I was pretty sure I’d missed something.
“How is everything coming?” she asked.
I had no idea what she was talking about, so what could I say but, “Great.”
“Excellent,” Jeanette said. “It’s a big project.”
I was involved in a big project?
“Thank you for taking this on,” Jeanette said.
I’d agreed to take something on? In violation of my own personal say-no-to-everything policy? Yikes! When had I done that?
Oh my God. It must have been while I was drifting through life in my breakup fog.
“Let’s get out there and have a successful evening,” Jeanette called, our cue that the meeting was adjourned.
I made my way out of the training room and down the hallway to the sales floor. Sandy and Bella, my Holt’s BFFs, eased up beside me.
Sandy was young, red-haired, perky, and a complete idiot when it came to her loser boyfriend. He was a tattoo artist who treated her like crap. She was always making excuses for him, though I could never figure out why.
Bella, ebony to my ivory, was about my age, tall, with a flair for hair styling. She worked at Holt’s to save money for beauty school with the intention of becoming hairdresser to the stars. In the meantime, she practiced on her own hair. She seemed to have jumped onboard Jeanette’s fall theme because tonight she’d fashioned her hair into a pumpkin atop her head—or maybe it was a harvest moon. Hard to tell since everything had gone 3D now.
“I still can’t believe Holt’s is putting on a fashion show,” Sandy said.
Wow, that was a pretty lame idea, all right.
“Using only Holt’s clothing,” Sandy said, shaking her head.
Yikes!
“The whole thing is b.s.,” Bella said.
“It might be fun,” Sandy said.
She had an annoying way of always finding the good in everything.
“Fun would be a day off work with pay,” Bella told her.
“It’s a big deal,” Sandy said. “A fashion show in every store, all on the same day. Maybe the clothes for the new fall line will be nice. They’re all hidden in the stock room. Have you sneaked a peek?”
“I didn’t want to go blind,” Bella grumbled.
“The prizes look really cool,” Sandy said.
“Only the prizes for the store that sells the most clothes the day of the show,” Bella pointed out.
“We’ll win, won’t we, Haley?” Sandy asked.
I got a weird feeling.
“Haley is only the in-store fashion show coordinator,” Bella told her. “Not a miracle worker.”
“But Haley has a great eye for fashion,” Sandy insisted.
“Nothing in this store can be called fashion,” Bella said, then turned to me. “No offense, Haley, but not even you can come up with fifteen different looks using only Holt’s clothing and accessories, send them down the runway, and make them look so good that customers in the audience will buy enough of them to make our store win the contest.”
Bella might have kept talking. Sandy might have, too. I stopped listening.
Oh my God. This must have been what Jeanette said I’d agreed to take on. I was heading up a Holt’s fashion show? An actual audience would see it? The store employees were depending on me to win first place—using only Holt’s so-called fashion line?
How could I pull that off? Nobody could pull it off.
I couldn’t listen to any more of this. If another sentence with the words “fashion” and “Holt’s” in it was spoken, surely it would cause gridlock in the space–time continuum and the entire planet would implode.
Somehow I had to figure a way to get out of heading up this fashion show, and the best place to do that was the breakroom. I desperately needed a Snickers bar—and some M&M’s. Maybe a Kit Kat—or two. And a side of Reese’s Pieces.
I spun around, intent on making an all-out dash to the breakroom, and ran straight into Detective Madison.
Oh, crap.
What was he doing here? Had he come up with some evidence in Lacy Hobbs’s murder, twisted it to suit his investigation, and showed up to arrest me?
Oh my God, if that happened my life would be over.
But at least I wouldn’t have to head up the fashion show.
Then I noticed that Madison didn’t have that gleeful I’m-going-to-get-you look in his eyes I usually saw. It was more like an I-wish-I-didn’t-have-to-be-here look.
I got a yucky feeling in my stomach.
“You called Detective Shuman today,” Madison said.
My yucky feeling got yuckier.
“Don’t bother calling him again,” he said.
No. No, no, no. This couldn’t mean something had happened to Shuman. It couldn’t.
“What—what happened?” I asked. “Is he okay?”
“No. He’s not okay.”
I’m pretty sure my heart skipped a beat. But before I could ask anything, Madison went on.
“Don’t try to call Amanda Payton,” he said.
How had Madison known I’d attempted to contact Amanda today? Someone in the District Attorney’s office must have told him. But why?
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Detective Madison hesitated, as if it took some effort to speak, then said, “Shuman is on administrative leave.”
Okay, I was stunned. Detective Shuman was a good cop—a great cop. I couldn’t imagine him ever doing anything that would get him suspended from the force.
Madison didn’t give me a chance to ask.
“It’s for his own good,” he said. “Believe me, it’s better for everybody that he doesn’t have his shield and service weapon.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Detective Madison drew a breath and let it out slowly, then said, “Four nights ago Amanda Payton was murdered. A single gunshot to the back of the head.”
I felt like he’d punched me in the stomach. Breath went out of me. I couldn’t think, couldn’t comprehend what he’d said.
“She—she was murdered?” I managed to ask.
Detective Madison shook his head.
“She was executed.”
CHAPTER 6
Holmby Hills was part of L.A.’s Golden Triangle, along with Bel Air and Beverly Hills. Back in the day, the developers decided underground utilities, tree-lined streets, and large lots for multimillion-dollar homes would ensure seclusion and exclusivity for anyone who could afford to live there. It had made unlikely neighbors out of heiresses and old-money industrialists, rock stars and Hollywood insiders—some of them living on the same street as the Playboy mansion.
I exited the 405 freeway on Sunset Boulevard and headed east. When I’d gotten to the office this morning I’d decided that if I was going to keep this job—and I was definitely keeping this job—I absolutely had to meet Sheridan Adams and try to figure out how I was possibly going to pull off this Beatles-themed party of hers—without making it look like that was the purpose of my visit, of course.
I’d made an appointment with her after mentioning Vanessa Lord’s name, which, apparently, even though I was a total stranger, assured Sheridan I wasn’t some psycho attempting to gain entrance to her home and steal something.
Sheridan had a lot of things worth stealing, according to the articles I’d read on the Internet, though how a burglar would find his way through what must have been a maze of rooms to get to the good stuff, I had no idea.
I mean, really, a house that had a flower-cutting room, a humidity-controlled silver storage room, a gift-wrapping room, a doll room, along with the umpteen other rooms, would surely require a GPS unit to navigate.
Sunset Boulevard wound through the hills lined with fabulous homes set on equally fabulous grounds. I passed the entrance to Bel Air and a zillion memories flashed in my mind.
Ty’s grandmother, Ada, lives in Bel Air.
She’s a hoot. We’d spent a lot of time together in Europe during what was supposed to be a romantic getaw
ay with Ty. He worked for most of the trip—Ty always worked—so thank goodness Ada was there and I’d had someone to shop with.
I wondered if Ada knew Ty and I had broken up.
That little empty spot in my belly ached again at the thought of Ty. I pushed it away. Marcie was right. Ty and I had broken up. And that was that.
Then Shuman zoomed into my head, and that little empty spot throbbed in a whole different way. His girlfriend had been killed. I could hardly believe Amanda was gone, and I could only imagine how devastated Shuman was.
But, according to what Detective Madison had told me, Shuman wasn’t content to sit at home and mourn her loss. The LAPD didn’t take away a detective’s shield and gun for no reason. Shuman must have been investigating Amanda’s murder on his own.
I’d checked the Internet last night after I’d gotten home, hoping to find some info about Amanda’s death, but I didn’t discover anything. The District Attorney’s office had put a lid on the incident, apparently. I’d called Shuman before I went to bed, then again this morning, but so far I hadn’t heard from him.
I drove past the UCLA campus, then turned onto Beverly Glen Boulevard. I really wanted to talk to Shuman. I had to find out how he was holding up, how he was managing without Amanda.
Ty popped back into my head again, and that little ache in my belly got worse. I couldn’t imagine what I’d do if something happened to Ty. For a few crazy seconds I wanted to whip my Honda around, head downtown to his office, throw my arms around him, and make sure he was okay.
I don’t know what I’d do if he actually died. It was hard enough thinking he was engaged—to Sarah Covington, of all people.
I hate her.
I turned onto Wyton Drive, then made a quick right onto Mapleton. The streets here were narrow and winding, some of them steep, most of them laid out in a pattern that made no sense, just followed the slope of the hills. Residents loved their privacy. Towering trees and thick shrubs blocked out all but an occasional glimpse of a tennis court or a roofline. Massive walls and heavy gates discouraged the paparazzi, stalkers, and star-gazing tourists.
I swung into the driveway of the Adams home—mansion, actually—and announced my arrival at the call box. The gate rolled back. I parked in the circular drive and got out.
The house was roughly the size of the Superdome, a white behemoth that looked like maybe its architect had spent a lot of time in Greece. According to the article I’d found online this morning, the estate sat on several acres of manicured lawns. It had two pools, a grotto, a tennis court, a koi pond, fountains, pergolas, and more statues than the ancient Chinese Terra Cotta Warriors and Horses museum exhibit.
I’d gone with one of my black business suits this morning and teamed it with Jimmy Choo pumps, and a cherry red Marc Jacobs carryall, a take-me-seriously look I hoped would assure Sheridan Adams that I had everything under control for her party. I didn’t, of course, so all the more reason to look as if I did.
Isn’t that what fashion is all about?
I channeled my mom’s I’m-better-than-you expression and rang the doorbell, and a servant in a white uniform let me into the foyer, which had roughly the same square footage as a Costco store. She directed me to a sitting room—my entire apartment would have fit inside it—and told me Mrs. Adams would be with me shortly. I pulled out my cell phone, took pictures, and sent them to Marcie.
“Tell me nothing is wrong.”
Sheridan Adams, whom I recognized from this morning’s Internet search, sailed into the room. The word “sailed” popped into my head because she had on what appeared to be an old-school naval uniform—white bell-bottom pants, a blue and white striped top, sneakers, and a canvas bucket hat.
I guess I shouldn’t complain about how my mom dressed at home.
The article I’d read gave Sheridan’s age as forty-two, but I was pretty sure she’d already crossed over into you’re-seriously-old territory. She was rail thin, and all that time spent in the tanning booth had turned on her, leaving her with skin the texture of a circus elephant. Her hair was a number of shades of blond and totally fried. It stuck straight out, forming a nest, of sorts, for her hat to sit on, so I guess it was working for her.
Since she had so much money, she seemed eccentric rather than like that crazy aunt nobody ever talked about.
“Tell me,” Sheridan insisted.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. I tried for my you-can-trust-me voice, but I don’t think I pulled it off.
“Something’s wrong,” she insisted. “Muriel? Muriel?”
Sheridan turned in a circle, then shouted, “Muriel!”
“I’m right here, Mrs. Adams,” a young woman said as she rushed into the room juggling an iPad, a cell phone, and a day planner. She was young, with short, dark, sensible hair and glasses that made me think of Velma in the Scooby-Doo cartoons, though I doubted she was having as much fun as the Mystery, Inc. gang.
Muriel gave me a quick smile. “Hi, I’m Mrs. Adams’s personal assistant,”
I introduced myself and said, “Nothing’s wrong.”
“I figured that,” she said quietly.
“Actually, that’s why I’m here, Mrs. Adams,” I said, using my there’s-nothing-to-be-alarmed-about voice. “I’m working closely with Vanessa on your event and want to assure you of absolute continuity in the preparation and execution of your plans.”
Okay, that was a total lie, but I didn’t want her calling L.A. Affairs and complaining about me.
“What happened to—?” Sheridan pointed at Muriel.
“Jewel,” she said.
“Jewel,” Sheridan said. “She was Vanessa’s assistant. I liked her. Where is she?”
I figured that Jewel was so fearful of having to work for Vanessa again, she was probably hiding in an abandoned bomb shelter somewhere in the Mojave Desert.
“Unfortunately, Jewel had some personal issues she had to deal with,” I said. “The loss of one person will have absolutely no bearing on the success of any event. Everyone at the firm is up-to-speed on every event. That’s how we do things at L.A. Affairs.”
I had no idea how they did things at L.A. Affairs, but this sounded good.
Sheridan didn’t look assured.
“I want to make certain you truly understand and appreciate the essence of this event,” she said.
It was a Beatles-themed party. How much essence was involved?
“I want you to work with—” Sheridan pointed at Muriel.
“Annie and Liz,” she said.
“Annie and Liz,” Sheridan repeated. “They’re experts on the Beatles.”
I didn’t need two experts on the Beatles to arrange for a caterer, but I didn’t say so.
“I’ll give you their contact info,” Muriel said to me.
Sheridan headed for the door, then stopped and turned back. “Oh, and I want those people from the Beatles show in Las Vegas to do their act at the party.”
Yikes! She wanted me to arrange for the world-renowned Cirque du Soleil dancers and acrobats to perform?
“Have them do the ‘Lady Madonna’ number,” Sheridan said. “I love that one.”
Jeez, how was I suppose to arrange that? I had no idea if the Cirque du Soleil even did private shows. So what could I say but, “Sure.”
Sheridan left. Muriel was typing furiously into her iPad. I didn’t want to look like I wasn’t taking things seriously, so I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message to Marcie asking about scheduling another purse party.
“I’ll send you Annie and Liz’s number,” Muriel said. We exchanged info, then she asked, “Would you like to see the memorabilia?”
I must have looked as if I didn’t know what she was talking about—because, really, I didn’t—so she said, “The Beatles memorabilia that’s being auctioned off at the party. The proceeds are going to The Adams Foundation.”
“Yeah, that would be great,” I said.
We walked across the foyer, down a hallway, up some stairs
, and through another corridor. The beige carpet was thick under my Jimmy Choos. Framed prints and paintings hung on the walls. The only sound was the soft swish of cool air through the vents.
We turned right down yet another hallway, and Muriel gestured to the room on our left.
“That’s the library,” she said. “One of them.”
I glanced inside and saw floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes and several oversized chairs.
We moved on and Muriel pointed again. “That’s the doll room.”
Hundreds of glass-eyed dolls stared at me, some in toy baby cribs, others in high chairs or seated at tiny tables, most packed together on custom-made shelves.
I gasped. Yikes!
“Yeah, I know,” Muriel said. “They give me the creeps, too.”
We headed down the hallway once more, and just as I was thinking I should have left a trail of bread crumbs if I had any hope of seeing daylight again, Muriel stopped in another doorway and pointed into a room.
“The whatever room,” she said.
“Wow,” I said, walking inside.
The room was large with built-in mahogany cabinets and shelves; a desk with a computer sat in one corner. A single window overlooked the rear lawn. A team of gardeners was clipping a tall hedge that camouflaged what I figured was an access road to the service wing, judging from the vans from a cleaning service and a plumber I spotted there. One of the pools—complete with a pool house—was nearby, and beyond that was the tennis court.
The shelves held dozens of Beatles items—lunch boxes, notebooks, book covers, all with pictures of the Fab Four on them. There were record albums, posters, art sets, bobbleheads, photos, and a model yellow submarine, some still in their original packaging.
“Mrs. Adams has been working for months to acquire them,” Muriel said.
“Are these original?” I asked.
“All rare, and in mint condition,” Muriel said.
Memorabilia collectors were fanatic about their favorites—Star Wars, comic books, superheroes, whatever—and would pay any price to own a desirable piece.
“These things must be worth a fortune,” I said.
“Mrs. Adams expects to raise over a hundred grand,” she said.
Evening Bags and Executions Page 5
