Swag Bags and Swindlers (5 page)

The idea played around in my head.

Technically, most anything was possible. But I didn't like being caught in a possibly-maybe-hypothetical mental loop. I needed facts—even if I didn't like what I'd have to do to get them.

C
HAPTER
6

E
ven though I'd assured Mr. Stewart that everything for Hollywood Haven's fiftieth anniversary gala had been handled, that wasn't the complete truth.

The planning for an event, especially one of this magnitude, started months in advance. The big items were secured first—venue, caterer, florist, that sort of thing—while others were arranged and accomplished as the planning went forward and the event drew nearer.

There were always things to take care of, even on the day of the event, which was why I was at Hollywood Haven the next morning. I needed Mr. Stewart's input on a few things and his okay to move ahead with them.

Karen wasn't at the front desk when I walked in—no sign of a sign-in log to replace the one Detectives Walker and Teague took into evidence—so I headed down the hallway where the offices were located. Crime scene tape was still stretched over Derrick Ellery's door, and I wondered how much progress the detectives had made in the case.

Voices drifted out of Mr. Stewart's office at the end of the hallway as I approached. I stopped in the doorway and saw him seated at his desk. Two men and a woman, all of them probably on the upswing to sixty and dressed in business attire, were standing over him, talking at once.

This was no pleasant chitchat among friends.

The woman spotted me. “Yes?” she demanded, loud enough to get everyone's attention.

The others quieted and glared at me.

Mr. Stewart looked frazzled and slightly disheveled. Unlike yesterday, his desk was piled high with file folders, printouts, and binders.

Had I picked a bad time to show up, or what?

“Miss Randolph,” Mr. Stewart said, and looked relieved that I'd broken the momentum of the group. He glanced at the others and said, “She's handling our anniversary gala.”

“Hello,” I said, and held up my L.A. Affairs portfolio.

They mumbled a greeting.

“If this is a bad time, I can come back later,” I said.

I almost wished he'd ask me to leave. There was a majorly bad vibe in the room.

“No, no,” Mr. Stewart said, and shot out of his chair. He cupped my elbow and moved us into the hallway.

“Tough crowd?” I asked, and nodded toward his office.

Mr. Stewart drew himself up and straightened his shoulders.

“Our transition is understandably bumpy, as you can imagine,” he said. “Derrick handled so very many aspects of the running of our care facility. All of us—the entire staff, in fact—are now juggling responsibilities and sharing duties until his replacement can be named.”

“Who should I speak with about the gala?” I asked, and mentally crossed my fingers that my contact person wouldn't be anyone I'd just seen inside his office.

“I've turned that entire matter over to Rosalind Fletcher. She's our acting assistant director,” Mr. Stewart said.

“Is she inside your office?” I asked.

“No. No, she's not,” he said.

I was relieved I'd dodged that potential problem. But I couldn't help but wonder if this Rosalind Fletcher's temp promotion had something to do with the fracas I'd walked in on.

“As I've already mentioned, dealing with the anniversary gala isn't high on anyone's priority list, and there's concern about how it will look if we go ahead with it,” Mr. Stewart said. “If it's too much for Rosalind to handle, given her additional workload, we'll have to cancel.”

“It won't be,” I said. “I'll make sure of it.”

Mr. Stewart frowned and said, “Well, we'll have to see about that. Now, if you'll excuse me?”

He stepped back into his office and the contentious conversation started up again.

This was the second time Mr. Stewart had threatened to cancel the gala. Obviously, I was going to have to take matters into my own hands.

Karen had told me she strongly suspected Derrick's murderer was someone who worked or lived at Hollywood Haven. That meant I needed to find a person who could give me the inside info on everything that was going on here.

I'd worked for enough corporations to know where the heart of any organization lay, so I headed back down the hallway to an office I'd noticed earlier, the one with the little plaque that read, V
IDA
W
EBSTER,
H
UMAN
R
ESOURCES,
on the wall beside the door. I stepped inside.

This was a two-person setup, with a receptionist desk near the door—which was empty at the moment—and an inner office that was larger. A woman was seated at the desk.

“Vida?” I called as I walked to the doorway of her office. I glanced at her nameplate and saw that I'd guessed correctly.

She looked up from the file folder she was reading and gazed at me over the top of her half glasses. “Can I help you?” she asked.

Even seated I could see that Vida Webster was short and a little on the full-figured side. She wore her black hair sculpted into the shape of a football helmet. The buttons on her peach-colored business suit pulled a little, and I knew without looking that she was wearing sensible pumps.

I introduced myself and held up my L.A. Affairs portfolio—which I was starting to think of as my Captain America shield—and dropped into the chair in front of her desk at her invitation.

“I was just in Mr. Stewart's office discussing the fiftieth anniversary gala,” I said, “and, honestly, I have some concerns about going ahead with the event in light of Derrick Ellery's death.”

Okay, that was a total lie, but I was in a tight spot. Something drastic had to happen if I was going to solve this murder and keep the gala moving forward.

I leaned in a little and said, “I know that in your position as head of Human Resources you're aware of what's really going on with the employees. So I'd like to get your thoughts on the gala.”

Vida stared at me, her eyes wide, her lips pursed. She didn't move. For a moment, I thought all her joints had locked up, or something.

“I mean, who would know better than you?” I added, thinking that an extra dose of flattery might thaw her a little.

After another long moment, Vida snapped out of her stupor.

“Yes, of course you'd come to me. And I appreciate your consulting me on this issue,” she said. “I see no reason to cancel the gala because of Derrick Ellery, of all people.”

Okay, now we were getting somewhere.

“I understand he wasn't well liked here,” I said.

“Not well liked, indeed,” Vida said, shaking her head.

Everyone who worked in HR had to take some sort of oath of silence, or something, and promise to keep everything they learned about employees to themselves. No gossiping was allowed, which, to me, made this a totally boring department to work in. But since Derrick Ellery was dead now, I figured Vida had freed herself from this commitment and was ready to dish the dirt.

“Derrick overstepped himself,” Vida told me. “He didn't follow established policy and had no regard for proper procedures.”

Since I'm not big on following policy or proper procedures, I didn't think I'd stumbled over a motive for murder. Still, Vida was definitely wound up about the whole thing, and I'd found that this was the best time to get information from someone—strictly in the line of duty, of course.

“In all my twenty years working here I've never had to deal with anyone like him,” Vida declared. “Why, the way he carried on. The things he did. The way he treated people.”

She was on a roll now. I got the feeling she'd been holding all of this in for a long time. I didn't interrupt her.

“His conduct was disgraceful. Indiscriminately firing people for the most minor of infractions,” Vida said.

My maybe-this-is-a-clue senses jumped to high alert.

“Derrick fired people for little or no reason?” I asked. “Who?”

“Karen, of all people,” Vida muttered. “It was outrageous.”

Okay, now I was confused.

“Derrick fired Karen? Karen, the receptionist?” I asked.

“He wanted to,” Vida told me. “She was on his list—in fact, she was next on his list. He told me so.”

“What had Karen done?”

“He was arrogant and insolent. Overbearing,” she said. “This is what happens when proper procedures aren't followed. I know. I've worked here for years. But Mr. Stewart was anxious to fill the position.”

“Why did he want to fire Karen—”

“It's never good to rush in to making a decision of that magnitude. Never. I tried to explain that to Mr. Stewart, but I was overruled,” Vida said. “And look, just look at what it's led to.”

“So, back to Karen—”

“I've worked here for years—
years
. I know what can happen.”

First, I couldn't get Vida to talk. Now, I couldn't get her to shut up.

“Did Karen know Derrick wanted to fire her?” I asked.

Vida sat with her eyes narrowed and her lips pinched, lost in thought for another minute, then said, “Someone must have told her. I have no idea who it might have been. Word always gets out, no matter how hard we try to keep personnel issues confidential.”

At this point, I'd had all of Vida I could take. But she'd given me my first murder suspect.

I thanked her and left her office, remembering when I'd arrived at Hollywood Haven the day of Derrick's murder. Karen had been at the front desk. But I had no way of knowing how long she'd been at her post. She could have slipped down the hall, into Derrick's office, and murdered him minutes before I arrived.

Karen hadn't been upset when I'd told her I'd discovered the body. In fact, she acted as if it were a routine matter. Did she already know he was dead? Had she shot him in his office because she'd found out he wanted to fire her?

The prospect of losing your job wasn't the greatest motive for murder, but I could see it happening.

Of course, I only had Vida's word that Derrick had planned to get rid of Karen and she'd seemed really eager to throw Karen out as a suspect. Too eager?

It made me wonder if something else was going on.

C
HAPTER
7

I
really could have used a mocha Frappuccino right now, but I had to push through. I headed back down the hallway checking out the nameplates until I spotted one that read R
OSALIND
F
LETCHER
, O
FFICE
M
ANAGER
.

Inside, I saw another two-office arrangement. A tiny gray-haired lady who looked as if she were a resident who'd wandered in sat at the receptionist's desk.

Jeez, I really hoped that wasn't Rosalind. No way would the gala go forward if she was in charge.

“I'm looking for Rosalind,” I said.

“Outside, dearie. On the patio off the dayroom. You'll see her there,” she said, and pointed in the completely wrong direction.

I had no idea what Rosalind looked like and since most everybody I'd seen here at Hollywood Haven looked pretty much the same, I didn't bother to ask.

I hoofed it back through the hallway to the lobby—Karen wasn't there—and turned down the corridor that led to the residents' wing.

I stopped at the entrance to the dayroom, a huge space filled with several comfortable seating groups, televisions, card tables, and a grand piano. There was a table with a half-finished jigsaw puzzle, a large shelving unit full of books, and a bulletin board with fliers pinned to it. One wall was all glass, providing a gorgeous view of the spacious patio and the beautifully landscaped grounds.

About a dozen elderly residents sat around the dayroom, some playing cards, others watching TV or reading, a few sitting alone. A stoop-shouldered man was at the piano playing a song I didn't recognize.

Three women standing nearby must have seen the I'm-kind-of-lost look on my face, because they walked over. They were all thin, easily approaching seventy. But they were still rocking the fashions. Their hair was done—except for one who wore a turban—and two of them wore citrus-colored capris and tops, the other a caftan. They'd loaded themselves down with jewelry.

“What do you need, honey, what do you need?” The lady in the caftan and turban fluttered her fingers against her neck. “I'm Delores, honey. Tell me what you need.”

“I'm looking for Rosalind—”

“Who?” another of them asked.

“That's Trudy,” Delores explained.

“Rosalind,” the third one repeated in a loud voice. “She says she's looking for Rosalind.”

“And that's Shana,” Delores said.

“I can't hear anything with all that racket,” Trudy said, and made a rude gesture at the pianist. “He thinks he's Billy Barnes.”

“He's no Billy Barnes,” Shana agreed.

“Billy was a genius,” Trudy said. “A genius.”

“So what do you need Rosalind for?” Delores asked.

“I'm the event planner for the anniversary gala,” I said, and introduced myself.

“Oh, the gala,” Shana declared. “We're so excited about the gala.”

“I can't decide what to wear,” Trudy said.

“Everybody's excited about the gala,” Delores told me. “So what do you need Rosalind for, honey? What's she got to do with the gala?”

“She's the acting assistant director now that Derrick is . . . gone,” I said.

“And good riddance,” Trudy declared.

“Amen to that,” Shana agreed.

Delores edged closer and glanced at the event portfolio I was clutching.

“So what is it, honey?” she asked. “You need something? You need help with the planning? We can help.”

“We're good at this sort of thing,” Shana said. “We all worked production for years. All the major studios. You need help with a project? We're your gals.”

This was the most enthusiastic bunch I'd met here at Hollywood Haven since Derrick's murder. The ladies seemed to be in pretty good physical shape and were thinking clearly. I didn't want to turn something over to them, but I didn't want to hurt their feelings either.

“Swag bags,” I said, picking the easiest thing I could think of. “I need ideas for swag bags for the presenters at the gala.”

Shana flung out both arms. “We got this,” she announced.

The other two nodded in agreement.

“Don't give it another thought,” Trudy said. “We'll put our heads together and come up with a great list.”

I just hoped that list wouldn't include Beta VCRs and Bartles & Jaymes Orange Sunset wine coolers.

“Let's go, girls. We've got a lot of work to do,” Delores said, and they hurried away.

I got a weird feeling as I watched them disappear down the hallway that led to the residents' living quarters. Sort of happy and sad at the same time.

I crossed the dayroom and went outside onto the patio. Wrought iron and wicker tables and chairs were set up, surrounded by shrubs, potted palms, and planters of blooming flowers. Several of the residents sat enjoying the mild November sun, more made their way along the walking trails that spread across the grounds.

I didn't spot anyone who looked as if she might be Rosalind. I was debating whether to ask someone to point her out to me or to just leave—I mean, jeez, I'd already spent a huge chunk of my morning doing actual work—when an elderly man ambled over.

“Greetings,” he said, with a wide, easy smile.

“Hello,” I said, and couldn't help smiling back.

He'd probably been a little taller than me decades ago, but now he was shrunken, a little stoop shouldered. He was thin, frail, with what was left of his dark hair combed over his shiny bald spot. He had on a slightly rumpled shirt and a sport coat.

“It's a beautiful day, and your presence has made it more beautiful,” he announced. “A beautiful girl should have beautiful things.”

With a flourish, he presented me with a small arrangement of artificial flowers that seemed to magically appear—except that I'd seen him pull it from the sleeve of his jacket.

“Thank you,” I said, taking the flowers. “They're lovely.”

“As are you, my dear,” he said, and bowed slightly. “A gift for you from Alden the Great.”

A woman joined us. She was fortyish, tall and thin with dark hair, and dressed in casual pants and a sweater.

“He's a magician,” she said.

“She knows, sweetie,” he said. “Everybody knows who I am. I'm opening tonight at the Stardust. It's all over town.”

“Yes, Dad, it is,” she said, and patted his arm. She turned to me. “I'm Emily Kerwin.”

I introduced myself.

“You've seen me on the billboards, haven't you?” Alden asked.

Emily forced a brave smile. My heart broke a little.

“Yes,” I said. “And on the big sign out front.”

Alden beamed. “It's going to be a hell of a show.”

“I'm sure it is,” I said.

“You bet. Oh, hey, is that Dean and Sammy over there? Excuse me, girls.” Alden headed toward a table at the edge of the patio where two men sat.

Emily watched him go, then sighed and turned to me.

“Thank you,” she said. “The doctors told me to just go along with whatever he's saying, unless it's harmful, of course. Otherwise, he gets more confused, more upset.”

My heart went out to her. It couldn't be easy dealing with someone in his condition, and even more difficult if it was your father.

“Was he really a magician?” I asked.

“Alden the Great.” Emily smiled with pride. “He played all the big clubs. Vegas, New York, Chicago, Miami. The magic is the one thing he can still remember.”

“Must be tough on you,” I said.

Emily nodded. “They take good care of him here. Are you visiting someone?”

“I'm the event planner for the anniversary gala,” I said.

“Do you work here?” she asked.

“No, I'm with L.A. Affairs,” I explained.

“You're not here every day?” she asked.

“I stop by when something comes up about the gala.”

Emily was quiet for a while, then asked, “They're still having it? They're not canceling because of Derrick's murder, are they?”

“It's going forward,” I assured her.

“So you'll come back often?” she asked.

“As often as it takes,” I said.

Emily seemed anxious to talk, so I decided this might be a good time to get some info on the murder.

“Did you know Derrick?” I asked.

“Everybody knew Derrick. He was very friendly with the residents,” Emily said, then added, “Too friendly, if you ask me.”

“How so?”

“I guess he thought he was being helpful, but he seemed more nosy than anything.” She sighed. “Some of the residents don't have family who visit regularly and watch out for them. You know, there's no one to take care of their doctor appointments, their personal business, or brighten up the holidays.”

I glanced around at the residents who were seated alone and wondered how long it had been since someone visited them.

Not a great feeling.

“It's worrisome to see how—”

Emily stopped as her gaze zeroed in on her dad trundling down one of the garden paths alone.

“Excuse me, Haley,” she said, and hurried after him.

The future flashed in my head. Would my mom and dad end up in a place like this? Would I?

Yikes! No way did I want to think about that.

In fact, I didn't want to think about the gala anymore either. I headed back inside.

I still had to find Rosalind and finalize a few things, but I'd do that later. There was still time.

I crossed the dayroom and was headed down the hallway toward the lobby when I spotted a very frail-looking elderly lady with white hair, wearing a floral print mumu and seated in a wheelchair. Pushing it was a woman in her late forties, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. I could see a family resemblance. Mother-daughter, I figured.

The mom sat stoically, staring off at nothing. The daughter bent over her shoulder, complaining about something.

I guess not all family visits were good ones.

Yeah, I'd definitely had enough of Hollywood Haven for one day.

But at least I'd discovered one possible murder suspect, plus a few I-wonder-who-they-are others.

Vida Webster had been quick to point out Karen's impending firing. She'd also mentioned other workers whom Derrick had let go for minor rule infractions. I didn't know who those people were, but I knew someone who might be able to tell me.

I passed the reception desk—still no Karen—and left the building. I jumped in my car and headed down Ventura Boulevard, then swung into the first Starbucks drive-through I came to.

I ordered a mocha Frappuccino—I definitely needed a
venti
right now—and took care of my most unpleasant task while I waited in line.

My mom had tried to reach me several times but I hadn't answered her calls. Really, there was no rush. If there'd been an actual family emergency someone other than Mom would have called me.

Mom's a former beauty queen. Really. She's not great in a crisis. Believe me, she's the last person you'd want to depend on if something major went down.

I couldn't put off contacting her any longer—yet I knew how to do it without actually talking to her. Right now, at this very moment, was Mom's standing appointment with her hairdresser. No way would she answer—even if it was a real family emergency.

I pulled out my cell phone and called her. When her voicemail picked up I left a quick message.

I inched forward in line and called Detective Shuman. I figured that if anybody could root out the names of the Hollywood Haven employees that Vida had mentioned, whom Derrick had fired for minor rule infractions—making them possible murder suspects, something I could use more of—it would be Shuman. He hadn't caught the case but surely he could contact Detectives Walker and Teague and find out what was going on with the investigation.

Shuman didn't pick up, so I left a message explaining what I needed.

The line moved forward. I pulled up to the window, paid, grabbed my mocha Frappuccino, and took a long sip. I desperately needed the boost because now I had to call Ty.