As holidays went, Thanksgiving was definitely the easiest—and believe me, I know.
After months of meticulous planning and serious hand-holding with neurotic hostesses over dozens of this-one-could-send-me-screaming-from-the-building events, I was ready for something as simple as orchestrating Thanksgiving dinner for my clients. This would be the calm before the Christmas season when everyone was stressed-out, overwhelmed, and exhausted by attempting yet another this-year-it-will-be-perfect holiday.
I mean, really, what special occasion could be easier than Thanksgiving? You didn’t have to squeeze into a formal dress, cook over a hot smoky barbecue grill, risk a sunburn, strain your neck looking up at fireworks, spend a fortune, do major shopping, or make yourself crazy over what gifts to buy or—yikes!—what gifts you might get. There was no fighting the crowds at the mall, the beach, or the ballpark. All you had to do was put up with your relatives for a few hours and eat—a full bar helped, too, of course.
The afternoon sun shone bright and clear in the cloudless sky as I drove on the 101 toward the home of Veronica and Patrick Spencer-Taft, my this-one-will-be-the-easiest clients. They lived in Calabasas, an affluent city of multi-million dollar mansions situated in the hills west of the San Fernando Valley where celebrities, pop icons, actors, athletes, musicians, and reality TV stars lived.
Veronica and Patrick weren’t any of those things. They were a young couple who were super in love—and I’m really happy for them. Really.
Veronica had come to the L.A. Affairs office several weeks ago for help with a Thanksgiving Day feast she and Patrick wanted to throw for their employees to thank them for their hard work. I’d liked her right away. She was about my age, a petite blue-eyed blonde transplant from Arkansas, Alabama, Amarillo—I don’t know, one of the A places—who radiated what-the-heck-let’s-do-it excitement about everything.
Veronica and Patrick had started Pammy Candy a year or so ago and it had skyrocketed, enabling them to move out of their Culver City newlywed’s bungalow and buy a huge place in one of the most trendy locations in the Los Angeles area.
Patrick didn’t need the candy business income. He was from an old money family—as demonstrated by his hyphenated last name—that had settled here generations ago and helped found Los Angeles.
Veronica, however, was a different story—a way different story.
I exited the freeway and wound through the hills to the street where Veronica and Patrick were making their new home. It was gorgeous—and I’m really happy for them. Really.
They’d purchased the property a couple of months ago and were splitting their time between here and their Culver City bungalow while major renovations were underway. The construction guys were working overtime, trying to get everything finished in time for the Thanksgiving feast.
I eased up behind a plumbing company van stopped at the neighborhood’s security gate and waited until the guard let it through. I pulled forward and showed the guard my driver’s license. Even though I’d been here numerous times, he still looked closely at my picture and checked his list of approved visitors before opening the gate.
“Enjoy your visit, Miss Randolph,” he said.
“Thanks,” I called, and drove through.
I caught up with the van a few moments later. The neighborhood streets rambled through the canyons and hills, all heavily landscaped to keep out any stalker, paparazzi, or tourist who might somehow slip in.
At the Spencer-Taft house—really, it was a mansion—the plumbing van pulled around back. I parked my Honda in the circular driveway alongside a Mazda. A white convertible BMW, a black Bentley, and a silver Mercedes were nearby.
I’d been here several times to discuss the Thanksgiving feast with Veronica. She was super busy working at Pammy Candy with Patrick and overseeing the renovations at the house, so I’d met with her here to accommodate her schedule—plus it was a good excuse for me to get out of the office.
The house had a Mediterranean vibe with eight bedrooms, ten bathrooms, a media room, a game room, a fabulous kitchen, and servants’ quarters, among other extravagances. Out back were a patio, pool, and spa set among lush landscaping, an organic garden, a koi pond, and a breathtaking view of the canyons and mountains.
I grabbed the L.A. Affairs event portfolio and reached for my handbag, a Burberry satchel. The bag had seemed the perfect complement to my business suit when I’d selected it this morning, but now I wasn’t feeling so great about it.
Yeah, okay, it was a terrific purse, and it had been a major must-have when I’d bought it. But, jeez, that was a long time ago—two, maybe three weeks. Time had moved on and I desperately needed something new. Marcie hadn’t seemed all that troubled about this major glitch in my life today at lunch, which I didn’t get—I’m mean, come on, it wasn’t like I’d just lost my first baby tooth.
Obviously, I was going to have to ramp up my efforts to find a new, totally awesome handbag.
There was a lot of commotion at the front of the house as I got out of my Honda. Landscapers were digging trenches, laying new irrigation pipe, weeding the flower beds, and cutting back overgrown plants. Scaffolding had been erected near the massive double front doors and three electricians were installing light fixtures. Workmen were unloading pallets of decorative stone from a delivery truck.
The job foreman stood with two women, holding an iPad, pointing and explaining something. Veronica wasn’t with them, which didn’t surprise me.
One of the women was Patrick’s mother, Julia Spencer-Taft.
I didn’t actually hate her—yet, anyway—but she was pushing me in that direction big-time.
Julia was mid-fifties, tall with perfectly coiffed dark hair, and displayed understated elegance and exquisite taste in her ultra-expensive clothing. She carried herself with a regal I’ve-been-better-than-you-for-generations way that was, I’m sure, engrained in her DNA.
Standing beside her was Erika, the decorator who was masterminding the changes to the interior of the house. I didn’t especially like her, either, though I wasn’t sure why. She was around my age, tall, blonde, and gorgeous—which I guess was reason enough.
I’d crossed paths with the oh-so-charming Julia Spencer-Taft a few times since planning began for the Thanksgiving event. She didn’t know me personally but she was aware of L.A. Affairs’ reputation so she had to at least act as if she liked me. Erika had been pleasant—after she checked out the Louis Vuitton satchel I’d had with me that first day and decided, I suppose, that I was good enough for her to speak with.
But now it was go-time. I had to put aside my dislike for Julia and Erika and see to it that Veronica and Patrick put on a Thanksgiving feast that would wow their employees. This didn’t suit me, of course, but there it was—and it had nothing to do with the fact that two people had said I was in a crabby mood today.
“No, no, that simply won’t do,” Julia said to the foreman as I walked up. She huffed irritably. “It is the absolute height of bad taste.”
Erika drew back from the iPad as if she’d smelled something stinky and then exchanged a knowing look with Julia.
“Horrid beyond words,” she agreed.
Julia held up a carefully manicured hand and the foreman had the good sense to move the iPad away from her.
“Completely unacceptable,” Julia decreed.
“I discussed this with Veronica,” the foreman said. “She liked the design and wanted to—”
Julia drew herself up and averted her eyes, indicating she had no intention of gazing upon so hideous a sight any longer or listening to his explanation—especially if it involved Veronica.
He stepped back and said, “I’ll have another design ready for you later today.”
She didn’t acknowledge him as he walked away, which I’m sure he was grateful for.
“Hello,” I said, using my I-get-paid-to-be-nice-to-snooty-people-like-you voice.
They gave me the standard you’re-the-hired-help greeting.
“Where’s Veronica?” I asked. No way did I want to involve either of them with the Thanksgiving feast planning, if I didn’t have to.
“Inside,” Julia told me and pursed her lips, “probably envisioning mauve carpeting and brass bath fixtures.”
Erika snickered.
Yeah, I was on the verge of clicking these two onto my mental I-hate-you list.
The front door opened and Andrea, Veronica’s personal assistant, walked out carrying the tools of her trade, an iPad and a cell phone.
“Hi, Haley,” she said, as she joined us.
Andrea was about my age, short with dark hair. She managed to look both fashion-forward and competent at the same time—not easy to pull off.
“Veronica is in the master suite,” she said, and nodded toward the house. “She should be down any minute. Today’s the big day.”
I remembered then that some of Veronica’s relatives from back east were scheduled to arrive this afternoon for a visit. She’d been super excited about having her own family close by, for a change.
And, really, who could blame her?
Andrea glanced at her wristwatch. “They should arrive shortly.”
Julia uttered a barely audible grunt and shared another knowing look with Erika.
“It seems the Thanksgiving plans are shaping up great,” Andrea said, with more enthusiasm than was necessary.
“Veronica does appear to enjoy a good meal,” Julia commented, causing Erika to put on a very poor attempt at suppressing a smile.
“Oh, here they come,” Andrea said.
Everyone turned as a black limousine approached, then pulled into the circular driveway. The doors opened and three women and a teenage girl piled out.
Erika gasped.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Julia muttered.
“I’ll call Veronica,” Andrea said, and put her cell phone to her ear.
The four guests were in high spirits, smiling, chatting, and directing the chauffeur as he unloaded their luggage.
“I’ve never seen so much traffic in all my born days,” one of the women declared.
“And expensive cars everywhere you look,” another exclaimed.
“Can you believe this weather?” the third one said, giving herself a little shake.
I figured all of the women for somewhere on the high side of fifty. Two of them had on stretch pants and T-shirts, and the other wore a lavender track suit. They all had fanny packs belted around their waists. None of them wore makeup. Their hair was I’m-over-forty short.
The teenager had on jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt. Her blonde hair was in a loose ponytail and she had earbuds plugged into her ears which, it seemed, was a universal accessory for someone her age, fourteen or fifteen, I guessed.
“Welcome,” Andrea said, joining them.
They turned and gasped as they looked up at the house.
“Oh my Lord, would you look at this place,” one of them said.
“It’s just like one of those mansions on TV,” another said.
“Maybe we can film one of those reality shows here,” the woman in the track suit said.
They all laughed. The teenager girl ignored them; she seemed more interested in the construction guys.
“I’m Andrea, Veronica’s assistant,” Andrea said.
“Did you hear that?” one of the women asked, nudging the other two. “Our little Veronica has her own assistant.”
“We’re just proud as punch of her,” another of them added.
Andrea gestured toward the house and said, “Veronica is upstairs. She’ll be down in a second.”
“Can’t wait a second—long ride,” the woman in the track suit declared, then darted past Andrea into the house.
Andrea, who had studied photos of her employer’s guests—standard procedure for a top tier P.A.—introduced everyone.
“May I present Veronica’s aunts Melanie and Cassie? Her aunt Renée just went inside. And this is Melanie’s daughter, Brandie,” she said, drawing me into their circle. “This is Haley Randolph. She’s the event planner for the Thanksgiving Day dinner.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I said, and really it was. The women were thoroughly enjoying themselves, completely thrilled by the new sights they were experiencing. The teenage girl looked embarrassed, as a teenager would.
“An event planner?” Melanie gasped.
“That must be more fun than a Friday afternoon off,” Cassie declared.
I couldn’t help smiling. Yeah, I liked these gals.
I expected the introductions to continue but when I glanced around, I realized that Julia and Erika had disappeared. Andrea did, too, then recovered by motioning the guests toward the front door.
“Please come inside,” she said, and they headed into the house.
Andrea hung back and whispered, “I can’t imagine what’s delaying Veronica. She’s been so excited about their arrival.”
“Where’s Patrick?” I asked.
“At the factory,” she said. “He’ll be here later.”
“I’ll check on Veronica,” I offered, since it would be extremely bad form for Andrea to abandon the guests.
“Great, thanks,” Andrea said. “The master suite is in the east wing. Turn right at the top of the stairs.”
I followed everyone into the entryway. Even though I’d been here before I was still awed by the place. The vaulted ceiling soared past the second story and a massive staircase swept down to the marble floor. There were exquisite chandeliers and statuary niches. Huge rooms opened up in all directions, some of them furnished and decorated, others occupied by workmen who were laying carpet and painting. The whole thing could have come off looking like a don’t-touch-anything museum, but the warm colors and softened design features made it welcoming.
“Would you just look at this place?” Melanie murmured, craning her neck to take in everything.
“It’s beautiful,” Cassie agreed, shaking her head in wonder.
Brandie broke tradition with teenagers everywhere by staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed.
“I’ve got an emergency,” Renée declared as she scampered into the entryway from one of the other rooms. “I’ve been all over this house and I can’t find a bathroom.”
“Oh, you and your old bladder,” Melanie declared. “We can’t take you anywhere.”
“You can take me anywhere,” Renée told her, “as long as there’s a bathroom close by.”
“This way,” Andrea said, gesturing to a hall on the left.
She threw me a please-hurry look. I headed up the staircase as she herded everyone out of the entryway.
When I reached the second floor I heard hammering and a drill running somewhere off to my left where I figured the guest bedrooms were located. I turned right. At the end of a short hallway, double doors stood open so I walked inside.
The master suite was absolutely huge, with a retreat, a spacious bathroom, and four walk-in closets that I could readily spot. It was decorated in varying shades of blue, giving it a welcoming, restful vibe. Glass sliders led out to a balcony that overlooked the east side of the property and the wooded area that provided privacy.
“Veronica?” I called.
She didn’t answer.
Okay, that was weird.
I knew how excited she was to have her family visit. She’d talked about it for weeks every time I’d consulted with her on the plans for the Thanksgiving feast. None of her relatives had been to Los Angeles before and she was anxious to show off her new home, the candy business, and her new life.
“Veronica?” I called again. “Your family is here.”
I checked out the bathroom, the retreat, even the closets, but didn’t see her. Huh. That was really weird. All I could figure was that she’d gone downstairs and I’d missed her.
As I headed for the door, I heard voices coming from the balcony. I crossed the bedroom and slipped through the glass sliders, expecting to see Veronica there talking with one of the servants or perhaps a workman.
Nobody was out there.
Voices floated up from below. I walked to the edge of the balcony and looked down. Three workmen were standing near the rose garden gesturing wildly and talking in urgent tones.
I realized why.
Veronica lay face down on the flagstone patio. A massive pool of blood oozed out around her. Two of the workers spotted me and started shouting. I couldn’t understand them, but I didn’t have to.
I already knew Veronica was dead.