I swung into the driveway of the Adams home—mansion, actually—and announced my arrival at the call box. The gate rolled back. I parked in the circular drive and got out.
The house was roughly the size of the Superdome, a white behemoth that looked like maybe its architect had spent a lot of time in Greece. According to the article I’d found online this morning, the estate sat on several acres of manicured lawns. It had two pools, a grotto, a tennis court, a koi pond, fountains, pergolas, and more statues than the ancient Chinese Terra Cotta Warriors and Horses museum exhibit.
I’d gone with one of my black business suits this morning and teamed it with Jimmy Choo pumps, and a cherry red Marc Jacobs carryall, a take-me-seriously look I hoped would assure Sheridan Adams that I had everything under control for her party. I didn’t, of course, so all the more reason to look as if I did.
Isn’t that what fashion is all about?
I channeled my mom’s I’m-better-than-you expression and rang the doorbell, and a servant in a white uniform let me into the foyer, which had roughly the same square footage as a Costco store. She directed me to a sitting room—my entire apartment would have fit inside it—and told me Mrs. Adams would be with me shortly. I pulled out my cell phone, took pictures, and sent them to Marcie.
“Tell me nothing is wrong.”
Sheridan Adams, whom I recognized from this morning’s Internet search, sailed into the room. The word “sailed” popped into my head because she had on what appeared to be an old-school naval uniform—white bell-bottom pants, a blue and white striped top, sneakers, and a canvas bucket hat.
I guess I shouldn’t complain about how my mom dressed at home.
The article I’d read gave Sheridan’s age as forty-two, but I was pretty sure she’d already crossed over into you’re-seriously-old territory. She was rail thin, and all that time spent in the tanning booth had turned on her, leaving her with skin the texture of a circus elephant. Her hair was a number of shades of blond and totally fried. It stuck straight out, forming a nest, of sorts, for her hat to sit on, so I guess it was working for her.
Since she had so much money, she seemed eccentric rather than like that crazy aunt nobody ever talked about.
“Tell me,” Sheridan insisted.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. I tried for my you-can-trust-me voice, but I don’t think I pulled it off.
“Something’s wrong,” she insisted. “Muriel? Muriel?”
Sheridan turned in a circle, then shouted, “Muriel!”
“I’m right here, Mrs. Adams,” a young woman said as she rushed into the room juggling an iPad, a cell phone, and a day planner. She was young, with short, dark, sensible hair and glasses that made me think of Velma in the Scooby-Doo cartoons, though I doubted she was having as much fun as the Mystery, Inc. gang.
Muriel gave me a quick smile. “Hi, I’m Mrs. Adams’s personal assistant,”
I introduced myself and said, “Nothing’s wrong.”
“I figured that,” she said quietly.
“Actually, that’s why I’m here, Mrs. Adams,” I said, using my there’s-nothing-to-be-alarmed-about voice. “I’m working closely with Vanessa on your event and want to assure you of absolute continuity in the preparation and execution of your plans.”
Okay, that was a total lie, but I didn’t want her calling L.A. Affairs and complaining about me.
“What happened to—?” Sheridan pointed at Muriel.
“Jewel,” she said.
“Jewel,” Sheridan said. “She was Vanessa’s assistant. I liked her. Where is she?”
I figured that Jewel was so fearful of having to work for Vanessa again, she was probably hiding in an abandoned bomb shelter somewhere in the Mojave Desert.
“Unfortunately, Jewel had some personal issues she had to deal with,” I said. “The loss of one person will have absolutely no bearing on the success of any event. Everyone at the firm is up-to-speed on every event. That’s how we do things at L.A. Affairs.”
I had no idea how they did things at L.A. Affairs, but this sounded good.
Sheridan didn’t look assured.
“I want to make certain you truly understand and appreciate the essence of this event,” she said.
It was a Beatles-themed party. How much essence was involved?
“I want you to work with—” Sheridan pointed at Muriel.
“Annie and Liz,” she said.
“Annie and Liz,” Sheridan repeated. “They’re experts on the Beatles.”
I didn’t need two experts on the Beatles to arrange for a caterer, but I didn’t say so.
“I’ll give you their contact info,” Muriel said to me.