CHAPTER 21
It was a Gucci day. Definitely a Gucci day.
And it was also a day that I had a lot of work to do.
I sat in my office at L.A. Affairs looking truly hot, I thought, in yet another black business suit—can you have too many black business suits?—that I’d accessorized with white and subtle touches of navy blue, all of which perfectly complemented my Gucci bag. The cool thing about working here was that no matter how dreadful you might feel or how awful the day was shaping up, everybody wore fantastic fashions and accessories, and always looked great.
I realize that sounds sort of shallow, but oh well.
After spending most of the morning locking down the timetable for the Holt’s festival prep on Friday, I moved ahead with working on the other events I was tasked with staging. I made calls and sent emails, as needed, all in a timely, professional manner that would one day result in my being named Event Planner Extraordinaire of the Universe—if such a title ever existed.
Maybe I should invent it.
Anyway, since I’d spent so many hours doing actual work, I decided it was an excellent time to take a break and tend to some personal business.
Since I’d learned that the Miss California Cupid contest “conflict of interest” was really a massive pageant-world-shattering scandal, I knew the whole mess wouldn’t likely go away on its own—which meant my mom would be a mess until the incident somehow disappeared. Since I didn’t really want to spend my Christmas holiday in Sri Lanka, somehow I had to make that happen.
I accessed the Internet on my cell phone and did a search for Theodore Tremaine, the pageant judge involved with the scandal. A number of links appeared, stories about his community involvement in Pasadena, his duties on the boards of several charities, his dedication to the arts, his commitment to helping the underprivileged.
I found photos of him at various events, spanning what looked like four decades, taking him from a young, handsome man in his thirties, to an older, still handsome man in his seventies. In the photographs, he wore a suit or a tuxedo, depending on the occasion, and posed with other civic leaders. He looked strong and dependable, and projected the aura of a no-nonsense, levelheaded man who could be counted on to do the right thing.
Definitely not the sort of man you’d think would soil his otherwise sterling reputation by slutting it up with a beauty pageant contestant and then use his influence to award her a first-place win.
I clicked on more links and found a story detailing his fortieth wedding celebration with accompanying photos of him and his still-attractive, white-haired wife, posing alongside their three grown children and four grandchildren, and detailing their many accomplishments. Everybody looked happy and successful.
Of course, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that Theodore—Ted, as he was referred to in the stories—had had some sort of midlife crisis back in the day. Judging from the dates of the stories, I figured he must have been in his early forties at the time he was making whoopee with the soon-to-be-crowned winner of the Miss California Cupid pageant.
Not exactly the first old guy to have a fling with a younger woman.
Regardless of Ted Tremaine’s true nature, I had to find out where Crown Girl had gotten wind of this story. Hopefully, the whole thing was an exaggeration, a false memory—I mean, jeez, the guy was closing in on eighty now—or an outright lie put forth by Crown Girl to further her own agenda, whatever that might be.
The easiest way to run this story to ground was to confront Ted face-to-face. It was a long shot—but it was also the easiest way to find out the truth. Maybe he’d talk to me about it. Maybe he wouldn’t. It was worth a try.
I spent a few minutes link-hopping until I found his home address, then grabbed my things and left the office.
* * *
I found the home of Ted Tremaine easily enough in an older, settled section of Pasadena. The neighborhood was quiet when I parked my Honda at the curb and got out. Down the block, a stoop-shouldered woman shuffled along while a feisty little Pomeranian tugged at the leash. Two young moms pushed strollers in the opposite direction.
The lawn and shrubs looked well-tended as I went up the walk and onto the front porch. It looked freshly painted. Somebody had decorated with pots of colorful flowers, some comfy-looking chairs, and mosaic-topped tables.
I rang the bell. A minute later I heard footsteps inside and the door opened. A young woman about my age looked out.
Not what I expected.
She had on khaki pants, a red sweater, and flats. Her hair was in a messy ponytail.
“Hi,” she said, and gave me a tentative smile.
I returned her smile, introduced myself, and said, “I’m looking for Ted Tremaine.”
“Oh.” Her smile disappeared. “Sorry. They don’t live here anymore.”
I wasn’t sure exactly who they were, but I rolled with it.
“But you know Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine?” I asked.
“Sure.” She glanced back inside the house for a second, then turned to me again. “We’re renting the house from them. Well, technically from their kids, I guess. They were all out here from New York, I think it was, for the funeral.”
Oh, crap.
“The funeral?”
She hesitated, looking a little uncomfortable now. I needed her to keep talking, so what could I do but tell a whopper of a lie?
“I went to school with one of their granddaughters. Emily. Do you know her?” I asked, but no way was I giving her time to answer, especially since my only knowledge of the Tremaines’ granddaughter was what I’d read on the Internet. “We used to come here to visit her grandparents from time to time. They were such nice people. I’ve been feeling kind of nostalgic lately so I thought I’d just stop by and say hello, but you’re saying one of them passed away?”
“Yeah, sorry,” she said. “Mrs. Tremaine. About, huh, I guess it was back last fall, maybe the end of the summer.”
I managed to look suitably saddened and said, “Please don’t tell me Mr. Tremaine has passed, too.”
“Nursing home,” she said. “I don’t know for sure, but I got the impression he’d been there for a few years.”
“Do you know which one?” I asked.
“No, not really—”
A little boy with curly blond hair appeared and wrapped his arms around her leg—my cue to leave.
“Well, thanks,” I said, backing away.
“Do you want me to tell them you stopped by?” she called, as she lifted the boy into her arms.
“Sure, that would be great,” I said.
Jeez, what else could I say?
I waved, and headed for my car.
As I slid into the driver’s seat, my cell phone buzzed. I checked the caller ID screen.
Amber. Ty’s personal assistant. Why was she calling?
My thoughts scattered—but not in a good way.
Was Ty back? Was he here, right here in L.A., and had gone to work at the Holt’s corporate office downtown?
Maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe Amber had found out he was never coming back—ever.
Or—oh my God—what if she was calling to tell me he’d been in some horrible accident? Was he injured? Maimed? In a coma? Dead?
Or worse than dead—yes, worse than dead for me—was he in love with someone else and getting married?
I drew in two deep breaths, and answered my phone.
“Hey, Amber, how’s it going?” I tried to sound casual, but I don’t think I pulled it off.
She didn’t seem to notice.
“Have you heard from Ty?”
Okay, that was weird.
“No,” I said. “Why?”
Amber hesitated for a few seconds, then said, “I can’t find him.”
Okay, that was really weird.
“You mean he’s lost?”
I flashed on him buried under an avalanche on Everest; in the wreckage of a small plane atop the Himalayas; marooned on a postage stamp–sized island in the Pacific.
“He’s not answering my emails or returning my calls,” Amber said. “He’s been good about staying in touch the whole time he’s been gone. Until the last several days. I haven’t heard from him at all.”
“That’s not like him,” I agreed.
Of course, I was remembering the old Ty—not the one who’d taken off in a red convertible Ferrari Spider on a moment’s notice. He’d presumably spent the past few months reassessing his life. Who knew how he might have changed?
“I thought maybe you’d heard from him,” Amber said, still sounding worried. “Maybe the two of you had worked things out and were holed up somewhere together making up for lost time.”
The image exploded in my mind, but I forced it away.
“If he’s making up for lost time with someone, it’s not me,” I said, and my heart ached a little saying the words. “He’s probably got a new girlfriend and he’s holed up with her.”
“I doubt it,” Amber said. “It’s just not like him to disappear like this. I’m afraid something’s happened.”
We were quiet for a minute or so. Amber, like me, was probably thinking the worst.
“It’s probably nothing,” I said. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
“You’re right.”
“He’s a grown man. He can take care of himself.”
“Right again.”
Amber didn’t sound convinced. I couldn’t blame her.
“If you hear from him, will you let me know?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. But, honestly, after all this time with no word from Ty, I was certain I’d be the last one he’d contact.
We ended the call and I drove back to the 210.
As I headed up the entrance ramp, my conversation with Amber was still banging around in my mind.
She’d mentioned Ty and immediately I’d thought the worst. I’d been in total panic mode thinking something had happened to him, that he was dying, that he was getting married—that he was lost to me forever.
What was the matter with me? Why did I keep losing my mind over him?
I’d decided to stop. And that was exactly what I was going to do. For reals, this time.
I was dating Liam now. He was a great guy. I was going away with him weekend after next. That’s where I needed to focus my attention.
A mocha Frappuccino would have helped.
Since there wasn’t a Starbucks located nearby, I pushed through and filled my head with one of my favorite things—fashion.
Barely a quarter of the way through my mental inventory of the romantic-getaway clothes in my closet, my cell phone rang. I jumped, thinking it was Amber calling again.
Had she heard from Ty? Was she calling to say he was fine, no big deal, forget she’d called earlier?
Or had she heard from the police, the emergency room, the Navy SEALS with news of a horrific accident?
I glanced at the ID screen and saw that it was Elise calling.
My thoughts zoomed off in another direction—I was still, of course, thinking the worst.
Had the Holt’s marketing department discovered some major problem with the festival? Some disaster I hadn’t anticipated?
I’m not big on suspense, so I answered her call.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Elise told me.
She sounded chipper, upbeat—just the boost my day needed.
“Since I’ve called you so many times with problems,” she said, “I thought it would be cool if we talked about something happy.”
I was totally on board with happy.
“Sure,” I said. “What’s up?”
“How do you like your bag?” she asked. “Do you have it with you, or are you saving it for a special occasion?”
My bad-news-is-coming antennae perked up.
“I’m not following you,” I said
“Your handbag. The Mystique,” she said. “The Nuovo store in Valencia received their shipment yesterday afternoon.”
Oh, crap.
“They called you, didn’t they?” Elise asked.
She sounded slightly concerned. I was, too.
“No, I haven’t heard from Chandra yet,” I said.
“Oh?”
Now Elise sounded really concerned.
A few seconds passed. Then she said, “I’m sure you’ll hear from them any time now. Today for sure.”
I tried to be generous of spirit and thought, and told myself that Chandra was probably just busy and simply hadn’t gotten to my name on the wait list yet. Or maybe she’d been out sick, or had an emergency, or something.
But, honestly, I was having a little trouble believing my own wishful thinking—especially since I’d seen her carrying a Mystique at the Cheesecake Factory the other day, dressed in the latest designer clothes.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I said.
Elise paused for a few seconds, then said, “If you don’t hear from Chandra, or someone else at the store today, let me know. I’ll follow up on it.”
“I will,” I said. “Thanks again.”
We ended the call.
I whipped my Honda into the fast lane, hit the gas, and headed for Nuovo.