Death by Tiara

by Laura Levine

  I continued to pace, wondering how long I’d be stuck in beautiful downtown Alta Loco, when there was a knock on my door.

  It was Detective Brunhilde with her trusty notebook.

  I ushered her inside and offered her the only seat in the room, a battered armchair slathered with a fine layer of cat fur.

  “Sit down, won’t you?” I said, brushing off cat hairs as I spoke.

  After eyeing the chair warily, she finally decided to risk it and sat down.

  Meanwhile, Prozac looked up from where she’d been clawing the bedspread and sniffed in Brunhilde’s direction.

  Then, like a shot, she leaped off the bed and into Brunhilde’s lap.

  Brunhilde’s face turned an interesting shade of purple.

  “Get this little monster off me!”

  Okay, so what she really said was, “What a cute cat.”

  But you didn’t have to be a detective to figure out what she was thinking.

  By now, Prozac was sniffing her like a bloodhound.

  Hey, blondie. Got any knockwurst?

  “Let me take her from you,” I said, scooping Prozac in my arms.

  A yowl of protest as I dumped her back on the bed.

  Hey! I smelled knockwurst on her breath. Maybe she’s got leftovers.

  “Shall we get started with some questions?” Brunhilde asked, pencil poised over her pad.

  “Ask away.”

  After getting my name and contact info, she got down to the nitty-gritty.

  “You know anyone who might have wanted to kill Amy Leighton?

  I honestly couldn’t think of a soul who’d want to kill Candace’s mouse of an assistant.

  “Not really.”

  “What about Candace? Can you think of anyone who might want to harm her?”

  Take a number. There was Bethenny, who was furious with Candace for horning in on her affair with Tex. And Dr. Fletcher, Candace’s blackmail victim. And of course, there was always Eddie, the cuckolded husband.

  I told Brunhilde everything I’d seen and heard.

  “Well,” she said, foraging inside her ear with her pencil eraser, “you certainly are the observant little witness.”

  “Actually,” I said, with a modest smile, “I’ve done some private investigating in the past.”

  “Really? And have you done this private investigating with the benefit of a license?”

  “Not exactly,” I admitted.

  “Then I’d advise you to keep your nose out of this case.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  I barely refrained from clicking my heels together and shouting, “Sieg Heil!”

  “By the way,” she added, her eyes narrowed in suspicious slits, “I heard you and Ms. Burke had a bit of a run-in, something about your cat ruining the talent show.”

  “It wasn’t a run-in. She told me to take Prozac back to my room, and I did. End of story.”

  “No lingering resentment on your part? Some people get awfully sensitive when it comes to their pets.”

  “I can assure you I didn’t try to kill Candace.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that.”

  Ouch.

  “Well, that’s about it,” she said, getting up and brushing cat hairs from her tush. “You’re free to go. We’ll contact you if we need you.”

  “You mean I can check out of the hotel?”

  “Yes. As far as I know, the rest of pageant has been canceled.”

  Glory be. I’d be sleeping with a pillow tonight!

  The minute Brunhilde left, I started packing. I was busy flinging my things into my suitcase when I heard another knock on my door.

  This time I opened it to find Taylor, tears running down her cheeks.

  “The police just questioned Mom,” she said, stumbling into the room. “They think she was trying to kill Candace but killed Amy by mistake.”

  “Try not to panic, honey. They’re questioning everybody.”

  “But they want Mom to come down to headquarters for further questioning.”

  Yikes. That sure didn’t look good.

  “You’ve got to help!” she cried, wide-eyed with fear.

  “You need some emergency M&M’s?”

  “No, you’ve got to prove Mom didn’t kill Amy! I Googled you when Mom hired you, and I saw that you solved a whole bunch of murders.”

  At last—someone who appreciated my detecting skills.

  “So will you help?” Taylor pleaded.

  As overbearing as Heather was, I didn’t believe she was a killer.

  “Of course, honey. I’d be happy to help.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she said, throwing her arms around me.

  And with tears of gratitude glimmering in her eyes, she added: “I’ll have some of those M&M’s now, if you don’t mind.”

  Out in the parking lot, I rolled my suitcase over to where Heather and Taylor were loading their BMW, Elvis peeking out from Heather’s ginormous Gucci purse.

  From her cat carrier, Prozac meowed.

  How come Powder Puff gets toted around like a prince, while I’ve got to ride in this crummy cat carrier?

  Ignoring her protests, I approached the BMW.

  “Heather, I just wanted to thank you for picking up my hotel bill.”

  And indeed, I owed her a big debt of thanks.

  When I went to check out, I discovered Heather had paid my whole tab, including the nightly pet fee, and three hundred dollars in extra charges for Prozac-induced damages.

  Apparently my tattletale maid had felt the need to itemize every last cat scratch she’d observed.

  “Don’t worry about it, Jaine,” Heather said with a wan smile.

  “Are you guys okay?” I asked.

  “Of course we’re okay!” Heather said, trying valiantly to keep up her smile.

  “But, Mom,” Taylor protested, “they’re taking you down to police headquarters!”

  “Oh, honey. That kind of thing happens all the time. I’m not going to get arrested. Isn’t that right, Jaine?”

  “Right,” I lied, picturing Heather being hauled off to jail, shielding her face with Elvis.

  “Taylor tells me you’re a part-time private eye,” Heather said.

  “It’s just a hobby.”

  “But she’s really good, Mom,” Taylor piped up. “She’s actually tracked down some dangerous killers.”

  Heather looked me up and down.

  “Really? You?”

  She shook her raven extensions in disbelief.

  I wasn’t surprised by her reaction. I get it all the time. Just goes to show you can’t judge a detective by her elastic-waist pants.

  “You think you can clear my name?” Heather asked.

  “I’ll certainly try.”

  “Thanks so much.” Were those tears of gratitude I saw welling behind her Pradas? “Naturally, I’ll pay you for your time.”

  “We’ll work that out later,” I said, feeling guilty for taking more money from her after she’d coughed up that extra dough for Prozac’s room rampage.

  I watched as they got in their BMW and drove off, then started over to my Corolla. I was trying to ignore Prozac’s whining when suddenly I heard a piercing, “Yoo hoo!”

  I turned to see Luanne sprinting to my side, Gigi in tow.

  “I heard on the grapevine that the police think Heather killed Amy,” Luanne said, breathless with excitement.

  “Is that so?”

  “It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving gal!” she beamed.

  I turned on my heels to go, feeling more than a tad irritated. I’d grown fond of Heather and resented this ferret of a woman who couldn’t wait to see my client locked up behind bars.

  “Wait!” Luanne cried, thrusting a scrap of paper in my hand. “Here’s my phone number. I really liked the lyrics you wrote for Taylor. And I thought you might want to write some for my Gigi.”

  She turned to her gum-chewing prodigy.

  “Wouldn’t that be nice, honey?”

 
; “Yeah, I guess,” Gigi shrugged.

  I shoved Luanne’s phone number in my pocket, murmuring something about having a lot on my plate.

  No way was I going to write for this woman. No way. No how. Never.

  Not unless, of course, she offered to pay me.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: No Willpower Whatsoever

  Frankly, Lambchop, I don’t mind telling you that your mom has been driving me crazy. Ever since I changed the combination on the freezer lock, she’s been bugging me to open it so she can have a little “sweetie.”

  Your mother is a wonderful woman, and you know I love her dearly, but she has no willpower whatsoever. She could learn a thing or two about self-control from your iron-willed DaddyO.

  Well, time to work on Nellybelle. It’s been a bit tougher than I thought, but I’ve made great strides. I should have her up and running any day now.

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: The Most Infuriating Man

  Your father is the most infuriating man. All I asked for was a teensy Oreo, and you’d think I’d asked him to break into Fort Knox. Yes, I know I told him not to let me have anything from the freezer, but I wasn’t talking about a single Oreo. I just needed a little sugar to get me through the morning. But would he give it to me? Nooo. He came on all Holier than Thou, blathering about willpower and self control, and all the while I could smell chocolate on his breath.

  I just know he’s been into my fudge.

  Off to a meeting of the library board. I only hope they serve cookies.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Don’t Tell Mom

  Good news, Lambchop! I’m almost done putting old Nellybelle’s engine back together. Just a few tweaks and she’ll be ready to roar! I can’t wait to take her out for a spin in my new plaid golf cap! (Did I tell you it’s got a pom-pom on top, just like they wear in Scotland?)

  XOXO,

  Daddy

  P.S. Don’t tell Mom, but I think I’ll go have some fudge to celebrate.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Don’t Tell Mom, Part II

  You’ll never guess what just happened, Lambchop. I was walking by Mom’s closet when I accidentally brushed against her dress for the charity luncheon and knocked it to the floor. If you ask me, it was very foolish of her to leave it hanging from the closet door, where any innocent bystander could knock it down.

  Nevertheless, it fell to the floor, and naturally I picked it up. And I guess I must have had a little grease on my fingers from the fudge, because suddenly I realized I’d left a stain on the back of the white top.

  Now an ordinary man in my position would have panicked. But not your daddy. You’ll be proud to learn I kept my cool and came up with a brilliant plan in my hour of need. I raced to the garage and got some exterior white latex paint, and simply painted over the stain. Your mother will never even know it’s there.

  Another crisis averted by

  Your loving

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Up to Something

  Hi, sweetheart—I’m back from the library board meeting, where Lydia Pinkus (bless her!) served the most delicious butter cookies. And, keeping to my diet, I limited myself to just two. (Okay, three.) That’s the last dessert I’m eating until after the fashion show, I swear!

  Meanwhile, here at home, Daddy has been skulking around with the guiltiest look on his face, like a cat who just ate the goldfish. Plus, he wants to take me to dinner at Le Chateaubriand—and we don’t even have a coupon for a free entrée.

  He’s been up to something. I just know it.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Inscrutable as a Sphinx

  Mom’s back. At first I was scared she might discover what I’d done to her dress. But I’ve been cool as a cucumber, inscrutable as a sphinx.

  She doesn’t suspect a thing.

  Love ’n’ hugs from

  Daddy

  Chapter 13

  How wonderful it was to be back in my own bed, with a pillow all to myself. No teens tap dancing on the ceiling. Just the sweet sounds of Mrs. Hurlbutt hollering at Mr. Hurlbutt across the street.

  Prozac and I slept in the next morning, Prozac no doubt still tuckered from her riveting stage debut at the Amada Inn. It wasn’t until close to nine that she finally clawed me awake for her breakfast.

  Yes, the day started out pleasantly enough. That is, until I opened my emails and read the latest from Tampa Vistas.

  Oh, well. I couldn’t worry about Mom’s fudge-stained dress, not when I had a killer to track down.

  Settling down with my coffee and cinnamon raisin bagel, I checked the L.A. Times for news of the murder. Sure enough, there it was on page one of the city section. Under the headline DEATH BY TIARA were twin photos of Amy and Candace in their pageant blazers. As in life, Amy’s smile was tentative while Candace beamed boldly into the camera.

  According to the story, the police were calling Amy’s death a probable case of mistaken identity, with the killer really gunning for Candace. Thank goodness there was no mention of Heather as a suspect.

  When I called her a few minutes later to find out how things had gone at police headquarters, Heather told me they’d asked her “a million questions,” served her appalling coffee, and warned her not to leave town.

  At least she wasn’t behind bars. And I planned to keep it that way.

  I decided to start my investigation with Bethenny. I remembered the look of rage I’d seen on her face when she caught Candace in the elevator with Tex. She’d sure seemed homicidal to me.

  Turning to my trusty pals at Google, I discovered that Bethenny had her own website, a colorful affair dotted with airbrushed photos of the former teen queen in various bikinis. I checked out what had to be a highly fictional bio (she claimed to have studied acting with Uta Hagen Dazs). Then, when I clicked on her APPEARANCES page, I saw to my delight that she was scheduled to preside over the opening of a bowling alley in Burbank the next day.

  I made up my mind to be there.

  But for now I intended to stay home and recuperate from the stressed-filled adventures of the past two days. I spent the next several hours still in my jammies, reading the newspaper and vegging out with the New York Times crossword puzzle.

  Heaven, sheer heaven.

  After a lazy afternoon watching Frasier reruns, Prozac snoozing at my side, I finally managed to pry myself from my bed and headed for the bathroom. Soon I was soaking in a mountain of strawberry-scented bubbles, simultaneously pondering the nature of good and evil and whether to order Chinese or pizza for dinner.

  Pizza won.

  I ordered sausage and pepperoni (with extra anchovies for Prozac), and a half hour later the delivery guy was at my door, handing me a piping hot pizza, the sausage and pepperoni swimming in a sea of gooey cheese.

  Oh, yum!

  I’d just settled down on my sofa and was about to dig into my first slice, when I heard someone knocking at my door.

  My keen powers of detection told me it was Lance, mainly because he was shouting, “Open up, Jaine. It’s me, Lance!”

  Reluctantly abandoning my pizza, I trudged to the door and opened it. Lance came sailing in, clad in immaculate khakis and a pink rugby polo (his Palm Springs look).

  “It’s official!” he cried. “I’ve met Mr. Right!”

  I stifled a yawn.

  Lance meets Mr. Right about as often as he gets his roots done.

  “Gary’s such a fantastic guy. So smart and literate—he’s really a screenwriter, just does this UPS stuff to pay the bills. And he’s so ripped from lifting all those packages. I could
watch him flex his calf muscles for hours!”

  And he was off and running, singing Gary’s praises, yammering about his eyes, his abs, his calves of steel.

  Throughout Lance’s paean to Gary, I nodded on autopilot, scarfing down pizza and tossing anchovy tidbits to Prozac. I was trying to decide whether to run out for Rocky Road or Chunky Monkey for dessert, when I heard him say: “So what do you think?”

  Oh, hell. He’d just asked me a question. Usually he’s so caught up in the saga of his own life, he doesn’t stop for questions.

  “Which is it?” he was asking. “The desert or the beach?”

  “Um. The beach,” I said, figuring I had a fifty percent chance of getting it right.

  “I agree. Palm Springs is great, but I’ve always wanted to have a beach wedding.”

  Good lord. The guy had gone from calf muscles to wedding plans in the time it took me to scarf down a single slice of pizza. (Okay, three slices.)

  I thought about telling him he was moving way too fast, but I knew I’d just be wasting my breath.

  Finally he ran out of steam and helped himself to a slice of pizza, plucking the sausage and pepperoni from his slice. The guy sure knew how to take the fun out of pizza.

  “So,” he asked. “How did your weekend go? How was the beauty pageant and your date with Scott?”

  Now it was my turn to babble. In one long litany of woe, I told Lance all about my nightmare date at the Willises’, how they turned out to be filthy rich with houses in Malibu and the Cotswolds, and how Scott’s gorgeous ex-girlfriend had horned in on dinner; how I’d gotten a tad tootled and spilled wine on the Willises’ priceless tablecloth; and, as if that weren’t enough, how Prozac hijacked the talent show at the beauty pageant and got into a fight with Elvis, and how Amy wound up getting murdered and how I’d slept through the whole thing on my exercycle and how the cops suspected Heather who I knew couldn’t have done it in spite of her big mouth and flying fists.