Death of a Gigolo

by Laura Levine

  Now he was crying for real, and at the sight of all those tears, I felt my anger draining away.

  “Don’t be crazy, Lance. No matter what happens with Dickie, you and I will always be friends.”

  “Does that mean you’ve forgiven me for being such a rat tonight?”

  “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On whether you toss me the rest of the Oreos.”

  “Oh, Jaine!” He wrapped me in a big bear hug. “I really do love you.”

  “No, I was serious. Pass me those Oreos. I’m starving.”

  “I’ll do better than that. I’ll take you to dinner at your favorite restaurant, Obicà Mozzarella Bar.”

  That sealed it. We were BFFs again.

  “And I was wrong about Dickie,” Lance said, giving my hand a squeeze. “He seems like a really nice guy.”

  An indignant yowl from Prozac.

  Traitor!

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: The High Road

  Dearest Lambchop—I’ve decided to take the high road and forgive your mom for throwing out Big Al’s styling wax. Clearly, she’s still jealous of all the attention my hair has been getting.

  And to show her there are no hard feelings, I’m taking her to Le Chateaubriand for dinner.

  Love’n hugs from

  Your magnanimous,

  DaddyO

  PS. Can’t wait to wow everyone at the restaurant with my hot new hairdo.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Darn It to Heck!

  Darn it to heck! Daddy wants to show off his new haircut at Le Chateaubriand. Just the thought of being seen in public with his smelly do gives me the willies. But as you well know, Le Chateaubriand happens to be Tampa Vista’s most exclusive restaurant, and I simply can’t resist their molten chocolate lava cake.

  Maybe, if I play my cards right, Daddy and I can sit at separate tables.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: What a Fiasco!

  Just got back from Le Chateaubriand. What a fiasco. The maître d’ took one sniff of Daddy’s smelly hair, and for a minute I thought he was going to refuse to seat us.

  But there were plenty of tables available, so he was trapped. With great reluctance, he led us to a table as far from everyone else as possible. Clearly, he didn’t want Daddy stinking up the room.

  Once the busboy dropped off some rolls at our table and ran for cover, Daddy and I ordered chateaubriand for two, which usually tastes divine. But not tonight. Not with the cloud of rotting fish hanging over us.

  Then, just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse, I looked up and saw the maître d’ leading another couple over to our corner of the restaurant. By now the place was filling up and he had no choice but to sit people near us.

  I almost fainted when I saw the couple. It was Harvy, our hair stylist, out to dinner with his wife.

  I already told you how sensitive Harvy is and how furious he was with me for “cheating” on him at Supercuts. Well, my Supercut was nothing compared to Daddy’s Haircut from Hell.

  I lowered my eyes and prayed he wouldn’t recognize us. But the next thing I heard was:

  “My God, Hank! What did you do to your hair?”

  “Got a new cut,” Daddy grinned. “Isn’t it great?”

  “Oh, it’s fabulous,” Harvy said.

  Anyone with half an ear could tell his voice was dripping with sarcasm, but not Daddy.

  “That’s seems to be the general consensus,” Daddy crowed as Harvy stalked off, fuming.

  I finished what was left of my steak, but my heart wasn’t it. I kept wondering if Harvy would ever forgive Daddy and—even more important—hoping he wasn’t mad at me, too.

  Finally, when the waiter had cleared away our dinner plates, I mustered up my courage and headed over to talk to him.

  “Harvy, dear,” I said as I approached his table, “I’m so sorry Hank went to another salon.”

  “Where your husband chooses to get his hair cut is his business, not mine,” Harvy sniffed, icy as could be.

  “I certainly hope this doesn’t affect our relationship,” I said, with my most ingratiating smile. “I’ve been meaning to call to set up an appointment.”

  “I’m afraid I’m booked up for the next several months.”

  His wife looked at me, eyes full of pity.

  Darn it all! I’ve just been excommunicated by the best stylist in Tampa Vistas, all because of Daddy!

  XOXO from

  Your furious,

  Mom

  PS. I was so upset by the end of the meal, I could hardly scrape the last of the molten chocolate lava from my plate.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Harvy Loves It!

  Just got back from Le Chateaubriand, Lambchop, where the maître d’, clearly impressed by my new look, gave us the VIP treatment—seating us in a secluded romantic nook. What’s more, Harvy, the guy who normally cuts my hair, stopped by our table and told me my new cut looked fabulous.

  Love’n snuggles from,

  DaddyO

  Chapter 25

  The day of Tommy’s burial at sea dawned bright and sunny.

  If he were still alive, he’d have been at the pool working on his tan.

  Daisy had me book a whoppingly expensive 100-foot yacht for the occasion, a gleaming teak and brass beauty complete with lounging salon, three bedrooms, and a kitchen—not to mention a captain and crew.

  “I know it seems extravagant,” she said of the $5,000 price tag, “but I want to send Tommy off in style.”

  And so, at one o’clock that afternoon, I was seated out on the deck of the yacht with Daisy and my fellow celebrants—I mean, mourners—waiting for the captain to get clearance to set sail.

  Daisy sat with Clayton and Esme on a plush white leather banquette on one side of the deck, while Raymond, Solange, and I sat across from them in equally plush armchairs.

  Propped up on a table between us was an urn containing Tommy’s ashes, alongside a framed photo of the dearly departed, smiling the same oily smile he’d been smirking the first day I met him.

  Daisy had invited Raymond and Solange as guests—not hired help—in recognition of all the extra work they’d done for Tommy. That’s what she said, anyway. I suspect she just wanted more mourners at the ceremony.

  We’d all been urged not to wear black; Daisy wanted the memorial to be “as bright and festive as Tommy.”

  And indeed Daisy was clad in a turquoise pantsuit, accessorized with a pair of beautiful turquoise drop earrings Tommy had “given” her—no doubt courtesy of Daisy’s credit card.

  So there we were, sipping champagne that was meant for the wedding and chomping down on the kind of delicate “sissy food” Tommy would have hated—avocado toast, mini quiches, mushroom-gruyere flatbread, and caviar with crème fraîche.

  I glanced over at Tommy’s photo, and for the briefest instant, I swear his smile turned into a scowl. I could almost hear him whining, Where’s the beef jerky?

  I was busy inhaling some avocado toast, and wondering if Mom would ever worm her way back into Harvy’s good graces, when one of the yacht’s stewards approached.

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said to Daisy. “Another guest has arrived.”

  “Another guest?” Daisy blinked, surprised. “I didn’t invite any other guests.”

  Then the mystery guest came into view.

  It was Kate, holding a large bouquet of daisies.

  I’d spoken with her earlier in the week and mentioned the burial, but had no idea she’d actually show up.

  Daisy stiffened at the sight of her

  “Hello, Daisy,” Kate said with a tentative smile. “I came to pay my respects.”

  Daisy remained ramrod straight.

  “Is that so? P
erhaps you should’ve shown some of that respect to Tommy when he was alive. I know all about your horrible voodoo doll.”

  Kate blushed.

  “Forgive me, Daisy. I was under a lot of stress. You know I’d never do anything to upset you.”

  “I’m sorry,” Daisy said, “but until I’m certain you didn’t kill Tommy, there’s no place for you in my life—or on this boat. I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”

  She looked around for the crewman, but he was nowhere in sight.

  “Jaine, dear,” Daisy said, turning to me, “please show Kate off the boat.”

  Grabbing another hors d’oeuvre for the road, I got up and escorted Kate to the gangplank, grateful to have a chance to chat with her.

  “Damn,” she said when we were out of earshot of the others. “I was hoping Daisy would have forgiven me by now. It’s impossible lining up work without a reference.”

  “Here,” I said. “Have some avocado toast. That’ll make you feel better.”

  “Thanks,” she said, scarfing it down.

  Like me, Kate was never too depressed to eat.

  “So how’s it going with your investigation?” she asked, a misplaced glimmer of hope in her eyes.

  “About the same as it was the last time we spoke. Plenty of suspects. No evidence. Although I managed to bust Raymond’s alibi yesterday.”

  “Really?”

  “He wasn’t with his brother at Home Depot like he claimed, but that’s no proof he killed Tommy.”

  “Well, keep trying. Any minute now, I’ll probably be a friendly neighborhood Uber driver. And I won’t even get that gig if they find out I’m a suspect in Tommy’s murder.”

  Brimming with guilt for not having made more progress, I promised to do my best to unearth Tommy’s killer. Then we hugged good-bye and Kate walked down the gangplank, shoulders slumped, the bouquet of daisies limp in her arms.

  I was on my way back to join the mourners when I saw Raymond and Solange standing together at the yacht’s railing, out of view of the others.

  “Hey, Jaine,” Raymond said, spotting me. “You’re just in time. Solange and I are going to have our own private burial at sea.”

  With that, Solange reached into her purse and took out a jumbo-sized bag of Tater Tots.

  “May I never look at another one of these as long as I live,” Raymond said, tossing them overboard.

  “And may I never look at a pair of these!” Solange said, hurling a pair of Tommy’s thongs into the sea.

  “Adios, Tommy!” they giggled.

  Once again, I was reminded of how much they hated Tommy, and how much they stood to gain from his death.

  * * *

  It took us more than an hour to get to Malibu, during which time the champagne was flowing. And flowing. By the time we reached the waters below Tommy’s favorite restaurant, most of the mourners were pretty well sloshed.

  Only Daisy seemed on the sober side of a DUI.

  So when she asked everyone to say a little something about the dearly departed, I shuddered to think of what they’d say.

  “Scheming sociopath” and “selfish bastard” were words that came to mind.

  But fortunately everyone managed to rein in their true thoughts.

  “I can honestly say I never met anyone quite like him,” Raymond said.

  “Yes, he was certainly one of a kind,” Solange echoed.

  “I loved the chili cheese dogs he ordered from Pink’s” was the best I could do.

  When it was her turn, Esme launched into a highly fictional ode to Tommy, babbling on about what a kind, spirited, fun-loving lad he’d been, “a joyous burst of energy in our humdrum lives.”

  Never had I heard so much bilge pour out of one woman’s mouth.

  We all listened to her, trying to control our gag reflexes. Everyone except Daisy, of course, who smiled at Esme gratefully.

  When Esme finally wrapped up her spiel, it was Clayton’s turn to speak.

  Clad in khakis and a blue blazer, his silver hair glinting in the sun, he looked every inch the yachtsman as he took Daisy’s hand in his.

  I flashed back to that tennis match where Tommy had humiliated him so badly, and the look of utter loathing in Clayton’s eyes when he’d conceded defeat to his rival.

  Clayton had clearly detested Tommy, but now those feelings were tucked away out of sight as he smiled lovingly at Daisy.

  “I liked that he made you happy, Daisy.”

  “Oh, Clayton!” she cried. “That’s so very kind of you.”

  She gazed at him with newfound appreciation and gave his hand a squeeze. Well played, Clayton!

  Daisy’s eulogy was short and heartfelt.

  “I’m afraid if I talk too much, I’ll start to cry. All I can say is that Tommy brought me a great deal of happiness and I shall never forget him.”

  This was it. The big moment. Time for Tommy to swim with the fishes.

  Daisy picked up the urn and gazed at it, eyes brimming with tears. Then she brought it to her lips and kissed it. Taking a deep breath, she pried the lid open and flung Tommy’s ashes into the sea.

  Behind me, I could hear Solange whisper to Raymond, “I thought he’d never leave.”

  As Tommy’s ashes hit the water, the sun disappeared behind a cloud.

  The ocean suddenly seemed dark and brooding, as if saying, What’s HE doing here?

  Daisy, who’d kept it together up until this point, began crying softly.

  “There, there,” Esme said, clutching Daisy to her flat bosom. “You mustn’t cry. Esme’s here.”

  Clayton hurriedly reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, and as he did, a small slip of paper fluttered to the floor.

  But Clayton didn’t notice, caught up as he was in wiping away Daisy’s tears.

  I bent down to pick it up and saw it was a credit card receipt.

  Something—call it my part-time, semi-professional sleuthing instinct—made me slip it in my purse.

  And I was mighty glad I did.

  Because the minute I’d excused myself to use the restroom, I took a closer look at it and saw that it was a restaurant receipt in Clayton’s name from the Bel Air Bar & Grill.

  And here’s where it gets really interesting.

  The receipt was dated the day of Tommy’s murder.

  So Clayton hadn’t been visiting his son in Carmel, after all.

  He’d been right here in Los Angeles, within easy stabbing distance of Tommy.

  Chapter 26

  It was definitely time for a chat with the neighborhood tennis ace.

  The next day I took a break from the turquoise mines and trotted down the street to his house.

  Not nearly as elaborate as Daisy’s place, it was still an impressive piece of 1920s Tudor architecture, with beveled glass windows and wood beams crisscrossing the stucco exterior.

  I rang the bell, setting off a series of mellifluous chimes.

  The door was quickly opened by Clayton’s valet, Marco—the same hulking guy who’d stopped off at La Belle Vie the day of the murder with a wedding gift.

  “May I help you?” he asked.

  With his beefy frame filling the doorway, he looked more like a professional wrestler than a butler in Bel Air.

  “Hi, I’m Jaine Austen. We met at Daisy’s house.”

  “Right,” he said, nodding. “I remember.”

  “I was hoping to speak with Mr. Manning.”

  “He’s in the den. Let me tell him you’re here.”

  He ushered me into the foyer, where I waited next to a potted fern and a framed oil painting of Clayton in his tennis whites.

  Soon Marco was back.

  “Right this way,” he said, leading me down a corridor.

  He opened the door to a spacious den, where Clayton was seated on a sectional sofa, playing a video game on a wall-mounted TV. Another wall, I noticed, was chockablock with photos.

  Clayton jumped up to greet me, pausing his video game and beaming me his courtly
smile as Marco drifted out of the room.

  “How nice to see you, Jaine.”

  “Hope I’m not interrupting.

  “No, no. Just playing a little video tennis.”

  He gestured to the TV screen, where athletic avatars were frozen mid-game. Why did I get the feeling this was where Clayton scored most of his tennis victories?

  “That’s my family,” he said, following my gaze as I turned to look at the wall filled with photos. “My late wife.” He pointed to several pictures of a motherly gal with a distinct resemblance to Daisy.

  Who says men don’t choose the same woman over and over again?

  “And here are my kids, my grandkids, my great-grandkids. Oh, here I am with Andre Agassi. Terrific guy. And John McEnroe. Don’t believe what you’ve read about him. A real softie. I actually gave him a few tips on how to improve his game.”

  Ouch. I could just imagine how well that must have gone over.

  “Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the sofa.

  “I have something I need to return to you,” I said, perching kitty-corner from him on the sectional. Then I handed him the receipt from the Bel Air Bar & Grill, which I’d prudently copied on Daisy’s printer. “You dropped this on the yacht yesterday.”