“Thanks so much, Tonio.”
He was being so nice to me, I suddenly felt guilty about suspecting him of killing Joy. And yet I hadn’t forgotten about that scene in her office. Sure as I’d been snorting dust bunnies, Joy had been threatening to turn Tonio over to the authorities.
“By the way, Tonio,” I said, “I happened to overhear you and Joy talking the night of the murder.”
“Oh?” His eyebrows lifted in surprise.
“Yes, Joy said something about turning you over to the authorities.”
Those puffy eyes of his suddenly narrowed in suspicion.
“And just where did you hear all this?”
Oh, hell. I couldn’t tell him I was hiding under Joy’s desk, having just hacked into her e-mail account.
“I was out in the reception area,” I fibbed, “and I heard you two talking in Joy’s office. Joy, if I recall, was sort of angry.”
“So she yelled at me. Big deal. What’s it to you?”
Damn. Whatever goodwill I’d built had just gone sailing out the window.
“It’s just that the police stopped by to question me,” I said, putting on my tap shoes, “and I don’t know what to tell them if they ask me about you. I mean, I can’t lie and pretend I didn’t hear anything. So I was hoping you could explain what Joy meant when she said she was going to turn you in to the authorities.”
“Wait a minute. You don’t think I killed her to shut her up, do you?”
“No, of course not,” I lied. “But I’m afraid the cops might.”
“That’s crazy. For your information, Joy was threatening to report me to the DMV for driving without a license.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s all. I failed the written test a couple of years ago. I kept getting a blinking red light confused with a yellow light. Anyhow, I never went back to take the test again.”
“So you’ve been driving without a license all this time?”
“Yeah, and it drove Joy batty. I lied and told her I’d taken the test, and when she found out I hadn’t, she went ballistic. You know how she could get.”
Did I ever.
“So that’s it. That was her big threat. She was a crazy lady, but I loved her. And I would never dream of hurting her.”
And the tears welling in his eyes sure made it seem like he was telling the truth.
I was heading for my Corolla when a bright yellow VW Beetle came zooming into the parking lot and screeched to a halt in the spot next to mine.
Cassie sprang from the car, dressed head to toe in black leather, carrying a huge bouquet of dahlias.
“Did I miss the service?” she asked breathlessly.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Damn. I had to drive to three different flower shops before I finally found these dahlias.”
“How sweet of you, Cassie. They’re beautiful.”
“Joy hated dahlias,” she said with a sly grin. “I think I’ll go put them on her grave.”
And off she went, skipping along toward the graveyard.
Melts your heart, doesn’t it?
Chapter 12
“Seventeen dollars for a hamburger?!” I gasped, ogling the nosebleed expensive menu at Neiman Marcus’s fanciest restaurant.
Lance had taken me there for lunch to cheer me up, knowing that I was a tad down in the dumps over my status as an Official Murder Suspect.
All around us were stick-thin fashionistas pushing food around their plates, resting their Manolos, and garnering the energy for another round of kamikaze shopping.
I feared the fashion police were standing by in the kitchen, just waiting to arrest me for showing up in my L.L. Bean turtleneck.
“Don’t worry about the prices, hon,” Lance said with an expansive wave. “I’m using my employee discount. Order whatever you want. As long as it’s less than twenty bucks.”
That wiped out about two-thirds of the menu, but luckily, my burger still qualified.
“Okay, I’ll have the burger.”
A look of horror crossed his face.
“At nine hundred ninety calories?”
“How do you know how many calories it has?”
“It says so right on the menu.”
I looked down and saw that he was right. Underneath each item was a calorie count.
Talk about your guilt trips.
Well, it wasn’t going to work on me. When it comes to calories, my motto has always been, “The more, the merrier.” So when the waiter came to our table, I proudly ordered my burger, with extra ketchup.
Lance, after some severe tsk-tsking in my direction, ordered a sensible Mediterranean chopped salad (470 calories).
“I’m sorry I had to rush off the other day,” he said when our waiter was gone. “But I’m here for you now, sweetie. You have to fill me in on what happened with the police. Don’t leave out a single detail. Uncle Lance will hold your hand through this whole sordid ordeal.”
He reached across the table and took my hand in his.
“Well—” I began.
But before I could make it to Syllable Two, he gushed, “Aren’t they gorgeous?”
“Aren’t what gorgeous?”
“My cuff links.”
He flicked his wrists, flashing a pair of diamond-studded links on the French cuffs of his shirt.
“Donny gave them to me! On Valentine’s night. He cooked me dinner at his place in the Hollywood Hills. Chateaubriand for two, a divine bottle of pinot noir, and chocolate mousse for dessert. He hid the cuff links in the mousse,” he said, beaming like a lovesick puppy. “Isn’t that the most romantic thing ever?”
“Not really. You could’ve broken a tooth.”
“Go ahead,” he said, patting my hand in a most patronizing manner. “Rain on my parade. I understand. You’re frustrated and unhappy because I wound up with the heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune and your significant other is a grumpy cat.”
“Who says Donny’s the heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune?” I sniffed. “Did he tell you that?”
“No,” Lance admitted, “but you should see his bathroom cupboard. It’s stocked to the gills with Johnson & Johnson Baby Shampoo. It makes his hair silky soft,” he added with a goofy grin.
“So the guy buys in bulk. That doesn’t make him an heir.”
“All I know is he’s been showering me with gifts. First the Rolex. Then the cuff links.”
“He does seem to have a lot of money,” I conceded.
“It’s not just about the money,” Lance said, trying his best to look like he meant it. “Donny has all sorts of sterling qualities.”
And he was off and running, singing the praises of his beloved Donny, how he was kind and caring and smart and funny, with impeccable taste in wine and clothing—and men, of course.
Eventually our food showed up, but that didn’t stop Lance. He barely touched his Mediterranean salad as he blathered on about Donny.
I was sitting there, valiantly trying to keep my eyelids propped open, when I looked up and saw a slim, trendy guy with Brad Pitt aviator glasses walk into the restaurant. Wait a minute. I knew that guy. It was Travis, Joy’s nerdy computer tech. Only he wasn’t the least bit nerdy anymore. The former IT geek was duded up in an Italian suit, his floppy locks now artfully arranged in hip spikes.
Yikes. Talk about your makeovers. The guy had done a complete fashion U-ey.
“Excuse me just a minute.” Somehow I managed to interrupt Lance, who was in the middle of describing Donny’s eyes (cerulean blue with just a hint of aquamarine, for those of you taking notes). “I see someone I know.”
“You actually know someone in this restaurant?” asked Lance, blinking in surprise.
“Yes, in fact, I do, and I’m going to say hello.”
“Okay, but don’t take too long. I still haven’t told you about Donny’s dimple.”
I just prayed it was on his face.
I made my way to Travis’s table, my L.L. Bean turtleneck and elastic
waist pants attracting quite a few disapproving stares en route.
“Oh, hi, Jaine,” Travis said when he saw me coming.
Up close, I could see he’d had his teeth whitened.
“Hey, Travis. How’s it going?”
“Great. I just opened my new office. Here, have a card.”
He took out a fancy silver card case and handed me an embossed business card, which read:
TRAVIS RICHARDSON
ELITE MATCHMAKING
“You’ve opened your own matchmaking service?” I asked.
“Yes. In fact, I’m meeting a client here for lunch.”
Then he flashed me what I’d never seen at Dates of Joy: an appealing grin.
“You should drop by and see me.”
“Sure,” I nodded, still blown away by his transformation from geekster to sleekster.
After some rather wooden chat about what a shock Joy’s death had been, I made my way back to Lance, who took up where he’d left off in his paean to Donny, rambling on until the check came.
“Thanks so much, Lance,” I said as he paid the bill. “This was really very sweet of you.”
“Oh, honey, what are friends for if not to be there for you in your time of need? Which reminds me, I never did hear about your horrible ordeal with the police. Where did all the time go?”
“Most of it, on Donny’s dimple.”
As we made our way out of the restaurant, we passed a tall blonde in a cashmere slacks set that probably cost more than my Corolla. She headed for Travis’s table, undoubtedly the client he’d been talking about.
Looked like his new business was off to a booming start.
Picking up a mint from a bowl on the hostess stand (okay, three mints), I couldn’t help but wonder if Travis’s sudden change of fortune had anything to do with Joy’s murder.
Back home, after an obligatory belly rub for Pro, I hurried to my computer and logged on to Travis’s Web site. I checked out the dating profiles of the “typical clients” he’d used to lure in new members.
Holy mackerel. I recognized every one of them. Mainly because Travis had filched them all from Joy’s database.
No wonder he was able to get his business off to such a fast start.
And just like that, Travis Richardson leapt on board my suspect list.
Was it possible the former geek had poisoned his boss from hell to get his hands on her client list?
Chapter 13
Much to my surprise, Elite Matchmaking was actually in a fairly elite part of town—just off South Beverly Drive in the heart of Beverly Hills.
I drove there the next morning, and after circling around the popular shopping area for what seemed like hours, I finally nabbed a parking spot and made my way to Travis’s office.
I found it in a slightly run-down courtyard building, with loose bricks on the pathway and a fountain that had long since ceased to bubble. But with its vintage 1920s Spanish architecture, it had an undeniable charm.
After checking the directory, I made my way across the courtyard to Elite Matchmaking and knocked on the door.
“Come in!” Travis called out.
I turned the knob and stepped into his closet-sized office.
It was tiny to the max, but nicely decorated with a stylish area rug, sleek blond furniture, and three well-placed posters of happy couples holding hands and smiling adoringly at one another.
Travis sat behind his desk, dressed to the nines, with his spiky new hairdo and Brad Pitt aviators, his duct tape nerd glasses a relic of the past.
“Great to see you, Jaine! Have a seat.”
He pointed to the only visitor’s chair in the room, an Eames-ish number that picked up one of the colors in his area rug.
It took me all of two steps to reach it.
“So,” he beamed, as I plopped down. “What do you think of my office?”
“It’s great.”
“My girlfriend decorated it. She’s the one who picked out my new clothes, too.”
“You have a girlfriend?” I blurted out.
Despite his new look, I still couldn’t help thinking of him in geek mode.
“I mean, you have a girlfriend! How nice!”
“Actually I met her on Dates of Joy. She was one of Joy’s few genuine clients.”
“Joy fixed you up?”
“Are you kidding? Joy couldn’t make a match if she signed up a hooker at a frat house.”
He picked up a framed picture from his desk and showed it to me.
“Her name is Ellen. Isn’t she pretty?”
“She’s lovely,” I said, staring down at a sweet-looking redhead with freckles and a slight overbite.
“I saw her picture on Joy’s website and asked her out on the sly. Ellen was the one good thing I got from that rotten job.”
“I wouldn’t exactly say that, Travis.”
“What do you mean?”
“I checked out your clients online, and they looked awfully familiar.”
He had the good grace to blush.
“Okay, so I’m using Joy’s database. I paid for those profiles with two years of blood, sweat, and humiliation. Joy owed me.”
“But you can’t just take over her client list like that. Doesn’t it belong to her heirs?”
“Not really. Joy’s business wasn’t incorporated. So technically, there’s nothing to inherit. Besides, who’d even want it? Tonio needs a calculator to add two and two, and as far as I know all Joy’s relatives are dead.”
Clearly he’d never met Aunt Faith.
“And the fact is, I’m only using Joy’s database to get started. Once I’m up and running, I’m going to dump the phony models and actors. I’ve already signed up a whole bunch of new clients from an ad I took out on Craigslist. “Which brings me to you, Jaine.”
He whipped out a piece of paper and slid it across the desk. Glancing down, I saw that it was an Elite Matchmaking Membership Agreement.
“You know,” he said, with that same appealing grin he’d flashed in Neiman’s, “for only five hundred dollars I could set you up with a really nice guy. No Skip Holmeiers. I promise.”
“Thanks, Travis, but that’s about four hundred ninety-five more than I can afford right now.”
“In that case,” he said, snatching back the membership application, “why are you here?”
“Actually, I came to talk to you about Joy’s murder. The police think I might have done it, and I’m trying to clear my name.”
“You? A killer?” He threw back his head and laughed. “How ridiculous. You wouldn’t have the nerve.”
He was right, of course, but I was a tad insulted at his implication—hard to ignore—that I was about as fearless as a Teletubby.
“I happen to be a lot tougher than I look,” I said, squaring my shoulders in my I MY CAT hoodie.
“Yeah, right,” he smirked. “But you couldn’t have killed Joy. Because I’m pretty sure I know who did.”
“Who?”
“Greg Stanton.”
“The artist? Really?”
“Absolutely,” he nodded. “Joy had something on him. I’m sure of it. Something that kept him paying big bucks for her services year after year.”
“You mean she was blackmailing him?”
“Big time.”
Suddenly I remembered bumping into Greg outside Joy’s office the night of the murder. At the time I was so worried about him ratting on me to Joy, it never occurred to me to wonder what he was doing there.
Greg may well have been the killer, but I couldn’t ignore the hot suspect sitting right across from me. Joy had run roughshod over Travis for the past two years, and now after her death, he’d helped himself to her client list and a whole new life. He had more than enough motive for murder.
For all I knew, he’d been sneaking into her payroll and robbing her blind, saving up for the day when he could afford to open his spiffy new offices.
“By the way,” I said as casually as I could, “I stopped by the ba
r to talk to you on the night of the murder, but you weren’t there.”
Guess I wasn’t casual enough, because suddenly his face turned a most unsettling shade of red.
“What are you implying? That I had something to do with Joy’s death? That I ran out to put that poisoned chocolate in her Godiva box?”
“No, not at all,” I lied.
“Well, for your information, I left the bar for a few minutes to take a bathroom break. I may have been Joy’s slave, but I think I was entitled to one of those.”
“Of course,” I said, with a placating smile, all the while wondering if I was sitting across the desk from Joy’s killer.
Chapter 14
Working my magic charms (and doing a bit of groveling), I managed to smooth Travis’s ruffled feathers and convinced him to give me contact information for several people on Joy’s database I was eager to talk to.
First and foremost among them was Alyce Winters, the woman who’d threatened to “put a stop” to Joy less than an hour before she was murdered.
Soon I was tootling over to Alyce’s apartment in West Hollywood—a sad stucco box of a building in desperate need of a paint job.
Like Alyce herself, it had seen better days.
Taking no chances that Alyce would turn me away at the intercom, I pressed several of the other buttons until someone buzzed me in. Then I rode up to Alyce’s third-floor apartment in the building’s creaky elevator, hoping the cables wouldn’t snap en route.
Out in the hallway, I made my way along the threadbare carpeting to Alyce’s place and rang her doorbell.
Seconds later a shadow darkened the peephole.
“Who is it?” Alyce sounded irritated.
“It’s Jaine Austen. We met at Dates of Joy.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“I need to talk to you. It’s really very important.”
I waited for what seemed like forever until at last I heard the sound of locks turning.
Finally the door swung open.
Alyce stood in the doorway, her skinny bod crammed into a leopard-skin jogging suit, jet black hair extensions hanging limply on her shoulders.
Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) Page 9
