Evening Bags and Executions(29)

Then I remembered the owner of Fairy Land Bake Shoppe who’d been mad about losing Paige to Lacy. I wondered if he was mad enough to kill.

Then my mom flashed in my head. She’d been unhappy with the cake Lacy had made for a charity event she was involved with—Mom had told me what it was, but honestly I wasn’t listening. She’d been so upset about the way the cake had turned out, I’d had to drive over to try to calm her down.

True, Mom was a perfectionist and a demanding customer, but the charity had forked out a ton of money for the cake, and while Lacy Cakes was big on presentation, the thing ought to be edible. It wasn’t.

I figured that if Mom’s experience with Lacy Cakes hadn’t gone so well, maybe hers wasn’t the only one.

As I waited for the traffic signal to change at Sepulveda Boulevard, I put my Bluetooth in my ear and called her.

“I hope this means you’ve found me a housekeeper,” Mom said when she picked up.

“I need to ask you about that cake you got from the Lacy Cakes bakery,” I said.

Sometimes, if I hit her with a topic that’s all about her, she doesn’t notice that I’ve ignored her comment.

“Oh, that cake!”

Mom went into what everyone in the family referred to as The Great Cake Tirade that we’d all heard a couple of dozen times already. I tuned her out with practiced ease. By the time I pulled into the parking garage she took a breath. I jumped in.

“So, Mom, do you know of anyone else who wasn’t pleased with their cake?” I asked.

If anyone would have this info, it would be Mom. For a reason I’ve never understood, women always confide in her. Among her former beauty queen, old-money, and society friends, she’s considered warm—which says a lot about her circle of friends.

“I most certainly do,” Mom said. “Sasha Gibson’s daughter’s wedding was ruined by Lacy Cakes.”

I’m not exactly sure how a cake can ruin an entire wedding, but I didn’t say so.

“Can you get me the daughter’s phone number?” I asked.

“Are you planning a class action suit against Lacy Cakes?” Mom asked.

I’m pretty sure Mom thinks I still work for the Pike Warner law firm. She also thinks I have my bachelor’s degree, and I’m certain she thinks Ty and I are still dating.

Jeez, I wish I could stop thinking about Ty.

“Yeah, Mom, that’s it,” I said.

“I’ll call you back.” Mom hung up.

I parked and took the elevator up to the third floor. My phone rang as I walked through the door of L.A. Affairs, giving me the perfect opportunity to ignore Mindy when she shouted, “Are you ready to party?” at me.

“I just spoke with Sasha and got all the information on her daughter,” Mom said when I answered. “I just sent you a text.”

“Great, Mom, I’ll call her right away,” I said.

“Unfortunately, you can’t reach her,” Mom said. “She was so distraught over everything she went to South America.”

“South America?” I might have said that louder than I meant to, but jeez, how upset can you be over a cake?

“Yes, Sasha was surprised, too,” Mom said. “It was all quite sudden. Her daughter just packed a bag and left.”

I got a weird feeling.

“When was this?” I asked.

“A few days ago,” Mom said.

Lacy Hobbs was murdered a few days ago.

“Now, about this lawsuit,” Mom said. “When are you—”

“Sorry, Mom, you’re breaking—”

I hung up—yeah, I know that’s not a nice thing to do to your mom, but I had stuff to take care of.

I read the text she’d sent me as I went into my office. I sat down at my desk, accessed the Internet on my computer, and found an article from last spring in one of the local magazines that featured the runaway bride, Heather Gibson; her groom, Andrew Pritchard; and several other socially prominent couples discussing what they’d worn for their engagement photos.

Ty popped into my head. Would he and Sarah Covington be featured in one of these articles?

I forced the image out of my head.

We’d broken up—and I didn’t even know for sure that it was Ty to whom Sarah was engaged—and that was that.

I focused my thoughts on my immediate problem. Sasha’s daughter might have up and vanished, but I could still get all the info I needed—provided, of course that Jack Bishop was still speaking to me.





CHAPTER 10


“It’s b.s.,” Bella said. “You ask me, it’s b.s.”

We were in the Holt’s employee breakroom watching TV and eating snacks from the vending machines—okay, it was mostly me eating the snacks—and waiting for the last hour of our can-our-lives-get-any-worse shift to end. Bella was fixated on the poster on the wall extolling the exciting details of the upcoming Holt’s fashion show. Since I was in charge of the event, I was trying to ignore it.