Evening Bags and Executions

by Dorothy Howell

  Kayla gave me a troubled look when I joined her near the coffeemaker.

  “Just so you know,” she said to me in a low voice, “Vanessa has been talking smack about you.”

  I figured she had, but hearing it still made me mad. “She’s saying that you haven’t been asking her questions, and haven’t been conferring with her about the clients and events,” Kayla said. She rolled her eyes. “Like you’re some sort of rogue event planner.”

  “She specifically told me not to ask her any questions,” I said.

  “That sounds like something she’d pull,” Kayla agreed.

  “She asked me to quit—the very first time we met,” I said as I poured myself a cup of coffee. “She wants her other assistant to come back.”

  “Jewel?” Kayla uttered a short laugh. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen. She only lasted three weeks working for Vanessa—which was a record. By the time she left, her hair was falling out and she’d developed a tic in her right cheek.”

  “They ought to get rid of Vanessa,” I said, and dumped three packets of sugar into my coffee.

  “As soon as she quits bringing in the big bucks—which will be never—maybe somebody will,” Kayla said. “In the meantime, just watch your back.”

  She left, and I stirred vanilla flavoring into my coffee, silently fuming. Vanessa was setting me up. No way was I going to let her get away with that. I was going to make Sheridan Adams’s Beatles party an awesome success—no matter what it took.

  I left the breakroom and went to client room number one, then froze in the doorway.

  Oh my God. If this was what it took to make the Beatles party totally rock, maybe I should rethink the whole thing.

  Seated in the chairs in front of the desk were two women. Obviously, they’d both enjoyed many a good meal over the past several decades. I wasn’t great at guessing a person’s age much beyond the big five-oh milestone, but I knew these two women had pushed on, well beyond their somebody-please-kill-me-now-because-I-may-as-well-be-dead-anyway sixtieth birthdays.

  Woodstock wasn’t just a fond memory for them; they were still living it.

  One of them had long hair, parted in the middle, with a beaded headband stretched across her forehead. I was pretty sure I’d seen the other woman’s hairstyle on a perms-gone-wrong episode of one of those salon shows on Bravo. Both of them wore tiny, round wire-rimmed glasses with yellow lenses, tie-dyed muumuus, and necklaces with the peace sign—or maybe it was the Mercedes logo, I wasn’t sure.

  It took everything I had not to scream, “Styles change for a reason.”

  Instead, I introduced myself and sat down behind the desk.

  “Sheridan Adams sent us,” one of them said.

  Okay, so now their appearance made sense—kind of.

  “You two must be the Beatles experts she mentioned,” I said. “Annie and Liz?”

  “No,” one of them declared. She clamped her mouth shut, folded her arms across her considerable chest, and jerked her chin around.

  “We’re not Annie and Liz,” the other woman explained.

  I sincerely hoped that didn’t mean there were two more women out there somewhere dressed like this that I still had to meet with.

  “Well, actually, we are Annie and Liz,” she went on.

  “But we’ve assumed our Beatles persona.”

  “From now on I will not respond unless I’m addressed as ‘Eleanor,’ ” the other women declared.

  “And I’m to be called ‘Rigby,’ ” she said.

  I looked back and forth between the two of them, and they both seemed to pick up on my you-two-old-gals-have-completely-lost-me look.

  “Eleanor and Rigby,” she said, gesturing between the two of them. “ ‘Eleanor Rigby.’ It’s the title of a song on their Revolver album.”

  “She doesn’t understand,” the one who wanted to be called Eleanor exclaimed. “We can’t work with her. We can’t possibly work with her. We should call Sheridan right now and tell her this girl has an inadequate background and a complete lack of understanding about the Beatles.”

  She wanted to get me tossed as Sheridan’s event planner? Cause me to lose her account—and my job? And let Vanessa win?

  It wasn’t happening.

  “I know a great deal about the Beatles,” I told them.

  I really didn’t, but what else could I say?

  Eleanor glared at me for a few seconds, then said, “We’ll see about that. Tell me this—what was the title of their first hit single?”

  Oh my God, she was giving me a quiz?

  I’m not good at quizzes.

  Eleanor must have realized from my expression that I didn’t know the answer because she blazed ahead and asked, “What was the name of their first movie?”

  Jeez, I didn’t know this was a timed test.

  Before I had time to think—or come up with a good guess—Eleanor fired another question at me.

  “What was the name of the television variety show they appeared on in New York?” she asked.

  “I know this one,” I told her. I might have yelled that. Eleanor and Rigby stared, waiting.

  “The old guy,” I said, searching my memory. “The one who talked funny. Ed—Ed Sullivan.”

  I’m sure I yelled that.

  “One out of three questions,” Eleanor said, shaking her head.

  “She’s young,” Rigby pointed out. “And she has arranged for the Cirque du Soleil people from the Love show to perform at the party.”

  Oh, crap. I’d forgotten all about them.

  “She has lots of time to learn about the Beatles before the party,” Rigby said.

  I was supposed to learn the history of the Beatles?

  “I’m sure she’ll do better next time,” Rigby said.

  Next time?

  “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Eleanor said. She turned to me again. “But don’t think this means you can slack off. Everything at Sheridan’s party must be absolutely authentic—especially the music. Each tribute band should perform only songs from specific albums during each era.”

  There were tribute bands?

  Maybe I should read the file more closely.

  “You two can rest assured that I will do absolutely everything possible to ensure the success of Sheridan’s party,” I said in my it’s-time-for-you-to-leave-now voice. “If I have any questions, I will contact you immediately.”

  “I’m still not satisfied you’re the right one to plan Sheridan’s party,” Eleanor told me. “We’ll talk again.”

  Great.

  We exchanged phone numbers and I walked with them to the lobby.

  “Oh! My! I love your outfits,” Mindy declared.

  I’m definitely going to have to have a talk with her.

  As soon as Eleanor and Rigby cleared the doorway, I dashed back to my office, grabbed my things, and left. Since I had a perfectly good excuse to dig for suspects and clues in Lacy Hobbs’s murder—and could combo that with keeping my job—I headed for Lacy Cakes.

  The CLOSED sign still hung on the door when I swung into the parking lot. A few more flowers had been added to the memorial under the window.

  I got out and peered into the bakery. Nothing had changed since last night. The display cakes were gone, and the furniture had been pushed together at each end of the room.

  I knocked on the door, just in case someone was in the workroom, and waited a few minutes, but nobody came through the curtained doorway. I stood there for a couple of minutes trying to decide what to do, then the vision of Detective Madison barging into L.A. Affairs surrounded by patrol officers and arresting me flashed in my head.

  I got moving.

  I walked the length of the strip mall and circled around back to the service alley. It was wide enough to accommodate parking spaces, presumably for the employees. A Dumpster was positioned at the far end, and boxes and crates were stacked outside the rear entrances to some of the businesses. A delivery van idled near the liquor store.

 
I made my way down the alley and was surprised to see that the door to Lacy Cakes was propped open. I looked inside and spotted a woman at one of the worktables using a long serrated knife to sculpt a huge cake.

  I think it was supposed to be a battleship.

  “Hello?” I called.

  She turned around, smiled, and waved the big knife my way.

  “Hey, girl, come on in,” she said.

  She had on white pants, white shirt, and a Lacy Cakes apron. A bright red scarf was tied around her dark hair that matched her equally bright red lipstick. A tattoo peeked out of her sleeve and her collar. She looked to be about my age.

  “Hi,” I said, and walked over. “I’m Haley Randolph from L.A. Affairs.”

  “Oh yeah,” she said. “I’m Paige Davis, Lacy’s assistant—or I used to be her assistant.”

  I glanced at the floor beneath the worktable across the room where I’d found Lacy’s body, then looked away.

  “Sorry about Lacy,” I said. “Must be hard for you to work here now.”

  “No, not really,” Paige said. She eyeballed the cake and took another swipe at it with the knife.

  Now it kind of looked like a Hummer.

  “Things happen, you know,” Paige said. “It’s too bad but, well, what are you going to do?”

  “Aren’t you afraid to be here?” I asked. “Especially by yourself?”

  She glanced around the empty room and said, “The others will be here later. We’re all trying to pitch in. Besides, it’s not like I have a choice.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  Paige shrugged. “I just got hired a couple of weeks ago. I worked at Fairy Land Bake Shoppe, and no way can I go back there. My boss went totally berserk when he found out Lacy had hired me. He’d never take me back.”

  I’d left a couple of jobs that I couldn’t go back to, but I don’t think I ever had a boss who went berserk when I left.

  “He was mad at you?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Paige said. “But mostly he was mad at Lacy for offering me more money. Said she stole me from him. It was weird.”

  “I saw the CLOSED sign on the front door,” I said. “But you’re open for business?”

  “Not really,” Paige said. “I’m trying to take care of some of the orders. A few customers heard about what happened to Lacy and called, so I got their orders from them. Their cakes are kind of small, so I can do them quick. Other than that, I don’t have a clue.”

  I glanced at the office area on the other side of the workroom and saw that the fax machine and computer were missing.

  “The police took everything?” I asked.

  “Yeah, everything—even the message pads,” Paige said. “I guess some chick complained about her cake, so the cops think she murdered Lacy.”

  That would be me.

  Crap.

  It seemed like a good time to change the subject.

  “I need a cake for a party I’m planning. It was ordered a few weeks ago,” I said. “It’s for a Beatles-themed party.”

  “Cool idea,” she said. “Wish I could go. I love the Beatles.”

  “The event will be pretty awesome,” I told her. “Tribute bands, performers, a memorabilia auction.”

  “Super cool! Wish I could get my hands on some of that collectible stuff. I could live for months on what it’s worth,” Paige said. “I’d love to do the cake for you, but honestly, I don’t know what’s up with the business. Lacy’s brother and cousin are fighting over everything.”

  My spirits lifted. Relatives of the deceased putting the smackdown on each other was definitely a good place to find murder clues.

  “The two of them can’t decide on anything,” Paige said, then gestured to the curtained doorway. “Even the furniture. Belinda claimed what she wanted, then Darren saw it and got mad and pushed some of it back in his pile. It’s crazy.”

  “I didn’t know Lacy had a brother,” I said.

  Of course, I didn’t know anything about Lacy, except that the cake she made for my mom totally sucked, but I didn’t think this was the time to say so.

  “They weren’t close,” Paige said, leaning her head right, then left, studying the cake she was sculpting. “He lives up north, some little town near San Francisco. I just met him when he showed up here after Lacy died.”

  “And their cousin came down with him?” I asked.

  “No, she lives here,” Paige said, and cut a big chunk out of the cake.

  Maybe it was a frog.

  “Belinda something-or-other,” she said.

  “I need to find out about the cake,” I said, though what I really needed to find out was what was up with Darren and Belinda. “Do you have contact info for them?”

  “Sure,” Paige said, and pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her apron. She studied it and said, “Belinda Giles. Yeah, that’s her name. And take my number too, you know, just in case.”

  She read off their phone numbers and I programmed them into my cell phone, then gave her my number.

  “Darren is staying at the Best Western a couple of block down on Sepulveda,” Paige said. “You can’t miss it—he’s driving our delivery van.”

  “Belinda must have loved that,” I said, hoping to get a little more gossip.

  “Yeah, those two are seriously going at it,” Paige said. “I don’t know where you can find Belinda. She’d been in here a few times, but honestly, I didn’t know she was Lacy’s cousin until she showed up after Lacy died and Darren mentioned it.”

  “Well, thanks for the help,” I said.

  “Yeah, sure. And let me know if you want me to do that Beatles cake,” Paige said. “Sounds like fun.”

  I wondered if it would sound like fun to Belinda and Darren.

  CHAPTER 9

  It wasn’t hard to figure out which Best Western Darren Hobbs was staying in as I cruised down Sepulveda Boulevard—the delivery van with the Lacy Cakes logo on the sides gave it away big-time.

  Best Western had nice motels, but nobody—not even Best Western—thought they were catering to discerning travelers. This one looked a little worn.

  I swung into the parking lot, took a slot a few spaces down from the Lacy Cakes van, and cut the engine. Paige had told me Darren’s last name was Hobbs, so I figured either Lacy had never married or she was using her maiden name for some reason.

  Maybe she was trying to hide something.

  I hoofed it to the motel office, and the guy on duty phoned Darren’s room and let him know he had a guest. I went back outside. A minute or two later, a man stepped out of room 112 on the first floor, near the Lacy Cakes van.

  “Darren?” I asked, as I walked up.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Wow, do I have mad Scooby-Doo skills or what?

  Darren looked to be in his fifties, dressed in navy blue work pants and shirt, with a halfhearted comb-over ringed by a fringe of graying hair.

  I introduced myself and added, “I’m sorry about your sister.”

  I saw no reason to mention I’d found her body.

  “Thanks. I appreciate that,” he said, though it didn’t look as if it really made any difference to him one way or the other.

  “I hate to bother you at a time like this,” I said. I didn’t, of course, but this sounded nicer. “I have a cake order pending with Lacy Cakes. Paige said she wants to make the cake but that I should talk to you.”

  “Paige told you that, huh?” he asked, and uttered a disgusted grunt. “She’s anxious to keep the place going—a little too anxious, if you ask me.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked.

  “That’s all she’s talked about since I got here,” Darren said. “Keeping the place open, filling the orders. Claims she can make cakes as good as Lacy.”

  “You don’t think that’s true?” I asked.

  “How would I know?” Darren flung out both hands. “I just got here. I haven’t seen Lacy in years. I had to leave my own business and come down here to straighten out this mess.
I had to come up with money for a plane ticket and look at what I’m driving—in this traffic.”

  He pointed at the delivery van and shook his head. “Twelve miles to the gallon, if that.”

  “I thought your cousin Belinda was helping you,” I said.

  “Help? You call what she’s doing help?” Darren’s face flushed a deep red. “Sticking her nose into something that’s none of her business. Coming around, making demands, telling me Lacy would want her to have her personal belongings. It’s a lie. All of it.”

  I could see that Darren was getting angrier and angrier, and while most people would have backed off, I saw this as the best time to push forward and antagonize him further in hopes of gathering more info.

  I’m pretty sure that’s how all the great detectives do it.

  “If Lacy and Belinda were close, wouldn’t you want Belinda to have her things?” I asked.

  “Close? Who said they were close? Is that what Belinda is telling everybody?” Darren demanded. He made a little snarling sound under his breath. “I doubt they’d spoken to each other in years after what happened.”

  Come to think of it, all the great detectives bring backup with them for occasions such as this.

  I’ll be sure to remember that next time.

  “Lacy left home right after high school. Just walked out with no thought to what it did to our family,” Darren said. “She came to Los Angeles and—and I don’t know what she did for years because we seldom heard from her. Then she ends up with this bakery, and still we almost never heard from her. Broke my mother’s heart. Left me to try and keep Dad’s cabinet shop going, and figure a way to pay for their medications, their care.”

  “That was really crappy,” I said.

  “Darn right it was,” Darren said. He huffed for a couple more minutes before his anger eased away. “Growing up, Lacy and Belinda were like sisters. Did everything together. Went everywhere together. Typical kid stuff, then typical teenage stuff. Listening to records, buying those magazines and all that other stuff, all that nonsense with the long hair. England this, British that—like all of it was so damn important. Who knows the Dave Clark Five now, anyway?”