Swag Bags and Swindlers (18 page)

C
HAPTER
25

“I
'm calling with an anonymous tip,” I said.

“Haley?” Detective Shuman's voice was kind of loud in my ear coming through my cell phone, and had a definite what-the-heck quality to it.

Not that I blamed him.

I climbed out of my Honda in the parking garage near L.A. Affairs carrying my handbag—a fabulous Fendi tote that perfectly complemented my promotion-worthy business suit—and holding my cell phone to my ear. Cars cruised past me as employees arriving for work searched for empty parking spaces; tires squealed, doors slammed.

Arriving on time for work definitely had its downside.

“It's not me,” I told Shuman, and said again, “This is an anonymous tip.”

“What's going on?” he asked.

Shuman was definitely in cop mode. I'd hoped he'd just roll with my insistence that what I was about to tell him was not coming from me, but not so, apparently.

Since Shuman hadn't been assigned to the Kelvin Davis investigation he'd have to pass on my info to the investigating detectives, and they would surely question him about where and how he'd acquired it. I sure as heck didn't want my name attached to it, so I figured this oh-so-clever subterfuge was the best way to handle it—if Shuman would work with me, that is.

“The Kelvin Davis investigation,” I said, as I headed through the parking garage toward the elevator.

“What are you doing mixed up in that?” Shuman demanded.

“You're awfully cranky for first thing in the morning,” I said. “You and Brittany didn't break up, did you?”

“Haley,” he said, sounding a little angry. “You shouldn't—”

“I wasn't in any danger,” I told him. “I have some information, so listen up, will you?”

Shuman didn't say anything, but I heard heavy, angry breaths coming through the phone, which was kind of hot, of course.

“A guy in a bar in Palmdale recognized Kelvin Davis. Things almost got physical,” I said, then related the story Brianna had shared with me last night in her living room.

Shuman didn't say anything for a minute or so and I knew he was thinking, running the story through his cop-trained brain.

“You didn't get a name?” he asked.

“No, but how many of Davis's victims killed themselves and had a spouse that had a heart attack?” I said. “There can't be many—at least, I hope there aren't many.”

“Should be easy to check out,” Shuman said. “The story probably made the news.”

“This guy in the bar was angry about what had happened to his parents,” I said. “He wanted to get even with Kelvin Davis right there in the bar.”

That's what I would have done—Shuman, too, I was sure.

“I'm thinking he might have followed Kelvin, lured him to that abandoned house, somehow,” I said. “Or maybe forced him at gunpoint.”

I couldn't tell Shuman what else I'd envisioned about that meet up, which was that after realizing he was in serious danger, Kelvin Davis, being the weasel that he was, probably showed the guy Ty's info on the piece of paper Brianna had given him. He'd likely claimed he could get money from Ty, if the guy let him go.

“I'll pass it along,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, and was ready to change the subject. “So did you and Brittany break up?”

“No, we didn't,” he said, and his voice sounded lighter. “And thanks for the anonymous tip.”

“What tip?” I asked.

“Right,” he said. “Stay out of trouble, Haley.”

He ended the call before I could respond, which was wise on his part.

I got into the elevator along with about a dozen well-dressed, carefully groomed people, and rode up to the third floor.

“Are you ready to party?” Mindy exclaimed when I walked into L.A. Affairs.

“It's me, Haley,” I said, and kept walking.

Since the pumpkin-flavored coffee creamer I'd reordered had arrived—courtesy of rush shipping—and was in place, I figured it was safe to go to the breakroom this morning. Just as I stepped into my office to stow my handbag, my cell phone chimed. It was Marcie.

“Okay, you've got to tell me,” she said when I answered. “Who is this Derrick Ellery guy—and is he single?”

I took that to mean Marcie had uncovered additional information about him, as promised.

“Why?” I asked. “What did you find out?”

“Not only has he got tons of cash in the bank,” she said, “he owns a dozen properties.”

Okay, that surprised me.

“He does? You're sure?”

“My friend in the mortgage department got her contact at the title company to run a check,” Marcie said. “It's residential property, mostly. A couple of commercial lots also.”

“Oh my God . . .” I sank into my desk chair.

That much property in Los Angeles—or most anywhere in Southern California—would be worth millions. Where had Derrick gotten the money? Probably from the same place he'd gotten the two hundred grand in his bank account, I realized, wherever that was.

“Listen, Marcie, thanks,” I said. “I owe you.”

“No problem,” she said. “I've got to run.”

We ended our call and I sat there at my desk for a while, thinking. As I'd figured before, there were numerous ways Derrick could have come into the cash—and now the properties—legally and honestly. I had no way of knowing whether his financial condition had any bearing on his murder.

I really wished Shuman had been assigned to the case. Knowing exactly what Detectives Teague and Walker had learned about Derrick's background sure would help. Maybe if I pressed Shuman, he would dig a little deeper.

I scrolled through the address book on my phone but stopped when I saw Amber's number. Ty flew into my head—but really, he'd hardly been out of it since last night when I'd talked to Brianna.

My anonymous tip about a possible suspect in Kelvin Davis's death wasn't much to give Shuman—and it might prove to be a wild goose chase—so it was very possible Ty could still be implicated in the murder. And even if he was cleared of that crime, he could still be in trouble. After all, by giving that cash to Kelvin, Ty had aided and abetted a fugitive, even if it was for the best of reasons.

It hit me then that I had to see Ty. I had to look at him with my own eyes and see how he was holding up. I had to know exactly what was going on with him. The thought consumed me.

I called Amber.

“I'm wondering,” I said when she picked up, “what are Ty's lunch plans for today?”

She didn't hesitate. “A working lunch at the office with all of the department heads.”

“Oh.”

I was disappointed but, really, I guess I shouldn't have been. Maybe this was a sign that I should steer clear of Ty.

“That's okay. Never mind. Thanks, Amber.”

I ended the call, grabbed my things, and left the office.

 

“These are for you,” I said, and dropped the box of items Alden the Great had pilfered onto Rosalind's desk. “You have the lost and found reports. You should be able to return them easily.”

Rosalind peered into the box, then up at me.

“Where did you get these?”

I'd promised not to rat out Alden and I wasn't going to do that. But I had no idea who these things belonged to. I could have asked Rosalind to give me the lost and found reports so I could track down the owners, but I was sure she wouldn't because I wasn't an employee of Hollywood Haven—I hoped not, anyway, since the reports contained the residents' personal information.

“I spotted the box under the shrubbery in the parking lot,” I said.

One of Rosalind's eyebrows crept up her forehead in I'm-not-sure-I-believe-you fashion. She stared at me, waiting for me to expand on my story. I didn't, of course. If you're telling a whopper of a lie, it's better to keep it simple—or so I've been told, of course.

“So you'll match up the items with the reports of stolen items?” I asked, anxious to end this conversation.

Rosalind huffed, then dragged the box off her desk and dropped it on the floor.

“I'll get to it when I have time,” she said.

I'd figured she wouldn't make the task a priority, so I'd deliberately held on to the journal of love poems. Somehow, it was too personal, too precious, to leave lying in a cardboard box with hairbrushes, deodorant, and rolled-up dirty socks. The thought that Rosalind—or anyone but the poet—might read those beautiful words, written straight from the heart, seemed like the ultimate invasion of privacy.

“I'd like to find out who reported a stolen journal,” I said. “I want to return it myself right away.”

Rosalind huffed again, pulled open the bottom drawer of her desk, and yanked out a stack of papers. She flipped through them.

“No one,” she told me, then shoved them into the drawer again. “Now, if you'll excuse me.”

I left her office and headed down the hallway.

As I turned toward the residents' wing, I heard piano music and singing coming from the dayroom. For a change, the lyrics sounded familiar.

Whoever owned the journal must not yet have realized it was missing, I decided, but I didn't want to leave it to chance—or Rosalind—to see that it was returned to its rightful owner. I went inside the dayroom.

A man was seated at the piano and two women were standing behind him, all of them singing. The tune was catchy. The table with the jigsaw puzzle had attracted a crowd. A foursome was playing cards.

I spotted Ida in her wheelchair parked at the window. Sylvia wasn't with her. Ida gazed outside with that same lost, empty look on her face I'd always seen. I wondered if her thoughts had journeyed to her past, to the movie roles she'd played, the parties she'd attended, the days she'd spent with the composer who'd been the love of her life.

Or maybe Ida was just relieved that her daughter hadn't come to visit today, as I'm sure everyone else was.

I crossed the room and checked out the bulletin board.

A flyer announcing a bus trip to the Glendale Galleria that was a week old was pinned in the corner. I pulled it down and found myself bobbing my head to the music as I flipped it over and wrote, “Found, a journal.” I added my name and telephone number and stuck it on the board again.

I decided I could do more. I grabbed a flyer for a trip to the movie theater that had already taken place and on the back I wrote: “Lost something? It's been found! See Rosalind,” and pinned it to the board.

Rosalind would probably have a snit-fit on a biblical scale when she found out what I'd done but, really, I didn't care.

 

I was waiting for a traffic break to pull out of the Hollywood Haven parking lot onto Ventura Boulevard when my cell phone rang. It was Jack.

After dealing with Rosalind I wasn't in the best of moods, so hearing from a hot, gorgeous private detective was just what I needed to boost my spirits.

“You can forget about Stewart and lawsuits,” he told me when I answered. “He's not involved in any.”

It wasn't like Jack to jump right in on business, so I figured he must be in the middle of something way cooler than what I was doing.

“So Hollywood Haven isn't involved in any legal action?” I asked.

I'd thought the employees who'd supposedly been wrongly fired by Derrick had brought lawsuits against the facility, blaming Mr. Stewart for the problem because he'd hired Derrick before completing his background investigation. It made a pretty good motive for Mr. Stewart to murder Derrick. I guess I'd been wrong.

“The retirement home is involved in several suits,” Jack told me. “But they all involve Derrick Ellery, not Stewart.”

“Who brought the suits?” I asked.

“Some of the residents,” he said. “I don't know anything more. I'll let you know when I find out.”

“Thanks, Jack,” I said.

We ended the call and I sat there for a while thinking. Why would some of the residents sue Derrick and Hollywood Haven? None of the folks who lived there that I'd spoken with had complained about Derrick, except to say that his concern for them sometimes crossed the line and seemed nosy. Nobody really liked the guy, but how could that justify a lawsuit?

My cell phone rang. It was Amber.

My heart rate picked up. Oh my God. Was she calling to tell me that homicide detectives had showed up at Holt's corporate office? Had they arrested Ty? Led him away in handcuffs?

I gulped back my emotions.

“Hello?”

“Yeah, listen, Haley,” Amber said. “I thought you might want to know where Ty was having dinner tonight.”

C
HAPTER
26

H
e wasn't on a date—I'd made sure of that when Amber had told me Ty's plans for tonight. No way was I walking in on that.

But his being on a date might have worried me less.

I left my car at a parking lot a block off Figueroa Street in downtown Los Angeles and headed for the bar Amber had told me about. Ty was there celebrating a friend's birthday.

For anyone else, this wouldn't have been unusual. While Ty had lots of friends, he almost never hung out at a bar, seldom joined in on this sort of occasion, and he never—absolutely never—left work this early to do it.

It wasn't quite six o'clock yet and the streets were jammed with vehicles as the office buildings emptied out for the day. Well-dressed business people carried briefcases and messenger bags as they made their way down the sidewalks. I spotted the bar Amber had told me about and moved along with the crowd.

Was Ty at a bar tonight celebrating with friends because he was stressed out about the Kelvin Davis murder investigation? Had he agreed to be interviewed and wanted one bang-up night on the town before he faced the homicide detectives? Was something far worse going on?

Really, it was none of my business.

My steps slowed. What the heck was I doing? Why was I overcome with this crazy need to make sure Ty was all right?

And what would I talk to him about when I saw him?

I couldn't tell him that I'd been investigating the murder myself. I couldn't mention my visit with Brianna and Reese. I couldn't ask him about the duffel bag he'd left in my closet.

Then something else hit me.

Oh my God, what was I going to do with all the money and the handgun?

The cash wasn't mine, so I couldn't spend it—though that might be the saving grace to this whole ordeal.

What would I do with the gun? If I tossed it out somebody might find it and use it in a crime. I couldn't ask Jack what to do with it, since I'd never even told him about it, and no way could I take it to Shuman.

I didn't know the answers to any of these things. I just knew I had to see Ty.

Laughter and loud voices met me as I walked inside the bar. The place was dimly lit and decorated with lots of dark wood. People were squeezed around tall tables and into booths and stood in clusters around the perimeter of the room; all the seats at the bar were taken. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits, especially for a Thursday night crowd.

I paused just inside the doorway.

Why was I here?

I looked around.

Why did it matter so much to me?

The place was jammed.

Why was I putting myself through this?

Spotting anyone from the doorway was impossible, I realized. I'd have to walk through the tables, check out everyone if I hoped to find Ty.

I couldn't do it.

I whipped around and walked outside, my mind spinning and my emotions churning—and I didn't even know why. All I knew was that this had been a mistake.

“Haley?”

Oh my God. Ty.

He jogged around me and planted himself in front of me. I froze.

“I saw you inside,” he said.

His collar was open and his tie was pulled down. A few strands of hair fell over his forehead. The worry lines around his eyes I'd noticed the last time I saw him seemed deeper, longer.

“Are you okay? Are you coming back in?” he asked.

Ty looked concerned, or anxious, or—something. I didn't know what. I could barely think.

“I was supposed to meet Marcie,” I said, thankful I could come up with a halfway reasonable lie. “But I just got a text from her. She can't make it.”

He didn't invite me to join him and his friends, just stood there for a few seconds looking at me.

“So, uh, how are you?” I finally asked.

Something inside me pulled me toward him—was it inside him, too?

“I'm . . . I'm okay,” Ty said. “You?”

Did he feel it?

“Busy,” I said.

He nodded. I nodded. A really awkward moment dragged by.

I couldn't stand it.

“What's up with you and the Kelvin Davis murder?” I asked. “Are you okay with what's going on?”

Ty hesitated a few seconds, then said softly, “No. I'm not okay.”

He sounded lost, confounded. This was totally unlike him.

“I've . . . I've been doing a lot of thinking,” Ty said.

About me?

“I believe that maybe . . . maybe I've made some . . . mistakes,” he said.

About us?

“I, uh, I . . . I don't know what's going to happen,” he said.

I'd never heard Ty talk this way before. He'd always—always—known exactly what to do, exactly how to do it, exactly when to do it.

I wanted to throw my arms around him, comfort him, make everything better for him. Couldn't he feel that vibe? Didn't he sense it? Didn't he want it?

“I'll walk you to your car,” Ty said.

I guess not.

We headed down the sidewalk, turned the corner, and entered the lot where I'd left my Honda. I clicked the lock and he opened the door for me.

“Haley?” he said, as I started to get inside.

I turned back. “Yes?”

Ty gazed at me for a while, then said, “I wish . . . I wish things had turned out differently.”

“Different how?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I don't know. I just think . . . maybe if . . . I wonder—”

Ty kissed me. He wrapped both arms around me, pulled me against his chest, and kissed me. I locked my arms around his waist and kissed him back. I could have held on forever, but he pulled away.

“I'm sorry,” he said, and walked off.

 

“He was sorry?” Marcie asked. “For what?”

“I don't know,” I said.

“For kissing you?”

“I don't know.”

“For breaking up with you?” she asked.

“I don't know.”

For once, my best friend was being no help at all.

Since I'd seen Ty last night and he'd kissed me, I'd had nothing else on my mind. I'd been so consumed with it that I hadn't even been able to call Marcie until this morning. Now, sitting at my desk in my office, I still didn't understand what he'd meant.

The list of things for which Ty could be sorry was a long one, in my opinion—everything that Marcie had mentioned, plus the things he'd done while we were dating that had eventually driven us apart. I had no idea which of these things, exactly, he was apologizing for.

The only thing I knew for sure was that this sudden, crazy turn in Ty's behavior had been brought on by his involvement in the Kelvin Davis murder. Ty had been hit with a massive, life-changing, oh-my-God-I-can't-believe-that-happened experience and he was questioning a lot of things.

Whether it turned out to be a good thing—or a bad thing—remained to be seen.

“If he meant he was sorry for breaking up,” Marcie said, “do you think he'll want to get back together?”

I'd wondered the same thing.

“And if he does,” she said, “do you want to?”

I couldn't answer her—because I honestly didn't know. All kinds of thoughts and emotions were zinging around inside me.

“Think about it,” Marcie said. “Call me later.”

“Thanks,” I said, and ended the call.

I'd spent a great amount of mental energy on Ty since last night—and since this whole thing with Kelvin Davis had started, I realized—and it was wearing me out. Today was Friday. I had a lot to handle for upcoming events, plus a number of loose ends to tie up for Hollywood Haven's gala tomorrow night. I didn't know how I was going to get through the day.

My office phone rang.

“Hello, Haley,” Mindy said, when I picked up. “You have a client. Yes. A client. It's definitely a client. It's that Mrs. Potter again.”

Since I wasn't exactly on top of my game today, I was relieved that Laronda Bain was the client who'd dropped by. I'd worked some magic putting her son's birthday party together—without the benefit of a wand, by the way—and had put in place every outlandish, idiotic request she'd made. I'd phoned yesterday and left a message with her personal assistant with the news. I guess Laronda wanted to come by today to thank me in person.

Great. Just the boost I needed today.

“Thanks,” I said, and hung up.

I found Laronda's event portfolio and headed down the hallway. She was seated in interview room number one, wearing gray everything—dress, shoes, jewelry—and what I took to be the closest thing she could get to a smile. I greeted her, sat down, folded my hands atop the portfolio, and waited to be showered with compliments.

“I'm adding another feature to the party,” Laronda announced.

She was—what?

“It's the invitations,” she told me.

The invitations were completed. Done. Printed and addressed. Ready to be sent.

“I'd like something different,” she said. “Something more innovative.”

Oh my God. What now?

“I want the invitations to be delivered to each guest by an owl,” she told me.

Obviously, I was suffering from some sort of comprehension impairment this morning, because surely I'd heard her wrong.

“You want them delivered by—what?” I asked.

“An owl. Like in the book and the movie,” she said.

I just looked at her.

“An owl,” she said again. “A live owl that will fly to the home of each guest and deliver the invitation.”

Oh, crap.

Her son's birthday party was two weeks away. How was I supposed to find owls? And how the heck would they get trained to deliver invitations by then?

Laronda kept talking, but it turned into blah-blah-blah.

I'd had it with her, with her kid's party, with having to pull off actual magic to make things happen—and not just for Laronda. It was everything—the pumpkin-flavored coffee creamer, the lightbulbs that were too bright, the clients who were always coming up with some ridiculous event element, my job performance review.

Wait. Hang on a second.

Maybe I could quit. Yeah, I could do that. After all, I still had a job at Holt's. I'd worked there for a year and I'd managed to get by—

Oh my God.
Oh my God
. What was I thinking? I couldn't quit my job at L.A. Affairs and keep my job at Holt's.

That just shows how stressed I was.

And I knew one thing I could do right then to alleviate my stress.

“It's not going to happen, Laronda,” I told her. “There's no time to train the owls. And even if it could be done, I doubt the parents of your guests want an owl swooping down on their kids, clawing them or scaring the crap out of them. So here's what we're going to do. We'll hire actors, put them in owl costumes, and have them deliver the invitations.”

Laronda froze—and not just her face. She stared at me, blinked twice, then said, “Oh. Well, all right. If you think that would be best.”

“I'll get right on it,” I said, and rose from my chair.

She picked up on my oh-so-subtle we're-done-here move, got up, and left.

I left too.

 

I hadn't received a single call about the journal, so after I signed in at Hollywood Haven I headed for the dayroom. A few things still needed Rosalind's final approval for tomorrow night's gala, but I wanted to make sure the flyers I'd pinned to the bulletin board about the stolen items were still there. If Rosalind had torn them down to keep from dealing with the situation, I wanted to know so I could bring it up during our meeting.

Everyone seemed to be in high spirits when I walked into the dayroom. The same guy was seated at the piano and a half dozen women were gathered around him, belting out a lively tune. A group of women had drawn chairs together by the window and were giggling. A foursome at the jigsaw puzzle was doing more talking than puzzle solving, and three men were yucking it up while watching an old black-and-white movie on television.

I hoped that meant everyone was feeling upbeat and excited about the gala—which would also mean it would be more difficult for Mr. Stewart to cancel the whole thing at the last minute.

It would have been nice to see Delores, Trudy, and Shana today, but I didn't spot them. Maybe they were out shopping for more bling to wear during their moment on the red carpet, or were getting their hair and nails done. I wondered if they were busy saturating social media with their prep for the event. I'd have to check out YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter to see if they were posting.

As I crossed the dayroom I found myself bobbing my head along with the music. The tune seemed familiar and, for once, so did the lyrics.

The two flyers I'd posted on the bulletin board were still there, I saw as I stood in front of it. Rosalind hadn't taken them down.

I figured there were any number of reasons the owner of the journal hadn't contacted me yet. With everyone busy prepping for the gala, the announcements for upcoming shopping and movie trips weren't high on anyone's priority list. Plus, since most of the events had already taken place, the residents probably didn't check out the notices very often.

The pianist and singers struck up another song and it sounded familiar, too. Not the tune, but definitely the lyrics. How weird was that? Why would I recognize only the words?

Then it hit me—it was one of the love poems.

How could that be?