“Haley? Bella?”
I spotted Jeanette walking toward us.
Speaking of nauseated . . .
Her ode to the fall season continued with a skirt and jacket of mustard yellow and burnt orange plaid chenille.
She looked like a seventies bath mat.
“How is everything going?” Jeanette asked, standing next to us and studying the hanging dresses.
No matter how awful the so-called fashions were, this was better than being out on the sales floor—which just shows how I feel about waiting on customers—so I decided to take the route that would most benefit me.
“It’s . . . okay,” I said.
Yeah, all right, that wasn’t exactly a rousing show of enthusiasm for the fashion show, but it was the best I could muster.
I don’t think Jeanette noticed.
She was busy pulling dresses off the rack, holding them in front of her, and digging through the boxes of costume jewelry.
“I love fashion,” Jeanette said, draping a coral-colored plastic necklace over the hanger that held an orange and teal striped dress.
Yikes!
Bella and I nearly bolted for the stock room exit, but managed to stand still.
Then I had a brilliant idea.
“You know, Jeanette, you really do have an eye for color,” I said.
I could hardly get the words out. But, really, Jeanette was a dedicated Holt’s shopper. She actually liked this stuff. Maybe I could get her to assemble the looks I’d need for the runway show so I wouldn’t have to do it.
Jeanette was way ahead of me.
I hate it when that happens.
She dropped the necklace back in the box and hung the dress on the rack.
“I know you two girls will put on a fabulous show,” she said. “Everyone at the store is counting on you to win this contest for us.”
I knew I should say something positive about the contest.
I couldn’t think of anything.
“And don’t forget about the grand prize for the fashion show coordinator,” Jeanette said. She gave me a knowing smile—which was kind of creepy—and said, “You know, Corporate had initially announced the grand prize would be a set of our best cookware, but you-know-who changed it.”
My heart jumped. She must have been referring to Ty.
I’d wondered if the gossip at the corporate office had reached the stores and Jeanette had found out that Ty and I had broken up. Apparently, Jeanette was as clueless about company rumors as she was about fashion.
“At the last minute it was announced that the fashion show coordinator would receive a different prize,” Jeanette said. “A month-long internship as a stylist at the corporate headquarters.”
A stylist? At corporate headquarters? That’s where Ty worked.
Oh my God, if I won the fashion show contest that would mean I’d be in the same building with Ty? I might see him—every day? Pass him in the hall? See him in the breakroom? Maybe even sit in on meetings with him?
Jeanette kept talking, but it all turned into blah, blah, blah.
Had I actually volunteered to be the store’s fashion show coordinator? I’d been in my breakup fog at the time, so now I couldn’t be sure.
Maybe Jeanette assigned it to me. Why would she do that? She knew Ty and I were dating, so maybe she was playing cupid and trying to get us together at the corporate office.
She couldn’t have been trying to get me out of her store for a month, could she?
It hit me then that maybe I should go all-out to try to win the contest. If I worked at the corporate office with Ty for a whole month, maybe we’d realize we had a lot in common, like the stores, the merchandise, ways to increase sales. Maybe we’d get back together.
Then something else hit me.
Maybe I should go all-out and try to lose the contest. If I worked at the corporate office I’d see Sarah Covington. She’d be all over Ty and I’d have to watch. And—oh my God—what if they really were engaged?
I knew in my heart I wouldn’t be able to bear up seeing the two of them together.
Then yet another thing hit me.
There was no way to deliberately throw the contest. The clothing was hideous. No matter what horrible outfits I sent down the runway, Holt’s customers would buy them.
Jeez, how had I gotten into this mess?
And why would Ty have changed the contest’s grand prize?
CHAPTER 19
“Haley, Mrs. Adams needs to see you,” Muriel said when I answered my cell phone.
I’d just gotten into my car—looking way hot in one of my black business suits that I’d jazzed up with a bold Betsey Johnson bag—and was heading to L.A. Affairs. I was surprised to hear from her so early in the morning.
Then I realized that—wow—Sheridan probably wanted to tell me what a great job I was doing on her Beatles party. I was doing pretty darn good on Eleanor and Rigby’s pop quizzes. Plus I’d kept Muriel updated on everything, and she’d surely told Sheridan that I’d gotten fabulous gift bags, filled with even-though-you-don’t-need-any-free-stuff-you’re-going-to-love-this swag, and that the Cirque du Soleil performers were a lock.
“Sure,” I said. “I can come by this afternoon.”
I couldn’t wait to throw this in Vanessa’s face.
“First thing this morning would be better,” Muriel said.
Maybe I’d get Edie to announce my triumph at our next staff meeting.
“Just let me run by at L.A. Affairs and I’ll be there,” I said.
I should definitely get something printed with my picture on it and make sure Vanessa got a dozen of them.
“You should come now,” Muriel said. “Like right this minute.”
Sheridan wanted to see me immediately? Maybe she’d planned a light brunch for us and we’d sit on one of her many patios while her servants attended us so she could go on and on about what a fabulous event planner I was—far superior to Vanessa—and vow to give me all her future business.
Cool.
“I’m on my way,” I said, and hung up.
This was so awesome. My day was off to a great start—even the freeway traffic cooperated with me. I listened to the radio, sang along, did a little seat-dancing, and pulled into the driveway of Sheridan’s Holmby Hills home in record time.
I parked and saw the front door swing open. Sheridan Adams herself stood in the doorway. She must really be thrilled with my work if she’d waited by the door for me to arrive, then opened it herself, sans servants.
Sheridan had a bit of an Effie Trinket thing going this morning. Her totally fried-out hair had a pink hue, for some reason, and had been whipped into a severe updo. She was dressed in a pencil skirt and jacket—both in an extremely unflattering shade of magenta—and wore four-inch heels and a choker of fresh flowers.
I got out of my car and morphed my face into Mom’s I’m-fabulous-but-I-have-to-appear-humble-right-now expression.
“Good morning,” I said, as I walked to the door. “It’s so nice to—”
“What have you done?” she shrieked.
I froze and braced myself, ready to bob and weave in case she came at me like a spider monkey.
“It’s ruined—ruined!” Sheridan clenched her fists and waved them in the air. “The entire party is ruined!”
She stomped her feet and let out a scream that I was sure could be heard all the way in Bel Air. For a minute, I thought she might have a stroke—not that I really cared—and then a servant appeared beside her.
“And it’s your fault!” Sheridan yelled. She pointed her finger at me, as if she were putting a curse on me. “Your fault!”
The servant gently urged Sheridan back into the house.
Oh my God, what had just happened? How could the party be ruined—because of me?
I’m not big on suspense, so I wanted to march into the house and find out what the heck was going on. Had Sheridan simply lost her mind? Or had something really happened?
Muriel a
ppeared in the doorway looking calm and composed, as if this were just another day at work.
“Would you come inside, Haley?” she asked.
I followed Muriel into the sitting room. I had to admire the way she let Sheridan Adams’s hissy fit roll off her back.
No way could I be a personal assistant.
“Thank you for coming,” Muriel said. We sat down in facing chairs. “There was a break-in last night. Here. An item was stolen.”
My first thought was that, jeez, there was so much stuff in this house, how had anyone noticed that something had been taken—especially so quickly.
Then I realized I hadn’t seen police cars in the driveway when I’d pulled up.
“Have the police left already?” I asked. “Did they get fingerprints? Shoe prints? DNA? Was there surveillance footage?”
Muriel shook her head. “No police. Mrs. Adams wants to keep this quiet.”
It wasn’t unusual that the rich and famous wanted to maintain their privacy. Advertising a burglary and announcing what was taken would likely alert other thieves to the location, the wealth, and the apparent lack of security.
“The video feed has already been reviewed,” Muriel said. “The entrances to the estate are under constant surveillance, but the cameras don’t cover every inch of the grounds. There are no interior cameras, of course. The exterior of the house has spot coverage.”
“What did they see?” I asked.
“Only the usual,” Muriel said. “The servants coming and going, a delivery from the florist, the cleaning service, the plumber, the pool people.”
“What was taken?” I asked.
“Bobbleheads,” Muriel said. “The Beatles bobbleheads donated for the charity auction at the party.”
Okay, that was weird.
“Bobbleheads?” I asked, and I couldn’t keep the are-you-kidding-me tone out of my voice—not that I tried very hard. “Somebody actually went to the trouble to break in, risk getting caught and prosecuted, maybe even going to jail, for a set of bobbleheads?”
“They’re rare and in mint condition,” Muriel pointed out.
I remembered seeing them on the shelves with all the other Beatles memorabilia that would be auctioned off at the party. It was a complete set of all four Beatles, maybe eight inches tall, painted with identical blue suits, white shirts, and dark neckties, each of them standing on a small platform. Their oversized bobbing heads were covered with long—well, long for the early sixties—brown painted-on hair, and a pretty good representation of each Beatle’s facial features. They were in what looked like their original packaging, a box with cellophane panels that displayed each bobblehead.
“I’m sure the bobbleheads would have done well at the auction,” I said.
“Ten grand—at least,” she said.
“But what’s up with Sheridan?” I asked. “I mean, I can understand why she’d be upset that somebody broke into her home, but she looked like she was about to lose her mind.”
“All the items for the charity auction came from friends of Talbot and Sheridan, or people attempting to curry favor with them, or—if you can believe it—people whom the Adamses were trying to impress with their philanthropic endeavors,” Muriel said. “The bobbleheads were donated by someone linked to British royalty.”
“Oh. Wow,” I said.
“Yeah,” Muriel agreed. “If the bobbleheads aren’t seen at the party, if they’re not part of the auction, the repercussions will be staggering.”
We both sat there for a moment letting everything sink in, then I said, “I’m not clear on why Sheridan thinks any of this is my fault.”
“You were supposed to hire extra security for the collectibles,” she said.
I was?
“L.A. Affairs put it in the contract,” she said.
They did?
“So, really, it is your fault,” she said.
Oh, crap.
How could that have happened? If it was in the contract for L.A. Affairs to hire security personnel, why hadn’t Jewel—who was probably now being addressed as Sister Jewel at a convent in the Himalayas—done it?
All I could figure was that she must have left the company before she could see that it was handled. So why hadn’t Vanessa followed up and—
Damn. Vanessa must have taken the info out of the file before she gave it to me—just like she’d done with Distinctive Gifting.
If she’d deliberately taken the security company requirement out of the file to make me look bad, she’d succeeded, all right.
Not that I intended to let her get away with it.
I’d have to get the bobbleheads back myself.
Immediately, my brain launched into detective mode.
The Adams home was huge, and it was a maze inside. How would a thief know the bobbleheads were in the house? In that particular room?
Of all the memorabilia there, why take just the bobbleheads? Whoever had stolen them must have known their significance.
It sounded like an inside job. But there were dozens of servants and service people who had access to the house, who were routinely coming and going. I’d have to investigate them all. Somehow.
“I’ll find them,” I said.
Muriel shook her head. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” I insisted. “I’m kind of good at this sort of thing. Really.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Muriel said. “You don’t have to find them. We already know where they are, sort of. Mrs. Adams got a ransom demand for them this morning.”
Okay, that blew me away.
Somebody actually expected Sheridan Adams to fork out money for the return of the bobbleheads? Was there a black market for Beatles memorabilia somewhere that I didn’t know about? Or were all the collectors slightly crazy?
I wonder if John, Paul, George, and Ringo ever anticipated this.
“I’ve already contacted a couple of private security agencies to deliver the ransom money,” Muriel said.
“Sheridan is actually going to pay?” I asked.
“She won’t risk the scandal,” Muriel said. “Believe me, her reputation is worth way more than the twenty-grand—”
“Twenty thousand dollars?” I might have shouted that.
“Yes.”
“For Beatles bobbleheads?” I’m sure I shouted that.
“I know. It’s twice what they’re worth. But Mrs. Adams is more than willing to pay it to get them back.” Muriel shrugged. “Besides, she’s got a great accountant. He’ll figure some way to write it off.”
It seemed that Sheridan Adams had everything worked out, tied up nice and neat in a pretty little package—one that left me hung out to dry.
No way was I letting that happen.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll deliver the ransom and get the bobbleheads back.”
Muriel looked surprised, then shook her head.
I spoke again before she could tell me “no.”
“I can do this. I’ve have experience with murder investigations,” I said.
She drew back a little. “You do?”
“Yes—but always in a good way,” I said.
“I don’t know . . .”
I could see that she didn’t want to go along with this, but I had to do it. I had to redeem myself.
So what could I do but drag Jack Bishop into it with me?
“I’ve got a partner,” I said. “He’s a licensed private detective with years of experience.”
“Really?” she asked.
She wasn’t convinced so I had to hit her with something really big.
“He works for the Pike Warner law firm,” I said.
Everybody knew about the Pike Warner law firm. Talbot and Sheridan Adams were probably represented by them.
“I didn’t realize Pike Warner handled this sort of thing,” Muriel admitted. “I guess I should have called them first.”
Now she looked a little worried about her own job.
“I can mak
e this happen,” I said, using my somebody-is-going-down voice.
“If you don’t get those bobbleheads back, Mrs. Adams will bury you,” Muriel said. “You and L.A. Affairs. The company will be lucky to book a D-list kids’ dance recital after-party.”
I wouldn’t mind if Vanessa lost her job, but I sure as heck didn’t want the whole company to go down. Besides, nobody would ever know Vanessa had gutted the file and sabotaged the party. Everyone would blame me.
“I’ll find the bobbleheads and get them back in time for the party,” I told her. “I swear.”
“Okay,” Muriel said, then hesitated a moment and said again, “Okay, if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
“The cash is being delivered to the house any minute,” Muriel said. “The person who called this morning said we’d hear back later today with instructions.”
“I’ll be ready,” I said, and stood up.
Muriel rose. “I’ll let you know as soon as I hear something.”
I headed for the door, but she touched my shoulder, stopping me.
“Let’s just keep this between the two of us,” Muriel said. “For now.”
I could see she was worried that letting me handle the ransom would blow up in her face, and honestly I didn’t blame her.
“As long as Sheridan knows it was me who got them back,” I said.
“Of course,” Muriel agreed.
I left the house, got in my car, and drove away.
Yeah, okay, I’d had second thoughts about this whole event planner thing, but no way was I going to get fired— and I sure as heck wasn’t going to let Sheridan Adams blab all over Los Angeles and ruin L.A. Affairs.
I was going to deliver that ransom money and get back those Beatles bobbleheads.
And Jack was going to help me.
Whether he liked it or not.
CHAPTER 20
I had to act natural. Be calm. Cool and collected. I couldn’t let anyone at L.A. Affairs know—or even suspect—there was a problem with Sheridan Adams’s event.
I’d called Jack Bishop the second I cleared Sheridan’s driveway to discuss the situation with him. His voicemail had picked up, so I told him to call me back immediately.
I swung into the parking garage at L.A. Affairs determined not to give the tiniest hint that anything was up. I would go through my morning just as I always did and mentally prepare myself to make the ransom drop when the call came in from Muriel.
Evening Bags and Executions Page 17