Evening Bags and Executions

by Dorothy Howell

  I dashed up the stairs, grabbed the garment bag, and hurried into my room.

  Vanessa had deliberately tried to sabotage me—again—by taking the costume info out of the file—then she’d brought me a costume?

  I dropped the garment bag on the bed.

  Why would Vanessa have done that?

  I unzipped the bag.

  Had she suddenly had an attack of conscience?

  I pulled my costume out of the bag—white elephant leg pants, a white bell-sleeved jacket, a black blouse, and small, round eyeglasses with yellow lenses.

  My mind sorted through all the characters I’d seen in every Beatles movie. I didn’t remember anyone dressed like this.

  Then I pulled from the bag a huge, white floppy-brimmed hat and a wig of long, thick, frizzy, unkempt black hair.

  I couldn’t recall ever seeing anyone on a Beatles album cover wearing this outfit.

  But no time for that now. Vanessa was at the party, parading around in a fabulous costume, no doubt taking credit for all my hard work—well, mostly it was Jewel’s hard work, but still. I wasn’t going to let her get away with it.

  I threw on the costume, took a quick glance in the mirror, and—froze.

  My mouth fell open. My eyes bulged.

  Oh my God. Oh my God.

  Vanessa had stuck me in a Yoko Ono costume.

  Crap.

  CHAPTER 26

  I wove my way through the crowd looking for Vanessa. I intended to blast her for all the crappy things she’d done—even if Yoko Ono putting the smackdown on Julia Lennon at a premiere Hollywood event made it on YouTube before midnight.

  Judging by the looks I was getting from the guests, I didn’t think I could count on anybody for backup.

  These partygoers—or maybe their personal assistants—really knew how to put together a costume. I spotted Sgt. Pepper, an old guy who was probably supposed to be Paul’s grandpa in A Hard Day’s Night, and Father McKenzie from “Eleanor Rigby.”

  Another guy wore white face paint and a pale gauzy robe—I’m pretty sure it was his take on the whole Paul-is-dead thing—and next to him was a woman with long blond hair parted in the center whom I thought was supposed to be Cynthia Lennon.

  A creepy man was carrying a hammer—no way did this guy look anything like Thor—whom I think was the serial killer mentioned in “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.” The old couple Paul had sung about in “When I’m Sixty-Four” was there, along with Ed Sullivan, a clean-cut fellow in a suit who was probably Brian Epstein, and George Martin represented by a man with swept-back white hair, a loose tie, and rolled-up sleeves.

  A group of partygoers had all dressed as blackbirds, somebody else had on a walrus costume, and several other people had on Nehru jackets and love beads inspired by the Magical Mystery Tour album.

  Even the waitstaff was in costume. The waiters had on black turtleneck sweaters and Beatles wigs from the cover of the With the Beatles album. Bartenders wore bright pastel military jackets with braids and brass buttons from the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album.

  Everyone looked fabulous.

  Everybody but me.

  “Can’t Buy Me Love” played as I passed the Strawberry Fields dessert buffet. Paige’s Yellow Submarine cake was the centerpiece, surrounded by hundreds of rich, sumptuous desserts—all of which I desperately needed at the moment.

  Apparently Vanessa didn’t need a chocolate boost to get her through the rest of the evening, because I didn’t see her there.

  I pushed on, and calliope music drew me to the Mr. Kite event area. The whimsical circus theme of “Being for the Benefit of Mr. Kite” featured dancing horses, fire eaters, jugglers, stilt walkers, trampoline, and acrobats. The Hendersons were dancing and singing, but no Vanessa.

  A group of partygoers wearing blue ponchos and black hats from the Help album passed me as I made my way to Penny Lane. Here, Lyle and his construction company had built the façade of a town and populated it with cutouts of a barber, banker, fireman, and a pretty nurse selling poppies from a tray.

  Still no Vanessa.

  There were over two hundred guests here, plus half that many in the support staff, so realistically I could roam the grounds for hours and not find her. My anger was winding down—plus everybody was glaring at me—so I decided to take a break.

  I passed the stage where the two Cirque du Soleil performers were dancing to “Lady Madonna.” The woman’s cutaway top exposed her huge pregnant belly, and both she and her male partner had on bright yellow rain boots. I didn’t get it, but the audience seated around the stage loved it.

  I caught sight of Sheridan. It looked as if Muriel had put together a Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds costume for her. The full-length dress was sky blue and covered with crystals. Her hair was colored white and whipped into a massive updo to represent, I suppose, a cloud.

  Beside her stood her husband, Talbot. He looked as if he were John Lennon and had just stepped off the cover of the Abbey Road album, wearing a white suit and sporting shoulder-length hair and a full beard.

  No way did I want either of them to see me in my hideous costume.

  I knew Eleanor and Rigby were here somewhere. I hoped they wouldn’t spot me—they’d probably eighty-six me if they saw what I was wearing.

  I endured more glares, stinky looks, and a few outright sneers as I made my way back to the service wing. I desperately needed a chocolate fix—it was the only way to salvage this evening.

  I ducked into the room where the desserts had been prepared. A number of people were still working. I grabbed two slices of Black Forest cake, went to the employees’ lounge, and collapsed at a table.

  Luckily, I had the place to myself. I devoured the cake, as anyone in my position would have, and was contemplating going back for more when I caught sight of a tote bag hanging from one of the hooks on the other side of the room, partially covered by a sweater.

  Huh. Something about it looked familiar.

  I sat there for a minute waiting for the chocolate cake to turbo boost my brain cells.

  Nothing turbo boosted.

  Another minute passed, and I decided that if I was going to figure out why that tote had caught my eye I was going to have to get another piece of cake. I got out of my chair and headed for the door.

  Then it hit me.

  I spun around and looked at the bag again.

  Oh my God. That tote was a Coach bag from several seasons ago when, for unknown reasons, the designers had thought women would actually want to carry a bag covered with huge fuchsia flower blossoms.

  Then something else hit me.

  I’d seen that bag at the Hollywood & Highland Center when I’d gone there for the ransom exchange. Belinda had been carrying it.

  So that could only mean that—oh my God, Belinda was here.

  The Black Forest cake kicked in big-time.

  Somehow, she’d gotten past security onto the grounds and into the service wing. From here, she had access to the entire estate—the party, the main house, everything.

  Since Paige had told me earlier that Belinda hadn’t accompanied her to the party to help with the cake, I could think of only one reason for her to sneak into the event.

  I yanked my phone out of my pants pocket and called the guy who headed up security.

  “Where are the Beatle collectibles?” I asked when he answered.

  “On display near the serenity garden,” he said.

  “Double security on them,” I said. “I think someone may be trying to steal the bobbleheads.”

  It was the only reason I could figure that Belinda would be here. Apparently, she intended to take the bobbleheads again.

  “Her name is Belinda Giles,” I said.

  “Hold on,” he said. A few seconds later he came back on the line. “Belinda Giles is an employee with the Ever Clean Janitorial Service.”

  “What?”

  “She was cleared through the security checkpoint this morning with the rest of the clea
ning crew,” he said.

  Okay, now I was really confused. What the heck was going on?

  “Do you have reason to believe she’s planning a theft of the memorabilia?” he asked.

  Yeah, okay, my head was buzzing with all sorts of questions about Belinda, but I managed to tell this guy the most important thing.

  “Yes, I do. You have to stop her. She’s old, sixty maybe, kind of thin. Dirty blond hair.” I hesitated a couple of seconds, then said, “And I think she might be involved in the murder of Lacy Hobbs. Stop her, if you can find her.”

  I needed to locate her myself, though I didn’t have a clue how that would be possible in this crowd.

  I closed my cell phone and spun around—and there she stood.

  She had on a pale green smock that matched the color of the janitorial service van I’d seen parked outside Lacy Cakes, here at Sheridan’s estate during a previous visit, and on the freeway coming back from the ransom money delivery.

  The real outstanding feature about Belinda at the moment was the pistol she was pointing at me.

  “I guess you figured it all out,” she said, giving me a tired smile.

  Actually, I hadn’t—but this didn’t seem like a good time to say so. Things were falling into place, though.

  “Let’s get some air,” Belinda said.

  I hesitated. I figured I could take her easily. I was younger, stronger, and faster—plus I was jacked up on two slices of Black Forest cake—but no way did I want to try anything while she held the gun on me.

  She backed out of the door, checked the hallway, and motioned for me to walk ahead of her.

  At the end of the corridor was a set of double doors. I opened one of them and found myself outside on a covered porch; a single light gave off a feeble glow.

  I realized this was the rear of the estate. A thick row of trees and shrubs separated it from the neighboring lot.

  To my right only a few yards away was the first floor of the parking garage. On my left was a row of Dumpsters. I figured this must be another entrance to the service wing.

  Belinda walked out behind me. The door slammed shut.

  “I guess you know this place pretty well,” I said.

  “Every inch of it,” she told me. “I’ve been cleaning it for years.”

  I glanced at the garage. The place was packed with vehicles. Not one person was in sight.

  “You must have been surprised to see me here tonight,” I said.

  “I knew you’d be here. You’d have to be, working for that party planning company. I’ve been looking for you.” Belinda shook her head in dismay. “Why on earth did you pick that costume?”

  Okay, this whole Yoko Ono thing was getting on my nerves big-time. I was going to let Vanessa have it when I saw her—provided I got to see her again, of course.

  “I recognized you at the ransom drop,” I said.

  “I thought you’d figure it out sooner or later, which is why I’m here.” She glanced around. “I don’t see Batman lurking in the shadows to help you this time.”

  I sure as heck could use a partner right now.

  Why hadn’t I called Jack?

  That made me think of something else.

  “What about you?” I asked. “Where’s your partner?”

  “Partner?” Belinda uttered an ugly little laugh. “What partner?”

  “Your cousin Darren,” I said.

  Her ugly little laugh morphed into an ugly growl.

  “Darren? My partner?” she demanded. “I’ve got nothing to do with that self-righteous, tightfisted miser.”

  I glanced at the nearest car parked in the garage, then at the Dumpsters, and calculated how quickly I could get to them. I was pretty fast—especially with this combo of adrenaline and Black Forest cake pumping through me—but I’d never get to them quicker than a bullet fired from Belinda’s gun.

  “So it’s just Paige you’re partnered with?” I asked.

  Paige had told me Belinda worked as a housekeeper. I didn’t know if she was just shining me on or if she really didn’t know the truth about where Belinda worked and what she’d done.

  “She’s desperate to buy the bakery and so am I,” Belinda said, and shook her head. “Paige knows nothing else.”

  “Not even about how you broke into the bakery and stole Lacy’s things?” I asked.

  “Those things were due me,” Belinda said, her anger rising. “I deserved something after everything Lacy put me through.”

  Something clicked into place in my head.

  Belinda had just admitted she’d staged the robbery at the bakery. To do that, she needed the key to get inside. And, probably, she’d gotten that key from Lacy after she shot her.

  A yucky feeling pooled in my belly. This wasn’t just a thief holding a gun on me. This was a murderer. And she’d come here tonight, using her job with the janitorial service for cover, to kill me.

  Jeez, I really wish I’d called Jack.

  “Darren didn’t want you to have anything of Lacy’s,” I said. “That was pretty crappy of him.”

  Honestly, I didn’t care one way or the other, but I definitely wanted to keep Belinda talking.

  “Everything Darren did was crappy,” Belinda said. “He could have helped me, defended me years ago, but he didn’t. He just stood by and let Lacy turn the whole family against me.”

  There’s nothing like family when it came to screwing someone over.

  “I heard about how you won those concert tickets,” I said.

  Belinda’s face contorted with anger. “Those concert tickets—those damn concert tickets. Yeah, Lacy and I were both crazy about the Beatles. Yeah, we both wanted to go. But I had a boyfriend and I wanted to go with him, so I took him instead of Lacy.”

  “She was pretty mad about it, huh?” I said.

  “She turned on me like a dog,” Belinda said. “She made up stories about me. She even told people I’d gotten pregnant and had an abortion. Lies, lies, nothing but lies from her. She’d say anything to get her way, or make herself look good.”

  That was really bad, all right, and from what I’d heard about Lacy she’d never changed her ways.

  Still, I didn’t see how Beatles concert tickets had led to stolen bobbleheads and, of course, Lacy’s murder.

  “So you were working here at Sheridan’s estate, cleaning,” I said, “and you spotted the bobbleheads—”

  “They are my bobbleheads,” Belinda said, her anger spinning up again. “I bought them years ago—along with every other Beatles item I could find. I recognized them the minute I laid eyes on them from the dent in the box lid.”

  Okay, now I was confused.

  “Hang on a second,” I said. “The bobbleheads that were donated to Sheridan’s charity auction had a connection to British royalty. How could—”

  “Royalty? They’ve got nothing to do with royalty.” Belinda’s face flushed bright red. “Lacy stole those bobbleheads from me years ago because I didn’t take her to the Beatles concert with me. Then she donated them—my bobbleheads—to the auction so she’d look like a big shot in front of Sheridan Adams.”

  I threw a quick look at the ceiling of the parking garage and spotted a security camera. I couldn’t tell whether Belinda and I were in its line of sight.

  “Those bobbleheads are mine. I bought and paid for them with babysitting money I’d earned.” Belinda’s anger rose. “Lacy lied about taking them, she lied about me, she lied about everything.”

  It was all starting to fall into place now.

  “So when you saw the bobbleheads,” I said, “you—”

  “My bobbleheads,” Belinda said.

  “Okay, your bobbleheads,” I said.

  Jeez, now I see why it was called Beatlemania back in the day. These Beatles fans were maniacs, all right.

  “I was here inside this big, fancy house—doing that back-breaking job I’ve been doing for years—and I saw my bobbleheads with the other auction collectibles. I couldn’t believe it,” Beli
nda said. “There they were just sitting on the shelf—my bobbleheads.”

  “And you realized they were the set you’d bought, the set that disappeared,” I said.

  “The set that Lacy stole,” Belinda said. “I knew she took them—I always knew she was the one who took them.”

  “How did you find out it was Lacy who’d donated them to Sheridan’s charity auction?” I asked.

  “You’d be surprised how much the servants know about what goes on. I found out Lacy had donated the bobbleheads,” Belinda said. “But I hadn’t heard that ridiculous story about British royalty. I should have known, with Lacy involved.”

  “You must have been furious once you knew for certain that Lacy had stolen them, that she’d kept them all these years,” I said. “So you, what, confronted her at the bakery?”

  “I told her I wanted them back,” Belinda said. “I have health problems. I didn’t have a smooth, easy life like she had baking cakes for thousands of dollars. I had to work—work hard—for nearly nothing.”

  Jeez, I really hope those security guards can see us on their video screens.

  “But she wouldn’t give them back,” I said.

  I knew that Lacy’s reputation meant everything to her. No way would she ask Sheridan to return the bobbleheads after she’d donated them—especially after she’d made up that story about them being connected to British royalty.

  “She laughed in my face!” Belinda’s anger bordered on out of control now—not that I blamed her, of course. “I went to see her over and over and tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t give them back.”

  “So the next time you went to see Lacy, you took that gun with you,” I said.

  “It belonged to my dad. I took it with me when I left home after high school—when I was forced to leave because of all the things Lacy had said about me. I moved here to L.A. to get away from everything, and here came Lacy with her fancy cakes—just to throw it in my face that she was better than me,” Belinda said.

  I didn’t know what to say to that.

  “So, yes, I went to see Lacy and I took this gun with me.” Belinda trembled with rage, then drew in a couple of big breaths and said, “I just wasn’t going to get screwed over by Lacy again.”