Evening Bags and Executions (3 page)

“I saw Sarah Covington the other day,” Marcie said.

I hate Sarah Covington.

She was the vice president of marketing for Holt's. She was pretty, smart, had her B.A., wore fabulous clothes and handbags, and made tons of money—all of which were reasons to hate her.

But the thing that really got to me was that she was all over Ty, all the time. She was forever tweeting, calling, texting, and e-mailing him about every tiny, miniscule, insignificant thing that happened at Holt's. She had to see him personally about absolutely any and all aspects of her job, and she was forever interrupting our dates, phone conversations, and what little time Ty and I had together. The worst part was that Ty never realized what she was doing, hung on her every word, and allowed her to shoehorn herself into almost every part of his life.

I hate her.

Now, with Marcie sitting next to me wearing that brace-yourself look on her face, I double-hated Sarah Covington.

“When I saw Sarah the other day,” Marcie said gently,

“she had on an engagement ring.”

Breath went out of me. I thought I might faint. Then I got mad.

“He's engaged
already?
” I demanded, and sprang off the sofa. “To
her?
To that—that—”

“I don't know for sure that it's Ty. I didn't ask her,” Marcie told me.

“Oh my God!” I kicked the pile of trash, sending bubble wrap and packing paper flying around the room.

“But you know how close they are,” Marcie said. “So I just figured it was him.”

I grabbed one of the television cables and yanked it off my wall.

“It was his idea,” I said.

I might have yelled that.

“I came home and he was already packed. He said he couldn't be the kind of boyfriend I wanted—but he never asked what kind of boyfriend I wanted.”

I'm pretty sure I yelled that.

“Do you think he wanted to ask Sarah to marry him then?” Marcie asked.

“I thought he liked this other girl—one
I
introduced him to.”

I definitely yelled that.

I scooped up a shipping carton and heaved it across the room, then spent a few more minutes slamming power tools into the grill, jumping up and down on the extension cord, and pelting my walls with nuts and bolts.

Finally, exhausted, I collapsed onto the sofa again.

Marcie just sat there while I fumed, as a BFF would, then went into the kitchen and brought back two Coronas and a half-dozen frozen Snickers bars.

“At least you're out of breakup zombieland now,” Marcie said.

Wow, Marcie was right. I felt like I'd been lost in a thick fog for weeks, like I'd been in some kind of trance, and now finally I was clearheaded again.

I tipped up my beer and settled back on the sofa, ready to do some serious catching-up with Marcie, when my cell phone rang. I had to climb over a small mountain of debris, but I caught it before it stopped ringing.

I looked at the caller ID screen and saw that my mom was calling.

Okay, that was weird. Why would Mom be calling me?

“Hi, Haley,” she said when I answered. “I want to confirm that we're still having lunch together tomorrow.”

I was having lunch? Tomorrow? With Mom?

“Well, huh . . .”

“
Our
day, as usual,” she said.

We had a day? When had that happened?

“I'll meet you at one o'clock,” Mom said, “at the English Garden tearoom, just as we planned.”

The English Garden tearoom? I hate that place.

“We'll discuss everything then,” Mom said, and hung up.

I stared at my phone.

Oh my God. I had a
usual
day set up with Mom? At that dreadful tearoom? And now the two of us were discussing
everything?

When had all of this happened?

Then it hit me—I must have set up all of this while I was walking around semicomatose in breakup zombieland.

Then something else hit me—if I'd committed to
this
, what else had I agreed to?

C
HAPTER
4

L
eave it to a best friend to completely shatter your world, crush your dreams, and destroy your illusions—but, hey, that's what best friends are for. Right?

Hearing Marcie say all those things to me last night was tough. Really tough. But I needed to hear them. She was right—Marcie was almost always right. I'd been a breakup zombie.

Most of the last few weeks were still a bit fuzzy to me. The thing that stood out the most in my mind was shopping. I recalled prowling the malls, stores, shops, and boutiques, whipping out my credit cards like a quick-draw gunslinger in a Wild West shootout—a memory that was reinforced this morning when I once again received a concerning e-mail from my bank.

But the important thing was that my BFF had shocked me out of my breakup trance and brought me back to reality. I was clearheaded now and completely in control of my thoughts and actions. Marcie had even taken our friendship a step further by contacting a handyman who'd done some work at her mom's house and arranging for him to put my apartment in order.

I got off the elevator on the third floor and walked down the hall to L.A. Affairs. I'd selected a gray business suit today and teamed it with a classic black-and-white Chanel bag. I looked great, if I do say so myself.

“Are you ready to party?” Mindy exclaimed when I walked in.

Today she had on a navy blue dress with wide shoulder pads and chunky costume jewelry; she'd given herself big hair. She looked as if she'd just walked off the set of that old TV show
Dynasty
where she'd played Joan Collins's stand-in, if Joan Collins had been plus size with bad hair and worse makeup.

“Oh, it's you,” Mindy said, then giggled and covered her mouth. “Good morning, Haley.”

“Good morning,” I said.

“I put you in the rotation today.” Mindy gave me an apologetic smile, then leaned forward and whispered, “Vanessa made me.”

I had no idea what the rotation was but figured I'd find out sooner or later, and I was pretty sure that if Vanessa was behind it, no way would it be good—for me, anyway.

In true corporate tradition, I stowed my handbag in my desk and headed for the breakroom where I, along with most all the employees, would spend an inordinate amount of time preparing a single cup of coffee, chat about our evening, our upcoming day, and our lunch plans, all in an effort to put off doing any actual work for as long as possible.

Kayla was in the breakroom when I walked in, along with several other women. Everyone had on a fabulous outfit, styled to perfection.

Kayla smiled when she saw me, then turned to the other women.

“Everyone, this is Haley Randolph. She just started working here yesterday,” she announced.

The women smiled and introduced themselves, and a few of them gave my awesome suit an appreciative glance.

“Haley is Vanessa's new assistant planner,” Kayla said.

The women all gasped and drew back, as if they thought I might have cooties, or something, and didn't want to get too close. A few of them murmured a couple of words, and they all scurried out of the breakroom.

“Don't take it personally,” Kayla said, reaching for a coffee cup in the cabinet. “They have nothing against you. It's just that nobody likes Vanessa.”

“I hate her,” I said.

“I hated her first,” Kayla said.

We both burst out laughing, and instantly I knew I'd found my BFF at L.A. Affairs.

“If you need anything today, just come ask me,” Kayla said as she left the breakroom.

I fixed my cup of coffee, happy to see a generous supply of flavored coffee creamers—always a plus, in my book—and then went to my office.

While on the job I'd had a few months ago I'd developed a morning routine that had served me well—though, admittedly, not my employer—and I saw no reason to deviate from it here at L.A. Affairs.

I settled into my desk and sipped my coffee while I reviewed my e-mail. Then I read my horoscope, booked a pedi, caught up on Facebook, checked my credit card balances, and took a picture of myself with my cell phone sitting at my desk and sent it to Marcie.

A vague memory surfaced of Marcie mentioning the Enchantress, a new evening bag that had made the cover of
Marie Claire,
so I looked it up online, then nearly fell out of my chair when I saw it.

Oh my God. It was an evening clutch made from antique textiles recently discovered in a Milan warehouse, lined with Persian silk, and accented with beads and Swarovski crystals.

My heart raced. It was gorgeous—beyond gorgeous, really—and I absolutely had to have one.

I checked the Macy's, Neiman Marcus, and Nordstrom Web sites. All of them carried the bag but were out of stock. I added my name to their waiting lists. This, I knew from experience, would not be enough to actually get one of the bags. Something more innovative, cunning, and conniving was called for. I just had to think it up.

For some reason, this caused the image of Ty to pop into my head. He was innovative but not cunning or conniving, so I'm not sure why I thought of him at that moment, except that he still had a way of taking up space in my brain.

Then, along with the image of Ty, I flashed on Sarah Covington.

I hate her.

I pushed her out of my head and turned my thoughts to murder—which just shows how much I don't like Sarah Covington if I'd rather think about a dead body than her.

Honestly, when I'd found Lacy Hobbs on the floor in her workroom yesterday, I hadn't known it was her. I knew she was dead, of course—long story. I'd never actually met Lacy, though I'd gotten an earful from my mom about her and the cake she'd made for Mom's charity event that turned out to be absolutely abysmal—Mom's description.

I got out of my office chair, went to the window, and stared down at all the people and cars on Sepulveda Boulevard. Everybody had someplace to go, someone to meet, something to do.

Except for Lacy.

I thought back to yesterday and recalled finding her dead in the workroom—an astonishing accomplishment given the breakup trance I'd been in at the time. I figured her for late fifties—older, maybe, if she'd had some work done—with blond hair in a well-cut style, waxed brows, full on makeup, and a fresh manicure. She'd looked great—except for the fact that she was dead, of course.

I wondered if it would be any comfort to Lacy's loved ones that she'd died—or been murdered, actually—doing what she loved, that she'd left this world wearing her white apron with her company logo on it—a cake with a star on top—and clutching a piping bag filled with pink icing.

I'd scoped out the workroom while I called 9-1-1 on my cell phone but hadn't seen anything out of place. No sign of a scuffle. The back door was closed. Everything was neat and orderly, even the cake sitting on the worktable that Lacy had apparently been decorating at the time of her murder.

I thought a little harder and recalled that, during the commotion going on around me yesterday as I sat on the sofa and stared out the window, I'd overheard the cops mention that Lacy had been shot at close range. I conjured up the image of someone walking into the bakery, as I had done, going through the curtained doorway to the workroom, same as me, and shooting Lacy point-blank in the heart, then simply leaving.

It hit me then that perhaps I'd actually seen the killer when I'd pulled into the parking lot. I rewound my thoughts and reviewed the mental videotape of my arrival at the strip mall yesterday. Several cars had been parked in the lot and a couple of other vehicles had driven past me, but none of them seemed familiar and I didn't recognize anyone.

Of course, I'd been in my breakup trance, so maybe I wasn't remembering everything.

And where the heck was Detective Shuman, I suddenly wondered. Was he back on the job today, working the case alongside Detective Madison? I hoped so, since Madison seemed convinced once again that I had something to do with a murder and I knew I could count on Shuman to keep an open mind.

Maybe I should call him.

We were friends—though not friends with benefits—and I hadn't talked to him in a while, so it would be okay to call. He'd know it was just cover so I could ask him about the case, but hey, friends understood that sort of thing. Right?

I got my cell phone from my purse and scrolled through my address book. Shuman had two phones, like a lot of people did, and always carried both of them with him. One was his personal phone; the other was for anything that involved LAPD business.

I tried his personal phone first. His voicemail picked up, so I left a message asking him to call me. Then I tried his cop phone.

“Hello?” A man answered, but I knew it wasn't Shuman.

Okay, that was weird.

“I'm calling for Detective Shuman,” I said.

“What do you want?” he asked.

The guy sounded grumpy and out of sorts. I wondered for a moment if it was Detective Madison, then realized it wasn't his voice.

“Is Shuman there?” I asked.

“No, he's not,” the man said. “I can help you. What do you need?”

No way was I telling some strange guy the reason I was trying to contact Shuman. Since Madison had already decided I was a suspect in Lacy Hobbs's murder, I figured it wouldn't do me any good to say anything, even though my name had no doubt appeared on the caller ID screen.

“I'll call back later,” I said, and hung up.

That whole exchange seemed odd and it made me worry that something had happened to Shuman—he was a cop, after all.

I went back to my desk and Googled his name, LAPD, murder, and cop shooting but didn't find anything indicating he might have been hurt in the line of duty.

Whew!

Okay, so maybe he was sick and staying off work for a while.

I didn't like the sound of that either, but it was better than thinking he was dead. Still, if that were the situation, Shuman or maybe his girlfriend, Amanda, would check his messages and get back to me.

Of course, maybe Shuman was simply on vacation. Homicide detectives were allowed to take vacation, weren't they?

Or maybe he was on his honeymoon.

I wish I'd stop thinking about that.

The whole thing was bugging me so much that there was nothing I could do but find out for sure just what was up with Shuman.

I didn't have Amanda's cell phone number or her number at the District Attorney's office, but I checked the Internet and placed calls to several of the numbers listed there and finally reached someone who knew her and gave me yet another number.

“Hi, I'm calling for Amanda Payton,” I said.

“Who's calling, please?” the woman asked. She sounded professional and competent, like maybe she was a receptionist or admin assistant.

“Haley Randolph,” I replied.

“And what is your business with Ms. Payton?” she asked.

“It's a personal call,” I told her, and envisioned her typing all my info into a message to send to Amanda.

“You're a friend of Ms. Payton?” she asked.

Jeez, trying to find out if I was seriously a murder suspect was turning into a lot of work.

“Yes, we're friends,” I said.

“At what number can you be reached?”

I gave her my cell phone number.

“Will Amanda get that message today?” I asked.

“Someone will get back with you,” she said, and hung up.

Someone
will get back with me? What was that supposed to mean?

Was Amanda off work keeping vigil because Shuman was sick or injured, or lying in a hospital bed somewhere, hanging on to life by a thin, unraveling thread?

The scene played out in my mind. Amanda at his bedside. Shuman in a medically induced, drugged haze, plastic tubes and blood-stained bandages everywhere, machines beeping and blinking, nurses and doctors rushing around, and all Shuman can do is gaze up at Amanda, trying to communicate the deep abiding love he feels for her. And Amanda, choking back tears, trying to stay strong while his life slipped away.

Or maybe I saw that on the Lifetime Movie Network last week.

I've got to get a grip on myself.

Anyway, chances were that Shuman was fine. He had the flu, or he was on vacation, and more than likely the receptionist at the D.A.'s office told everyone who called that
someone
would get back to them, and I would hear from either Shuman or Amanda—or maybe both—before lunch.

Unless they were on their honeymoon.

Crap.

Not that I wasn't happy for them, because I was. But still.

Since I was driving myself crazy with my own thoughts, I decided there was nothing to do but get down to work.

I hate it when that happens.

I opened the portfolio Vanessa had quite literally thrown at me yesterday. When I'd glanced over it I'd seen that it involved some sort of get-together, but that was about it. Nothing much to worry about, party-wise. But now, thanks to Lacy Hobbs getting murdered, I'd have to find out from someone just what was up with the cake that had been ordered.

I read over the signed legal contract.

My heart started to beat faster.

I flipped through the notes.

My hands began to tremble.

Oh my God. This party was
huge
. Two hundred people were expected. There would be massive amounts of specialty foods, numerous musical performers, elaborate decorations, all with a Beatles theme.

The Beatles? Jeez, how old were the people giving this party?

I flipped through the file and saw that the entire event was being presented by Sheridan Adams. I'd read her name yesterday, but because I'd been mired in breakup zombieland I hadn't made the connection.