“What’s black and brown and looks good on a lawyer?” he asked. “A Doberman pinscher.”
I gave him his grin right back—which I sincerely hoped was as hot as his was.
“How do you stop a lawyer from drowning?” he asked. “Shoot him before he hits the water.”
Okay, now I laughed. He laughed, too, then gestured to the empty wine glass.
“Rough day at the event planning business?” he asked.
Jeez, he must have seen me chugging it down when I was on the phone with Mom—not exactly the image I wanted to project.
“I was just finalizing some plans for Thanksgiving,” I said.
“Family or clients?” he asked.
He sat down in the chair next to mine. Wow, he smelled great. Some kind of heat was rolling off of him, somehow urging me to snuggle closer—even though I hadn’t touched my second wine yet.
“I’m staging a feast out in Calabasas,” I said, “then going to my mom’s house.”
He nodded. “My mom’s got the whole family going somewhere, doing something. She hasn’t told me where I’m supposed to show up yet. Probably my grandma’s in San Diego.”
I thought it was kind of cool that he was spending the holiday with his family and seemed to be okay with it.
Obviously, his family was more fun than mine.
“Hi there,” Marcie said.
I realized she’d joined us at the table. Liam stood and held the chair while she sat on the other side of me. They introduced themselves.
“I should have known I wouldn’t be lucky enough to catch you here alone,” he said to me, and favored both of us with a smile. “You ladies enjoy your evening.”
Liam gave me one last long, lingering look—or maybe that’s how I looked at him—then joined a group of men standing at the bar.
“Oh my God,” Marcie whispered. “He’s gorgeous.”
I tried for a nonchalant shrug, but didn’t pull it off.
“Did he ask you out?” she wanted to know. “You’d be crazy not to—”
Marcie suddenly latched onto my arm with a something-major-is-going-down death-grip, and leaned closer.
“Ty’s here,” she told me.
All my senses jumped to high alert.
Ty Cameron, my ex-official-boyfriend was here? In this bar? Just steps away? Oh my God, why hadn’t I noticed him?
And more importantly, why hadn’t he noticed me?
I shifted into stealth mode and swept the bar. The place was packed with good looking men dressed in expensive suits, crowded together at—
Oh my God, there he was, looking as handsome as ever, impeccably dressed, seated with two other guys. I was relieved he wasn’t with a date, but concerned that he was here.
Ty was a workaholic. At this time of day he was usually still elbow-deep in the running of the Holt’s Department Store chain, plus its other holdings. Ty definitely wasn’t the kind of guy to knock off early, head for a bar, and belt down a few with his buddies.
What the heck was going on with him?
“Do you think he saw you talking to Liam?” Marcie whispered.
My emotions spun up even higher.
Had Ty seen me? Would he come over? Talk to me?
Was he wondering who Liam was? Why I was talking to him? If he was my new boyfriend? Was Ty positively green with envy, re-thinking our breakup, yearning to cross the bar and confront Liam?
Oh my God, were the two hottest guys in the bar about to throw down in an all-out brawl over me?
“You’re cut off,” Marcie said.
She’d known what I was thinking, as only a long-time bestie can.
And she was right, of course.
I pushed my wine glass away.
Chapter 11
“You only call me when you want something,” Shuman said.
“At least I’m calling you,” I pointed out.
We were sitting at an outdoor table at the Starbucks on restaurant row at the Galleria having coffee. As soon as I’d arrived at L.A. Affairs this morning, I’d gotten a text message from him asking if I could leave work and meet him here.
I can always leave work.
Shuman had left work, too, it seemed. He was dressed in his usual slightly mismatched sport-coat-shirt-tie combo that told me two things—he didn’t have a new girlfriend yet, and he should let me take him shopping.
Neither seemed likely to happen.
Shuman looked calm and relaxed, which I was happy to see. He was a homicide detective, so his day could take a dive at any moment. I was glad I’d caught him early.
“I talked to the detectives investigating the Spencer-Taft murder,” he said.
Usually we had to play a who’s-going-first game with our information but since he hadn’t caught the case, I figured he wasn’t all that concerned about sharing what he’d learned.
“There’s no progress in the investigation,” he said.
Not exactly what I was hoping for.
“No more witnesses, no evidence, and no motive,” Shuman said.
“What about the workmen and the household staff?” I asked.
“No one with a criminal background. No apparent motive,” he said.
Even though Shuman hadn’t pressed me for information, I wanted him to know that I didn’t intend to withhold anything. I gave him a rundown of what I’d learned from the family and what I suspected—none of which was anything conclusive.
Still, he listened to everything and I could see him running the info through his cop-brain. After a couple of minutes he shrugged. I knew what that meant—something major was going to have to happen if this case was going to be solved.
“So, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?” Shuman asked.
At this point I was as anxious to change the subject as he was so I said, “Doing the family thing. You?”
“I don’t know yet,” he said.
I didn’t think he was the kind of guy who’d sit in front of the TV in his underwear watching football or a Dirty Harry marathon all day but, honestly, it didn’t sound so bad—as long as he was really okay with it.
For a few seconds I considered inviting him to Mom’s for dinner, but she’d likely freak out if I threw off her seating chart. Plus, it would bring up questions about my breakup with Ty and the inevitable are-you-two-serious speculation. I wouldn’t put Shuman through that.
No way did I want to endure it, either.
Shuman must have figured out what I was thinking—he was, after all, a detective—because he said, “A couple of the guys at work invited me to eat with them. I’ll probably—”
He pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his sport coat and glanced at the caller ID screen.
“I’ve got to take this,” he said, getting to his feet and instantly transforming into super-serious-cop-mode.
“No problem,” I said. “I should get back to work.”
We exchanged a quick wave and I headed back to L.A. Affairs.
* * *
“You want to do—what?”
I said it nicely—or as nicely as I could, under the circumstances.
I was seated in one of the L.A. Affairs’ interview rooms. Across the desk from me were the two girls who’d volunteered to wrap up preparations for the Pammy Candy Thanksgiving feast. They were pretty much interchangeable—mid-twenties, blonde, full on makeup, spandex dresses, and four-inch pumps—except for their names, of course, which were Sasha and Poppy.
I’d already forgotten their last names.
I was also a little confused about who was who.
“Like I said,” the one I’d decided to think of as Poppy told me, “I think it would be a terrific idea if the Thanksgiving feast was strictly vegan.”
“Well, if you’re going to do that,” Sasha said, “I think you should be sure everything is gluten free.”
“And sugar free,” Poppy said.
The feast was set for the day after tomorrow. Did they really think I could make major changes at this late dat
e?
“Or we should only serve authentic foods,” Sasha said.
Apparently so.
“You know,” she went on, “like at the first Thanksgiving—venison, collards, parsnips, cabbage, spinach. I read it on the Internet.”
I wondered if she’d read on the Internet about an event planner who’d gone over the desk after a client who wanted to completely change the menu two days before the party.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking on my part.
“Oh, I know!” Poppy said, bouncing in her chair. “All the guests should come in costumes. How fun would that be?”
“I love it,” Sasha declared. “Some can be dressed as pilgrims and some can be Indians.”
“But we should be culturally sensitive. So only those guests with a verifiable Indian heritage can come as Indians,” Poppy insisted, then said to me, “You can do that, can’t you? Check that out?”
I didn’t say anything. Really, what could I say?
“That’s a good idea,” Sasha agreed. “Oh, I know! We can get members of the Wampanoag tribe to come. They were at the very first Thanksgiving. I read that on the Internet, too.”
“They can do an interpretive dance,” Poppy exclaimed. “And to make it even more authentic we’ll have wooden tables, and we’ll have the caterer cook everything over a big open fire.”
“You know what else I read on the Internet?” Sasha said. “Back then, there were millions and millions of passenger pigeons just flying around everywhere. We could get some actors to put on a play, sort of like an ode to the passenger pigeon.”
“I love it!” Poppy told her.
They both turned brilliant smiles on me.
“This is going to be the best Thanksgiving ever,” Sasha declared.
“You can get all of that handled by Thursday, can’t you?” Poppy asked.
I managed an I’m-getting-paid-so-I-won’t-say-what-I-really-think smile, and said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Great,” they said in unison, and rose from their chairs.
Then something hit me.
“Who asked you to take over preparations for the feast?” I asked.
“Julia,” Poppy said.
“Patrick’s mother,” Sasha added.
Did Julia pick an odd time to get involved with the feast, or what?
The two of them left and I headed back to my office.
Jeez, there must be some way I could find one—or both—of them guilty of Veronica’s murder so I wouldn’t have to deal with them again.
My day desperately needed a boost so I went to the breakroom, poured myself a cup of coffee—generously flavored with multiple packets of sugar and French Vanilla creamer—and took it to my office. Since I’d had so much actual work to do this morning—and not counting my meeting with Shuman—I ‘d been forced to put off my usual get-the-day-off-to-a-great-start activities—updating Facebook, checking my bank balance, and reading my horoscope.
I sat down in my desk chair, sipped my coffee, and something flew into my head.
The thing about the big announcement Veronica planned to make on Thanksgiving kept bothering me. I couldn’t shake the notion that it had something to do with her murder.
Nobody seemed to know what it was, exactly. There was only speculation that she was leaving Patrick and moving back home. Yet most everyone had insisted Veronica loved him too much to ever leave, and Patrick hadn’t even known Veronica intended to announce something.
I sipped more of my coffee and the caffeine and sugar sent different possibilities zinging through my head. I came up with all sorts of ideas, but they were just that, ideas.
Then something else hit me.
Maybe the announcement didn’t concern Veronica so much as it did Patrick. Maybe something was going on with him that she wanted to tell the family about.
I got a weird feeling.
Maybe it was Patrick who wanted a divorce.
I popped out of my chair and walked to the window. My brain was buzzing pretty good now as I tried to fit things together in this whole new way.
The notion that Patrick wanted to end things seemed contrary to everything I’d heard about their marriage. But with nothing else to go on, I had to look at things from a different angle—and they didn’t get much different than this.
Of course, if this did prove true I still didn’t see how it had anything to do with Veronica’s murder. Still, it was worth checking out.
I paced across my office and sipped more coffee—just for the brain boost, of course—and it hit me that if Patrick really intended to divorce Veronica he wouldn’t likely use Pike Warner, the firm that had represented his family for generations. No doubt he’d want to keep his plans under wraps until he was ready to confront Veronica.
Sure, the Pike Warner attorneys were supposed to uphold client confidentiality, but let’s face it, things were leaked all the time, especially where millions of dollars—like in the Spencer-Taft estate—were at stake.
I needed some inside info. Usually I’d ask Jack to call his contact at Pike Warner and access the database that kept track of all lawsuits filed in the state. I couldn’t do that this time. No way did I want to possibly generate a leak or start a vicious rumor that could cause major problems for Patrick—especially if my hunch wasn’t true.
But I knew who I could ask.
I grabbed my cell phone from my handbag—a chic Prada satchel—then accessed the message log on my office phone and got the number Liam had left when he’d called last week for an appointment.
Liam worked at Schrader, Vaughn, and Pickett, a huge firm as old and respected as Pike Warner. Patrick would likely go there if he was planning to divorce Veronica. If that wasn’t the case, Liam could access to the lawsuit database. Either way he could tell me what, if anything, Patrick was up to.
My stomach started to feel kind of gooey as I stared out the window and listened to the phone ring. I wasn’t sure if it was my this-might-be-a-major-clue feeling, or my this-is-a-hot-guy feeling.
Then I knew.
Liam’s voice came on the line and my belly got gooier. My toes even curled.
“What do you have when a lawyer's buried up to his neck in sand?” he asked. “Not enough sand.”
I giggled—jeez, I couldn’t stop giggling when I talked to him.
I forced myself to calm down and tried for some small talk.
“How’s your day going?” I asked.
“I have two calls on hold, three people in front of my desk, and I’m late for a meeting,” Liam said. “But I’m making them all wait so I can talk to you.”
Wow, I hadn’t expected that.
Okay, now I felt kind of crappy that he was being so sweet—and I’d just called him to try and get some information.
I desperately racked my brain to come up with some less selfish reason to explain my call, but couldn’t—damn, my sugar and caffeine had let me down—so I went with the truth.
“I was wondering if you could help me out with a little information,” I said. “I’m planning a Thanksgiving feast for Patrick Spencer-Taft.”
“Your clients in Calabasas,” Liam said.
He’d actually remembered I’d told him that?
I hadn’t expected that, either.
“I was working with his wife on the preparations,” I said.
“I heard what happened,” he said.
“I wanted to find out if Patrick was a client at your firm,” I said.
I tried to make it sound light and chatty, as if it somehow related to the Thanksgiving festivities I was planning.
“What do you call a lawyer who violates attorney-client privilege?” Liam asked. “Disbarred.”
I guess I had that coming.
At least he didn’t sound offended or insulted.
“How about dinner tonight?” he asked.
No way had I expected that.
“I’d like it,” I said, then it popped into my head that I was scheduled for a shift at Holt’s t
onight.
Damn. I hate that job.
“No, wait, sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”
He paused, as if waiting for me to give him a reason. But no way was I telling him about my crappy part-time sales clerk job.
“Another time?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said.
“Great,” he said. “Saturday?”
My stomach got gooey all over again. “I can do Saturday.”
We ended the call. My heart was pounding and my thoughts were completely scattered.
Before I could stagger back to my desk and collapse, my cell phone rang. It was Andrea.
“Something weird is going on,” she said. “You’d better get out here right away.”
Chapter 12
Andrea must have been watching for me because just as I pulled into the driveway the front door opened and she stepped outside. I had no idea what weird thing she needed me to take care of, but she didn’t look terribly upset or panicked.
I hoped that meant there hadn’t been another murder.
“I got a call from Poppy,” Andrea said, as I got out of my Honda. “She said all the plans for the feast had changed.”
Okay, now I might murder someone.
“Then Sasha called saying the same thing,” she went on. “The construction crew is here. I don’t know whether to let them keep working or not. What’s going on?”
“Nothing’s changed,” I said, and told her how Poppy and Sasha had come to my office with their last-minute ideas. “I’m sticking with the original plan, the one Veronica came up with. We’re doing this event the way she wanted it done.”
Andrea heaved a sigh. “Thank goodness.”
“I’ll go check on things,” I said.
Andrea went back inside and I circled to the west side of the house where the feast would take place. The workmen were busy carrying out the plans we’d discussed for the dance floor, the bandstand, and the kids’ area. The tables and chairs would be delivered and set up Thursday morning when the caterer and servers got there, along with the florist. I found Lyle, the foreman of the work crew L.A. Affairs often used, and did a walk-through. There were no problems. Everything was on schedule and would be finished in plenty of time for the feast.
Fanny Packs and Foul Play (A Haley Randolph Mystery) Page 9
