Death by Tiara

by Laura Levine

  When I was all through, Lance stared at me with wide blue eyes.

  “Scott’s parents have a house in the Cotswolds? Maybe Gary and I could have our wedding there.”

  “Lance, did you not hear a word I just said? Someone got killed at the beauty pageant!”

  “Oh, I heard that part, hon. Very sad, I know. Tsk tsk and all that. But life is for the living. And that means us. We really can’t let Scott slip through your fingers, not if we want to have our double wedding in the Cotswolds.”

  “We’re not getting married, Lance. At least, I’m not.”

  “Not with that attitude, you’re not. You’ve got to think positive.”

  Then he put his arm around me.

  “Don’t worry, hon. I’m going to be by your side, guiding you every step of the way till you land Scott at the altar. I’ll be the wise and urbane Henry Higgins to your wretched Eliza Doolittle.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” I snarled.

  “Not a problem, sweetie. That’s what friends are for. Well, gotta run! I’m meeting Gary for drinks!”

  And he sailed out the door, the most annoying man in the world.

  The only thing that gave me the slightest bit of comfort was the piece of anchovy I’d stuck to the seat of his khakis.

  Chapter 14

  I tootled out to Burbank the next afternoon for the grand opening of the Strike It Rich Bowling Alley, a low slung bunker of a building with a huge neon bowling ball blinking merrily on the roof.

  After parking in a lot half full of cars, I headed over to join the motley group of bowling enthusiasts gathered for the festivities.

  A ribbon had been strung across the bowling alley’s front doors. Bethenny stood in front of it, poured into a tight black tank dress, smiling at a sweaty guy who I assumed was the owner of the place. In her hands, she held a pair of giant scissors.

  The sweaty guy, clad in a T-shirt that said BOWLERS DO IT IN ALLEYS, cleared his throat and spoke into a handheld mike.

  “Welcome, everyone, to the grand opening of the Strike It Rich Bowling Alley, where we always have time to ‘spare’ for you!”

  He and he alone chuckled at his lame gag.

  “And now, to cut the ceremonial ribbon, let’s give a warm welcome to former Miss Alta Loco Teen Queen, Bethenny Martinez.”

  Bethenny flashed her pageant smile at the crowd.

  Nearby I heard a pimply-faced goon whisper to his pals, “She can bowl in my lane any time she wants.”

  I figured that he and his buddies, all wearing identical puce-colored bowling shirts, were in some sort of bowling club.

  “Ms. Martinez,” the owner was saying, “will you do the honors?”

  Her pageant smile firmly in place, Bethenny leaned in to cut the ribbon, exposing a bit of her cleavage and prompting some heavy drooling from the bowling club.

  Apparently someone had forgotten to sharpen the blades on the ceremonial scissors, because as much as Bethenny hacked away at the ribbon, she couldn’t seem to cut it.

  Eventually a questionable looking fellow from the bowling club whipped out a hunting knife and offered it to Bethenny, who finally managed to hack the ribbon apart.

  A Strike It Rich photographer snapped a picture amid tepid applause, and we all headed inside, where Bethenny was scheduled to bowl the first ball.

  Although Early Army Barracks on the outside, Strike It Rich’s interior was quite elaborate. In addition to an armada of bowling lanes, polished to a high gloss, the place sported a plushly carpeted bar and spacious dining area.

  Bethenny had swapped her stilettos for bowling shoes and was now standing in the center lane, ready to bowl.

  I’d pegged Bethenny as the kind of girly girl who’d just plop the ball down and let it wobble into the gutter. But, no. She pulled the heavy ball way back, biceps bulging, then sent it barreling down the lane.

  Wow. That was some powerful arm. Powerful enough, if you ask me, to have clobbered someone to death with a Tiphany tiara.

  The bowling goons cheered wildly as Bethenny scored a strike, then rushed over to her side to have her sign their bowling balls.

  I waited patiently while she chatted up the crowd, signing bowling balls with smiley faces. One of the guys from the bowling club unbuttoned his shirt and bared his chest for her to sign.

  “I’ll never wash it again,” I heard him say.

  The scary thing was, he probably meant it.

  When the crowd had at last broken up, I made my move.

  “Hi, Bethenny,” I said, trotting to her side.

  She shot me a puzzled look. “Do I know you?”

  “Yes, I’m Jaine Austen. We met at the pageant the other day.”

  Still clueless.

  “At the elevators,” I prompted.

  At last, she remembered.

  “Oh, yeah, right. Well, nice to see you.” She started to scoot off, and I scooted right after her.

  “Hey, wait up! I never did get a chance to tell you I’m a big fan of yours.”

  She whirled around, suddenly all ears. “You are?”

  Time to trot out one of the fun facts I’d gleaned from Bethenny’s website.

  “Gosh, yes! Why, I’ve been following your career ever since I first saw you on the soap opera, The Rich & The Entitled.”

  “Where I played Diner #2 in the coffee shop?”

  “Yes, you were so riveting in that scene eating your fries, I wasn’t even looking at the actors with the speaking parts.”

  “I know!” she said, her eyes lighting up. “That’s what everyone told me! That’s why they didn’t ask me back. The diva playing the lead got jealous.”

  “That’s so unfair!” I said, with all the fake indignity I could muster.

  “Well, it’s been great talking to you,” she said. “Would you like me to autograph a cocktail napkin?”

  “I’d love that. And if you wouldn’t mind, I’ve got some questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “About what?” she asked, eyes narrowed, suddenly suspicious.

  Oh, hell. Somehow I got the feeling she wasn’t about to open up to me about the murder. Not here. Not now. Not while she was still stung by the memory of getting dumped from The Rich & The Entitled.

  “Actually, I’m a freelance writer, and I’d like to write a story about you for the Los Angeles Times.”

  “You write for the L.A. Times?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  Which wasn’t a total lie. I did write a check for them each month for my subscription.

  “How wonderful!” she said, breaking out her pageant smile again. “Of course. Let’s sit down.”

  She led me over to the bar area, which was pretty much deserted at that time of day.

  “Sweetie!” She snapped her fingers at a brittle blonde behind the bar. “Stoli martini straight up with a twist.”

  These teen queens grow up so fast, don’t they?

  “What about you?” she asked me.

  “I’ll have a ginger ale,” I replied, determined to stay clearheaded for our tête-à-tête.

  “So tell me all about yourself,” I said.

  “Aren’t you going to take notes?”

  “Oh, right. Notes.”

  I whipped out my cell phone, and clicked on a nonexistent app.

  “I’ve got a recorder built right in to my phone. Just speak up, and I won’t miss a word.”

  Speak up she did. I spent the next forty minutes guzzling Strike It Rich beer nuts and listening to the saga of Bethenny’s life: Where she was born (Azusa, California); how old she was when she won her first pageant (two); how she spent the years after winning Miss Alta Loco Teen Queen opening supermarkets and bowling alleys around the greater Los Angeles area; how she wrote about her experiences in her new book, Bethenny’s Beauty Secrets; how she was currently grooming herself for a career on the stage studying acting with Uta Hagen Dazs; and how she was soon to appear in her first starring role in a convection oven infomercial.

  “That’s quite a sto
ry,” I said, when she finally wound down and I’d licked the last of the salt from the beer nut bowl.

  “Yes, it is, isn’t it?” she beamed.

  “I’m so glad we ran into each other that day at the pageant.” Then, trying desperately to segue to the murder, I added, “What a shame about poor Amy.”

  “I know,” Bethenny tsked. “I heard on the news that she was killed by mistake, that the killer was really aiming for Candace.”

  “I don’t suppose you saw anyone going into the pageant offices at around two-thirty that afternoon, did you?” I asked.

  “Nope. I was in my room, giving myself a facial. Skin like mine doesn’t just happen, you know,” she added proudly. “I give the recipe for my facial in my book, in case you’re interested.”

  “Oh, I am. I can’t wait to read it.”

  By now I’d lied so much, I was qualified to run for congress.

  “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to see Candace dead?” I asked.

  “It pains me to say it,” she said with a vindictive gleam in her eye, “but my money is on Tex Turner.”

  Hell hath no fury like a teen queen scorned.

  “As you may have already guessed, Tex and I were romantically involved—until Candace came along.”

  All the more reason for Bethenny to want her out of the way.

  “After I saw them in the elevator, I confronted Tex, and he told me he hadn’t meant to get mixed up with Candace, but she’d come on so strong, he just couldn’t say no.”

  “And that’s why he wanted her dead? Isn’t there a less violent way to end a relationship?”

  “No, he wanted her dead because Candace was threatening to tell his wife about their affair.”

  “Tex is married?”

  “Total ball and chain,” Bethenny nodded. “He doesn’t love his wife, but she’s filthy rich. Which is why he’s stayed with her all these years. His wife’s bankrolling his car dealership, and he can’t afford to lose her.”

  She gnawed pensively at her lemon twist.

  “Tex had me wrapped around his little finger. He knew I’d never say anything to his wife about our affair. But not Candace. She was threatening to blow the whistle. Tex was scared senseless.”

  Whaddaya know? Looked like I had a shiny new suspect to add to my list.

  “Well, I’d better get going,” I said, slapping some bills on the bar to pay for our drinks. “It’s been a pleasure.”

  “When will my story be in the paper?”

  “Your story?”

  “For the L.A. Times.”

  “Oh, right. Your story. I’ll call you as soon as I have a date,” I said, feeling a tad guilty about lying to her.

  “Super!” Bethenny cooed. “And don’t forget to come to my book signing. I’ve got a chapter on taming the frizzies you’ll find very interesting!”

  Okay, now I didn’t feel so guilty.

  I drove home, wondering if Bethenny was right about Tex. Had the hunky car dealer bludgeoned Amy to death in a bungled effort to save his marriage?

  Or was Bethenny the killer?

  She’d claimed to be in her room giving herself a facial at the time of the murder. Not much of an alibi, with nary a witness to prove it. And what about Mrs. Tex Turner? Had she found out about Tex’s affair and come tearing over to the Amada Inn, intent on knocking off her husband’s lover?

  Back at Casa Austen, Prozac greeted me with a soothing purr and a loving ankle rub.

  Oh, please. In my dreams. The minute I walked in the door, she came hurtling to my side with a bloodcurdling yowl that could mean only one thing:

  Where have you been? Do you realize it’s been an hour and a half since my last snack? Which, by the way, was a piece of pepperoni I found under the sofa. Don’t you ever vacuum? So when do we eat? I’m starving!

  After tossing her some Hearty Halibut Guts, I made a beeline for my computer to run a search on Tex’s wife. I found tons of pictures of her and Tex at various charity events. She was an aristocratic-looking dame, pale and ash blond with a sharp nose and broad, bony shoulders.

  Nancy Clark Turner was her name, heir to a hefty tobacco fortune.

  One look at her steely eyes, staring out into the camera, and I figured she had the cojones to try to kill her husband’s lover.

  But just as I was about to add her to my suspect list, I pulled up a picture of her on The New York Times website, attending an opera in New York the day of the murder.

  Three thousand miles away from the scene of the crime.

  With a sigh, I crossed her off my suspect list and went to the kitchen to whip up a nice healthy poached chicken salad for my dinner.

  Okay, so it wasn’t a poached chicken salad. It was a Hungry-Man dinner, with extra mashed potatoes, and apple cobbler for dessert.

  Sue me.

  Later that night, Prozac and I were in bed watching Sunset Boulevard (Prozac is a huge William Holden fan). I gazed at all my DVDs scattered on my dresser. So darn messy. All because Prozac couldn’t keep her paws off my new DVD armoire. I made a mental note to buy some cat repellent and rescue my armoire from the hall closet at the earliest possible opportunity.

  It was disgraceful, really, the way Prozac ruled my life.

  From now on, I had to start putting my foot down and showing her exactly who was boss.

  And I would, too. Just as soon as I finished giving her her after-dinner belly rub.

  Chapter 15

  A slick young guy in a pinstriped suit and hair stiff with gel came ambling over to me as I pulled into the lot of Tex Turner BMW.

  “Time to get rid of the old clunker, eh?” he said, with a jolly laugh.

  Clunker?! He had his nerve talking that way about my vintage Corolla!

  “Actually I’m here to see Mr. Turner,” I said, sliding out of the car, hoping he wouldn’t notice the chocolate stains on my seat cushions.

  “Tex doesn’t handle day-to-day sales,” Mr. Hair Gel informed me.

  “I’m here on a personal matter.”

  “Really?” His eyes widened in surprise. “You sure don’t look like Tex’s type.”

  Clearly Tex was servicing a lot more than BMWs at his dealership.

  “Tex is up in his office,” Mr. Hair Gel said, and led me into the showroom—a sleek chrome and marble affair.

  Three shiny new Beemers glistened on the showroom floor.

  It was the middle of the week, and there were practically no customers. Just a dazed couple flailing to stay above water with a piranha salesman in one of the sales cubicles. The rest of the sales staff were either working on their computers or pretending to.

  “Tex’s office is upstairs,” Mr. Hair Gel said, pointing to a stairway at the side of the showroom.

  “Thanks.”

  “And if you ever decide to dump your clunker,” he said, handing me his business card, “just give me a call.”

  “Will do,” I lied.

  I dropped his card into the detritus of old receipts and linty Lifesavers at the bottom of my purse, then scurried up the stairs to a reception desk. There I was greeted by a wide-eyed kewpie doll with tousled red hair.

  I just hoped it wasn’t tousled from a round of dipsy doodle with Tex.

  “Hi, there!” she said, with a toothy grin. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Mr. Turner. I’m Jaine Austen. From the Miss Teen Queen America Pageant,” I added, hoping Tex would think I was one of the pageant officials.

  The kewpie doll picked up her phone and dialed Tex’s extension.

  “Jaine Austen to see you, sir. From the pageant.”

  Apparently Tex bought my story because the kewpie doll hung up and flashed me a welcoming smile. “Come on in.”

  She stood up to reveal a knockout figure, clad in a skirt so short it was practically a belt, and I followed her as she sashayed into Tex’s office.

  Unlike the showroom downstairs with its hip young metrosexual vibe, Tex’s office was furnished in a woodsy cabin style, with
a map of Texas on one wall, an autographed picture of John Wayne on another, and a shotgun mounted over his desk.

  Tex sat behind the desk in his cowboy getup, boots propped up, his Stetson flung on a hat rack in the corner of the room.

  “Thanks, Jolene,” he said to the kewpie doll as she slithered out of the room, his eyes riveted firmly on her tush.

  Man, what a lech. I was beginning to feel awfully sorry for Mrs. Tex.

  “So, Miss Austen, you’re from the pageant?”

  He swung his feet off the desk and reached out to shake my hand. Then, taking a closer look at me, he said, “Hey, wait a minute! I know you. You’re the one with the cat who barged in on the talent competition.”

  I nodded weakly.

  “Quite a little ham you’ve got there,” he winked.

  “Don’t I know it,” I said, still cringing at the memory.

  He gestured to a wet bar in the corner of his office.

  “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Coke? Bourbon on the rocks?”

  The last suggested as his eyes raked me over from top to bottom.

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  “Then what can I do you for?” he said with a most unsettling leer. “I see a beautiful gal like you behind the wheel of a shiny new Beemer.”

  “Actually, Mr. Turner, I’m here to talk to you about Amy Leighton’s murder.”

  That sure wiped the leer off his face.

  “Oh? What about it?”

  “The police think Heather Van Sant may have killed Amy in a mistaken attempt to murder Candace.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “Anyhow, Heather has hired me to track down the real killer.”

  “You?” He blinked in surprise. “Don’t tell me you’re a detective?”

  “Part-time, semi-professional.”

  Once more, his eyes raked me up and down. “Well, don’t quit your day job.”