Evening Bags and Executions

by Dorothy Howell

  I fumed for a few more minutes. My head understood what Jack was saying but the rest of me was fighting it big-time.

  Maybe private investigation work wasn’t for me after all.

  CHAPTER 24

  It was early, but Mom would be up—something about how the sunlight produced a delicate blush to the skin as the UV rays crested the eastern horizon.

  I don’t know. I wasn’t really listening.

  Anyway, I had a lot going today, the Holt’s fashion show—which would finish up before noon—and Sheridan Adams’s event, where I would spend the rest of the day and evening until the party ended. I had to be on hand to handle any problems that might arise.

  I might have to rethink the whole event planner job. Being a party guest seemed like a heck of a lot more fun.

  Mom was the quickest—though certainly not the easiest—item I could check off my list this morning, so I went to her house first.

  The temporary housekeeper—a really young blonde who was texting a desperate request to be reinstated at dental hygienist school when she let me in the house—pointed to the patio doors. I spotted Mom seated at an umbrella table poolside, flipping through a magazine.

  “Hi, sweetie,” she said when I walked outside.

  Mom tended to get distracted—especially when the new issue of Vogue arrived—so I came right to the point.

  “I found the perfect housekeeper for you,” I said.

  Mom perked up. She actually closed the magazine and turned to me—which I appreciated because I’d gone to a heck of a lot of trouble, and then some, to accomplish this.

  “She’ll do everything you want done, exactly as you want it done,” I said. “She’s flexible with her daily schedule and her days off. She’s an excellent cook. She knows all your favorite dishes. She can start immediately.”

  An I’m-a-pageant-queen smile bloomed on Mom’s face.

  “Oh, Haley, that’s wonderful,” she said. “Where did you find her? Who is she?”

  I drew a breath and braced myself.

  “It’s Juanita,” I said.

  Mom’s you’re-my-favorite smile vanished. Her lips curled into a very unpageant-like snarl.

  I cut her off.

  “Juanita is the only person who can be your housekeeper,” I said.

  After the last time I was at Mom’s house I knew there was only one real option available. I’d driven to Juanita’s house in Eagle Rock and talked with her. Just as I’d suspected, the entire incident that caused Juanita to leave in the first place was Mom’s fault.

  After much discussion, I’d convinced her to return to work for Mom. It wasn’t easy.

  Nothing concerning Mom is easy.

  “She left without a word,” Mom said. “She disappeared. I was completely abandoned.”

  “Juanita explained the whole thing to me,” I said. “It was a family emergency. Her daughter who is pregnant was having problems.”

  What Juanita really told me was that after sharing that troubling news with Mom, her only comment was to ask Juanita what she planned to serve for dessert that night.

  I saw no need to mention that.

  Mom pressed her lips together and stewed for a moment, then said, “Well, it has been extremely difficult here without her.”

  At this point, I would usually keep quiet and wait for Mom to mentally process everything.

  I didn’t have that kind of time.

  “So you’re good with it?” I asked.

  “Everything will be like it was?” she asked. “Nothing will change?”

  Nothing except for the substantial salary increase I’d had to promise Juanita to get her to come back. Plus paid holidays, a membership to a spa, annual passes to Disneyland, and the new car I still had to discuss with Mom’s accountant.

  Anyway, the important thing was that Juanita had agreed to work for Mom once more. Now I had to make sure Mom didn’t drive her away again.

  “You might want to inquire about Juanita’s family once in a while,” I said. “Show some interest in her personal life, and not expect her to just come here and work for you.”

  Okay, now Mom looked totally lost.

  Jeez, what was I thinking?

  I decided to move on.

  “It’s all settled,” I announced. “Juanita will be here this afternoon.”

  Mom nodded thoughtfully and said, “You’re right, Haley. Some people are meant to be together no matter what. You can’t explain it and it’s useless to fight it, so you may as well accept it.”

  Ty popped into my head.

  My heart began to ache, so I pushed him out.

  Mom opened her magazine again, so I figured I should get away while I could. I left the house, got into my car, and headed for Sherman Oaks.

  As I cruised down the 2 past Glendale, I plugged in my Bluetooth and called Detective Shuman. I hadn’t heard from him in a while and wondered if Detective Madison had, but no way was I going to call him and ask.

  I was starting to get an icky feeling in my stomach about Shuman.

  His voicemail picked up. I left a message asking him to call me.

  As I transitioned west onto the 134 I ran the mental checklist of everything I had to do today. The fashion show at Holt’s would begin in a couple of hours, but it didn’t require much effort on my part—mostly I had to show up and make sure the models didn’t mutiny after they got there and saw the clothing they’d have to wear down the runway.

  Maybe I should have hired security for that event, too.

  I exited the freeway and drove to the Lacy Cakes bakery. The CLOSED sign still hung on the front door, so I walked around back. Their delivery van was parked near the rear entrance.

  Belinda popped into my head. The image of her in that Janis Joplin costume had been floating around in my brain nonstop. I still couldn’t figure out how she’d gotten involved with the Beatles bobbleheads kidnapping.

  A lot of people knew about the charity auction and the memorabilia, but how many of them knew the collectibles were inside Sheridan’s house, in that particular room?

  I also couldn’t figure out why the bobbleheads, of all things, had been taken. There were many other items, most worth at least as much as the bobbleheads, maybe more. And a lot of those things were smaller, much easier to conceal.

  Someone must have known their significance, their link to British royalty Muriel had told me about. I doubted that fact was common knowledge. Sheridan would have wanted to make that announcement herself at the party.

  All I could figure was that Jack had been right. Someone else—a partner—had been involved in the theft and the ransom demand. Belinda didn’t seem like the criminal type to me, so I wondered if she’d gotten caught up in the scheme by the partner—but who could that have been?

  The rear door to Lacy Cakes was propped open, and the delicious scent of baked goods floated out. I stepped inside and saw that same guy at the oven and Paige at the worktable. In front of her was the Yellow Submarine cake for tonight’s event.

  If I was going to pretend I didn’t know Belinda had been involved in stealing the bobbleheads, as Jack had insisted, how could I go into Lacy Cakes to place orders for L.A. Affairs? How could I let Paige go into business with Belinda knowing what I know?

  And how was I going to live with myself?

  “Hey, girl,” Paige called. “Come on in. Take a look. What do you think?”

  I walked over. The cake was about six feet long and three feet high, covered in bright yellow fondant, surrounded by what I guessed was some kind of blue sugar work to represent the sea.

  “It looks fantastic,” I said, and mentally heaved a sigh of relief.

  “I’ll take it to the party in a while,” Paige said. “The finishing touches will go on after I get there.”

  I nodded toward the parking lot out back and said, “I see you have the delivery van.”

  “Yeah, Darren dropped it off this morning,” Paige said. “He went back home.”

  I figured that cou
ld mean only one thing.

  “So he sold the bakery?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Paige said, smiling broadly. “To Belinda and me. She called me last night with the news.”

  So Belinda had put the ransom money to good use, apparently.

  The robbery at the bakery flashed in my mind. It had come on the heels of Darren saying he was selling the place and keeping everything for himself—and that Belinda was getting nothing from Lacy in her will.

  Oh my God—could Belinda have robbed the bakery? I didn’t see why not since she’d been involved with the Beatles bobbleheads theft and ransom.

  Okay, hang on a second.

  Darren had returned the Lacy Cakes delivery van this morning, then left town—or so he’d claimed. But was he really involved in the bobbleheads theft?

  Had he used the delivery van to gain access to the Adams estate and somehow stolen the Beatles bobbleheads, then drawn Belinda into the ransom scheme with him? Had he broken into the bakery and faked the robbery to throw suspicion on her? Was all of this some plan of his to make Belinda look guilty so she wouldn’t challenge Lacy’s will?

  Or was something else going on with them?

  Paige yammered on about plans for the bakery, but all I could think about was Belinda and Darren. I still didn’t see how either of them could have pulled off the theft of the bobbleheads from inside Sheridan’s estate. I was missing something. But what?

  And did any of this connect to Lacy’s murder?

  When I got to Holt’s, the place was in chaos—but that was okay with me. Having caused a great deal of chaos in my life, I was okay working in it.

  Show prep had taken over the stock room. A large section of it had been curtained off for the models—all fifteen of them—to change into our so-called fashions. Since none of them had “super” in front of their job title, mirrors, tables, and chairs from Holt’s inventory had been set up for them to put on their own makeup.

  Their hair was something else entirely.

  Bella had taken over one of the stations and was styling the models’ hair herself.

  In keeping with the fall fashion show theme, she’d created a stunning array of autumn icons atop each models head—pumpkins, cornstalks, a harvest moon—and had embellished them with sunflowers to complete each look.

  Bella has absolutely got to get into beauty school soon.

  “Wow, that’s really something,” I said, and walked over.

  She expertly twisted the model’s red hair into a—oh my God, I think that’s a crow—and gave me a broad smile.

  “You just wait until I get my training done and get my hands on all those celebrities,” Bella said. “The red carpet will never be the same.”

  She hit the model’s hair with enough spray to freeze the space shuttle on the launch pad, then said, “You’re done. Go get your makeup.”

  The model smiled and moved on.

  All I could figure was that these girls were desperate for money.

  Bella patted the chair. “Hop in, Haley, you’re next.”

  Yikes!

  “I got an idea for a scarecrow,” Bella said.

  I didn’t really want my hair twisted into the shape of a scarecrow—or anything else, for that matter—but Bella was my friend, so I decided, what the heck?

  “Better make it quick,” I said. “The show is starting soon.”

  She glanced at her watch and said, “Damn. You’re right. Don’t worry, though, I’ll save it for Halloween.”

  Bella and I moved to the racks where we’d assembled each runway look and started handing them out to the models. There was a lot of chatter and some laughter. I guess the girls were happy to have the work, regardless of the circumstances.

  “Do you think customers are going to buy any of this stuff?” Bella asked, as she handed a fuchsia and purple plaid pantsuit to one of the models.

  I figured this campaign to launch their fall clothing line had cost Holt’s a fortune, so I was sure they’d advertised the heck out of it. I hoped, for Ty’s sake, it would be a success.

  “Knowing our customers, they’ll buy two of everything,” I said, and thrust a navy blue dress with orange cap sleeves and patch pockets at the next model who walked by.

  “We’ll sell lots of stuff,” Bella predicted. “Everybody in the audience will be looking at my hairstyles, not the clothes.”

  “How’s it going?” Jeanette asked as she walked up. She eyed the emerald green and burnt orange polka-dot dress Bella was holding. “That is a smart-looking dress. I would wear that with those turquoise and orange pumps we just got in. What do you think?”

  I thought I might get sick.

  “We’re kind of busy here, Jeanette,” I said. “Did you need something?”

  I know that was sort of rude, but handling all these dust-rags-in-the-making was starting to get to me.

  “We’ve got a packed house,” Jeanette said, smiling proudly. “Our store could very well win this contest.”

  I’m sure the potential boost to her quarterly bonus was living large in her head, but I didn’t say so.

  “And you know what that means,” Jeanette said in a singsong voice.

  It would mean that I’d be the fashion coordinator who would work at the Holt’s corporate office—which I didn’t even want to think about right now.

  “Ten minutes until the show starts,” she said, glancing at her watch.

  She went into a spiel about how she’d do the welcome speech—which turned into blah, blah, blah—then left.

  “That’s the last one,” Bella said, as a model wearing a mustard yellow swing coat covered with crocheted red, orange, and brown leaves left the dressing area.

  “Let’s line up,” I said, motioning the models toward the stock room doors.

  The order in which models walked the runway at the major fashion events was crucial, but here at Holt’s I went with smallest to tallest.

  I stood back and assessed the looks Bella and I had put together. Considering what we’d had to work with, I decided it could have been worse.

  Things can always be worse.

  The mumble of the audience assembled outside on the sales floor grew louder, and I wondered why Jeanette hadn’t started the show yet. I slipped out of the stock room and walked through the screened-off area the workmen had built to keep the audience from seeing the fashions before they hit the runway—maybe corporate had feared a sneak peek might result in a stampede that would injure customers and bring on lawsuits.

  I stepped up onto the little stage that had been built and peeked out. Wow, Jeanette hadn’t been kidding—the place was packed.

  The workmen had set up two rows of chairs facing the runway, and every seat was taken. People were standing behind them, three deep. Most of them were young women dressed in really nice clothes. Jeez, what were they doing in Holt’s?

  I spotted Jeanette heading toward the stage just as my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. I whipped it out and saw that Rigby was calling.

  Jeez, not now. I didn’t have time for a Beatles quiz question. The show would start any minute.

  But I didn’t dare not answer. Sheridan’s event was tonight and I didn’t want to hear about a missed question after I arrived.

  I hit the green button as I hurried back into the stock room.

  “What was the location of the Beatles last official concert?” Rigby asked before I could even say hello.

  All the models were lined up in their Holt’s clothing. Bella busied herself tweaking their hairstyles. Jeanette’s voice boomed over the P.A. system.

  There was a last concert? An official one, at that?

  Oh my God, I didn’t know the answer—and there was no way to look it up. I didn’t have the Beatles book with me, and there was no time to borrow a phone and access the Internet.

  I covered my phone with my hand and said, “Do any of you know where the Beatles performed their last official concert?”

  All the models—even Bella—gave me a what-plan
et-are-you- really-from look, then said in unison, “Candlestick Park in San Francisco.”

  Jeez, did absolutely everybody know extensive Beatles trivia but me?

  No time for that now.

  “San Francisco,” I said to Rigby. “Candlestick Park.”

  “You’re correct,” she announced, and hung up.

  A round of applause boomed from the sales floor.

  “Time to go,” Bella said, and led the models out of the stockroom.

  I didn’t go with them. I just stood there, thinking.

  San Francisco. Darren and Lacy were from a little town near there. So was Belinda. They’d all grown up there together. Lacy and Belinda had been closer than most cousins—best friends, really—until they’d had a fight because Belinda had won concert tickets and taken her boyfriend instead of Lacy.

  A connect-the-dots moment hit me.

  Could they have been Beatles concert tickets? But not just any Beatles concert—their very last concert ever?

  My mind raced recalling things I’d been told, things I’d learned about Lacy, Belinda, and Darren. Accusations of stealing, telling lies, trying to turn the family against each other.

  And now, it seemed, I could add murder to the list.

  CHAPTER 25

  I drove into the Adams estate and crawled along with a slow-moving line of delivery vans and service trucks. The start of the party was still hours away, but work had been in progress here since dawn. I’d spoken with Muriel a number of times and, so far, party prep was on schedule.

  Two guards from the security firm I’d hired were stationed at the checkpoint wearing navy blue uniforms and dark glasses; one of them held an iPad. I eased forward and buzzed down my window.

  “Haley Randolph,” I said using my I-hired-you-so-I’d-like-preferential-treatment voice.

  I didn’t get any.

  “ID,” he said.

  I passed him my driver’s license. He checked my photo, looked hard at me, consulted his iPad, then handed back my identification.

  “Enjoy the party,” he said.

  I drove around to the mansion’s service wing. The sun was bright overhead in a cloudless Southern California sky. I could see dozens of workers spread out across the estate’s extensive grounds.