Evening Bags and Executions(84)

Jeez, not now. I didn’t have time for a Beatles quiz question. The show would start any minute.

But I didn’t dare not answer. Sheridan’s event was tonight and I didn’t want to hear about a missed question after I arrived.

I hit the green button as I hurried back into the stock room.

“What was the location of the Beatles last official concert?” Rigby asked before I could even say hello.

All the models were lined up in their Holt’s clothing. Bella busied herself tweaking their hairstyles. Jeanette’s voice boomed over the P.A. system.

There was a last concert? An official one, at that?

Oh my God, I didn’t know the answer—and there was no way to look it up. I didn’t have the Beatles book with me, and there was no time to borrow a phone and access the Internet.

I covered my phone with my hand and said, “Do any of you know where the Beatles performed their last official concert?”

All the models—even Bella—gave me a what-planet-are-you- really-from look, then said in unison, “Candlestick Park in San Francisco.”

Jeez, did absolutely everybody know extensive Beatles trivia but me?

No time for that now.

“San Francisco,” I said to Rigby. “Candlestick Park.”

“You’re correct,” she announced, and hung up.

A round of applause boomed from the sales floor.

“Time to go,” Bella said, and led the models out of the stockroom.

I didn’t go with them. I just stood there, thinking.

San Francisco. Darren and Lacy were from a little town near there. So was Belinda. They’d all grown up there together. Lacy and Belinda had been closer than most cousins—best friends, really—until they’d had a fight because Belinda had won concert tickets and taken her boyfriend instead of Lacy.

A connect-the-dots moment hit me.

Could they have been Beatles concert tickets? But not just any Beatles concert—their very last concert ever?

My mind raced recalling things I’d been told, things I’d learned about Lacy, Belinda, and Darren. Accusations of stealing, telling lies, trying to turn the family against each other.

And now, it seemed, I could add murder to the list.





CHAPTER 25


I drove into the Adams estate and crawled along with a slow-moving line of delivery vans and service trucks. The start of the party was still hours away, but work had been in progress here since dawn. I’d spoken with Muriel a number of times and, so far, party prep was on schedule.

Two guards from the security firm I’d hired were stationed at the checkpoint wearing navy blue uniforms and dark glasses; one of them held an iPad. I eased forward and buzzed down my window.

“Haley Randolph,” I said using my I-hired-you-so-I’d-like-preferential-treatment voice.

I didn’t get any.

“ID,” he said.

I passed him my driver’s license. He checked my photo, looked hard at me, consulted his iPad, then handed back my identification.

“Enjoy the party,” he said.

I drove around to the mansion’s service wing. The sun was bright overhead in a cloudless Southern California sky. I could see dozens of workers spread out across the estate’s extensive grounds.

Jewel had done almost all of the planning for the event, but I’d followed up on everything a number of times. I could see why Vanessa wanted her back. The valets she’d hired were all dressed in psychedelic vests and wearing sixties-era Beatles wigs.

Not sure I’d have thought of that.

I was directed to a parking space on the first floor of the expansive garage and nosed my Honda in between a Webber’s Florist van and an Angel’s Catering truck. I spotted an Ever Clean Janitorial Service truck parked a couple of rows back, and delivery vans from Lacy Cakes and Party On were nearby.

More vehicles pulled in. Workers poured out of them wheeling dollies and pushing carts.

I put in my Bluetooth and got out my portfolio—just so I’d look as busy as everyone else—and got the garment bag and tote with tonight’s outfit in it from my trunk.

As I headed toward the entrance of the service wing, I spotted Muriel. She had an iPad in one hand, an old school organizer in the other, and a Bluetooth in her ear.

“How’s it going?” I asked as I walked over.

“No problems, so far,” Muriel said.

Since she’d been involved with planning all sorts of events for Sheridan for a long time now, I figured her idea of no-problems and my idea of no-problems might not be the same. Still, I was pumped, ready to take on whatever situation presented itself.

I’m really good at telling other people what to do.

“Let me show you where you can put your things,” Muriel said.

She led the way into the service wing through double doors. On my right was a gargantuan commercial kitchen. Multiple stainless steel, industrial-grade appliances filled the space, along with worktables and an army of chefs. The room was warm and something smelled really good.