Evening Bags and Executions (12 page)

Yeah, okay, I could have felt bad about dangling the maybe-you'll-get-some-big-buck-clients-through-me carrot in front of him, but I didn't because I really was impressed with his business, so far, and would need a first-rate bakery I could rely on.

Wow, I sound like a real event planner, huh?

August jumped right in with a history of the Fairy Land Bake Shoppe, how he'd started it, when he'd started it, something about his mother, the old country, blah, blah, blah. I'd already read all of that stuff on their Web site, but I gave the impression that I was listening intently even though I was thinking about checking Nordstrom after work for that Enchantress evening bag—a skill I'd perfected in many a Holt's training session.

When I realized there was a lull in August's presentation, I instantaneously snapped back to the present—another Holt's skill I'd learned.

“I'm very impressed with your bakery,” I said, glancing around. “But, August, I'm afraid I have some reservations about doing business with you.”

His totally average eyebrows shot up. “Well, please, tell me what they are.”

“I understand there was some bad blood between you and Lacy Cakes,” I said.

August's eyes narrowed and his lips pinched together in what I took for his I'm-angry-now expression. He sat that way for a few seconds, then shook it off and said, “That is upsetting to hear.”

Not exactly the hothead I'd hoped for, spewing incriminating info or confessing to Lacy's murder.

“Weren't you mad at Lacy for hiring away one of your best employees?” I asked.

“Who?” August asked, and gave the impression that he was totally lost.

“Paige Davis,” I said.

Now he looked even more lost. “She didn't quit—I fired her.”

Okay, this was something I hadn't expected.

August lowered his voice. “I don't usually discuss employee issues, but that girl was a problem from the day I hired her. She had all kinds of grand ideas of how I should change my shop. Make bigger cakes, charge more money, increase production.”

August was definitely a slow-and-steady kind of guy, so I could see why this hadn't gone over well with him.

“Paige overstepped her authority one too many times,” August said. “We were inundated with orders that she went out and got all on her own. I had to pay my staff overtime to get them done. It caused quite a commotion.”

Apparently, August and I had differing visions of
commotion
.

“But she's an exceptionally talented cake designer. She's aggressive and ambitious,” August told me, and gave me a rueful smile. “Can't say I'm anxious to compete with her for business when she opens her own shop.”

“Do you think she'll do that?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” August said. “That was her plan all along. She told me specifically when I hired her that she was here for the training and intended to move up in the world, though frankly I don't know how she could do that. Opening a bakery and running it requires quite a bit of cash.”

Unless you could take over one after you murdered the owner, I thought.

Darren and Belinda had both told me that Paige seemed very anxious to keep Lacy Cakes open. They'd thought it suspicious.

I'd figured that whoever murdered Lacy had known her and that there had been a major cold factor in the way she was killed. Paige seemed to fit both of those criteria.

“Any other concerns about Fairy Land?” August asked.

“No, that's about it,” I said, and rose from my chair.

He walked with me to the door and opened it for me, then passed me one of his business cards.

“If we can be of service, please let me know,” August said, and gave me an average, but sincere, smile.

“Thank you. I will,” I said, and headed for my car.

“Miss Randolph?” he called.

I turned back.

“Paige was right about Lacy Hobbs hiring away talent from other bakeries. She was a ruthless businesswoman,” he said. “She would call on clients of other bakeries and steal them away. She would say vicious things about her competition—all lies. If anyone dared to complain about her cakes, she would start ugly rumors about them. Frankly, I'm not surprised she was murdered.”

After hearing those things, I wasn't surprised, either.

C
HAPTER
13

“A
nd I need three days off during the week—the same three days, not no three when-it-suits-somebody-else days. I'm not wearing one of those ugly uniforms, either,” the woman across the desk told me.

I was in the interview room at the employment agency in Encino tasked with the it's-easier-to-go-to-Mars job of finding my mom a new housekeeper. Mrs. Quinn had arranged for me to meet with three applicants.

Immediately I could see that this woman wouldn't exactly click with Mom. She was really tall, muscular, with a head of dark hair that stuck out like a lion's mane. Honestly, I think Mom might be a little afraid of her.

I was kind of afraid of her myself.

“Thank you so much for coming in,” I said. “We'll be making a decision in the next few days.”

“Good, 'cause I've got to know something quick,” the woman said, and walked out of the room.

The next candidate walked into the room just as I picked up her application from the stack Mrs. Quinn had given me.

“Prudence Darby?” I asked and introduced myself.

She was a small, trim, compact woman who apparently thought it was still 1955, although she didn't look quite old enough to have lived back then. She wore a black wool coat with a faux-fur collar and a hat, and she clutched a huge department store handbag in both hands.

I glanced over her application as she sat down. “I see here that you've—”

“Did you read the comment at the bottom?” she asked. She spoke in a soft voice, almost in a whisper for some reason. “I'm a Christian woman. I always make that clear. I wrote it on the bottom of the form. See, right there? It says I'm a Christian woman.”

“Don't worry, we're not going to feed you to the lions,” I said.

Although some of the people who'd worked for Mom might feel differently.

“I don't believe in drinking alcohol,” Prudence said.

I was pretty sure she'd change her mind after a few days of dealing with Mom.

“I can't work in a house where alcohol is present,” she said.

I could have quizzed her on this a little more, tried to talk her into making an exception, but I didn't see the point. I thanked her for coming in and she left.

Next up was Jozelle Newcomb, a tall, attractive woman who was probably in her midforties.

Immediately I was impressed when she walked in carrying a Chanel tote and wearing a Michael Kors suit, even if it was last season's. Then I was immediately unimpressed when I looked over her application and saw that not only had she never worked as a housekeeper, she'd never worked at all.

“I see here that you haven't had any actual work experience,” I said.

She burst out crying.

Oh my God. What happened?

I gave her a minute or two, hoping she'd settle down. She didn't.

I'm not good with a crier.

“Maybe this isn't the best time for your interview,” I said.

She kept sobbing.

“Let's reschedule, okay?” I said.

She nodded, grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the corner of my desk, and left.

I waited a few minutes—no way did I want to run into her again in the parking lot—then gathered my things and went to Mrs. Quinn's office down the hall.

“None of those applicants were right for the job,” I said.

I felt bad for Jozelle Newcomb, who couldn't even get through the interview without crying. Obviously, she was having some major personal problems. But I couldn't imagine she'd be a good fit for the job, considering Mom could be every bit the same emotional mess as she was.

Mrs. Quinn heaved a long sigh. “I'll see what else I can come up with.”

I left the building and got into my car parked in the lot around back. Honestly, I'd had about all of the personal business I could take for one day. I was considering moving my Nordstrom trip up from tonight after work to now when my cell phone rang.

My spirits fell. It was Rigby.

“Which one of the Beatles was married when the group first came to America?” she asked.

My spirits shot up again. I knew this—I actually knew the answer.

“It was . . . it was . . .” I racked my brain. “John Lennon!”

“You took too long to answer,” Rigby told me, and hung up.

Crap.

This whole Beatles party was starting to get on my nerves, even though most everything was going according to plan. Muriel was taking care of the guest list, the cleanup crew, and the valets. I'd followed up on the arrangements Jewel had made for the caterer, the tribute bands, and the decorations.

The only thing I still had to do was somehow get the Cirque du Soleil dancers and acrobats from the Love show in Vegas to perform at the party, plus figure out how I was going to come up with the gift bags Sheridan had requested—as long as I passed Eleanor and Rigby's Beatles trivia quizzes and got to keep my job, of course.

I sat there for a minute trying to think of where the heck I was going to find two hundred custom-made gift bags, plus the items to put inside them.

Then I realized there was only one place to go for help—the Russian mob.

 

I'd met Mike Ivan a while back when I'd been in Las Vegas to assist with the opening of a new Holt's store—long story. He was from L.A. and happened to be there on business.

Mike was rumored to be in the Russian mob, though both Detective Shuman and Jack Bishop had told me they could find no hard evidence that linked him to any illegal activity. Mike always insisted he ran a legitimate import–export business and simply had the misfortune of having relatives with questionable business ethics.

Leave it to family.

We'd swapped favors, but this wasn't a relationship I wanted to get into too deep—just in case.

Mike ran his business out of the Garment District in L.A., a place I knew well since Marcie and I shopped Santee Alley for the knockoff handbags we sold at our purse parties. Among the things Mike imported was rare, expensive fabric from all around the world. I figured that if anybody could help me get Sheridan Adams's Beatle-themed gift bags made, it would be Mike.

I exited the 110 freeway on Olympic Boulevard, turned onto Santee Street, and drove up the ramp to the parking lot Marcie and I usually used. I paid the attendant and took the stairs down to Santee Alley.

I loved Santee Alley. It was a mix of all kinds of people, all kinds of products and merchandise. Locals and tourists came here to shop in the stores with their back doors opened to the alley and with the vendors who crowded in between.

Even though Marcie and I had shopped Santee Alley for about a year now and many of the merchants knew us, that didn't mean we could walk in off the street and expect to do business with the people who ran the garment factories that filled the top floors of the old buildings in the area. Business people here were cautious. They dealt in cash. They didn't like outsiders.

When I'd left the employment agency I'd called Mike and asked if he could meet me. He was a little hesitant because last time we'd talked we'd both decided that things between us were settled, we were square—long story. But I assured him that this time it was strictly business.

I made my way out of the alley to Maple Avenue, then walked north to the textile district. Here, the exteriors of the shops were lined with huge bolts of fabric, a rainbow of every color, pattern, and texture imaginable. I turned the corner onto Ninth Street and went into the shop in which Mike had instructed me to meet him.

The place was packed with fabric—big rolls, small bolts, a few remnants. It was stacked on tables, hung on displays, and propped up in big boxes. There were bins of buttons, zippers, and all sort of other things I was clueless about.

The man sitting behind the counter eyed me sharply; they didn't get too many young white girls in here wearing business suits.

“Mike is expecting me,” I said.

He gave me another long hard look, then picked up his phone and made a call. I amused myself wandering through the store looking at fabric until Mike came out of the back room.

He didn't look like he was in the Russian mob—or even that he was related to anyone who was in the Russian mob. Thirty-five, I figured. Nice build, okay dresser, kind of good looking, a little taller than me.

Mike gave my awesome outfit a quick once-over, which was always a real morale booster, and said, “It's good to see you when you're not involved in a murder investigation, for a change.”

So much for my boosted morale.

“Well . . . actually . . .”

He shook his head wearily.

“It's all a big misunderstanding,” I assured him. “See, I got this new job and—”

“At the D.A.'s office?” he asked, the playfulness gone from his expression and voice.

My blood ran cold. He must have been talking about Amanda Payton, Shuman's girlfriend.

“You heard about Amanda?” I asked.

“Bad business,” Mike said, looking grim.

Okay, this was weird. How come Mike had heard about Amanda's murder but Jack Bishop hadn't? Jack was wired into everything that went on in L.A.

“Actually, I don't work with Amanda,” I said, since I didn't think it was a good idea to lie to someone who might really—despite protests—be involved with the Russian mob. “But I knew her. We were friends.”

Mike shook his head. “Sorry to hear that. Must be tough for you.”

“You should see her boyfriend,” I said. “He's a complete mess. I don't know if he'll ever get over it.”

He thought for a moment. “That detective. LAPD. Shuman.”

I'd forgotten that Shuman had looked into Mike's alleged mob connection when I was in Las Vegas. Obviously, Mike hadn't forgotten. I wish I hadn't reminded him, but I did wonder how Mike had known that Shuman and Amanda were dating.

“Shuman is on a leave of absence from duty,” I said.

Mike didn't say anything, but I was pretty sure he was thinking that Shuman was investigating Amanda's murder himself against department regulations.

I'm sure that's what Mike would have done.

I decided it was a good time to change the subject.

“So here's what I need,” I said. “Gift bags. Two hundred of them that capture the essence of the Beatles.”

“How much are you looking to spend?” Mike asked.

“A lot,” I said. “It's for a big party and charity event Sheridan Adams is throwing. Tribute bands, a memorabilia auction. A-list guests.”

“I'm sure I'll receive my invitation any day now,” Mike said, and grinned. Then he was, all business again. “I'll talk to a designer I know and see what she can come up with for the bags.”

“Great,” I said, and passed him my business card. “Do you happen to know anybody at Cirque du Soleil in Vegas?”

Mike thought for a few seconds. “I'll get back with you.”

Wow, having a friend in the maybe-or-maybe-not Russian mob could come in handy.

 

“This is b.s.,” Bella grumbled.

We were in the stock room at Holt's going through the clothing for the upcoming so-called fashion show I was supposed to coordinate. I was totally bummed because Marcie and I had planned to go on the hunt for the fantastic Enchantress bag tonight, but I'd forgotten I was scheduled to work here.

I wasn't back in breakup fog again, I'm just really good at blocking out thoughts of Holt's.

I'd told Jeanette I could use some help styling the looks for the show, and she'd said that Bella could assist. But I didn't really need a helper—I needed a miracle.

I'd actually considered quitting my job here just so I wouldn't have to go through with the fashion show, but with my position at L.A. Affairs in question, thanks to Eleanor and Rigby and their Beatles quiz questions, not to mention Vanessa backstabbing me at every opportunity, I didn't dare resign.

“Yeah,” I said, and winced. “This stuff is pretty bad.”

“I'm going to end up vision impaired from looking at these crappy clothes,” Bella said. “Maybe I can get disability.”

We'd pulled off the tarp that covered the hanging items but left the plastic wrap on—not that it helped, really—and opened the boxes of shoes and accessories to try to assemble some looks.

Nothing went together. The buyers must have selected this stuff using a dartboard.

“There're no two things in this whole mess that are the same color, except the shoes,” Bella said, “and they're ugly.”

“Whoever is doing the buying for Holt's must be a complete idiot,” I said, sorting through the dresses.

“You win this contest and maybe you can fix that,” Bella said, as she pulled a pair of pumps from one of the boxes. “Damn. My nana wouldn't even wear these things.”

“I don't see how we can possibly win the contest,” I said.

“Don't ever underestimate the bad taste of a Holt's shopper,” Bella said.

It flashed in my head that I should mention that to Ty, then I remembered we'd broken up.

Damn. Why do I keep thinking about him?

“How come Holt's won't give a decent prize?” Bella asked. She patted her hair. Her autumn theme continued with what appeared to be cornstalks fashioned atop her head. “Something like a year's supply of hair care products. Now that'd be a prize worth having.”

“So what are the employees supposed to get?” I asked. “Not that we have a prayer of winning.”

“Everybody will get a Holt's gift card,” Bella said. “I don't think anybody will be too busted up if we don't win.”