Evening Bags and Executions(41)

“And I need three days off during the week—the same three days, not no three when-it-suits-somebody-else days. I’m not wearing one of those ugly uniforms, either,” the woman across the desk told me.

I was in the interview room at the employment agency in Encino tasked with the it’s-easier-to-go-to-Mars job of finding my mom a new housekeeper. Mrs. Quinn had arranged for me to meet with three applicants.

Immediately I could see that this woman wouldn’t exactly click with Mom. She was really tall, muscular, with a head of dark hair that stuck out like a lion’s mane. Honestly, I think Mom might be a little afraid of her.

I was kind of afraid of her myself.

“Thank you so much for coming in,” I said. “We’ll be making a decision in the next few days.”

“Good, ’cause I’ve got to know something quick,” the woman said, and walked out of the room.

The next candidate walked into the room just as I picked up her application from the stack Mrs. Quinn had given me.

“Prudence Darby?” I asked and introduced myself.

She was a small, trim, compact woman who apparently thought it was still 1955, although she didn’t look quite old enough to have lived back then. She wore a black wool coat with a faux-fur collar and a hat, and she clutched a huge department store handbag in both hands.

I glanced over her application as she sat down. “I see here that you’ve—”

“Did you read the comment at the bottom?” she asked. She spoke in a soft voice, almost in a whisper for some reason. “I’m a Christian woman. I always make that clear. I wrote it on the bottom of the form. See, right there? It says I’m a Christian woman.”

“Don’t worry, we’re not going to feed you to the lions,” I said.

Although some of the people who’d worked for Mom might feel differently.

“I don’t believe in drinking alcohol,” Prudence said.

I was pretty sure she’d change her mind after a few days of dealing with Mom.

“I can’t work in a house where alcohol is present,” she said.

I could have quizzed her on this a little more, tried to talk her into making an exception, but I didn’t see the point. I thanked her for coming in and she left.

Next up was Jozelle Newcomb, a tall, attractive woman who was probably in her midforties.

Immediately I was impressed when she walked in carrying a Chanel tote and wearing a Michael Kors suit, even if it was last season’s. Then I was immediately unimpressed when I looked over her application and saw that not only had she never worked as a housekeeper, she’d never worked at all.

“I see here that you haven’t had any actual work experience,” I said.

She burst out crying.

Oh my God. What happened?

I gave her a minute or two, hoping she’d settle down. She didn’t.

I’m not good with a crier.

“Maybe this isn’t the best time for your interview,” I said.

She kept sobbing.

“Let’s reschedule, okay?” I said.

She nodded, grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the corner of my desk, and left.

I waited a few minutes—no way did I want to run into her again in the parking lot—then gathered my things and went to Mrs. Quinn’s office down the hall.

“None of those applicants were right for the job,” I said.

I felt bad for Jozelle Newcomb, who couldn’t even get through the interview without crying. Obviously, she was having some major personal problems. But I couldn’t imagine she’d be a good fit for the job, considering Mom could be every bit the same emotional mess as she was.

Mrs. Quinn heaved a long sigh. “I’ll see what else I can come up with.”

I left the building and got into my car parked in the lot around back. Honestly, I’d had about all of the personal business I could take for one day. I was considering moving my Nordstrom trip up from tonight after work to now when my cell phone rang.

My spirits fell. It was Rigby.

“Which one of the Beatles was married when the group first came to America?” she asked.

My spirits shot up again. I knew this—I actually knew the answer.

“It was . . . it was . . .” I racked my brain. “John Lennon!”

“You took too long to answer,” Rigby told me, and hung up.

Crap.

This whole Beatles party was starting to get on my nerves, even though most everything was going according to plan. Muriel was taking care of the guest list, the cleanup crew, and the valets. I’d followed up on the arrangements Jewel had made for the caterer, the tribute bands, and the decorations.

The only thing I still had to do was somehow get the Cirque du Soleil dancers and acrobats from the Love show in Vegas to perform at the party, plus figure out how I was going to come up with the gift bags Sheridan had requested—as long as I passed Eleanor and Rigby’s Beatles trivia quizzes and got to keep my job, of course.