Evening Bags and Executions(92)

Jeez, I really hope those security guards can see us on their video screens.

“But she wouldn’t give them back,” I said.

I knew that Lacy’s reputation meant everything to her. No way would she ask Sheridan to return the bobbleheads after she’d donated them—especially after she’d made up that story about them being connected to British royalty.

“She laughed in my face!” Belinda’s anger bordered on out of control now—not that I blamed her, of course. “I went to see her over and over and tried to reason with her, but she wouldn’t give them back.”

“So the next time you went to see Lacy, you took that gun with you,” I said.

“It belonged to my dad. I took it with me when I left home after high school—when I was forced to leave because of all the things Lacy had said about me. I moved here to L.A. to get away from everything, and here came Lacy with her fancy cakes—just to throw it in my face that she was better than me,” Belinda said.

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“So, yes, I went to see Lacy and I took this gun with me.” Belinda trembled with rage, then drew in a couple of big breaths and said, “I just wasn’t going to get screwed over by Lacy again.”

“You shot her,” I said.

She nodded. “And I enjoyed it.”

We were both quiet for a minute while Belinda’s words sunk in. The color drained from her face. I decided I should try to keep her talking.

“It must have really hurt you to learn that Lacy hadn’t left you anything in her will and that Darren wouldn’t let you run the bakery,” I said. “That’s when you decided to steal the bobbleheads and hold them for ransom, wasn’t it? That way, you’d have a big chunk of money to retire on, or invest in Lacy Cakes with Paige.”

Belinda’s anxiety level revved up, as if the magnitude of what she’d done had suddenly occurred to her. Her eyes darted back and forth. The gun seemed slippery in her hand.

“You should leave,” I said, gesturing to the parking garage.

That got her attention.

“Just get in the janitorial van and go,” I said, in my what-could-be-simpler voice.

Belinda looked at the parking garage, then back at me.

I figured if I could get her to go to the van—which would benefit me, of course—I could alert security and the cops in time to catch her before she got too far.

It was the only plan I could come up with on short notice, and Belinda looked as if she liked it.

“Good idea,” she said, then waved the pistol at me. “You’re coming with me.”

Oh, crap.

What could I do but roll with it?

I headed for the parking garage, then swung around and slapped Belinda’s arm. The gun flew from her hand, skidded off the porch, and disappeared. She pushed me hard. I fell backward and landed on my butt. Belinda took off running.

I scrambled to my feet and followed her into the parking garage. Wow, for an old gal she could really move. I wove between the cars, vans, and trucks, then spotted two security guards running toward Belinda. Another one came from the opposite direction. They grabbed her just as she got to the Ever Clean van. When I reached them, she was screaming and crying, and the guards had her up against the van cuffing her hands behind her.

Tires squealed and a black-and-white LAPD patrol car pulled up. Behind it was a white Crown Victoria. The doors opened. Detective Madison got out along with—oh my God—Detective Shuman.





I called Muriel and let her break the news to Sheridan and Talbot, gave my statement to Detective Madison, and went to the employee breakroom—after I stopped off for a half-dozen scrumptious desserts, of course. I got stink-eye from the pastry chefs, but nobody was willing to cross Yoko Ono, it seemed.

I had the lounge to myself, which was good, so I immediately ditched the wig and hat—better to look poorly dressed than like the person who’d caused the breakup of the Beatles—and started in on the gooiest treat I’d pilfered. Halfway through, the door opened and Detective Shuman walked in.

I’d been surprised to see him roll up with Detective Madison. I hadn’t heard from him and didn’t know he was back on the job.

He looked as much like his old self as possible, under the circumstances. He’d cut his hair, shaved his beard, and wore his traditional mismatched shirt, tie, and sport coat.

But his eyes seemed empty. He looked thin, withered, as if the weight he carried over Amanda’s murder had caused him to shrink.

“Good job,” he said, nodding toward the door.

I was glad to have a chance to talk to him alone. He’d been busy with everything in the parking garage and we’d only nodded at each other.