No way was I going to let that happen. I had to find out who murdered Lacy Hobbs. Like Madison, I had no leads, no witnesses, no clues, and the only place I had any hope of finding them was at the bakery
I hit the 14 freeway headed south, then took the 405. Traffic was light. I exited on Burbank Boulevard and drove to Lacy Cakes. I swung into the parking lot. My headlights caught a makeshift memorial of floral bouquets and candles that someone had placed under one of the display windows.
I hopped out of the car and tried the door. It was locked. I cupped my hands against the glass and looked inside.
A dim security light burned in the back of the shop just bright enough for me to see that the furniture had been pushed together at each end of the room and all of the display cakes were gone.
Lacy Cakes was closed—permanently?
Now what was I going to do?
CHAPTER 8
“Are you ready to party?” Mindy exclaimed when I walked into the office.
This morning she had on a pink-and-white polka-dot dress. Let me just say that it wasn’t working for her. Luckily, she was standing behind her desk and I couldn’t see her feet, because somehow I knew she had on white panty hose and pink pumps.
“It’s me,” I said. “Haley. Remember? I work here. You don’t have to say that when I walk in.”
Mindy covered her lips with her palm and giggled. “Yes, of course, Haley. I know who you are.”
I gave her the friendliest smile I could muster, considering I hadn’t had my coffee yet, and headed for my office.
“Oh, Haley?” she called.
I turned around and saw her waving frantically at me. I walked back.
“You have clients,” she said.
Mindy seemed to pick up pretty quickly on my what-the-heck-are-you-talking-about expression, because she said, “They were waiting when I opened up this morning. They said they were here to see you. They asked for you by name. ‘Haley Randolph’ is what they said. That’s you. They’re in client room number one. Waiting. For you.”
Apparently, well-to-do clients intent on spending an obscene amount of money at L.A. Affairs were now waiting for me. Immediately, my Holt’s customer service training kicked in.
I went to my office, dropped off my handbag—a totally awesome Gucci—grabbed one of the official leather-bound portfolios embossed with the L.A. Affairs logo, which we were required to use for each client—you always look smart carrying one of these things—and went straight to the breakroom. Several other women were there, everyone dressed to perfection. I fit right in wearing my brown business suit.
Kayla gave me a troubled look when I joined her near the coffeemaker.
“Just so you know,” she said to me in a low voice, “Vanessa has been talking smack about you.”
I figured she had, but hearing it still made me mad. “She’s saying that you haven’t been asking her questions, and haven’t been conferring with her about the clients and events,” Kayla said. She rolled her eyes. “Like you’re some sort of rogue event planner.”
“She specifically told me not to ask her any questions,” I said.
“That sounds like something she’d pull,” Kayla agreed.
“She asked me to quit—the very first time we met,” I said as I poured myself a cup of coffee. “She wants her other assistant to come back.”
“Jewel?” Kayla uttered a short laugh. “Yeah, like that’s going to happen. She only lasted three weeks working for Vanessa—which was a record. By the time she left, her hair was falling out and she’d developed a tic in her right cheek.”
“They ought to get rid of Vanessa,” I said, and dumped three packets of sugar into my coffee.
“As soon as she quits bringing in the big bucks—which will be never—maybe somebody will,” Kayla said. “In the meantime, just watch your back.”
She left, and I stirred vanilla flavoring into my coffee, silently fuming. Vanessa was setting me up. No way was I going to let her get away with that. I was going to make Sheridan Adams’s Beatles party an awesome success—no matter what it took.
I left the breakroom and went to client room number one, then froze in the doorway.
Oh my God. If this was what it took to make the Beatles party totally rock, maybe I should rethink the whole thing.
Seated in the chairs in front of the desk were two women. Obviously, they’d both enjoyed many a good meal over the past several decades. I wasn’t great at guessing a person’s age much beyond the big five-oh milestone, but I knew these two women had pushed on, well beyond their somebody-please-kill-me-now-because-I-may-as-well-be-dead-anyway sixtieth birthdays.