I followed her out the door.
“We have a great deal of very exciting news to cover today,” Jeannette announced.
I slid into a seat in the Holt’s training room—my usual spot behind that big guy who worked in menswear where I could dose off, as necessary. Around me the other employees settled into the don’t-bother-trying-to-get-comfortable-because-it’s-impossible chairs, none of us the least bit interested in this evening’s training session yet glad for the brief reprieve from our duties on the sales floor.
Not that I would have been working all that hard, but still.
At the front of the room Jeanette, the store manager, easily mustered an enthusiastic smile probably because she actually believed she was about to impart news that the rest of us—at minimum wage—would find exciting. If we all received her huge salary, quarterly bonus, and profit sharing, perhaps we would.
Not that she put all that income to good use. Jeanette, for a reason no sane person could fathom, chose to dress in the clothing Holt’s carried. To be kind, let me just say that Jeanette was full-figured and in her fifties—not the easiest demographic to find stylish clothing, but she could sure as heck put her money to better use shopping elsewhere.
The Holt’s clothing buyers who were, apparently, vision impaired and color-blind, somehow managed to consistently purchase the most hideous clothing on the planet. Nothing on our racks was ever the current style. The prints were all wrong, the colors were out of season, the styles were outdated. To make matters worse, though you might not think that was possible, nothing in the shoe, outerwear, or accessory departments coordinated with the clothing.
Jeanette always did a bang-up job of demonstrating how truly horrid the Holt’s clothing line could be, and today was no exception. In what I could only guess was a tip of the hat to the fall season, she had on a skirt and blouse, topped with a swing coat, all in orange.
She looked like the Great Pumpkin.
Jeanette plowed ahead with her exciting news.
I drifted off.
Since, apparently, I’d promised my mom that I’d take care of finding her a new housekeeper, I really had no choice but to handle the situation—though I had put considerable thought into trying to figure a way to get out of it. I hadn’t come up with anything, so I’d have to contact the agency that had sent the last girl—whatever her name was—and start the interview process.
A more pleasant thought flashed in my head—that Enchantress evening bag. Locating and purchasing the hot it bag of the season was something akin to a big game hunt. Certainly it wasn’t for the faint of heart, the timid, or the ill-prepared. I’d have to get with Marcie soon and lay out a strategy for finding that evening bag. Then, of course, we’d have to come up with an occasion to carry it, plus buy the perfect outfit to go with it.
Then, for no apparent reason, Shuman popped into my head.
I get that a lot.
I hadn’t heard from him or his girlfriend all day, as I’d expected. I’m not a worrier, usually, and I’m not big on suspense, so I was going to have to call them both again and find out just what the heck was going on. If I interrupted Shuman’s vacation or his honeymoon, oh well. I needed to find out what Detective Madison was up to with Lacy Hobbs’s murder investigation, and I couldn’t wait forever.
The image of Lacy lying dead in her workroom floated into my head—preferable to listening to Jeanette, which says a lot about the Holt’s training meetings. I couldn’t help but wonder who would have wanted Lacy dead. Her bakery had been around for years, and that wouldn’t have happened if her stellar clientele didn’t love her work. Reputation was of supreme importance, and nobody lasted long in L.A. if the rich and famous turned on you. Plus, it was hard to imagine anyone would get so worked up about a cake that they’d murder the baker.
I guess stranger things had happened. Especially in Los Angeles.
“Haley? Haley?” Jeanette called, just as the guy seated next to me nudged me with his elbow.
I realized the room was quiet, everyone had turned toward me, and Jeanette was staring.
I was pretty sure I’d missed something.
“How is everything coming?” she asked.
I had no idea what she was talking about, so what could I say but, “Great.”
“Excellent,” Jeanette said. “It’s a big project.”
I was involved in a big project?
“Thank you for taking this on,” Jeanette said.
I’d agreed to take something on? In violation of my own personal say-no-to-everything policy? Yikes! When had I done that?
Oh my God. It must have been while I was drifting through life in my breakup fog.