Evening Bags and Executions(35)

I didn’t see any reason to ask how he was since, obviously, he wasn’t doing well, so I asked, “Anything new on the investigation?”

Shuman rested his arms on the table and cradled the cup of coffee in both palms.

“We’re sure it involved one of the cases Amanda was prosecuting,” Shuman said.

Probably one of his friends at the LAPD was feeding him info on the sly, which I’m sure the department would not have liked. I doubted it was Detective Madison.

“It wasn’t just some random . . .” Shuman’s voice trailed off, and he pressed his palm against his forehead and turned away.

My heart ached for him. I’d known he and Amanda were crazy about each other, but I had no idea Shuman was this much in love with her.

I laid my hand on his forearm and he turned back to me. He drew a heavy breath and shook his head.

“I’m never going to get over this,” he said softly.

“I know,” I said because, really, I didn’t see how he could—or how anybody could recover from losing someone they cared so much about, especially in such a violent way.

Shuman gazed at me for a moment, and I figured he appreciated that I hadn’t tried to cheer him up, or tell him that Amanda was in a better place, or that everything would be all right soon.

“I’ve got to go,” he said, and stood up.

I rose from my chair and gathered my things.

“Let me know what’s happening,” I said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

He moved away, but I touched his shoulder and he stopped.

“Anything,” I said.

Shuman nodded, grabbed his coffee, and left.





I parked near the end of the alley that ran behind Lacy Cakes and the other businesses in the strip mall and got out of my Honda. A garbage truck maneuvered past a janitorial service van, and a couple of women in white coats stood near the back door of the nail shop having a smoke.

“Hello?” I called, as I stepped inside the workroom.

The same guy I’d seen on my last visit was busy at the ovens. We exchanged another nod.

Paige stood at one of the worktables alongside a woman I’d never seen. Easily, she was in her sixties. Her complexion was sallow and she was rail thin. Of course, the clothing she wore didn’t do much to help her appearance—navy blue polyester pants with an elastic waist, a flowered button-up shirt, and sneakers. I figured the woman was Belinda Giles, cousin of Darren and Lacy.

I flashed on Lacy’s dead body lying on the workroom floor, her hair perfectly styled, her makeup expertly applied, her nails freshly manicured.

It appeared that life hadn’t been as good to Belinda as it had to Lacy.

No wonder she wanted to keep the bakery operating.

“Hey, girl, come on in,” Paige called when she saw me. She gestured to the three-tier wedding cake on the worktable in front of her. “The bride asked for a rainbow. What do you think?”

Yikes! It was a rainbow, all right.

Six different colors arched up the three tiers, then down the other side. It sure as heck wasn’t something I would want to look at for decades to come in my wedding pictures, but it was okay. Paige had actually done a good job of making something that could have been truly ugly into something nice.

I wondered what kind of wedding cake Sarah Covington would want.

I hate her.

And I hate that I keep thinking about her.

“It’s kind of cool,” I said.

“I sent the bride and her mom a picture,” Paige said, then gave me a can-you-believe-it smile. “They loved it.”

The other woman stepped around Paige and offered her hand.

“Hi, I’m Belinda Giles,” she said.

I took her hand; it was rough and calloused. The woman definitely needed a good moisturizer.

I introduced myself and opened the portfolio I’d brought with me from L.A. Affairs.

“Here’s all the info on the cake I need,” I said, and passed to Paige the spec sheet I’d promised to photocopy.

She took a quick glance and said, “Cool. I can do this. No problem.”

I was really digging Paige’s positive attitude, and having something go smoothly for this party would be a real plus for me. I sure as heck could use a win right now.

Paige showed it to Belinda. “I totally love this, don’t you?”

Belinda got a weird look on her face, which made me wonder if she was questioning Paige’s cake design skills.

There went my win.

“Can you do this? And get it ready in time?” I addressed my question to Belinda—one of the superslick ways we kind-of private detectives bring other people into the conversation.

“Of course,” Belinda said.

“It’s sort of short notice,” I said. “Not that it’s anyone’s fault after, well, after what happened to Lacy.”