“No worries, honey. Angel and I caught some rays while we were waiting for you. It’s going to be another hot one today.” Stan rolled a white T-shirt over his head. “Your tub should be ready for pick up tomorrow, princess. Soon you’ll be soaking in a bubble bath.”
“Hallelujah. You just made my day.”
“I live to see you smile,” Stan said.
I chuckled, doubtful. Stan might live to see guys on Santa Monica Boulevard smile, but I was pretty sure Stan lived to see me write him a check at the end of the week. I opened the passenger door of my car and reached for the box.
“Let me help you, Miss Liz.” Angel took the carton off the passenger seat and followed me up the brick path to the porch.
“You can set the box on the floor by the fireplace. Thank you,” I said, following them in.
Erzulie waited in the center of the living room floor to greet me. At the sight of a man with a box heading her way, she jerked back, did a fake to her right, then swerved to her left, doing a low belly scramble around the sofa and into the den beyond the living room.
Though I was eager to get to work on emptying the box, my rumbling stomach had another idea. My lone Dodger dog at the game was my last meal.
Stan dropped his toolbox at the foot of the stairway, and then started back outside.
I stopped him at the door. “I’m going to run over to Aroma for breakfast. Do you want me to pick up some food for you and Angel? Lattes? Croissants?”
“No, thanks, we caught breakfast on our way and had coffee while we were waiting for you. We’re good. You go. I want to get to work,” he said.
“Running over” in L.A. speak meant getting in my car and driving the four blocks to Aroma, the popular café nestled in Tujunga Village amid artsy shops, yoga studios, and restaurants. With luck, I’d find a parking space nearby. Given a miracle, the line outside wouldn’t be too long.
After I circled the block twice, a space opened in front of Two Roads, a sixty-seat local theater down the block on Tujunga. Only four people waited in line outside Aroma. Before long I sipped a creamy latte, people watching while I waited for an Aroma Panini to be delivered to my sidewalk table.
Just as the waiter set the plate of focaccia filled with scrambled eggs, cheddar, tomato, avocado, and smoked bacon on my table, my phone rang. I checked caller ID. Area code 404—Atlanta. Ugh. Laycee? She had the nerve to call me after last night? To tell me she aced her audition? Despite my dislike for the woman and a strong wish to forget I knew her, I could still recite her cell phone number from memory. And it wasn’t the number on the screen.
Curious, I slid the unlock bar on the screen to answer.
“Liz? This is Forrest Huber. Laycee’s husband.”
I eased back in my chair. “Forrest, it’s been a while. How are you?”
“I can’t find Laycee. Do you know where she is?”
Damn her for using me as her excuse.
“I don’t. I’m sorry. She doesn’t answer her cell?” Laycee wore her cell phone like a lifeline. She may have been born holding one.
“No,” he said, clearly irritated. “I haven’t heard from her this morning. I tried her cell several times. She’s not at the hotel. I thought she was spending the day with you. Are you meeting her later?”
I closed my eyes and sighed, reminded again of Forrest’s possessive hold on Laycee. It would be so easy for me to blow her cover. Such great revenge to tell Forrest his wife lied to him, that she was probably running around somewhere with Kyle or auditioning for a reality show. I really wanted to tell Forrest his cheating tramp of a wife would be the last person I would spend my time with. Forrest didn’t deserve being the target of my wrath, however. So why upset him more?
“I saw Laycee yesterday…” I hesitated. If I mentioned last night’s ball game, he might ask for details. “…morning. She said she’d call me though I haven’t heard from her today. If I do, I’ll tell her to contact you right away.”
“Please do.” The distance between Atlanta and Los Angeles didn’t temper the annoyance and suspicion in his voice. He hung up without saying good-bye.
I ate enough to satisfy my hunger then called my answering service. Three messages came in overnight—all hang ups. Rare but not unusual. My outgoing office message instructs clients to leave a message or, in emergencies, hang up and dial 911. Occasionally one or two hang ups preceded a call, a day or two later, from a nervous new client seeking an appointment.
My next stop was at Ralph’s Market on Ventura and Vineland for supplies. Then, with my trunk loaded with milk, coffee, fresh fruit, and cat food in every fish-related flavor, I headed for home to face the task of emptying boxes.
Seeing my old tub in Stan’s truck bed encouraged me. Progress. I carried the bags into the house and put away the groceries. As I finished stacking cat food by label color in the pantry cupboard, I heard my cell phone ringing in my purse in the foyer and went to answer.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, thank God you’re all right.” She sounded breathless.
“What’s wrong?”