Evening Bags and Executions(73)

I clutched my cell phone in my hand—I didn’t dare put it down since I still hadn’t heard from Muriel about the ransom—and stared out of my office window at the Galleria across the street. I’d spoken with Muriel several times today, but she had nothing to report. It was midafternoon now, and both of us had frayed nerves.

I might find a gun from somewhere and shoot that kidnapper at the ransom exchange just for making me worry so much.

My cell phone rang. I shot out of my chair and answered it.

“This situation is intolerable.”

Oh my God. It was Mom—which just shows how totally frazzled I was over this ransom thing if I hadn’t checked my caller ID screen first.

I sank into my chair again.

“I don’t know how much longer I should be expected to go on under these circumstances,” Mom said.

Note—I hadn’t even said “hello.”

“The temporary housekeepers the agency is sending simply are not working out,” Mom said. “When am I going to get someone permanent?”

I couldn’t tell her over the phone that she’d been blacklisted by all the employment agencies in Los Angeles and that there was little chance she’d ever have a permanent, full-time housekeeper again. I’d have to tell her in person—something I wasn’t usually crazy about doing, but right now it was a good excuse to get out of the office.

“I’m coming by to see you,” I said.

“Do you have good news?” she asked.

“I have news,” I told her—which wasn’t exactly a lie.

We hung up, I got my things, and I left.

I kept my Bluetooth in my ear as I drove east on the 101 toward Mom’s house, ready to dive across five lanes of traffic and cut off every vehicle on the freeway if Muriel called. I still didn’t know what, exactly, I’d tell Mom about the whole housekeeper situation. I hoped something would come to me when I got there.

My cell phone rang. Immediately I switched to high-alert mode, then realized it was Amber.

“Sorry I don’t have better news for you,” she said.

I hate it when a conversation starts off that way.

“I asked around and found out that Sarah Covington is definitely engaged,” Amber said.

Oh, great. Just what I needed to hear.

I gathered my courage and asked, “To Ty?”

Maybe I should have waited until I pulled off the freeway to ask that question in case she said “yes.”

“I couldn’t find out,” Amber said. “Everybody is being really quiet about it.”

Okay, that was weird.

“Maybe it’s Ty,” I said, and had a little difficulty actually speaking the words aloud. “Maybe they’re keeping it quiet because they work together.”

“I don’t think so,” Amber said. “But he’s still acting really odd, so I can’t be sure what’s up with him.”

A scary thought blossomed in my head.

“He’s not sick, is he?” I asked.

Personal assistants knew the good, the bad, and the ugly about their bosses—medical conditions, prescriptions, vices, spouse/lover birthday, peculiar eccentricities—and Amber usually handled all those things for Ty. But she’d told me that at times he’d been a bit secretive.

“Sick in the head,” Amber said. “I don’t know what’s up with him. Now he’s got me buying Holt’s gift cards. Dozens of them. He’s spent a fortune on them.”

“Do you think he’s donating them to charity?” I asked.

“Maybe. But donations are usually handled through the corporation,” Amber said. “He’s working almost around the clock on acquiring another chain of department stores, so maybe he’s not thinking clearly.”

I doubted that. Ty thought in his sleep.

“If I hear anything else I’ll let you know,” Amber said.

“Thanks,” I said, and we hung up.

I didn’t know what to make of Ty’s behavior. Just as well I had Mom to focus on for a while.

I drove to her house. Today’s temporary housekeeper, a young woman in a blue uniform, met me at the door. I hadn’t figured out exactly what I’d say to Mom about the whole you’ve-been-blacklisted situation, so I decided to take a run at getting this housekeeper to stay on permanently.

It was worth a try.

“Hi,” I said in my I’m-super-nice voice as I gestured through the house. “I’m Haley, her daughter.”

“Sorry to hear that,” she mumbled.

By the time we’d walked together to the kitchen, she’d looked at her watch three times, no doubt counting down the minutes until she could leave.

I guess my I’m-super-nice voice needs some work.