The highlight of the evening, of course, was when I gave Mom her diamond ring. You should have seen Lydia’s eyes bugging out. Lester’s too. They were green with envy. And Lester could tell he didn’t stand a chance with Mom.
Yes, I put the Gasbag Romeo in his place, all right.
Happy Valentine’s Day to my little Lambchop From her loving, Daddy
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Back to Normal
Daddy’s strutting around, mumbling about how he put Lester Pinkus in his place, whatever that means. Oh, well. At least he seems to have given up the crazy notion that Lester has a crush on me. And so have I. Lester was nothing but a perfect gentleman at dinner. I can’t believe he possibly sent me those flowers. It was probably just a mistaken delivery.
Thank heavens things can go back to normal.
Happy Valentine’s Day, honey. Love you mucho.
XXX
Mom
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Oh, No!
Horrible news, honey. I was just getting ready for bed when I realized my Valentine’s ring is missing! I must have put it on the sink in the ladies’ room at Le Chateaubriand when I washed my hands and forgot to put it back on again! I just called the restaurant, but no one has turned it in.
Worst of all, Daddy’s convinced Lydia stole it!
Oh, dear. It’s all too distressing.
Must get an Oreo—
XXX
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Diamond Thief!
Your mom’s diamond ring is missing. And I know exactly who took it. Lydia Pinkus! You should’ve seen her eyes light up when she saw that thing. And she went to the ladies’ room right after your mom. No doubt she filched it from where it was lying on the sink where your mom left it. She and her no-goodnik brother are probably trying to sell it on the black market at this very minute.
But fear not, Lambchop. The Pinkus’s evil plot will be foiled!
Love ’n’ hugs from
Your crime-fighting,
Daddy
Chapter 10
It had been quite the Valentine’s Day Crime Wave, n’est-ce pas?
First, Joy got bumped off. Then three thousand miles away, Mom’s “diamond” ring disappeared into thin air. (Was it possible that Lydia Pinkus, model citizen and Tampa Vistas social doyenne, had stolen it?)
Of course, the shenanigans at Tampa Vistas paled in comparison to Joy’s murder.
According to the Los Angeles Times, which I read the next morning as I scarfed down my cinnamon raisin bagel, Joy’s final Godiva had been laced with cyanide. And according to Cassie, who’d overheard two cops talking when they came to cart the body away, whoever killed Joy had tossed the twelve missing chocolates out Joy’s window into the alley below. Probably to make sure she ate the poisoned one right away.
A memorial service, the Times noted, was planned for later in the week.
Who on earth, I wondered, could have killed her?
Immediately I thought of Alyce, the client with a grudge. Hadn’t she told Joy she was going to put a stop to her? Had she lived up to her threatening words with a poisoned chocolate?
And what about Tonio? Joy had been about to turn him over to the authorities. Had Tonio killed her to shut her up?
I was pondering these questions, and whether or not I should nuke myself another bagel, when I heard Lance’s familiar knock.
“Omigosh!” he cried when I let him in. “I just heard the news. What a tragic loss. I don’t know how I’m going to cope.”
“But you hardly knew her.”
“Knew who?”
“Joy Amoroso.”
“Joy? I wasn’t talking about Joy. I was talking about the tanning parlor that closed over on Robertson Boulevard.”
“That’s a tragedy, all right. My heart breaks to think of all those poor, needy people running around West Hollywood without a tan.”
“Scoff if you must. But if God wanted us to be pale, He would have never invented thong bikinis.
“So,” he said, swiping the last bite of bagel from my plate. “What happened to Joy?”
“She’s dead. Killed with a poisoned Godiva.”
He rolled his eyes in disbelief.
“Please tell me you were nowhere near the scene of the crime.”
“As a matter of fact, I was.”
“Jaine, Jaine, Jaine!” he cried. “What is it with you? Everywhere you go, dead bodies seem to pop up.”
It’s true, I’m afraid. I’ve seen more than my fair share of corpses in my day. (All of which you can read about in the titles listed at the front of this book.)
“Do the police have any idea who did it?” Lance asked.
As it turned out, they did have a person in mind.
Namely, me.
Indeed, it was at that very moment that I heard a knock at my door. I opened it to find two men standing on my doorstep in ill-fitting suits, looking none too chirpy. One was a scrawny guy with an Adam’s apple the size of a golf ball; the other, a beefier, refrigerator-sized chap with a military buzz cut.
“Are you Jaine Austen?” asked the Refrigerator.
I nodded, my throat suddenly dry.
“LAPD Homicide,” the Refrigerator said as he and his partner flashed their badges. “May we come in?”
“Sure,” I gulped, leading them inside.
“Guess I’d better be going,” Lance said, jumping up from where he’d been sitting on my sofa.
He took my hands in his, a soulful look on his face.
“Remember, Jaine. I’m here for you whenever you need me. Except tonight. Donny and I are going to the movies. And tomorrow night we’re hiking in Griffith Park. And Thursday we’re having a picnic at the beach. Isn’t that romantic?”
“Very,” I said, icicles dripping from my voice.
“So if you need anything, anything at all, I’m thinking maybe you should call your parents.”
And with those words of undying support, he went sailing out the door.
“Won’t you sit down?” I said, turning to the detectives.
They plopped down on the sofa, still warm from Lance’s tush.
“Can I get you anything?” I asked, hoping I could win them over with refreshments. “Juice? Coffee? Cinnamon raisin bagel?”
“Cinnamon raisin bagel?” The skinny detective looked interested.
“No, thank you,” the Refrigerator replied, shooting his partner a stern look. “We never eat on the job.”
From the looks of his gut, he sure was eating somewhere.
“Well, well!” said Detective Adam’s Apple. “Isn’t she a cutie!”
I smiled demurely until I realized he was talking about Prozac, who had wandered in from the bedroom and was now doing her version of a pole dance on the detective’s ankles.
“Who do we have here?” he said, scooping Prozac up in his arms.
She looked up at him with wide green eyes.
Your future Significant Other, if you scratch me behind my ears.
The Refrigerator was having none of this little love-fest. He shot his partner a disapproving glare, then turned to me.
“We need to ask you a few questions about Joy Amoroso’s murder.”
“Ask away,” I said, trying to look as non-homicidal as possible.
“It seems you were among those attending Ms. Amoroso’s party,” said Detective Adam’s Apple, reluctantly abandoning Prozac to check his notebook.
“Yes, Joy called me at the last minute to help out at the party as one of the waitstaff.”
“Apparently you decided to abandon your waitressing duties,” the Refrigerator said, looking like he was ready to slap a pair of handcuffs on my wrists.
“Oh?” I replied, doing my best to maintain a look of wide-eyed innocence.
“We have a witness who says he saw you sneaking out of Ms. Amoroso’s office.”
“I misplaced my purse,” I said, repeating the lie I’d told Greg, “and thought I’d left it there.”
“You know, of course,” said the Refrigerator, his eyes boring into mine, “that’s where Ms. Amoroso’s chocolates were located.”
“Yes, I know. But I went nowhere near them.”
He said nothing. Just continued to shoot me his laser glare.
“How would you describe your relationship with the deceased?” asked Detective Adam’s Apple, trying to ignore Prozac, who had now draped herself across his legs.
“Businesslike. She hired me to write a brochure for her, as well as some online dating profiles. We were on perfectly cordial terms.”
“Perfectly cordial?” The Fridge snorted. “Is that why you described her as a Psycho Cupid?”
Oh, hell.
“You found my brochure copy.”
“It was right there,” Detective Adam’s Apple pointed out, “in Ms. Amoroso’s recently deleted e-mail files.”
“I had no idea,” the Refrigerator added with a most unattractive smirk, “that Elmer Fudd was available for dating.”
“Okay,” I admitted. “So I didn’t like Joy. But I swear, I didn’t kill her.”
The Refrigerator made a note on his pad.
I just hoped it wasn’t a reminder to order an arrest warrant.
“Do you have any idea who did kill her?” he asked.
Reluctantly I told them about Alyce and the veiled threat she’d made at the party. I couldn’t share my suspicions about Tonio, however, not without admitting I’d been crouching amid the dust bunnies under Joy’s desk. Somehow I sensed they would not be favorably impressed.
“Well, thank you for your time,” the Refrigerator said, hauling himself up from my sofa.
“Yes, thanks,” Adam’s Apple added, trying to extricate himself from Prozac’s lingering embrace.
“I certainly hope I’m not a suspect.”
If I’d been expecting reassurances, I was sadly disappointed.
“Just don’t leave town,” the Refrigerator said.
Ouch.
I ushered them both out and then leaned against the front door with a sigh.
“Dammit, Pro. They think I might have killed Joy. What am I gonna do?”
She looked up from where she was examining her privates.
What you always do in times of stress.
She knew me well.
Without missing a beat, I headed straight for the Oreos.
(It’s in the genes.)
Chapter 11
Joy’s memorial service was held at Westwood Mortuary, final resting place of mega-stars like Marilyn Monroe and Natalie Wood, who I’m sure were rolling over in their crypts at the thought of being saddled for all eternity with the Godiva Godzilla.
I wish I could say I showed up at the chapel to pay my respects and honor the dead, but the truth is I was hoping to run into someone who’d help me collect the money Joy owed me.
Lest you forget (I sure hadn’t), I still hadn’t been paid for all my hard work.
I was running late, and the rent-a-reverend conducting the service—a roly-poly man with round, rimless glasses—was in the middle of his eulogy when I showed up.
As I slid into a pew, I saw the place was practically empty. Just three mourners: Tonio, a blond woman a few rows in front of me, and a pungent guy in tattered clothing across the aisle.
The rent-a-rev had clearly never met Joy, because he was rambling on about what a swell gal she’d been. That he knew nothing about her was cemented by the fact that he kept calling her Joyce.
After winding down his highly fictional words of praise, he peered out at us through his glasses and asked: “Is there anyone who’d like to say something?”
Across the aisle from me, the pungent fellow’s hand shot up.
“I just wanna know,” he asked. “Are there gonna be refreshments later?”
“No,” replied the rent-a-rev. “I’m afraid not.”
“Okay, then,” he said. “I’m outta here.” Sliding out from his pew, he confided to me, “Sometimes these memorial services put out a spread, you know? Oh, well. Off to the Church of the Good Shepherd. Maybe I’ll have better luck there.”
And with that, he ambled off to greener pastures.
“Er ... is there anyone else who’d like to say something?” the minister asked when our hungry visitor had gone. “About the deceased?” he quickly added.
At which point the blond woman in front of me got up and headed for the podium.
There was something about her that looked awfully familiar. That thick blond pageboy. That chubby bod. Those tottering high heels.
When she turned to face us, I almost bust a gasket.
Holy mackerel! It was Joy! Back from Hell!
Even the devil didn’t want her!
“Hello,” the woman said. “I’m Joy’s Aunt Faith.”
I now saw that the woman was quite a bit older than Joy. But the resemblance was still uncanny.
She cleared her throat, a lacy white hankie balled up in her fist.
“I’ll never forget the first time I saw little Joy,” she said, her eyes glazed over at the memory. “She was only three years old, and her mother, my sister Eunice, had dressed her in her prettiest pink dress, with matching pink bows in her hair. They’d just moved out from Chicago, and my sister said to Joy, ‘Say hello to your Aunt Faith, darling.’ And little Joy, in a gesture that would become all too familiar, hauled off and kicked me in the shin.
“Yes,” she said with a grim smile, “Joy always was a rotten little kid, and she grew up to be an even more rotten adult.”
“Excuse me, ma’am!” cried the rent-a-rev, jumping up from his seat behind the podium. “I’m not sure this is entirely appropriate.”
“Hey!” She held out a warning hand. “You asked if anyone had anything to say about the deceased. I do, and I intend to say it.”
“But, ma’am—”
“Forget it, buster. I’m not going to sit here and listen while you pretend my niece was anything but a miserable excuse for a human being.”
Cowed by her no-nonsense attitude—not to mention her rather muscular upper arms—the rent-a-rev sank back down in his seat, and Aunt Faith continued her “eulogy.”
“Joy took the matchmaking business her mother and I had built up over twenty years, and stole it right out from under our feet.”
So Joy hadn’t been lying when she said that matchmaking ran in her family.
“She drove my poor sister to her grave. But not me. I refused to let Joy’s treachery ruin my life. Nope. I picked myself up and started my own jewelry business. From Trash to Treasure. One-of-a-kind baubles made from recycled bottle caps and typewriter parts.”
She held out a bracelet made of typewriter keys and dangled it for our approval.
“In conclusion, I just want to say that wherever you are, Joy, I’m sure your chocolates are melting. Big time.”
Her typewriter keys clanging, Aunt Faith stepped away from the podium and headed up the aisle, stopping at my pew.
“I’ve got some earrings that would look darling on you, hon,” she said, handing me her business card. And with that, she tottered off.
So stunned was I by her performance, I barely listened as Tonio got up to the podium and talked about Joy. I caught a few phrases here and there ... “a heart of gold” ... “the love of my life” ... “the world will be an empty place without her ...”
Clearly he’d gotten his speech from the Hallmark School of Eulogies. And yet, if I wasn’t mistaken, those were genuine tears I saw shimmering in his eyes.
Tonio returned to his chair, and the rent-a-rev, still reeling from Aunt Faith’s “eulogy,” stumbled back to the podium.
“Anyone else have something to say about the deceased?” he asked, looking at me. “Something positive? ”
“Not a thing,” I assured him.
“
Well, then. I guess we’re done here.”
He wrapped up the service with the Twenty-Third Psalm and headed for Tonio with a mournful smile, assuring him that his beloved Joyce was safe in the sheltering arms of the Lord.
Tonio nodded blankly and then made his way up the aisle.
Today there was no trace of his usual lounge lizard good looks. His hair, normally slicked back to gelled perfection, had fallen into messy clumps. His spray tan had faded to a sickly orange. And his big brown bedroom eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.
Either he’d been up all night crying.
Or boozing.
I couldn’t tell which.
I wasted no time following him out to the parking lot.
“Wait up, Tonio!” I called as he hurried to his car, a splashy silver BMW convertible.
“Oh, hello, Jaine,” he said, catching sight of me. “Thanks so much for coming to pay your respects. I really appreciate it.”
Geez. How was I going to tell him I was only there to see about my paycheck?
“Actually, Tonio, I said, a blush creeping up my face, “I came to ask you a favor. I never did get paid for the work I did for Joy, and I was wondering if you could help me get my money.”
“How much did she owe you?”
“Three thousand dollars,” I said, too embarrassed to mention the extra five hundred dollars she’d bribed me with to date Skip.
“Three grand?” Tonio snorted in disbelief. “Joy never paid writers that much. I’m sure she would’ve weaseled out of paying you the full amount.”
Suddenly he realized he’d strayed quite a bit from eulogy mode.
“Not that she wasn’t a wonderful person,” he hastened to add. “Just sort of tight with a buck.”
“Of course.”
“But don’t worry,” he said, seeing the stricken look on my face. “I’ll talk to her attorney and have him cut you a check for the full amount she promised you.”
Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) Page 8
