“What’s going on with your friend’s murder? That detective’s girlfriend?” he asked.
Mike and I had discussed Amanda’s death the last time I was here, and I was a bit surprised that he brought it up again. Yet it didn’t seem like a casual question. Mike looked troubled.
I got a weird feeling.
“The LAPD knows who murdered her,” I said. “They’re—”
“Who?” Mike demanded.
My weird feeling got weirder.
Jeez, maybe I was wrong to connect with Mike again—no matter how desperate I was for gift bags so I could keep my job. I didn’t know if the identity of Amanda’s killer was confidential—Shuman hadn’t asked me to keep it to myself—but I guess he didn’t figure on me discussing the murder with a maybe-maybe-not guy from the Russian mob.
I couldn’t exactly refuse to give Mike the guy’s name. I just wish I knew what he planned to do with it.
Maybe I was better off not knowing.
“Some guy named Adolfo—”
“Renaldi.” Mike bristled. His chest expanded and his shoulders straightened—which was usually a really hot look on men, but this time it kind of frightened me.
“Are they sure it was him?” Mike asked.
“They’ve got DNA, fingerprints, surveillance footage, even an eyewitness,” I said. “Do you know this guy?”
“Lorenzo’s brother.” Mike shook his head. “Scum. The worse kind of scum. The whole family ought to be taken off the streets.”
“The LAPD is trying to find the guy,” I said. “No luck—yet.”
Mike grunted as if that was what he expected from the police department.
“What about that detective? Shuman?” he asked.
“He’s taking Amanda’s death hard, really hard,” I said. “He’s working the case, but not officially.”
Mike nodded, and by the look on his face I could see he didn’t disagree with Shuman’s actions.
“I’ll call you when the bags are ready,” Mike said, and disappeared into the stock room.
I headed back to the parking lot. While I stood on the corner at Maple and Olympic waiting for the light to change, I pulled out my cell phone and Googled Adolfo Renaldi’s name.
Yikes! The guy, along with his family, was mentioned in a number of news reports linking them to all sorts of crimes in the Long Beach area.
I crossed the street thinking about Mike. He owned an import–export company. He did business at the port in Long Beach.
Maybe his interest in Amanda’s murder went beyond that of a concerned citizen.
By the time I got my car and crawled up the freeway with the zillion other commuters, it was too late to go back to the office. I texted Muriel—which was okay because traffic was at a complete standstill—and let her know that the gift bags and the swag were handled, and that the theater manager from the Beatles Love show in Vegas would contact her.
By the time I got to my apartment, I had just enough time to run in and change clothes for my shift at Holt’s. I jumped out of my car and spotted Cody sitting in his pickup truck.
Oh my God. Cody. I’d forgotten all about him—and that he’d kissed me.
Jeez, what’s happening to my life?
He got out and ambled over.
“Sorry, tonight’s not a good night for you to work on my apartment,” I said.
Cody glanced around the parking lot, then said, “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Yes—no. No, I don’t have a boyfriend,” I said.
He leaned around me and gazed at I don’t know what, then turned the other way and did the same thing.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Remember the last time I was here?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said.
The night I’d met him in the parking lot and we’d kissed.
I saw no reason to mention that I’d totally forgotten about it until now.
“After you went upstairs, some guy came up and told me to stay away from you,” he said.
“What?”
Cody nodded. “He said to leave you alone. You were going through some things and I’d better back off.”
“What?”
“I’m not looking for any trouble,” Cody said. “You’ll have to find somebody else to fix up your place.”
He got back in his pickup truck and drove away. I stood in the parking lot staring after him.
Oh my God, had I turned into some sort of pariah?
Ty had broken up with me, Jack was treading lightly, Shuman was consumed by the death of his girlfriend—whom he’d actually broken up with—and Cody turned tail at the first sign of a problem.
Only . . . why was there a problem? Who would have approached Cody in my parking lot and told him to back off?
Jack Bishop.
It had to be him.
I guess that had been him a few nights before, speeding out of the parking lot when Cody and I had gone upstairs to my apartment. He’d been hanging out, watching for me, spying on me?
Who could it have been but Jack?
I didn’t know whether to be mad—or flattered.
CHAPTER 18
“In two Beatles films ice-cream cones can be seen,” Rigby said. “Name the films.”
Eleanor had told me my quiz questions would get more difficult, but this was ridiculous.
I was in the drive-through at Starbucks because my afternoon definitely needed a boost. My name had come back to the top of the list in the L.A. Affairs’ rotation, so I was headed to Altadena to consult with a client. Mindy had been vague about just what sort of event this would be. I just hoped it wouldn’t be another doggie birthday party.
“All the Beatles movies were really great,” I said, hoping that somehow the right answer would come to me.
Nothing came to me.
“Everybody has a favorite,” I said. “Which is your favorite?”
Rigby hung up.
Crap.
I was going to have to buy either a second cell phone so I could look up the answers to Eleanor and Rigby’s questions on the Internet while I stalled them or a Beatles trivia book—and then actually read it and learn the material.
I hate my life.
But thankfully Starbucks was here for me. I got my mocha frappuccino and headed east on the 134.
Traffic was light—plus my frappie gave me a great brain boost—so I settled into the drive to Altadena and let my thoughts wander. Immediately, murder came to mind.
This thing with Shuman being on leave from the LAPD was putting a crimp in my investigation of Lacy Hobbs’s murder. If he was on the job I could tell him about Heather Pritchard, the runaway bride who’d complained about the wedding cake Lacy had made for her, and he could investigate her supposedly impromptu trip to South America.
But since he wasn’t available—not that I blamed him, of course—I was on my own. The only thing I could think to do was talk to Heather’s mother, Sasha, and hope that she’d let something incriminating slip.
I didn’t really think that would happen, though. Sasha would be protective of her daughter.
Just like my mom would be of me.
Jeez, I hope she’d be protective.
Anyway, I hadn’t found any new info about August, the guy who owned Fairy Land bakery. Though I’m sure he was glad to no longer have Lacy Cakes as competition, I didn’t see any real motive for him to kill her. I figured I could mark him off my suspect list until I found evidence that would implicate him.
Belinda seemed to have more reason to want Lacy killed than anyone else—but it didn’t seem like that much of a reason at all. Some old argument from back in the day, a squabble over concert tickets and, apparently, years of Lacy talking trash about her to their family didn’t seem like much of a motive to walk into the workroom at the bakery, pull out a gun, and open fire.
I mean, jeez, if Belinda was going to murder Lacy, why do it now? All that stuff had been going on for years.
Darren came in
to my thoughts as I transitioned onto the 210. He’d resented Lacy for decades. She’d left him to manage their parents and the family business, and if what he’d said was true, she’d had little contact with them. He’d been really ticked off when he learned how much she was making at the bakery but hadn’t sent any of it home.
Maybe he’d had enough of Lacy’s callous disregard for the family. I had no way of knowing when he’d actually arrived in L.A.—it could have been days before Lacy was murdered—or whether it was true that he didn’t really know what kind of income Lacy made from her cakes. Maybe he’d found out. Maybe he’d figured that either he or his parents would be named in her will. Maybe the years of resentment had gotten the best of him.
Paige popped into my mind. I couldn’t help but think that starting work at Lacy Cakes just a short time before Lacy was murdered wasn’t a coincidence—especially after she’d told me that she was trying to buy the bakery. She’d downplayed borrowing the money from her dad, so I wondered if it was a lie. For all I knew she had plenty of money. She probably hadn’t wanted to start a bakery from nothing and spend years building a reputation when it was so much easier to step into Lacy Cakes, the most successful one in L.A.
She’d told me she and Belinda were going to be partners in the business, which made me wonder if maybe they’d been partners in Lacy’s murder.
I took the Lake Avenue exit off the 210 and drove north, then hung a right on Poppyfields Drive. This was an older, upscale neighborhood of really nice homes with mature trees and well-tended landscaping. I squeezed through the narrow street and parked, got my official L.A. Affairs portfolio, climbed the steep sloping driveway, and rang the doorbell.
“Back here!” someone called. “We’re back here!”
I followed a pathway to the tall wooden gate at the side of the house and pushed it open. A woman dressed in jeans and a T-shirt waved me closer. I figured her for about thirty-five, with blond curly hair that she had, apparently, neglected to brush today.
Then I realized why. Beyond her in the yard, four children—all under the age of five, I guessed—ran around, yelling and screaming for no apparent reason. Two dogs—a little black-and-white one and an even smaller brown one—were barking and chasing the kids.
“You must be Haley from the party company,” the woman said. “I’m Maeve.”
“Nice to meet you,” I said, even though it wasn’t.
“And these are my little darlings,” Maeve declared, sweeping her hand toward the children and dogs. “I want to have the party out here.”
I was afraid of that.
“So the party is for . . . ?” I asked.
“Daphne and Demetria. They’re turning four,” she announced.
“Are they two of the kids, or the dogs?” I asked.
She threw back her head and laughed like people did when they didn’t often have adults around to talk to.
“My daughters—twins.” She gave me a proud smile and paused, waiting for me to say something about how fabulous I thought her kids were.
I couldn’t think of anything.
“So, what did you have in mind for the party?” I asked.
Maeve started talking and I made notes, but only a few of her words penetrated the screaming and barking. The kids spotted us and ran over, circling us at a run. The dogs followed, yapping and jumping up and down. One of the little girls fell and started a whole different kind of screaming. Maeve scooped her up and kept talking.
I couldn’t take it anymore.
“That’s everything I need to get started,” I shouted.
“It is?” she shouted back.
Jeez, she’d already told me she wanted clowns, pony rides, a bounce house, and a magician. What else could she need for the kids’ party?
“I’ll be in touch,” I yelled, and headed for the gate.
I was tempted ask her if I could use her bathroom so I could tie my own tubes, but I just wanted to get the heck out of there.
I got in my Honda and drove away.
How come I wasn’t assigned a really cool party with fabulous food, a great band, and some hot guys?
I wasn’t loving this whole event planner thing. But I had to work somewhere. Even with my job at L.A. Affairs and at Holt’s, I’d managed to keep up on my college courses—even though I’d ditched class a lot lately—but my degree was years away. I didn’t know how long I could hold out at L.A. Affairs. I’d have to figure out something.
Since it was time for my lunch hour—not really, but oh well—I drove to Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena and parked behind Vroman’s Bookstore. I’d already failed Rigby’s Beatles pop quiz today and I couldn’t afford to get another question wrong.
I went inside and—wow—the place was huge. Two stories with books absolutely everywhere. All kinds of other cool stuff, too. I asked the guy at the counter, and he took me to the shelves that held books about the Beatles.
Yikes! There were zillions of them. I didn’t have time to look at each of them, so I grabbed the one with the thickest spine—if it was the biggest it should have the most info, right?—paid for it and left.
Jeez, this book was heavy, I realized as I crossed the parking lot. It would probably take a really long time to read.
I got out my cell phone, did a search, and downloaded everything I could find about the Beatles on iTunes and YouTube. I ordered all of the movies and documentaries made about them. I figured I could watch them all at the office—it was work related, technically—and use the book for a quick reference if I needed it when Eleanor or Rigby called with a pop quiz question.
Just as I was getting in my car thinking I could hit Macy’s down the street for the Enchantress evening bag—I absolutely had to have it to go with the gorgeous cocktail dress I’d bought for Sheridan’s party—my cell phone rang. I was relieved to see that Marcie was calling. This hadn’t exactly been the best day of my life and I was anxious to talk to my BFF. She always made things better.
“Bad news,” Marcie said, when I answered.
Crap.
“My uncle died,” she told me.
Okay, now I felt like a complete jerk.
“Sorry to hear that,” I told her.
“Don’t be,” Marcie said. “I never met him. Mom wants to go to the funeral and, well, you know how family things can be, so she doesn’t want to go alone. Dad can’t take time off from work. I’m going with her. To Maine.”
“How long will you be gone?” I asked.
“A week at least. We’re leaving tonight,” Marcie said.
She paused, and I knew something more was coming.
“So I won’t be able to track down Sarah Covington and find out if she’s engaged to Ty,” Marcie said.
My spirits fell. I’d really counted on her to handle that for me. I couldn’t stand not knowing, but no way could I ask Sarah or Ty myself.
“It’s okay,” I said. “Family comes first.”
I didn’t really think that, but it sounded nicer.
“Call Amber, Ty’s assistant,” Marcie said.
Marcie was usually right about things, but I didn’t know if I could do that.
“I’ll think about it,” I told her, and we hung up.
Damn. Was I having a crappy day or what?
I didn’t see how my day could get any worse. Then my cell phone rang.
Mrs. Quinn’s name appeared on the caller ID screen, and my spirits lifted. She had no doubt found several candidates for Mom’s housekeeper position, all of whom were perfectly suited for the job. Thank goodness this was one problem I would be done with.
“Good news?” I asked, when I answered my phone.
“Not exactly,” she replied.
Not exactly didn’t mean bad news, did it?
“Word has gotten out about your mother,” Mrs. Quinn said. “No one will work for her.”
Not one housekeeper—not that I blamed them, of course—would work for her? There had to be someone who would do it.
“I’ll j
ust call another agency,” I said.
“It won’t matter,” Mrs. Quinn said. “Your mother has been blacklisted.”
Oh my God, this could not be happening. Mom absolutely had to have a housekeeper.
And what if she found out she’d been blacklisted? I—along with everyone else in the family—would never hear the end of it. She might completely lose it, take off to some exotic country, stay for ages, I’d never see her—
Okay, hang on a minute.
I let the idea play around in my head for a while—which was really bad of me, I know—and then came to my senses. No matter what she was like, she was still my mom. I would have to find her a housekeeper somehow.
“I can keep the temporary housekeepers at your mother’s home for a while longer,” Mrs. Quinn said. “But I’m having to change them out every other day now. I only have a few more who are willing to go there.”
“I’ll figure out something,” I said.
“Good luck,” Mrs. Quinn said, and graciously left the you’ll-need-it unspoken.
Oh, crap. Now what was I going to do?
“This is b.s.,” Bella said. “You ask me, this is all b.s.”
I didn’t disagree.
We were leaving the Holt’s breakroom where we’d both just clocked in for our evening shifts. Near the customer service booth, all the merchandise was being moved and workmen were busy setting up the curtained walkway that would connect the stock room to the stage and runway for the upcoming fashion show—or something like that. I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention when Jeanette explained it.
“I can’t believe Holt’s found actual models—women with real fashion sense—to put these clothes on and parade down the runway in front of people,” Bella said.
“Holt’s must be paying them a fortune,” I said.
We made our way through the roped-off work area and went through the double doors into the stock room. The clothes for the fashion show were where we’d left them; none of them had magically morphed into something remotely stylish.
“I say we put on blindfolds and starting picking up clothes, shoes, and accessories,” Bella said, shaking her head. “At least we won’t get nauseated from actually having to look at everything.”
Evening Bags and Executions Page 16
