Swag Bags and Swindlers (4 page)

“No,” Shuman said. “It was about your ex.”

A zillion horrible scenarios collided in my brain.

Oh my God.
Oh my God
. Something had happened to Ty. Something horrible. He'd been injured. Maimed. Disfigured. He was in a coma, on life support, clinging to life by a frayed thread. Or—oh my God—had Ty been murdered?

Ty might be dead? Dead? Gone?
Forever?

And all this time we could have been together, enjoying our lives, having fun, and now he might be dead? All because I'd gone along with his stupid idea to break up?

My heart pounded. I felt light headed.

“What
happened
?”

“Take it easy,” Shuman said.

“Ty's okay,” Shuman said. “He's not injured or ill. It's nothing like that.”

I gulped in big breaths. I had to calm down.

I don't really like being calm.

But, I reminded myself, this kind of thing had happened once before, not long ago. I'd gotten a call from the hospital in Palmdale with the news that Ty had been involved in a car accident. I'd panicked and rushed to the emergency room only to find him sitting in the waiting room with a scratch on his cheek.

I drew in another breath and let it out slowly. “Then what's this about?” I asked.

Shuman was quiet for a few seconds, then said, “Ty is a person of interest in a case I heard about.”

A different sort of fear washed over me.

“What—what kind of case?”

“Homicide,” Shuman said. “Ty might have murdered someone.”

C
HAPTER
4

“A
re you ready to party?” Mindy shouted as I walked into the office.

I stopped in front of her desk. This morning I had on a totally awesome gray business suit that I'd paired with an equally awesome red Coach satchel. I could see how my fabulous taste in clothing might distract Mindy but, jeez, she should know I'm an employee and not a vendor or client.

Maybe we needed a security camera with facial recognition software for Mindy.

Or maybe some eyeglasses would do the trick.

“Morning, Mindy,” I said. “It's me. Haley.”

“Oh, Haley, it's you.” Mindy giggled, then pursed her lips thoughtfully. “You know, a nice fine-tipped pen would really make my day fly by. I thought you should know.”

I thought the tip of Mindy's pen was the least of her problems.

I forced a smile and headed for the breakroom.

When I walked in I saw three large pink boxes on the counter filled with a delightful selection of doughnuts, cinnamon rolls, and muffins—a please-keep-hiring-us gift from a vendor, no doubt. The room smelled like baked goodies and freshly brewed coffee. Everyone was crowded around the microwave, chatting and heating up the delicious looking bakery treats. What a great way to begin the day.

“We're almost out of paper plates, Haley,” somebody called.

Everyone here was so nice, so considerate. Was this a great place to work, or what?

“No problem,” I said. “I'll eat mine off a napkin.”

I made my way to the coffeepot, prepared a cup—extra sugar and French vanilla flavoring to go along with the mega sweet theme of the morning—grabbed a doughnut from the box—chocolate, of course—and left.

Really, how can a day go badly when it started with a chocolate doughnut?

I found out when I walked into my office.

A tall stack of event portfolios sat in the middle of my desk. Where the heck had they come from?

I flipped open the one on top and saw that it was a birthday party Suzie had been handling. Then I remembered that Priscilla had said yesterday that she'd bring them to my office.

I stepped back and eyed the stack. Wow, I hadn't realized Suzie was juggling so many events. This was a lot—really a lot. Way more than I'd expected. How had she managed such a heavy workload while pregnant? Why had she even taken on so much? She must have been totally overwhelmed.

Suzie had probably forced herself into early labor just to get out of doing all these events.

I stowed my handbag and sipped my coffee. I'd have to hunker down, go through the portfolios, and get up to speed on every event—and I would, as soon as I attended to my more pressing matters.

As I moved Suzie's portfolios to my credenza, I noticed a number of file folders at the bottom of the stack. Had Priscilla brought me those also?

I had no idea what they were all about, but I didn't have time to check them out now. I had a lot to do today.

I sat down at my desk and got started by checking Facebook, booking a pedi, and reading my horoscope while I ate my doughnut and finished my coffee. I was moving ahead with lunch plans and a possible shopping trip after work tonight with Marcie when my cell phone rang. My preprogramed
DO NOT ANSWER
flashed on the caller ID screen.

Yikes! My mom was calling.

I picked up my phone with two fingers and tossed it into my handbag.

My morning seemed to have taken an unpleasant turn. There was only one thing I could do.

I grabbed my handbag and an event portfolio and left.

 

A run of piano notes followed by voices raised in song greeted me as I walked through Hollywood Haven's front door and into the lobby. The music came from the hallway that led to the residents' wing of the facility. I'd been in that section of the building once, when I'd taken a wrong turn, and knew there was a large dayroom with a grand piano. Since the majority of the residents had been entertainers back in the day, it got a lot of use.

Karen stood behind the front desk and favored me with a big smile. “Good morning, Haley. Welcome! It's a great day, isn't it?”

Not exactly the greeting I expected, given that the assistant director had been murdered here only yesterday. But maybe she was trying to keep it light so as not to upset the elderly residents.

Probably not a bad idea.

I switched into I'm-pretending-to-be-concerned-about-you mode. “How is everybody holding up?” I asked.

“Great!” Karen said. She gestured toward the hallway leading to the residents' wing. “Can't you tell?”

I listened and realized that the residents were singing “Ding Dong! The Witch Is Dead.”

I didn't need a weatherman to see which way the wind was blowing.

“I guess nobody is upset about Derrick's death,” I said.

“Hardly.” Karen rolled her eyes.

Sensing major gossip, I eased closer and said, “What's going on?”

Karen glanced around, then leaned in, confirmation that major gossip was in play.

“To put it mildly,” she said, “Derrick Ellery was not well liked around here. Not at all.”

This surprised me because Derrick had been terrific to work with the entire time I'd been planning the gala with him. Friendly, easygoing, agreeable, always pleasant. I'd never seen him in a bad mood.

“He seemed like such a nice guy,” I said.

“Oh, no,” Karen insisted. “In fact—”

She stopped and pulled back. “I really shouldn't say anything.”

Damn. I hate it when somebody starts a big, juicy story, then quits. It's like being teased with a fabulous handbag in a department store display case only to be told they're out of stock.

Still, I wasn't willing to let this opportunity to hear some dirt pass me by, not without attempting a work-around.

“Have you heard anything from the police?” I asked. “Do they know what happened to Derrick, exactly?”

“Just that he was shot,” Karen said.

I'd figured as much, after seeing the bloodstain on the front of his shirt yesterday.

“Do they have any suspects?” I asked.

“Not that I've heard. Those detectives took our security surveillance tapes,” Karen said. “They took my sign-in log, too.”

She hadn't been diligent about having all visitors sign in—myself being a prime example—so I doubted the detectives would glean much useful info from it; someone bent on murder wouldn't likely identify themselves on the log, anyway. But maybe the surveillance tape would reveal something.

“How about motive?” I asked.

Karen glanced around, then leaned in again and whispered, “As I said, Derrick Ellery wasn't liked around here. By anyone.”

Wow. Karen thought someone here at Hollywood Haven had murdered Derrick? One of the elderly residents? That was hard to imagine.

But what about another staff member?

I was about to ease into this new line of gossip when Karen's phone rang. She reached for it and said to me, “You'll have to talk to Mr. Stewart, Derrick's boss, about the gala.”

Mr. Stewart was the Hollywood Haven director. Derrick had mentioned him, but we'd never met.

I gave her a little wave as she answered the phone, then I headed down the hallway toward the offices. Only one office door in the hallway was closed and that was Derrick's, sealed shut with crime scene tape. Snippets of conversations drifted out of the other offices as I walked past. Business as usual, it seemed.

A little nameplate identified the office at the end of the hallway as that of Mr. Stewart. The door stood open. I peered inside.

It was a roomy office with a large walnut desk fronted by two chairs, a seating area, and the usual cabinets and credenzas. Two huge windows offered a view of the lush grounds and let in lots of sunlight.

An old guy with a gray comb-over and bushy mustache sat behind the desk. He could have been mistaken for one of the residents if it weren't for the dapper three-piece suit he wore. Still, he kind of looked like he'd recently been brought back to life by a jolt of electricity.

“Mr. Stewart?” I called as I stepped inside. “I'm Haley Randolph from L.A. Affairs.”

He waved me off with both hands. “This isn't a good time, miss,” he said, shaking his head. “I'm not interested in buying anything today.”

“I'm your event planner,” I said, and held up the portfolio with the L.A. Affairs logo on the front. “I've been working with Derrick on the gala.”

“Well, Derrick is no longer available,” he said.

Obviously, this guy didn't know I'd found the body. I guess he was a little out of the loop.

“I know,” I said. “I need to find out from you who I'll be working with now.”

“On what?”

“The gala,” I said.

“What gala?”

Okay, maybe he was
way
out of the loop.

“The fiftieth anniversary gala,” I said.

Mr. Stewart huffed. “We'll have to cancel that.”

Cancel?
Cancel?
No way. I couldn't let the gala be canceled. Not with my job performance review almost here. I had to get full-time, permanent employee status
now
. I was turning twenty-five soon. That meant my life was half over. I couldn't wait any longer.

Besides, I was
this close
to quitting my job at Holt's.

“The gala can't be canceled,” I told him.

“I have no time to deal with a gala. I'm swamped here,” Mr. Stewart said, gesturing around him.

Nothing but office equipment was on his desk—absolutely nothing. No lines were lit up on his phone. No one was in the office with him. His computer wasn't even turned on.

“There's simply too much going on,” he insisted.

I was ready to go over the desk after him like an Olympic gymnast, but I forced myself to sit in one of the chairs instead.

“Actually, everything for the gala is already set,” I said.

“It is?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said.

Okay, that was a lie, but only a partial lie. What else could I say?

“And we have to think about the Hollywood Haven supporters. The celebrities, the directors, the producers,” I pointed out. “They've all arranged their schedules to attend the gala. We don't want to offend them by canceling, especially at this late date.”

Mr. Stewart sank into thought. His shoulders slouched, his chin dropped, his face crumpled. He looked like a partially inflated Mylar balloon.

After several minutes he shook his head and said, “But how is it going to look? A gala after a murder on the premises?”

“That won't be an issue,” I told him.

Another lie, of course, this one a total lie. But I had a lot at stake here.

“The murder will be solved and forgotten long before the night of the gala,” I said, dismissing the issue with a flick of my wrist. “The detectives will have it wrapped up in no time.”

His frown lessened a bit. “Do you think so?” he asked.

“From what I hear it's practically an open-and-shut case,” I said.

This wasn't completely untrue. Karen had seemed confident that the murderer was someone who lived or worked right here at Hollywood Haven. That was close to open-and-shut, right?

“Well, it might be acceptable to go ahead with the gala if you think the police can conclude this case quickly,” Mr. Stewart said.

“I'm sure they can,” I told him.

He ruminated another minute, then said, “If that's true, if they really can get this thing over and done with, then we'll go ahead.”

“No problem,” I said.

And this was no lie. Because if the cops couldn't discover who the murderer was, I'd do it myself.

C
HAPTER
5

T
his whole thing about Ty being a person of interest in a murder case had been stuck in the back of my brain like a clearance tag on a house-brand handbag ever since I talked to Shuman last night. He'd refused to go into detail—I hate it when someone does that—and had insisted we speak in person.

I'd had no choice but to agree.

I hate that, too.

Even though I should have gone back to the L.A. Affairs office after leaving Hollywood Haven—it was almost noon and I didn't want to miss my lunch hour—I left my car in the parking garage, crossed Ventura Boulevard, and climbed the stairs to the fountain plaza at the Sherman Oaks Galleria.

The Galleria was an open-air shopping center that boasted lots of restaurants, entertainment, stores, and office space. It also had my all-time favorite place, Starbucks.

I spotted Shuman standing near one of their outdoor tables along restaurant row. We'd never been romantically involved—officially or unofficially—but there was something between us, something beyond friendship.

Seeing Shuman always sent that little jolt of
something
through me. He was several years older than me, a little taller with dark hair, handsome in a guy-next-door kind of way. He had on his usual detective attire, a slightly mismatched sport coat, shirt, and tie.

His cell phone was at his ear and he was pacing back and forth. At first I thought he was in serious-cop mode, then he turned my way and I saw a big goofy grin on his face.

I knew what that meant.

Shuman spotted me, then whipped around and spoke into his phone. He ended the call and turned toward me again.

“Who is she?” I asked.

He tried to swallow his grin, but it got goofier instead. “Brittany,” he said. “We've been seeing each other.”

“Cool,” I said, and I really meant it.

Shuman had been through a great deal of emotional turmoil and I was glad he was seeing someone and his life was getting back to normal.

“Tell me about her,” I said.

“You'll meet her,” Shuman promised.

I was feeling a little possessive of Shuman all of a sudden. Who, exactly, was this Brittany chick? I needed to check her out. No way was I going to stand by and let Shuman be hurt by her.

“I'd better,” I told him.

He pulled out a chair for me at the table. My all-time favorite drink in the entire universe was waiting for me, a mocha Frappuccino. Shuman had gotten a coffee for himself. We sat down.

I took a long sip of my Frappie to fortify my brain cells.

“Ty didn't murder anyone,” I said. “He wouldn't do that. I know him. He absolutely would not kill someone.”

Shuman didn't respond. I'm sure he'd heard those same words from countless friends and family members, many of whom turned out to be wrong about an accused murderer.

“Circumstances get the best of people, at times,” Shuman said. “Under the right amount of pressure, uncontrollable rage or fear, a lot of people would do the unthinkable.”

I couldn't argue with that, though I still couldn't imagine Ty being one of those people.

“What's this all about?” I asked.

“Are you on your lunch hour?” Shuman asked.

“Taking care of company business,” I explained.

I could see my office building from here. That counted, didn't it?

Then I wondered if something else was going on.

What about Shuman? Was this strictly a social call? A heads-up between friends? Or something more.

He seemed to read my thoughts. “It's not my case,” he said.

That made me feel a little better. Still, I knew I had to be careful about what I said. Shuman was, after all, a homicide detective. I didn't want this to be an occasion where our friendship ended and his official duties began.

“What do you know about Ty's involvement with someone living in Palmdale?” Shuman asked.

Palmdale was a city in the Antelope Valley, about an hour north of L.A. in the high desert. It was a great family community, big on aerospace and green industries. I'd gone there to the air show at Edwards Air Force Base with my dad, an engineer, several times growing up.

“Nothing,” I said. “Ty never mentioned knowing anyone who lived there. If he had a friend in that area, I wasn't aware of it.”

“Ty was involved in a traffic accident en route to Palmdale not long ago,” Shuman said. “Did he tell you about it?”

“Someone in the ER phoned me after it happened,” I said. “Ty wanted me to pick him up.”

“Did he tell you why he was headed there?”

“He was thinking of opening a Holt's store in the area,” I said.

“Did you believe him?”

No, not for a minute.

“Ty's always opening new stores,” I said, which was true but didn't answer the question.

Shuman paused. I could tell by his expression that he was mentally debating where to go next with this conversation. It was a cop move, and it made me suspicious of his motives again.

“Did you know Ty rented a car for the drive to Palmdale?” Shuman asked.

I frowned my I'm-trying-to-remember frown, but the details of that day and those that followed were imbedded in my brain.

“I think it was mentioned later,” I said. “Something to do with the insurance claim.”

“He owns a Porsche. Why did he drive a rental?” Shuman asked.

I'd wondered the same thing.

“He was scouting store locations. Maybe he didn't want to attract attention,” I said.

Shuman didn't look convinced.

I couldn't blame him. I hadn't been either.

“Did Ty seem odd after the accident?” Shuman asked. “You know, different somehow?”

Everything about Ty had been different after that. But no way was I getting into all of it with Shuman.

“He took a few days off work, which was unusual for him,” I said.

This conversation was getting uncomfortable for me. I decided I needed to move it in another direction.

“So what's this all about?” I asked. “Who was murdered, and why is Ty supposedly involved?”

Shuman hesitated. As with most every detective, he didn't like giving up information. But we'd helped each other out with cases in the past—plus, no way would he think I'd have shared this info about Ty without getting something in return—so I knew he wouldn't hold out on me.

I sipped my Frappie and waited.

“Kelvin Davis. Remember him?” Shuman finally said. “White-collar criminal.”

“That hotshot financial guy here in L.A. who bilked his investors out of millions of dollars,” I said. “It was all over the news for ages. I remember my parents talking about him.”

Actually, my folks had railed on and on about Kelvin Davis for weeks. His investment firm had promised—and delivered, for a while, anyway—huge profits in what turned out to be a multimillion-dollar pyramid scheme. When the whole thing collapsed, hundreds of people ended up losing tons of money, some of them their life savings. Fortunately, my parents hadn't invested with Kelvin Davis, but a number of their friends had.

“That was, what, seven or eight years ago?” I asked.

“Davis was arrested, then skipped out on his bail. Left the country, supposedly. Nobody could find him,” Shuman said. “Until a couple of days ago, that is. He turned up dead in an abandoned house in Palmdale. Shot multiple times. His body had been there for weeks before it was discovered.”

“There must be a zillion people who lost money because of him and wanted him dead,” I said. “What's Ty got to do with this?”

“Ty's name and phone number were found on a slip of paper at the crime scene,” Shuman said.

“So? That doesn't mean—”

“It was clutched in Davis's hand.”

“Okay, but—”

“The note had Ty's fingerprints on it.”

Oh, crap.

 

My office phone rang. I saw Mindy's name on the ID screen and braced myself.

“Yes, Mindy?” I said when I picked up.

“Haley? Hello? Hello?”

“It's Haley,” I said.

“Haley? Is that you?” Mindy asked.

“What is it?” I asked.

“What's what?”

“Do you need something?” I asked, and made sure to say it slowly.

“How did you know? Oh, Haley, you're so smart,” Mindy said, and chuckled.

“You called me,” I said.

“Oh! Oh, yes, of course,” she said. “Let me look. I know I have that here somewhere. One of your clients just arrived. Her name is . . . huh, I know I wrote that down. Oh, yes, here it is. Her name is Ralonda. No. It's Lamonda. Oh, that's not right. It's—”

There's only so much I can take.

“Which room is she in?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. She's in interview room four—no, three. I put her in three. Yes, it's three. Only . . . no, I think it's four. Or maybe it's—”

I hung up.

I wasn't working on an event for anyone named anything remotely similar to Ralonda or Lamonda, so I went to the stack of Suzie's event portfolios and found one under the name Laronda Bain. I grabbed it and headed down the hallway.

As I passed the ladies' restroom Heidi, one of the senior planners, walked out.

“A light has burned out in there, Haley,” she said.

Like I cared?

Honestly, I wasn't in the best of moods after my meeting with Shuman earlier today.

“Thanks,” I managed, and turned down the hallway where the interview rooms were located.

All of L.A. Affairs' interview rooms were set up with a desk and two visitor chairs; conference rooms were available for large groups. The furnishings were upscale, chic, and sophisticated—as were our clients.

Only one of the interview rooms was occupied—room number two.

“Ms. Bain?” I said, as I walked in and introduced myself.

“Hello,” she responded.

Laronda Bain was somewhere in her thirties, I figured. She had blond hair—with a Beverly Hills blowout, obviously—had on a YSL dress, Louboutin pumps, and carried a Birkin satchel. She weighed about one hundred pounds—fifteen of which seemed to be in her Botox-filled face.

Figure skaters could hold their US Nationals on her forehead.

That whole thing with Ty and Kelvin Davis's murder in Palmdale weighed heavily on my mind. But since I desperately needed to ace my upcoming job performance review, I forced it aside and put on my best look-at-me-I'm-super-competent expression, which I executed perfectly without the benefit of Botox.

“I'm handling your event,” I said, and sat down behind the desk. “Suzie took maternity leave a little sooner than anticipated.”

“I realize that,” Laronda told me

She might have been anywhere from upset to angry to horrified to panicked. Since her face wouldn't move, I couldn't be sure.

“When I phoned the office and learned the news, I rushed over,” Laronda said. “I absolutely must have your assurance that a change in planners isn't going to adversely affect my son's birthday party. Are you aware of all the details of the event?”

“Of course,” I told her.

Okay, really, I hadn't looked through her portfolio yet. But, jeez, it was a kid's birthday party. How complicated could it be?

Just to show her that I was on top of everything, I opened the portfolio and did a quick scan of the plans for the party.

“You're doing a Harry Potter theme,” I said.

I wasn't sure if Laronda smiled, but she definitely nodded.

I flipped through the file and studied several random pages to demonstrate my attentiveness to her event while hoping my eyes wouldn't glaze over. Eight thousand bucks to entertain kids in the backyard of a mansion in Calabasas for an afternoon. Just your typical party for an eight-year-old.

“I've decided to add a feature,” Laronda said. “Hogwarts Academy. Life size, so the children can play in it.”

She considered this a
feature
? Everything was all set and she springs this on me
now
?

How the heck was I going to pull this off—in time for the party?

I gave her my nothing-rattles-us-here-at-L.A.-Affairs smile—I'm pretty sure there's a box for that on the employee job performance review—and said, “No problem.”

“Very good,” she said, and left.

I went back to my office and phoned Lyle, the guy who did construction projects for our events. He said he'd have to see what he could work out. It didn't sound promising.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur of attempting to review Suzie's events. My mom called twice—I didn't answer either time—then one of the other assistant planners sent me a really annoying e-mail about her printer paper, and Marcie texted to say she hadn't been able to locate Sassy satchels for us.

Five o'clock finally rolled around. I got my handbag and left. Thankfully, I wasn't scheduled for a shift at Holt's tonight.

As if I hadn't dealt with enough problems already today, I absolutely could not stop thinking about Ty.

No way would he have killed someone—despite what Shuman had said about snapping under duress. It wasn't something Ty would do.

Still, he'd lied to me about some of the things that had happened the day of, and following, his car accident.

That wasn't like him either.

So was it possible—remotely possible—that Ty had murdered Kelvin Davis at that abandoned house in Palmdale?