by Laura Levine
Minutes later, I was in the kitchen, slathering butter and strawberry jam on a freshly toasted cinnamon raisin bagel.
Prozac was at my feet inhaling her morning Mackerel Guts. I was still angry at her for masterminding Mamie’s romp in the garbage. Now don’t go shaking your head like that. She planned it, all right. I know she’s only a cat, but you have no idea what she’s capable of. Honestly, that cat could give lessons to Machiavelli.
I’d been giving her the cold shoulder ever since I got up, but it obviously hadn’t affected her appetite. I guess she gets that from me.
Armed with my bagel and a steaming cup of coffee, I settled down at my dining room table and opened the morning paper.
Holy Toledo. Just when I thought I’d seen the last of Patti, there she was—plastered all over the front page of the Los Angeles Times. Above her Hermosa High yearbook photo, a headline screamed: Socialite Bride Plunges to Her Death; Groom’s Ex-Wife Brought in for Questioning.
I read the story eagerly.
As I’d suspected, Patti’s death was no accident. According to the police, it was murder. Someone had tampered with the balcony, loosening the bolts on the railing.
I gulped in dismay when I read that the cops had brought in Normalynne Butler for questioning. I could understand why they suspected her. Hadn’t she urged Patti in front of scores of witnesses to break her neck?
But as you and I both know, Normalynne wasn’t the only one who had it in for Patti. There was Eleanor Potter, Patti’s future mother-in-law. And Cheryl Hogan, her ex–best friend. Both of them hated Patti’s guts. And I was certain they were just the tip of the anti-Patti iceberg.
Besides, if Normalynne had been planning to kill Patti, why would she create a scene at the wedding, putting herself in the spotlight?
I thought back to the Normalynne I’d known in high school—a gawky kid, loping down the hall to her classes, smiling shyly when we passed each other. She never stood out—not until one fateful day in gym class. I remember that day—along with the day they started selling Dove Bars in the cafeteria—as one of the highlights of my high school years.
I’d always hated gym. I hated our thigh-baring uniforms and our frizz-inducing locker room. I especially hated our gym teacher, Mrs. Krautter, who, I was certain, had been a gestapo commando in a former life. Or perhaps even in this one.
Her routine never varied. After leading us in a sadistic session of calisthenics, she’d divide us into teams to play the sport du jour. She’d pick two team “captains” who’d then get to choose their teams. One by one, names would be called, the good athletes getting chosen up front, the klutzy ones at the end.
But no matter who the captains were, one person always got picked first. Patti. Not because she was such a good athlete. She wasn’t. But the toadies wanted to curry favor with her. And the rest of us were simply afraid to cross her.
Just as Patti was always called first, there was one poor soul who was always chosen last: Linda Ruckle. Stocky and bow-legged, her round moon face dotted with acne, poor Linda was the object of Patti’s merciless scorn.
Whenever she wound up on Patti’s team, Patti would groan, Oh, no! Not Ruckle!, setting off a round a giggles from the Terrible Trinity. Linda would stare down at the floor, her face crimson with shame. And Mrs. Krautter never said a word. I don’t know who I hated more at those moments: Patti or the teacher who should’ve known better.
Then one day, Mrs. Krautter picked Normalynne as one of the team captains. It was the first time I could remember her ever being chosen.
Normalynne loped out into the center of the gym. She and the other captain flipped a coin, and Normalynne won. She got to choose first. She pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose and peered around at the assembled cluster of girls.
“For my first player, I’d like to choose—”
With a toss of her ponytail, Patti got up from where she was sitting, assuming she would be top pick as usual.
But that day, Normalynne was about to make history.
“I’d like to choose Linda Ruckle,” she finished in a loud clear voice.
Patti froze in her tracks.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
She stared at Normalynne through slitted eyes, the same look that had terrified all of us at one time or another.
A tense silence filled the air. Then Normalynne broke it.
“I choose Linda,” she repeated, defiantly.
She knew there’d be hell to pay, that somehow Patti would get even—and damned if all these years later, she hadn’t—but she went ahead and chose Linda anyway.
Now I’ve read about lots of courageous women in history. Joan of Arc, Mother Teresa, Donald Trump’s ex-wives, to name just a few.
But in my book, they all pale in comparison to Normalynne, the girl who dared defy Patti Marshall.
Even more than her bravery, though, I was touched by her kindness. I’ll never forget Linda’s look of gratitude as she headed to the center of the room to stand with Normalynne.
Now, remembering Normalynne’s kindness, I thought about calling her and offering to do some investigating on her behalf. Solving murders happens to be a hobby of mine—a dangerous hobby, I know, but one that sets my corpuscles racing. It’s all very exhilarating, and—if you ask me—not nearly as terrifying as a bikini wax.
But for all I knew, Normalynne had a perfectly competent attorney who’d already hired a P.I. And for all I knew, Part 2, Normalynne really did sabotage that balcony. No, best not to get involved.
Instead, I started work on an assignment that had been phoned in the other day, a resume for a slacker whose biggest skill seemed to be napping on the job. It was a low-bucks gig, but low bucks were better than no bucks, so I set to work drumming up euphemisms for “college dropout.”
But my thoughts kept drifting back to Normalynne. What if she needed me? What if she couldn’t afford proper legal representation? Judging from the frayed cutoffs and drugstore flip-flops she’d worn to the wedding, I had a hunch she wasn’t exactly rolling in dough. What if her attorney was some court-appointed dufus who didn’t know a tort from a tart?
After a dozen false starts, I finally abandoned the resume and called information for Normalynne’s number. All the operator had was an N. Butler in El Segundo. When I tried the number, a machine picked up, and a robotic voice instructed me to leave a message after the beep.
I left my name and phone number and offered my investigative services, then hung up, feeling a lot better.
Who knew if I’d reached the right N. Butler? And if I did, if I’d ever hear from her? But at least I’d offered to help.
My conscience clear, I breezed through the resume and faxed it off to my client, then spent the rest of the afternoon industriously vacuuming and paying bills.
Okay, so I spent the rest of the afternoon doing the crossword puzzle and soaking in the tub. I deserved it after putting up with Patti for so long.
Prozac, meanwhile, had been following me around all day, weaving in and out of my ankles, begging for love, as she so often does when she senses I’m miffed.
“Forget it, Pro,” I finally told her. “I’m mad at you.”
Moi? Enormous green eyes. What did I do?
“You know what you did. I don’t know how exactly, but you instigated that whole garbage romp with Mamie.”
More big eyes.
“Quit it, Pro. I’m not buying the Little Orphan Annie act.”
I extricated her from my ankles and plopped down on the sofa, where I started leafing through a pile of the catalogues that seem to grow like mushrooms in my mailbox.
Prozac came trotting after me.
Okay, okay. So I did it. We’re better off without her, aren’t we?
Then she leaped in my lap and offered me her belly.
Now that that’s settled, how about you scratch my belly for the next four or five hours?
“There’ll be no belly rubs for you, young lady. No way. No how. It’s ne
ver gonna happen. So just forget it.”
Okay, so I caved and gave her the belly rub. Pathetic, aren’t I?
It wasn’t until later that night when we were in bed together watching All About Eve that the phone rang and a timid voice came on the line.
“Is this Jaine Austen?”
“Yes.”
“The same Jaine Austen who fell in Principal Seawright’s lap at the prom?”
Would I never live that down?
“Yes,” I sighed.
“It’s me. Normalynne. Oh, Jaine,” she wailed. “I’m in trouble.”
Tell me something I didn’t already know.
I drove down to Normalynne’s apartment in El Segundo, a working-class town near the L.A. airport.
Her building was a sad stucco affair called the Casa Segundo. Although it was two in the afternoon when I got there, Normalynne came to the door in a pair of faded flannel pajamas, her eyes still crusted with sleep.
“Jaine, it’s so nice of you to offer to help,” she said, ushering me inside. Her hair hung in a limp ponytail, bangs flopping in her eyes. “Forgive the way I look; I haven’t had the energy to get dressed.”
She led me to a living room nicely furnished in beachy rattans, clearly put together in more energetic times. A jelly donut sat abandoned on a nearby end table. Amazing, isn’t it, how some people can walk away from a jelly donut?
“Have a seat,” Normalynne said, gesturing to one of two matching rattan armchairs.
She flung herself into the other, her long legs draped over one of the arms.
“Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?”
“No, thanks,” I said, wishing I could trot over and grab the donut. “I’m good.”
And then out of nowhere an earsplitting roar filled the air. The furniture shook; the windows rattled. I was ready to dive for cover, convinced that El Segundo was under enemy attack, wondering if I had time to scarf down one last jelly donut before I was blown to smithereens.
“Don’t mind the noise,” Normalynne said. “It’s just a plane taking off from LAX.”
Omigod. If I had to live with that racket I’d be on round-the-clock tranquilizers.
“It used to bother me at first, but I’m used to it now. This was the only place I could afford after Dickie and I split up. Besides, I didn’t want to stay in Hermosa. Too many memories.
“So,” she said, forcing a weak smile, “how have you been?”
“Fine. And you?”
Talk about your inane questions. How the heck did I think she was? Surely her life wasn’t an episode of Happy Days. She was a murder suspect, for crying out loud.
“Actually, I got laid off from work today.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“Me, too,” she said with a hollow laugh.
“What sort of work do you do?”
“I teach biology at Crestwood.”
I’d heard of Crestwood, a private school in Santa Monica, catering to the offspring of obscenely wealthy westsiders.
“Correction,” she sighed. “I taught biology. I guess they didn’t want a murder suspect mingling with the students. They pretended it was just a temporary leave of absence, but I doubt I’ll ever be dissecting a frog at Crestwood again. Oh, what does it matter? I’m probably going to jail anyway.”
“Normalynne, just because the police brought you in for questioning doesn’t mean they’re going to arrest you.”
“I know they think I did it,” she said, hugging her knees to her chest in a fetal position.
“What makes you so sure?”
“You saw the scene I made at the wedding. I still can’t believe I got so drunk. I never drink. But I was so upset that day. All I could think about was that awful Hermosa High reunion when Patti first sunk her claws into Dickie.
“The funny thing is,” she said, not sounding the least bit amused, “Dickie didn’t even want to go. I had to drag him there. What a fool I was. We were having a good time, drinking punch and chatting with Veronica, when Patti showed up in a tight dress cut practically to her navel. She and Dickie locked eyeballs and that was the beginning of the end.”
There was a catch in her voice, and for a minute I thought she might cry, but she held back her tears and went on with her story.
“I thought I’d gotten used to the idea of Dickie being with Patti, but come the day of the wedding, I went to pieces. I found a dusty bottle of whiskey in my kitchen cabinet and decided to add some to my coffee. Right away I felt better. So I had another cup. Then I skipped the coffee and started pouring myself straight shots. The next thing I knew I was barging down the aisle screaming at Patti.”
“But I don’t understand why the cops think you’re the one who sabotaged the railing. Anyone could’ve done it.”
“Apparently they’ve got a witness who swears he saw a woman out on the balcony the day before the wedding, tampering with the bolts.”
“The day before the wedding?”
She nodded. “During the cocktail party.”
“But you weren’t even at the house that day.”
“Yes,” she sighed, “I was.”
Ouch.
“I drove over to tell Patti off, only I didn’t have the nerve. I sat in my car for more than an hour, trying to get up the courage to confront her. Finally, I turned around and drove home. Trouble is, one of the neighbors spotted my car parked out front. And now the police think I killed her.”
I took a deep breath and asked, “Did you?”
“Of course not.” Her eyes grew wide with dismay. “You believe me, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
And I did. I didn’t care where her car was spotted; I simply didn’t think she was capable of plotting a murder.
She sat back, relieved. “You know, I still can’t get over you being a detective.”
It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that. Most people have a hard time buying a P.I. in a scrunchy and elastic waist jeans.
“I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay you much.” She shot me an apologetic smile. “In fact, I can’t afford to pay you anything right now. Not without a job.”
“Don’t worry about it, Normalynne. If you get your job back, we can work out something then.”
What can I say? I’m a sucker for a needy murder suspect. No wonder my bank balance is always so anemic.
After thanking me profusely for my help, Normalynne walked me to the door.
“Do you remember that day in gym class,” she asked, a faraway look in her eyes, “the day I picked Linda Ruckle for my volleyball team?”
“Yes,” I nodded, not telling her that was the reason I’d shown up at her apartment.
“That was a good day, wasn’t it?”
“It sure was.”
“I had a lot of good days back then,” she sighed. “Oh, Jaine. How did it all go so bad?”
I left her with hollow assurances that there’d be lots more good days ahead, then headed out into the threadbare corridor outside her apartment.
Over the roar of a passing jet, I thought I heard her crying.
Chapter 12
Patti was laid to rest at the Westwood Mortuary, the crème de la crème of L.A. cemeteries, known around town as the final resting place of the stars. Rumor had it she was tucked away somewhere between Marilyn Monroe and Natalie Wood.
I’d read about the funeral in the paper and, suitably garbed in a black elastic waist pantsuit, showed up to check out the scene.
The same handsome minister who’d been set to officiate at Patti’s wedding now conducted her memorial service in the mortuary chapel. Attendance was sparse, mostly acquaintances of Patti’s parents. Interesting, I thought, after being so popular in high school, how few friends Patti had as an adult. The only one I recognized was Denise, decked out in designer black. I bet my bottom Pop-Tart there was no elastic waist under her suit jacket.
Not surprisingly, Cheryl Hogan was nowhere in sight.
With a blithe disregard for the truth, the min
ister blathered on about what a sweetheart Patti had been.
When he was through with his fairy tale, Dickie and Conrad took their turns at the mike and continued singing Patti’s praises.
“I know Patti could seem a little demanding,” Dickie began.
Yeah. Like Simon Legree at cotton-picking time.
“But underneath it all, she was a warm, caring person. A person I was privileged to know and love.” His eyes filled with tears. “I cherished her with all my heart and will miss her always.”
Conrad talked about how Patti was like a biological daughter to him, and how they’d forged a special relationship over the years.
Like Dickie, he seemed to speak from the heart.
Was it possible? I wondered. Had there been a likeable side to Patti I’d somehow missed? Or had she simply saved all her charm for the male half of the species?
When Conrad finished his tribute, Denise got up and took the mike. As she talked about how close she and Patti had been in high school, I couldn’t help noticing that all her fond memories seemed to stop at graduation day. She spoke nothing of their friendship in recent years. Her words were loving, but her delivery was bloodless, like she was presenting a brief in court.
Once more, it occurred to me that Denise had grown estranged from her once-best friend.
The hunky minister returned to the podium.
“Would anyone else like to say something?”
He looked around hopefully, but nobody else was willing to put in a good word for the not-so-dearly departed.
Seeing he had no takers, the minister closed with a soulful reading of the 23rd psalm and then invited everyone to a funeral reception at the Devanes’ estate.
Organ music swelled and the mourners began filing out of the chapel. Conrad and Daphna led the procession, Conrad holding Daphna by the elbow. But Daphna didn’t seem to need any support. Her spine ramrod stiff, she stared straight ahead, as if daring anyone to feel sorry for her.
I sure hoped there were some actual emotions rattling around behind those glassy eyes.
Eleanor Potter trotted by, dry eyed and rosy cheeked. Was it my imagination or was there a spring in her step? Her husband walked at her side, his expression somber, eyes to the ground.
