I spent the afternoon in workshops, but really wasn’t listening to much of what was being said. My head was filled with murder.
While the speakers droned on, I pulled out my conference-issued notepad and wrote down the names of my suspects. I noted some common threads linking them to the crime. All of them knew the deal with the labyrinth walk. All of them were physically strong enough to swing a shovel with deadly force. All of them had motive—varying degrees of motive, but who’s to say how much was enough to push someone over the edge?
Rosalind was the front runner, of course. I figured Charles Kent was an obvious second. Shannon’s reasons for being on the outs with Elita seemed slim, but they had that whole family thing going, and everybody knew what it was like dealing with family. My suspicion of Olivia put her fourth on my suspect list, and a distant fourth at that. I considered marking her off, but decided what the heck and left her name there.
As far as I could see, all of my suspects had personal reasons to dislike, maybe even hate Elita, to the point of either initiating a confrontation or being caught up in an escalating situation that resulted in her death.
But why now? Why here? Why at the conference?
All of my suspects—except for I’m-not-so-sure-about-her Olivia who’d only just met Elita, as far as I knew—had known Elita for a long time, so it seemed her death was a crime of opportunity. Something had happened that spurred her murderer into action. Whoever it was had seen something, heard something, or learned something on Monday that had caused him or her to do the unthinkable. Somehow, there’d been a final straw and they couldn’t tolerate Elita any longer.
But what was it?
By the time the last workshop ended, my brain was tired. All my who-did-it-and-why thoughts had worn me down. My day definitely needed a boost. Where was a Starbucks when I desperately needed one?
Kayla and I moved along with the crowd, everyone fanning out in the corridor, going for their phones or chatting about the class. I hadn’t heard from anyone at L.A. Affairs lately—thank God that Priscilla had actually backed off—and I needed to find out what was up with Nadine and my events.
“I’ll catch up with you later,” I said to Kayla.
“I’ll be in the bar,” she said.
I dug out my phone as I stepped out of the flow of people and saw that I had a call from Ty. I’d missed it while I was in the workshop thinking about murder suspects—a topic only marginally more troubling than the thought of actually talking to my ex-official boyfriend.
I’m pretty sure that said something about my feelings for Ty’s we-have-to-talk campaign, but since I hadn’t had any sugar or caffeine lately, I wasn’t positive.
Anyway, the best I could do was send him a text message. I explained that I was elbow-deep in conference duties on behalf of L.A. Affairs—if there was anything Ty understood it was that business came before anything else—and that I would get back to him as soon as I could. I tried to include a string of emojis to prove everything was okay, but couldn’t bring myself to tap them out.
My energy level was low and dealing with Ty didn’t help anything, but my jeez-I-know-I-have-to duties weren’t done. I had to talk to Nadine about my events.
I called her. As soon as I spoke, she put me on hold.
I’m starting to really not like Nadine.
“Look, Haley,” she said, when she came back on the line. “I’ve got your events under control—finally.”
Finally? Finally?
“So stop hounding me.” Nadine hung up.
Okay, now I officially hate Nadine.
Just as I was about to call her back, my phone buzzed and I saw my mom’s name on the ID screen. Not exactly the great pick-me-up I needed. Still, better to get it over with. No way did I want a return call from Mom hanging over me.
“Great news,” Mom announced.
I doubted it but didn’t say so.
“We’ve had showing after showing,” Mom said. “It’s incredible, really.”
“Showings? What do you mean showings?”
“The house,” she said.
“People are there? Already?”
Strangers were in our house? Looking at our things, touching them? I felt violated, somehow.
“My agent is thrilled,” Mom said.
“But I thought—”
“She says I can expect this to continue,” Mom said.
“More showings?” I might have yelled that.
Mom didn’t notice.
“So give me a call with that information I need first thing in the morning,” she said, and ended the call.
Oh my God. Oh my God. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. Of all things for Mom to actually stick with, to follow through on, it had to be selling our family home?
I realized I was walking aimlessly through the main corridor, still clutching my phone. I realized, too, that I had to do something about this situation. I wasn’t sure where my dad was on this whole thing. More than likely, he’d blown off Mom’s talk of selling and had expected her to give the idea her usual brief flirtation then move on, pretty much the same as I had done. My brother and sister were both overseas, too far away to intervene effectively when, apparently, more buyers were expected to pour in.
So it was all on me.
I headed for the front of the conference center, texting as I went, and got my car from the valet. As I pulled away, I glimpsed the air crew milling around the helipad, and wished I could get a ride with them—but only if they could stop by Starbucks on the way.
***
I bypassed a lot of Starbucks as I headed east on the 101 because I knew my favorite mocha frappuccino was waiting for me. I’d texted Detective Shuman—L.A.’s hottest homicide detective—and he’d agreed to meet me on my way to Mom’s house. He even knew which Starbucks to go to—that’s how well we knew each other.
I exited the freeway on Hayvenhurst, then turned onto Ventura Boulevard and pulled into the parking lot. It was almost dark but the street was busy and lit up like daylight, so I spotted Shuman right away seated at a table inside. He was a little older than me, with dark hair and a good build, a boy-next-door kind of look, and had on his usual shirt-tie-jacket combo. He grinned when he saw me get out of the car—Shuman’s got a killer grin.
We’d known each other for a while and had helped out with a few investigations. There was some sort of heat between us, but what with our assorted girlfriends and boyfriends we’d never acted on it—not officially, anyway. Like me, Shuman was all about having one special person in his life. Another reason he was a cool guy.
Shuman rose when I approached and did the manly chair-holding thing while I sat down. A venti mocha frappuccino was already on the table for me; he had his usual black coffee.
“So you’re involved in another murder?” Shuman asked, as he sat down across from me.
I could see he wanted to get right to it. He was doing me a huge favor by carving out a few minutes from either an investigation or his personal time to meet me. I wanted to roll with it but took a long drink of my frappie instead.
I sighed. “I’ve been craving one of these like crazy.”
He raised his eyebrows. “No Starbucks at the convention?”
“No, and I sure as heck could have used one after I found that dead body,” I said.
I hadn’t mentioned in my initial text to Shuman that I was asking for his help because of Jack Bishop. He hadn’t asked for my reasons then, and didn’t seem interested now—or maybe he was just used to me being involved in murders.
“Have you learned anything you can share?” I asked.
“Not much to share,” Shuman said with a shrug. “The detectives assigned to the case haven’t uncovered much. No suspects. No motive.”
I got a little thrill that the detectives, with all of their resources, hadn’t come up with a motive, either—and my four maybe-could-be suspects were looking pretty darn good right now. Still, maybe the cops knew something they were keeping quiet about.
“No suspects at all?” I asked.
“They looked at the family first,” Shuman said. “The victim had no children of her own, three stepdaughters from her marriage to Parnel Alda. Two of them are married with kids, devoting themselves to mom-things. Both have alibis.”
“The other daughter, Shannon, works at the Severin Center,” I said. “She claims she didn’t know Elita was attending the conference until she saw her name on one of the brochures.”
“Nothing’s turned up on her,” Shuman said. “The husband, Elita’s third—”
My brain lit up—and it wasn’t because of the frappuccino.
“Elita was married twice before?”
There’s nothing wrong with taking a few stabs at trying to find wedded bliss, but come on. Three marriages? At some point, you have to wonder what the heck was really going on.
“Number three had a stroke shortly after they were married,” Shuman said. “He’s been in a care facility ever since. You can’t ask for a better alibi than that.”
I took another hit of my frappie. It seemed that Elita had been attempting to make the best of a bad situation by opening the B&B, and carry on with life without her husband. Surely she’d envisioned a brighter future for them both.
“What about Charles Kent?” I asked. I’d mentioned his connection to Elita in my earlier message to Shuman.
“The verbal altercation between Kent and the victim,” Shuman said, nodding. “A report was filed. Nothing more came of it. But it was one hell of a confrontation, according to witnesses.”
It was hard to imagine calm, sedate Charles Kent duking it out verbally with Elita. But that’s the kind of thing a person would do when pushed too far.
“Was Rosalind Russo questioned?” I asked.
“Questioned, but not a suspect.”
Okay, that seemed kind of weird. I’d put Rosalind at the top of my suspect list.
“Did the detectives pin down an alibi for her?” I asked.
“They were vague on that,” he said.
I could imagine Rosalind falling completely apart in front of the homicide detectives. On the surface, she didn’t seem a likely suspect. I mean, really, she’d been too timid to stand up to Elita and get out of her B&B contract, so I could see how the detectives might have a tough time imagining her hitting Elita over the head with a shovel.
“What about employees at Severin?” I asked, hoping he’d mention Olivia.
“Nothing.”
I sighed. “Wow, when you said the detectives didn’t have much, you weren’t kidding.”
Shuman gave me a good natured I-told-you-so grin. I couldn’t think of any other questions—even with the infusion of chocolate and caffeine from my frappuccino.
“Well, thanks for the help,” I said.
I thought he might head out, but he sat there as if he wasn’t in a hurry after all, so I figured this was a good opportunity to catch up—and maybe get some gossip.
“Are you still seeing Brittany?” I asked.
I noted that Shuman’s attire looked a little more pulled together than usual, which made me think maybe he and Brittany had moved in together and she was dressing him. I liked Brittany, and I wanted Shuman to be happy. But I’d pictured her as his transition girlfriend—she’s a lot younger than him—not someone permanent.
“Yes,” he said, with a small smile that looked kind of sad.
“It’s not going so well?”
“It’s not really going anywhere,” he admitted. “What about you? Still seeing that lawyer?”
“Liam. Yes, and it’s kind-of going somewhere.”
Shuman gave me a tell-the-truth frown I’m sure he’d perfected at the police academy.
“So you’re done with your ex?” he asked.
“Ty,” I said, and cringed slightly.
Shuman amped up his cop-stare and I caved.
“He came to my apartment,” I said.
“He’s back? Finally? After what, months? Some sort of sabbatical?”
I nodded. “He told me he was in love with me.”
Yeah, just like that. Ty had shown up at my apartment—after no word from him forever—and hit me with the news. He loved me. After everything we’d been through, all the problems, the difficulties, the hurt, the breakup, he’d gone away to find himself and that’s what he’d come up with.
Shuman looked as stunned as I had been that day when I’d looked up at Ty, who’d showed up out of the blue, standing in my living room, saying the words I’d wanted to hear for so long—only I’d been too shocked to react.
“Yep, that’s what he told me,” I murmured. “He loves me.”
It was good to say the words aloud. I’d carried that whole thing around with me for a while now. I’d told Marcie on my way into work on Monday morning, but we hadn’t had a chance to talk about it. And, really, I’d been trying hard not to think about any of it this week.
Shuman glanced away, as if the words had hit him hard—he knew Ty and I had had our ups and downs—then looked at me again.
“So, what did you say?” he asked.
“Ty didn’t push me for a response. He said he wants me to think about our future together so we can discuss it.”
“You’re willing to do that?”
Here’s where having this conversation with a BFF like Marcie would have been really different. She’d have been livid, or excited, or stunned, or something. We’d have analyzed every second of my conversation with Ty—what he said, how he said it, what his expression was when he said it—but not so with Shuman. With him, it was just a down and dirty Q&A. I was okay with it.
“He put his feelings for me out there, which is totally unlike him,” I said. “I can’t ignore that.”
“You know what the past was like with him.”
“He seems different now. Maybe the future will be different.”
Shuman studied me for a long moment. “Do what’s best for you.”
His words and expression caused a funny little feeling in my belly.
“I will.”
He gave me a lopsided grin. “You’d better.”
I grinned back, then drained my frappuccino, and rose from the table.
Shuman got to his feet. “Let me know if you turn up anything else on the murder.”
“I will,” I promised.
I thanked Shuman for his help, and left.
But I still couldn’t bring myself to think about Ty.
***
It was dark by the time I exited the 134 and wound through the hills to the small mansion that had been my home for as long as I could remember. Two security lights burned in the circular driveway. Several of the second-floor windows glowed yellow.
I’d driven here with the intention of confronting Mom, demanding to know what the heck she was thinking and how she could bear to sell our family home. I knew my brother and sister would have done the same, if they’d been here. I knew it was up to me to speak for all of us.
But somehow, I couldn’t make myself get out of the car.
I gazed up at the house, at the window drapes I’d helped my mom pick out. Past them were the paint colors Mom had driven us all crazy selecting. She’d finally decided on pale blue for the den, and we’d all loved it. Our Christmas tree had stood in the same corner of the living room every year. In the dining room, we’d had holiday meals. The pool out back had been a constant source of family fun—swimming while my dad grilled burgers and Mom watched from a lounge chair in the shade.
A heaviness settled over me. I hadn’t been very close with my younger sister, and my older brother was always too busy for me. Dad was often kind of distracted because of his work, and Mom—well, Mom was Mom. But thinking back now I recalled how many good times we’d had. Here, in this house. Together.
I could hardly stomach the thought of strangers buying our home, moving in, likely changing the paint color, ripping up the flooring, doing who-knows-what to the floor plan, the landscaping. Then I imagined those strangers changing nothing, using our things as if they were now theirs, and my stomach hurt worse.
My thoughts sped ahead into the future. Mom and Dad wouldn’t be alive forever. Sooner or later the house would be sold. Eventually, my brother and sister and I would have to say goodbye to our family home. Things would change. They would end.
I stared up at the house, thinking of Mom and Dad inside, alone. Maybe it was sad for them. My sister stayed here occasionally, but really, all of their kids were gone. Maybe a new place would be good for them.
Maybe it was time to let go.
I drew in a long breath, thinking that, really, all of those wonderful family memories weren’t in the house—they were in my head.
I started my car and drove away.