Evening Bags and Executions (25 page)

“It looks fabulous,” I said.

“I'm pumped,” Paige said.

Jack's words of caution flashed in my head, but I pushed them away.

“Where's Belinda?” I asked. “I thought she'd be here helping today.”

I didn't, of course, but what else could I say to get info out of her?

“Oh no,” Paige said, eyeing the cake. “She had to work today, or something. I don't know. I wasn't really paying attention.”

Since Paige didn't know—or seem to care—where Belinda was, I figured that squashed my one last chance to discover any more evidence today and I'd have to put my murder investigation on hold until tomorrow.

I circled the estate grounds again. The workmen were gone. The sun had dipped low on the horizon, so all the lights were lit. The bands were on their stages, tuning up. The caterers had set up their food and drink stations. Guests would start arriving soon.

I headed toward the service wing to dress for the party and found Tiberia putting the finishing touches on the display of gift bags. She looked great in a red linen pantsuit and sandals.

“Haley, so good to see you,” she said.

We hugged and exchanged air kisses.

“I have something special for you,” Tiberia said.

From one of the boxes, she took a gift bag and presented it to me.

“Courtesy of Sheridan Adams,” Tiberia said.

This was totally cool. When I'd been in Tiberia's office and seen the gifts she'd assembled, I'd wanted absolutely all of them. I didn't expect I'd get one of the bags, though.

She gave me a knowing grin. “Sheridan asked me to select something special for your gift bag. I hope you'll like it.”

“Thanks so much,” I said, cradling the bulging bag in my arms.

“I have to run,” Tiberia said. “Another delivery across town.”

I waved good-bye and hurried up to my room in the service wing.

My first thought, of course, was to open the gift bag and check out everything inside, but something this fabulous must be savored—plus, I had to be on hand when the guests started to arrive.

I took a shower, did my hair and makeup, and put on the fabulous cocktail dress I'd bought for the party. Since I didn't think I'd need anything in the portfolio, I put some essentials into my Judith Leiber clutch and opened my door.

A black garment bag hung in the doorway.

Okay, that was weird.

I stepped around it and saw that someone had hung it on the door frame.

What the heck was going on?

I looked up and down the hallway but spotted no one, so I went downstairs. Through the double doors I saw the valets hustling to park a long line of cars. Strains of “Please Please Me” drifted in.

Muriel stood at the entrance to the floral room—at least I thought it was Muriel. She was dressed kind of odd in a gray uniform—pleated skirt, a jacket with brass buttons, kneesocks, a crossbody leather bag, and one of those big dome hats the policemen in England wear.

“Who are you?” she asked.

Jeez, did she really not recognize me in my hot cocktail dress? Or had working for Sheridan Adams sent her over the edge?

“I'm Haley,” I said.

She looked me up and down. “You can't be Haley.”

I started to get a weird feeling.

She pulled at her skirt and said, “I'm Rita. As in ‘Lovely Rita.' The meter maid in the song.”

My weird feeling got weirder.

“Where's your costume?” Muriel asked.

Oh my God—this was a costume party?

“Everybody
has
to wear a costume,” Muriel said.

How could it be a costume party?

“Mrs. Adams will lose her mind if somebody shows up without a costume,” Muriel said, bordering on all-out panic.

How come nobody told me I needed a costume?

And then I knew—Vanessa.

She'd taken the costume requirement info out of the file—just like she'd done with the other things. She hoped nobody would tell me and I'd show up without a costume, and look like a complete idiot—which is exactly what I looked like.

Total panic set in.

Where the heck was I going to find a Beatles costume
now?
The party had started; people were already arriving. What was I going to do?

And what would happen when L.A. Affairs found out I'd attended this high-profile event without a costume? Would they fire me?

But would it matter—after Sheridan blabbed to all of her important, influential friends about how the planner from L.A. Affairs had snubbed her costume requirement and put the company out of business?

“Oh, wait,” Muriel said, and heaved a sigh of relief. “That must have been your costume that was delivered for you.”

Okay, now I was totally lost.

“The garment bag,” Muriel said, pointing up the stairs. “I hung it outside your door.”

I nearly collapsed with relief.

“That other girl dropped it off,” Muriel said.

My anxiety amped up again.

“What other girl?” I asked.

“The one Jewel worked for,” Muriel said. “Vanessa.”

Vanessa had brought me a costume?

“She had on the most beautiful dress,” Muriel said. “A deep garnet red made of lace. She's Julia Lennon, John's mother—the woman who inspired it all.”

What was Vanessa doing here? This was my party. She'd dumped it off on me the very first day I met her.

And why was she wearing the most totally awesome costume imaginable?

Oh my God—this could
not
be happening.

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.

C
HAPTER
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 cleaning 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.”