Evening Bags and Executions

by Dorothy Howell

  I picked up my pen and started making notes on the tablet in front of me.

  “Let’s consider having the party in your home,” I said. “Since Minnie and her guests are only three, it might be easier for the other moms.”

  “Oh, yes, that would be perfect,” Annette said.

  I wrote that down and put a big star beside it because, after all, it was a fantastic idea I’d had.

  “Do you have a game room, or family room you’d like to use?” I asked.

  Annette frowned. “Well, I don’t know. That might get a bit messy. Accidents, you know.”

  “Then I would recommend your backyard,” I told her.

  “Lovely!”

  I was feeling really great about myself. Maybe I could be good at this event-planning thing. Maybe I’d have a real career here.

  “Oh, yes, the backyard would be perfect,” Annette said. “That way Minnie and her guests can roll around and dig their little noses into the grass. It will be so cute!”

  I got a weird feeling.

  “Let’s discuss refreshments,” I said.

  “Of course! We’ll need lots of treats!” Annette declared.

  My weird feeling got weirder.

  “Treats?” I asked.

  “I’m very particular about what Minnie eats,” Annette insisted. “Everything must have high-quality, premium ingredients, with plenty of vitamins, minerals, and healthy oils.”

  “Healthy oils?” I asked.

  “And no artificial colors or flavors,” she went on. “And absolutely no animal by-products or grain fillers.”

  I laid my pen down.

  “Do you have a picture of Minnie with you?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew where this was going.

  “Well, of course I do,” Annette said. She dug around in her handbag and presented me with a photo.

  Oh, crap.

  “Minnie is a dog,” I said, and somehow I didn’t yell that.

  “Well, of course she’s a dog!” Annette said, then giggled. “And isn’t she just the cutest little thing!”

  I got up from the desk.

  “I think that’s all the info I need to get started,” I said, guiding Annette out the door. “I’ll get back with you soon.”

  “Oh, well, all right,” Annette said, as I hurried her along the corridor to the reception area.

  “Oh! My! I love your outfit,” Mindy said.

  I hate my life.

  I went back to my office and saw that I’d missed a call from Mrs. Quinn at the employment agency. I phoned her and learned that she had several candidates for the position of housekeeper whom I could interview.

  “I can come to your office right away,” I said.

  “I’ll need a few hours,” Mrs. Quinn said, and we hung up.

  Of course, I saw no reason to wait a few hours to leave the office, especially when I had so much of my own personal business to attend to—plus a murder to solve. I gathered my things and left.

  I took Ventura Boulevard to Studio City and pulled into the parking lot near Coldwater Canyon. The Fairy Land Bake Shoppe was located in a little shopping center near a health food store and a couple of mom-and-pop businesses.

  Paige had told me that the owner of Fairy Land had been mad at Lacy Hobbs for offering her more money and hiring her away. Maybe he’d been mad enough to kill her.

  The bakery had huge display windows that were decorated with flying fairies and magic wands, golden pixie dust, colorful mushrooms, and lovable trolls and gnomes. Featured in the windows was an array of magnificent cakes, with intricate designs and clever themes.

  On the whole, this place looked a couple billion times better than Lacy Cakes. It made me wonder why Paige Davis had been so anxious to leave here and work elsewhere, even with the higher salary.

  I hoped the manager of Fairy Land would tell me.

  Armed with my portfolio with the L.A. Affairs logo turned out, and my this-proves-I’m-important Gucci handbag and black business suit, I walked into the bakery.

  Just as the name suggested, it looked like a fairy land, with whimsical decor and baked goodies and sweets everywhere. It smelled delightful—like even if you took a bite out of the countertop, it would taste like buttercream.

  My kind of place.

  Several customers were at the glass display cases buying cupcakes and cookies from two young women wearing lavender aprons with fairies on the front.

  “Can I help you?” one of them asked.

  I passed her one of my business cards and asked, “Can I speak with August?”

  She glanced at the card. “Sure,” she said, and disappeared through the curtained doorway into a back room.

  August, the store owner whose name I’d found on their Web site, appeared a moment later. You’d expect that a man who owned a bakery wouldn’t look like someone you’d want to have your back in a bar fight, and this guy was no exception. Everything about him was average—pleasant, and average. Late forties, I guessed, and kind of round everywhere—his belly, his balding head—dressed in the I’m-average man’s uniform of khaki pants and a blue shirt.

  Even though he held my business card, I introduced myself. He gave me a very gentlemanly handshake.

  “I’d like to speak with you about possibly doing business with L.A. Affairs,” I said. “You’ve heard of us?”

  August smiled. “I certainly have. Please, let’s sit down.”

  He pulled out a chair for me at one of the tiny white tables near the front window, and I could see he was anxious to please. L.A. Affairs could bring him lots of business, and he knew that.

  Yeah, okay, I could have felt bad about dangling the maybe-you’ll-get-some-big-buck-clients-through-me carrot in front of him, but I didn’t because I really was impressed with his business, so far, and would need a first-rate bakery I could rely on.

  Wow, I sound like a real event planner, huh?

  August jumped right in with a history of the Fairy Land Bake Shoppe, how he’d started it, when he’d started it, something about his mother, the old country, blah, blah, blah. I’d already read all of that stuff on their Web site, but I gave the impression that I was listening intently even though I was thinking about checking Nordstrom after work for that Enchantress evening bag—a skill I’d perfected in many a Holt’s training session.

  When I realized there was a lull in August’s presentation, I instantaneously snapped back to the present—another Holt’s skill I’d learned.

  “I’m very impressed with your bakery,” I said, glancing around. “But, August, I’m afraid I have some reservations about doing business with you.”

  His totally average eyebrows shot up. “Well, please, tell me what they are.”

  “I understand there was some bad blood between you and Lacy Cakes,” I said.

  August’s eyes narrowed and his lips pinched together in what I took for his I’m-angry-now expression. He sat that way for a few seconds, then shook it off and said, “That is upsetting to hear.”

  Not exactly the hothead I’d hoped for, spewing incriminating info or confessing to Lacy’s murder.

  “Weren’t you mad at Lacy for hiring away one of your best employees?” I asked.

  “Who?” August asked, and gave the impression that he was totally lost.

  “Paige Davis,” I said.

  Now he looked even more lost. “She didn’t quit—I fired her.”

  Okay, this was something I hadn’t expected.

  August lowered his voice. “I don’t usually discuss employee issues, but that girl was a problem from the day I hired her. She had all kinds of grand ideas of how I should change my shop. Make bigger cakes, charge more money, increase production.”

  August was definitely a slow-and-steady kind of guy, so I could see why this hadn’t gone over well with him.

  “Paige overstepped her authority one too many times,” August said. “We were inundated with orders that she went out and got all on her own. I had to pay my staff overtime to get them don
e. It caused quite a commotion.”

  Apparently, August and I had differing visions of commotion .

  “But she’s an exceptionally talented cake designer. She’s aggressive and ambitious,” August told me, and gave me a rueful smile. “Can’t say I’m anxious to compete with her for business when she opens her own shop.”

  “Do you think she’ll do that?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” August said. “That was her plan all along. She told me specifically when I hired her that she was here for the training and intended to move up in the world, though frankly I don’t know how she could do that. Opening a bakery and running it requires quite a bit of cash.”

  Unless you could take over one after you murdered the owner, I thought.

  Darren and Belinda had both told me that Paige seemed very anxious to keep Lacy Cakes open. They’d thought it suspicious.

  I’d figured that whoever murdered Lacy had known her and that there had been a major cold factor in the way she was killed. Paige seemed to fit both of those criteria.

  “Any other concerns about Fairy Land?” August asked.

  “No, that’s about it,” I said, and rose from my chair.

  He walked with me to the door and opened it for me, then passed me one of his business cards.

  “If we can be of service, please let me know,” August said, and gave me an average, but sincere, smile.

  “Thank you. I will,” I said, and headed for my car.

  “Miss Randolph?” he called.

  I turned back.

  “Paige was right about Lacy Hobbs hiring away talent from other bakeries. She was a ruthless businesswoman,” he said. “She would call on clients of other bakeries and steal them away. She would say vicious things about her competition—all lies. If anyone dared to complain about her cakes, she would start ugly rumors about them. Frankly, I’m not surprised she was murdered.”

  After hearing those things, I wasn’t surprised, either.

  CHAPTER 13

  “And I need three days off during the week—the same three days, not no three when-it-suits-somebody-else days. I’m not wearing one of those ugly uniforms, either,” the woman across the desk told me.

  I was in the interview room at the employment agency in Encino tasked with the it’s-easier-to-go-to-Mars job of finding my mom a new housekeeper. Mrs. Quinn had arranged for me to meet with three applicants.

  Immediately I could see that this woman wouldn’t exactly click with Mom. She was really tall, muscular, with a head of dark hair that stuck out like a lion’s mane. Honestly, I think Mom might be a little afraid of her.

  I was kind of afraid of her myself.

  “Thank you so much for coming in,” I said. “We’ll be making a decision in the next few days.”

  “Good, ’cause I’ve got to know something quick,” the woman said, and walked out of the room.

  The next candidate walked into the room just as I picked up her application from the stack Mrs. Quinn had given me.

  “Prudence Darby?” I asked and introduced myself.

  She was a small, trim, compact woman who apparently thought it was still 1955, although she didn’t look quite old enough to have lived back then. She wore a black wool coat with a faux-fur collar and a hat, and she clutched a huge department store handbag in both hands.

  I glanced over her application as she sat down. “I see here that you’ve—”

  “Did you read the comment at the bottom?” she asked. She spoke in a soft voice, almost in a whisper for some reason. “I’m a Christian woman. I always make that clear. I wrote it on the bottom of the form. See, right there? It says I’m a Christian woman.”

  “Don’t worry, we’re not going to feed you to the lions,” I said.

  Although some of the people who’d worked for Mom might feel differently.

  “I don’t believe in drinking alcohol,” Prudence said.

  I was pretty sure she’d change her mind after a few days of dealing with Mom.

  “I can’t work in a house where alcohol is present,” she said.

  I could have quizzed her on this a little more, tried to talk her into making an exception, but I didn’t see the point. I thanked her for coming in and she left.

  Next up was Jozelle Newcomb, a tall, attractive woman who was probably in her midforties.

  Immediately I was impressed when she walked in carrying a Chanel tote and wearing a Michael Kors suit, even if it was last season’s. Then I was immediately unimpressed when I looked over her application and saw that not only had she never worked as a housekeeper, she’d never worked at all.

  “I see here that you haven’t had any actual work experience,” I said.

  She burst out crying.

  Oh my God. What happened?

  I gave her a minute or two, hoping she’d settle down. She didn’t.

  I’m not good with a crier.

  “Maybe this isn’t the best time for your interview,” I said.

  She kept sobbing.

  “Let’s reschedule, okay?” I said.

  She nodded, grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the corner of my desk, and left.

  I waited a few minutes—no way did I want to run into her again in the parking lot—then gathered my things and went to Mrs. Quinn’s office down the hall.

  “None of those applicants were right for the job,” I said.

  I felt bad for Jozelle Newcomb, who couldn’t even get through the interview without crying. Obviously, she was having some major personal problems. But I couldn’t imagine she’d be a good fit for the job, considering Mom could be every bit the same emotional mess as she was.

  Mrs. Quinn heaved a long sigh. “I’ll see what else I can come up with.”

  I left the building and got into my car parked in the lot around back. Honestly, I’d had about all of the personal business I could take for one day. I was considering moving my Nordstrom trip up from tonight after work to now when my cell phone rang.

  My spirits fell. It was Rigby.

  “Which one of the Beatles was married when the group first came to America?” she asked.

  My spirits shot up again. I knew this—I actually knew the answer.

  “It was . . . it was . . .” I racked my brain. “John Lennon!”

  “You took too long to answer,” Rigby told me, and hung up.

  Crap.

  This whole Beatles party was starting to get on my nerves, even though most everything was going according to plan. Muriel was taking care of the guest list, the cleanup crew, and the valets. I’d followed up on the arrangements Jewel had made for the caterer, the tribute bands, and the decorations.

  The only thing I still had to do was somehow get the Cirque du Soleil dancers and acrobats from the Love show in Vegas to perform at the party, plus figure out how I was going to come up with the gift bags Sheridan had requested—as long as I passed Eleanor and Rigby’s Beatles trivia quizzes and got to keep my job, of course.

  I sat there for a minute trying to think of where the heck I was going to find two hundred custom-made gift bags, plus the items to put inside them.

  Then I realized there was only one place to go for help—the Russian mob.

  I’d met Mike Ivan a while back when I’d been in Las Vegas to assist with the opening of a new Holt’s store—long story. He was from L.A. and happened to be there on business.

  Mike was rumored to be in the Russian mob, though both Detective Shuman and Jack Bishop had told me they could find no hard evidence that linked him to any illegal activity. Mike always insisted he ran a legitimate import–export business and simply had the misfortune of having relatives with questionable business ethics.

  Leave it to family.

  We’d swapped favors, but this wasn’t a relationship I wanted to get into too deep—just in case.

  Mike ran his business out of the Garment District in L.A., a place I knew well since Marcie and I shopped Santee Alley for the knockoff handbags we sold at our purse parties. Among the th
ings Mike imported was rare, expensive fabric from all around the world. I figured that if anybody could help me get Sheridan Adams’s Beatle-themed gift bags made, it would be Mike.

  I exited the 110 freeway on Olympic Boulevard, turned onto Santee Street, and drove up the ramp to the parking lot Marcie and I usually used. I paid the attendant and took the stairs down to Santee Alley.

  I loved Santee Alley. It was a mix of all kinds of people, all kinds of products and merchandise. Locals and tourists came here to shop in the stores with their back doors opened to the alley and with the vendors who crowded in between.

  Even though Marcie and I had shopped Santee Alley for about a year now and many of the merchants knew us, that didn’t mean we could walk in off the street and expect to do business with the people who ran the garment factories that filled the top floors of the old buildings in the area. Business people here were cautious. They dealt in cash. They didn’t like outsiders.

  When I’d left the employment agency I’d called Mike and asked if he could meet me. He was a little hesitant because last time we’d talked we’d both decided that things between us were settled, we were square—long story. But I assured him that this time it was strictly business.

  I made my way out of the alley to Maple Avenue, then walked north to the textile district. Here, the exteriors of the shops were lined with huge bolts of fabric, a rainbow of every color, pattern, and texture imaginable. I turned the corner onto Ninth Street and went into the shop in which Mike had instructed me to meet him.

  The place was packed with fabric—big rolls, small bolts, a few remnants. It was stacked on tables, hung on displays, and propped up in big boxes. There were bins of buttons, zippers, and all sort of other things I was clueless about.

  The man sitting behind the counter eyed me sharply; they didn’t get too many young white girls in here wearing business suits.

  “Mike is expecting me,” I said.

  He gave me another long hard look, then picked up his phone and made a call. I amused myself wandering through the store looking at fabric until Mike came out of the back room.

  He didn’t look like he was in the Russian mob—or even that he was related to anyone who was in the Russian mob. Thirty-five, I figured. Nice build, okay dresser, kind of good looking, a little taller than me.