Evening Bags and Executions

by Dorothy Howell

  Probably one of his friends at the LAPD was feeding him info on the sly, which I’m sure the department would not have liked. I doubted it was Detective Madison.

  “It wasn’t just some random . . .” Shuman’s voice trailed off, and he pressed his palm against his forehead and turned away.

  My heart ached for him. I’d known he and Amanda were crazy about each other, but I had no idea Shuman was this much in love with her.

  I laid my hand on his forearm and he turned back to me. He drew a heavy breath and shook his head.

  “I’m never going to get over this,” he said softly.

  “I know,” I said because, really, I didn’t see how he could—or how anybody could recover from losing someone they cared so much about, especially in such a violent way.

  Shuman gazed at me for a moment, and I figured he appreciated that I hadn’t tried to cheer him up, or tell him that Amanda was in a better place, or that everything would be all right soon.

  “I’ve got to go,” he said, and stood up.

  I rose from my chair and gathered my things.

  “Let me know what’s happening,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

  He moved away, but I touched his shoulder and he stopped.

  “Anything,” I said.

  Shuman nodded, grabbed his coffee, and left.

  I parked near the end of the alley that ran behind Lacy Cakes and the other businesses in the strip mall and got out of my Honda. A garbage truck maneuvered past a janitorial service van, and a couple of women in white coats stood near the back door of the nail shop having a smoke.

  “Hello?” I called, as I stepped inside the workroom.

  The same guy I’d seen on my last visit was busy at the ovens. We exchanged another nod.

  Paige stood at one of the worktables alongside a woman I’d never seen. Easily, she was in her sixties. Her complexion was sallow and she was rail thin. Of course, the clothing she wore didn’t do much to help her appearance—navy blue polyester pants with an elastic waist, a flowered button-up shirt, and sneakers. I figured the woman was Belinda Giles, cousin of Darren and Lacy.

  I flashed on Lacy’s dead body lying on the workroom floor, her hair perfectly styled, her makeup expertly applied, her nails freshly manicured.

  It appeared that life hadn’t been as good to Belinda as it had to Lacy.

  No wonder she wanted to keep the bakery operating.

  “Hey, girl, come on in,” Paige called when she saw me. She gestured to the three-tier wedding cake on the worktable in front of her. “The bride asked for a rainbow. What do you think?”

  Yikes! It was a rainbow, all right.

  Six different colors arched up the three tiers, then down the other side. It sure as heck wasn’t something I would want to look at for decades to come in my wedding pictures, but it was okay. Paige had actually done a good job of making something that could have been truly ugly into something nice.

  I wondered what kind of wedding cake Sarah Covington would want.

  I hate her.

  And I hate that I keep thinking about her.

  “It’s kind of cool,” I said.

  “I sent the bride and her mom a picture,” Paige said, then gave me a can-you-believe-it smile. “They loved it.”

  The other woman stepped around Paige and offered her hand.

  “Hi, I’m Belinda Giles,” she said.

  I took her hand; it was rough and calloused. The woman definitely needed a good moisturizer.

  I introduced myself and opened the portfolio I’d brought with me from L.A. Affairs.

  “Here’s all the info on the cake I need,” I said, and passed to Paige the spec sheet I’d promised to photocopy.

  She took a quick glance and said, “Cool. I can do this. No problem.”

  I was really digging Paige’s positive attitude, and having something go smoothly for this party would be a real plus for me. I sure as heck could use a win right now.

  Paige showed it to Belinda. “I totally love this, don’t you?”

  Belinda got a weird look on her face, which made me wonder if she was questioning Paige’s cake design skills.

  There went my win.

  “Can you do this? And get it ready in time?” I addressed my question to Belinda—one of the superslick ways we kind-of private detectives bring other people into the conversation.

  “Of course,” Belinda said.

  “It’s sort of short notice,” I said. “Not that it’s anyone’s fault after, well, after what happened to Lacy.”

  “Let’s give Paige some room to work,” Belinda said, and walked out the back door into the alley. I followed.

  “I don’t mean to question your word,” I said. “But this cake is a big deal. It absolutely has to be great, and it has to be delivered on time.”

  “Sheridan Adams. Yeah, I know who she is,” Belinda said. “Another one of her charity events. Yellow Submarine cake. Something to do with the Beatles, right?”

  I was relieved that Paige had brought Belinda up to speed on what was happening at the bakery—and with my order, specifically.

  “Big parties,” Belinda went on. “Lots of food, a memorabilia auction, A-list guests. I know all about it.”

  Belinda didn’t strike me as the kind of gal who’d have the inside info on this kind of event, but maybe she’d heard Lacy talk about them. Or maybe she read about them in People magazine.

  “Look,” Belinda said. “Your cake will get handled. Don’t worry about it.”

  I gave her an I-don’t-know shrug and said, “When I spoke with Darren, he told me he wanted to close the bakery.”

  Yeah, okay, that wasn’t exactly what he told me. But I figured my comment would enrage Belinda and she’d blurt out something I could use to solve Lacy’s murder.

  “Close the bakery?” Belinda demanded. “Uh-uh. No. Never going to happen.”

  “Darren seemed adamant,” I said. “He was pretty annoyed at having to come down here and settle Lacy’s affairs.”

  Belinda rolled her eyes. “Everything annoys Darren.”

  “It sounded to me as if he had a legitimate complaint,” I said. “He’s got his hands full trying to take care of his parents, paying for the meds, their care, plus running his business.”

  “Like Darren should complain about it.” Belinda huffed. “He’s still got the first dime he ever made. That cabinet shop—which his dad gave him—makes a fortune, but he’s too cheap to spend it.”

  Okay, this was something I hadn’t heard before.

  “Darren has been trying to dump his parents into a care facility for years,” Belinda said. She started to fidget, like maybe she needed a cigarette. “Now that he’s getting some of Lacy’s life insurance money, he’ll probably do it.”

  My spirits lifted. A huge chuck of money was definitely a motive for murder. Plus, I wasn’t liking Darren so much right now.

  “Lacy must have left something for you, too,” I said.

  “Of course she did,” Belinda said, and looked away.

  “Doesn’t Lacy have children who’ll collect the money?” I asked. “A husband or boyfriend? Someone?”

  Belinda nodded toward the doorway to the workroom. “Lacy was married to this place.”

  “She didn’t have any close friends?” I asked.

  “She wasn’t exactly Miss Warm-and-Fuzzy,” Belinda said.

  Apparently Belinda believed Lacy had left most everything to Darren, which seemed right since he was her brother, with bequeaths to her and maybe other family members. That left the bakery—an extremely lucrative business—up for grabs.

  I’d gotten the impression from Darren that he expected to inherit the bakery, yet Belinda acted as if she were an heir also. Darren had complained that she was sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. Maybe, unknown to Darren, Lacy and Belinda had gotten past their teenage argument over those concert tickets—I was still going to have to find out what a Dave Clark Five was—and had grown close. I ha
d no way of knowing the truth unless I saw Lacy’s will, and that didn’t seem likely.

  Belinda’s already hard face hardened further.

  “Makes me wonder about Darren,” she said. “He has a lot to gain with Lacy’s death. Especially if he thinks he can sell the bakery and get a chunk of that insurance money.”

  It made me wonder about Darren, too. Had everything he told me just been for cover? Was he driving around in the bakery delivery van to make everyone think he was hard up for money?

  He claimed he’d just arrived in Los Angeles, but how did I know if that was true? He could have come sooner, murdered Lacy, and spun that whole story to throw suspicion off of himself.

  Belinda glanced back into the workroom, then leaned a little closer to me and lowered her voice.

  “Paige seems awfully anxious to keep the business going,” she said. “It makes me wonder about her.”

  Huh. Darren had said the same thing about Paige. Was she really out to get the bakery for herself—no matter what it took?

  Belinda glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to go. Look, you don’t need to worry about your cake. I know how things work with Sheridan Adams and her kind. It will get handled,” she said, then dashed back into the workroom.

  I went back to my car and took the surface streets to the 405, headed south, and exited on Wilshire Boulevard. I parked and walked toward the Golden State Bank & Trust building—the destination for which I’d selected today’s impressive black Prada bag.

  Last year I’d come into a whopping sum of money—long story—which I’d given away, shortly thereafter—long story—but only after I’d bought some essentials for myself, such as clothes and handbags—really fabulous handbags, of course. I’d kept some of the money and added more to it when I’d gotten back from Las Vegas—long story—not long ago.

  Because I know me, I’d put those funds into a special account here at the old-money, stately, venerable GSB&T. The account was special—to me, anyway—because when I’d opened it I hadn’t ordered a debit card or checks. That way I couldn’t get to the money easily. If I wanted something that was out of the reach of my everyday bank account and my numerous credit cards, I’d have to go to all the trouble of coming into the bank and withdrawing the money in person.

  So now, thanks to my breakup fog and all the shopping it had caused, I needed to make up the considerable shortfall my bank was hounding me about, and the only way I could manage that was if I took money out of my GSB&T account.

  No way was I returning all those awesome things I purchased—whatever they were.

  It was lunchtime, so lots of people were on the street. Most everyone looked sharp, dressed in really terrific business attire, carrying expensive briefcases and carryalls.

  My gaze caught a man coming out of the GSB&T, and my heart jumped. Wow, he was totally gorgeous. Tall, with light brown hair, an athletic build. He had on a Tom Ford suit that fit great, and—

  Oh my God. Oh my God.

  It was Ty.

  CHAPTER 12

  Ty looked great—Ty always looked great—which was one of the things I always liked about him. But right now, seeing him on the sidewalk outside the GSB&T, it irked me.

  Obviously, he wasn’t a total mess like Shuman. Granted, Shuman’s girlfriend had been murdered and I hadn’t, but unlike Shuman, Ty looked pulled together, calm, and in control, just like when we were dating. It was as if, from his outward appearance anyway, our breakup hadn’t affected him at all.

  He glanced at his watch, then looked down the street as if he were waiting for someone, and his gaze landed on me. He froze.

  My heart started to pound. My breathing got short as I stared back at him.

  Was he going to come over? Talk to me?

  My thoughts scattered. What would I say to him? Should I give him a big sarcastic thank-you for treating me so badly, for being such a great boyfriend by always putting me second? Should I tell him that I felt like a complete jackass for holding on to our relationship all that time, putting up with all the crappy things he did, trying to make it work?

  Ty stood there looking at me. He didn’t smile. I knew that expression on his face. He was thinking, trying to decide something. Like maybe he should just ignore me and walk away?

  He headed toward me. My knees started to shake.

  What should I do? Ignore him? Put my nose in the air, turn around, and leave? Hurry over to him and act like nothing had happened? Turn our conversation into a rehash of why we broke up?

  Then it hit me—I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let him know that I’d been completely devastated by our breakup. I mean, really, telling him wouldn’t do any good. And no way was I going to be one of those whiny, clingy, why-didn’t-you-like-me-enough-to-stay ex-girlfriends.

  I marshaled my half-beauty-queen genes, put on my everything-is-great-no-matter-what-happens expression, channeled my mom’s nothing-can-upset-me attitude, and walked over to meet Ty.

  “Hi, how are you doing?” I asked, putting on an it’s-terrific-to-see-you grin.

  Oh my God, he smelled wonderful.

  “I’m okay,” Ty said—he didn’t have an it’s-terrific-to-see-you grin. “You?”

  “Awesome,” I said, forcing you-broke-my-heart-but-I’m-over-it glee into my voice.

  He tilted his head slightly to the right, the way I’d seen him do a zillion times when he was trying to understand something, put it in the right context.

  “Really?” he asked softly.

  “Really. Absolutely,” I told him, stretching my it’s-terrific-to-see-you grin into a look-how-great-I’m-doing smile.

  Ty nodded, then said, “I understand you have a new job.”

  I have no idea how he knew I had a job, but I rolled with it.

  “Love it,” I told him. “I love the job. It’s totally me. The work is fabulous, the office is terrific, my boss is fantastic.”

  “I’m glad,” he said. “I’m really glad, Haley.”

  The sound of my name spoken in his mellow voice mentally zapped me back to the intimate moments we’d shared. The whispers, the giggles, the good-natured teasing.

  I forced the image away.

  He shifted his briefcase into his other hand, just like he used to do when I was upset, when he’d pull me against his chest and wrap his arms around me and I’d rest my head on his shoulder.

  “What’s new with you?” I asked, forcing renewed I’m-doing-great zeal into my voice.

  Oh my God, why did I ask him that? What if he told me he was engaged to Sarah Covington? How could I stand here and listen to that? How would I not fall completely apart?

  I couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Listen,” I said, pumping up the something-bad-happened-but-I’m-not-going-to-let-it-show tone in my voice. “I’ve got to run.”

  Ty took a step toward me. “Haley—”

  Tears stung my eyes.

  “I’ve got to go,” I said, and hurried away.

  I rushed into the GSB&T and dashed across the lobby toward the restroom, frantic to get away. I couldn’t let Ty see me crying.

  Then I glanced back at the door.

  Why didn’t he come in and check on me? He saw I was crying.

  I turned away and ran into the bathroom.

  “I want it to pop! Sizzle! You know?”

  I stared across the desk in client interview room two at Annette Bachman as she bounced on the edge of her chair. Her eyes were bulging, and her fists were clinched and raised above her head.

  She was the first client assigned to me at L.A. Affairs and, clearly, she was way out in front of me on the enthusiasm scale.

  I’d blown off my shift at Holt’s last night—I pretty much blew off everything after seeing Ty yesterday—and stayed home. I probably could have used some company, but Marcie had a family thing to do. I thought Cody might show up and work on my apartment, but he didn’t. Since he had no cell phone, I couldn’t call him. So I stayed home, did my homework, and soothed myself
with an Oreo cookie or two. Maybe it was more than that. Okay, it was way more than that—but at least it kept me from detouring into breakup zombieland again.

  “I’m talking awesome,” Annette went on. “Fabulous! Astounding! You know?”

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. I didn’t, but I hoped that saying so might get her to move on.

  Annette was in her midthirties, I guessed, with red, curly hair shaped like a triangle around her pale, round face. She had on one of those calf-length skirts, sandals, and a twin set, an outfit that screamed yeah-I’m-single-but-I-don’t-know-why. So it surprised me that she was here today to discuss a birthday party for her little Minnie.

  “Because, wow, you only have one third birthday, right?” Annette said. “It’s got to be special! Grand! Completely and totally awesome!”

  “Sure,” I said. I picked up my pen. “So, what color do you want?”

  Annette clamped her mouth shut for a second, then said, “Pink! No, wait, yellow! No, no. Purple! Purple would be perfect for my little Minnie—purple and pink!”

  Then her shoulders slumped and her smile collapsed.

  “Oh, goodness, I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t decide. I’m not sure, you know? That’s why I came here, so you could help me make up my mind. It’s such an important day for Minnie. I want it to be perfect.”

  Okay, now I felt kind of bad. She was really excited about planning a terrific birthday party for her daughter, and it was, after all, my job to help her.

  I felt pretty good that L.A. Affairs had assigned me my own client. Mindy had told me that Vanessa had insisted I be put in the rotation, so I figured this was a good sign.

  Of course, I’d never planned a birthday party for a three-year-old, but really, how hard could it be?

  “Okay, so here’s what we can do,” I said. “We’ll pick a theme and a color palette. We’ll select a venue. We’ll decide on food, beverages, decorations, activities, and entertainment.”

  Wow, I was really on a roll with this birthday party thing.

  “It sounds perfect!” Annette declared, hopping up and down on her chair again.