I sure didn’t, and I really hoped Eleanor and Rigby weren’t going to quiz me on whatever it was.
“So what happened?” I asked.
“Something stupid,” Darren said, and waved his hand as if he could wipe away whatever it was that had happened. “Belinda got tickets to some concert—won them in a radio station contest, or something—and took her boyfriend. Lacy went through the roof. They never spoke again.”
Wow, that must have been an awesome concert.
“But Belinda moved to Los Angeles, like Lacy did?” I asked. “Why would she do that if they weren’t friends anymore?”
“How the heck should I know?” Darren said, and flung both arms into the air. He sighed heavily. “All I know is that I’ve got another mess to clean up—because of Lacy.”
“You could probably use some money,” I said, as delicately as I can ever say anything. “The cake I need costs twelve thousand dollars, so if you—”
“Twelve grand?” Darren’s eyes flew open. “For a cake?”
“Actually, that’s probably one of the least expensive cakes Lacy made,” I said. “Most of them were way more than that.”
Darren muttered under his breath and shook his head. “Lacy was making that kind of money? And she couldn’t send anything home to our parents? Or to me for taking care of them? Not one red cent?”
He fumed for a few more minutes, and, really, I couldn’t blame him.
“I can’t turn down that kind of cash,” Darren said, though it didn’t seem to please him in the least. “Tell that girl—what’s her name?—that girl at the shop to go ahead with it.”
“I’ll let her know,” I said.
“But I don’t know what I’m going to do with the business,” Darren said, his anger rising again. “So don’t let her think this means she can keep working there. She already went ahead with a couple of orders without discussing them with me. You ask me, she’s awful anxious to take over the place herself.”
“Maybe she just needs a job,” I said, remembering what she’d told me about leaving her previous employer.
Darren shook his head. “She wants to run it, and now that you’re telling me the kind of money it brings in, I can see why. You ask me, it’s suspicious. Makes me wonder.”
It made me wonder, too. Paige claimed she’d been hired away from Fairy Land Bake Shoppe by Lacy, but how did I know if that was true? Had she seen a better opportunity at Lacy Cakes and gone for it? Had her ambition taken her further—all the way to murder?
Darren went back into his motel room and slammed the door.
I got in my Honda and left.
Since the Lacy Cakes bakery was on my way to the office—and would delay my actual arrival—I decided I’d stop in and give Paige the go-ahead for the Beatles cake Sheridan Adams wanted for her party. I parked near the entrance to the alley, grabbed the portfolio I’d brought with me from L.A. Affairs, and headed toward the rear door of the bakery.
My cell phone rang. Muriel’s name appeared on the caller I.D. screen.
I froze. Oh my God, was she calling to tell me that Eleanor and Rigby had reported to Sheridan that I’d failed their Beatles trivia quiz and that I was fired? This was exactly the sort of thing someone like Sheridan would push off on her personal assistant.
Since I’m not big on suspense, I answered.
“Hi, Haley,” Muriel said. “Listen, I hate to spring this on you so close to the party, but Mrs. Adams has decided she wants gift bags for all her guests.”
“All two hundred of them?” I asked.
“Custom-made,” Muriel said.
Where the heck was I supposed to get custom-made gift bags?
“Something that reflects the essence of the Beatles.”
The Beatles had an essence?
“And she wants them filled with special, unique items,” Muriel said.
Now I kind of wish she’d fired me.
Muriel seemed to read my these-people-have-way-too-much-money thoughts and said, “I’ll e-mail you the details. Call me if you have any questions.”
“I’ll get it handled,” I said.
Okay, I had no idea how I was going to pull this off, but what else could I say?
“Send me the contract amendment and I’ll have her sign it,” Muriel said, and we hung up.
I flipped open the portfolio and got the name and e-mail address of the woman in the L.A. Affairs’ legal department who’d drawn up Sheridan’s original contract. I sent her a message about the gift bags.
Lucky for me, Jewel, Vanessa’s former assistant—who was probably working under an assumed name at a Taco Bell drive-through somewhere in Montana—had done a great job setting everything up, so all I had to do was pull off the gift bags and follow up on everything else—provided, of course, that Sheridan Adams wouldn’t make any more requests for additions to her party.
I tucked my phone away, then closed the portfolio and went through the Lacy Cakes back door. Paige was still working on the cake—and yes, now I could see that it was definitely a frog, although why anyone would want a cake shaped like a frog I couldn’t imagine. A guy was busy at the huge mixer whipping up cake batter. We exchanged head nods.
“Hey, girl, come on in,” Paige called.
Darren’s comment that Paige seemed too anxious to take over Lacy Cakes flashed in my mind. She seemed happy and carefree, yet conscientious enough to fill the orders Lacy had accepted and not let her customers down.
But looks were deceiving. I’d been fooled by appearances in the past.
I’m sure all the great detectives had made that mistake. Pretty sure.
“I talked to Darren about the cake,” I said, joining her at the worktable. “He said to go ahead with it.”
“Awesome,” Paige said, and gave a little fist pump.
I opened the portfolio and pulled out L.A. Affairs’ copy of the info on Sheridan Adams’s cake that had been given to Lacy and was now in the possession of the LAPD along with all the other stuff they’d taken from the bakery as evidence. The cake was supposed to be shaped like a six-foot-long submarine.
“She wants it to be yellow,” I told Paige.
“Yeah, sure. Off their Yellow Submarine album,” she said, bobbing and swaying as if the tune was playing in her head. “One of their best songs in, like, the whole world is on that album.”
I wasn’t in the mood for another Beatles quiz.
“You’re sure you can do this cake?” I asked. “Sheridan Adams is a huge deal.”
“Oh, yeah, no problem,” Paige said. “Because all you need is love. Right?”
I had no idea what she was talking about.
“So Darren’s keeping the bakery open, huh?” Paige asked.
I didn’t think that telling Paige her future at Lacy Cakes didn’t look so hot would benefit anyone—especially me.
“He hasn’t decided anything yet,” I said.
Yeah, okay, that was a kind-of lie, but I needed that cake and I needed it to look perfect, and it absolutely had to be delivered on time, so what else could I say?
“I’ll photocopy all this stuff and bring it back,” I said. I tucked the papers into the folder again and left.
I headed back to L.A. Affairs—it was late and I didn’t want to miss my lunch hour—thinking about Darren, Belinda, and Paige. So far, they were my only suspects in Lacy’s murder and, really, none of them had much of a motive—that I’d uncovered, anyway.
Then I remembered the owner of Fairy Land Bake Shoppe who’d been mad about losing Paige to Lacy. I wondered if he was mad enough to kill.
Then my mom flashed in my head. She’d been unhappy with the cake Lacy had made for a charity event she was involved with—Mom had told me what it was, but honestly I wasn’t listening. She’d been so upset about the way the cake had turned out, I’d had to drive over to try to calm her down.
True, Mom was a perfectionist and a demanding customer, but the charity had forked out a ton of money for the cake, and while Lacy Cakes was
big on presentation, the thing ought to be edible. It wasn’t.
I figured that if Mom’s experience with Lacy Cakes hadn’t gone so well, maybe hers wasn’t the only one.
As I waited for the traffic signal to change at Sepulveda Boulevard, I put my Bluetooth in my ear and called her.
“I hope this means you’ve found me a housekeeper,” Mom said when she picked up.
“I need to ask you about that cake you got from the Lacy Cakes bakery,” I said.
Sometimes, if I hit her with a topic that’s all about her, she doesn’t notice that I’ve ignored her comment.
“Oh, that cake!”
Mom went into what everyone in the family referred to as The Great Cake Tirade that we’d all heard a couple of dozen times already. I tuned her out with practiced ease. By the time I pulled into the parking garage she took a breath. I jumped in.
“So, Mom, do you know of anyone else who wasn’t pleased with their cake?” I asked.
If anyone would have this info, it would be Mom. For a reason I’ve never understood, women always confide in her. Among her former beauty queen, old-money, and society friends, she’s considered warm—which says a lot about her circle of friends.
“I most certainly do,” Mom said. “Sasha Gibson’s daughter’s wedding was ruined by Lacy Cakes.”
I’m not exactly sure how a cake can ruin an entire wedding, but I didn’t say so.
“Can you get me the daughter’s phone number?” I asked.
“Are you planning a class action suit against Lacy Cakes?” Mom asked.
I’m pretty sure Mom thinks I still work for the Pike Warner law firm. She also thinks I have my bachelor’s degree, and I’m certain she thinks Ty and I are still dating.
Jeez, I wish I could stop thinking about Ty.
“Yeah, Mom, that’s it,” I said.
“I’ll call you back.” Mom hung up.
I parked and took the elevator up to the third floor. My phone rang as I walked through the door of L.A. Affairs, giving me the perfect opportunity to ignore Mindy when she shouted, “Are you ready to party?” at me.
“I just spoke with Sasha and got all the information on her daughter,” Mom said when I answered. “I just sent you a text.”
“Great, Mom, I’ll call her right away,” I said.
“Unfortunately, you can’t reach her,” Mom said. “She was so distraught over everything she went to South America.”
“South America?” I might have said that louder than I meant to, but jeez, how upset can you be over a cake?
“Yes, Sasha was surprised, too,” Mom said. “It was all quite sudden. Her daughter just packed a bag and left.”
I got a weird feeling.
“When was this?” I asked.
“A few days ago,” Mom said.
Lacy Hobbs was murdered a few days ago.
“Now, about this lawsuit,” Mom said. “When are you—”
“Sorry, Mom, you’re breaking—”
I hung up—yeah, I know that’s not a nice thing to do to your mom, but I had stuff to take care of.
I read the text she’d sent me as I went into my office. I sat down at my desk, accessed the Internet on my computer, and found an article from last spring in one of the local magazines that featured the runaway bride, Heather Gibson; her groom, Andrew Pritchard; and several other socially prominent couples discussing what they’d worn for their engagement photos.
Ty popped into my head. Would he and Sarah Covington be featured in one of these articles?
I forced the image out of my head.
We’d broken up—and I didn’t even know for sure that it was Ty to whom Sarah was engaged—and that was that.
I focused my thoughts on my immediate problem. Sasha’s daughter might have up and vanished, but I could still get all the info I needed—provided, of course that Jack Bishop was still speaking to me.
CHAPTER 10
“It’s b.s.,” Bella said. “You ask me, it’s b.s.”
We were in the Holt’s employee breakroom watching TV and eating snacks from the vending machines—okay, it was mostly me eating the snacks—and waiting for the last hour of our can-our-lives-get-any-worse shift to end. Bella was fixated on the poster on the wall extolling the exciting details of the upcoming Holt’s fashion show. Since I was in charge of the event, I was trying to ignore it.
“They’re calling it a contest,” Bella grumbled. “How are we supposed to win anything? It all comes down to how many customers actually show up for the so-called fashion show, then pony up their money to buy something.”
“It sounds like a crappy contest to me,” I said, and picked up my second bag of M&M’s.
In fact, all of Holt’s contests were crappy, in my opinion. I figured that if we won anything better than the beach towel all the store employees had gotten in the last contest, we could count ourselves lucky.
“At least you’ll get something good, if our store wins,” Bella said.
The last prize Holt’s had awarded me was a totally lame sewing machine, so I wasn’t at all interested in hearing about the grand prize in this contest.
Besides, all of the Holt’s employee contests were conceived and forced upon us by Sarah Covington.
I hate her.
And now she was engaged to Ty—maybe.
I ripped the end off of the M&M’s bag and dumped them into my mouth.
But that’s okay because Ty and I broke up.
I still hate Sarah Covington, of course.
“Hey, look at that,” Bella said, and pointed to the television.
I glanced up to see a commercial for an afternoon soap opera. I knew it was a soap opera because overly dramatic music was playing and the actors were all delivering their lines as if they were newscasters reporting that a meteor was about to crash into Earth, ending all life on our planet.
“That’s her,” Bella said. “Look. It’s her.”
I watched as the camera zoomed in on a blond actress standing beside a fake fireplace, looking end-of-Earth worried.
“Oh my God, it is her,” I realized.
She was that girl who used to work here and always stunk up the breakroom with those microwavable diet meals. She’d lost a hundred pounds, or something, swapped her glasses for contacts, gone blond, and quit Holt’s. I’d seen her modeling in print ads, then doing a shampoo commercial. And now she was on a soap opera?
“I hate her,” Bella said.
I hated her too, of course.
“I’m out of here.” Bella shoved out of her chair, dumped her trash, and headed back to the sales floor. I finished off another bag of M&M’s, and followed.
I’d been assigned to the boys clothing department tonight—which was the all-time most boring department in retail—and I couldn’t face my final hour in the store sizing Batman briefs and Phineas and Ferb pajamas. I went into the stock room instead.
I figured that since I hadn’t yet come up with a good excuse for ditching my duties as Holt’s fashion show coordinator, I may as well take advantage of the situation.
The stock room was really cool. There were towering shelving units stuffed absolutely full of all kinds of fresh, new merchandise, and miles of racks that held plastic-wrapped hanging garments—although the mannequin farm by the janitor’s closet was kind of creepy.
During the day, the truck team was here unloading the new merchandise from the big rigs backed up to the loading dock, and employees were busy hauling it onto the sales floor on U-boats and Z-rails, or placing it in its designated location on either the first or second floor of the stock room. In the evening few employees had reason to come back here. It was quiet except for the Holt’s music track and an occasional announcement over the P.A. system.
I wound my way to the rear of the stock room near the big roll-up doors where the clothing for the Holt’s fashion show had been strategically placed. There were dozens of big brown boxes that held the folded garments and accessories. The hanging items were not only wrapped
in plastic but covered in tarps. Apparently, Holt’s wanted to surprise the employees with the new line on the day of the fashion show.
Nobody was looking forward to that surprise.
A few minutes passed while I gathered my courage—and killed a little more of my shift—then lifted the tarp.
Yikes!
I jumped back. Oh my God, this stuff was horrible—no, it was beyond horrible. It was hideous—no, it was beyond hideous, whatever that was.
How the heck was I supposed to pull off a fashion show? Corporate had hired models—but how was I going to force them into these garments and make them walk down the runway?
I drew in a big breath, trying to calm myself. Just as well I wasn’t interested in winning the fashion show coordinator’s prize—whatever it was.
I headed back across the stock room—the boys department didn’t seem so bad right now—then came to my senses and trotted up the big concrete staircase to the second floor. I didn’t like coming up here—long story—but I had some personal business to attend to.
I pulled my cell phone from my back pocket—we’re not supposed to keep our phones on us, but oh well—and called Shuman. I hadn’t heard from him and he’d been on my mind since I saw him at Starbucks. I wanted to find out if the LAPD had made any progress in Amanda’s murder, but mostly I wanted to see how Shuman was holding up. I’d never met his family or his friends, so I didn’t know anyone to ask, and I sure as heck wasn’t going to call Detective Madison.
Shuman’s voicemail picked up. I didn’t know if that meant he wasn’t up to talking to me or if something else was going on. Like maybe, despite being relieved of his official duties, he was out looking for Amanda’s killer himself.
Can’t say that I blame him.
I left a message, then hung up and called Marcie. We talked until it was time for my shift to end—which, I know, was kind of bad, but I needed time to recover from looking directly at those awful fashion show clothes.
Evening Bags and Executions Page 8
