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.
Why was she calling me at this time of night?
Why was she calling me at all?
I didn’t want to answer, but I was afraid she might tell Sheridan Adams that I wasn’t available 24-7 and I’d end up getting fired from L.A. Affairs.
“Ringo Starr,” Eleanor said, when I answered my phone. “What was his real last name?”
Oh, jeez, another Beatles pop quiz.
I hate my lif
e.
“Uh, well, that’s a really interesting story,” I said, stalling—which I don’t know why I bothered to do since I had no clue what the correct answer was. I think it’s just part of my survival instinct.
“As I recall, Ringo changed his name,” I said, “because, well, because—”
“You don’t know, do you,” Eleanor declared.
“Well, actually—”
She hung up.
Crap.
I hung up and sat there for a minute. No way was I in the mood for Chinese now. I headed home.
I was slightly annoyed with Ringo Starr for changing his name, and more than a little put out with Jack Bishop for suddenly being so sensitive. I was irritated with Detective Shuman because he hadn’t called me back—which was really crappy of me, but there it was—plus, I was aggravated that I couldn’t stop thinking about Ty.
Honestly, I’d had just about enough of the male species for one evening.
I swung into a parking space at my apartment complex. Just as I got out of my car I spotted Cody Ewing climbing out of a pickup truck nearby.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. It came out sounding kind of harsh.
He shrugged and gave me a little grin. “Waiting on you.”
I was in no mood.
“Yeah, I figured that,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“I know,” he said, and nodded. “But I figured I’d come by, take a chance that it’d be okay if I put in an hour or so on your place.”
I shook my head. “Tonight’s not a good night.”
Cody reached into his truck and pulled out a bag. “I brought ice cream.”
“Really, it’s not a good time,” I said, though I could hear resolve weakening.
“Chocolate Fudge Brownie.” He pulled the container out of the bag.
Oh my God. Ben & Jerry’s—the good stuff.
Jeez, I had to let him come in now, didn’t I? I couldn’t be rude—after he’d gone to all the trouble of bringing ice cream.
“Okay, you can come up,” I said.
Cody grabbed his toolbox out of the bed of his truck and followed me upstairs. When we reached the top, I heard tires squeal in the parking lot. I turned to see a car speeding out of the driveway.
Huh. I wonder what that was all about.
CHAPTER 11
It was a Prada day. Definitely a Prada day.
I had an important errand to run later today and only a black Prada satchel—teamed with my awesome navy blue business suit—would project the image I was going for.
I settled into my desk at L.A. Affairs with my first cup of coffee, determined to make headway on coming up with custom-made gift bags that somehow projected the image of the Beatles. I also had to figure out how I was going to fill them with items that Sheridan Adams’s wealthy we’ve-already-got-two-of-everything guests would find special and unique. Someone on staff could probably give me some ideas, but I didn’t want to ask anyone. I was sure Vanessa was still talking smack about me, and I wasn’t about to let anyone think she was right.
As I sipped my coffee—waiting for the two extra packets of sugar I’d used to kick in—my brain hopped to another topic.
Lacy Hobbs’s murder.
So far I wasn’t exactly making great strides toward finding her killer. I had some suspects, a few weak motives, and absolutely no evidence. Obviously, I was going to have to do more digging.
I sipped my coffee and thought back to when I’d found Lacy’s body in the workroom. She’d been shot point-blank in the center of her chest. Whoever had murdered her had walked into the workroom, approached her at the worktable, pulled a gun, and fired. I figured she must have known her killer, since there was no sign of a struggle and nothing had been stolen—that I knew of, anyway. I mean, jeez, what’s there to steal in a bakery? So if that were the case and the murderer knew Lacy, that person must have been either really mad about something or really cold and calculating.
Heather Pritchard, the runaway bride, topped my mental really-mad suspect list. She’d decided that Lacy Cakes had ruined her wedding with the cake they’d made, and she’d probably stewed on it, relived it, and obsessed over it ever since her wedding day. Brides, after all, were a special kind of crazy.
The owner of the Fairy Land Bake Shoppe took second place on my really-mad suspect list. According to Paige he wasn’t happy about losing her. Maybe he’d decided to take it out on Lacy.
As for my cold-and-calculating suspects, Paige was the only person whose name I could put on that list. Darren had suggested she was a little too anxious to take over the business. Maybe he was onto something. Maybe it had been her plan all along—get a job there, kill Lacy, and take over the business somehow.
My brain hopped to yet another topic—which was okay with me, because thinking about murder suspects was giving me a headache.
Or maybe it was all the sugar I’d dumped into my coffee.
I still had to find Mom a housekeeper—which seemed as difficult as finding Lacy’s murderer, and even more unpleasant—so I pulled out my cell phone and called the employment agency. I gave my mom’s name and was immediately transferred.
Mrs. Quinn, the woman who had been tasked with dealing with my mother and was, no doubt, rethinking her entire career path, answered.
“I’d like to get this matter settled as quickly as possible,” I said, after I’d introduced myself.
“We’re all anxious for that as well,” she said.
I know she meant that from the bottom of her heart.
“Do you have any prospective housekeepers I could interview ?” I asked.
“I’m putting together a list,” Mrs. Quinn said. “I should have something lined up in a few days.”
“Can you at least send someone over temporarily every few days to clean?” I asked.
“Yes, I can arrange that,” she said, though it didn’t seem to suit her.
“Mom can’t go without a housekeeper for very long,” I told her.
“I understand,” she replied. “But, you know, filling this position to your mother’s satisfaction has proved quite a challenge for me.”
She thought she had it rough? How about being her daughter?
“Try harder,” I told her, which was the oh so wonderful advice I’d often gotten from Mom. I hoped Mrs. Quinn would be more anxious to rise to Mom’s standards than I had been.
We hung up and, already, I’d had enough of sitting in my office. I had a great reason for leaving, so I saw no need not to take advantage of it. But first, I called the phone number for Belinda Giles that Paige had given me. To my surprise, she answered right away. I introduced myself and immediately plunged into a total lie.
“I understand you’re running Lacy Cakes Bakery now,” I said.
Yes, I know it’s bad to tell an out-and-out lie, but come on, I had to get the dirt on what was going on with Lacy’s murder, among other things.
“Paige told me you’d put in an order,” Belinda said. “It’ll get done.”
“I’d feel a lot better about it if I could speak with you in person,” I said. “The cake is for an extremely high-profile event.”
Belinda was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “I can meet you, if you absolutely have to see me in person.”
I didn’t want her to come here, because then I wouldn’t have a good excuse for leaving the office, plus I didn’t want anyone here to suspect there was a problem with Sheridan Adams’s party.
“I have to go to the bakery this morning,” I said. “Can I meet you there?”
“I’m pretty busy today,” Belinda said. “But I can run by there in about an hour.”
“That will be fine,” I said, though it really wasn’t. No way did I want to hang out in the office for that long and be forced to do actual work—not when I had so much personal business to attend to.
We hung up. I took a chance and phoned Shuman again, and was pleased—and surprised—when he answered.
“How are y
ou doing?” I asked.
“Better,” he said.
He didn’t sound better.
“Want to meet for coffee?” I asked.
“No . . . no, I don’t think so,” he told me.
“Come on, I owe you one,” I said. “The Starbucks at the Sherman Oaks Galleria. I can be there in ten minutes.”
Shuman was quiet for a while, then finally said, “Okay. I’ll see you there.”
He hung up.
I got some things together that I’d need later today, then left. So far, no one had said anything to me about spending so much time out of the office. I figured that everyone was just that desperate to keep me there, working as Vanessa’s assistant, or maybe it really was expected that event planners spent most of their time calling on clients and vendors.
Either way, I saw no reason not to take advantage of the situation.
I left the building, crossed the street, and climbed the concrete stairs to the fountain plaza at the Galleria. Water splashed in the fountain and the sunshine was warm, making for a perfect day to be in the San Fernando Valley in gorgeous Southern California.
The Galleria was an open-air, multistory complex of offices, retail, and entertainment space. I walked past restaurants and stores and into Starbucks. I got my favorite drink, a mocha frappuccino, and a coffee for Shuman, then went outside to one of the tables set up on the center plaza. Things were kind of quiet, since it was too early for the lunch crowd.
Just a couple of minutes later I spotted Shuman walking toward me from the parking garage at the other end of the complex, which made me wonder where he’d been and what he’d been doing when I called him. He had on the same beige oxford shirt and jeans he’d worn the last time I saw him, and he looked kind of rumpled.
Not good.
When he sat down beside me at the table and I saw him up close, he looked even worse. There were lines in his face I’d never noticed before. His eyes were red. I doubted he’d slept in days.
I didn’t see any reason to ask how he was since, obviously, he wasn’t doing well, so I asked, “Anything new on the investigation?”
Shuman rested his arms on the table and cradled the cup of coffee in both palms.
“We’re sure it involved one of the cases Amanda was prosecuting,” Shuman said.
Evening Bags and Executions Page 9