And what about that photo of her mother, the ethereal beauty? I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d seen her somewhere before.
By now I’d reached Pet Palace and drove down the steep slope into their underground parking lot. It was fairly deserted at that time of night. Just two other cars and a lot of empty shopping carts. I got out of my Corolla and scooted over to the elevator. Although I saw no one, I had the uneasy sensation I was not alone.
I told myself I was being foolish, that Joy’s murder had made me a tad paranoid. Nevertheless I was grateful when the elevator finally showed up. I practically leaped inside, pressing the CLOSE DOOR button, holding my breath until the door finally slid shut.
I rode up the single flight to the main floor, still on edge. But once inside Pet Palace, my heebie jeebies vanished. The place was brightly lit, with lots of colorful displays of adorable dogs and cats. I headed for the collar aisle, and right away I saw what I wanted: a hot pink number studded with rhinestones.
Very Vegas Showgirl.
I just prayed Prozac wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between Tiffany and a Kitty Katz Kollar.
Pleased with my purchase, I headed for the cashier to pay for it.
There was no line at the checkout counter, and the clerk on duty, a matronly gal whose name tag read MURIEL, seemed happy to take a break from reading Soap Opera Digest to ring up my sale.
“I just love this collar,” she said, eyeing my Kitty Katz special. “I got one for my cat Bubbles, and she just adores it!”
That was encouraging news. If Bubbles—surely a kitty of discriminating tastes—loved it, chances were Prozac would, too.
I headed down to the garage a lot chirpier than I’d been on my ride up.
Stepping out from the elevator, I noticed that all the empty carts were gone. One of the employees must have rounded them up and brought them back upstairs.
I got in my Corolla, hoping Prozac would be curled up under my neck that night, her Kitty Katz rhinestones scratching my chin. Then I started up the steep slope to the street, picturing our purr-filled reunion, when suddenly from out of nowhere a shadowy figure appeared at the top of the driveway, in sweats and a hoodie, pushing a stack of the store’s shopping carts.
At first I thought it was a store employee. But then, much to my horror, I saw the shadowy figure give the long line of carts a shove—aiming them straight at my Corolla! Frantically I swerved, trying to avoid the coming onslaught, but I wasn’t quite fast enough. The heavy metal carts came smashing into my rear fender with a sickening thud, then careened the rest of the way down the driveway, crashing to a halt at a pole in the garage.
With trembling hands I steered my Corolla back up to the street. Luckily it was still running. I looked around, but the street was empty. My hooded assailant was long gone.
By now a few of the store employees, having heard the crash, came running to my car.
I recognized Muriel, my matronly checkout clerk.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her brow furrowed in concern.
“I’m fine.” Aside from the small matter of my heart almost bursting through my chest.
“Great!” she said. “Then you can sign this release form.”
I now realized she was carrying a clipboard, which she thrust through my car window.
“Pet Palace is not responsible for any accidents in the parking lot,” she informed me. “It says so on all the signs in the garage.”
What a touching tableau, n’est-ce pas? Clearly the royal treatment at Pet Palace was not extended to humans.
I signed the release form and pulled out into the street.
“I hope your kitty likes her collar!” Muriel called out to me as I drove off.
Oh, well. At least she had some shred of empathy.
“Because it’s not returnable!” she added with a jaunty wave.
I was sure that whoever hurled those carts at me was the killer, trying to put the fear of God in me.
And it worked.
I drove home, blood pressure soaring, knuckles white on the steering wheel, checking the rearview mirror every few seconds.
Before long I noticed a black Jeep on my tail. I tried to see the driver’s face, but the Jeep was just far enough away to keep everything a blur. I was certain it was the killer, out to finish me off for good.
In a panic, I reached for my cell phone to call 911. But just then, the Jeep turned off onto a side street.
Thank heavens. A false alarm.
My blood pressure returned from its trip to the stratosphere, and I continued on my way home.
At last I arrived at my street. But as bad luck would have it, there were no parking spaces near my duplex, so I had to park at the other end of the block.
When I got out of my car, I saw something that sent my blood pressure soaring again. I took a look at the car in front of mine and realized I was parked right behind a big black Jeep! For all I knew the killer had taken a shortcut and was lying in wait for me at this very minute.
My heart pounding, I sprinted as fast as could (which isn’t saying much) back to my apartment, fully expecting someone to jump out from every passing bush.
I puffed my way up to my front door and, with shaking hands, managed to let myself in.
Quickly flipping the deadbolt, I leaned against the door to catch my breath and then collapsed onto the sofa.
“Oh, Pro!” I moaned. “I just got attacked by a caravan of supermarket carts!”
She gazed down at me from her perch on the bookshelf.
Perhaps someone up there is punishing you for taking away my diamond collar.
Oh, foo. In all the Sturm und Drang of my cart attack, I’d forgotten about Prozac’s Kitty Katz Kollar and had left it in my car. No way was I about to go back outside and get it. What if the killer was lurking in my neighbor’s azalea bush, just waiting to pounce?
“I bought you a new collar, Pro. Much nicer than that old Tiffany thing. And I’ll give it to you first thing in the morning, I promise. But in the meanwhile, won’t you please come down? I’ll rub your belly for as long as you like. And I’ve got pepperoni on my breath,” I added pleadingly. “You always like that.”
But she just rolled over and showed me her tush.
With a weary sigh, I headed for my bedroom and got undressed. Then I brushed my teeth and climbed into bed, but not before checking to make sure all my windows were locked.
I tried watching TV, but even an ancient rerun of Ozzie and Harriet, usually a sure fire sleep aid, failed to quell my racing brain.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the Attack of the Shopping Carts and wondering who was in that hoodie. It all happened so fast, I hardly even saw my attacker. As far as I knew, it could have been a man or a woman.
Was it Travis, Joy’s database thief? Alyce or Barry, her disgruntled clients? Was it wacky Aunt Faith? Or Greg Stanton? Now that I knew about his true credentials as an “artist,” had he made up his mind to scare me into silence so he could marry Lady Penelope Ashford?
And what about Cassie? She’d been wearing sweatpants when I stopped by to see her earlier that day. Had she shoved on a matching hoodie and been following me ever since?
But why? As far as I could see, Cassie simply didn’t have a motive to kill Joy.
I turned out my bedside lamp and tried to go to sleep, but my cavalcade of suspects kept buzzing in my brain.
Just when I was convinced I was going to be tossing and turning all night, I looked down and saw a lithe little shadow creeping into the room.
Prozac!
My heart flooded with relief as she jumped up on the bed and nuzzled me under my chin.
“Oh, Prozac, honey, I knew you’d come through for me! Underneath your prickly exterior you’ve got a heart of gold, after all!”
Yeah, right. Whatever. Where’s that belly rub you promised?
She rolled over on her back to get her belly rub, but she couldn’t fool me.
The little monster really did c
are about me.
Her belly rubbed to her satisfaction, she licked my cheek with her sandpaper tongue (no doubt hoping for a wayward scrap of pepperoni), then curled up in a ball under my chin. Her soft fur was like Valium to my frenzied psyche.
At last I was able to relax.
As I lay there on the brink of sleep, I thought back to how it all began—my first day working at Dates of Joy. Random images flashed before my eyes: Joy on her Missing Godiva rant. All those models and actors waiting to interview for a nonexistent part. And Travis in his duct-tape glasses, showing me Joy’s Web site—
Omigosh. The Web site!
I sat up with a jolt.
Now I remembered where I’d seen that photo of Cassie’s mother—on Joy’s client database, when Travis was showing me the Web site.
I’d stopped to admire the photo of an ethereal blonde, a Grace Kelly look-alike, the same blonde I’d seen today in Cassie’s bungalow.
Travis told me she’d been a client of Joy’s. Had Joy treated her badly, like she’d done with Alyce and Barry? Had Cassie taken the job at Dates of Joy—not to escape the world of hairdressing—but to avenge whatever wrong Joy had done to her mom?
I remembered the tattoo I’d seen earlier on Cassie’s shoulder. Ultio Dulcis Est.
At the time I’d thought it was a family motto.
Now I got out of bed and fired up my computer.
Seconds later I was typing Ultio Dulcis Est into a Google search.
The translation came up instantly:
Revenge Is Sweet.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: In My Pocket All Along!
Guess what, darling! I was just cleaning out the pockets of my new Georgie O. Armani jacket before I put it in the wash (That’s right, sweetheart! A designer original—and machine washable, too!) when I reached in my pocket and found my Valentine’s ring! I must have put it there when I was washing my hands in the ladies’ room at Le Chateaubriand.
Which means the Pinkuses didn’t steal it after all! Which means your daddy is marching over to Lydia’s townhouse with Lester’s ring, an apology, and a check for a new plate glass window.
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: A Wee Bit Wrong
Well, Lambchop, it turns out I may have been a wee bit wrong about the Battleaxe stealing your mom’s ring. It seems she and her gasbag brother are in the clear this time. But who knows what those two are capable of?
And if Mom thinks I’m going to pay a stranger good money to replace Lester’s windowpane when I can do it myself with my Belgian Army Knife and a bit of putty, she’s crazy.
I’ll head over there tomorrow to take care of the job.
Love ’n’ snuggles,
Daddy
Chapter 26
The next morning, after reading about Mom’s miraculous recovery of her Valentine’s ring from her (machine washable!) Georgie O. Armani jacket, I made my way up the block to my Corolla.
In the bright light of day, my street seemed like a set out of Wisteria Lane. Lots of green grass and lilac bushes and birds chirping gaily in the trees. A far cry from the nightmare alley it had been less than twelve hours ago.
And you can imagine how foolish I felt when I saw a freckle-faced teenager getting into the black Jeep that had sent me running to my apartment in such a panic.
So much for the killer following me home.
I really had to stop overreacting if I expected to continue my career as a part-time semi-professional PI.
At my Corolla, I inspected the dent on my left rear fender. It was rather unsightly, but on the plus side, it matched the dent on my right rear fender.
Eagerly, I grabbed Prozac’s Kitty Katz Kollar from the back seat and hurried back to my apartment to show it to her.
“Look what Mommy bought you,” I said, waving it under her nose.
A disdainful sniff from Her Majesty.
I don’t do rhinestones. And you’re not my mommy.
I tried to fasten it around her neck, but all I got for my troubles was a nasty scratch on my wrist.
When last I saw it, she was batting it around like a dead mouse.
Benjamin’s was an upscale hair salon in the heart of Brentwood, the kind of place that catered to privileged housewives killing time between Botox shots.
The good news is that I found a parking spot right outside their front door.
The bad news is that Benjamin’s receptionist saw me getting out of my freshly dented Corolla.
She blinked in surprise as I walked into the tony salon.
“Hi there,” she said, a dewy-eyed twentysomething waiting for her big movie break. “You sure you’re not looking for a Supercuts?”
Okay, what she really said was, “How may I help you?” but I could read between the lines.
“I’m here to see Cassie.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but—”
“Sorry,” she said, gliding a perfectly manicured fingernail down her schedule sheet. “She’s booked all day.”
“I just need to talk to her for a few minutes. It’s very important.”
“How about next Tuesday at ten? Shall I put you down you for a Complete Day of Beauty? If anyone could use one, it’s you.”
Okay, so she didn’t say that last part. But trust me, she was thinking it.
“I can’t wait till Tuesday. I need to talk to Cassie now.”
And without waiting for permission, I barged into the salon, where I spotted Cassie with a customer.
How odd to see the purple-haired pixie here in the land of Botoxed blondes. But there she was, snipping away at the locks of a brittle forty-something who looked like she was on her way to a DAR meeting.
“Jaine,” Cassie cried, catching sight of me. “What are you doing here?”
The starlet/receptionist, who’d been hot on my heels, now piped up: “I told her you were busy, but she wouldn’t listen.”
“Cassie, we need to talk.”
“I can’t now, Jaine. I’m with a customer.”
“It’s about your mom,” I whispered. “And Joy Amoroso.”
A flush crept up her chalk-white cheeks.
“What’s going on?”
I turned to see a tall, skinny guy in a ponytail and designer cowboy gear. From the big brass “B” on his belt buckle, I assumed he was Benjamin.
“Hey,” he said, looking me over. “Are you one of the Don’t models the agency is sending over for my Beauty Do’s & Don’ts ad?”
“No,” I snapped with more than a hint of frost in my voice, “I am not one of your Beauty Don’ts.”
Cassie quickly jumped in.
“Jaine’s a friend of mine. She just stopped by to pick up something she left in my car.”
“Too bad,” Benjamin said, walking away. “She’d be a great Don’t.”
The minute he was gone, Cassie turned to me and hissed, “Wait till I’m through with my client. I’ll talk to you then.”
So I spent the next twenty minutes in the reception area, getting dirty looks from the starlet/receptionist and leafing through beauty magazines. I particularly enjoyed a hard-hitting piece of journalism entitled “Ten Ways to Get Your Man Excited in Bed.”
(The correct answer: Hide the remote.)
Finally Cassie was finished with the DAR lady and hustled me through the salon and out a back door into a narrow alley.
“Make it quick, Jaine. I’ve only got a few minutes before my next client shows up.”
I wasted no time getting to the point.
“I know your mother was one of Joy’s former clients. I saw her picture on Joy’s database.”
“What of it?” she asked, with a defiant tilt of her chin.
“I’m guessing Joy treated her pretty shabbily, just like she treated most of her other clients.”
“Shabbily?” She broke out
in a bitter laugh. “Joy killed my mother, just as sure as if she’d stuck a knife in her heart.”
Slumping down on the salon’s back door step, she let out a deep sigh.
“You saw how beautiful my mom was. She wasn’t in the movies, but she wanted to be. She tried her hardest, but nothing panned out. Then she got pregnant with me, by some guy she met in one of her acting classes. He broke up with her before I was born and moved to New York. I’ve never even seen him. Not in person, that is. Although I once caught him in the middle of the night on a Hair Club for Men infomercial.
“Anyhow, Mom worked her fanny off trying to earn enough money for the two of us. One day she saw Joy’s ad in the paper. She took every dime she’d saved up and handed it over to Joy, hoping to wind up with some guy who’d take care of both of us. Needless to say, as soon as Joy cashed Mom’s check, she wanted nothing more to do with her. She set her up with one or two dates and then hung her out to dry. And when Mom stopped by the office to complain, Joy reamed into her. She told her she was a loser, that her looks were going fast, and that she’d be lucky if she didn’t wind up a bag lady.
“Mom was a fragile woman, at her breaking point. And Joy pushed her over the edge. After Joy’s tongue-lashing, Mom sank into a deep depression. Three weeks later she killed herself.”
Cassie wiped a tear from her cheek with a bony knuckle.
“And so you killed Joy to avenge your mom’s death,” I said as gently as I could.
She looked up at me, blinking in disbelief.
“Are you crazy? I didn’t kill Joy.”
“Then why did you go to work for her? You can’t expect me to believe you went there simply to take a break from hairdressing.”
“I was collecting evidence against her. I kept records of every shady business transaction, every lie she told, every scam she pulled. I wanted to destroy her business. And, if I played my cards right, send her to jail.
Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) Page 17
