I hit the furniture store—they were raffling off area rugs—and the mail center—which was discounting all their shipping supplies—and verified that’s exactly what they were offering. Next, I talked to the owner of the cigar store. He was cutting prices on all their accessories, which, between the ashtrays, lighters, cigar cases, cutters, and humidifiers, turned out to be about a zillion items—who knew?
When I walked inside Cakes By Carrie the delightful smell of baked goods gave me a pleasant sugar contact high. Carrie wasn’t behind the counter, but since there were no customers in the shop, I guess she didn’t have to be.
Voices drifted out from the kitchen at the rear of the store. I walked closer and spotted Carrie at a worktable, deep in conversation with Dena. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but they both looked intense.
I wondered if they’d seen me approach and were talking about me.
Dena suddenly looked up. Her eyes narrowed and her expression soured, as if she thought I’d been lurking there just to eavesdrop.
I hadn’t, but now I wished I had.
“Can I help you?” Carrie called, in a tone that suggested I was an inconvenience at the moment, and actually helping me was the very last thing she wanted to do.
“I need to order some cakes for the festival,” I said.
Carrie and Dena exchanged a put-upon smirk and walked out of the kitchen.
“I also need to talk to you both about the special deals you’re offering for the festival,” I said. “I’m coordinating things for Holt’s.”
“I’ll be next door,” Dena told me, and breezed past and out of the bakery.
While Carrie fetched a clipboard with an order form on it, I fished my iPad from my tote and accessed one of my many lists.
“I have you down for discounts on a dozen cookies and on your cupcakes,” I said.
“That’s it,” Carrie said, without looking at me. “What did you want to order?”
“I need mini-cakes for the cake walk,” I told her. “Two dozen of them. Chocolate, vanilla, lemon, and spice. Buttercream icing. Decorated in red, white, and blue.”
She was giving off a really bad vibe. Or maybe it was me. I did, after all, suspect her of murder.
“They’ll be ready the morning of the festival,” Carrie said. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s it. Thanks.”
She turned around and walked back into the kitchen.
Jeez, if she was this rude to all her customers, no wonder Asha wrote that terrible review about her shop.
I left and walked next door to the craft store. This was the first time I’d been there—I’m not really a crafty sort of gal—and I was surprised by the massive amount of merchandise on the shelves. There were sections for scrapbooking, knitting, and jewelry making, and large displays of baskets, artificial flowers, party supplies, and a lot of other stuff I had no idea what to do with.
Dena stood behind the counter. Seeing her up close I could tell she’d gone heavy on the makeup, trying, unsuccessfully, to disguise droops and sags, and some deep wrinkles. Her high-school blond hair looked totally fried out.
After being subjected to the two of them just now in the bakery, I doubted I’d get a better reception from her than I had from Carrie, but she surprised me.
“I know we seemed a little standoffish just now,” she said, and had the good grace to look contrite. “But everybody in the center is on edge these days. First, that awful murder. Then business falls off. Now we’re pinning our hopes on this festival. We have a lot at stake and a great deal to lose.”
“I understand,” I said because, really, I did—where the other shop owners were concerned. Dena had her dead husband’s insurance money, didn’t she?
“If only the police could find out who killed that girl,” she said. “Have you heard if they’ve made any progress?”
“None that I know of.”
“Really?” Dena’s painted-on brows bobbed upward. “I heard you were asking around about the murder.”
I figured she’d heard that from Carrie. But I’d talked to Raine at the convenience store, too.
Since Dena had brought it up, I decided to roll with it.
“Did Asha work for you here?” I asked.
The craft store wasn’t on her résumé, but she could have worked here and simply not listed it. She hadn’t reviewed the shop on her site. Maybe there weren’t any problems or any hiccups that she could stretch out of proportion.
“Oh, no. I have my regular ladies who’ve worked here with me since the shop opened,” Dena said. “You know, I heard that man who owns the convenience store was having an affair with that girl.”
“I heard that, too.”
“What do the police think? Are they checking into that wife of his?” Dena asked. “Frankly, everybody is aware that he’s had a lot of affairs, and she was terribly jealous.”
Dena seemed to have the inside track on all the shopping center scandals. I guess Carrie wasn’t the only store owner she gossiped with.
Or maybe something else was going on. Was she trying to throw suspicion onto Owen’s wife?
She must have sensed what I was thinking because she picked up a stack of flyers next to the register.
“Here are my sale items for the festival. I had these printed so I could let my customers know ahead of time,” she said, and handed me one of the flyers. “BOGOs on all my baskets and art supplies, plus an additional ten percent discount on all clearance items.”
“Great. Looks like you’re all set,” I said.
I thanked her and left the store. I couldn’t shake the really weird feeling I had about her. Of course, I’d gotten the same weird vibe from Carrie.
Maybe my I-think-she-did-it senses were out of whack.
I definitely needed a Starbucks.
With no other merchants left to talk with about the festival, I went back to Holt’s—but not with the intention of doing any actual work, of course. Not in the lingerie department, which I’d been assigned to, anyway.
In the breakroom I pulled out my iPad and double-checked everything I’d done so far for the festival, then went over my list of items I had to take care of tomorrow. I still had things to follow up on, but that was normal. Every event was always a work in progress, with lot of things that required attention during all phases of the execution.
Detective Shuman flew into my head.
That sort of thing just happened to me sometimes.
I hadn’t heard from him yet about his visit to Wright’s Auto Works. I hoped that meant something had come of the lead I’d given him—like maybe he’d found Asha’s murderer.
My cell phone chimed. I checked and saw a text message from Jack. He was here at Holt’s, waiting for me at the customer service booth.
My emotions amped up.
This was just the boost my day needed.
I crammed my tote bag into my locker and hurried out of the breakroom. Jack stood near stockroom entrance.
“Back here,” I told him as I brushed past.
He followed me through the swinging doors. I led the way through the giant shelving units, my anger building with every step I took.
I stopped, grabbed a bed-in-a-bag set off the shelf, gave it a roundhouse swing with everything I had, and struck him in the chest.
Jack didn’t flinch. He didn’t back up—he didn’t even sway. And it was a king-size set.
It was really hot.
But I was still mad.
I flung the bed-in-a-bag set onto the floor and yelled, “Your sister came to see me!”
Realization dawned on Jack’s face. He knew he’d been busted.
That didn’t calm me, either.
“She told me the truth!”
He did a total back-down.
“Okay, look. I took you to my place and called my sister to come over. I didn’t take you to your apartment because I didn’t think you’d want your neighbors to see you being carried in, passed out drunk, and I got a buddy of
mine to get your car so you’d have it—”
“You let me think something had really gone on between us!”
“And you believed it!”
Now Jack was mad at me—because I was mad at him. It was a total girl-move, but really hot when he did it.
“Do you think I’d take advantage of you like that?” he demanded. “After I’ve waited? After I backed off and respected your relationship with Ty Cameron—who never deserved you, by the way. Do you really think I’d make a move when you were passed out drunk? That’s not the way I intend to get you into bed.”
The heat between us amped up. If things got any hotter, we might set off the sprinkler system.
But now was not the time. And the Holt’s stockroom was definitely not the place.
I calmed down a little and said, “You were way out of line the other day.”
“You mean when I did this?” Jack moved forward and reached for me.
I shoved my palm against his chest.
Wow, his chest was really hard.
“Now you’re just being a jerk,” I told him.
He was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “You’re right. I am. I’m sorry. The other day I thought it would be funny, you know, to tease you, to pull a prank and do that, but . . .”
“But what?”
Jack hesitated again. For a moment he looked as if he wanted to say something, something that had been festering for a while, but he just shook his head.
“But it wasn’t funny,” he told me. “I shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry.”
The heat and anger between us dissipated while we stood there looking at each other. Finally, Jack backed up a few steps.
“Do you forgive me?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then I can’t work for you.”
“What? You have to work for me. I need you.”
“Then forgive me.”
“Then say you’re sorry.”
“I already did. Twice.”
“So would it kill you to say it again?” I demanded.
Jack hesitated then said, “Our relationship has suddenly taken a middle school turn.”
“Just say it.”
“Okay, I’m sorry. Again.”
I huffed for another minute just to prove a point—although right now I wasn’t sure exactly what it was—and said, “Fine. I accept your apology.”
“Say it again.”
I grinned. I couldn’t help it.
He grinned back. It was that kind of grin.
“I’m finished with Ty,” I said. “But I’m dating Liam. I’m going away with him weekend after next.”
“Then go away with me this weekend.”
Jack’s grin vanished. So did mine.
“I just told you I’m dating Liam now.”
“And you’re sure that’s what you want?”
Oh my God, he was so handsome, so hot, so everything, I had to force myself to say, “You know how I am about dating. This shouldn’t come as a surprise to you.”
Jack nodded slowly, then said, “Okay.”
Another long, smoldering moment dragged by. Then Jack said, “Let me know the details of the security work you need done.”
He didn’t wait for an answer, just walked away. At the end of the shelving unit, he stopped.
“Oh, and by the way, women do thank me,” he said.
“For not carrying them into their apartments passed out drunk?”
“Yes.” Jack gave me a hot grin. “And other things.”
He left the stockroom.
I collapsed onto the bed-in-a-bag set.
CHAPTER 21
It was a Gucci day. Definitely a Gucci day.
And it was also a day that I had a lot of work to do.
I sat in my office at L.A. Affairs looking truly hot, I thought, in yet another black business suit—can you have too many black business suits?—that I’d accessorized with white and subtle touches of navy blue, all of which perfectly complemented my Gucci bag. The cool thing about working here was that no matter how dreadful you might feel or how awful the day was shaping up, everybody wore fantastic fashions and accessories, and always looked great.
I realize that sounds sort of shallow, but oh well.
After spending most of the morning locking down the timetable for the Holt’s festival prep on Friday, I moved ahead with working on the other events I was tasked with staging. I made calls and sent emails, as needed, all in a timely, professional manner that would one day result in my being named Event Planner Extraordinaire of the Universe—if such a title ever existed.
Maybe I should invent it.
Anyway, since I’d spent so many hours doing actual work, I decided it was an excellent time to take a break and tend to some personal business.
Since I’d learned that the Miss California Cupid contest “conflict of interest” was really a massive pageant-world-shattering scandal, I knew the whole mess wouldn’t likely go away on its own—which meant my mom would be a mess until the incident somehow disappeared. Since I didn’t really want to spend my Christmas holiday in Sri Lanka, somehow I had to make that happen.
I accessed the Internet on my cell phone and did a search for Theodore Tremaine, the pageant judge involved with the scandal. A number of links appeared, stories about his community involvement in Pasadena, his duties on the boards of several charities, his dedication to the arts, his commitment to helping the underprivileged.
I found photos of him at various events, spanning what looked like four decades, taking him from a young, handsome man in his thirties, to an older, still handsome man in his seventies. In the photographs, he wore a suit or a tuxedo, depending on the occasion, and posed with other civic leaders. He looked strong and dependable, and projected the aura of a no-nonsense, levelheaded man who could be counted on to do the right thing.
Definitely not the sort of man you’d think would soil his otherwise sterling reputation by slutting it up with a beauty pageant contestant and then use his influence to award her a first-place win.
I clicked on more links and found a story detailing his fortieth wedding celebration with accompanying photos of him and his still-attractive, white-haired wife, posing alongside their three grown children and four grandchildren, and detailing their many accomplishments. Everybody looked happy and successful.
Of course, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that Theodore—Ted, as he was referred to in the stories—had had some sort of midlife crisis back in the day. Judging from the dates of the stories, I figured he must have been in his early forties at the time he was making whoopee with the soon-to-be-crowned winner of the Miss California Cupid pageant.
Not exactly the first old guy to have a fling with a younger woman.
Regardless of Ted Tremaine’s true nature, I had to find out where Crown Girl had gotten wind of this story. Hopefully, the whole thing was an exaggeration, a false memory—I mean, jeez, the guy was closing in on eighty now—or an outright lie put forth by Crown Girl to further her own agenda, whatever that might be.
The easiest way to run this story to ground was to confront Ted face-to-face. It was a long shot—but it was also the easiest way to find out the truth. Maybe he’d talk to me about it. Maybe he wouldn’t. It was worth a try.
I spent a few minutes link-hopping until I found his home address, then grabbed my things and left the office.
* * *
I found the home of Ted Tremaine easily enough in an older, settled section of Pasadena. The neighborhood was quiet when I parked my Honda at the curb and got out. Down the block, a stoop-shouldered woman shuffled along while a feisty little Pomeranian tugged at the leash. Two young moms pushed strollers in the opposite direction.
The lawn and shrubs looked well-tended as I went up the walk and onto the front porch. It looked freshly painted. Somebody had decorated with pots of colorful flowers, some comfy-looking chairs, and mosaic-topped tables.
I rang the bell. A minute later I heard fo
otsteps inside and the door opened. A young woman about my age looked out.
Not what I expected.
She had on khaki pants, a red sweater, and flats. Her hair was in a messy ponytail.
“Hi,” she said, and gave me a tentative smile.
I returned her smile, introduced myself, and said, “I’m looking for Ted Tremaine.”
“Oh.” Her smile disappeared. “Sorry. They don’t live here anymore.”
I wasn’t sure exactly who they were, but I rolled with it.
“But you know Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine?” I asked.
“Sure.” She glanced back inside the house for a second, then turned to me again. “We’re renting the house from them. Well, technically from their kids, I guess. They were all out here from New York, I think it was, for the funeral.”
Oh, crap.
“The funeral?”
She hesitated, looking a little uncomfortable now. I needed her to keep talking, so what could I do but tell a whopper of a lie?
“I went to school with one of their granddaughters. Emily. Do you know her?” I asked, but no way was I giving her time to answer, especially since my only knowledge of the Tremaines’ granddaughter was what I’d read on the Internet. “We used to come here to visit her grandparents from time to time. They were such nice people. I’ve been feeling kind of nostalgic lately so I thought I’d just stop by and say hello, but you’re saying one of them passed away?”
“Yeah, sorry,” she said. “Mrs. Tremaine. About, huh, I guess it was back last fall, maybe the end of the summer.”
I managed to look suitably saddened and said, “Please don’t tell me Mr. Tremaine has passed, too.”
“Nursing home,” she said. “I don’t know for sure, but I got the impression he’d been there for a few years.”
“Do you know which one?” I asked.
“No, not really—”
A little boy with curly blond hair appeared and wrapped his arms around her leg—my cue to leave.
“Well, thanks,” I said, backing away.
“Do you want me to tell them you stopped by?” she called, as she lifted the boy into her arms.
“Sure, that would be great,” I said.
Pocketbooks and Pistols Page 16
