Evening Bags and Executions(63)

“Just let me run by at L.A. Affairs and I’ll be there,” I said.

I should definitely get something printed with my picture on it and make sure Vanessa got a dozen of them.

“You should come now,” Muriel said. “Like right this minute.”

Sheridan wanted to see me immediately? Maybe she’d planned a light brunch for us and we’d sit on one of her many patios while her servants attended us so she could go on and on about what a fabulous event planner I was—far superior to Vanessa—and vow to give me all her future business.

Cool.

“I’m on my way,” I said, and hung up.

This was so awesome. My day was off to a great start—even the freeway traffic cooperated with me. I listened to the radio, sang along, did a little seat-dancing, and pulled into the driveway of Sheridan’s Holmby Hills home in record time.

I parked and saw the front door swing open. Sheridan Adams herself stood in the doorway. She must really be thrilled with my work if she’d waited by the door for me to arrive, then opened it herself, sans servants.

Sheridan had a bit of an Effie Trinket thing going this morning. Her totally fried-out hair had a pink hue, for some reason, and had been whipped into a severe updo. She was dressed in a pencil skirt and jacket—both in an extremely unflattering shade of magenta—and wore four-inch heels and a choker of fresh flowers.

I got out of my car and morphed my face into Mom’s I’m-fabulous-but-I-have-to-appear-humble-right-now expression.

“Good morning,” I said, as I walked to the door. “It’s so nice to—”

“What have you done?” she shrieked.

I froze and braced myself, ready to bob and weave in case she came at me like a spider monkey.

“It’s ruined—ruined!” Sheridan clenched her fists and waved them in the air. “The entire party is ruined!”

She stomped her feet and let out a scream that I was sure could be heard all the way in Bel Air. For a minute, I thought she might have a stroke—not that I really cared—and then a servant appeared beside her.

“And it’s your fault!” Sheridan yelled. She pointed her finger at me, as if she were putting a curse on me. “Your fault!”

The servant gently urged Sheridan back into the house.

Oh my God, what had just happened? How could the party be ruined—because of me?

I’m not big on suspense, so I wanted to march into the house and find out what the heck was going on. Had Sheridan simply lost her mind? Or had something really happened?

Muriel appeared in the doorway looking calm and composed, as if this were just another day at work.

“Would you come inside, Haley?” she asked.

I followed Muriel into the sitting room. I had to admire the way she let Sheridan Adams’s hissy fit roll off her back.

No way could I be a personal assistant.

“Thank you for coming,” Muriel said. We sat down in facing chairs. “There was a break-in last night. Here. An item was stolen.”

My first thought was that, jeez, there was so much stuff in this house, how had anyone noticed that something had been taken—especially so quickly.

Then I realized I hadn’t seen police cars in the driveway when I’d pulled up.

“Have the police left already?” I asked. “Did they get fingerprints? Shoe prints? DNA? Was there surveillance footage?”

Muriel shook her head. “No police. Mrs. Adams wants to keep this quiet.”

It wasn’t unusual that the rich and famous wanted to maintain their privacy. Advertising a burglary and announcing what was taken would likely alert other thieves to the location, the wealth, and the apparent lack of security.

“The video feed has already been reviewed,” Muriel said. “The entrances to the estate are under constant surveillance, but the cameras don’t cover every inch of the grounds. There are no interior cameras, of course. The exterior of the house has spot coverage.”

“What did they see?” I asked.

“Only the usual,” Muriel said. “The servants coming and going, a delivery from the florist, the cleaning service, the plumber, the pool people.”

“What was taken?” I asked.

“Bobbleheads,” Muriel said. “The Beatles bobbleheads donated for the charity auction at the party.”

Okay, that was weird.

“Bobbleheads?” I asked, and I couldn’t keep the are-you-kidding-me tone out of my voice—not that I tried very hard. “Somebody actually went to the trouble to break in, risk getting caught and prosecuted, maybe even going to jail, for a set of bobbleheads?”

“They’re rare and in mint condition,” Muriel pointed out.