Evening Bags and Executions (23 page)

I glanced in my side mirror and changed lanes again, pulling in front of a pickup truck.

Of course, there had been no way I could possibly know that the kidnapper would take off without making the exchange. Jack had claimed that Janis Joplin recognized me. He'd thought that if she knew me, I'd know her. But I had no clue who she was.

Or maybe I did.

I hung in the lane behind the pickup, thinking back. In my mind I played the whole encounter over slowly. Seeing Janis Joplin as she turned the corner. Realizing she was the kidnapper. The relief I'd felt that I'd found her.

A couple of miles passed. I checked my mirrors and glanced over my shoulder, and eased into the next lane behind a green janitorial service van.

Mentally I pictured the kidnapper. I'd been so overwhelmed at realizing just who Janis was that all I'd noticed was her costume. The floppy hat, the mass of long curly hair, and the round glasses had all disguised her features. Yet something about her—other than that ratty old Coach tote—had seemed familiar.

Miles passed. I transitioned south onto the 405. I ran dozens of people and places through my head, hoping something would match up—like that facial recognition software casinos use when they target cheaters.

Had I seen her at Holt's? At a restaurant? In my classes at the College of the Canyons? Was she connected to L.A. Affairs? Maybe she'd been at—

A face exploded in my head, like the mushroom cloud from a nuclear bomb.

Oh my God—could I be right? Was I remembering her correctly?

I ran everything through my head again—her height, weight, build, age, chin, jaw, nose, forehead—and knew I wasn't mistaken.

But how could it be? It didn't make sense.

Why—and how—would Belinda Giles steal the Beatles bobbleheads?

I was still fired up when I pulled into the parking lot of my favorite Starbucks in Santa Clarita. Jack had called to make sure I'd gotten the bobbleheads to Sheridan okay, and we'd agreed to meet here.

When I'd pulled into Sheridan's driveway, the guard for the private security firm I'd hired had waved me through the gate. Muriel had been watching from a window and came out of the house. She hadn't asked for details on the exchange or if I'd gleaned any clue about who had stolen the bobbleheads in the first place. She seemed relieved and glad the ordeal was over—and that she'd get to keep her job.

She wanted me to come inside, but after hearing that she would have to wake Sheridan with the news of the bobbleheads' return I decided I could definitely pass on seeing Sheridan in her PJs or whatever she slept in. I figured I could talk to her about the whole ransom thing at the party tomorrow.

I spotted Jack's black Land Rover parked nearby, then saw him seated at an umbrella table looking more like Bruce Wayne—if Bruce Wayne had been a Navy S.E.A.L.—than Batman, in jeans and a black T-shirt.

I walked over. Just seeing Jack made my blood boil—but not for the usual reasons.

My outrage over recognizing Belinda and knowing what she'd done must have shown on my face. Jack sprang out of the chair.

“Forget it,” he told me.

His know-it-all tone irked me—even though he did, in fact, know it all when it came to security work.

But no way was I going to forget what I knew.

“I know who it was,” I told him.

“I figured you'd remember,” he said.

“I can't stand by and do nothing.” I might have said that kind of loud.

“Yes, you can.”

“I won't let her get away with it.” I'm pretty sure I shouted that.

“Yes, you will.”

Jack sounded way calm—which annoyed me further. “It's not right.” I definitely yelled that.

The couple seated at a nearby table turned to look at us. Jack touched my shoulder.

“Sit down,” he said quietly.

I didn't want to sit down. I didn't want to hear anything Jack had to say. I wanted to call the police and rat out Belinda big-time. I wanted to see her arrested, tried, jailed, and made to pay for stealing those bobbleheads and putting Sheridan, Muriel, and me through this whole thing.

“You want justice,” Jack said. “I understand that.”

Okay, that made me feel better—but only enough that I sat down at the table. Plus, Jack had a mocha Frappuccino waiting for me.

He took the chair next to me and sipped the coffee he'd bought for himself. He didn't say anything. I gulped down some of my Frappie; the chocolate, caffeine, and sugar calmed me, which was weird but there it was.

“It was Belinda Giles,” I said. “I met her at Lacy Cakes. She's Lacy Hobbs's cousin.”

“The owner who was murdered,” Jack said.

I could see that his mind was racing, trying to make a connection.

“I don't get it,” I said. “I don't know how Belinda could have stolen the bobbleheads from Sheridan's estate, and I don't see how it could have anything to do with Lacy's murder.”

“I don't put much stock in coincidence,” Jack said.

I didn't either, but so far I couldn't come up with anything that linked the two crimes—although I wished it could be Darren, somehow, since I didn't especially like him.

Jack sipped his coffee and I worked on my Frappie for a minute or two, then he said, “You can't go near Belinda.”

My anger spiked and I was ready to blast Jack with what I thought of his advice, but he cut me off.

“Your suspicion about her connection to the bakery owner's murder will show. So will the fact that you recognized her at the ransom exchange,” he said.

“Good,” I said. “She should be worried that I intend to go to the cops.”

“Belinda believes you didn't recognize her,” Jack said. “If she thought that disguise of hers had failed, she'd have never stopped for me and made the exchange.”

I just looked at him, unsure of where he was going with this.

“If Belinda knew you'd recognized her, and if she's connected to Lacy Hobbs's murder,” Jack said, “she might try to kill you to keep you quiet.”

Oh. I hadn't thought about that.

I calmed down, thinking over what he'd said.

It made perfect sense—but didn't make me feel any better about Belinda.

“I can't stand it that she's going to get away with this,” I said.

“I know,” Jack said. “You want justice.”

“Damn right I do,” I said.

“You're not in law enforcement, Haley,” he said. “And neither am I.”

“But—”

“
Private
investigation,” Jack said. “Private. That means doing what you're hired to do, what your client wants you to do.”

I shook my head. “No, I can't pretend I don't know what I know—and do nothing about it—just to make Sheridan Adams happy.”

“Sometimes there's no justice in this kind of work. No good guys. No win,” Jack said. “You have to do what you do, know what you know, and let it go.”

I fumed for a few more minutes. My head understood what Jack was saying but the rest of me was fighting it big-time.

Maybe private investigation work wasn't for me after all.

C
HAPTER
24

I
t was early, but Mom would be up—something about how the sunlight produced a delicate blush to the skin as the UV rays crested the eastern horizon.

I don't know. I wasn't really listening.

Anyway, I had a lot going today, the Holt's fashion show—which would finish up before noon—and Sheridan Adams's event, where I would spend the rest of the day and evening until the party ended. I had to be on hand to handle any problems that might arise.

I might have to rethink the whole event planner job. Being a party
guest
seemed like a heck of a lot more fun.

Mom was the quickest—though certainly not the easiest—item I could check off my list this morning, so I went to her house first.

The temporary housekeeper—a really young blonde who was texting a desperate request to be reinstated at dental hygienist school when she let me in the house—pointed to the patio doors. I spotted Mom seated at an umbrella table poolside, flipping through a magazine.

“Hi, sweetie,” she said when I walked outside.

Mom tended to get distracted—especially when the new issue of
Vogue
arrived—so I came right to the point.

“I found the perfect housekeeper for you,” I said.

Mom perked up. She actually closed the magazine and turned to me—which I appreciated because I'd gone to a heck of a lot of trouble, and then some, to accomplish this.

“She'll do everything you want done, exactly as you want it done,” I said. “She's flexible with her daily schedule and her days off. She's an excellent cook. She knows all your favorite dishes. She can start immediately.”

An I'm-a-pageant-queen smile bloomed on Mom's face.

“Oh, Haley, that's wonderful,” she said. “Where did you find her? Who is she?”

I drew a breath and braced myself.

“It's Juanita,” I said.

Mom's you're-my-favorite smile vanished. Her lips curled into a very unpageant-like snarl.

I cut her off.

“Juanita is the only person who can be your housekeeper,” I said.

After the last time I was at Mom's house I knew there was only one real option available. I'd driven to Juanita's house in Eagle Rock and talked with her. Just as I'd suspected, the entire incident that caused Juanita to leave in the first place was Mom's fault.

After much discussion, I'd convinced her to return to work for Mom. It wasn't easy.

Nothing concerning Mom is easy.

“She left without a word,” Mom said. “She disappeared. I was completely abandoned.”

“Juanita explained the whole thing to me,” I said. “It was a family emergency. Her daughter who is pregnant was having problems.”

What Juanita really told me was that after sharing that troubling news with Mom, her only comment was to ask Juanita what she planned to serve for dessert that night.

I saw no need to mention that.

Mom pressed her lips together and stewed for a moment, then said, “Well, it has been extremely difficult here without her.”

At this point, I would usually keep quiet and wait for Mom to mentally process everything.

I didn't have that kind of time.

“So you're good with it?” I asked.

“Everything will be like it was?” she asked. “Nothing will change?”

Nothing except for the substantial salary increase I'd had to promise Juanita to get her to come back. Plus paid holidays, a membership to a spa, annual passes to Disneyland, and the new car I still had to discuss with Mom's accountant.

Anyway, the important thing was that Juanita had agreed to work for Mom once more. Now I had to make sure Mom didn't drive her away again.

“You might want to inquire about Juanita's family once in a while,” I said. “Show some interest in her personal life, and not expect her to just come here and work for you.”

Okay, now Mom looked totally lost.

Jeez, what was I thinking?

I decided to move on.

“It's all settled,” I announced. “Juanita will be here this afternoon.”

Mom nodded thoughtfully and said, “You're right, Haley. Some people are meant to be together no matter what. You can't explain it and it's useless to fight it, so you may as well accept it.”

Ty popped into my head.

My heart began to ache, so I pushed him out.

Mom opened her magazine again, so I figured I should get away while I could. I left the house, got into my car, and headed for Sherman Oaks.

As I cruised down the 2 past Glendale, I plugged in my Bluetooth and called Detective Shuman. I hadn't heard from him in a while and wondered if Detective Madison had, but no way was I going to call him and ask.

I was starting to get an icky feeling in my stomach about Shuman.

His voicemail picked up. I left a message asking him to call me.

As I transitioned west onto the 134 I ran the mental checklist of everything I had to do today. The fashion show at Holt's would begin in a couple of hours, but it didn't require much effort on my part—mostly I had to show up and make sure the models didn't mutiny after they got there and saw the clothing they'd have to wear down the runway.

Maybe I should have hired security for that event, too.

I exited the freeway and drove to the Lacy Cakes bakery. The CLOSED sign still hung on the front door, so I walked around back. Their delivery van was parked near the rear entrance.

Belinda popped into my head. The image of her in that Janis Joplin costume had been floating around in my brain nonstop. I still couldn't figure out how she'd gotten involved with the Beatles bobbleheads kidnapping.

A lot of people knew about the charity auction and the memorabilia, but how many of them knew the collectibles were inside Sheridan's house, in that particular room?

I also couldn't figure out why the bobbleheads, of all things, had been taken. There were many other items, most worth at least as much as the bobbleheads, maybe more. And a lot of those things were smaller, much easier to conceal.

Someone must have known their significance, their link to British royalty Muriel had told me about. I doubted that fact was common knowledge. Sheridan would have wanted to make that announcement herself at the party.

All I could figure was that Jack had been right. Someone else—a partner—had been involved in the theft and the ransom demand. Belinda didn't seem like the criminal type to me, so I wondered if she'd gotten caught up in the scheme by the partner—but who could that have been?

The rear door to Lacy Cakes was propped open, and the delicious scent of baked goods floated out. I stepped inside and saw that same guy at the oven and Paige at the worktable. In front of her was the Yellow Submarine cake for tonight's event.

If I was going to pretend I didn't know Belinda had been involved in stealing the bobbleheads, as Jack had insisted, how could I go into Lacy Cakes to place orders for L.A. Affairs? How could I let Paige go into business with Belinda knowing what I know?

And how was I going to live with myself?

“Hey, girl,” Paige called. “Come on in. Take a look. What do you think?”

I walked over. The cake was about six feet long and three feet high, covered in bright yellow fondant, surrounded by what I guessed was some kind of blue sugar work to represent the sea.

“It looks fantastic,” I said, and mentally heaved a sigh of relief.

“I'll take it to the party in a while,” Paige said. “The finishing touches will go on after I get there.”

I nodded toward the parking lot out back and said, “I see you have the delivery van.”

“Yeah, Darren dropped it off this morning,” Paige said. “He went back home.”

I figured that could mean only one thing.

“So he sold the bakery?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Paige said, smiling broadly. “To Belinda and me. She called me last night with the news.”

So Belinda had put the ransom money to good use, apparently.

The robbery at the bakery flashed in my mind. It had come on the heels of Darren saying he was selling the place and keeping everything for himself—and that Belinda was getting nothing from Lacy in her will.

Oh my God—could Belinda have robbed the bakery? I didn't see why not since she'd been involved with the Beatles bobbleheads theft and ransom.

Okay, hang on a second.

Darren had returned the Lacy Cakes delivery van this morning, then left town—or so he'd claimed. But was he really involved in the bobbleheads theft?

Had he used the delivery van to gain access to the Adams estate and somehow stolen the Beatles bobbleheads, then drawn Belinda into the ransom scheme with him? Had he broken into the bakery and faked the robbery to throw suspicion on her? Was all of this some plan of his to make Belinda look guilty so she wouldn't challenge Lacy's will?

Or was something else going on with them?

Paige yammered on about plans for the bakery, but all I could think about was Belinda and Darren. I still didn't see how either of them could have pulled off the theft of the bobbleheads from inside Sheridan's estate. I was missing something. But what?

And did any of this connect to Lacy's murder?

 

When I got to Holt's, the place was in chaos—but that was okay with me. Having caused a great deal of chaos in my life, I was okay working in it.

Show prep had taken over the stock room. A large section of it had been curtained off for the models—all fifteen of them—to change into our so-called fashions. Since none of them had “super” in front of their job title, mirrors, tables, and chairs from Holt's inventory had been set up for them to put on their own makeup.

Their hair was something else entirely.

Bella had taken over one of the stations and was styling the models' hair herself.

In keeping with the fall fashion show theme, she'd created a stunning array of autumn icons atop each models head—pumpkins, cornstalks, a harvest moon—and had embellished them with sunflowers to complete each look.

Bella has absolutely got to get into beauty school soon.

“Wow, that's really something,” I said, and walked over.

She expertly twisted the model's red hair into a—oh my God, I think that's a crow—and gave me a broad smile.

“You just wait until I get my training done and get my hands on all those celebrities,” Bella said. “The red carpet will never be the same.”

She hit the model's hair with enough spray to freeze the space shuttle on the launch pad, then said, “You're done. Go get your makeup.”

The model smiled and moved on.

All I could figure was that these girls were desperate for money.

Bella patted the chair. “Hop in, Haley, you're next.”

Yikes!

“I got an idea for a scarecrow,” Bella said.

I didn't really want my hair twisted into the shape of a scarecrow—or anything else, for that matter—but Bella was my friend, so I decided, what the heck?

“Better make it quick,” I said. “The show is starting soon.”

She glanced at her watch and said, “Damn. You're right. Don't worry, though, I'll save it for Halloween.”

Bella and I moved to the racks where we'd assembled each runway look and started handing them out to the models. There was a lot of chatter and some laughter. I guess the girls were happy to have the work, regardless of the circumstances.

“Do you think customers are going to buy any of this stuff?” Bella asked, as she handed a fuchsia and purple plaid pantsuit to one of the models.

I figured this campaign to launch their fall clothing line had cost Holt's a fortune, so I was sure they'd advertised the heck out of it. I hoped, for Ty's sake, it would be a success.

“Knowing our customers, they'll buy two of everything,” I said, and thrust a navy blue dress with orange cap sleeves and patch pockets at the next model who walked by.

“We'll sell lots of stuff,” Bella predicted. “Everybody in the audience will be looking at my hairstyles, not the clothes.”

“How's it going?” Jeanette asked as she walked up. She eyed the emerald green and burnt orange polka-dot dress Bella was holding. “That is a smart-looking dress. I would wear that with those turquoise and orange pumps we just got in. What do you think?”

I thought I might get sick.

“We're kind of busy here, Jeanette,” I said. “Did you need something?”

I know that was sort of rude, but handling all these dust-rags-in-the-making was starting to get to me.

“We've got a packed house,” Jeanette said, smiling proudly. “Our store could very well win this contest.”

I'm sure the potential boost to her quarterly bonus was living large in her head, but I didn't say so.

“And you know what
that
means,” Jeanette said in a singsong voice.

It would mean that I'd be the fashion coordinator who would work at the Holt's corporate office—which I didn't even want to think about right now.

“Ten minutes until the show starts,” she said, glancing at her watch.

She went into a spiel about how she'd do the welcome speech—which turned into blah, blah, blah—then left.

“That's the last one,” Bella said, as a model wearing a mustard yellow swing coat covered with crocheted red, orange, and brown leaves left the dressing area.

“Let's line up,” I said, motioning the models toward the stock room doors.

The order in which models walked the runway at the major fashion events was crucial, but here at Holt's I went with smallest to tallest.