Jewel had done almost all of the planning for the event, but I’d followed up on everything a number of times. I could see why Vanessa wanted her back. The valets she’d hired were all dressed in psychedelic vests and wearing sixties-era Beatles wigs.
Not sure I’d have thought of that.
I was directed to a parking space on the first floor of the expansive garage and nosed my Honda in between a Webber’s Florist van and an Angel’s Catering truck. I spotted an Ever Clean Janitorial Service truck parked a couple of rows back, and delivery vans from Lacy Cakes and Party On were nearby.
More vehicles pulled in. Workers poured out of them wheeling dollies and pushing carts.
I put in my Bluetooth and got out my portfolio—just so I’d look as busy as everyone else—and got the garment bag and tote with tonight’s outfit in it from my trunk.
As I headed toward the entrance of the service wing, I spotted Muriel. She had an iPad in one hand, an old school organizer in the other, and a Bluetooth in her ear.
“How’s it going?” I asked as I walked over.
“No problems, so far,” Muriel said.
Since she’d been involved with planning all sorts of events for Sheridan for a long time now, I figured her idea of no-problems and my idea of no-problems might not be the same. Still, I was pumped, ready to take on whatever situation presented itself.
I’m really good at telling other people what to do.
“Let me show you where you can put your things,” Muriel said.
She led the way into the service wing through double doors. On my right was a gargantuan commercial kitchen. Multiple stainless steel, industrial-grade appliances filled the space, along with worktables and an army of chefs. The room was warm and something smelled really good.
“The Beatles collectibles are all together in a storage room,” Muriel said.
We passed another huge room, this one with a dozen florists turning a mountain of flowers and greenery into gorgeous floral arrangements.
“There are two security guards posted outside the door,” she went on. “Nobody but Sheridan or me will be let in until it’s time to move them to the auction site on the grounds.”
It didn’t seem likely to me that, with all the security in place, anyone would attempt to steal the bobbleheads—or any other pieces of the memorabilia—before or during the party, but I could see where Muriel wouldn’t want to take a chance.
We climbed the stairs and continued down a hallway. It was obvious this was where the servants were housed. The carpet wasn’t quite as thick as in the main house, and the wall art wasn’t exactly “art,” yet it was still nicer than my apartment.
Muriel stopped in front of a door halfway down the hall, checked her iPad, and pulled a key from her pocket.
“This room is yours for the duration. You can change in here for the party tonight,” she said, passing me the key. “Oh, and Sheridan wants to see you right away.”
Muriel tapped her Bluetooth to answer a call, and I went inside. The room contained simple furnishings—bed, nightstand, chest—and had an adjoining bathroom. I hung my cocktail dress in the closet.
The Enchantress evening bag popped into my head. It would have looked perfect with my dress, but the Judith Leiber I’d brought with me was more than adequate.
Muriel took two more calls as we left the service wing. I pulled out my cell phone and texted Marcie so I’d look important.
The grounds of the estate were in total chaos, just as the Holt’s stock room had been—only here, most everyone was dressed better.
Construction workers and sound and lighting guys were everywhere. The caterer and florists had already started setting up. Hammers, saws, power tools, shouts, and a zillion cell phone conversations added to the cacophony. Sliced-up packing boxes and sheets of plastic were strewn all around.
I pulled the event diagram from my portfolio and saw that the wide pathway—“The Long and Winding Road”—that would take guests from one event area to another was already in place. Workers were ripping the protective covering off the white wicker furniture that, along with hundreds of flowers and plants all blooming in white, would make up the Lady Madonna serenity garden.
The giant aquarium for the Octopus’s Garden was being filled. The fish pond had been assembled nearby, and landscapers were surrounding it with lush ferns, shrubs, bright flowering plants, and palm trees.
Tonight, after dark, everything would be lit with accent, spot, and twinkle lights, and the two Beatles tribute bands—one that would cover songs from the sixties, the other the seventies—would play almost nonstop.
Muriel walked over, nodding and mumbling, then hit the button on her Bluetooth and said, “Mrs. Adams is ready for you now.”
I followed Muriel across the grounds, not really knowing what to expect. I figured Sheridan would either be really grateful that I’d gotten back the bobbleheads and recommend me for a promotion at L.A. Affairs or be really grateful but angry that I’d gotten them stolen in the first place and recommend that I be fired.
From what I’d seen of Sheridan so far, I figured it could go either way.
We found her near one of the swimming pools where tables and chairs were being set up.
Sheridan had on a neon pink and red print caftan that, I swear, looked as if it had come from Holt’s and a matching turban that I figured the store was destined to carry sooner or later.
“Oh, yes, there you are—” She pointed at Muriel.
“Haley,” she said.
“Haley,” Sheridan repeated. “So you own a detective agency.”
Where the heck had she gotten that idea?
Muriel gave me a please-let-it-go look, so I figured Sheridan had misunderstood what Muriel had told her about me—or maybe Muriel had embellished my credentials a bit to stay out of trouble with her boss.
Sheridan leaned in a little. “And you’re working undercover at L.A. Affairs, aren’t you.”
Sheridan must have read too many of her husband’s movie scripts, but I decided it was better to just let this go also.
“I’m glad everything turned out well,” I said.
I wondered if Sheridan had given any thought to who might have stolen the Beatles bobbleheads. Did she suspect an inside job?
I didn’t think so. Sheridan seemed to live in her own private zombieland. She probably thought everyone she employed loved her and wouldn’t possibly steal from her.
“I won’t forget what you’ve done,” Sheridan said.
Jeez, I really hope she meant that in a good way.
“A reliable, discreet security firm isn’t easy to come by,” Sheridan said.
Something shiny must have caught her attention because she wandered away, Muriel trailing after her.
Sheridan thought I owned a private detective firm? And I was working undercover?
Cool.
I headed across the grounds again consulting the event diagram so everyone would think I was working, but really the idea of a detective agency was playing around in my head—even though I was still having trouble coming to terms with the whole Belinda-ransom thing.
I wasn’t all that excited about this event-planning gig, and even though not long ago I’d decided to get my bachelor’s degree in procurement and become a corporate buyer, I’d been in my breakup fog at the time, so I wasn’t sure that counted.
I realized then that the murder of Lacy Hobbs was rambling around in my head. It took up more room in my mind than Sheridan’s party—which just shows how I was feeling about working at L.A. Affairs.
When I’d talked to Paige earlier she’d told me that Belinda had come up with the money to buy Lacy Cakes—which was immediately after the ransom was delivered. Darren had left town at the same time, supposedly.
I was pretty sure one of them had murdered Lacy. I didn’t like to think that anyone deserved to be murdered, but really, Lacy had been pretty awful to both of them for years—right up until the end, it seemed.
They bo
th had motive—money. Lacy’s life insurance was surely substantial, plus the bakery was worth a fortune whether Darren sold it or Belinda kept it operating.
They both could have had the opportunity also, since there was no way, at this point, to be sure where either of them had been at the time of Lacy’s murder.
As for the murder weapon, coming up with a handgun wasn’t hard to do these days.
For a moment I considered calling Detective Madison with my suspicion, but I doubted he’d take me seriously. Shuman would have, but I hadn’t heard from him in a while. I thought about calling Jack, but I wasn’t exactly loving all his good advice lately.
I needed more evidence, I decided, as I stepped out of the way of a guy pushing a dolly stacked high with cases of wine. But I had no idea where to find Darren or Belinda at the moment. I didn’t see how I could come up with anything—not today, anyway, with this whole Beatles event going on.
The only option was to talk to Paige. She was here somewhere putting the finishing touches on the Yellow Submarine cake. I put in a call to her; it went straight to voicemail.
I wondered if, since they were buying Lacy Cakes together, Belinda might be on hand helping with the cake. I didn’t really expect her to be here since she was handling the business end of the bakery, and it would be unseemly to solicit orders at an event of this caliber. Jack had told me to stay away from her, but I called her cell phone, anyway. She didn’t answer.
At this point there was nothing I could do but perform some actual work for L.A. Affairs.
I hate it when that happens.
Luckily, everyone involved with the party preparations had done this before and knew what they were doing.
I caught up with Lyle, the guy who owned the construction company. He assured me that everything was under control and on schedule; ditto the sound and lighting guys, the landscapers and the caterers.
Just so I’d appear concerned and involved, I telephoned the guy who ran the security firm I’d hired for the event and asked for an update. He reported the number of uniformed personnel on duty, the number of plainclothes who would arrive later—then everything turned into blah, blah, blah, so I thanked him and hung up.
There really wasn’t all that much for me to do—unless I was missing something huge—so I basically just strolled around and chatted with people, texted friends, took a picture of myself in front of the huge aquarium and sent it to Marcie, and updated my Facebook page.
As I made my way past one of the bars, my cell phone rang. It was Bella.
“You’re not going to believe this!” she screamed. “You’re not going to believe it!”
Before I could answer, she went on.
“My hairstyles are on YouTube!” she said. “I videoed the show and posted it! I edited out the clothes because they were so damn ugly and just showed my hairstyles! I’ve gone viral! A half million hits—already!”
“Oh my God!”
“I got to go!” Bella said. “I got to call my nana!” How totally cool, I thought as I put my phone back in my pocket. Thank goodness something worthwhile had come out of that horrible fashion show.
Then I noticed that most everyone around me—people who were doing actual work—were giving me stink-eye. I decided it was a good time to find Paige.
I made a sweep of the grounds and didn’t spot her, so I went into the service wing. I walked by the kitchen—something really smelled great in there—and continued past the staircase. I figured there had to be a temperature-controlled room in the building that was cool, a place where the desserts and cold foods could be prepped.
On my left was a lounge intended for the hired help—not that they got much of a chance to use it—complete with tables and chairs, a TV, a refrigerator, a microwave, and vending machines. Jackets and totes hung from a row of hooks, but nobody was in the room.
A little farther down the hallway a door opened and a woman in a white chef’s jacket came out followed by a gust of cold air. I went inside and spotted Paige and the guy who did the baking at Lacy Cakes working on the Yellow Submarine cake. Around them a couple dozen people were assembling scrumptious-looking desserts.
“Hey, girl,” Paige called as I walked over. She gestured to the cake. “What do you think?”
The blue sugar work ocean that surrounded the submarine was populated by colorful fish, seahorses, dolphins and coral, and an Aztec pyramid, as well as characters from the movie—the Blue Meanies, Lord Mayor, and Old Fred—and, of course, the mates themselves, John, Paul, George, and Ringo.
“It looks fabulous,” I said.
“I’m pumped,” Paige said.
Jack’s words of caution flashed in my head, but I pushed them away.
“Where’s Belinda?” I asked. “I thought she’d be here helping today.”
I didn’t, of course, but what else could I say to get info out of her?
“Oh no,” Paige said, eyeing the cake. “She had to work today, or something. I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
Since Paige didn’t know—or seem to care—where Belinda was, I figured that squashed my one last chance to discover any more evidence today and I’d have to put my murder investigation on hold until tomorrow.
I circled the estate grounds again. The workmen were gone. The sun had dipped low on the horizon, so all the lights were lit. The bands were on their stages, tuning up. The caterers had set up their food and drink stations. Guests would start arriving soon.
I headed toward the service wing to dress for the party and found Tiberia putting the finishing touches on the display of gift bags. She looked great in a red linen pantsuit and sandals.
“Haley, so good to see you,” she said.
We hugged and exchanged air kisses.
“I have something special for you,” Tiberia said.
From one of the boxes, she took a gift bag and presented it to me.
“Courtesy of Sheridan Adams,” Tiberia said.
This was totally cool. When I’d been in Tiberia’s office and seen the gifts she’d assembled, I’d wanted absolutely all of them. I didn’t expect I’d get one of the bags, though.
She gave me a knowing grin. “Sheridan asked me to select something special for your gift bag. I hope you’ll like it.”
“Thanks so much,” I said, cradling the bulging bag in my arms.
“I have to run,” Tiberia said. “Another delivery across town.”
I waved good-bye and hurried up to my room in the service wing.
My first thought, of course, was to open the gift bag and check out everything inside, but something this fabulous must be savored—plus, I had to be on hand when the guests started to arrive.
I took a shower, did my hair and makeup, and put on the fabulous cocktail dress I’d bought for the party. Since I didn’t think I’d need anything in the portfolio, I put some essentials into my Judith Leiber clutch and opened my door.
A black garment bag hung in the doorway.
Okay, that was weird.
I stepped around it and saw that someone had hung it on the door frame.
What the heck was going on?
I looked up and down the hallway but spotted no one, so I went downstairs. Through the double doors I saw the valets hustling to park a long line of cars. Strains of “Please Please Me” drifted in.
Muriel stood at the entrance to the floral room—at least I thought it was Muriel. She was dressed kind of odd in a gray uniform—pleated skirt, a jacket with brass buttons, kneesocks, a crossbody leather bag, and one of those big dome hats the policemen in England wear.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Jeez, did she really not recognize me in my hot cocktail dress? Or had working for Sheridan Adams sent her over the edge?
“I’m Haley,” I said.
She looked me up and down. “You can’t be Haley.”
I started to get a weird feeling.
She pulled at her skirt and said, “I’m Rita. As in ‘Lovely Rita.’ The me
ter maid in the song.”
My weird feeling got weirder.
“Where’s your costume?” Muriel asked.
Oh my God—this was a costume party?
“Everybody has to wear a costume,” Muriel said.
How could it be a costume party?
“Mrs. Adams will lose her mind if somebody shows up without a costume,” Muriel said, bordering on all-out panic.
How come nobody told me I needed a costume?
And then I knew—Vanessa.
She’d taken the costume requirement info out of the file—just like she’d done with the other things. She hoped nobody would tell me and I’d show up without a costume, and look like a complete idiot—which is exactly what I looked like.
Total panic set in.
Where the heck was I going to find a Beatles costume now? The party had started; people were already arriving. What was I going to do?
And what would happen when L.A. Affairs found out I’d attended this high-profile event without a costume? Would they fire me?
But would it matter—after Sheridan blabbed to all of her important, influential friends about how the planner from L.A. Affairs had snubbed her costume requirement and put the company out of business?
“Oh, wait,” Muriel said, and heaved a sigh of relief. “That must have been your costume that was delivered for you.”
Okay, now I was totally lost.
“The garment bag,” Muriel said, pointing up the stairs. “I hung it outside your door.”
I nearly collapsed with relief.
“That other girl dropped it off,” Muriel said.
My anxiety amped up again.
“What other girl?” I asked.
“The one Jewel worked for,” Muriel said. “Vanessa.”
Vanessa had brought me a costume?
“She had on the most beautiful dress,” Muriel said. “A deep garnet red made of lace. She’s Julia Lennon, John’s mother—the woman who inspired it all.”
What was Vanessa doing here? This was my party. She’d dumped it off on me the very first day I met her.
And why was she wearing the most totally awesome costume imaginable?
Oh my God—this could not be happening.
Evening Bags and Executions Page 23
