by Laura Levine
I was driving along on my burger prowl when I noticed a sign for a restaurant called Christophe.
Wait a minute. Wasn’t that the fancy French restaurant where Raymond had been a chef? I doubted they’d serve burgers, but I decided to stop in anyway. I hadn’t forgotten about Raymond’s phony alibi for the day of the murder, and I wanted to see what dirt I could dig up on him.
Unwilling to spend one more minute scouring the streets for a parking spot, I forked over eight bucks to have a valet park my Corolla. Heaven knows where he was going to find a space for it. Probably somewhere in Burbank.
After watching him lurch off in my car, I made my way into the restaurant, a minimalist joint where everything was white: the walls, the tablecloths, the chairs, the customers.
The only spot of color was the deep eggplant carpeting.
A few diners were scattered around the room, impeccably dressed and reeking of money. Needless to say, I was way out of place in my elastic waist jeans and L.L.Bean crew neck.
A pencil-thin maître d’ stood behind a podium, eyeing me much as he’d look at a cockroach who’d just strolled in off the street.
“Reservations?” he asked.
“Plenty. But I’m eating here anyway.”
Of course I didn’t really say that, but merely confessed I’d not booked a table in advance.
He pursed his lips in disapproval and with a reluctant sigh led me to a distant table near the kitchen, clearly the gulag of the restaurant.
“Bon appétit,” he muttered, still eyeing me askance as he tossed me a leather-bound menu.
I opened it and gasped in disbelief.
I thought the valet was expensive. The menu made the parking look like a Bluelight Special at Kmart.
The prices started at fifteen bucks and skyrocketed up to the nineties.
What’s worse, everything was written in French.
I was still reeling from the prices when two busboys descended on me: One brought me a glass of water, while the other lifted a warm roll from a basket with a pair of tongs and gently set it down on my butter plate.
I sure hoped the roll was free. If so, I wondered if I could get away with eating bread and water for lunch.
It was then that I was approached by my wannabe actress /waitress, a stunning young blonde straight out of a Hitchcock movie, Grace Kelly reincarnated. Unlike the surly maître d’, she flashed me a welcoming smile and asked if she could get me anything to drink. Some wine, perhaps?
I assured her that water was just fine.
“Have you decided what you’d like to eat?” G. Kelly asked.
“Yes, I’ll have this,” I said, pointing to something I’d discovered at the bottom of the menu for only six bucks. Whatever it was, I was ordering it.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “but that’s the service charge for splitting an entrée.”
Talk about mortified. Thanks heavens Mrs. Wallis, my high school French teacher, wasn’t there to witness my humiliation.
I guess G. Kelly saw how embarrassed I was, because she then leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, “The prices here are ridiculous.”
What a sweet, understanding young woman! I only hoped she’d win an Oscar one day.
“How about this?” I asked, pointing to one of the fifteen-dollar appetizers.
“Octopus in a baby corn and artichoke coulis,” she said, shaking her head in warning. “Not one of my favorites.”
“You pick something for me.”
Hopefully something I wouldn’t need to take out a bank loan to pay for.
“You like pasta?” she asked.
“Love it,” I said.
After pizza it’s my favorite P food, with peanut butter a close third.
“Get the tagliatelle and mushroom appetizer,” she said, pointing to one of the fifteen-dollar dishes. “It’s one of the few items on the menu that isn’t French and it’s really good.”
I thanked her for her recommendation, and she floated off to place my order.
By now I was fairly peckish and scarfed down my roll in record time. I was salivating at the thought of a heaping plate of pasta when G. Kelly returned with my tagliatelle.
She placed it in front of me and I blinked in disbelief.
There, in the middle of the plate, was a tiny mound of pasta about the size of a potato pancake.
Never had I seen such a small portion.
“Believe it or not,” G. Kelly said, seeing the look of astonishment on my face, “this is one of our more generous appetizers.”
Holy moly. No wonder the rich were so thin!
I inhaled it in about three bites, and seconds later a busboy was whisking away my plate.
Soon after that, G. Kelly returned.
“Any room for dessert?” she asked.
Was she kidding? That tagliatelle was rattling around my tummy like a pinball in outer space.
“Nope. I’m stuffed.”
We both had a hearty chuckle over that one.
I’d been so gobsmacked by Christophe’s nosebleed-expensive prices, I’d almost forgotten the reason I stopped by. Time to get some dirt on Raymond.
Luckily the place was still pretty empty, so G. Kelly had time to gab.
“I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” I said when she brought me my check.
“I figured you were a tourist who didn’t know any better.”
“Actually, I know someone who used to work here. A chef named Raymond.”
“Really?” she asked, taken aback. “Raymond is a friend of yours?”
“More of an acquaintance. He’s a private chef for the woman I work for.”
“Wow,” G. Kelly said, shaking her head in wonder. “He’s still working as a chef? After what happened here, I didn’t think he’d be able to land a job anywhere.”
I perked up, interested. I sensed some hot gossip coming down the pike.
“Why?” I asked. “What happened?”
She looked around to make sure no one was watching and leaned in to tell me.
“He got into a big fight with Christophe, went running after him with a butcher’s knife. Fortunately the dishwashers were able to restrain him. Christophe fired him on the spot. It was all over the restaurant grapevine. I thought he’d never work again.
“Whoops,” she said, “some poor suckers just sat at one of my tables. Gotta run.”
She dashed off, and I paid the bill, leaving her a very generous tip—for excellent service and the fascinating nugget of info she’d just lobbed in my lap.
So Raymond had a history of violence, attacking his employer. With a knife, yet.
Who knows? Maybe he’d gone after Tommy, too.
Only this time, maybe he got the job done.
Chapter 32
I finally found a Mickey D’s, where I proceeded to scarf down a Quarter Pounder in record time. I figured I didn’t need any fries, what with the roll and tagliatelle I’d eaten at Christophe. But I ordered them anyway.
Sue me.
Driving back to Daisy’s, I intended to corner Raymond in the kitchen and confront him with what I’d discovered. But before I even had a chance to put my purse in my desk drawer, he came storming into my office.
“I got a call from my brother a little while ago,” he said, oozing fury.
I recoiled in horror. Not because he’d spoken with his brother, but because in his hand he held a large, gleaming butcher’s knife.
Omigod. The man was a homicidal maniac! Was history about to repeat itself? Was I about to be sliced and diced to oblivion?
“Take one step closer with that knife,” I said, my voice a terrified squeak, “and I’ll scream.”
He looked down at the knife, as if puzzled to find it there.
“Don’t be an idiot,” he said, putting it down on Kate’s desk. “I was trimming a rack of lamb when I heard you come in, and I was so damn mad I forgot I had it in my hand.”
My heart, which had been thumping like a conga drum, resum
ed its normal beat.
Raymond, on the other hand, was still red-faced with anger, somewhere between a simmer and a high boil.
“My brother told me someone passing herself off as ‘Detective Mildred Pierce’ stopped by his house to question him. It turns out she wasn’t a cop after all, which he found out when the real police stopped by in the middle of her visit. And according to my brother’s description of Detective Pierce, she looked an awful lot like you.”
“Guilty as charged,” I confessed.
“What the hell were you doing there?”
By now he was definitely at full boil. But seeing as he had abandoned his knife, I wasn’t about to be intimidated.
“I was busting your alibi for the morning of the murder. Before the real cops showed up, I had quite an informative chat with your brother. Apparently while you were shopping for a coffee table at Home Depot, your brother was looking for a coffeemaker at Ikea.”
And just like that, the stuffing was knocked out of him.
“I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that idiot to stick with the script,” Raymond sighed, slumping down in Kate’s chair.
“And it gets worse. I just had lunch at a charming little restaurant called Christophe, where I was served the smallest meal in the history of dining—along with an interesting tale about you chasing Christophe with a butcher’s knife.”
“Okay,” he groaned, “I wasn’t with my brother the morning of the murder. I was out interviewing for another job. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy landing one given what happened with Christophe. But I couldn’t stand Tommy bossing me around one more minute. And the last thing I want is for Daisy to find out, especially now that she’s raised our salaries back to where they were before Tommy slashed them. So, yes, I’ve been lying about my alibi, but I swear I didn’t kill Tommy.”
Maybe he did. Maybe he didn’t.
All I knew was that I intended to keep a safe distance between me and his butcher’s knife.
Chapter 33
I don’t know how much more of this I can stand, Clarissa thought.
The sun beat down on her back as she wielded her pickax, digging turquoise nuggets from the rocky shoals.
But it wasn’t the sun that was stoking her fire. No, it was her proximity to Max Laredo, the gruff turquoise miner who, after several weeks by her side, no longer seemed quite so gruff.
Now she turned to see that he’d taken off his T-shirt, and before she could stop herself, she gasped at the sight of his bronzed muscles and six-pack abs glistening in the blazing sun.
“Ms. Weatherly? Are you all right?”
Max was looking at her with eyes as blue as the turquoise they were mining.
“I . . . I’m fine,” Clarissa managed to say, trying not to stare at those magnificent abs.
“Well, I’m not,” Max said, taking their pickaxes and flinging them aside. “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I first laid eyes on you!”
And with that he wrapped her in his sinewy arms, where they clung together, lips locked, sweat mingling, two hearts beating as one.
Clarissa was groaning in ecstasy at the feel of Max’s rugged body next to hers when suddenly she heard her cell phone ringing—and ringing—and ringing—
No, wait. That wasn’t Clarissa’s phone. It was mine.
It was the day after my confrontation with Raymond and his butcher’s knife, and I’d been at my desk all morning, churning out torrid prose for C. Weatherly. Now I clicked open my phone and did a little gasping of my own to see a text from Dickie!
Sorry I’ve been AWOL. Swamped at work. Dinner at my condo this Saturday?
And just like that, Disney bluebirds were chirping on my shoulder.
I hadn’t messed things up with Dickie, after all!
Wasting no time, I typed in an enthusiastic You betcha!
It was hard to concentrate on C. Weatherly after that. The only steamy love scenes I seemed to dream up were ones involving me, Dickie, and a vat of Chunky Monkey.
I was utterly lost in fantasyland until noon, when Solange poked her head in the door.
“Lunch on the patio,” she announced. “Lobster salad.”
Lobster salad, huh? At last, something to yank me back to reality.
* * *
Out on the patio, Daisy sat bracketed by Clayton and Esme—Clayton firmly ensconced in “Tommy’s” chair, boasting about a tennis match he’d just played.
“And then I beat him, 40–love. It was an absolute triumph!”
Across from Clayton, Esme sat, tall and regal, a cruise brochure splayed out in front of her.
“Jaine, dear,” Daisy said, catching sight of me. “Come join us.”
She was clad in her usual turquoise, but I couldn’t help but notice the dark circles under her eyes. I suspected she wasn’t getting very much sleep.
“How’s the book coming along?” she asked, as I took a seat next to Esme.
“Great!”
“I don’t have the energy to read it right now,” she said with a wan smile. “But I will soon. I promise.”
“Daisy, darling,” Esme clucked. “You’re exhausted. I can’t wait till we set sail on our cruise. It’s just what you need to restore your spirits.”
“I’m so happy you were able to get tickets to join us,” Daisy said to Clayton.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” he said, patting her hand.
“And don’t forget the Bel Air Animal Welfare League luncheon next week,” Esme said. “That should be so much fun!”
No doubt about it. Clayton and Esme were back in the saddle, having resumed their former roles as Daisy’s besties.
And they weren’t the only ones in a good mood.
Solange had a definite spring in her step as she moved around the table, serving us our lobster salads.
Which were, to quote Esme, “Divine! Simply Divine!”
At the end of the meal, Daisy summoned Raymond from the kitchen to tell him what a wonderful job he’d done.
“My pleasure, Ms. Kincaid,” beamed the ponytailed chef.
I watched Daisy as she graced everyone with her wan smile.
The poor woman didn’t have a clue that one of them was a killer.
Chapter 34
As it turned out, there was another hot suspect waiting in the wings.
I was at Kate’s computer later that afternoon paying Daisy’s bills when I came across a check made out to Arlene Zimmer—Tommy’s Wonder Woman ex-girlfriend.
I remembered how furious she’d been the day she stormed into the living room at La Belle Vie, going postal on Tommy, trying to strangle him. Up to this point, I hadn’t considered her a suspect because she wasn’t at the house the day of the murder. But now I wondered if she’d found a way to sneak into La Belle Vie and knock off her cheating ex.
Thanks to the helpful folks at whitepages.com, I got what I hoped was Arlene’s address and left work early to track her down.
Following Google Maps’ prompts, I wound up at a modern high-rise in Hollywood, with a NOW LEASING! banner strung across the front apartments. In a rare burst of good luck, I found a place to park in front of the building, and soon I was at the intercom, buzzing Arlene Zimmer’s apartment.
No answer. Damn! I should’ve called first.
I returned to my car and was merging back into traffic when I saw a bright red Miata zooming out of the building’s underground parking. The vanity plates on the car read ARLENEZ. It had to be her.
It looked like lady luck was back at my side.
Soon I was following ARLENEZ along Santa Monica Boulevard, going farther and farther east, the buildings growing shabbier with each block, until she pulled into the parking lot of a place called The Body Shop. A billboard of a pouty blonde with unnaturally ginormous boobs atop the building let me know this was not an auto repair establishment.
If I wasn’t mistaken, it looked like Arlene Zimmer was a stripper.
I pulled in after her and watched her emerge from her Miata
in a belted trench coat and backbreaking five-inch stilettos. Her battleship boobs were poised for action, makeup slathered on with a trowel, hair puffed out with enough extensions to upholster a small sofa.
It was Tommy’s ex-girlfriend, all right. I bolted out of my car and sprinted after her as she headed for a side entrance.
“Wait up!” I called out. “I need to talk to you.”
Either she didn’t hear me or she wasn’t in the mood for a chat. Before I could catch up with her, she’d disappeared into the building.
I was about to follow her when I heard a booming voice:
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I turned to see a hulking bulldog of a man glowering down at me.
“I need to speak to the woman who just went inside.”
“Sorry,” he said, planting his hammy fist on the door. “Our entertainers speak only to paying customers.”
Accent on the paying.
“The only way you’re getting into the club is through the front door,” he said, leading me to The Body Shop’s main entrance and waving me inside to a dank hallway.
There I was greeted by another goon perched on a stool, who expected me to fork over thirty bucks for a cover charge.
“Thirty dollars?” I balked.
“You don’t get to look for free, sweetie. This ain’t a charity.”
Reluctantly I handed him my credit card, hoping the gang at Visa wouldn’t judge me too harshly when they saw the charge on my bill.
Once inside the club—a dimly lit room reeking of beer and Mr. Clean—a bored, gum-chewing gal in a threadbare bikini ushered me to a table at the front of the house.
At this hour, the place was pretty empty except for a few glassy-eyed lechers and a bunch of rowdy college kids. The college kids, in USC sweatshirts, testosterone run amok, were shouting crude comments at the topless dancers—way too crude for your delicate ears.
Let’s just say they wanted to give great big hugs to the nice ladies onstage.
One of whom was Arlene Zimmer, listlessly shaking her stuff in a G-string and pasties. Seated so close to the stage, I could hear her saying to the gal next to her, “I hate working this shift. Just a bunch of losers and lesbos.”
