“So what did you want to say?” he asked.
“Um ... pass the yogurt?”
Skip was on such a high going home, he hit the pedal to the metal, sending the speedometer zooming all the way to thirty miles an hour. He chattered happily about how much fun we were going to have together, sailing his yacht to Majorca, getting season tickets for the ballet, and spending Christmas at his ski lodge in Aspen.
It was actually beginning to sound pretty good, until I remembered I’d be doing all this jet setting with Skip and his celery tonic glued to my side.
No, I’d definitely have to break up with him. As soon as I thought of a way to let him down gently.
Centuries later (okay, it was an hour and thirty-two and a half minutes), he dropped me off at my duplex, promising to call soon.
I waved good-bye and waited a small eternity until he’d driven off. Then, without any further ado, I dashed into my apartment, where I had my long-awaited tryst with my jumbo burrito.
I spent the rest of the day holed up with a Real Housewives of Beverly Hills marathon, recuperating from my coffee klatch with the dead.
When I’d finally had my fill of catfights in Louboutins, I looked up Skip’s address on WhitePages.com and then sat down and wrote him a lovely note explaining that I could no longer see him, due to the fact that he was a certified loonybird.
Okay, so I didn’t really call him a loonybird. Instead, I wrote something about irreconcilable differences and how it was best we not date for the next millennium or two. I signed it with a heartfelt frowny face, threw a raincoat over my chenille bathrobe and headed to my corner mailbox, where it was with the utmost sense of relief that I tossed the letter into the slot.
I walked back to my apartment with a spring in my step, a song in my heart, and a jumbo blueberry muffin in my hands. (Compliments of a pit stop at my corner Starbucks.)
At long last, I was Skip-free.
Chapter 16
The next morning I decided to pay a little visit to Travis’s number one suspect—Greg Stanton.
Travis had said he was sure Joy had blackmailed Greg into joining Dates of Joy.
It sure made sense to me. From the moment I saw him cuddled up with that brunet beauty at Simon’s Steak House, I could not for the life of me figure out why a guy like Greg would need Joy’s services.
I looked up his address on Travis’s handy dandy contact list and, after slipping into some sweats and a hoodie, was soon zipping off to his house in the ultra-tony North of Montana section of Santa Monica, where unassuming little cottages sell for upwards of two mil.
Greg’s house, however, was anything but unassuming. A massive Mediterranean-style McMansion surrounded by lush foliage, it was dotted with so many balconies, I almost expected to see either Rapunzel or the Pope pop out on one of them.
A Lamborghini parked in the driveway allowed me to hope that Greg was home.
After parking my lowly Corolla at the curb, I trotted up the path to Greg’s massive front door and rang the bell.
Inside I could hear chimes reverberating, and seconds later, much to my delight, Greg answered the door himself—in jeans and a work shirt, his surfer blond hair glinting in the morning sun.
Thank heavens I wouldn’t have to talk my way past a servant.
“Hi, Mr. Stanton!” I chirped in my cheeriest voice. “I don’t know if you remember me. I was working for Joy Amoroso when she died.”
“I remember you, all right. What the hell do you want?”
Okay, so what he really said was, “How can I help you?”
But I could tell by the look on his face he was none too thrilled to see me.
Sensing I wouldn’t make it past the front door if he knew I was there to grill him about the murder, I decided to stick with my L.A. Times exposé ruse.
“Actually, I’m writing an exposé on Joy for the L.A. Times. All about her unscrupulous business tactics.”
“The L.A. Times wants you to write a story?” he asked, blinking in surprise. “Aren’t you one of the murder suspects?”
“Me? A suspect?” I said, trying to keep my voice light and airy. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
“According to the police, you were seen coming out of Joy’s office the night of the murder.”
Probably because you told them, blabbermouth.
“They seemed to believe me when I explained that I just popped in to look for my purse. And that’s why I was there, Greg. Just looking for my purse.”
He raised a skeptical brow.
“So how about it?” I persisted. “Can you spare a few minutes for an exposé on Joy?”
If I’d expected him to jump at the chance to trash Joy, I was sadly mistaken.
“I doubt I can be any help to you,” he said stiffly. “My dealings with Joy were always quite amicable.”
Spoken with all the heartfelt sincerity of a press agent.
“That’s great!” I said, forcing a smile. “I need to get both sides of the story. It would be wonderful to be able to quote someone who actually had a good experience with her.”
“Wish I could help,” he said, starting to close the door, “but I’m just finishing up my latest painting. I’ve got to get back upstairs to my studio.”
“It won’t take long, I promise.”
Maybe it was my winsome smile. Or the pleading look in my eye. Or perhaps my foot wedged on his doorstep.
Whatever the reason, he changed his mind.
“Oh, okay,” he said, waving me inside with a sigh.
I followed him to a huge living room, tastefully decorated in various shades of brown and taupe. All the pieces looked expensive; none of them exciting. It was like walking into a hotel lobby. The only spot of color was a red box of Valentine’s chocolates on the coffee table.
How odd. I remembered Joy telling me Greg painted “fabulously colorful landscapes.” So why was a guy who made his living working with color living in a symphony of beige?
“Have a seat,” he said, ushering me to one of two beige sofas flanking the coffee table.
He sat down across from me, perched at the edge of his sofa cushion, his hands on his knees, clearly ready to cut the interview short the minute he could.
I eyed the box of chocolates on the coffee table, but he made no move to offer me one.
First Joy, now Greg. There certainly was a lot of choco-hoarding going around.
“So what would you like to know?” he asked.
“Were you aware of any of Joy’s shady dealings? How she used phony pictures of models and actors to lure clients? How once she had her clients roped in, she rarely came through with a match?”
“I’d heard rumors,” he admitted, “but she was always up front with me. The minute I signed with her, she started setting me up with great women. She really was the best in her business,” he said, smiling a smile that didn’t quite ring true.
“Do you mind my asking why a handsome guy like you needed a matchmaking service?”
“You wouldn’t believe how many women are only interested in me because I’m a famous artist,” he said, raking his fingers through his mop of sun-bleached hair.
I’d bet my bottom Pop-Tarts there’d be hordes of women eager to run their hands through that mop—with or without a famous artist attached.
“I needed Joy to find me someone who’d love me for myself.”
“How long were you with her?” I asked.
“About five years.”
“That long, huh? Funny that someone who was the best in her business couldn’t make a match for you in five years.”
Anger flashed in his eyes for the briefest beat; then he forced a smile.
“Love’s not easy,” he shrugged.
“So you don’t agree with the scuttlebutt that she cheated her clients, even blackmailing some of them?”
I waited for a reaction to my blackmail bait, but he wasn’t biting.
“I don’t know how she treated anybody else,” he said, “
but she was always wonderful to me. I’m really going to miss her,” he added, doing his best to strike a mournful pose.
As he sat there in his work shirt and jeans, his hands clasping his knees, something about his appearance didn’t ring true.
And then it hit me.
It was his hands. They were perfectly clean. Not a spot of paint anywhere.
If he’d just been working on a painting, as he’d claimed, shouldn’t his hands be splattered with paint?
“Well,” he said, getting up, “I’ve really got to get back upstairs to work.”
Doing what? I wondered.
And as I followed him to the front door, I noticed something else that seemed odd. Looking down at the socks peeking out from his running shoes, I saw that one of them was blue, and the other brown.
Had he gotten dressed in a hurry? Or was this some sort of artistic fashion statement?
It wasn’t until I was back outside strapping myself in my Corolla that I came up with another explanation for those mismatched socks.
Was it possible that one of the area’s leading artists, famous for his use of color, was actually colorblind?
But that simply couldn’t be.
Or could it?
I drove to the end of the block and waited about five minutes. Then I headed back to Greg’s McMansion. Something fishy was going on with that guy, and I was determined to find out what it was. Crouching along the rosebushes out front, I made my way to the side of the house, then tiptoed toward the back, checking each room for signs of Greg. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Then I remembered that he said his studio was upstairs.
By now I was at the back of the house. I looked up and saw a room with large floor-to-ceiling windows and French doors leading out to a balcony. The perfect space for a studio.
But how was I supposed to spy on Greg if he was up on the second floor?
And then I spotted it. The answer to my prayers: A large oak tree, several of its branches practically touching the room’s balcony.
Somehow I had to climb that tree.
The last time I’d shimmied up a tree was never, but I had to give it a shot.
It wasn’t easy, but with strength, determination, and a small ladder I found propped up against Greg’s garage, I managed to scramble up to a branch with a view of the room.
The branch looked strong. But was it strong enough to hold me and the cavalcade of calories camping on my thighs?
Gingerly I inched out along the branch, holding on to a crevice in the tree trunk, just in case the branch gave way.
Thank heavens the mighty oak remained mighty, and the branch held firm.
If I craned my neck just a tad, I could see directly into what was indeed Greg’s studio.
An empty easel was set up in the corner of the room, a palette of oils resting on a nearby stand. Everything was spotless. No mess. No blobs of spattered paint anywhere. Just the empty easel, the palette, and a few blank canvases propped against the wall.
If Greg had been working on a painting, where the heck was it?
Just then, the door to what looked like a closet in the corner of the room opened, and Greg came out carrying a canvas. A colorful landscape of a country lane. So vibrant and alive, everything the rest of his house wasn’t.
He propped it up on the easel and then took out a dust rag from his pocket and began dusting it off.
Huh?
Who the heck dusts off an oil they’ve just finished painting? Obviously this picture had been sitting in that closet for quite some time.
And then, much to my amazement, he started dusting his palette of oils. The globs of paint were hard as a rock. The darn thing was a prop!
Curiouser and curiouser, to quote my good buddy L. G. Carroll.
Thoroughly flabbergasted, I watched as Greg took out his cell phone and started making a call.
The French doors to his balcony were open and, leaning forward, I strained to hear what he was saying.
“Hello, Calista?” His voice filtered out from the studio. “It’s Greg. The paint’s just dry on my latest painting.” He flicked the dust rag over the canvas. “I think it’s one of my best. Hoping we can get at least a hundred grand for it ... Okay, I’ll bring it right over.”
He clicked off the phone, and then, much to my dismay, he started for the balcony.
Oh, hell. He was coming to close the French doors!
Frantically, I scooted back to the tree trunk. I got there just in time to hear the doors lock. I only hoped he hadn’t seen me.
Peering out between the leaves, I watched as Greg headed out the studio door, the canvas tucked under his arm.
And suddenly everything clicked into place. Greg had no paint on his hands because he wasn’t a painter. He was no more an artist than I was. Somewhere someone else was doing the actual painting, and Greg was taking all the credit. Greg Stanton was a colorblind fake! That was his dirty little secret. Somehow Joy found out about it and had been blackmailing him all these years.
Maybe Greg had finally put an end to her extortion with a poisoned chocolate.
Perhaps one from the very box I’d seen on his coffee table.
I sat there, feeling quite proud of my deductive powers. Not to mention my tree-climbing skills.
And that’s when the squirrels attacked.
Yes, I was up in that old oak tree, feeling quite Sherlock Holmesian, when suddenly I looked down and saw two rather perturbed squirrels squealing at the base of the tree, their furry tails swishing in ire.
For purposes of this narration, I shall call them Rocky and Bullwinkle.
What on earth were they so angry about?
And then I realized that crevice I’d been using to keep a grip on the tree was their little home, their pied-à-terre, their Casa De Acorns. I felt around inside and sure enough, there were a whole bunch of nuts stored inside.
No wonder they were so angry. I had invaded their stash!
In the distance, I could hear the sounds of a car door slam and an engine rev. Probably Greg, driving off to sell his painting.
Meanwhile, the squirrels were hurtling up the tree, fury in their beady little eyes.
“I come in peace!” I cried. “Honest, fellas. I don’t even like acorns!”
Somehow they were not mollified.
One of them, I believe it was Rocky, was baring his teeth in a most frightening manner.
Any minute now he’d be sinking those teeth into my fanny, and I’d be spending the next several hours in an emergency room getting a series of painful rabies shots.
Frantically I pulled off my sneaker and shooed Rocky away as I shimmied down the tree. It seemed like centuries, but at last I reached the ladder and clambered the rest of the way down.
Never had I been so relieved to be on terra firma.
Just when I thought I was home free, however, I felt something around my ankle. Oh, hell. It was Rocky, chomping down on my pant leg.
“I swear, I don’t have any of your nuts!” I cried. “Now let me go!”
But Rocky was not about to let go. And now I saw Bullwinkle charging down the tree and aiming for my other leg. I had no choice but to step out of my sweats and let the squirrels have them.
Unbelievable! Why, just last Christmas a pair of Dobermans had ripped my favorite Eileen Fisher outfit off my back at a holiday party (a ghastly episode you can read all about in Secret Santa, now available in all the usual places). And here I was, being undressed all over again by a pair of squirrels.
All I can say is it’s pretty pathetic when the only males interested in tearing off my clothes have four legs and tails.
But I digress.
Rocky was now zipping up the tree, chirping in victory, my sweatpants trailing behind him. Bullwinkle, meanwhile, shot me what looked suspiciously like a smirk and then scooted up behind his buddy.
Oh, well. At least I wouldn’t need those rabies shots.
I started for my car, dying to get home and soak in the tub f
or the next forty-seven hours, when suddenly I realized my car keys were in my pants pocket!
Damn! Back I went to that dratted oak tree where Rocky and Bullwinkle were now chewing on my sweats, no doubt looking for the emergency M&M’s I keep in the pockets.
I climbed the ladder and reached for a pant leg that was dangling from a branch. I gave it a yank, but for such little critters, Rocky and Bullwinkle were surprisingly strong. They clung to my pants with their sharp little teeth, not giving an inch.
Frantically I stood there yanking at my pants, praying that my rodent buddies would not come charging down at me.
At last my car keys come clattering to the ground, and I picked them up and headed for my car.
The last I saw of Rocky and Bullwinkle, they were noshing on my M&M’s.
Chapter 17
People think California is the land of sunshine, but it can get quite frosty here in February and March, especially if you’re not wearing pants.
I drove home with the car heater on, vowing to never again get in a tiff with a pair of squirrels.
They may look cute, but trust me, they don’t fight fair.
At last I arrived at my duplex and was heading up the front path to my apartment, practically naked from the waist down, my thighs on view for all the world to see, when I looked up and saw someone at my front door.
Oh, hell. It was one of the homicide detectives. The skinny one with the Adam’s apple.
“Hello, Ms. Austen,” he said, making a valiant effort not to stare at my thighs, which by now were sprouting goose bumps the size of popcorn.
“Excuse the way I look,” I managed to say. “I ... um ... lost my pants.”
“So I see.”
“Yes, I gave them to a needy homeless person.”
“How generous of you,” he said, shooting me a dubious look. Then he cleared his throat, getting down to business. “I need to talk to you.”
Uh-oh. I didn’t like the sound of that.
At which point, his phone rang. He snapped it open, saying, “Detective Willis here.”
So that’s what his name was. I had to remember not to call him Detective Adam’s Apple.
Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) Page 11
