Evening Bags and Executions (6 page)

By the time I made it back to the office a good chunk of the afternoon had passed with me doing very little—that benefitted L.A. Affairs, that is. I called Marcie—she loved the pics of Sheridan's house I'd sent—and we decided on an evening to go shopping.

Just because I had to—not because I really wanted to—I phoned the staffing agency about another housekeeper for Mom. The woman there—whose name I immediately forgot—suggested that in light of the recent incident—which was code for my mom being totally unreasonable and firing that other girl for no good reason—that perhaps I should interview the potential housekeepers before subjecting—my word, not hers—them to Mom. I agreed.

I managed to hide out in my office until five o'clock rolled around, then left. Since I wasn't scheduled to work at Holt's tonight, I went straight home. I was supposed to go to class tonight but decided to blow it off. Somehow, even during my time in breakup zombieland, I'd kept up on my assignments, so I figured if I could complete my college course work while in a breakup trance, actually going to class wasn't essential.

I got my Macy's shopping bags from the trunk and walked upstairs, trying to decide what to do tonight.

“Hey,” someone said.

I froze.

A strange man was sitting outside my door.

C
HAPTER
7

H
e was taller than I expected when he stood up, right at six feet. I figured him for maybe thirty, with blond hair that brushed his collar and a day's worth of stubble on his face. Nice looking, with a rugged build, though not the kind that came from hours in the gym. He had on faded jeans and a navy T-shirt that was about three washings overdue for the charity donation bag.

I didn't recognize him and he didn't look like he was there to sell something, so I wondered just what the heck he was doing here.

“Haley?” he asked. “I'm Cody Ewing.”

He stepped forward and offered his hand. I don't like to shake hands with men. Their who's-got-the-strongest-grip caveman-inspired handshake was usually painful—and it ticked me off that they couldn't seem to realize I was a female and this sort of display of masculinity wasn't necessary.

I took Cody's hand with my standard I'm-a-girl-you-idiot two-fingered grasp. His touch was gentle, thankfully, and he gave me a little smile.

Hmm. Not a bad smile.

“Marcie's mom sent me,” he said, and gestured to the toolbox by his feet. “I'm the handyman.”

Then I remembered that Marcie had told me she'd send somebody to get my apartment back in shape, and I totally panicked.

Oh my God, my apartment was a complete mess. Now that I was out of my breakup fog, I knew it was a disaster worthy of its own reality TV episode, and I didn't want anybody seeing it and knowing I'd actually lived that way. I couldn't have someone clean it up—until I'd cleaned it up first.

“Thanks, but now's not really a good time,” I said.

“I should have called, but I lost my cell phone,” he said, and gave me a yeah-I'm-a-dummy grin.

“Let's make an appointment for—” I quickly reviewed my mental calendar and said, “A couple of weeks.”

Cody seemed to contemplate my suggestion for a few minutes, nodding thoughtfully, then said, “You don't want me to see your place, right? Because you think it's too messy. Right?”

How had he known that? Men didn't usually know that sort of thing.

“Have you got junk piled up shoulder-high or higher?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Is there a path through all your stuff leading from room to room?”

“Of course not,” I told him.

He leaned closer. “Did something die in there?”

“Gross!”

Now he was kind of making me mad.

“Come in. You'll see,” I told him.

I unlocked my door and led the way inside. He ambled in behind me carrying his toolbox and stood in the middle of my living room looking around.

“I don't know,” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe I
should
come back in a couple of weeks.”

“It's not that bad,” I insisted.

“I've seen worse,” he said.

If he'd seen worse lately, I hoped he'd had a tetanus shot before coming to my place.

Cody grinned—wow, that was one heck of a grin he had—and said, “Go ahead and do whatever you need to do. I'll get started.”

It felt kind of odd to have a strange guy working in my apartment, but what could I do?

“Want a soda or a beer or something?” I asked.

“I'm good,” he said.

I left my purse and keys on the table beside my front door and headed down the hallway toward my bedroom. Some gravitational force pulled me into my second bedroom instead.

On the floor sat dozens of shopping bags bulging with items I'd purchased during my extended stay in breakup zombieland. I had vague recollections of buying all kinds of stuff to try to ease my heartache over Ty leaving. I didn't remember buying quite this much stuff.

Jeez, no wonder the bank had contacted me over and over about my checking account.

I was definitely going to do something about that tomorrow.

I set my Macy's shopping bag on the floor and just stood there for a few minutes. There were probably all kinds of fabulous clothing in those bags—I have terrific taste, even during a crisis—so maybe I was ready to check them out and put them away.

I'd tried to do that once before. It didn't work out so great.

But I was stronger now. My head was free of breakup fog.

I drew in a breath, walked to the closet, and opened the bifold doors. Since I used this bedroom for storage, the closet served as overflow for my clothes, shoes, handbags, and accessories, along with exercise equipment, an old laptop, books, and the general mishmash of things that seem to collect in a closet.

But now there was one additional item. A small, black duffel bag.

Ty's small, black duffel bag.

I'd found it there on the floor wedged between my snow boots and my bowling ball when I'd come in here a few weeks ago looking for something. Then, like now, seeing it made me think of Ty, and made that spot in my belly hurt again.

Several weeks ago Ty had been involved in a car accident—long story. He'd asked to move in here with me to recuperate, so his personal assistant had brought over some of his things. I figured Amber must have put this duffle in the closet and Ty hadn't realized it was here when he gathered his things and moved out.

I'd never really figured out what was up with Ty and that wreck he was in. The whole thing was weird. He'd cancelled his appointments on the spur of the moment one morning, ditched his totally hot Porsche for a rental, and driven north on the 14 freeway. What was even more weird was that he'd stopped at a convenience store, changed out of his suit into jeans and a polo shirt, and was headed for Palmdale when the accident happened.

He'd told me he was going there to check out a location for a new Holt's store, but I didn't believe him.

So, anyway, here I was with a duffel of Ty's personal belongings sitting for weeks now in the bottom of the closet in my second bedroom. I hadn't opened it—I hadn't even touched it. I'm sure that all his stuff inside of it smelled like he did and, well, I didn't want to make a return trip to breakup zombieland.

It hit me then that maybe Ty had left it here on purpose.

The thought zinged through me, bringing momentary joy to that achy spot in my belly that had Ty's name on it.

Maybe he thought that when I found the duffel bag I'd call him. Or maybe he intended to use it for cover so he could call me.

And what about all that other stuff he'd left in my apartment—the grill, the TV, the freezer. Did he think I'd phone him and ask what he wanted me to do with them? He'd paid for them, after all. Was that his way of wanting to talk to me again, maybe discuss our relationship, apologize for screwing up my life by leaving, for hurting me, for breaking my heart, for exiling me to breakup zombieland?

Or maybe he was really done with me, didn't care what I did with the stuff he bought, and figured it was a small price to pay to be rid of me.

Oh, crap.

I tore out of my bedroom. I needed to talk to Marcie. If I called, I knew she'd rush over. She'd talk me down, make me feel better, as only a BFF could do.

I hurried into my living room. Cody was slicing up the brown cardboard shipping containers with a box cutter. I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse and saw that I had a missed call.

It was from Shuman.

 

My all time favorite drink—nonalcoholic, anyway—was a mocha frappuccino available at Starbucks. My all-time favorite Starbucks was located in a little shopping center a quick four-minute—yes, I timed it—drive from my apartment. That's where I met Shuman.

After he called, I'd shooed Cody out of my apartment, thrown on jeans and a sweatshirt, and driven to meet him. I parked and jumped out of my Honda, anxious to talk to him and get the latest on what was going on, but I didn't see him. Then I spotted the only guy sitting at the outdoor café alone with a coffee and a mocha Frappuccino in front of him, and realized it was Shuman.

I hardly recognized him.

Detective Shuman was good looking, kind of tall, with brown hair and a boy-next-door smile. He didn't need that smile much in his line of work, but I'd seen it a few times and it was killer.

But tonight he looked thin and drawn, wearing a beige oxford shirt and jeans—Shuman seldom wore things that went well together—that seemed to accentuate his frailness. He sat hunched over his paper coffee cup, his arms on the table, as if the weight of Amanda's loss bore down on him so heavily he couldn't sit up straight.

“Hey,” I said softly as I walked up.

A few seconds passed before he looked up, and then several more went by before he seemed to recognize me. He hadn't shaved in a while, probably since he heard about Amanda's death, and his eyes were bloodshot and red rimmed.

I sat down across from him and placed my hand atop his on the table. Shuman latched onto my hand—not too tight—and gazed into my eyes. I'd never seen anyone look so completely devastated in my entire life. Pain and sorrow radiated from him.

I guess I should just buck up, get over my breakup with Ty, and move on with life. We were, after all, both still alive.

I wanted to tell Shuman how sorry I was about Amanda, but there wasn't a word in the entire English language that could express how I felt, or one that would make things better for Shuman.

I covered his hand with my other one and we sat there for a few minutes just holding each other, then Shuman glanced away and pulled his hand free of mine.

“What's the story?” I asked.

“We're working on the theory that it was somebody she was prosecuting,” he said.

“You know who it was?” I asked.

Shuman shook his head. “Several possibilities.”

“You must have a gut feeling about one of them,” I said.

Shuman gazed across the parking lot. “Yeah, I've got some ideas.”

Unlike the other detectives investigating Amanda's murder, Shuman had the advantage of having spent his evenings, nights, and weekends with her. Surely she'd talked about her cases. She'd made casual comments, expressed worry, confessed she was scared—something that Shuman knew and had been investigating on his own, and probably not according to established LAPD procedures.

He wouldn't be on leave for no reason. More than likely he'd been looking for the creep himself.

That's what I would have been doing.

A minute passed before he looked back at me again.

“How did you find out about . . . Amanda?” he asked.

“I called your office. Whoever is covering your calls told Madison,” I said. “He came by the store and told me to back off.”

“Why did you call?” he asked.

“I hadn't heard from you in a while,” I said. “And, well, seems I'm a murder suspect again.”

Shuman's expression hardened, and he seemed to sit up a little straighter.

“The murder at the bakery,” he said. “It's the only case Madison has caught since . . .”

“Madison seems to think I killed Lacy Hobbs over a cake dispute I had with her a few months ago,” I said. “Which is ridiculous, of course.”

“I talked to Madison,” Shuman said. “He's got nothing. No clues, no leads, no witnesses. Nothing—but you.”

While I appreciated Shuman asking Madison about the murder investigation I'd been thrust into, I felt a little odd thinking he'd gotten involved in my troubles when he had so many of his own. Then it occurred to me that since Shuman hadn't been able to help Amanda, maybe he wanted to help me.

“Listen to me, Haley.” Shuman reached across the table and took my hand again. “Madison is in a worse mood than usual. This thing with Amanda, it's got everybody on the hunt—and wanting to bring someone down. If you've got any idea who was involved—or any way of finding out—then you'd better jump on it. Now.”

Okay, this was kind of scary.

Shuman pushed out of his chair. “I've got to go.”

“If you need anything—anything at all—let me know,” I said. I grabbed my mocha frappuccino and walked with him to the parking lot. “Stay in touch.”

Shuman nodded, got into his car, and drove away.

I slipped into my Honda and dug my cell phone out of my purse. I accessed the Internet and pulled up the Lacy Cakes Web site while I slurped down most of my frappie. They were open for business, according to the hours posted on the site. I started my car and headed for Sherman Oaks.

Okay, yeah, Shuman had scared me. I knew Madison had it in for me—he'd had it in for me for a long time now. I could see where everyone in law enforcement was majorly twisted up about Amanda's murder and wanted to take it out on anyone and everyone. Arresting me would somehow make Madison feel better about things.

No way was I going to let that happen. I had to find out who murdered Lacy Hobbs. Like Madison, I had no leads, no witnesses, no clues, and the only place I had any hope of finding them was at the bakery

I hit the 14 freeway headed south, then took the 405. Traffic was light. I exited on Burbank Boulevard and drove to Lacy Cakes. I swung into the parking lot. My headlights caught a makeshift memorial of floral bouquets and candles that someone had placed under one of the display windows.

I hopped out of the car and tried the door. It was locked. I cupped my hands against the glass and looked inside.

A dim security light burned in the back of the shop just bright enough for me to see that the furniture had been pushed together at each end of the room and all of the display cakes were gone.

Lacy Cakes was closed—permanently?

Now what was I going to do?