Evening Bags and Executions Read Free Page B

caught my eye was the bakery, Lacy Cakes, that Vanessa had contracted for a specialty cake Sheridan Adams had requested.
    Lacy Cakes was known as the bakery to the stars, catering to celebrities, the elite of Los Angeles, and wealthy Hollywood insiders. They didn’t do any advertising because they weren’t interested in turning out twenty-dollar birthday cakes that could be purchased just as easily at a grocery store. Word of mouth brought them plenty of customers willing to pay thousands for a unique, custom-made cake.
    I knew this because my mom had ordered a cake from Lacy Cakes not long ago. Mom was a former beauty queen. Really. She lived with my dad in the house I grew up in, a small mansion located in La Cañada Flintridge that had been left to her by my great-grandmother, along with a trust fund.
    Mom’s experience with Lacy Cakes hadn’t been great, so I decided I should visit the shop personally and make sure everything was on track for Sheridan Adams’s party—whomever she was. Besides, I had to do something until it was time to go home, plus I had on a fabulous suit and, really, more people should have the opportunity to see me in it.
    I got my purse, grabbed the portfolio, and left the office.
    Â 
    Lacy Cakes was located on Burbank Boulevard near Kester Avenue, a few blocks from Sepulveda Boulevard, in a strip mall along with a liquor store, a mail center, a nail shop, and a used bookstore. Not exactly the classiest location in Sherman Oaks, but most of their orders came in over the Internet, by telephone, or from event-planning companies like L.A. Affairs.
    I parked in front of the big glass display window that had L ACY C AKES painted on it, grabbed the portfolio, and left the car. A bell chimed when I walked through the door.
    The interior of Lacy Cakes looked better than the neighborhood suggested. There were several seating groups with huge, overstuffed sofas and chairs, lots of dark wood, and varying shades of brown and green. Positioned around the room a dozen exquisite, extravagant cakes for every imaginable occasion were displayed. They looked fabulous.
    I wanted to lay my face on each of them and eat my way down to the platter—but who wouldn’t?
    I spent a few minutes salivating over the cakes, then headed to the curtained doorway in the back corner of the shop.
    â€œHello?” I called.
    I got no response, but I figured everybody was probably elbow-deep in buttercream icing and couldn’t exactly come running.
    I waited awhile longer.
    â€œHello?” I called. “Anyone here?”
    Still nothing.
    I didn’t have all day to stand around and wait, so I pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the back room.
    I spotted buckets and vats of colorful icing and fondant—I’ve watched a lot of the Food Network lately—along with stainless steel ovens, several work tables, all sorts of gadgets and gizmos stored on shelves, and an office area in the corner with a desk, computer, fax machine and telephone. But no people.
    Jeez, where was everybody?
    I walked farther into the room.
    I didn’t see anyone.
    I expected the place to smell sweet.
    It didn’t.
    I got a weird feeling.
    Then I spotted two legs sticking out from under one of the worktables. I circled around and saw a woman lying on the floor, a huge red stain covering the bib of her white apron.
    Dead.

C HAPTER 3
    â€œI should have known,” Detective Madison muttered when he walked into Lacy Cakes and spotted me.
    I’m pretty sure he wasn’t glad to see me. I sure as heck wasn’t thrilled at seeing him.
    Detective Madison and I had a long history—but not the good kind. He’d investigated several murders at which I was a casual bystander—I swear—but Madison never saw it that way. He’d tried numerous times to find me guilty of something but never had.
    I don’t think that helped our relationship.
    I hadn’t seen Madison in a while,