Evening Bags and Executions(2)

That’s where I’d met my boyfriend, Ty Cameron. He was the latest in five generations of his family to own and be completely obsessed with running the chain, plus he’d opened several boutiques he’d named Wallace, after some ancient ancestor, and had just finished negotiations for Holt’s International.

Ty is—was—a way hot boyfriend. He looked fabulous in his expensive suits and drove a totally cool Porsche. Our breakup was something we decided on together, and it was for the best. Really. So I’m perfectly okay with it. Perfectly okay. Perfectly.

The lobby of the building that housed L.A. Affairs was all glass and red marble. A lot of well-dressed men and women streamed into the elevators carrying briefcases and messenger bags, everybody seemingly anxious to get into their offices and start the day.

I’d selected a black business suit—one of the eight Marcie had helped me shop for a few weeks ago—for my first day on the job, and carried my Louis Vuitton satchel and day planner. Marcie had offered to come to my apartment last night and help me pick out my outfit, as a best friend would, but I’d told her not to.

I’d been offered a job here at L.A. Affairs a few months ago but had blown it off to go to London with Ty. After my fabulous job had ended a few weeks ago, Marcie had suggested I contact them and see if they were still interested in hiring me, and since Marcie was almost always right about things, I gave them a call. They got back to me right away with an offer. The woman in H.R. hadn’t even asked to see my updated résumé, which was a real break for me—long story.

I got out of the elevator on the third floor and walked down the carpeted hallway to the double doors that had L.A. Affairs printed on them in gold lettering. I pushed my way inside and spotted the receptionist standing behind her desk. She jumped when she saw me.

“Oh! My!” She waved her hands as if she were doing a jazz routine, and said, “Are you ready to party?”

I remembered her from when I’d been in the office a few months ago. She was probably somewhere on the high side of forty with blond hair sculpted into the shape of a football helmet, a little on the heavy side, and dressed in one of those tweed suits that make you look like you’re wearing a carpet.

She giggled and clasped her hands together. “They make me say that.”

“I’m Haley Randolph,” I said. “I’m starting work here today.”

“Oh! My! Well, you really are ready to party, aren’t you?” she said, and laughed. “Welcome. I’m Mindy.”

I saw no reason to remind her that I’d been in here a few months ago asking about the girl who’d been murdered.

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

Mindy’s smile faded. “I haven’t worked here long. My husband left me.”

I was pretty sure she’d told me about her marital situation the last time I was here.

“He just left me,” Mindy said. “Out of the blue. No warning. He just left.”

“Sorry to hear that,” I said.

“But I’m working here, so everything is fine,” Mindy said. “Well, not really. Everything is sort of, well, it’s not fine.”

Jeez, what was with her? Why hadn’t she gotten over her husband as quickly as I’d gotten over my breakup with Ty?

Maybe I could give her some pointers later.

“Which way to H.R.?” I asked.

“Oh! My! That would be Edie’s department. I’ll call her,” Mindy said.

She eyed the telephone console on her desk that had enough buttons on it to coordinate U.S. naval operations in the Pacific; a half-dozen red and yellow lights flashed frantically.

“Oh, jiminy, now let me see if I can find her,” Mindy said. She picked up the handset and hit a button. “Hello, Edie? This is—oh, it’s not? Are you sure? Yes, okay, I’ll try—which extension? Oh, yes, that’s right. Okay.”

Mindy pushed another button. “Hello, Edie? This is—oh, it’s not? Oh, jiminy, are you sure?”

I walked away, figuring that, sooner or later, I would stumble across the Human Resources department.

A cube farm sat in the center of the room, and along the wall was a line of glassed-in offices where, presumably, L.A. Affairs’ upscale clientele and the rich and famous of Los Angeles—or their personal assistants—came to discuss upcoming parties and events. The whole place was decorated in chic, sophisticated shades of beige, cream, ecru, and white.

I turned right and walked along another corridor and found a cluster of offices. All of them had little nameplates on the door. I stopped when I saw the one that read EDIE FRANKLIN, HUMAN RESOURCES.