“What’s going on?” I asked, and was almost afraid to ask more. “Did someone else get killed?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Paige said. “The bakery was broken into last night. I saw what had happened when I got here this morning and called the cops.”
The detectives and crime scene investigators had already taken the computer, fax machine, and other office equipment when they’d been here after Lacy was murdered. What was left? Cake pans? Icing bags and decorating tips?
“You’re kidding,” I said.
Paige gave me an I-don’t-get-it-either shrug. “Some of the baking supplies were taken, and some of the stuff Darren and Belinda had put aside for themselves.”
“Oh, great,” I muttered.
“Yeah,” Paige said, and nodded toward the bakery display windows. “Darren isn’t liking any of this.”
“Is Belinda here?” I asked.
“I called her, but she didn’t pick up,” she said. “She’s probably at work.”
For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to me that Belinda had a job somewhere.
“Where does she work?” I asked.
“I don’t know. She’s some kind of housekeeper, I think.” Mom flashed in my mind, and for about a half second I considered asking Belinda if she’d work for her, but I couldn’t picture her following Mom around the house all day refilling her wineglass.
“So what do the cops think about the robbery?” I asked.
“Who knows?” Paige said. “Those uniform guys who showed up first called the detectives after I told them about Lacy getting murdered here. I guess they thought it might be connected. I don’t see how. The stuff that was taken wasn’t really worth much.”
Breaking into a business, running the risk of getting caught and prosecuted, hardly seemed worth it for some baking supplies and used household items.
“Maybe it was kids,” I said.
“Maybe,” Paige agreed. “The cops think whoever broke in climbed up on the roof and got in through the ceiling. One of the drop panels in the workroom was broken and lying on the floor. That’s when I first realized something was wrong.”
“The door wasn’t damaged?” I asked.
“Nope,” Paige said. “In fact, it was locked when I got here. Thoughtful of the robbers, huh?”
So someone had found a way to access the crawl space above the bakery, dropped in through the ceiling, helped themselves to whatever they wanted, then left through the back door, making sure to lock it behind them.
Weird.
“How about the other businesses?” I asked.
“The police asked around, but I don’t think any of them had their stuff stolen,” Paige told me.
Weirder still.
I mean, jeez, what kind of criminals were these? They could have gotten into the liquor store and made a real haul, but didn’t?
Paige seemed to read my thoughts. “Yeah, it must have been kids.”
I don’t think Paige read my next thought. Whoever had been here last night might have used their key to simply walk inside, knocked out a ceiling panel for cover, taken what they wanted, and left.
Paige had a key, and Darren most certainly had Lacy’s key. I wondered if Belinda had one as well, or that guy I’d seen here a couple of times baking the cakes. The landlord would have a key, along with the janitorial service. And as far as I knew, only Darren and Belinda had any interest in the stuff that was taken.
Or, it really could have been kids.
“I sure hope this isn’t going to make Darren decide to close the bakery,” Paige said.
The uniformed officers were heading back to their patrol cars. I saw Detective Madison walk away from Darren. I didn’t want him to see me here—not that I was doing anything wrong, but still.
“I need to make a quick call,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
It took me all of three seconds to decide the liquor store would be the best place to hide out—and not just to get away from Madison.
A little bell jangled over the door when I walked in. The place was small and crowded with merchandise. Refrigerator cases lined the rear wall. The counter was near the door, backed by racks of cigarette packs.
The man on duty stood beside a spin rack of kids’ toys sealed in little plastic bags, gazing outside. He looked nice in khaki pants and a pale green shirt. He had a head full of graying hair, which surprised me since most everything else about him suggested he’d already seen his fiftieth birthday.
The impromptu memorial of artificial flowers and candles outside Lacy Cakes had been left by a casual friend or acquaintance, probably someone who worked here in the strip mall. I figured whoever it was had more than likely bought those items here in the liquor store.
“Scary, huh,” I said, and nodded toward the police activity in the parking lot.
“It’s not good for business, either,” he said.
“Especially after what happened at the bakery,” I said.
He winced. “Poor Lacy.”
He seemed genuinely upset—more upset than I would have expected from a guy who happened to own a business in the same strip mall as Lacy. Then I realized that the two of them had probably known each other for years, maybe saw each other in the alley, patronized each other’s businesses.
“You were friends?” I asked.
He nodded. “A little more than friends.”
My spirits lifted. Surely I’d get some good info from this guy.
“This must be tough on you,” I said. I offered my hand. “I’m Haley. I work for L.A. Affairs.”
“Donald,” he said, and we shook.
“I didn’t have the opportunity to get to know Lacy very well,” I said, which was really true but still kind of misleading, which was okay with me. “How long had you two known each other?”
“Two years,” Donald said, and the weight of those memories seemed to cause him to slouch a little.
I could see he was truly upset about Lacy’s death and probably didn’t want to talk about her, but I had a murder to solve.
I mean that in the nicest way.
“You probably knew her pretty well,” I said, trying to get him talking.
“Lacy didn’t let a lot of people into her life,” Donald said.
“Good thing she had you,” I said, and smiled.
He managed a little smile also.
“And Belinda, too,” I said.
“Belinda?” he asked.
“Lacy’s cousin,” I said. “Good thing Lacy had Belinda. She lived here in L.A. They were close.”
Donald shook his head. “You must be mistaken. Lacy wasn’t close to her family. They all lived up north somewhere.”
Okay, that was weird. Belinda had made it sound like she and Lacy were not only cousins but best buds. Maybe Donald wasn’t as close to Lacy as he’d led me to believe.
Then I remembered the story Darren had told me about Lacy turning on Belinda after the blowup they’d had over concert tickets back when they were teenagers.
“Lacy and Belinda were super close growing up, before they had a falling out over some concert tickets,” I said.
Donald uttered a small chuckle. “Teenage girls. I had two older sisters, and I remember how crazy they were. Best friends one minute, fighting the next. Losing their minds over those British groups.”
I had an ’N Sync flashback.
I still love Justin.
“The Rolling Stones, Herman’s Hermits, Peter and Gordon,” Donald said. “The Beatles, of course. All the girls were gaga over them.”
“So Lacy and Belinda really weren’t close?” I asked, trying to steer Donald back to a subject that would benefit me. “That’s too bad. It’s good to have family around.”
“I don’t think Lacy’s family ever approved of her. When she left home she left them all behind, for the most part,” Donald said, then paused for a minute. “Lacy wasn’t the easiest person to get along with. She was so driven to be successful with her bakery—and I guess she
achieved that, but, as the saying goes ‘everything costs something.’ ”
Lacy’s success had apparently come at the expense of not being close to her family—but from everything I’d heard about Lacy, that was probably okay with her.
I kind of knew how she felt.
The door bell jingled and a customer walked in. Donald gave me a nod and went behind the counter. I left the store.
All the police cars had cleared out of the parking lot, and there was no sign of the white Crown Victoria Detective Madison usually drove. I wanted to talk to Darren about the future of the bakery—and, thus, the future of the Yellow Submarine cake and my job—but the Lacy Cakes delivery van he was driving was gone. I figured this wasn’t the best time for the discussion, anyway. I’d catch him later.
I couldn’t get my conversation with Donald out of my head. Apparently, Belinda wasn’t close with Lacy, as she led me to believe. I guess Darren was right when he’d told me that she was intruding, insinuating herself into his decisions about what to do with Lacy’s estate.
I’d gotten the idea from Belinda that she expected to inherit something from Lacy. Maybe she thought that the falling out they’d had all those years ago had been forgotten and Lacy would remember her in her will with either money or an interest in the bakery.
Or maybe she’d mislead me and knew that, even after all those decades had passed, Lacy still hadn’t forgiven her and wouldn’t leave her one thin dime. If so, her only option was to stick her nose in and hope that Darren would give her some of Lacy’s possessions, or maybe even let her run the bakery for him.
Paige had said she thought Belinda worked as a housekeeper, which was really hard work. She was in her sixties now and she looked kind of rough, like maybe she had some health problems. Running a bakery—especially one as lucrative as Lacy Cakes—would definitely be a huge step up for her.
Maybe she was after money. Maybe it was the bakery she wanted.
Or maybe something else was going on.
I got in my Honda and pulled out my cell phone. Darren had made a point to tell me how he’d been saddled with all the family problems after Lacy left home, issues he was still dealing with, apparently. He’d made himself sound like the victim, which could have been true, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he wasn’t trying a little too hard.
I accessed the Internet, did a search of his name, and paged through a lot of links until I found something that had been posted earlier this year. It was a blog that mentioned Darren’s name, his business, and a church where Darren served as a deacon.
Apparently, donations were at an all time low at the same time Darren’s business had dropped off. The blogger didn’t come right out and accuse Darren of skimming money from the church—only mentioned this so-called coincidence.
I sat there for a minute, thinking. Bloggers could post anything, whether or not they had evidence and facts. Just raising the question created doubt.
It sure made me think twice about Darren.
My cell phone rang. My heart jumped when I saw that it was Jack Bishop calling.
“I found you a murder suspect,” he said.
Cool.
CHAPTER 15
The Perch was a rooftop restaurant in downtown L.A. I hadn’t been there before, and I was pretty impressed when I stepped off the elevator.
Immediately, the Enchantress evening bag flew into my head. I was meeting Marcie later to shop for it, plus a cocktail dress for Sheridan Adams’s event. This would be the perfect spot to wear both.
The place featured two outdoor fireplaces, fire pits, lots of greenery, and blooming flowers. There were seating groups of white wrought iron and wicker furniture complimented with cushions in black-and-white patterns and blue floral prints. Views of the city were breathtaking.
Then I spotted Jack—which really took my breath away. He wore a charcoal gray sport coat, a shirt in a lighter shade of gray, and black slacks, definitely an upgrade from his usual private-detective mode of dress. He looked way hot.
It had been his idea to meet here after work. For a guy who’d insisted he intended to tread lightly, this place was kind of romantic. Made me wonder what Jack would do if he was treading in the other direction—which was really bad of me, I know. After all, I had an official boyfriend—
No, I don’t. Damn. Why do I keep thinking that?
Jack sat at a table overlooking Pershing Square. He rose as I approached and pulled out the chair across from him.
A waiter appeared as I sat down. I ordered a glass of white wine, which I didn’t intend to drink much of, since I was driving. Jack had what appeared to be bourbon on the rocks in front of him.
“Is this where you bring everybody when you have a murder suspect for them?” I asked. “Or just me?”
Jack gave me smoldering-eyes. “There’re other places I’d rather take you.”
Did he just use his Barry White voice? Oh my God, why was he using his totally sexy, I’m-defenseless-against-it Barry White voice? Or was I just imagining it because he’s doing this treading-lightly thing?
My cell phone rang. No way would I answer it, under normal circumstances, but Jack had knocked me for a mental loop and I needed to gather myself.
I reached into my handbag—a magnificent Marc Jacobs—and got my phone.
Crap. It was Eleanor calling. I didn’t even say “hello” before she hit me with my quiz question.
“What was the name of the British record company that auditioned the Beatles in January of 1962?” she asked.
I had no clue. But I couldn’t afford to get any more of her questions wrong.
I covered my phone and whispered frantically to Jack, “Give me your cell phone. Quick!”
Then I spoke to Eleanor. “Oh, this one is easy. Everybody knows this one.”
Jack just sat there.
“I need your phone!” I hissed.
He gave me a what’s-going-on look—which I didn’t have time for, not with Eleanor’s I-can-get-you-fired clock ticking away.
“I need to get on the Internet,” I told Jack. That might have come out sounding kind of panicky.
He puffed up slightly—which was so hot—like men did when they thought something was wrong.
“Who’s calling you?” he asked.
“Just give me your phone!”
Jack looked as if he were about to come across the table, grab my phone, and punch out the person on the other end—somehow. It made my stomach feel kind of warm and gooey.
But no time for that now.
If I didn’t give Eleanor an answer in the next few seconds she’d hang up on me again, and I didn’t know how many more attempts she and Rigby would make to judge my Beatles-worthiness before she called Sheridan and told her to fire me.
“I need to find out what record company auditioned the Beatles in 1962,” I told Jack in my see-you-can’t-help-with-this-which-I-knew-all-along-so-just-do-what-I-asked-you-to-do voice.
“Decca Records,” Jack said.
Huh?
Jack gave me a see-you-should-have-told-me-when-I-first-asked-because-I-know-things-you-don’t look.
It was kind of hot.
I kept my hand over my cell phone and whispered, “Are you sure?”
He didn’t even bother to answer, that’s how confident he was.
It was way hot.
“Decca Records,” I told Eleanor.
“You’re correct,” she said, and I wasn’t sure which of us was more surprised.
“You’ve been reading up on the Beatles, haven’t you?” Eleanor asked.
“Of course,” I told her. What else could I say?
“Rigby predicted you would, but I didn’t believe her,” she told me.
Now I was afraid Eleanor would hit me with another question, just to see if I was telling her the truth—which I wasn’t, but still. I had to head her off, and what better way to do that than to crush her with her own game.
As long as Jack could help me, of course.
; “What was Ringo Starr’s real last name?” I whispered to Jack. “What album was ‘Eleanor Rigby’ on? What was the name of their first movie? Their first single?”
“Starkey. Revolver. A Hard Day’s Night. ‘Love Me Do,’ ” he said.
I repeated Jack’s answers into the phone.
Eleanor was quiet—stunned, I’m sure, and way impressed with me—then said, “Very good, Haley. Now we’re ready to move on to the difficult questions.”
Crap.
“I’ve got to run, but I’ll talk to you again soon,” I said, and hung up.
“I didn’t know you were so good with Beatles history,” I said to Jack.
“I’m good at a lot of things.”
I don’t think he meant his trivia knowledge.
The sun was disappearing toward the Pacific, so why was it getting hotter?
“Maybe I’ll demonstrate the full range of my abilities someday,” Jack said.
The rooftop heated up further.
Jack gestured to my cell phone I’d laid on the table beside me and said, “What was that all about?”
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“I like complicated,” Jack said. His Barry White tone had slipped into his voice again.
Wasn’t there a breeze somewhere in this entire city?
“It’s for my job at L.A. Affairs,” I said.
I guess the affairs portion of my explanation got his attention. He did the chest-out-nose-flair move—which got my attention.
“It’s an event-planning company,” I said.
He nodded, like maybe he was a little disappointed or I had ruined some kind of fantasy he was having. I don’t know. Men can be so weird sometimes.
Then it hit me—Ty had known I had a new job, but Jack didn’t. Odd.
Somewhere in the midst of my frantic Q&A with Eleanor, the waiter had brought my wine. I took a sip—I needed it, which was a good indication that this was a great time to change the subject.
“So what’s up with the murder suspect you found for me?” I asked.
“Heather Gibson Pritchard, the runaway bride,” Jack said, and it sounded as if he was okay with the topic switch.
Evening Bags and Executions Page 13
