I remembered seeing them on the shelves with all the other Beatles memorabilia that would be auctioned off at the party. It was a complete set of all four Beatles, maybe eight inches tall, painted with identical blue suits, white shirts, and dark neckties, each of them standing on a small platform. Their oversized bobbing heads were covered with long—well, long for the early sixties—brown painted-on hair, and a pretty good representation of each Beatle’s facial features. They were in what looked like their original packaging, a box with cellophane panels that displayed each bobblehead.
“I’m sure the bobbleheads would have done well at the auction,” I said.
“Ten grand—at least,” she said.
“But what’s up with Sheridan?” I asked. “I mean, I can understand why she’d be upset that somebody broke into her home, but she looked like she was about to lose her mind.”
“All the items for the charity auction came from friends of Talbot and Sheridan, or people attempting to curry favor with them, or—if you can believe it—people whom the Adamses were trying to impress with their philanthropic endeavors,” Muriel said. “The bobbleheads were donated by someone linked to British royalty.”
“Oh. Wow,” I said.
“Yeah,” Muriel agreed. “If the bobbleheads aren’t seen at the party, if they’re not part of the auction, the repercussions will be staggering.”
We both sat there for a moment letting everything sink in, then I said, “I’m not clear on why Sheridan thinks any of this is my fault.”
“You were supposed to hire extra security for the collectibles,” she said.
I was?
“L.A. Affairs put it in the contract,” she said.
They did?
“So, really, it is your fault,” she said.
Oh, crap.
How could that have happened? If it was in the contract for L.A. Affairs to hire security personnel, why hadn’t Jewel—who was probably now being addressed as Sister Jewel at a convent in the Himalayas—done it?
All I could figure was that she must have left the company before she could see that it was handled. So why hadn’t Vanessa followed up and—
Damn. Vanessa must have taken the info out of the file before she gave it to me—just like she’d done with Distinctive Gifting.
If she’d deliberately taken the security company requirement out of the file to make me look bad, she’d succeeded, all right.
Not that I intended to let her get away with it.
I’d have to get the bobbleheads back myself.
Immediately, my brain launched into detective mode.
The Adams home was huge, and it was a maze inside. How would a thief know the bobbleheads were in the house? In that particular room?
Of all the memorabilia there, why take just the bobbleheads? Whoever had stolen them must have known their significance.
It sounded like an inside job. But there were dozens of servants and service people who had access to the house, who were routinely coming and going. I’d have to investigate them all. Somehow.
“I’ll find them,” I said.
Muriel shook her head. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” I insisted. “I’m kind of good at this sort of thing. Really.”
“No, you don’t understand,” Muriel said. “You don’t have to find them. We already know where they are, sort of. Mrs. Adams got a ransom demand for them this morning.”
Okay, that blew me away.
Somebody actually expected Sheridan Adams to fork out money for the return of the bobbleheads? Was there a black market for Beatles memorabilia somewhere that I didn’t know about? Or were all the collectors slightly crazy?
I wonder if John, Paul, George, and Ringo ever anticipated this.
“I’ve already contacted a couple of private security agencies to deliver the ransom money,” Muriel said.
“Sheridan is actually going to pay?” I asked.
“She won’t risk the scandal,” Muriel said. “Believe me, her reputation is worth way more than the twenty-grand—”
“Twenty thousand dollars?” I might have shouted that.
“Yes.”
“For Beatles bobbleheads?” I’m sure I shouted that.
“I know. It’s twice what they’re worth. But Mrs. Adams is more than willing to pay it to get them back.” Muriel shrugged. “Besides, she’s got a great accountant. He’ll figure some way to write it off.”
It seemed that Sheridan Adams had everything worked out, tied up nice and neat in a pretty little package—one that left me hung out to dry.
No way was I letting that happen.
“I’ll do it,” I said. “I’ll deliver the ransom and get the bobbleheads back.”