“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.