I made a sweep of the grounds and didn’t spot her, so I went into the service wing. I walked by the kitchen—something really smelled great in there—and continued past the staircase. I figured there had to be a temperature-controlled room in the building that was cool, a place where the desserts and cold foods could be prepped.
On my left was a lounge intended for the hired help—not that they got much of a chance to use it—complete with tables and chairs, a TV, a refrigerator, a microwave, and vending machines. Jackets and totes hung from a row of hooks, but nobody was in the room.
A little farther down the hallway a door opened and a woman in a white chef’s jacket came out followed by a gust of cold air. I went inside and spotted Paige and the guy who did the baking at Lacy Cakes working on the Yellow Submarine cake. Around them a couple dozen people were assembling scrumptious-looking desserts.
“Hey, girl,” Paige called as I walked over. She gestured to the cake. “What do you think?”
The blue sugar work ocean that surrounded the submarine was populated by colorful fish, seahorses, dolphins and coral, and an Aztec pyramid, as well as characters from the movie—the Blue Meanies, Lord Mayor, and Old Fred—and, of course, the mates themselves, John, Paul, George, and Ringo.
“It looks fabulous,” I said.
“I’m pumped,” Paige said.
Jack’s words of caution flashed in my head, but I pushed them away.
“Where’s Belinda?” I asked. “I thought she’d be here helping today.”
I didn’t, of course, but what else could I say to get info out of her?
“Oh no,” Paige said, eyeing the cake. “She had to work today, or something. I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention.”
Since Paige didn’t know—or seem to care—where Belinda was, I figured that squashed my one last chance to discover any more evidence today and I’d have to put my murder investigation on hold until tomorrow.
I circled the estate grounds again. The workmen were gone. The sun had dipped low on the horizon, so all the lights were lit. The bands were on their stages, tuning up. The caterers had set up their food and drink stations. Guests would start arriving soon.
I headed toward the service wing to dress for the party and found Tiberia putting the finishing touches on the display of gift bags. She looked great in a red linen pantsuit and sandals.
“Haley, so good to see you,” she said.
We hugged and exchanged air kisses.
“I have something special for you,” Tiberia said.
From one of the boxes, she took a gift bag and presented it to me.
“Courtesy of Sheridan Adams,” Tiberia said.
This was totally cool. When I’d been in Tiberia’s office and seen the gifts she’d assembled, I’d wanted absolutely all of them. I didn’t expect I’d get one of the bags, though.
She gave me a knowing grin. “Sheridan asked me to select something special for your gift bag. I hope you’ll like it.”
“Thanks so much,” I said, cradling the bulging bag in my arms.
“I have to run,” Tiberia said. “Another delivery across town.”
I waved good-bye and hurried up to my room in the service wing.
My first thought, of course, was to open the gift bag and check out everything inside, but something this fabulous must be savored—plus, I had to be on hand when the guests started to arrive.
I took a shower, did my hair and makeup, and put on the fabulous cocktail dress I’d bought for the party. Since I didn’t think I’d need anything in the portfolio, I put some essentials into my Judith Leiber clutch and opened my door.
A black garment bag hung in the doorway.
Okay, that was weird.
I stepped around it and saw that someone had hung it on the door frame.
What the heck was going on?
I looked up and down the hallway but spotted no one, so I went downstairs. Through the double doors I saw the valets hustling to park a long line of cars. Strains of “Please Please Me” drifted in.
Muriel stood at the entrance to the floral room—at least I thought it was Muriel. She was dressed kind of odd in a gray uniform—pleated skirt, a jacket with brass buttons, kneesocks, a crossbody leather bag, and one of those big dome hats the policemen in England wear.
“Who are you?” she asked.
Jeez, did she really not recognize me in my hot cocktail dress? Or had working for Sheridan Adams sent her over the edge?
“I’m Haley,” I said.
She looked me up and down. “You can’t be Haley.”
I started to get a weird feeling.
She pulled at her skirt and said, “I’m Rita. As in ‘Lovely Rita.’ The meter maid in the song.”