Evening Bags and Executions by Dorothy Howell

store can be called fashion ,” Bella said, then turned to me. “No offense, Haley, but not even you can come up with fifteen different looks using only Holt’s clothing and accessories, send them down the runway, and make them look so good that customers in the audience will buy enough of them to make our store win the contest.”
    Bella might have kept talking. Sandy might have, too. I stopped listening.
    Oh my God. This must have been what Jeanette said I’d agreed to take on. I was heading up a Holt’s fashion show? An actual audience would see it? The store employees were depending on me to win first place—using only Holt’s so-called fashion line?
    How could I pull that off? Nobody could pull it off.
    I couldn’t listen to any more of this. If another sentence with the words “fashion” and “Holt’s” in it was spoken, surely it would cause gridlock in the space–time continuum and the entire planet would implode.
    Somehow I had to figure a way to get out of heading up this fashion show, and the best place to do that was the breakroom. I desperately needed a Snickers bar—and some M&M’s. Maybe a Kit Kat—or two. And a side of Reese’s Pieces.
    I spun around, intent on making an all-out dash to the breakroom, and ran straight into Detective Madison.
    Oh, crap.
    What was he doing here? Had he come up with some evidence in Lacy Hobbs’s murder, twisted it to suit his investigation, and showed up to arrest me?
    Oh my God, if that happened my life would be over.
    But at least I wouldn’t have to head up the fashion show.
    Then I noticed that Madison didn’t have that gleeful I’m-going-to-get-you look in his eyes I usually saw. It was more like an I-wish-I-didn’t-have-to-be-here look.
    I got a yucky feeling in my stomach.
    â€œYou called Detective Shuman today,” Madison said.
    My yucky feeling got yuckier.
    â€œDon’t bother calling him again,” he said.
    No. No, no, no. This couldn’t mean something had happened to Shuman. It couldn’t.
    â€œWhat—what happened?” I asked. “Is he okay?”
    â€œNo. He’s not okay.”
    I’m pretty sure my heart skipped a beat. But before I could ask anything, Madison went on.
    â€œDon’t try to call Amanda Payton,” he said.
    How had Madison known I’d attempted to contact Amanda today? Someone in the District Attorney’s office must have told him. But why?
    â€œWhat’s going on?” I asked.
    Detective Madison hesitated, as if it took some effort to speak, then said, “Shuman is on administrative leave.”
    Okay, I was stunned. Detective Shuman was a good cop—a great cop. I couldn’t imagine him ever doing anything that would get him suspended from the force.
    Madison didn’t give me a chance to ask.
    â€œIt’s for his own good,” he said. “Believe me, it’s better for everybody that he doesn’t have his shield and service weapon.”
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked.
    Detective Madison drew a breath and let it out slowly, then said, “Four nights ago Amanda Payton was murdered. A single gunshot to the back of the head.”
    I felt like he’d punched me in the stomach. Breath went out of me. I couldn’t think, couldn’t comprehend what he’d said.
    â€œShe—she was murdered?” I managed to ask.
    Detective Madison shook his head.
    â€œShe was executed.”

C HAPTER 6
    H olmby Hills was part of L.A.’s Golden Triangle, along with Bel Air and Beverly Hills. Back in the day, the developers decided underground utilities, tree-lined streets, and large lots for multimillion-dollar homes would ensure seclusion and exclusivity for anyone who could afford to live there. It had made unlikely neighbors out of heiresses and old-money industrialists, rock stars and Hollywood insiders—some of them living on the same street as the Playboy