Swag Bags and Swindlers (20 page)

“But it doesn't make sense,” I said. “Everybody I suspected of murdering Derrick was an employee of Hollywood Haven—except for Sylvia.”

I gave Shuman the info I had on Ida's cranky daughter and the complaints I'd heard she'd made to Derrick.

“Maybe Derrick attempted to get Ida to sign all of her assets over to him, but Sylvia found out,” Shuman suggested.

Was that what she'd complained about? Was it the root of the heated argument she'd had with Derrick in his office shortly before his murder?

“But why would Sylvia kill Derrick?” I asked. “There are some pretty strong laws dealing with elder abuse. Even if Ida had already signed everything over to Derrick before Sylvia found out about it, she could have gotten a lawyer and fought it. The court could have forced him to give it back, right?”

“I'm not a lawyer,” Shuman said, “but what you're saying makes sense.”

“So why was Derrick murdered?” I asked. “What he did was really despicable but, if it could all be undone, why would Sylvia kill him?”

“I have no idea,” Shuman said.

“Me either.”

C
HAPTER
28

I
t was go-time for Hollywood Haven's fiftieth anniversary gala and I'd been busy all day straightening out a few minor wrinkles and confirming that everything was in place.

Tonight, the residents, celebrities, and industry insiders would walk the red carpet at the iconic Hollywood Roosevelt. The Blossom Room, where the Academy Awards were held back in the day, had been booked. It was a huge ballroom done in classic Spanish revival with a gorgeous handcrafted ceiling, arched doorways, and wrought iron chandeliers. The tables were set with gold and white and splashes of red.

The menu included smoked salmon, prime rib, a sushi and shellfish station, vegetables that looked too good to be actual vegetables, and a dessert bar so divine it might have been beamed down from heaven.

Tiberia March from Distinctive Gifting had delivered the swag bags. Even though I hadn't given her a lot of time, she'd made it happen. All the electronic gadgets Delores, Trudy, and Shana had suggested were in the bags, along with tons of other fabulous gifts.

Marcie dropped by and we spent a few minutes oohing and aahing over our Sassy satchels, planning their first outing and what we'd wear for the occasion, then left.

With everything in place and under control at the venue, I headed to Hollywood Haven. I wanted to make sure there were no snags getting all the residents into the fleet of limos that had been hired and to the hotel on time. Plus, I needed to change into my evening wear.

I pulled into a parking space, grabbed the event portfolio, my garment bag, and tote—a roomy Coach—and went inside.

A few of the male residents dressed in their tuxes milled around in the lobby; the women, of course, weren't ready yet—good to know some things didn't change with age.

Mr. Stewart, who stood with the men, asked, “When will the limos get here?”

Seemed he'd gotten over his ill feelings about the gala. He'd insisted on being among the first to arrive at the hotel. I'm sure he intended to chat up whoever would listen to make sure everyone knew who he was and what a fabulous job he was doing—according to him, anyway.

“I just confirmed with the limo service,” I reported. “They're on schedule and will arrive in twenty minutes.”

His expression soured, as if this didn't suit him—I had no idea why, nor did I care. Twenty minutes was the window I needed to change clothes and get back in time to check off the names of the residents as they climbed into the limos.

The receptionist—who was still taking her job way too seriously—had me sign in and show my ID, then I headed for the ladies' room just off the lobby.

I slipped into one of the stalls and changed into the cocktail length little black dress and peek-toe pumps I'd brought with me, then went to one of the mirrors, freshened my makeup, sprayed my updo, and put on some conservative jewelry.

Technically, I was the hired help and wasn't supposed to be decked out as fabulously as the party guests, so my yes-I-can-answer-your-question look was just right for the occasion.

The finishing touch—as it should be for every outfit—was a Gucci suede mini clutch with a crystal closure and a discreet over-the-shoulder chain. I definitely needed a hands-free bag for tonight. My cell phone, car keys, and lipstick fit inside perfectly, along with a credit card and a little cash.

I left the ladies' room and spotted Delores, Trudy, and Shana in the hallway. They shrieked a greeting and hurried over.

Trudy had on a gold gown with leopard trim. Shana had gone with red to coordinate with her ruby and diamond earrings. Delores was in silver and white, and while Trudy and Shana had crafted intricate up-dos, Delores had on a white bejeweled turban.

“Wow, you ladies look hot,” I said.

They preened and giggled.

“And look at you,” Delores said. “You look adorable. Doesn't she look adorable?”

“You look adorable,” Shana said.

“Very adorable,” Trudy agreed.

“Come over here, honey,” Delores said. “Huddle up close. Trudy, get a picture. You need to update Facebook.”

“Shana has been tweeting all afternoon,” Trudy said, as she took her cell phone out of her evening bag.

I dropped my belongings on a nearby chair and stepped between Delores and Shana. We all smiled as Trudy snapped a photo.

“Let me get one of the three of you,” I said.

Trudy handed me her phone and I took a few pics of them.

“Are you ladies ready to head to the hotel?” I asked, returning the phone.

“Oh, no,” Delores told me. “We're going last. We're going to walk the carpet and make our entrance when the place is full.”

“It makes for a much better video,” Trudy said.

I gathered up my things and said, “Great. I'll see you at the entrance in a bit.”

They waved and disappeared into the dayroom.

By the time I made it back to the lobby it had filled up with residents and was humming with excitement. All the women were wearing fabulous gowns and sparkling jewelry. Some of them were dressed in classic old Hollywood fashions—although I'm pretty sure some of them thought they were still in style.

Oh well, it was their night.

I stowed my garment bag and tote behind the front desk—I didn't have the receptionist sign for them but I was tempted—grabbed my portfolio and wound my way to the entrance. I peeked outside. The limos were just pulling up.

Everyone seemed positively giddy as I checked off their names and they went outside. Not all the residents would go, unfortunately. Some were too frail or too ill to leave the facility. I wondered if they recalled a time when they'd walked the red carpet and attended gala events in their younger days, or if those memories had disappeared.

Alden the Great would spend the evening here at Hollywood Haven. I figured Emily was concerned that the change in surroundings would be too confusing for him. Ida Verdell's name wasn't on my list either. I wondered if her crabby daughter simply hadn't wanted the hassle of dealing with her wheelchair, though Sylvia didn't seem like the kind of person to turn down a free meal.

I sent the last of the gathered residents out the door with a big smile, then checked the guest list. About a half dozen names remained, including Delores, Trudy, and Shana. I figured they were still in the dayroom tweeting and posting to Facebook, so I headed down the hallway. I'd have to round up the others somehow.

The dayroom was empty. I'd never been in there when it was so quiet. It was dark outside, so the space was dimly lit without the usual sunlight that beamed in through the huge windows.

I crossed to the patio, thinking maybe the gals had gone outside to film a segment for their YouTube video, but they weren't there. I went back inside and headed for the hallway. As I approached the bulletin board, someone stepped out of the shadows and blocked my path.

“You're Haley, aren't you.”

It was more an accusation than a question. I blinked in the dim light and saw that it was Sylvia. She didn't look happy.

“Aren't you?” she demanded, and stepped closer. “Don't bother denying it. I asked around. I know who you are.”

Okay, that was weird—in a really creepy way.

“You have something that belongs to me,” Sylvia said, then dug into the huge tote bag on her shoulder. She pulled out a piece of paper and thrust it at me. “See? Right here?”

It was the flyer I'd pinned to the bulletin board about the journal I'd found.

Something wasn't making sense. Sylvia was obviously confused.

“That journal belongs to Arthur Zamora,” I said.

“No, it doesn't!” Sylvia screamed, gnashed her teeth, and flung both arms out. “It belongs to me! To my mother!”

Oh my God, what the heck was going on?

“It's not his! It's not! It's not!” she yelled.

“It's his lyrics journal,” I said, trying to sound calm and hoping she'd get over whatever the heck was wrong with her.

Sylvia's breath came in short, furious puffs, and her nose flared.

“Those aren't lyrics!” she said. “They're poems! Poems my mother wrote!”

Now I was the one who was confused.

“She wrote those poems to Arthur,” Sylvia said. “Then he took them and turned them into songs—and made a fortune off of them!”

“Oh my God,” I said. “You're kidding.”

“I found that journal in my mother's things two months ago,” Sylvia told me. “I read it. I recognized the songs. She didn't want to talk about it—him being the great love of her life—but she finally confessed. So I marched right into his room and confronted him.”

I figured this had to have been before Arthur had his stroke.

“I told him he was a fraud,” she said, her anger growing. “Mr. Beloved Composer and Lyricist. Ha! I told him I knew he never wrote one word of any of those songs, that he stole every single one of them from my mother. And what did he do? He laughed in my face, that's what he did.”

“He denied it?” I asked.

“No. He copped to it. Said it was true,” Sylvia said. “And then he told me there was nothing I could do about it. My mother had written those poems for him, sent them to him unsolicited, so he could do what he wanted with them.”

“You couldn't have sued him for copyright infringement, or something?” I asked.

“That's exactly what I told him I was going to do!” Sylvia declared. “My mother wrote those poems that he turned into lyrics, and she—and the rest of the family—deserved our share of the royalties he was raking in.”

Obviously, I was missing something here.

“Okay,” I said, “so why are you upset?”

“Of course I'm upset!” she screamed. “Why wouldn't I be upset!”

Just past her in the hallway, I saw Delores, Trudy, and Shana step into view. They saw us, stopped, and stared.

“I could have had that money! It was due me, after all I had to put up with over the years,” Sylvia said. “And I'd have had it, too, if it hadn't been for that bastard Derrick Ellery.”

Now I was even more confused.

“Derrick?” I asked. “What does—oh God.”

It hit me then what had happened.

“Derrick was always chatting up the residents, asking about their personal lives, as if he was just being friendly,” I said. “But he was actually coercing them into signing over their assets to him. That's what he did to Arthur Zamora, wasn't it?”

“That stupid old fool,” Sylvia said. “That's what he gets for dumping my mother, making her life—and mine—miserable, and for stealing what didn't belong to him. He ended up alone and sick, stuck in this place with nobody to watch out for him.”

“So Derrick stole all of Arthur's money and his property?” I asked.

“Damn right he did,” Sylvia said.

I realized then that while everyone at Hollywood Haven thought Sylvia was always complaining to Derrick about conditions at the facility, she was actually confronting him about how he'd stolen Arthur Zamora's assets.

Then it hit me—that last argument they'd had in Derrick's office that had been overheard must have escalated into something far worse and been the final straw.

“You killed Derrick, didn't you?” I said.

Sylvia glared at me, seemingly unfazed, then reached into her tote bag again. She pulled out a handgun and pointed it at me.

Oh, crap.

Behind her, I saw the gals get wide eyed, then step back around the corner.

“You did, didn't you? You killed Derrick?” I said.

Delores's face poked out from the corner, her bejeweled turban sparkling in the dim light.

“I could have gotten money from Arthur,” Sylvia said. “But he'd signed everything he owned over to Derrick.”

“You killed Karen,” I realized. “You were in the lobby that day. You overheard her saying she was putting together a list of people she'd seen outside Derrick's office.”

“That was unfortunate,” Sylvia said, and had the good grace to look somewhat contrite. “I liked Karen.”

I figured Sylvia had no reason not to kill me, too.

I wasn't all that concerned about Sylvia's situation—only my own, at the moment—but I thought it was a good idea to keep her talking.

“You could have gotten a lawyer,” I said.

“A lawyer,” Sylvia smirked. “Like I've got money for a lawyer.”

Delores kept watch. I wished she'd disappear down the hall with the other gals. I didn't want anything to happen to her.

“It was worth a try, wasn't it?” I asked.

“Sue Arthur, when he had no money?” Sylvia uttered a bitter laugh. “And I suppose you think I could sue Derrick, too? How? I'm not related to Arthur. I've got no standing in a suit on his behalf. The whole thing was a tangled legal nightmare that would have dragged through the court for years.”

I couldn't disagree with her reasoning. The situation did seem hopeless.

“I want that journal back,” Sylvia said. “It's my evidence, my ticket to serious money. I'm going to sell this story to all the tabloids, the talk shows—anybody who will listen—and make them pay for the rights.”

Delores was still watching us. I decided it was better to leave the building before Sylvia realized she'd seen and heard everything.

“It's in my car,” I said.

Sylvia waved the gun. “Let's go get it.”

Thankfully, Delores drew back as I headed for the hallway. I walked slowly, giving all the gals time to get to safety. I crossed the lobby with Sylvia on my heels. Nobody was there, except the receptionist, who didn't bother to look up.