Mrs. Quinn, the woman who had been tasked with dealing with my mother and was, no doubt, rethinking her entire career path, answered.
“I’d like to get this matter settled as quickly as possible,” I said, after I’d introduced myself.
“We’re all anxious for that as well,” she said.
I know she meant that from the bottom of her heart.
“Do you have any prospective housekeepers I could interview ?” I asked.
“I’m putting together a list,” Mrs. Quinn said. “I should have something lined up in a few days.”
“Can you at least send someone over temporarily every few days to clean?” I asked.
“Yes, I can arrange that,” she said, though it didn’t seem to suit her.
“Mom can’t go without a housekeeper for very long,” I told her.
“I understand,” she replied. “But, you know, filling this position to your mother’s satisfaction has proved quite a challenge for me.”
She thought she had it rough? How about being her daughter?
“Try harder,” I told her, which was the oh so wonderful advice I’d often gotten from Mom. I hoped Mrs. Quinn would be more anxious to rise to Mom’s standards than I had been.
We hung up and, already, I’d had enough of sitting in my office. I had a great reason for leaving, so I saw no need not to take advantage of it. But first, I called the phone number for Belinda Giles that Paige had given me. To my surprise, she answered right away. I introduced myself and immediately plunged into a total lie.
“I understand you’re running Lacy Cakes Bakery now,” I said.
Yes, I know it’s bad to tell an out-and-out lie, but come on, I had to get the dirt on what was going on with Lacy’s murder, among other things.
“Paige told me you’d put in an order,” Belinda said. “It’ll get done.”
“I’d feel a lot better about it if I could speak with you in person,” I said. “The cake is for an extremely high-profile event.”
Belinda was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “I can meet you, if you absolutely have to see me in person.”
I didn’t want her to come here, because then I wouldn’t have a good excuse for leaving the office, plus I didn’t want anyone here to suspect there was a problem with Sheridan Adams’s party.
“I have to go to the bakery this morning,” I said. “Can I meet you there?”
“I’m pretty busy today,” Belinda said. “But I can run by there in about an hour.”
“That will be fine,” I said, though it really wasn’t. No way did I want to hang out in the office for that long and be forced to do actual work—not when I had so much personal business to attend to.
We hung up. I took a chance and phoned Shuman again, and was pleased—and surprised—when he answered.
“How are you doing?” I asked.
“Better,” he said.
He didn’t sound better.
“Want to meet for coffee?” I asked.
“No . . . no, I don’t think so,” he told me.
“Come on, I owe you one,” I said. “The Starbucks at the Sherman Oaks Galleria. I can be there in ten minutes.”
Shuman was quiet for a while, then finally said, “Okay. I’ll see you there.”
He hung up.
I got some things together that I’d need later today, then left. So far, no one had said anything to me about spending so much time out of the office. I figured that everyone was just that desperate to keep me there, working as Vanessa’s assistant, or maybe it really was expected that event planners spent most of their time calling on clients and vendors.
Either way, I saw no reason not to take advantage of the situation.
I left the building, crossed the street, and climbed the concrete stairs to the fountain plaza at the Galleria. Water splashed in the fountain and the sunshine was warm, making for a perfect day to be in the San Fernando Valley in gorgeous Southern California.
The Galleria was an open-air, multistory complex of offices, retail, and entertainment space. I walked past restaurants and stores and into Starbucks. I got my favorite drink, a mocha frappuccino, and a coffee for Shuman, then went outside to one of the tables set up on the center plaza. Things were kind of quiet, since it was too early for the lunch crowd.
Just a couple of minutes later I spotted Shuman walking toward me from the parking garage at the other end of the complex, which made me wonder where he’d been and what he’d been doing when I called him. He had on the same beige oxford shirt and jeans he’d worn the last time I saw him, and he looked kind of rumpled.
Not good.
When he sat down beside me at the table and I saw him up close, he looked even worse. There were lines in his face I’d never noticed before. His eyes were red. I doubted he’d slept in days.