Swag Bags and Swindlers (14 page)

I got a weird feeling.

“I just received the info,” Marcie said when I answered.

My weird feeling got weirder.

“Are you sure you want to know?” she asked.

Oh, crap.

C
HAPTER
18

“H
ang on,” I said, and collapsed into my desk chair. My mind raced. What if Marcie told me the property report revealed that the house Brianna King and her daughter lived in actually belonged to Ty? What if Ty and Brianna had been involved all these years? What if that little girl was his?

What if he'd really kept that secret from me during the time we were dating?

Heaviness settled around my heart, making it a little hard to breathe. Could there be a bigger betrayal?

How could Ty do something like that to me?

Then another thought flew into my head. Really, Ty hadn't done anything—that I knew of with certainty, anyway. This whole thing existed only in my head. I'd made it all up after seeing Brianna's house, neighborhood, and that little girl.

And what did that say about me?

I didn't feel so great about myself. I'd jumped to conclusions. I'd thought the worst of Ty. Now I could find out the truth.

I pressed my cell phone to my ear and said, “Tell me everything.”

“I know you didn't ask about this, but I checked on a couple of other things,” Marcie said. “Brianna King has checking and savings accounts with about nine grand in them. She's got a few credit cards, all with low balances.”

Marcie could get into trouble for accessing this sort of information without the person's permission, but she knew how to game the system so it was very unlikely that anyone would find out that she'd done it. Still, it was a risk and she'd take it for me. Is that a terrific bestie move, or what?

“Sounds as if she has a pretty conservative lifestyle,” I said.

“It does,” Marcie agreed. She paused, and I heard her draw a breath. “Okay, here's the deal on the property. The house is in Brianna's name. Her name alone. Ty's name appears nowhere on the deed.”

A whoop of joy welled inside me, but something about Marcie's tone made me hold back.

“But that's good, isn't it?” I asked. “It means Ty's not involved, right?”

“As I said, he's not on the title to the property,” Marcie said. “But get this—there's no mortgage.”

“She paid off her house? Already?” I asked.

“No. There was never a mortgage,” Marcie said. “It was purchased outright with cash.”

My icky, sickly feeling came back with a vengeance.

“Who put up the money?” I asked.

“I don't know. That information isn't available. There's no way I can find out,” Marcie said. She was quiet for a few seconds, then said the same thing I'd been thinking. “Nothing I've found in her background indicates she ever had that kind of money, which means—”

“—that somebody who has a lot of money bought the house for her,” I said. “Somebody like Ty.”

Neither of us said anything for a while, but a zillion thoughts flew through my mind—and all of them were hurtful, troubling, and disheartening.

“Sorry. I guess this info didn't help anything,” Marcie said. “You still don't know what was going on between her and Ty.”

“I needed to hear it,” I said. “Thanks, Marcie.”

I ended the call and just sat there at my desk.

Only a few minutes ago I'd chided myself for thinking the worst about Ty. I didn't want to keep doing that. There could very well be a logical, innocent reason for everything I'd learned that had nothing at all to do with Ty.

But at the moment, I couldn't imagine what it might be—nor could I think of a way to find out.

There seemed to be nothing I could do at the moment but perform actual work.

I hate it when that happens.

The portfolio for Laronda Bain's party sat atop a stack of folders on my desk, so I started there. I phoned Lyle, the guy who owned the construction company L.A. Affairs worked with, and explained about the latest addition to the Harry Potter-themed birthday. Luckily, he was okay with it, said it wouldn't be a problem to build, and promised to send an estimate by the end of the day.

He'd done lots of work for our overindulged clients, so we both knew that Laronda would have her railway platform regardless of the price.

I spent the next few hours calling vendors, venues, and clients, ordering what I needed for upcoming events that I'd been handling, plus those I'd inherited from Suzie. My most pressing event was the Hollywood Haven fiftieth anniversary gala. Everything was coming together on schedule, with the exception of the swag bags.

The gals at the retirement home had promised to come up with a list of suggested items with which to fill the bags, but I hadn't seen anything from them yet. I couldn't wait much longer, so I decided I'd better hurry them along. I grabbed my handbag—a gray and white Burberry that I'd paired with my gray pencil skirt and blazer—and the Hollywood Haven portfolio, and headed for the door.

Just as I stepped into the hallway I spotted Priscilla barreling toward me, her gaze boring into me like twin mascara-fringed laser beams.

Good grief, what now?

I walked back into my office and she followed me.

“What's going on with all these rumors that are circulating?” Priscilla asked in a low, urgent voice. “What's happened? What's going on?”

On occasions such as this I've found it better to say nothing for as long as possible. Believe me, it's better that way.

Priscilla rushed ahead and said, “I've had phone calls, texts, and e-mails from personal assistants, management teams, and production offices.”

Oh, crap. This couldn't be good.

“I'm fielding their questions as best I can,” Priscilla said. “But is it true? Is Hollywood Haven canceling their gala?”

Oh my God. What was going on? How had that rumor gotten started?

“This is a public relations disaster,” Priscilla declared. “A-list stars are expected. Their schedules have been arranged so they can attend this event. Our wealthiest clients will be in attendance. Our every move is being scrutinized by the very people who keep us in business. And now there's talk that the gala will be canceled? Everyone's plans will be unwound? L.A. Affairs will be the talk of Hollywood—and not in a good way? What is going on, Haley?”

“That's exactly what I intend to find out,” I told her, using my I've-got-this voice. I held up the Hollywood Haven portfolio. “I'm on my way over there right now and I intend to get to the bottom of this.”

Priscilla looked slightly embarrassed that she'd barged in and delivered this information with I-could-have-a-stroke-at-any-second urgency, but she also looked relieved.

“You'll keep me informed?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said.

I left before she could ask anything else.

 

I didn't know where the rumors had come from that the anniversary gala would be canceled, but I had a pretty good idea. Mr. Stewart had mentioned it and so had Rosalind. They were both worried about how it would look, in light of Derrick Ellery's murder.

I wasn't going to let the event be canceled, of course, so I figured that the best way to make sure the gala went ahead was to solve Derrick's murder—now. Really, I should have been putting more effort into it all along. I'd gotten distracted with other things when I should have stayed focused on what was most important—solving the murder, executing a flawless event, acing my job performance review, and quitting my job at Holt's.

The thought raged in my head as I drove out of the parking garage and turned onto Ventura Boulevard. Likely suspects popped into my thoughts.

Mr. Stewart materialized immediately.

At first glance it seemed that he had no reason to murder Derrick, since Derrick took care of most everything at the home and made Mr. Stewart's job easier. But, as it turned out, that wasn't really true.

Mr. Stewart had hired Derrick as the assistant director even though Vida hadn't completed his background investigation. Then, it was learned that Derrick had lied on his résumé and wasn't qualified for the position. And not only that, but he caused problems with the residents that had generated numerous complaints.

None of this made Mr. Stewart look good in the eyes of the powers that be at Hollywood Haven. In fact, it could have caused him real trouble. Was he in danger of losing his job? Had he killed Derrick to cover up his mistake in hiring him?

I wondered, too, if the complaints from the residents had turned into something bigger. Had lawyers gotten involved? Legal action could devastate the retirement home's reputation, to say nothing of draining their profits.

Karen had told me last week that she'd seen Mr. Stewart coming out of Derrick's office only minutes before I'd gone in and discovered his body. That put him in the right place at the right time, with a solid motive.

Karen had also told me that she would talk to the homicide detectives today and make them aware of what she'd seen. I intended to ask her about it when I got there.

Other than Karen's eyewitness account, no proof and no evidence existed that Mr. Stewart had done the deed. But maybe I could find some.

Jack Bishop popped into my mind—certainly the most pleasant thought I'd had all day. He did consulting work—which was code for digging up dirt—for a number of companies in Los Angeles, including the Pike Warner law firm. I knew there was a database that contained info on every lawsuit that was filed, and that Jack could gain access to it.

I activated my Bluetooth and called him. His voicemail picked up. He was probably busy doing something way cooler than what I was doing at the moment.

Usually, I asked him to call me—just so I could adequately explain things, not because I liked the sound of his voice, of course—but I was short on time so I left a message requesting that he check to see if there were any lawsuits filed that involved Hollywood Haven and Mr. Stewart. Hopefully, he'd get back to me quickly.

The suspects in Derrick's death that Detective Shuman had told me about were a lot harder to pin down. Shuman had reported that Derrick had a number of girlfriends. There wasn't much I could do to follow up on them without specific info.

But Shuman had made a valid point when he'd wondered how Derrick had afforded to date so many different women. I hadn't thought Hollywood Haven paid that well, and neither had Shuman.

At the next traffic light I stopped and dashed off a quick text message to Marcie asking if she could find any bank accounts for Derrick Ellery. I didn't have much of his personal info to give her, but she knew her way around the system and, hopefully, she could come up with something.

The light turned green and I drove forward with the line of traffic.

From the talk I'd heard at Hollywood Haven I'd learned that both Vida and Karen were on Derrick's hit list, both in danger of being fired by him. Had one of them taken the ultimate I'm-keeping-this-job step and done away with Derrick before he could give them the boot?

Neither Vida nor Karen seemed the type, but when it came to losing your job, your income, your benefits, and possibly the roof over your head, people could get desperate and sometimes felt justified in taking drastic steps. I wasn't going to rule out either of them, especially Vida, who had been seen arguing with Derrick.

And what about Sylvia? Karen had told me that she was a chronic complainer and that there was bad blood between her and Derrick. They'd even gotten into a screaming match in Derrick's office, which seemed like something more than a routine gripe involving conditions at the facility. But what? I'd ask Karen today if she'd overheard anything specific.

By the time I turned into the Hollywood Haven parking lot my mental list of suspects was exhausted and I hadn't come up with anything new or compelling, just a lot of questions. I needed more information and I could think of only one other place to get it, at the moment.

As I whipped into a parking space I scrolled through the contact list on my cell phone and called Detective Shuman. He didn't answer, but I wasn't surprised. His duties as a homicide detective kept him hopping most of the time. I left a message asking if he'd heard anything more about the murder investigation, and ended the call.

I sat there for a few minutes, trying to think of someone else who might have some info I could use, but I didn't come up with anybody, so I gathered my things and headed for the entrance. The day was gorgeous, as always, and a number of the residents were puttering along on the walking paths through the gardens while others sat on benches in the shade.

Just as I reached the front door someone called my name. I turned and spotted Emily hurrying toward me. Alden the Great stood by one of the fountains chatting with several other men.

“Hi, Emily,” I said when she reached me.

I expected we'd have our usual short, pleasant conversation, but the troubled look on Emily's face startled me.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

Emily glanced around, then said, “Can I talk to you about something? It's important.”

Oh my God. Now I was worried.

“Of course,” I said.

“I need your help.” Emily glanced around again, then leaned in and whispered, “It's about a . . . well, I guess you could call it a crime.”

C
HAPTER
19

I
mmediately I had a vision of—well, nothing. The only serious crime I knew about at Hollywood Haven was the murder of Derrick Ellery, and I couldn't imagine how Emily might be involved. But if she was, somehow, or if she had vital information, it sure as heck would make my life easier.

“Let's go over here,” I said, and led the way to one of the wooden benches near the entrance.

Emily sat down next to me, then glanced around and leaned in a little. She was definitely nervous and keyed up. I'd never seen her like this before.

Oh my God, was she about to tell me who'd murdered Derrick? Could I be that lucky?

“Please,” Emily said, “promise me you won't tell anybody.”

“Of course not,” I said, as I immediately made a mental list of everybody I'd tell and in what order.

It's expected, really.

Emily drew a big breath and said, “It's my dad.”

I glanced at her sweet elderly father standing slightly unsteadily on his feet as he talked with several men by the fountain. He seemed perfectly harmless, but his thoughts were clouded by dementia. Had he done something without really understanding his own actions? Had he murdered Derrick?

“I was in his room not long ago, straightening out his closet,” Emily said. “Dad's a real pack rat and not particularly neat—Mom used to say he could make anything disappear but a mess—so I wanted to be sure he could find his clothing and get to everything easily. And . . . well, I found some things.”

A vision of the handgun that had killed Derrick bloomed in my head.

“What kinds of things?” I asked.

“A scarf, women's shoes, a book, some really nice earrings, a hairbrush—all sorts of things,” she said.

Oh. Well, so much for solving this murder on the spot.

“None of it belongs to Dad, of course,” Emily said. “I'm afraid he took those things from the other residents.”

I was a little disappointed that this conversation wasn't about Derrick's death, but it seemed a crime had been solved nonetheless.

“I'd heard some complaints from the residents about things that had been stolen,” I said.

“I'm sure Dad didn't really mean to steal them,” Emily said. “He's a magician. He thinks he's still doing his magic act. He gets confused.”

“I can see that happening,” I told her.

“I'm sure he never used any of the items,” Emily said. “He just put them in his closet and forgot about them.”

“I know all the residents will be relieved to have their belongings returned to them,” I said.

“No.” Emily shook her head. “No one can find out. If the management staff learns what he's done, they will kick him out of Hollywood Haven immediately. No questions asked.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But maybe not. This kind of thing must have happened before. I'm sure they'd understand.”

“I can't take the chance,” Emily said. “Dad loves it here. He gets great care. I'm afraid if I move him to a different facility he'll become more confused in strange surroundings.”

Yikes! No way did I want that to happen.

“Plus, Dad's care is almost completely paid for here because of all his years in the entertainment field,” Emily said. “I can't afford to pay for a place for him. I just don't have that kind of money. I don't know what I'd do if Hollywood Haven forced him to move out. So, please, you can't tell anyone about this. I need your help.”

Emily's love and concern for her father were obvious. I figured he must have been a really cool dad if they were this close. How nice for them.

“What can I do?” I asked.

“Could you quietly return everything to its proper owner, you know, without making a big deal out of it?” she asked. “I can't trust anyone here to do it and not say anything, and it would look suspicious if I suddenly had all the items and returned them.”

“Sure,” I said. “I'll take care of it.”

“Great. Thank you so much, Haley,” Emily said. “I put everything in a box and stashed it in my car. Can you take it now?”

We walked to Emily's car in the parking lot. She popped the trunk and handed me a brown cardboard box. I peeked inside and saw a jumble of items.

“This is wonderful of you,” Emily said. “Thanks again.”

She hurried back across the parking lot as her dad drifted away from the group of men at the fountain. I carried the box to my car and placed it on the passenger seat.

I figured that returning the items on the sly would be easy. With the gala just days away, I'd be here often and nobody paid much attention to where I went in the facility.

I decided to get started right away. I dug through the items and found the ruby and diamond earrings that I was sure belonged to Shana. I locked my car and went inside Hollywood Haven.

The lobby was busier than usual. Two groups of middle-aged couples were huddled together, no doubt discussing the suitability of the facility for one of their aging loved ones and waiting to take the tour. Sylvia sat on a sofa, with Ida in her wheelchair parked next to her. I spotted Rosalind coming out of her office with a bundle of papers in her hand, headed my way. Karen, of course, wasn't at the receptionist's desk. I figured she'd sneaked out to have a smoke.

I needed to finalize a few things with Rosalind and thought I was lucky to run into her, but she spared me only a glance as she walked past and joined the two groups of visitors. Oh well, I could catch up with her later, I decided.

My biggest concern at the moment was the swag bags. I needed to find the gals who'd promised to help with them. L.A. Affairs had a vendor who routinely provided swag for every type and caliber of event, so I knew I could get the bags prepped and delivered to the gala on a few hours' notice. The gals were a hoot and I wanted to see what they'd come up with. Hopefully the list wouldn't include jean jackets, banana clips, hair crimpers, or Hammer pants.

I headed down the hallway toward the residents' wing and heard piano music coming from the dayroom. Several voices were raised in song, something I didn't recognize. Not that I wanted to sing along but, jeez, it would be nice to hear a tune and some lyrics that were familiar.

At the last moment I changed directions. I really needed to talk to the gals about the swag bags, but that could wait. The rumor Priscilla had told me about this morning could sink the entire event. I had to run it to ground.

I suspected that Mr. Stewart was behind the not so subtle innuendos that the gala would be canceled, so I walked down the hallway to his office. His door was closed. I knocked. When I didn't get a response I knocked again. Another minute dragged by. I pressed my ear close to the door, listening for voices. Nothing.

There was the possibility that Mr. Stewart had left his office, so I knocked once more—a little harder this time—then turned to leave. I'd taken only two steps when the office door opened.

“Yes? Yes? What is it?” Mr. Stewart called.

He looked out of sorts and slightly rumpled standing in the doorway. His hair stuck up in the back and he blinked his eyes as if trying to get me into focus.

Oh my God. Had he been napping?

Mr. Stewart leaned his head back slightly to peer at me through the lower portion of his eyeglass lenses. His expression soured.

“You're that girl from the event-planning company,” he said, then waved me away with both hands. “I don't have time for this. I'm very busy. I'm in the middle of something important.”

“I'm sure you are,” I told him, in my we're-on-the-same-side voice. “That's why I'm here.”

“What?” he asked, completely thrown by my answer.

“I know about the rumors,” I told him.

“You . . . you do?”

He looked a little nervous now, as if he hadn't expected anyone would approach him about the matter. I hadn't told him exactly what the rumors were about, but he looked as if he already knew—which made me pretty darn sure that I was right in suspecting that he was the one who started them.

“These rumors are detrimental to the future and the reputation of Hollywood Haven,” I said.

He waved me away again. “Rumors make the rounds all the time. It's nothing.”

“Word is spreading that the gala will be canceled,” I said.

“You don't need to concern yourself with this,” Mr. Stewart told me.

“It's my job to handle absolutely everything that involves your event,” I said. “And I want to assure you that this rumor is absolutely not true. The gala is going forward. Everything is arranged, handled, ready, and on schedule.”

He didn't look relieved, as I expected someone in his position would when faced with the collapse of a major event in front of everyone who mattered in Hollywood and Los Angeles.

I wasn't sure why, exactly, Mr. Stewart was so opposed to the gala. At first I'd thought he simply didn't want to fool with it after Derrick was murdered and he thought he'd be stuck with handling the arrangements. But then he'd turned the prep over to Rosalind—along with just about everything else that had to do with the running of Hollywood Haven, it seemed. All I could figure now was that Mr. Stewart knew his job was in jeopardy—probably serious jeopardy—and he didn't want to see Internet and newspaper headlines the day after the event that read, H
OLLYWOOD
H
AVEN
C
ELEBRATES
50
TH
; H
EAD
H
ONCHO
G
ETS
A
XED.

Not a great way to end a career.

“I'm doing absolutely everything to make Hollywood Haven's fiftieth gala a night to remember,” I said.

From the look on Mr. Stewart's face, I got the feeling he wasn't happy to hear my assurances. I also got the feeling that there was little I could say on any subject that would make him happy. So I figured what the heck? Why not press him for some info on Derrick's murder?

I eased a little closer and, using my we're-best-friends-now voice, said, “You know, there are other rumors going around. Rumors about Derrick Ellery's murder. And you.”

I expected a startled who-me from him, a flat-out denial, or some outraged indignation, but I got none of that. A confession would have been nice, but I didn't get that either.

“You were seen coming out of Derrick's office shortly before he was found dead,” I said.

His gaze zinged down the hallway to the door to Derrick's office, then farther into the lobby. His expression shifted and I knew he'd made the connection. Someone there had seen him.

“It's nonsense. I went to Derrick's office frequently,” Mr. Stewart said. “Now, if you'll excuse me I have work to do.”

He went back into his office and closed the door.

Huh. That hadn't exactly gone as I'd planned.

Either Mr. Stewart had ice water in his veins, or he was innocent. I didn't know which. Maybe I could get some info from Karen.

I headed back to the lobby. Still no sign of her at the front desk. I'd thought she'd slipped away for a smoke, but maybe she was with Detectives Walker and Teague, giving her statement about seeing Mr. Stewart outside Derrick's office. She'd told me she planned to get a list together of everyone she'd seen that day and call the detectives this morning. Surely, they'd want to talk to her immediately.

Without Karen on duty to tell me which rooms belonged to Delores, Trudy, and Shana so I could ask them about the swag bag items they'd come up with, I had no way to locate them except by mere chance. But I'd run into them several times before, so I figured what the heck.

I took the hallway of the residents' wing—this time the song being played on the piano was vaguely familiar—hoping I could catch one or all of the gals in the dayroom. They weren't there, so I stepped outside.

The grounds surrounding Hollywood Haven were extensive and lushly landscaped, making it unlikely that I could spot them unless they were seated near the door. They weren't.

Just for gee-whiz I headed down one of the walkways, stretching up over the shrubs and short palms—it's great to be tall—hoping I might catch a glimpse of them. I didn't. I gave up and went back inside.

All was quiet in the dayroom. The singers and pianist had abandoned their musical performance. Several groups of residents were clustered together, some playing cards, others working on a jigsaw puzzle.

I decided I'd take one more shot at finding Karen at the front desk. Just as I stepped into the hallway, commotion off to my right caught my attention. I turned and—yikes!—what the heck was going on?

The two families I'd seen earlier in the lobby waiting for the facility tour plodded toward me, Rosalind out in front. Their faces were ashen. Their jaws hung loose and their eyes were glazed.

It looked kind of like a zombie walk.

“What's wrong?” I asked, as I rushed over.

My words didn't seem to register at first, but finally Rosalind looked at me.

“It's Karen,” she said. “We found her. On the tour. Out back. Shot. She's . . . she's dead.”