Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery)

by Levine, Laura

  Pinkus’s bedroom.

  Further details were unavailable at press time.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: I Thought I’d Die

  I thought for sure Daddy had given up on the idea that Lydia and Lester had stolen my ring. He certainly was all smiles when we showed up for the party, running to the buffet and scarfing down Edna Lindstrom’s Swedish meatballs like he hadn’t just finished a three-course meat loaf dinner at home!

  Then the lights dimmed, and we all gathered around to watch Lester’s slide show. We weren’t sitting there for more than two minutes, watching Lester and his colorful Sherpa guide trekking up Mt. Ravi Shankar, when suddenly I realized Daddy was gone. At first I thought he’d made a trip to the bathroom, but when five more minutes passed and he didn’t come back, I knew something was up.

  As much as I hated to miss the pictures of Lester and his colorful native guide pitching their tent in their long johns, I slipped out of the living room to find Daddy. I tried Lydia’s bedroom, the den, and the kitchen (always a popular stop for Daddy). Finally I came to the guest bedroom.

  When I opened the door, I thought I’d die.

  There was Daddy, wearing boxing gloves and a pair of Lester’s Everlast boxing shorts! No doubt a memento from his amateur boxing days.

  “Look, Claudia!” he cried. “A punching bag!”

  Indeed, there in the corner of the guest bedroom, Lester had set up a boxer’s punching bag.

  “And genuine boxing shorts!” Daddy pointed with pride at his pilfered shorts. “I always wanted to wear a pair of these. And try my hand at a punching bag. You know. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee!”

  He danced around, punching the air, his knees sticking out like doorknobs, Muhammad Ali on Metamucil.

  “The screws on the punching bag need a little tightening, but my handy dandy Belgian Army Knife will take care of that.” Taking off his boxing gloves, he grabbed his Belgian Army Knife and began tinkering with the screws attaching the punching bag to the pole.

  “Hank Austen!” I hissed. “Leave that punching bag alone!”

  “Don’t be silly, Claudia. I know what I’m doing.”

  Ignoring me like he always does, he kept fiddling with the screws. Then he put on the gloves and started punching the bag. He missed the bag on the first two punches. With the third punch—I still shudder at the memory—he made contact.

  Before my horrified eyes, the punching bag came loose from the pole and went sailing across the room and crashing through Lester’s window, making the most awful racket and sending shards of glass everywhere!

  Within seconds, all the party guests had rushed over to see what had happened.

  “Good heavens, Hank!” Lydia cried. “What have you done?”

  By now I was burning with shame, but Daddy just stood there in Lester’s Everlast shorts, not looking the least bit embarrassed.

  “I think your punching bag is broken,” he had the nerve to say to Lester.

  “You’re the one who broke it, Hank!” I cried. “You and your silly Belgian Army Knife. I think you owe the Pinkuses an apology.”

  Your father looked at me as if I’d just asked him to go skinny-dipping in a sewer.

  “Me? Apologize to them? Why, they’re the ones who owe us an apology.”

  “Why on earth do we owe you an apology?” Lydia asked.

  “For stealing my wife’s diamond ring!” Daddy cried, stomping over to Lester’s night table.

  And then, to my utter amazement, he opened the drawer and took out my Valentine’s ring!

  “See?” he said to me. “I told you Lydia took it. And Lester’s been hiding it for her. I found it right before you came in. I’m just happy I got here before they passed it off to their fence.”

  “My good fellow,” Lester said, putting his arm around Daddy’s shoulder, “I’m afraid you’ve got this all wrong. I didn’t steal your wife’s ring. I bought this ring from a man in the parking lot at Costco.”

  “And just when were you planning on wearing it?” Daddy asked, oozing skepticism. “On your next trip to Nepal?”

  “I bought it for a lady friend.”

  “What lady friend?” Daddy asked, Mr. District Attorney.

  “Edna Lindstrom,” Lester replied, blushing.

  “Me?” Edna squeaked.

  “I know it’s rushing things a bit since we haven’t even gone out yet,” Lester said, “but those pink stones made me think of your pink cheeks. Speaking of which, did you ever get my Valentine’s gift? Two dozen pink roses? I signed the card ‘From Your Secret Admirer’ and left them at your front door.”

  “So that’s who those flowers were for!” I said. “You left them on our doorstep by mistake, and Hank thought you had a crush on me.”

  “So you see,” Lester said to Daddy, “it’s all a big misunderstanding. Let’s agree to let bygones be bygones, shall we?”

  “We’ll pay for a new window, of course,” I assured him.

  “We’ll do no such thing!” Daddy sputtered. “You’re not really falling for his story about buying a diamond ring for a woman he’s never even gone out with? Puh-leese. What a bunch of dog doo. This is your ring, Claudia, the one Lydia stole from you at Le Chateaubriand, and we’re not forking over a dime for that window. Not unless The Evil Axis wants us to press charges for grand theft!”

  And with that, he grabbed me and the ring and marched me out of Lydia’s town house. It wasn’t until we got home that I realized Daddy was still wearing Lester’s Everlast shorts.

  Oh, dear. I’m afraid Lydia may never speak to me again.

  Your heartsick,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Victory!

  Well, Lambchop, I’m happy to report that, after a practically flawless reconnaissance expedition, I’ve retrieved your mom’s stolen ring from The Evil Axis. I knew all along that Devious Duo were up to no good.

  Love ’n’ cuddles from

  Your crime-fighting,

  Daddy

  Chapter 24

  I almost choked on a cinnamon raisin bagel the next morning when I read about Daddy’s mortifying encounter with Lester Pinkus’s punching bag. It’s at times like this that I’m very grateful for the three thousand miles separating L.A. and Tampa Vistas.

  My heart went out to Mom, but I simply couldn’t spend time worrying about the Great Punching Bag Fiasco. Not while I still had that pesky murder to solve.

  I had scads of suspects but not a shred of evidence linking any of them to the crime.

  Then I flashed on Cassie, Joy’s beleaguered personal assistant. It was hard to picture her as a killer, but maybe she’d seen something the night of the murder that would help me solve the crime.

  I found her number on Travis’s contact list and rang her up.

  “Hi, Jaine,” she said when she came on the line. “I’ve been expecting your call.”

  “You have?”

  “Travis told me you’ve been snooping around, asking questions about the murder.”

  “Guilty as charged. I was hoping you and I could have a little talk.”

  “Honestly, Jaine, I don’t think I’m going to be much help.”

  “Can I stop by to see you anyway? It won’t take long. I promise.”

  Who knew? Maybe with a little prompting, I could get her to remember a vital clue.

  “Well, okay,” she said, “but you’re wasting your time.”

  She agreed to meet me at her bungalow in Venice later that afternoon.

  I was just heading to the bathroom for a quick shower when there was a knock on my door.

  I opened it to find Detective Adam’s Apple.

  Oh, groan. I’d e-mailed him his dating profile days ago. What did he want me to write now? His grocery list?

  “Oh, hi,” I said with a faint smile. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, you can,” he replied rather sternly. “You can stop p
retending to be a reporter for the L.A. Times.”

  Oopsie.

  “Apparently you’ve been running around telling people you’re writing an exposé on Joy Amoroso.”

  “Just trying to get information to clear my name. When last I checked, I was one of your suspects.”

  “Leave the detecting to the professionals, okay? I may be clueless about dating, but I’m fairly competent at tracking down killers.”

  “Just as long as you don’t wind up arresting me. Ha ha.”

  I waited for a laugh. Or a smile. A flash of that dimple in his left cheek. But he remained stony-faced. Which did not boost my confidence. Not one iota.

  “So how’s the search coming along for Ms. Right?” I asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

  “Actually I met a woman I really like.”

  So he found his petite blonde.

  Life isn’t fair, is it? Women wait for years to meet their Prince Charming. Or even a decent frog. And men go online and get hooked up practically minutes after they click the SEARCH button.

  “We’ve chatted a few times,” he was saying. “And she’s got some special qualities that really appeal to me.”

  Whaddaya bet they both fit into a 34C?

  “I want to ask her out, but I don’t have the nerve to do it on the phone, so I wrote her a note.”

  He took a small piece of paper from his pocket.

  “I was wondering if you’d mind looking it over just to make sure it’s okay,” he said, handing it to me.

  His missive was short and to the point:

  Hi, there!

  I’ve really enjoyed chatting with you. I think

  you’re cute and funny. Would you like to go out

  with me Saturday night?

  He was no Shakespeare, but the note was sweet in its simplicity.

  “So what do you think?” he asked.

  “I think it’s just fine.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Thanks so much, “he grinned, his dimple at last making an appearance. “Wish me luck.”

  I wished him luck, and as I watched him walk away, I secretly hoped his petite blonde showed up for their date with a zit on her nose.

  Cassie lived in a dollhouse of a bungalow several blocks from the ocean in Venice.

  I made my way past her white picket fence, choked with roses and geranium vines, up the short path to her bright red front door. Forest-green shutters bracketed the two windows on either side of the entrance, and a squat chimney jutted out from a deeply slanted roof.

  It was like a kid’s drawing of a house come to life.

  How funny to think of goth Cassie with her tattoos and nose ring living in this storybook cottage.

  She came to the door in black sweats and oversized T-shirt, her purple hair gelled into fearsome spikes. A tattoo of the words Ultio Dulcis Est was visible on her shoulder. What the heck was that? A new rock group? A family motto? A Kama Sutra position?

  “C’mon in,” she said, leading me into a tiny living room furnished in a wild combo of white wicker and black velvet. Her walls had been painted a deep purple (to match her hair?) and on her scrubbed pine coffee table, next to a vase of peonies, was a human skull filled with Tootsie Rolls.

  It was all very Laura Ashley meets Sid Vicious.

  “What a charming place,” I said. “It’s so ... eclectic.”

  “Schizophrenic is more like it, but it works for me.”

  At which point a piercing scream filled the air. For a frightening instant I thought it was the skull on her coffee table come to life. But it was only her teakettle.

  “I was just making myself a cup of tea,” Cassie said. “Want some?”

  “No, thanks,” I replied, surprised she wasn’t brewing eye of newt. “I’m fine.”

  As she headed off to her kitchen, I wandered over to look at some photos on her tiny fireplace mantel.

  I blinked in disbelief at a picture of a wide-eyed little girl in a pink pinafore with matching pink shoes, a bow in her blond ringlets. In spite of all the changes the years had brought, I recognized that little face. It was pre-tattoo Cassie. Who would’ve thought the goth goddess had once worn pink Mary Janes?

  “Can you believe what a dorky kid I was?” she said, joining me at the mantel, a mug of tea in her hands.

  “You were adorable. You still are.”

  “My mom was the pretty one in my family.”

  She handed me a framed photo of a stunning young woman, pale and blond, smiling into the camera with a far-off look in her eyes.

  Something about her looked familiar.

  “What a beautiful woman,” I said, gazing down at the picture. “Was she in the movies?”

  “No,” she laughed, “not at all. She worked in the perfume department at Saks.”

  “I bet she’s still a beauty.”

  “Not really.” Her eyes clouded over. “She’s dead.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me, too.”

  She curled up in an armchair, cradling her mug of tea in her hands.

  “Grab a seat,” she said, forcing a smile.

  I plunked myself down on the wicker sofa.

  “Tootsie Roll?” she offered, gesturing to the skull on the coffee table.

  For one of the few times in my life, I said no to chocolate.

  “It’s lucky you called today,” Cassie said. “You caught me on my day off.”

  “You got another job?”

  “I’m cutting hair at Benjamin’s, a beauty salon in Brentwood.”

  “That’s terrific.”

  “It’s what I trained to do. I’ve got my cosmetology degree and everything.”

  “Then why were you working for Joy?”

  “When I first started out in the salon biz, it seemed too cutthroat. So I took a job at Dates of Joy. Of course,” she added with a bitter laugh, “I didn’t know the true meaning of ‘cutthroat’ until I started working for Joy.”

  “I don’t suppose you have any idea who might have killed her?”

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, taking a sip of her tea, “I do.”

  Holy Moses. It looked like I’d struck gold.

  “Who is it?”

  “Not telling,” she said, with an emphatic shake of her purple spikes.

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Because whoever killed Joy did the world a favor. She was a vicious bitch and didn’t deserve to live.”

  She spat that last bit out with such loathing, I suddenly wondered if the “killer” she was talking about was Cassie herself.

  I remembered those dahlias she’d brought to Joy’s memorial service, the ones she knew Joy would have detested. Had Cassie finally snapped under the pressure of working for Joy and killed her boss from hell?

  But that didn’t make sense. If everybody ran around killing their difficult bosses, half of corporate America would be dead by sunset. Sure, Joy was a bitch on wheels, screaming at Cassie for bringing her Sweet’n Low instead of Splenda, but that didn’t seem like motive enough for murder.

  “Really, Cassie. If you know who killed Joy, you owe it to the police to speak up.”

  “The only thing I owe anybody is a decent haircut. Speaking of which, how’d you like me to trim your bangs? They’re getting a little ragged.”

  And just like that she was back to her old self, smiling the same innocent smile she’d beamed in her pink pinafore.

  Cassie may have hated Joy, but I simply couldn’t see her as a killer.

  I begged her to tell me who the culprit was, but she refused to part with her secret.

  I left her bungalow as confused as when I’d shown up, not a millimeter closer to the truth.

  But on the plus side, my bangs looked great.

  Chapter 25

  Back home, Prozac was still in a Pout Royale over her diamond collar, holed up with P. G. Wodehouse, coming down only for her meals and then hurling herself back up the bookcase, as far away fro
m me as she could get.

  “I miss you, Pro, honey!” I called up to her after supper that night.

  (To prove my love, I’d given her all the anchovies on my pepperoni pizza.)

  “Will you come down if I give you a nice long belly rub with extra scratching on your neck?”

  She glared at me through narrowed eyes.

  Not unless there’s a diamond collar on it.

  It was beginning to look like she’d never forgive me for taking away that dratted collar. Somehow I had to melt her deep freeze. Maybe a new collar would do the trick, something loaded with bling. I checked my watch. Eight o’clock. I still had time to dash over to my local pet shop before they closed.

  Minutes later I was on my way to Pet Palace (“Where Your Pets Always Get the Royal Treatment”). As I drove along, my thoughts drifted back to my meeting with Cassie. How aggravating to think that she actually knew who the murderer was, but wasn’t talking.

  What a strange girl she was—living in that gothic dollhouse with purple walls and a skull for a candy dish. And Ultio Dulcis Est, whatever the heck that meant, tattooed on her shoulder.