upstairs. When we reached the top, I heard tires squeal in the parking lot. I turned to see a car speeding out of the driveway.

Huh. I wonder what that was all about.

C
HAPTER
11

I
t was a Prada day. Definitely a Prada day.

I had an important errand to run later today and only a black Prada satchel—teamed with my awesome navy blue business suit—would project the image I was going for.

I settled into my desk at L.A. Affairs with my first cup of coffee, determined to make headway on coming up with custom-made gift bags that somehow projected the image of the Beatles. I also had to figure out how I was going to fill them with items that Sheridan Adams's wealthy we've-already-got-two-of-everything guests would find special and unique. Someone on staff could probably give me some ideas, but I didn't want to ask anyone. I was sure Vanessa was still talking smack about me, and I wasn't about to let anyone think she was right.

As I sipped my coffee—waiting for the two extra packets of sugar I'd used to kick in—my brain hopped to another topic.

Lacy Hobbs's murder.

So far I wasn't exactly making great strides toward finding her killer. I had some suspects, a few weak motives, and absolutely no evidence. Obviously, I was going to have to do more digging.

I sipped my coffee and thought back to when I'd found Lacy's body in the workroom. She'd been shot point-blank in the center of her chest. Whoever had murdered her had walked into the workroom, approached her at the worktable, pulled a gun, and fired. I figured she must have known her killer, since there was no sign of a struggle and nothing had been stolen—that I knew of, anyway. I mean, jeez, what's there to steal in a bakery? So if that were the case and the murderer knew Lacy, that person must have been either really mad about something or really cold and calculating.

Heather Pritchard, the runaway bride, topped my mental really-mad suspect list. She'd decided that Lacy Cakes had ruined her wedding with the cake they'd made, and she'd probably stewed on it, relived it, and obsessed over it ever since her wedding day. Brides, after all, were a special kind of crazy.

The owner of the Fairy Land Bake Shoppe took second place on my really-mad suspect list. According to Paige he wasn't happy about losing her. Maybe he'd decided to take it out on Lacy.

As for my cold-and-calculating suspects, Paige was the only person whose name I could put on that list. Darren had suggested she was a little too anxious to take over the business. Maybe he was onto something. Maybe it had been her plan all along—get a job there, kill Lacy, and take over the business somehow.

My brain hopped to yet another topic—which was okay with me, because thinking about murder suspects was giving me a headache.

Or maybe it was all the sugar I'd dumped into my coffee.

I still had to find Mom a housekeeper—which seemed as difficult as finding Lacy's murderer, and even more unpleasant—so I pulled out my cell phone and called the employment agency. I gave my mom's name and was immediately transferred.

Mrs. Quinn, the woman who had been tasked with dealing with my mother and was, no doubt, rethinking her entire career path, answered.

“I'd like to get this matter settled as quickly as possible,” I said, after I'd introduced myself.

“We're all anxious for that as well,” she said.

I know she meant that from the bottom of her heart.

“Do you have any prospective housekeepers I could interview ?” I asked.

“I'm putting together a list,” Mrs. Quinn said. “I should have something lined up in a few days.”

“Can you at least send someone over temporarily every few days to clean?” I asked.

“Yes, I can arrange that,” she said, though it didn't seem to suit her.

“Mom can't go without a housekeeper for very long,” I told her.

“I understand,” she replied. “But, you know, filling this position to your mother's satisfaction has proved quite a challenge for me.”

She thought she had it rough? How about being her daughter?

“Try harder,” I told her, which was the oh so wonderful advice I'd often gotten from Mom. I hoped Mrs. Quinn would be more anxious to rise to Mom's standards than I had been.

We hung up and, already, I'd had enough of sitting in my office. I had a great reason for leaving, so I saw no need not to take advantage of it. But first, I called the phone number for Belinda Giles that Paige had given me. To my surprise, she answered right away. I introduced myself and immediately plunged into a total lie.

“I understand you're running Lacy Cakes Bakery now,” I said.

Yes, I know it's bad to tell an out-and-out lie, but come on, I had to get the dirt on what was going on with Lacy's murder, among other things.

“Paige told me you'd put in an order,” Belinda said. “It'll get done.”

“I'd feel a lot better about it if I could speak with you in person,” I said. “The cake is for an extremely high-profile event.”

Belinda was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “I can meet you, if you absolutely have to see me in person.”

I didn't want her to come here, because then I wouldn't have a good excuse for leaving the office, plus I didn't want anyone here to suspect there was a problem with Sheridan Adams's party.

“I have to go to the bakery this morning,” I said. “Can I meet you there?”

“I'm pretty busy today,” Belinda said. “But I can run by there in about an hour.”

“That will be fine,” I said, though it really wasn't. No way did I want to hang out in the office for that long and be forced to do actual work—not when I had so much personal business to attend to.

We hung up. I took a chance and phoned Shuman again, and was pleased—and surprised—when he answered.

“How are you doing?” I asked.

“Better,” he said.

He didn't sound better.

“Want to meet for coffee?” I asked.

“No . . . no, I don't think so,” he told me.

“Come on, I owe you one,” I said. “The Starbucks at the Sherman Oaks Galleria. I can be there in ten minutes.”

Shuman was quiet for a while, then finally said, “Okay. I'll see you there.”

He hung up.

I got some things together that I'd need later today, then left. So far, no one had said anything to me about spending so much time out of the office. I figured that everyone was just that desperate to keep me there, working as Vanessa's assistant, or maybe it really was expected that event planners spent most of their time calling on clients and vendors.

Either way, I saw no reason not to take advantage of the situation.

I left the building, crossed the street, and climbed the concrete stairs to the fountain plaza at the Galleria. Water splashed in the fountain and the sunshine was warm, making for a perfect day to be in the San Fernando Valley in gorgeous Southern California.

The Galleria was an open-air, multistory complex of offices, retail, and entertainment space. I walked past restaurants and stores and into Starbucks. I got my favorite drink, a mocha frappuccino, and a coffee for Shuman, then went outside to one of the tables set up on the center plaza. Things were kind of quiet, since it was too early for the lunch crowd.

Just a couple of minutes later I spotted Shuman walking toward me from the parking garage at the other end of the complex, which made me wonder where he'd been and what he'd been doing when I called him. He had on the same beige oxford shirt and jeans he'd worn the last time I saw him, and he looked kind of rumpled.

Not good.

When he sat down beside me at the table and I saw him up close, he looked even worse. There were lines in his face I'd never noticed before. His eyes were red. I doubted he'd slept in days.

I didn't see any reason to ask how he was since, obviously, he wasn't doing well, so I asked, “Anything new on the investigation?”

Shuman rested his arms on the table and cradled the cup of coffee in both palms.

“We're sure it involved one of the cases Amanda was prosecuting,” Shuman said.

Probably one of his friends at the LAPD was feeding him info on the sly, which I'm sure the department would not have liked. I doubted it was Detective Madison.

“It wasn't just some random . . .” Shuman's voice trailed off, and he pressed his palm against his forehead and turned away.

My heart ached for him. I'd known he and Amanda were crazy about each other, but I had no idea Shuman was
this
much in love with her.

I laid my hand on his forearm and he turned back to me. He drew a heavy breath and shook his head.

“I'm never going to get over this,” he said softly.

“I know,” I said because, really, I didn't see how he could—or how anybody could recover from losing someone they cared so much about, especially in such a violent way.

Shuman gazed at me for a moment, and I figured he appreciated that I hadn't tried to cheer him up, or tell him that Amanda was in a better place, or that everything would be all right soon.

“I've got to go,” he said, and stood up.

I rose from my chair and gathered my things.

“Let me know what's happening,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He moved away, but I touched his shoulder and he stopped.

“Anything,” I said.

Shuman nodded, grabbed his coffee, and left.

 

I parked near the end of the alley that ran behind Lacy Cakes and the other businesses in the strip mall and got out of my Honda. A garbage truck maneuvered past a janitorial service van, and a couple of women in white coats stood near the back door of the nail shop having a smoke.

“Hello?” I called, as I stepped inside the workroom.

The same guy I'd seen on my last visit was busy at the ovens. We exchanged another nod.

Paige stood at one of the worktables alongside a woman I'd never seen. Easily, she was in her sixties. Her complexion was sallow and she was rail thin. Of course, the clothing she wore didn't do much to help her appearance—navy blue polyester pants with an elastic waist, a flowered button-up shirt, and sneakers. I figured the woman was Belinda Giles, cousin of Darren and Lacy.

I flashed on Lacy's dead body lying on the workroom floor, her hair perfectly styled, her makeup expertly applied, her nails freshly manicured.

It appeared that life hadn't been as good to Belinda as it had to Lacy.

No wonder she wanted to keep the bakery operating.

“Hey, girl, come on in,” Paige called when she saw me. She gestured to the three-tier wedding cake on the worktable in front of her. “The bride asked for a rainbow. What do you think?”

Yikes! It was a rainbow, all right.

Six different colors arched up the three tiers, then down the other side. It sure as heck wasn't something I would want to look at for decades to come in my wedding pictures, but it was okay. Paige had actually done a good job of making something that could have been truly ugly into something nice.

I wondered what kind of wedding cake Sarah Covington would want.

I hate her.

And I hate that I keep thinking about her.

“It's kind of cool,” I said.

“I sent the bride and her mom a picture,” Paige said, then gave me a can-you-believe-it smile. “They loved it.”

The other woman stepped around Paige and offered her hand.

“Hi, I'm Belinda Giles,” she said.

I took her hand; it was rough and calloused. The woman definitely needed a good moisturizer.

I introduced myself and opened the portfolio I'd brought with me from L.A. Affairs.

“Here's all the info on the cake I need,” I said, and passed to Paige the spec sheet I'd promised to photocopy.

She took a quick glance and said, “Cool. I can do this. No problem.”

I was really digging Paige's positive attitude, and having something go smoothly for this party would be a real plus for me. I sure as heck could use a win right now.

Paige showed it to Belinda. “I totally love this, don't you?”

Belinda got a weird look on her face, which made me wonder if she was questioning Paige's cake design skills.

There went my win.

“Can you do this? And get it ready in time?” I addressed my question to Belinda—one of the superslick ways we kind-of private detectives bring other people into the conversation.

“Of course,” Belinda said.

“It's sort of short notice,” I said. “Not that it's anyone's fault after, well, after what happened to Lacy.”

“Let's give Paige some room to work,” Belinda said, and walked out the back door into the alley. I followed.

“I don't mean to question your word,” I said. “But this cake is a big deal. It absolutely has to be great, and it has to be delivered on time.”

“Sheridan Adams. Yeah, I know who she is,” Belinda said. “Another one of her charity events. Yellow Submarine cake. Something to do with the Beatles, right?”

I was relieved that Paige had brought Belinda up to speed on what was happening at the bakery—and with my order, specifically.

“Big parties,” Belinda went on. “Lots of food, a memorabilia auction, A-list guests. I know all about it.”

Belinda didn't strike me as the kind of gal who'd have the inside info on this kind of event, but maybe she'd heard Lacy talk about them. Or maybe she read about them in
People
magazine.

“Look,” Belinda said. “Your cake will get handled. Don't worry about it.”

I gave her an I-don't-know shrug and said, “When I spoke with Darren, he told me he wanted to close the bakery.”