Evening Bags and Executions (9 page)

“I most certainly do,” Mom said. “Sasha Gibson's daughter's wedding was ruined by Lacy Cakes.”

I'm not exactly sure how a cake can ruin an entire wedding, but I didn't say so.

“Can you get me the daughter's phone number?” I asked.

“Are you planning a class action suit against Lacy Cakes?” Mom asked.

I'm pretty sure Mom thinks I still work for the Pike Warner law firm. She also thinks I have my bachelor's degree, and I'm certain she thinks Ty and I are still dating.

Jeez, I wish I could stop thinking about Ty.

“Yeah, Mom, that's it,” I said.

“I'll call you back.” Mom hung up.

I parked and took the elevator up to the third floor. My phone rang as I walked through the door of L.A. Affairs, giving me the perfect opportunity to ignore Mindy when she shouted, “Are you ready to party?” at me.

“I just spoke with Sasha and got all the information on her daughter,” Mom said when I answered. “I just sent you a text.”

“Great, Mom, I'll call her right away,” I said.

“Unfortunately, you can't reach her,” Mom said. “She was so distraught over everything she went to South America.”

“South America?” I might have said that louder than I meant to, but jeez, how upset can you be over a cake?

“Yes, Sasha was surprised, too,” Mom said. “It was all quite sudden. Her daughter just packed a bag and left.”

I got a weird feeling.

“When was this?” I asked.

“A few days ago,” Mom said.

Lacy Hobbs was murdered a few days ago.

“Now, about this lawsuit,” Mom said. “When are you—”

“Sorry, Mom, you're breaking—”

I hung up—yeah, I know that's not a nice thing to do to your mom, but I had stuff to take care of.

I read the text she'd sent me as I went into my office. I sat down at my desk, accessed the Internet on my computer, and found an article from last spring in one of the local magazines that featured the runaway bride, Heather Gibson; her groom, Andrew Pritchard; and several other socially prominent couples discussing what they'd worn for their engagement photos.

Ty popped into my head. Would he and Sarah Covington be featured in one of these articles?

I forced the image out of my head.

We'd broken up—and I didn't even know for sure that it was Ty to whom Sarah was engaged—and that was that.

I focused my thoughts on my immediate problem. Sasha's daughter might have up and vanished, but I could still get all the info I needed—provided, of course that Jack Bishop was still speaking to me.

C
HAPTER
10

“I
t's b.s.,” Bella said. “You ask me, it's b.s.”

We were in the Holt's employee breakroom watching TV and eating snacks from the vending machines—okay, it was mostly me eating the snacks—and waiting for the last hour of our can-our-lives-get-any-worse shift to end. Bella was fixated on the poster on the wall extolling the exciting details of the upcoming Holt's fashion show. Since I was in charge of the event, I was trying to ignore it.

“They're calling it a contest,” Bella grumbled. “How are we supposed to win anything? It all comes down to how many customers actually show up for the so-called fashion show, then pony up their money to buy something.”

“It sounds like a crappy contest to me,” I said, and picked up my second bag of M&M's.

In fact, all of Holt's contests were crappy, in my opinion. I figured that if we won anything better than the beach towel all the store employees had gotten in the last contest, we could count ourselves lucky.

“At least you'll get something good, if our store wins,” Bella said.

The last prize Holt's had awarded me was a totally lame sewing machine, so I wasn't at all interested in hearing about the grand prize in this contest.

Besides, all of the Holt's employee contests were conceived and forced upon us by Sarah Covington.

I hate her.

And now she was engaged to Ty—maybe.

I ripped the end off of the M&M's bag and dumped them into my mouth.

But that's okay because Ty and I broke up.

I still hate Sarah Covington, of course.

“Hey, look at that,” Bella said, and pointed to the television.

I glanced up to see a commercial for an afternoon soap opera. I knew it was a soap opera because overly dramatic music was playing and the actors were all delivering their lines as if they were newscasters reporting that a meteor was about to crash into Earth, ending all life on our planet.

“That's
her
,” Bella said. “Look. It's her.”

I watched as the camera zoomed in on a blond actress standing beside a fake fireplace, looking end-of-Earth worried.

“Oh my God, it
is
her,” I realized.

She was that girl who used to work here and always stunk up the breakroom with those microwavable diet meals. She'd lost a hundred pounds, or something, swapped her glasses for contacts, gone blond, and quit Holt's. I'd seen her modeling in print ads, then doing a shampoo commercial. And now she was on a soap opera?

“I hate her,” Bella said.

I hated her too, of course.

“I'm out of here.” Bella shoved out of her chair, dumped her trash, and headed back to the sales floor. I finished off another bag of M&M's, and followed.

I'd been assigned to the boys clothing department tonight—which was the all-time most boring department in retail—and I couldn't face my final hour in the store sizing Batman briefs and Phineas and Ferb pajamas. I went into the stock room instead.

I figured that since I hadn't yet come up with a good excuse for ditching my duties as Holt's fashion show coordinator, I may as well take advantage of the situation.

The stock room was really cool. There were towering shelving units stuffed absolutely full of all kinds of fresh, new merchandise, and miles of racks that held plastic-wrapped hanging garments—although the mannequin farm by the janitor's closet was kind of creepy.

During the day, the truck team was here unloading the new merchandise from the big rigs backed up to the loading dock, and employees were busy hauling it onto the sales floor on U-boats and Z-rails, or placing it in its designated location on either the first or second floor of the stock room. In the evening few employees had reason to come back here. It was quiet except for the Holt's music track and an occasional announcement over the P.A. system.

I wound my way to the rear of the stock room near the big roll-up doors where the clothing for the Holt's fashion show had been strategically placed. There were dozens of big brown boxes that held the folded garments and accessories. The hanging items were not only wrapped in plastic but covered in tarps. Apparently, Holt's wanted to surprise the employees with the new line on the day of the fashion show.

Nobody was looking forward to
that
surprise.

A few minutes passed while I gathered my courage—and killed a little more of my shift—then lifted the tarp.

Yikes!

I jumped back. Oh my God, this stuff was horrible—no, it was beyond horrible. It was hideous—no, it was beyond hideous, whatever that was.

How the heck was I supposed to pull off a fashion show? Corporate had hired models—but how was I going to force them into these garments and make them walk down the runway?

I drew in a big breath, trying to calm myself. Just as well I wasn't interested in winning the fashion show coordinator's prize—whatever it was.

I headed back across the stock room—the boys department didn't seem so bad right now—then came to my senses and trotted up the big concrete staircase to the second floor. I didn't like coming up here—long story—but I had some personal business to attend to.

I pulled my cell phone from my back pocket—we're not supposed to keep our phones on us, but oh well—and called Shuman. I hadn't heard from him and he'd been on my mind since I saw him at Starbucks. I wanted to find out if the LAPD had made any progress in Amanda's murder, but mostly I wanted to see how Shuman was holding up. I'd never met his family or his friends, so I didn't know anyone to ask, and I sure as heck wasn't going to call Detective Madison.

Shuman's voicemail picked up. I didn't know if that meant he wasn't up to talking to me or if something else was going on. Like maybe, despite being relieved of his official duties, he was out looking for Amanda's killer himself.

Can't say that I blame him.

I left a message, then hung up and called Marcie. We talked until it was time for my shift to end—which, I know, was kind of bad, but I needed time to recover from looking directly at those awful fashion show clothes.

We discussed the purse party a girl in her office building wanted us to throw, then plotted strategy on locating that awesome Enchantress bag.

After we hung up, I went to the breakroom, clocked out, grabbed my purse—a really fantastic Coach tote—from my locker and, as was my custom, made it out the door ahead of just about everyone else.

Holt's had cut back on the parking lot lighting—they claimed they'd gone green, but I think they just wanted to save on the electric bill—so it was kind of dark. The lot was emptying out really quickly. I headed for my Honda, fishing in my bag for my keys, then stopped in my tracks.

A black Land Rover was parked next to my car—Jack Bishop's Land Rover.

I'd called him earlier today about Heather Gibson Pritchard who, according to Mom, had taken off for South America suddenly. Jack hadn't answered his phone, so I'd left a message asking him to call.

I hadn't expected to find him waiting for me after work, but there he was.

Seeing Jack's Land Rover parked next to my Honda caused my heart to beat a little faster—he's way hot.

Yeah, yeah, I know that was really bad of me because I have an official boyfriend, and—

Hang on a minute. I don't have an official boyfriend anymore.

The driver's door opened and Jack got out. He had dark hair and a square jaw that looked great sporting a day's worth of whiskers. He wore denim jeans, boots, and a henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up.

Oh, wow, he looked really hot.

I hadn't seen Jack since the night he'd come to my apartment when, I'm sure, he had something way different in mind but ended up comforting me after Ty and I broke up.

Ty?
Ty?
I'm thinking about Ty
now?

We'd broken up. He hadn't called me—in weeks. He'd left all that stuff in my apartment—for me to clean up. He'd broken my heart and cast me into a serious breakup fog I'd only recently recovered from.

Jack was standing just a few yards in front of me looking way hot. I shouldn't have been thinking about Ty at all.

Jack crossed the parking lot to meet me. He didn't say anything, just looked at me. He smelled great.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

I couldn't help but notice he wasn't using his Barry White voice.

I have no defense against the Barry White voice. “Great,” I said, forcing a little cheer into my voice. I gestured to the store. “Just working.”

Jack nodded but didn't say anything.

Jeez, was this awkward or what?

“You called,” he said, oh so politely.

“Yeah, I was wondering if you could help me out with something,” I said.

He didn't say anything, just stood there looking at me.

I gestured to our vehicles parked a few yards away, and said, “Do you want to get some coffee, or something?”

“Here's fine,” Jack said.

Okay, this was totally weird—and completely unlike Jack.

“There's this guy named Andrew Pritchard,” I said. “He's a client of Pike Warner and he works at—”

“I know where he works,” Jack said.

“He got married a couple of months ago—”

“I know.”

What the heck was going on? What was up with Jack?

Since I'm not big on suspense, I said, “You're being really weird. What's wrong?”

The cool thing about talking to a man was that he would give a straightforward answer to a straightforward question. None of this whining around, playing coy, or dragging it out like women did—honestly, I don't know how men stand us sometimes. Good thing we'll have sex with them, otherwise they would probably think we are just too much trouble.

“I'm treading lightly,” Jack said. “Last time I saw you, you were a real mess.”

“I'd just broken up with my official boyfriend,” I told him.

Jack nodded. “It's only been a few weeks. You're not over it.”

“Let me get this straight. Before, I wouldn't get involved with you because I was dating Ty,” I said. “And now you won't get involved with me because I'm
not
dating Ty.”

“You two aren't finished with each other,” Jack said.

My thoughts made the jump to light speed.

Why would he say that? He hadn't seen me, so he couldn't possibly know how I was feeling. Did that mean he'd seen Ty? He was a client of Pike Warner. Had he come into the office? Seen Ty? Talked to him? Told him that breaking up with me was the biggest mistake of his life? That he was miserable? Pining away for me every waking moment? That we were meant to be together? That he wanted nothing more than to have me in his life again?

Sarah Covington—and her engagement ring—popped into my head, and I snapped back to reality.

“Ty and I,” I said. “We're finished.”

Jack shook his head. “It's too soon.”

Okay, he was making perfect sense and, really, I should have been happy he thought enough of me not to take advantage of my situation. But this was getting kind of annoying.

“Can you at least help me out with my problem?” I asked.

Jack studied me for a minute or two, and said, “I can help you with your problem.”

I guess that was the best I was going to get out of him tonight.

“So, why are you asking about Andrew Pritchard?” Jack asked.

“I need you to go see him and find out what was up with his wedding cake,” I said.

Jack's brows drew together. “You want me to ask him about a
cake?
”

Obviously, Jack was concerned about having his man card revoked—or at least suspended—which I totally understood.

“Look, here's the deal,” I said.

I explained to him how Lacy Cakes had reportedly ruined their wedding—I left out the part about my mom, which was always for the best—and that Lacy had been murdered around the time Andrew Pritchard's new bride suddenly bolted for South America.

“So what's this got to do with you?” Jack asked.

“It's a silly coincidence, really,” I said. “I'd called Lacy Cakes a while back and complained about a cake and, because I happened to be the one who found Lacy murdered, the police think I killed her.”

Jack gave me a not-again eye roll.

“I'm looking for another suspect,” I told him, “since Detective Madison isn't bothering to look.”

“What about his partner? Shuman?” Jack asked. “He's usually the levelheaded one.”

My spirits fell.

“Things aren't going too well for Shuman,” I said, and told him about Amanda's murder.

“Damn . . .” Jack murmured. “I hadn't heard anything.”

“Seems everybody is keeping it quiet,” I said. “I guess they're worried that if word gets out that someone from the District Attorney's office was murdered because of a prosecution, witnesses in pending cases might not be so anxious to testify.”

We were both quiet for a moment because, really, what can you say about something like that?

“I'll talk to Pritchard,” Jack said.

He walked to my Honda. I hit the remote and he opened my door. I stood next to him for a few seconds—he was really warm and smelled awesome—then got inside. Jack watched until I drove away.

I headed home, then decided some Chinese take-out would be just the thing to end my day. As I swung into the little shopping center near my house, my cell phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID screen and saw that Eleanor was calling.