Evening Bags and Executions (24 page)

I stood back and assessed the looks Bella and I had put together. Considering what we'd had to work with, I decided it could have been worse.

Things can always be worse.

The mumble of the audience assembled outside on the sales floor grew louder, and I wondered why Jeanette hadn't started the show yet. I slipped out of the stock room and walked through the screened-off area the workmen had built to keep the audience from seeing the fashions before they hit the runway—maybe corporate had feared a sneak peek might result in a stampede that would injure customers and bring on lawsuits.

I stepped up onto the little stage that had been built and peeked out. Wow, Jeanette hadn't been kidding—the place was packed.

The workmen had set up two rows of chairs facing the runway, and every seat was taken. People were standing behind them, three deep. Most of them were young women dressed in really nice clothes. Jeez, what were they doing in Holt's?

I spotted Jeanette heading toward the stage just as my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I whipped it out and saw that Rigby was calling.

Jeez, not now. I didn't have time for a Beatles quiz question. The show would start any minute.

But I didn't dare not answer. Sheridan's event was tonight and I didn't want to hear about a missed question after I arrived.

I hit the green button as I hurried back into the stock room.

“What was the location of the Beatles last official concert?” Rigby asked before I could even say hello.

All the models were lined up in their Holt's clothing. Bella busied herself tweaking their hairstyles. Jeanette's voice boomed over the P.A. system.

There was a last concert? An official one, at that?

Oh my God, I didn't know the answer—and there was no way to look it up. I didn't have the Beatles book with me, and there was no time to borrow a phone and access the Internet.

I covered my phone with my hand and said, “Do any of you know where the Beatles performed their last official concert?”

All the models—even Bella—gave me a what-planet-are-you-
really
-from look, then said in unison, “Candlestick Park in San Francisco.”

Jeez, did absolutely everybody know extensive Beatles trivia but me?

No time for that now.

“San Francisco,” I said to Rigby. “Candlestick Park.”

“You're correct,” she announced, and hung up.

A round of applause boomed from the sales floor.

“Time to go,” Bella said, and led the models out of the stockroom.

I didn't go with them. I just stood there, thinking.

San Francisco. Darren and Lacy were from a little town near there. So was Belinda. They'd all grown up there together. Lacy and Belinda had been closer than most cousins—best friends, really—until they'd had a fight because Belinda had won concert tickets and taken her boyfriend instead of Lacy.

A connect-the-dots moment hit me.

Could they have been Beatles concert tickets? But not just any Beatles concert—their very last concert ever?

My mind raced recalling things I'd been told, things I'd learned about Lacy, Belinda, and Darren. Accusations of stealing, telling lies, trying to turn the family against each other.

And now, it seemed, I could add murder to the list.

C
HAPTER
25

I
drove into the Adams estate and crawled along with a slow-moving line of delivery vans and service trucks. The start of the party was still hours away, but work had been in progress here since dawn. I'd spoken with Muriel a number of times and, so far, party prep was on schedule.

Two guards from the security firm I'd hired were stationed at the checkpoint wearing navy blue uniforms and dark glasses; one of them held an iPad. I eased forward and buzzed down my window.

“Haley Randolph,” I said using my I-hired-you-so-I'd-like-preferential-treatment voice.

I didn't get any.

“ID,” he said.

I passed him my driver's license. He checked my photo, looked hard at me, consulted his iPad, then handed back my identification.

“Enjoy the party,” he said.

I drove around to the mansion's service wing. The sun was bright overhead in a cloudless Southern California sky. I could see dozens of workers spread out across the estate's extensive grounds.

Jewel had done almost all of the planning for the event, but I'd followed up on everything a number of times. I could see why Vanessa wanted her back. The valets she'd hired were all dressed in psychedelic vests and wearing sixties-era Beatles wigs.

Not sure I'd have thought of that.

I was directed to a parking space on the first floor of the expansive garage and nosed my Honda in between a Webber's Florist van and an Angel's Catering truck. I spotted an Ever Clean Janitorial Service truck parked a couple of rows back, and delivery vans from Lacy Cakes and Party On were nearby.

More vehicles pulled in. Workers poured out of them wheeling dollies and pushing carts.

I put in my Bluetooth and got out my portfolio—just so I'd look as busy as everyone else—and got the garment bag and tote with tonight's outfit in it from my trunk.

As I headed toward the entrance of the service wing, I spotted Muriel. She had an iPad in one hand, an old school organizer in the other, and a Bluetooth in her ear.

“How's it going?” I asked as I walked over.

“No problems, so far,” Muriel said.

Since she'd been involved with planning all sorts of events for Sheridan for a long time now, I figured her idea of no-problems and my idea of no-problems might not be the same. Still, I was pumped, ready to take on whatever situation presented itself.

I'm really good at telling other people what to do.

“Let me show you where you can put your things,” Muriel said.

She led the way into the service wing through double doors. On my right was a gargantuan commercial kitchen. Multiple stainless steel, industrial-grade appliances filled the space, along with worktables and an army of chefs. The room was warm and something smelled really good.

“The Beatles collectibles are all together in a storage room,” Muriel said.

We passed another huge room, this one with a dozen florists turning a mountain of flowers and greenery into gorgeous floral arrangements.

“There are two security guards posted outside the door,” she went on. “Nobody but Sheridan or me will be let in until it's time to move them to the auction site on the grounds.”

It didn't seem likely to me that, with all the security in place, anyone would attempt to steal the bobbleheads—or any other pieces of the memorabilia—before or during the party, but I could see where Muriel wouldn't want to take a chance.

We climbed the stairs and continued down a hallway. It was obvious this was where the servants were housed. The carpet wasn't quite as thick as in the main house, and the wall art wasn't exactly “art,” yet it was still nicer than my apartment.

Muriel stopped in front of a door halfway down the hall, checked her iPad, and pulled a key from her pocket.

“This room is yours for the duration. You can change in here for the party tonight,” she said, passing me the key. “Oh, and Sheridan wants to see you right away.”

Muriel tapped her Bluetooth to answer a call, and I went inside. The room contained simple furnishings—bed, nightstand, chest—and had an adjoining bathroom. I hung my cocktail dress in the closet.

The Enchantress evening bag popped into my head. It would have looked perfect with my dress, but the Judith Leiber I'd brought with me was more than adequate.

Muriel took two more calls as we left the service wing. I pulled out my cell phone and texted Marcie so I'd look important.

The grounds of the estate were in total chaos, just as the Holt's stock room had been—only here, most everyone was dressed better.

Construction workers and sound and lighting guys were everywhere. The caterer and florists had already started setting up. Hammers, saws, power tools, shouts, and a zillion cell phone conversations added to the cacophony. Sliced-up packing boxes and sheets of plastic were strewn all around.

I pulled the event diagram from my portfolio and saw that the wide pathway—“The Long and Winding Road”—that would take guests from one event area to another was already in place. Workers were ripping the protective covering off the white wicker furniture that, along with hundreds of flowers and plants all blooming in white, would make up the Lady Madonna serenity garden.

The giant aquarium for the Octopus's Garden was being filled. The fish pond had been assembled nearby, and landscapers were surrounding it with lush ferns, shrubs, bright flowering plants, and palm trees.

Tonight, after dark, everything would be lit with accent, spot, and twinkle lights, and the two Beatles tribute bands—one that would cover songs from the sixties, the other the seventies—would play almost nonstop.

Muriel walked over, nodding and mumbling, then hit the button on her Bluetooth and said, “Mrs. Adams is ready for you now.”

I followed Muriel across the grounds, not really knowing what to expect. I figured Sheridan would either be really grateful that I'd gotten back the bobbleheads and recommend me for a promotion at L.A. Affairs or be really grateful but angry that I'd gotten them stolen in the first place and recommend that I be fired.

From what I'd seen of Sheridan so far, I figured it could go either way.

We found her near one of the swimming pools where tables and chairs were being set up.

Sheridan had on a neon pink and red print caftan that, I swear, looked as if it had come from Holt's and a matching turban that I figured the store was destined to carry sooner or later.

“Oh, yes, there you are—” She pointed at Muriel.

“Haley,” she said.

“Haley,” Sheridan repeated. “So you own a detective agency.”

Where the heck had she gotten that idea?

Muriel gave me a please-let-it-go look, so I figured Sheridan had misunderstood what Muriel had told her about me—or maybe Muriel had embellished my credentials a bit to stay out of trouble with her boss.

Sheridan leaned in a little. “And you're working undercover at L.A. Affairs, aren't you.”

Sheridan must have read too many of her husband's movie scripts, but I decided it was better to just let this go also.

“I'm glad everything turned out well,” I said.

I wondered if Sheridan had given any thought to who might have stolen the Beatles bobbleheads. Did she suspect an inside job?

I didn't think so. Sheridan seemed to live in her own private zombieland. She probably thought everyone she employed loved her and wouldn't possibly steal from her.

“I won't forget what you've done,” Sheridan said.

Jeez, I really hope she meant that in a good way.

“A reliable, discreet security firm isn't easy to come by,” Sheridan said.

Something shiny must have caught her attention because she wandered away, Muriel trailing after her.

Sheridan thought I owned a private detective firm? And I was working undercover?

Cool.

I headed across the grounds again consulting the event diagram so everyone would think I was working, but really the idea of a detective agency was playing around in my head—even though I was still having trouble coming to terms with the whole Belinda-ransom thing.

I wasn't all that excited about this event-planning gig, and even though not long ago I'd decided to get my bachelor's degree in procurement and become a corporate buyer, I'd been in my breakup fog at the time, so I wasn't sure that counted.

I realized then that the murder of Lacy Hobbs was rambling around in my head. It took up more room in my mind than Sheridan's party—which just shows how I was feeling about working at L.A. Affairs.

When I'd talked to Paige earlier she'd told me that Belinda had come up with the money to buy Lacy Cakes—which was immediately after the ransom was delivered. Darren had left town at the same time, supposedly.

I was pretty sure one of them had murdered Lacy. I didn't like to think that anyone deserved to be murdered, but really, Lacy had been pretty awful to both of them for years—right up until the end, it seemed.

They both had motive—money. Lacy's life insurance was surely substantial, plus the bakery was worth a fortune whether Darren sold it or Belinda kept it operating.

They both could have had the opportunity also, since there was no way, at this point, to be sure where either of them had been at the time of Lacy's murder.

As for the murder weapon, coming up with a handgun wasn't hard to do these days.

For a moment I considered calling Detective Madison with my suspicion, but I doubted he'd take me seriously. Shuman would have, but I hadn't heard from him in a while. I thought about calling Jack, but I wasn't exactly loving all his good advice lately.

I needed more evidence, I decided, as I stepped out of the way of a guy pushing a dolly stacked high with cases of wine. But I had no idea where to find Darren or Belinda at the moment. I didn't see how I could come up with anything—not today, anyway, with this whole Beatles event going on.

The only option was to talk to Paige. She was here somewhere putting the finishing touches on the Yellow Submarine cake. I put in a call to her; it went straight to voicemail.

I wondered if, since they were buying Lacy Cakes together, Belinda might be on hand helping with the cake. I didn't really expect her to be here since she was handling the business end of the bakery, and it would be unseemly to solicit orders at an event of this caliber. Jack had told me to stay away from her, but I called her cell phone, anyway. She didn't answer.

At this point there was nothing I could do but perform some actual work for L.A. Affairs.

I hate it when that happens.

 

Luckily, everyone involved with the party preparations had done this before and knew what they were doing.

I caught up with Lyle, the guy who owned the construction company. He assured me that everything was under control and on schedule; ditto the sound and lighting guys, the landscapers and the caterers.

Just so I'd appear concerned and involved, I telephoned the guy who ran the security firm I'd hired for the event and asked for an update. He reported the number of uniformed personnel on duty, the number of plainclothes who would arrive later—then everything turned into blah, blah, blah, so I thanked him and hung up.

There really wasn't all that much for me to do—unless I was missing something huge—so I basically just strolled around and chatted with people, texted friends, took a picture of myself in front of the huge aquarium and sent it to Marcie, and updated my Facebook page.

As I made my way past one of the bars, my cell phone rang. It was Bella.

“You're not going to believe this!” she screamed. “You're not going to
believe
it!”

Before I could answer, she went on.

“My hairstyles are on YouTube!” she said. “I videoed the show and posted it! I edited out the clothes because they were so damn ugly and just showed my hairstyles! I've gone viral! A half million hits—already!”

“Oh my God!”

“I got to go!” Bella said. “I got to call my nana!” How totally cool, I thought as I put my phone back in my pocket. Thank goodness something worthwhile had come out of that horrible fashion show.

Then I noticed that most everyone around me—people who were doing actual work—were giving me stink-eye. I decided it was a good time to find Paige.

I made a sweep of the grounds and didn't spot her, so I went into the service wing. I walked by the kitchen—something really smelled great in there—and continued past the staircase. I figured there had to be a temperature-controlled room in the building that was cool, a place where the desserts and cold foods could be prepped.

On my left was a lounge intended for the hired help—not that they got much of a chance to use it—complete with tables and chairs, a TV, a refrigerator, a microwave, and vending machines. Jackets and totes hung from a row of hooks, but nobody was in the room.

A little farther down the hallway a door opened and a woman in a white chef's jacket came out followed by a gust of cold air. I went inside and spotted Paige and the guy who did the baking at Lacy Cakes working on the Yellow Submarine cake. Around them a couple dozen people were assembling scrumptious-looking desserts.

“Hey, girl,” Paige called as I walked over. She gestured to the cake. “What do you think?”

The blue sugar work ocean that surrounded the submarine was populated by colorful fish, seahorses, dolphins and coral, and an Aztec pyramid, as well as characters from the movie—the Blue Meanies, Lord Mayor, and Old Fred—and, of course, the mates themselves, John, Paul, George, and Ringo.