Evening Bags and Executions (11 page)

Yeah, okay, that wasn't exactly what he told me. But I figured my comment would enrage Belinda and she'd blurt out something I could use to solve Lacy's murder.

“Close the bakery?” Belinda demanded. “Uh-uh. No. Never going to happen.”

“Darren seemed adamant,” I said. “He was pretty annoyed at having to come down here and settle Lacy's affairs.”

Belinda rolled her eyes. “Everything annoys Darren.”

“It sounded to me as if he had a legitimate complaint,” I said. “He's got his hands full trying to take care of his parents, paying for the meds, their care, plus running his business.”

“Like Darren should complain about it.” Belinda huffed. “He's still got the first dime he ever made. That cabinet shop—which his dad
gave
him—makes a fortune, but he's too cheap to spend it.”

Okay, this was something I hadn't heard before.

“Darren has been trying to dump his parents into a care facility for years,” Belinda said. She started to fidget, like maybe she needed a cigarette. “Now that he's getting some of Lacy's life insurance money, he'll probably do it.”

My spirits lifted. A huge chuck of money was definitely a motive for murder. Plus, I wasn't liking Darren so much right now.

“Lacy must have left something for you, too,” I said.

“Of course she did,” Belinda said, and looked away.

“Doesn't Lacy have children who'll collect the money?” I asked. “A husband or boyfriend? Someone?”

Belinda nodded toward the doorway to the workroom. “Lacy was married to this place.”

“She didn't have any close friends?” I asked.

“She wasn't exactly Miss Warm-and-Fuzzy,” Belinda said.

Apparently Belinda believed Lacy had left most everything to Darren, which seemed right since he was her brother, with bequeaths to her and maybe other family members. That left the bakery—an extremely lucrative business—up for grabs.

I'd gotten the impression from Darren that he expected to inherit the bakery, yet Belinda acted as if she were an heir also. Darren had complained that she was sticking her nose in where it didn't belong. Maybe, unknown to Darren, Lacy and Belinda had gotten past their teenage argument over those concert tickets—I was still going to have to find out what a Dave Clark Five was—and had grown close. I had no way of knowing the truth unless I saw Lacy's will, and that didn't seem likely.

Belinda's already hard face hardened further.

“Makes me wonder about Darren,” she said. “He has a lot to gain with Lacy's death. Especially if he thinks he can sell the bakery
and
get a chunk of that insurance money.”

It made me wonder about Darren, too. Had everything he told me just been for cover? Was he driving around in the bakery delivery van to make everyone think he was hard up for money?

He claimed he'd just arrived in Los Angeles, but how did I know if that was true? He could have come sooner, murdered Lacy, and spun that whole story to throw suspicion off of himself.

Belinda glanced back into the workroom, then leaned a little closer to me and lowered her voice.

“Paige seems awfully anxious to keep the business going,” she said. “It makes me wonder about her.”

Huh. Darren had said the same thing about Paige. Was she really out to get the bakery for herself—no matter what it took?

Belinda glanced at her watch. “I've got to go. Look, you don't need to worry about your cake. I know how things work with Sheridan Adams and her kind. It will get handled,” she said, then dashed back into the workroom.

I went back to my car and took the surface streets to the 405, headed south, and exited on Wilshire Boulevard. I parked and walked toward the Golden State Bank & Trust building—the destination for which I'd selected today's impressive black Prada bag.

Last year I'd come into a whopping sum of money—long story—which I'd given away, shortly thereafter—long story—but only after I'd bought some essentials for myself, such as clothes and handbags—really fabulous handbags, of course. I'd kept some of the money and added more to it when I'd gotten back from Las Vegas—long story—not long ago.

Because I know me, I'd put those funds into a special account here at the old-money, stately, venerable GSB&T. The account was special—to me, anyway—because when I'd opened it I hadn't ordered a debit card or checks. That way I couldn't get to the money easily. If I wanted something that was out of the reach of my everyday bank account and my numerous credit cards, I'd have to go to all the trouble of coming into the bank and withdrawing the money in person.

So now, thanks to my breakup fog and all the shopping it had caused, I needed to make up the considerable shortfall my bank was hounding me about, and the only way I could manage that was if I took money out of my GSB&T account.

No way was I returning all those awesome things I purchased—whatever they were.

It was lunchtime, so lots of people were on the street. Most everyone looked sharp, dressed in really terrific business attire, carrying expensive briefcases and carryalls.

My gaze caught a man coming out of the GSB&T, and my heart jumped. Wow, he was totally gorgeous. Tall, with light brown hair, an athletic build. He had on a Tom Ford suit that fit great, and—

Oh my God.
Oh my God
.

It was Ty.

C
HAPTER
12

T
y looked great—Ty always looked great—which was one of the things I always liked about him. But right now, seeing him on the sidewalk outside the GSB&T, it irked me.

Obviously, he wasn't a total mess like Shuman. Granted, Shuman's girlfriend had been murdered and I hadn't, but unlike Shuman, Ty looked pulled together, calm, and in control, just like when we were dating. It was as if, from his outward appearance anyway, our breakup hadn't affected him at all.

He glanced at his watch, then looked down the street as if he were waiting for someone, and his gaze landed on me. He froze.

My heart started to pound. My breathing got short as I stared back at him.

Was he going to come over? Talk to me?

My thoughts scattered. What would I say to him? Should I give him a big sarcastic thank-you for treating me so badly, for being such a
great
boyfriend by always putting me second? Should I tell him that I felt like a complete jackass for holding on to our relationship all that time, putting up with all the crappy things he did, trying to make it work?

Ty stood there looking at me. He didn't smile. I knew that expression on his face. He was thinking, trying to decide something. Like maybe he should just ignore me and walk away?

He headed toward me. My knees started to shake.

What should I do? Ignore him? Put my nose in the air, turn around, and leave? Hurry over to him and act like nothing had happened? Turn our conversation into a rehash of why we broke up?

Then it hit me—I couldn't do that. I couldn't—wouldn't—let him know that I'd been completely devastated by our breakup. I mean, really, telling him wouldn't do any good. And no way was I going to be one of those whiny, clingy, why-didn't-you-like-me-enough-to-stay ex-girlfriends.

I marshaled my half-beauty-queen genes, put on my everything-is-great-no-matter-what-happens expression, channeled my mom's nothing-can-upset-me attitude, and walked over to meet Ty.

“Hi, how are you doing?” I asked, putting on an it's-terrific-to-see-you grin.

Oh my God, he smelled wonderful.

“I'm okay,” Ty said—he didn't have an it's-terrific-to-see-you grin. “You?”

“Awesome,” I said, forcing you-broke-my-heart-but-I'm-over-it glee into my voice.

He tilted his head slightly to the right, the way I'd seen him do a zillion times when he was trying to understand something, put it in the right context.

“Really?” he asked softly.

“Really. Absolutely,” I told him, stretching my it's-terrific-to-see-you grin into a look-how-great-I'm-doing smile.

Ty nodded, then said, “I understand you have a new job.”

I have no idea how he knew I had a job, but I rolled with it.

“Love it,” I told him. “I love the job. It's totally me. The work is fabulous, the office is terrific, my boss is fantastic.”

“I'm glad,” he said. “I'm really glad, Haley.”

The sound of my name spoken in his mellow voice mentally zapped me back to the intimate moments we'd shared. The whispers, the giggles, the good-natured teasing.

I forced the image away.

He shifted his briefcase into his other hand, just like he used to do when I was upset, when he'd pull me against his chest and wrap his arms around me and I'd rest my head on his shoulder.

“What's new with you?” I asked, forcing renewed I'm-doing-great zeal into my voice.

Oh my God, why did I ask him that? What if he told me he was engaged to Sarah Covington? How could I stand here and listen to that? How would I not fall completely apart?

I couldn't take it anymore.

“Listen,” I said, pumping up the something-bad-happened-but-I'm-not-going-to-let-it-show tone in my voice. “I've got to run.”

Ty took a step toward me. “Haley—”

Tears stung my eyes.

“I've got to go,” I said, and hurried away.

I rushed into the GSB&T and dashed across the lobby toward the restroom, frantic to get away. I couldn't let Ty see me crying.

Then I glanced back at the door.

Why didn't he come in and check on me? He saw I was crying.

I turned away and ran into the bathroom.

“I want it to pop! Sizzle! You know?”

I stared across the desk in client interview room two at Annette Bachman as she bounced on the edge of her chair. Her eyes were bulging, and her fists were clinched and raised above her head.

She was the first client assigned to me at L.A. Affairs and, clearly, she was way out in front of me on the enthusiasm scale.

I'd blown off my shift at Holt's last night—I pretty much blew off everything after seeing Ty yesterday—and stayed home. I probably could have used some company, but Marcie had a family thing to do. I thought Cody might show up and work on my apartment, but he didn't. Since he had no cell phone, I couldn't call him. So I stayed home, did my homework, and soothed myself with an Oreo cookie or two. Maybe it was more than that. Okay, it was way more than that—but at least it kept me from detouring into breakup zombieland again.

“I'm talking awesome,” Annette went on. “Fabulous! Astounding! You know?”

“Yeah, I know,” I said. I didn't, but I hoped that saying so might get her to move on.

Annette was in her midthirties, I guessed, with red, curly hair shaped like a triangle around her pale, round face. She had on one of those calf-length skirts, sandals, and a twin set, an outfit that screamed yeah-I'm-single-but-I-don't-know-why. So it surprised me that she was here today to discuss a birthday party for her little Minnie.

“Because, wow, you only have one third birthday, right?” Annette said. “It's got to be special! Grand! Completely and totally awesome!”

“Sure,” I said. I picked up my pen. “So, what color do you want?”

Annette clamped her mouth shut for a second, then said, “Pink! No, wait, yellow! No, no. Purple! Purple would be perfect for my little Minnie—purple and pink!”

Then her shoulders slumped and her smile collapsed.

“Oh, goodness, I don't know,” she said, shaking her head. “I can't decide. I'm not sure, you know? That's why I came here, so you could help me make up my mind. It's such an important day for Minnie. I want it to be perfect.”

Okay, now I felt kind of bad. She was really excited about planning a terrific birthday party for her daughter, and it was, after all, my job to help her.

I felt pretty good that L.A. Affairs had assigned me my own client. Mindy had told me that Vanessa had insisted I be put in the rotation, so I figured this was a good sign.

Of course, I'd never planned a birthday party for a three-year-old, but really, how hard could it be?

“Okay, so here's what we can do,” I said. “We'll pick a theme and a color palette. We'll select a venue. We'll decide on food, beverages, decorations, activities, and entertainment.”

Wow, I was really on a roll with this birthday party thing.

“It sounds perfect!” Annette declared, hopping up and down on her chair again.

I picked up my pen and started making notes on the tablet in front of me.

“Let's consider having the party in your home,” I said. “Since Minnie and her guests are only three, it might be easier for the other moms.”

“Oh, yes, that would be perfect,” Annette said.

I wrote that down and put a big star beside it because, after all, it was a fantastic idea I'd had.

“Do you have a game room, or family room you'd like to use?” I asked.

Annette frowned. “Well, I don't know. That might get a bit messy. Accidents, you know.”

“Then I would recommend your backyard,” I told her.

“Lovely!”

I was feeling really great about myself. Maybe I could be good at this event-planning thing. Maybe I'd have a real career here.

“Oh, yes, the backyard would be perfect,” Annette said. “That way Minnie and her guests can roll around and dig their little noses into the grass. It will be so cute!”

I got a weird feeling.

“Let's discuss refreshments,” I said.

“Of course! We'll need lots of treats!” Annette declared.

My weird feeling got weirder.

“Treats?” I asked.

“I'm very particular about what Minnie eats,” Annette insisted. “Everything must have high-quality, premium ingredients, with plenty of vitamins, minerals, and healthy oils.”

“Healthy oils?” I asked.

“And no artificial colors or flavors,” she went on. “And absolutely no animal by-products or grain fillers.”

I laid my pen down.

“Do you have a picture of Minnie with you?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew where this was going.

“Well, of course I do,” Annette said. She dug around in her handbag and presented me with a photo.

Oh, crap.

“Minnie is a dog,” I said, and somehow I didn't yell that.

“Well, of course she's a dog!” Annette said, then giggled. “And isn't she just the cutest little thing!”

I got up from the desk.

“I think that's all the info I need to get started,” I said, guiding Annette out the door. “I'll get back with you soon.”

“Oh, well, all right,” Annette said, as I hurried her along the corridor to the reception area.

“Oh! My! I love your outfit,” Mindy said.

I hate my life.

I went back to my office and saw that I'd missed a call from Mrs. Quinn at the employment agency. I phoned her and learned that she had several candidates for the position of housekeeper whom I could interview.

“I can come to your office right away,” I said.

“I'll need a few hours,” Mrs. Quinn said, and we hung up.

Of course, I saw no reason to wait a few hours to leave the office, especially when I had so much of my own personal business to attend to—plus a murder to solve. I gathered my things and left.

I took Ventura Boulevard to Studio City and pulled into the parking lot near Coldwater Canyon. The Fairy Land Bake Shoppe was located in a little shopping center near a health food store and a couple of mom-and-pop businesses.

Paige had told me that the owner of Fairy Land had been mad at Lacy Hobbs for offering her more money and hiring her away. Maybe he'd been mad enough to kill her.

The bakery had huge display windows that were decorated with flying fairies and magic wands, golden pixie dust, colorful mushrooms, and lovable trolls and gnomes. Featured in the windows was an array of magnificent cakes, with intricate designs and clever themes.

On the whole, this place looked a couple billion times better than Lacy Cakes. It made me wonder why Paige Davis had been so anxious to leave here and work elsewhere, even with the higher salary.

I hoped the manager of Fairy Land would tell me.

Armed with my portfolio with the L.A. Affairs logo turned out, and my this-proves-I'm-important Gucci handbag and black business suit, I walked into the bakery.

Just as the name suggested, it looked like a fairy land, with whimsical decor and baked goodies and sweets everywhere. It smelled delightful—like even if you took a bite out of the countertop, it would taste like buttercream.

My kind of place.

Several customers were at the glass display cases buying cupcakes and cookies from two young women wearing lavender aprons with fairies on the front.

“Can I help you?” one of them asked.

I passed her one of my business cards and asked, “Can I speak with August?”

She glanced at the card. “Sure,” she said, and disappeared through the curtained doorway into a back room.

August, the store owner whose name I'd found on their Web site, appeared a moment later. You'd expect that a man who owned a bakery wouldn't look like someone you'd want to have your back in a bar fight, and this guy was no exception. Everything about him was average—pleasant, and average. Late forties, I guessed, and kind of round everywhere—his belly, his balding head—dressed in the I'm-average man's uniform of khaki pants and a blue shirt.

Even though he held my business card, I introduced myself. He gave me a very gentlemanly handshake.

“I'd like to speak with you about possibly doing business with L.A. Affairs,” I said. “You've heard of us?”

August smiled. “I certainly have. Please, let's sit down.”

He pulled out a chair for me at one of the tiny white tables near the front window, and I could see he was anxious to please. L.A. Affairs could bring him lots of business, and he knew that.