Evening Bags and Executions(39)

Annette frowned. “Well, I don’t know. That might get a bit messy. Accidents, you know.”

“Then I would recommend your backyard,” I told her.

“Lovely!”

I was feeling really great about myself. Maybe I could be good at this event-planning thing. Maybe I’d have a real career here.

“Oh, yes, the backyard would be perfect,” Annette said. “That way Minnie and her guests can roll around and dig their little noses into the grass. It will be so cute!”

I got a weird feeling.

“Let’s discuss refreshments,” I said.

“Of course! We’ll need lots of treats!” Annette declared.

My weird feeling got weirder.

“Treats?” I asked.

“I’m very particular about what Minnie eats,” Annette insisted. “Everything must have high-quality, premium ingredients, with plenty of vitamins, minerals, and healthy oils.”

“Healthy oils?” I asked.

“And no artificial colors or flavors,” she went on. “And absolutely no animal by-products or grain fillers.”

I laid my pen down.

“Do you have a picture of Minnie with you?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew where this was going.

“Well, of course I do,” Annette said. She dug around in her handbag and presented me with a photo.

Oh, crap.

“Minnie is a dog,” I said, and somehow I didn’t yell that.

“Well, of course she’s a dog!” Annette said, then giggled. “And isn’t she just the cutest little thing!”

I got up from the desk.

“I think that’s all the info I need to get started,” I said, guiding Annette out the door. “I’ll get back with you soon.”

“Oh, well, all right,” Annette said, as I hurried her along the corridor to the reception area.

“Oh! My! I love your outfit,” Mindy said.

I hate my life.

I went back to my office and saw that I’d missed a call from Mrs. Quinn at the employment agency. I phoned her and learned that she had several candidates for the position of housekeeper whom I could interview.

“I can come to your office right away,” I said.

“I’ll need a few hours,” Mrs. Quinn said, and we hung up.

Of course, I saw no reason to wait a few hours to leave the office, especially when I had so much of my own personal business to attend to—plus a murder to solve. I gathered my things and left.

I took Ventura Boulevard to Studio City and pulled into the parking lot near Coldwater Canyon. The Fairy Land Bake Shoppe was located in a little shopping center near a health food store and a couple of mom-and-pop businesses.

Paige had told me that the owner of Fairy Land had been mad at Lacy Hobbs for offering her more money and hiring her away. Maybe he’d been mad enough to kill her.

The bakery had huge display windows that were decorated with flying fairies and magic wands, golden pixie dust, colorful mushrooms, and lovable trolls and gnomes. Featured in the windows was an array of magnificent cakes, with intricate designs and clever themes.

On the whole, this place looked a couple billion times better than Lacy Cakes. It made me wonder why Paige Davis had been so anxious to leave here and work elsewhere, even with the higher salary.

I hoped the manager of Fairy Land would tell me.

Armed with my portfolio with the L.A. Affairs logo turned out, and my this-proves-I’m-important Gucci handbag and black business suit, I walked into the bakery.

Just as the name suggested, it looked like a fairy land, with whimsical decor and baked goodies and sweets everywhere. It smelled delightful—like even if you took a bite out of the countertop, it would taste like buttercream.

My kind of place.

Several customers were at the glass display cases buying cupcakes and cookies from two young women wearing lavender aprons with fairies on the front.

“Can I help you?” one of them asked.

I passed her one of my business cards and asked, “Can I speak with August?”

She glanced at the card. “Sure,” she said, and disappeared through the curtained doorway into a back room.

August, the store owner whose name I’d found on their Web site, appeared a moment later. You’d expect that a man who owned a bakery wouldn’t look like someone you’d want to have your back in a bar fight, and this guy was no exception. Everything about him was average—pleasant, and average. Late forties, I guessed, and kind of round everywhere—his belly, his balding head—dressed in the I’m-average man’s uniform of khaki pants and a blue shirt.

Even though he held my business card, I introduced myself. He gave me a very gentlemanly handshake.

“I’d like to speak with you about possibly doing business with L.A. Affairs,” I said. “You’ve heard of us?”