Evening Bags and Executions(33)

She hung up.

Crap.

I hung up and sat there for a minute. No way was I in the mood for Chinese now. I headed home.

I was slightly annoyed with Ringo Starr for changing his name, and more than a little put out with Jack Bishop for suddenly being so sensitive. I was irritated with Detective Shuman because he hadn’t called me back—which was really crappy of me, but there it was—plus, I was aggravated that I couldn’t stop thinking about Ty.

Honestly, I’d had just about enough of the male species for one evening.

I swung into a parking space at my apartment complex. Just as I got out of my car I spotted Cody Ewing climbing out of a pickup truck nearby.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. It came out sounding kind of harsh.

He shrugged and gave me a little grin. “Waiting on you.”

I was in no mood.

“Yeah, I figured that,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know,” he said, and nodded. “But I figured I’d come by, take a chance that it’d be okay if I put in an hour or so on your place.”

I shook my head. “Tonight’s not a good night.”

Cody reached into his truck and pulled out a bag. “I brought ice cream.”

“Really, it’s not a good time,” I said, though I could hear resolve weakening.

“Chocolate Fudge Brownie.” He pulled the container out of the bag.

Oh my God. Ben & Jerry’s—the good stuff.

Jeez, I had to let him come in now, didn’t I? I couldn’t be rude—after he’d gone to all the trouble of bringing ice cream.

“Okay, you can come up,” I said.

Cody grabbed his toolbox out of the bed of his truck and followed me upstairs. When we reached the top, I heard tires squeal in the parking lot. I turned to see a car speeding out of the driveway.

Huh. I wonder what that was all about.





CHAPTER 11


It was a Prada day. Definitely a Prada day.

I had an important errand to run later today and only a black Prada satchel—teamed with my awesome navy blue business suit—would project the image I was going for.

I settled into my desk at L.A. Affairs with my first cup of coffee, determined to make headway on coming up with custom-made gift bags that somehow projected the image of the Beatles. I also had to figure out how I was going to fill them with items that Sheridan Adams’s wealthy we’ve-already-got-two-of-everything guests would find special and unique. Someone on staff could probably give me some ideas, but I didn’t want to ask anyone. I was sure Vanessa was still talking smack about me, and I wasn’t about to let anyone think she was right.

As I sipped my coffee—waiting for the two extra packets of sugar I’d used to kick in—my brain hopped to another topic.

Lacy Hobbs’s murder.

So far I wasn’t exactly making great strides toward finding her killer. I had some suspects, a few weak motives, and absolutely no evidence. Obviously, I was going to have to do more digging.

I sipped my coffee and thought back to when I’d found Lacy’s body in the workroom. She’d been shot point-blank in the center of her chest. Whoever had murdered her had walked into the workroom, approached her at the worktable, pulled a gun, and fired. I figured she must have known her killer, since there was no sign of a struggle and nothing had been stolen—that I knew of, anyway. I mean, jeez, what’s there to steal in a bakery? So if that were the case and the murderer knew Lacy, that person must have been either really mad about something or really cold and calculating.

Heather Pritchard, the runaway bride, topped my mental really-mad suspect list. She’d decided that Lacy Cakes had ruined her wedding with the cake they’d made, and she’d probably stewed on it, relived it, and obsessed over it ever since her wedding day. Brides, after all, were a special kind of crazy.

The owner of the Fairy Land Bake Shoppe took second place on my really-mad suspect list. According to Paige he wasn’t happy about losing her. Maybe he’d decided to take it out on Lacy.

As for my cold-and-calculating suspects, Paige was the only person whose name I could put on that list. Darren had suggested she was a little too anxious to take over the business. Maybe he was onto something. Maybe it had been her plan all along—get a job there, kill Lacy, and take over the business somehow.

My brain hopped to yet another topic—which was okay with me, because thinking about murder suspects was giving me a headache.

Or maybe it was all the sugar I’d dumped into my coffee.

I still had to find Mom a housekeeper—which seemed as difficult as finding Lacy’s murderer, and even more unpleasant—so I pulled out my cell phone and called the employment agency. I gave my mom’s name and was immediately transferred.