Thoughts of Detective Mitch Sullivan had been rambling around in my head since I left the restaurant where we’d had coffee. I was glad to know I’d been officially cleared as a suspect in the homicide of Allison Garvey. But he still thought I was hiding something from him. I was, of course. I guess that’s one of the things that made him a good detective.
Those weren’t the only reasons I kept thinking about Mitch. He’d said our visit was social, not part of the official investigation since he wasn’t obligated to share the news with me, particularly over coffee. I’d picked up on some sort of vibe between us. But he hadn’t acted on it. When we left the restaurant he hadn’t suggested we see each other again. So what did it mean? Anything? Nothing?
I wished Brittany still lived here so we could talk about it over wine or chocolate, or maybe both.
The bellman from the concierge desk showed up just as I was finishing a purchase for one of my newest off-listers. UGG boots. Six identical pair. I had no idea why anyone would need that many pairs of boots that were all exactly alike—there was a number of things I still didn’t understand about living in Los Angeles and this was one of them—but I bought them, marked them off my shopping list, and kept going.
My phone chimed reminding me that I needed to keep my job and couldn’t get sidetracked thinking about Mitch—or anything else—right now.
The message was from Louise with an addition to my shopping list. Gloria Wyatt, the owner of the chain of nail salons, had seen a business suit online at Nordstrom and wanted me to take a look at it and make sure it was right for her. I clicked on the link and, yes, the suit would look great on her. But Gloria was particular about fabric and wanted me to check it out myself.
The crowd at The Grove had grown, more moms with strollers and young women who apparently weren’t worried about keeping a job right now. I headed for Crate & Barrel. One of my regulars needed wine glasses, replacements, actually, for the half dozen that had gotten broken during a party at her Hollywood Hills home that she’d gone into great detail to explain. My uncles always said that anyone who was going to a lot of trouble to explain something was most likely spinning a lie. So I figured the wild party story was cover for something worse—or better, depending on which end of the flying wine glasses you were on.
My phone chimed as I stepped inside the store. Another order from an off-lister today would throw me way behind, and make it difficult to get back to Fisher Joyce in time for the afternoon delivery run. My thoughts shot off in a different direction when I saw the name of the car service Ike Meador worked for on the ID screen. I answered and reminded him who I was and where we’d met.
“Oh, yeah. Sure, sure. I remember you.”
He sounded rushed, which made me think the guy who owned the place was standing next to him, giving him stink-eye for making a personal call on the company phone and on company time.
“You mentioned you took Edith Bagley to a house in Pasadena,” I said. “What was the address?”
He didn’t answer for a few seconds then said, “What do you want to know that for?”
Now he didn’t sound worried for his job, he sounded suspicious of me.
“I’m still tracking down Edith’s friends to invite to the memorial service.” I’d told that lie so many times I was starting to feel like it was true.
Ike was quiet for a while longer, tempting me to jump in with a longer, more detailed explanation. I held my tongue.
“I don’t know the people,” he said. “Miss Edith, she never went inside. We didn’t even stop, just drove past kind of slow.”
“Mrs. Walker-Pierce doesn’t want to offend anyone by not inviting them to the memorial service,” I said. “Miss Edith wouldn’t like that.”
“Well, okay. Okay. I guess it wouldn’t hurt nothing for you to go by there and ask,” he said. “But you make sure they already know about Miss Edith’s passing. Don’t spring it on them. Don’t go upsetting people.”
“I’ll be very sensitive.”
I put my phone on speaker and tapped the address he gave me into my notes.
“So when is it?” Ike asked. “When’s the service?”
Barbara hadn’t given me an exact date when we’d last spoken, only that it was coming up soon. I felt certain she would invite Ike.
“Details are being finalized now. You should hear something definite soon. Thanks for your help.” I ended the call.
The sales clerk at the register shot me a look, as if offended that I was on my phone instead of pumping up her commission by buying something. I stepped outside and called Meredith.
“Hey, girl, how you doing?” she asked. “Oh my God, I’m so glad you called. It’s like a morgue in this place.”
Sitting in her tiny office all day, alone, with nobody to talk to and nothing to do but work, made her really chatty. I couldn’t blame her.
“What’s going on out in the world?” she asked.
I was tempted to tell her that Mitch Sullivan had showed up and we’d had coffee, but I didn’t want to have to explain how we’d met.
“The usual,” I told her. “I’m at The Grove spending an insane amount of other people’s money.”
“Cool. What have you bought?”
“Baby clothes, matching pajamas, and six identical pairs of boots.”
“Six pair? Why would anybody want six identical pairs of boots?”
“Beats me.”
“How’s Gizmo?” she asked.
Oh, yes, the dog. I’d forgotten about her. Again. I probably should call my neighbor and check on her.
I didn’t want to have to explain that to Meredith, either.
“She’s good, settling in, getting adjusted,” I said, then pressed on before she could ask for more info. “Listen, Meredith, could you do a property search for me?”
“Sure.”
I gave her the address Ike had provided and heard her tapping on her keyboard.
“Is this about your sister?” she asked. “Because I checked. I didn’t find anything.”
“No, this is something else.”
“Andy didn’t stick you with another missing dog case, did he?”
I certainly didn’t want to explain that, either.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask,” I said. “How are things with you and Neil?”
“The same … only, I don’t know. Maybe cooling off some,” Meredith said.
“Did something happen?”
“Not really. Well, kind of. I can’t get into it now,” she said. “Okay, here’s the info on that address. I’ll text you the link.”
“Great. Thanks,” I said. “And we need to get together. I need to know what’s going on with you and Neil.”
“Sounds good.”
We ended the call and my phone chimed. It wasn’t the text from Meredith. It was from Louise wanting a progress report. I stared at her message, annoyed, even though I’d brought this on myself. I dashed off a quick update, leaving out my visit with Mitch, and sent it.
When I went back into Crate & Barrel, the sales clerk who’d given me stink-eye before was more than happy to handle my purchase of wine glasses and package them with care after she spotted my Fisher Joyce corporate card. I signed away two hundred bucks and headed for the kids’ Pottery Barn.
I hadn’t done a lot of shopping for children so I wasn’t up to speed on the latest trends. Luckily my off-lister had sent a detailed explanation of exactly the type of bedding she wanted. Most notable was that she required two of everything, which meant that not only was she soon to be a new mom, she had twins on the way. I envisioned returning her purchases over and over while she decided exactly what looked best in the nursery—until the twins were born, when she’d be lucky to have time to brush her hair.
I explained to the sales clerk that I needed bedding for baby cribs. Per my off-lister’s request, the fabric had to be organic, eco-friendly, harvested from a sustainably managed forest, and meet social responsibility standards.
Obviously, I wasn’t the first person to make such a request. The clerk found exactly what I needed, with the added bonus that everything was machine washable. Seven hundred dollars later, I left the store.
I dropped my purchases at the concierge desk, then hit Nordstrom and checked out the business suit Gloria Wyatt was considering. I decided it was perfect for her, bought it, and added it to my cache at the concierge.
According to the shopping list in my head, I was finished for the day but I pulled out my phone to check. As I thumbed through the messages, the one from Meredith jumped out at me, the one with the link to the property search I’d asked her to run.
I checked the rest of my messages and saw that yes, I’d finished my shopping list for the day. My official duties were completed, but I still had some personal business to take care of.
Ike Meador had given me the address of the house Edith had driven past regularly. I wanted to see it. I didn’t know what was there, if it would add anything to my investigation, or give me any sort of insight into finding her murderer, but I had to go. I was desperate for a lead or a clue, anything that might help me find Edith’s murderer.
I checked the time on my phone. Mid-afternoon. Traffic wasn’t bad now, but if I waited longer it would start building, making the drive out to Pasadena a long, slow one. Yet going there now meant I’d likely miss the afternoon cutoff for package delivery at Fisher Joyce.
My choice was easy. I got my car from the parking garage, stopped at the concierge desk and loaded my purchases, tapped the Pasadena address into my GPS, and headed for the freeway.
The drive on the 101, then the 110 was mindless, leaving me time to think. Mitch popped into my head. I didn’t exactly know what to make of his unofficial quasi social visit today. That made me think of Dan and how he’d showed up at my apartment out of the blue. I’d spent time with both of them. Both claimed to be suspicious of me. Neither had asked me out.
Well, Dan had, in a way. He claimed he’d asked Louise if I’d help him shop for a gift for his grandparents. I wasn’t sure I really believed it, yet I couldn’t imagine what his other motive might be.
Mitch and Dan, their friendship, the two different paths they’d taken made me think of Carlotta Cain and Edith Bagley. They seemed very different, yet in some ways they were a lot alike. They were about the same age, had grown up with the same cultural issues and social mores. Neither had children. Both had careers—Carlotta, in the entertainment industry, and Edith with her philanthropic endeavors. They’d taken different paths in life but they weren’t so different, really.
The GPS announced my exit onto Orange Grove Avenue, then had me wind through residential streets for several blocks. The neighborhood was old, settled. The homes were mostly small, with mature landscaping. Nothing in the area had been torn down and replaced with an oversized contemporary house that I’d seen so often in Los Angeles.
I found the home I was looking for, situated on a corner lot. I drove by once and checked it out, then circled back and parked at the curb on the other side of the street.
It was a Craftsman-style home that looked small from the front, but went deep into the lot. Its once-yellow paint had faded. The front lawn needed attention as did the peeling, white picket fence. The double doors on the detached garage stood open. No cars were inside, adding to the abandoned look of the place.
Major renovation was underway. Two vans were in the driveway, one from a roofer, the other from a plumbing company. The front door stood open. Repairmen went in and out.
Ike Meador hadn’t mentioned that construction was in progress, so I figured he hadn’t known. It must have been a while since Edith had asked him to bring her here.
Then something occurred to me. Barbara had told me Edith was footing the bill for the renovations to a house belonging to an elderly gentleman in need, and that the property was to be sold.
This was the house, I realized. This was the house Edith had spent the hundred grand on that she’d taken out of her bank.
But why would Edith have spent that kind of money fixing up this particular house? Barbara had explained it was one of Edith’s charitable acts, but it seemed to me like a lot of cash to put into a single good cause.
And was any of this even remotely related to the fifty-grand and the handgun hidden in Edith’s secret room, or her murder?
I didn’t see how, but I had one last-ditch bit of info that might tell me something.
I pulled my phone out of my tote and accessed the property search Meredith had done. There were no liens recorded against the place. The taxes were current. It was vested to one Andrew Arrington, as his sole and separate property. The chain of ownership indicated he’d taken title to the house several years ago from one Mildred Arrington upon her death.
Something about this seemed familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what it was. I thought back over the past few days, hoping to jar a recollection lose. Conversations with everyone connected to Edith sped through my mind until I finally hit on something.
Andrew Arrington. Was he Drew Arrington? The man in the wheelchair I’d seen at Vista Village when I’d visited Sadie?
She’d told me the staff there considered him difficult because he insisted on being addressed formally. Drew, she said, felt he deserved special treatment because of his connection to Edith.
If what I suspected was true, Drew and Edith were connected, all right. One hundred grand connected, which meant this wasn’t simply one of Edith’s charity cases. It couldn’t be. Not for that kind of money, and not considering that Edith had regularly made Ike drive her past the house.
Edith hadn’t left her home very often in the weeks before her death and Drew was confined to a wheelchair in a retirement home. So whatever had gone on between them had happened a long time ago.
I had to find out what it was.