“The Beatles collectibles are all together in a storage room,” Muriel said.
We passed another huge room, this one with a dozen florists turning a mountain of flowers and greenery into gorgeous floral arrangements.
“There are two security guards posted outside the door,” she went on. “Nobody but Sheridan or me will be let in until it’s time to move them to the auction site on the grounds.”
It didn’t seem likely to me that, with all the security in place, anyone would attempt to steal the bobbleheads—or any other pieces of the memorabilia—before or during the party, but I could see where Muriel wouldn’t want to take a chance.
We climbed the stairs and continued down a hallway. It was obvious this was where the servants were housed. The carpet wasn’t quite as thick as in the main house, and the wall art wasn’t exactly “art,” yet it was still nicer than my apartment.
Muriel stopped in front of a door halfway down the hall, checked her iPad, and pulled a key from her pocket.
“This room is yours for the duration. You can change in here for the party tonight,” she said, passing me the key. “Oh, and Sheridan wants to see you right away.”
Muriel tapped her Bluetooth to answer a call, and I went inside. The room contained simple furnishings—bed, nightstand, chest—and had an adjoining bathroom. I hung my cocktail dress in the closet.
The Enchantress evening bag popped into my head. It would have looked perfect with my dress, but the Judith Leiber I’d brought with me was more than adequate.
Muriel took two more calls as we left the service wing. I pulled out my cell phone and texted Marcie so I’d look important.
The grounds of the estate were in total chaos, just as the Holt’s stock room had been—only here, most everyone was dressed better.
Construction workers and sound and lighting guys were everywhere. The caterer and florists had already started setting up. Hammers, saws, power tools, shouts, and a zillion cell phone conversations added to the cacophony. Sliced-up packing boxes and sheets of plastic were strewn all around.
I pulled the event diagram from my portfolio and saw that the wide pathway—“The Long and Winding Road”—that would take guests from one event area to another was already in place. Workers were ripping the protective covering off the white wicker furniture that, along with hundreds of flowers and plants all blooming in white, would make up the Lady Madonna serenity garden.
The giant aquarium for the Octopus’s Garden was being filled. The fish pond had been assembled nearby, and landscapers were surrounding it with lush ferns, shrubs, bright flowering plants, and palm trees.
Tonight, after dark, everything would be lit with accent, spot, and twinkle lights, and the two Beatles tribute bands—one that would cover songs from the sixties, the other the seventies—would play almost nonstop.
Muriel walked over, nodding and mumbling, then hit the button on her Bluetooth and said, “Mrs. Adams is ready for you now.”
I followed Muriel across the grounds, not really knowing what to expect. I figured Sheridan would either be really grateful that I’d gotten back the bobbleheads and recommend me for a promotion at L.A. Affairs or be really grateful but angry that I’d gotten them stolen in the first place and recommend that I be fired.
From what I’d seen of Sheridan so far, I figured it could go either way.
We found her near one of the swimming pools where tables and chairs were being set up.
Sheridan had on a neon pink and red print caftan that, I swear, looked as if it had come from Holt’s and a matching turban that I figured the store was destined to carry sooner or later.
“Oh, yes, there you are—” She pointed at Muriel.
“Haley,” she said.
“Haley,” Sheridan repeated. “So you own a detective agency.”
Where the heck had she gotten that idea?
Muriel gave me a please-let-it-go look, so I figured Sheridan had misunderstood what Muriel had told her about me—or maybe Muriel had embellished my credentials a bit to stay out of trouble with her boss.
Sheridan leaned in a little. “And you’re working undercover at L.A. Affairs, aren’t you.”
Sheridan must have read too many of her husband’s movie scripts, but I decided it was better to just let this go also.
“I’m glad everything turned out well,” I said.
I wondered if Sheridan had given any thought to who might have stolen the Beatles bobbleheads. Did she suspect an inside job?
I didn’t think so. Sheridan seemed to live in her own private zombieland. She probably thought everyone she employed loved her and wouldn’t possibly steal from her.
“I won’t forget what you’ve done,” Sheridan said.