It came with a neutral-colored desk, chair, credenza, and bookcase, and was accented with splashes of vibrant blues and yellows in the wall prints. I gazed out the window down Sepulveda Boulevard, hoping to spot a Starbucks—home of my all-time favorite drink on the entire planet—nearby. I knew one was located in the Sherman Oaks Galleria, but that was about a five-minute walk from here—I preferred something under three, in case of an emergency.
I sat down at my desk and realized the morning was flying by and essential matters absolutely had to be taken care of. I pulled out my cell phone and made lunch plans.
Luckily, Marcie had anticipated my first day on the new job and had taken off a half day from her job at a bank downtown—is she a terrific BFF or what? We met at the Cheesecake Factory at the Galleria.
“So, how’s it going?” Marcie asked after we sat down.
Marcie and I were a mismatched pair of friends—I’m tall and dark haired, she’s short, petite, and blond—but that’s okay because between the two of us, we can wear absolutely anything.
“Great,” I said, looking over the menu. “Everything’s going great.”
“Really?” she asked. “The first day on a new job can be kind of intense.”
“No problems,” I said. “Wow, this Godiva chocolate cheesecake looks great. So does the chocolate mousse cheesecake.”
“Remember that girl we went to City Walk with last year? The one who wore that dress with the stripes and the gold sandals?” Marcie asked. “She’s having a party on Saturday. We should definitely go.”
“I’ll think about it,” I said.
The waiter approached our table.
“I’ll have the chef salad,” Marcie said.
“I can’t decide between the Godiva chocolate cheesecake and the chocolate mousse cheesecake,” I said. “Bring me both.”
“Sure thing,” he said, and left.
“One of the girls in the insurance department came by my desk this morning asking when we can schedule a purse party,” Marcie said. “How about Friday night?”
“Maybe,” I said, and gazed across the restaurant. “Where’s that guy with my cheesecake?”
“What do you think of the new Enchantress evening bag on the cover of Marie Claire this month?” Marcie asked. “Isn’t it awesome?”
“I didn’t see it,” I said.
Marcie gave me her I’m-your-best-friend-and-I’m-worried look, and asked, “Haley, are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“I’m fine. Perfectly fine,” I said.
Marcie shook her head. “You’ve hardly been anywhere in weeks, and every time I mention scheduling a purse party, you don’t want to talk about it. That isn’t like you.”
I shrugged. “I just haven’t felt like doing much lately.”
“And you haven’t even noticed that gorgeous Enchantress bag,” Marcie said.
“It’s no big deal,” I said.
“It is a big deal. Haley, you need to get out and have some fun.” She narrowed her eyes at me and said, “Are you sure you’ve really dealt with your breakup with Ty?”
Dealing with a breakup could be handled in one of two ways. The first required numerous crying jags, beer, chocolate, and late-night conversations with friends whereby everyone agreed the guy was a scumbag, he wasn’t good enough for you, and they’re glad you broke up. The second way called for stalking your ex and your ex’s new girlfriend, spying on their every move, and telling everyone—including strangers standing next to you in checkout lines—that he was bad in bed, whether it was true or not.
Just because I hadn’t worked my way through either of those get-over-him processes didn’t mean I wasn’t, in fact, over Ty. Because I was. Really.
“Haley,” Marcie said, “you never even cried.”
I had cried over the breakup. Marcie just didn’t know it.
The day that Ty and I had broken up—our mutual decision—he’d left my apartment where he’d been living—long story. I’d just started thinking about tidying up the place when Jack Bishop pounded on my door, demanding to be let inside, shouting that I owed him, he’d decided what he wanted, and he wanted it right then.
Jack Bishop was a totally hot, gorgeous private detective I’d met at the Pike Warner law firm last year. We’d helped each other out with cases from time to time—but that was it. Nothing more ever went on between us—Ty was my official boyfriend, and I was a real stickler about that sort of thing—though that day when Jack came pounding on my door, all of that could have changed.
Except that when Jack walked into my apartment, I burst out crying. He held me and listened while I told him about the breakup, got me tissues, brought me beer, cuddled me against his chest while I sobbed some more, and carried me to my bed after I passed out on the couch.
So, even though Marcie didn’t know all the details, I’d actually dealt with the breakup right after it happened—which was why I was perfectly all right now.
“How about if I come over to your apartment tonight?” Marcie said. “We can hang out and catch up on things.”
“I’ll think about it and text you later,” I said.
The waiter brought Marcie’s salad and my two slices of cheesecake. I never could decide which I liked best, not even after I ate both of them.
“Text me later,” Marcie said, as we walked out of the restaurant. “Let me know about tonight.”
“I will,” I said, and headed back to work.
The rest of the afternoon stretched out before me with nothing to do—which was the beauty of the first day at a new job—so I settled behind my desk enjoying the prospect of spending several leisurely hours until quitting time rolled around, doing nothing, accomplishing nothing, contributing nothing, and getting paid for it. My serenity was shattered when Vanessa barged into my office.
“This is yours now,” she told me, and tossed a portfolio onto my desk. “Since you think you’re such a hot assistant planner, I’m turning this event over to you completely.”
I looked at the portfolio, then back at her.
“And don’t even think about asking me questions,” Vanessa said.
The only question that came to mind was to ask why she was always such a bitch.
I decided to hold off on that one for a while.
Vanessa glared at me for a few more seconds as if actually wishing I would ask her a question—which I didn’t, of course—then stormed out of my office.
So much for my quiet afternoon.
I opened the portfolio and saw that the event Vanessa had turned over to me was a party hosted by someone named Sheridan Adams. I flipped through the contracts and the notes in the folder.
It didn’t look like a huge deal to me; most parties weren’t. The only thing that caught my eye was the bakery, Lacy Cakes, that Vanessa had contracted for a specialty cake Sheridan Adams had requested.
Lacy Cakes was known as the bakery to the stars, catering to celebrities, the elite of Los Angeles, and wealthy Hollywood insiders. They didn’t do any advertising because they weren’t interested in turning out twenty-dollar birthday cakes that could be purchased just as easily at a grocery store. Word of mouth brought them plenty of customers willing to pay thousands for a unique, custom-made cake.
I knew this because my mom had ordered a cake from Lacy Cakes not long ago. Mom was a former beauty queen. Really. She lived with my dad in the house I grew up in, a small mansion located in La Cañada Flintridge that had been left to her by my great-grandmother, along with a trust fund.
Mom’s experience with Lacy Cakes hadn’t been great, so I decided I should visit the shop personally and make sure everything was on track for Sheridan Adams’s party—whomever she was. Besides, I had to do something until it was time to go home, plus I had on a fabulous suit and, really, more people should have the opportunity to see me in it.
I got my purse, grabbed the portfolio, and left the office.
Lacy Cakes was located on Burbank Boulevard near Kester Avenue, a few blocks
from Sepulveda Boulevard, in a strip mall along with a liquor store, a mail center, a nail shop, and a used bookstore. Not exactly the classiest location in Sherman Oaks, but most of their orders came in over the Internet, by telephone, or from event-planning companies like L.A. Affairs.
I parked in front of the big glass display window that had LACY CAKES painted on it, grabbed the portfolio, and left the car. A bell chimed when I walked through the door.
The interior of Lacy Cakes looked better than the neighborhood suggested. There were several seating groups with huge, overstuffed sofas and chairs, lots of dark wood, and varying shades of brown and green. Positioned around the room a dozen exquisite, extravagant cakes for every imaginable occasion were displayed. They looked fabulous.
I wanted to lay my face on each of them and eat my way down to the platter—but who wouldn’t?
I spent a few minutes salivating over the cakes, then headed to the curtained doorway in the back corner of the shop.
“Hello?” I called.
I got no response, but I figured everybody was probably elbow-deep in buttercream icing and couldn’t exactly come running.
I waited awhile longer.
“Hello?” I called. “Anyone here?”
Still nothing.
I didn’t have all day to stand around and wait, so I pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the back room.
I spotted buckets and vats of colorful icing and fondant—I’ve watched a lot of the Food Network lately—along with stainless steel ovens, several work tables, all sorts of gadgets and gizmos stored on shelves, and an office area in the corner with a desk, computer, fax machine and telephone. But no people.
Jeez, where was everybody?
I walked farther into the room.
I didn’t see anyone.
I expected the place to smell sweet.
It didn’t.
I got a weird feeling.
Then I spotted two legs sticking out from under one of the worktables. I circled around and saw a woman lying on the floor, a huge red stain covering the bib of her white apron.
Dead.
CHAPTER 3
“I should have known,” Detective Madison muttered when he walked into Lacy Cakes and spotted me.
I’m pretty sure he wasn’t glad to see me. I sure as heck wasn’t thrilled at seeing him.
Detective Madison and I had a long history—but not the good kind. He’d investigated several murders at which I was a casual bystander—I swear—but Madison never saw it that way. He’d tried numerous times to find me guilty of something but never had.
I don’t think that helped our relationship.
I hadn’t seen Madison in a while, but he hadn’t changed much. He had the belly of a sumo wrestler covered by a shirt with straining buttons, a tie with a gravy stain, and a sport coat his mom had probably bought for him when he’d graduated from the police academy thirty-some years ago.
I’d called 9-1-1 as soon as I’d found the body under the worktable and waited by the front door until cops showed up in their patrol cars. Detective Madison had arrived a few minutes later—I guess it was a slow day in L.A. murder-wise—but I didn’t see his partner, Detective Shuman.
Shuman, I liked. He liked me, too—in a strictly professional way, of course—since I had an official boyfriend—whom I am completely over now—and Shuman had a girlfriend he adored. I’d helped him out with several cases and he’d cut me some slack all those times Detective Madison had been convinced I’d murdered someone.
I gazed outside at the plain vanilla Crown Victoria that Detective Madison had rolled up in.
“Where’s Shuman?” I asked.
Madison drew back a little, as if I’d just asked whether he was a boxers or briefs man—ugh, gross!—then said, “Don’t go anywhere.”
He pushed past me and disappeared into the workroom.
I knew from experience that the investigation could take a while. I usually hid out—that is, waited—in a breakroom, but I hadn’t seen one here so instead I found a spot on the sofa nearest the window and sat down.
I considered calling L.A. Affairs to let them know I’d be delayed returning to the office, but I didn’t think reporting that I’d uncovered the murder of one of the company’s top vendors was the best thing to do on a first day of a new job.
I thought about Detective Shuman and wondered why he wasn’t working with Madison today. He could have been sick, or maybe he had a doctor or dentist appointment this afternoon. Maybe he was on vacation.
Another thought shot through my head—maybe he was on his honeymoon.
Oh my God, had Shuman gotten married?
Not that I wouldn’t be happy for him, if he had. Really.
I’d met his girlfriend, Amanda, one evening during my shift at Holt’s. They’d been dating for over a year now. The two of them had come in to buy a new stand mixer because Amanda intended to cook German food for Shuman. She was an attorney in the District Attorney’s office, one of those attractive, competent, smart people who was impossible to dislike.
I hate it when that happens.
I liked Amanda. Shuman was crazy about her.
Still, I got a kind of yucky feeling in my stomach thinking about the two of them on their honeymoon, all happy and in love—even though I was completely over my breakup with Ty. Completely over it. Completely.
There was a lot of commotion going on in the bakery—cops, investigators, and techs coming and going, radios squawking, raised and whispered voices—so I occupied myself by looking out the window. A lot was going on out there too, but pretty soon my eyes glazed over and I put the whole scene on “ignore.”
“Miss Randolph?” someone called. “Miss Randolph!”
Jarred back to reality—jeez, how long had I been zoned out?—I recognized Detective Madison’s voice. He was standing in front of me, doing serious cop face.
“Do you want to explain what happened here?” he asked, as if daring me to answer.
I’d been through this several times before with Madison, as well as other homicide detectives and, oh yeah, a couple of FBI agents—long story—so I knew the less I said, the better—for me, anyway. Still, I had absolutely nothing to do with that woman’s death, whomever she was. I’d simply had the misfortune of walking in and finding her body. That was it. And no way could Madison spin it into anything more.
“I came by to check on a cake for one of my clients,” I told him. “I’m working at L.A. Affairs now. It’s an upscale event-planning company that handles high-profile events for an exclusive, elite clientele.”
“And they hired you?” he said, with a definite sneer in his voice.
Obviously, Detective Madison had no appreciation for the totally fabulous, fully accessorized business suit I had on, which I had expertly styled with my awesome Louis Vuitton satchel.
His eyes narrowed. “Since when?”
“Today,” I said. “Today is my first day.”
“Your very first day on a new job and they send you out on something like this?” he asked.
I saw no reason to tell Madison that I’d left the office without actually informing anyone I was leaving.
He seemed to pick up on it, anyway.
“You did tell your new supervisor you were leaving, didn’t you?” he asked.
“Well, actually—”
“So you sneaked away,” he concluded.
Not exactly. Okay, maybe. Kind of.
“You came here to talk to Lacy Hobbs, the dead woman, didn’t you,” Madison said.
I gasped. The woman lying dead in the workroom was Lacy Hobbs?
Oh, crap.
“Don’t deny it, Miss Randolph,” Madison said. “I looked at her telephone message book. Your name was in it, followed by the word ‘complaint.’ ”
Oh my God. I’d called Lacy because my mom had gone totally berserk over the cake she’d ordered and hated. But I couldn’t tell Madison. No way was I throwing Mom out in front of that bus.
“
You had it in for Lacy Hobbs, didn’t you?” Madison said.
“No, of course not,” I told him.
“So you got yourself a job that gave you an excuse to come here and made it look like you had a legitimate reason for being here,” Madison concluded. “You did that so you could murder Lacy Hobbs.”
“I didn’t—”
“No one was here. You had the entire bakery to yourself,” he said.
Were those cakes sitting around the bakery real?
“You knew the victim. You had a dispute with her—a well-documented dispute,” Madison said.
How long had they been on display?
“You sneaked away from your job, came here when no one else was around, and settled the score with her—permanently,” he went on.
Would anyone notice if I ate a chunk out of the back—of each of them?
Detective Madison glared at me, as if he actually expected me to confess to the murder.
“Don’t leave town,” he told me, and stomped away.
Like I was going somewhere—my honeymoon, maybe? I didn’t have a fiancé, a serious boyfriend, not even a kind-of boyfriend, because I’d broken up with my official boyfriend—which I was perfectly all right with. Really.
I left the bakery.
I loved my apartment. I’d spent tons of money and maxed out an impressive number of credit cards to decorate it just the way I wanted. It was situated in an upscale complex in Santa Clarita just off the 14 freeway, allowing for a quick dash to Los Angeles—as long as traffic wasn’t slowed to a crawl, which could happen without rhyme or reason at most any time of the day or night. Still, I loved it there.
I swung into my usual parking space and got out of my Honda. As first days went, this one hadn’t been so great, but at least it was over and I was still employed. I headed for the staircase that led to my second-story apartment, pretty sure I could hear my emergency package of Oreos calling to me from my kitchen cabinet, when someone jumped out of a car parked nearby.
Evening Bags and Executions Page 2
