Evening Bags and Executions by Dorothy Howell Page A

mansion.
    I exited the 405 freeway on Sunset Boulevard and headed east. When I’d gotten to the office this morning I’d decided that if I was going to keep this job—and I was definitely keeping this job—I absolutely had to meet Sheridan Adams and try to figure out how I was possibly going to pull off this Beatles-themed party of hers—without making it look like that was the purpose of my visit, of course.
    I’d made an appointment with her after mentioning Vanessa Lord’s name, which, apparently, even though I was a total stranger, assured Sheridan I wasn’t some psycho attempting to gain entrance to her home and steal something.
    Sheridan had a lot of things worth stealing, according to the articles I’d read on the Internet, though how a burglar would find his way through what must have been a maze of rooms to get to the good stuff, I had no idea.
    I mean, really, a house that had a flower-cutting room, a humidity-controlled silver storage room, a gift-wrapping room, a doll room, along with the umpteen other rooms, would surely require a GPS unit to navigate.
    Sunset Boulevard wound through the hills lined with fabulous homes set on equally fabulous grounds. I passed the entrance to Bel Air and a zillion memories flashed in my mind.
    Ty’s grandmother, Ada, lives in Bel Air.
    She’s a hoot. We’d spent a lot of time together in Europe during what was supposed to be a romantic getaway with Ty. He worked for most of the trip—Ty always worked—so thank goodness Ada was there and I’d had someone to shop with.
    I wondered if Ada knew Ty and I had broken up.
    That little empty spot in my belly ached again at the thought of Ty. I pushed it away. Marcie was right. Ty and I had broken up. And that was that.
    Then Shuman zoomed into my head, and that little empty spot throbbed in a whole different way. His girlfriend had been killed. I could hardly believe Amanda was gone, and I could only imagine how devastated Shuman was.
    But, according to what Detective Madison had told me, Shuman wasn’t content to sit at home and mourn her loss. The LAPD didn’t take away a detective’s shield and gun for no reason. Shuman must have been investigating Amanda’s murder on his own.
    I’d checked the Internet last night after I’d gotten home, hoping to find some info about Amanda’s death, but I didn’t discover anything. The District Attorney’s office had put a lid on the incident, apparently. I’d called Shuman before I went to bed, then again this morning, but so far I hadn’t heard from him.
    I drove past the UCLA campus, then turned onto Beverly Glen Boulevard. I really wanted to talk to Shuman. I had to find out how he was holding up, how he was managing without Amanda.
    Ty popped back into my head again, and that little ache in my belly got worse. I couldn’t imagine what I’d do if something happened to Ty. For a few crazy seconds I wanted to whip my Honda around, head downtown to his office, throw my arms around him, and make sure he was okay.
    I don’t know what I’d do if he actually died. It was hard enough thinking he was engaged—to Sarah Covington, of all people.
    I hate her.
    I turned onto Wyton Drive, then made a quick right onto Mapleton. The streets here were narrow and winding, some of them steep, most of them laid out in a pattern that made no sense, just followed the slope of the hills. Residents loved their privacy. Towering trees and thick shrubs blocked out all but an occasional glimpse of a tennis court or a roofline. Massive walls and heavy gates discouraged the paparazzi, stalkers, and star-gazing tourists.
    I swung into the driveway of the Adams home—mansion, actually—and announced my arrival at the call box. The gate rolled back. I parked in the circular drive and got out.
    The house was roughly the size of the Superdome, a white behemoth that looked like maybe its architect had