Murder Gets a Makeover

by Laura Levine

  “If it’s about Prozac,” I said, holding out my palms in protest, “forget it.”

  “You mean the story about Prozac saving another life? Nah. Been there, done that. This is much more exciting.”

  Over on the sofa, Prozac let out an indignant meow.

  Nothing is more exciting than moi!

  “Guess who showed up at Neiman’s yesterday?” Lance asked, helping himself to half of my CRB. “The police! They took Sven in for questioning.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I told you all along he was the killer. If I hadn’t brought his DNA to the police, the case never would have been solved! And to think, you dismissed my brilliant detective work. You’re not the only one who can solve a murder, you know.”

  Color me flabbergasted. Could Lance possibly be right? Was Sven the killer? Had all my snooping been a royal waste of time? And most important, was Lance about to be the hero of this particular tale?

  I’m ashamed to admit, I felt the teensiest stab of jealousy.

  “Well, I’m off to the spa,” he said, sailing out the door. “Must get myself camera ready for all the press I’m certain to receive.”

  The rest of the day passed in an irritating blur.

  Starting when I opened my emails and read about Daddy’s raid at The Hideaway Motel. Those missionaries must have been scared half out of their wits. And poor Mom. How she puts up with Daddy’s antics, I’ll never know. Honestly, sometimes I think Daddy should have come with a warning from the surgeon general that “marrying this man can be hazardous to your mental health.”

  And as if dealing with Daddy’s motel fiasco weren’t enough, the phone kept ringing with calls from news outlets wanting to chat about Prozac—all of which I ignored. The sooner Pro got out of the limelight, the happier I’d be.

  But the constant calls were getting on my nerves.

  That is, until my phone lit up with a very intriguing text from a certain Edwin Alonzo Allbritton—who just happened to be the philanthropist whose life Prozac had saved. The text read:

  Call my office ASAP.

  I did as directed and got a piece of news that more than made up for the day’s aggravation.

  Edwin Alonzo, that delightful fellow, informed me that he was cutting me a check for fifty thousand dollars as a reward for Prozac having saved his life.

  Yes, fifty thousand smackeroos!

  Suddenly life was beautiful.

  With 50K, I could afford to feed Pro kitty caviar forever. Heck, I could afford to feed her real caviar. And who cared if Lance solved Bebe’s murder and not me? If he was right about Sven, I’d no longer be a murder suspect!

  “Oh, Pro!” I cried, racing to the sofa and scooping her in my arms. “I’m fifty thousand dollars richer. All thanks to you and your monumental gluttony!”

  She purred with pride.

  “So what do you think I should buy with the money?”

  That’s easy. A fabulous new apartment. A bauble from Tiffany’s. A lifetime supply of filet mignon. And something for you, too, of course.

  Chapter 31

  To think, a day that had started out so miserably was turning out to be one of the happiest of my life.

  First my fifty-thousand-dollar windfall. And now my dinner date with Justin.

  I drove over to his apartment that night, filled with naughty thoughts of Justin and his divine dimple. (Thoughts way too X-rated for your delicate ears.) Was tonight the night he’d finally do more than just kiss me? Was I about to be the grateful recipient of whoopsie doodle and fifty grand all on the same day?

  If my head hadn’t been so lost in the clouds, I might have noticed the car that was following me, on my tail ever since I left my duplex. If I hadn’t been dawdling in la-la land, I would have been wary about parking in the dark alley behind Justin’s building. And I certainly would have paid attention to the footsteps behind me as I started down the alley.

  All of which is why I was completely caught off guard when I was tackled to the ground by what felt like an NFL linebacker.

  But it was no football player. It was Tatiana, Queen of the Blender, now straddling my chest, her jet-black hair wild as a fright wig, her eyes burning with rage.

  I tried to wrest free, but she was surprisingly strong for a woman her age, her thighs like steel vises clamping my arms to my side.

  “Why’d you have to go poking your nose in other people’s business?” she hissed, spittle flying. “Now you know too much.”

  So much for Sven being the killer. Just as I’d suspected after she’d almost mowed me down with her clothing rack, it was Tatiana.

  “You’re the one who killed Bebe!” I cried.

  Just the mention of Bebe’s name seemed to rachet up her fury.

  “Bebe? The bitch deserved to die!”

  So Bebe wasn’t already dead when Tatiana showed up at the studio the night of the murder. She was very much alive—until Tatiana squeezed the life out of her with a wire hanger.

  “If you let me go,” I begged, “I swear I won’t breathe a word about any of this.”

  “You won’t breathe a word,” she replied with a rather terrifying smile. “Period.”

  With that, she clamped her hands around my neck and started strangling me—just like she’d strangled Bebe.

  I screamed for help, but my cries grew weaker as her hold on me tightened.

  I was frantic now, twisting my head, trying to ease the pressure, but it was no use. Her face flushed from the effort, Tatiana’s hands stayed clamped around my neck in a death grip.

  “Bebe ruined my life once,” she said, “and I can’t let you ruin it now.”

  I was gasping for air, certain I was breathing my last breath, wondering if the last thing I saw before I died was going to be Tatiana’s bloodshot eyes, when I became aware of someone prying Tatiana’s hands from my neck.

  I looked up and saw Justin—glorious, dimpled, too-young-for-me-but-I-didn’t-care Justin—wrenching Tatiana away from me.

  “I heard you screaming,” said my cutie pie savior, pinning Tatiana up against a car, “and called 911. The police should be here any minute.”

  “The police?” Tatiana said. “Don’t be silly. We don’t need the police. I wasn’t trying to kill you, Jaine, just scare you, that’s all. A little horseplay between friends.”

  That said with a slightly maniacal laugh.

  “Remember what you said about not breathing a word about Bebe’s murder? Let’s do that. Let’s forget about all this, and I’ll give you that Michael Kors cocktail dress. I’ll throw in a Chanel suit, and an only slightly used Rolex for you, Justin. You can sell it all on eBay for thousands!”

  By the time the cops showed up, she was offering to shower us both with free clothing for the rest of our lives.

  Justin interrupted her inventory of designer togs to tell the police how he found Tatiana sitting on my chest, choking me.

  “I barely touched her,” Tatiana claimed. “She’s still breathing, right? It’s all a big misunderstanding.

  “Say,” she added, her eyes darting wildly between the two cops, “how’d you guys like free Armani suits? And Ferragamo shoes?”

  The cops declined her generous offer and, after taking down my statement, cuffed Tatiana and carted her way.

  “Where’s my Birkin bag?” she kept asking, dazed, as they eased her into the patrol car.

  Clearly her second stab at murder had sent her round the bend.

  Chapter 32

  With a protective arm around my shoulder, Justin led me up to his studio apartment.

  “It’s a good thing my window was open,” he said, pointing to a sliding glass window at the front of the unit, “otherwise I wouldn’t have heard you screaming for help.”

  Amen to that.

  I looked around the studio, a stylish nest, surprisingly sophisticated for a twenty-year-old. But what impressed me most of all was the mouthwatering aroma of roast chicken wafting in the air.

  Yummers! For a guy w
ho’d claimed he was still trying to figure out how to nuke water, he’d done a pretty fantastic job.

  His bistro dining table had been set for two, complete with candles and a bottle of wine chilling in a bucket.

  In spite of my recent brush with death, I felt my heart zing.

  “That scene in the alley was really scary,” he said, sitting me down on his sofa and examining my neck.

  “How does it look?” I asked.

  “Actually, not too bad. Let me get some ice for you, just in case.”

  He got an ice pack from his freezer and applied it to my neck, which felt great.

  Not quite as great as Justin’s thigh touching mine, but still very soothing.

  “I can’t believe you actually tracked down Bebe’s killer,” he said after I filled him in on the damning details about finding Bebe’s Birkin bag in Tatiana’s cottage. “You’re amazing.”

  “Not really.” I tried to look modest, but secretly basked in the glow of his praise.

  “I’m not surprised Tatiana’s the killer. The woman has been a loose cannon for years. I guess she finally snapped. And I can understand why. Bebe totally torched her career.

  “But let’s forget about Bebe,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “and concentrate on us. How about a glass of wine?”

  “Excellent idea.”

  “I know how much you like chardonnay, so I bought some. Or, I should say, I paid some guy at the market to go in and buy some for me.”

  He poured us each some wine from the ice bucket and returned to join me at the sofa, my lady parts going kablooey as once again his thigh touched mine.

  “Here’s to catching killers!” He raised his glass in a toast.

  The wine was delicious. Or maybe it just tasted so good because I was drinking it with Justin.

  “I don’t suppose you feel like eating after all you’ve been through.”

  Bwah hahaha! He sure didn’t know me well, did he?

  “I guess I could force down a bite or two,” I said in the understatement of the century.

  While Justin puttered in the kitchen, I took a seat at the dining table, making a solemn vow not to inhale the meal and to absolutely, positively leave something on my plate.

  “Can I help?” I asked.

  “No, I’m fine,” he said, bringing me a plate of glorious roast chicken, surrounded by even more glorious roasted potatoes.

  It was all I could do not to swan dive into it.

  I tried my best to pause between bites and not lick my fingers as Justin told me about his new job as a personal assistant to a Holmby Hills socialite. In all the drama of almost getting killed, I’d forgotten that was the reason he’d invited me over.

  “She’s on the board of the LA Philharmonic, so I’m hoping I can make some valuable music connections.”

  He gazed at a framed photo of violin virtuoso Itzhak Perlman hanging over his sofa.

  “Someday I’m going to make it to Carnegie Hall.”

  Remembering his less-than-lackluster recital, I figured he had a long way to go, but with a glass of wine in me and Justin within kissing distance, it seemed like anything was possible.

  When I’d cleaned my plate—yes, I cleaned my plate; I ate everything except the pattern—Justin reached across the table and took my hand. I only hoped it wasn’t slick with chicken grease.

  “I’m so happy you’re here.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I have ice cream for dessert. But frankly,” he said, zapping me with his dimple, “I’d rather have you.”

  Oh, my. Pass the smelling salts.

  Then he pulled me up from the table and wrapped me in his arms.

  “Let me know if I hurt your neck,” he said before zeroing in for a kiss.

  Neck? What neck? It seemed like centuries ago that Tatiana had been trying to strangle me.

  Soon I was drowning in his kisses, feeling the electric charge of his hands exploring my body. He moved with such ease, such confidence, I felt as if our roles had been reversed, with me a giggling teenager and Justin the experienced older man.

  His lips on mine, he guided me across the room until I was backed up against a wall.

  “Wouldn’t the sofa be more comfy?” I managed to gasp.

  “Not more comfy than this.”

  With that, he reached up and pulled down a Murphy bed.

  A bed! Dipsy doodle time!

  I wish I could tell you how wonderful it was to join our bodies in ecstasy, but I can’t. Because before we could even make a dent in the mattress, someone started banging on the door.

  “Justin!” I heard a woman cry. “Let me in!”

  “Damn,” Justin whispered. “It’s Estelle, my violin teacher.”

  I remembered the gray-haired crone with the mole on her nose.

  “You’ve got to hide!” he said, shoving the Murphy bed back into the wall.

  What? Hide? Why?

  But I didn’t get a chance to ask these questions because before I knew it, he’d pushed me into a closet near the front door.

  “Estelle, babe,” I heard him say. “Come on in.”

  Babe? He called his violin teacher babe?

  The closet had a louvered door, and through the slats I could see him ushering in the gray-haired Aarpster.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  Peeking out, I saw her scowling.

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong. You haven’t been returning my calls or my texts. Have you been cheating on me?”

  Cheating on her? Had Justin been having an affair with a woman old enough to be his grandmother?

  “Of course I’m not cheating on you, sweet cheeks,” he cooed.

  Sweet cheeks? Really?

  “I thought I heard voices just now,” she said. “A woman’s voice.”

  “That was the TV. I just turned it off.”

  “What’s this?”

  I craned my neck and watched as she stomped over to the bistro dining table.

  “Dinner for two? With lipstick on one of the wineglasses?”

  Not missing a beat, Justin replied, “My Aunt Lillian stopped by for dinner tonight. I told you about Aunt Lil. The librarian in Sherman Oaks. You’ve got to stop being so paranoid, hon. You know how I feel about you.”

  With that, he reached out and wrapped her in his arms, the exact same way he’d wrapped me in his arms just minutes ago.

  I was sorely tempted to march out of the closet and expose Justin for the two-timing rat that he was when I heard Mrs. Fletcher say something that kept me frozen to the spot.

  “I hope you haven’t forgotten, Justin,” she said, breaking away from his embrace. “I lied to give you an alibi for the night of the murder, pretending you were having a violin lesson with me. I don’t know where you were that night. And I don’t want to know. But if I ever find out you’ve been cheating on me, I’m going straight to the police.”

  With a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach, I realized Justin didn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder. Which meant he could very well be the killer.

  Was it possible Tatiana had attacked me in the alley to keep me from blabbing about her stolen Birkin bag—and that she had nothing to do with Bebe’s murder?

  “How many times do I have to tell you,” Justin was saying to Estelle, the lie sliding from his lips smooth as silk, “you’re the only one I love.”

  Repulsed, I turned away as he started to kiss her, staring dully at the clothing hanging in Justin’s closet. And there, in the dim light filtering in from the louvered slats, I saw something strange. Hanging among the shirts and jeans were two TEAM BEBE bomber jackets, one much smaller than the other.

  I sniffed at the smaller one, way too small for Justin, and smelled a woman’s perfume. I’d smelled that perfume before. It was the same Lemon Pine-Sol scent I’d smelled on Bebe.

  What on earth was Justin doing with Bebe’s jacket?

  It was then that I noticed some lumps poking out at the bottom of the jacket, just a
bove the elastic ribbing. Something had been hidden in the lining. I shoved my hand inside the pocket and managed to poke a hole in the seam with my fingernail.

  Rooting around, I pulled out a honker ring, matching brooch, and pair of earrings. Even in the dim light of the closet, I could see the sparkle of many karats’ worth of diamonds.

  Suddenly I remembered the story of Bebe’s family coming to America with their valuables stashed in the lining of her mom’s coat. Following that tradition, had Bebe sewn valuable jewels into the lining of her jacket? A nest egg for a rainy day? Had Justin found out about it and killed her to get his hands on her loot?

  So rapt had I been in my discovery, I hadn’t realized that Justin was finally getting rid of Mrs. Fletcher.

  “See you soon, babe,” I heard him saying.

  As he shut the door behind her, I quickly jammed the jewels into the back pocket of my jeans.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, opening the closet door, a sheepish grin on his face. He flashed me his dimple, which had totally lost its power to enchant. “I hope you won’t think worse of me (was he kidding?), but I’ve been sleeping with Estelle. It hasn’t been fun, but I had to do it for the free violin lessons.”

  All along, I’d thought the old biddy had been bilking Justin out of money, when he was the one taking advantage of her.

  “So what do you say we pick up where we left off?” he said, pulling me roughly into his arms. His hands, which felt so divine just a short while ago, now sent shivers of disgust down my spine.

  I cringed as he groped my body, trying to break free. But he wasn’t letting go.

  My heart stopped as I felt his hand reaching down toward my tush and cupping the jewels I’d shoved in my jeans.

  “What’s this?” he said, scooping them out. “Oh, darn. I see you’ve found Bebe’s secret stash.

  “Too bad,” he tsked, tossing them down on the coffee table. “And yes, I was boffing Bebe, too. I really do get off on older women. Granted, Estelle is a chore. But Bebe was much more fun.

  “One night after sex, Bebe and I were doing the pillow talk thing, and she told me about the jewels she’d sewn into her TEAM BEBE jacket, in case of a financial emergency.”

  “So you killed her to get them.”