Death by Tiara

by Laura Levine

  And just like that, Tex Turner became my first choice for Suspect I’d Most Like to See in a Prison Jumpsuit.

  “Heather isn’t the killer,” I said, ignoring his crack.

  “How can you be so sure? After all, she threatened to ‘get’ Candace in front of a banquet room full of pageant moms.”

  “Pretty stupid thing to do if she’d planned to kill her.”

  “Maybe Heather’s a stupid woman.”

  “Well, I don’t think so, and I’m trying to get her off the hook. Did you happen to see anyone, anyone at all, heading toward Candace’s office the afternoon of the murder?”

  “Me? No. I was here in my office the whole afternoon. Drove back to the dealership right after the talent show.”

  “So you were nowhere near the Amada Inn at the time of the murder?”

  “Of course not!” His eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. “I don’t know what you’re implying, Ms. Austen, but I had absolutely nothing to do with Amy’s death.”

  Something told me I’d just fallen out of his flirt zone.

  “Jolene, honey,” he said, buzzing his intercom. “Come in here a minute.”

  Seconds later, Jolene came bopping back into the room.

  “Yes, Mr. Turner?”

  “Jolene, where was I last Saturday between two and five p.m.?”

  “You were right here in your office, Mr. Turner.”

  Spoken like an actor, on cue. But just a little too quickly, a little too stiffly, her eyes darting uncomfortably around the room.

  Little Miss Jolene was lying. Of that I was certain.

  I didn’t know what Jolene had seen on the afternoon of the murder, but she sure as heck hadn’t seen Tex here in his office.

  Tex bid me a not-so-fond farewell—“The next time you’re in the market for a new car, try your local Toyota dealer”—and I headed out to the parking lot to wait for Jolene.

  I had a strong premonition she’d be leaving the building shortly. How did I know? Maybe it was my years of experience as a part-time semi-professional PI. Or maybe it was because I heard her telling someone on the phone she’d be leaving for her lunch break in ten minutes.

  And so I sat in my Corolla, waiting for Jolene to make her appearance.

  Sure enough, ten minutes later, out she came.

  I dashed out of my car and followed her as she made her way over to a bright yellow VW Beetle at the far end of the lot.

  “Hey, Jolene!” I called out.

  “Oh, hello, Ms. Austen,” she said, turning to face me.

  Was that a hint of fear I saw in her eyes?

  “Detective Austen,” I said, flashing her a USDA meat inspector badge I’d picked up years ago at a flea market. You’d be surprised how often I’ve been able to pass it off as a police detective’s badge. Especially to gullible young kewpie dolls like Jolene.

  “You’re a cop?” She blinked in surprise. “I thought you worked with the beauty pageant.”

  “That’s just an alias,” I said, tossing my meat inspector badge back in my purse before she could get a better look at it. “I’m working undercover. Alta Loco SVU.”

  “Wow.” Her mouth hung open just a tad. “Just like on TV.” Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Do you have a gun? Is it in a holster inside your blazer? Is that why your hips look so lumpy?”

  Somehow I resisted the impulse to slap her silly.

  “No, I’m not carrying a gun.”

  “Really? Then you might want to try wearing Spanx. They’re great at getting rid of love handles and muffin tops.”

  “Thanks,” I said through gritted teeth. “I’ll make a note of that.” Then, switching to my best undercover cop voice: “Getting down to business, I need to ask you a very important question.”

  “Okay.” She shot me a nervous smile.

  “Were you telling the truth in Mr. Turner’s office?”

  “Of course,” she said, her eyes darting around the parking lot, looking anywhere but at me.

  “He was here at the dealership between two and five p.m.?”

  “Um . . . yeah,” she said, picking at a cuticle.

  “Are you prepared to swear to that in a court of law?”

  “I guess.” Her eyes were still darting madly, like a rabbit in a trap, or my ex-husband, The Blob, on our wedding day.

  “You know the penalty for perjury, don’t you? Fifteen to twenty. And aiding and abetting a murder? That’s twenty to life. Accessory to murder? Even worse.”

  Of course, I was making all this up as I went along, but she didn’t know that.

  “But don’t worry. It’s not so bad in the slammer. Just watch out in the showers for gals named Spike.”

  That seemed to do the trick. The straw that broke the kewpie doll’s back.

  “Okay, okay!” she wailed. “I left the office to do some errands. So I’m not really sure Mr. Turner was here the whole time.”

  “How long were you gone?”

  “From about two to three-thirty.”

  Bingo. That would have given Tex plenty of time to hustle over to the Amada Inn and bop Amy to death.

  “Oh, God,” Jolene said, raking her fingers through her mop of red hair. “If Tex finds out I told you the truth, I’ll be in big trouble. What if he fires me?”

  “Don’t worry. He won’t fire you.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise,” I assured her, wondering how the heck I was going to keep my word.

  I watched Jolene drive off in her yellow Beetle, a Garfield bobblehead nodding forlornly in her rear window. When I turned back to my Corolla, I saw Tex coming out from the showroom.

  “Tex!” I cried. “Wait up!”

  He looked around at the sound of his name, but when he realized it was me, he kept right on going, sliding into a fancy new BMW parked outside the showroom entrance.

  But he wasn’t about to get rid of me that easily.

  Racing across the lot, I managed to reach his passenger window just as he’d turned on the ignition.

  “Tex, I need to talk to you.”

  Apparently Tex wasn’t in the mood to chat. Instead, he rammed on the accelerator and zoomed out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell.

  Or, more to the point, like a man with something to hide.

  Chapter 16

  Heading home, I decided to make a very important pit stop. Well, two very important pit stops. The first at McDonald’s, for a much-needed Quarter Pounder and fries. And the second at Pet Palace, a gargantuan pet supply store.

  Lest you forget (I sure hadn’t), I still needed to find a way to keep Prozac’s claws off my shiny new DVD armoire.

  After perusing the various pet repellents on display, I finally chose a can of something called Cat-Away. The copy on the spray can assured me that its pleasant pine scent formula was non-toxic and guaranteed to keep my cat off my furniture for at least thirty days. Just a spritz once a month, and all would be well in DVD land.

  I hurried home, eager to put it to the test.

  Back in my apartment, I took the DVD armoire out from where I’d stashed it in the hall closet and hauled it back into my bedroom. Then, ripping the tape from the carton, I pulled out the cherrywood beauty and set it down between my TV and my dresser.

  At which point, Prozac, who had been hard at work napping on the living room sofa, came prancing into the room.

  She gazed at the armoire with delight.

  Goodie! My scratching post is back!

  “Forget it, kiddo.”

  Scooping her up in my arms, I marched her straight back into the living room and plunked her down on the sofa. Then I trotted back to the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind me.

  Seconds later, she was outside the door, yowling at the top of her lungs.

  Let me in this minute, or I’m calling the ASPCA!

  Ignoring her cries, I lovingly loaded all my DVDs onto the armoire’s gleaming cherrywood shelves. Then I inspected Prozac’s scratches, grateful to see that they
were all on the side of the armoire. At least the front was still pristine.

  Now for the magic moment.

  I pulled off the cap on the can of Cat-Away and gave it a spritz.

  Instantly, I recoiled in nausea.

  Yikes, it stank. With a capital P.U.

  This was Cat-Away’s idea of a “pleasant pine scent”? The only pine in this stuff had been rotting in a city dump.

  Oh, well. It would be worth it, I figured, if it kept Prozac’s claws off my armoire. I continued to spray, holding my breath. When at last I was finished, my bedroom was awash in the aroma of pine needles and rotting garbage.

  Then I opened the door to Prozac, who came charging in, Attila the Hun on uppers.

  She took one sniff and stopped dead in her tracks.

  Yay! It was working!

  Then, just as I was blessing the wonderful folks at Cat-Away, Prozac went bounding over to the cabinet as if it were a bowl of freshly opened Minced Mackerel Guts.

  Sniff. Sniff. Sniff. She couldn’t get enough of the stuff.

  Even worse, she actually started to gnaw on a corner of the armoire, gazing up at me in ecstasy.

  Not only is it a scratching post, it’s a swell chew toy, too!

  Damn it all!

  I banged the can of Cat-Away down on my dresser in disgust.

  Then I wrenched Prozac away from her new chew toy and hauled her out into the living room amid yowls of protest.

  Back in my bedroom, which was still reeking of Cat-Away, I threw open the windows, wondering how long it was going to take for the smell of rotting garbage to dissipate.

  With heavy heart, I removed all my DVDs from the armoire and tossed them back on my dresser. Once again, I shoved the armoire back into the shipping carton, taped it up, and dragged it to the hall closet.

  Prozac glared at me from where she was sulking on the sofa.

  Killjoy.

  She wasn’t the only one in a snit.

  I stalked past her to the shower to wash off my eau de Cat-Away, already plotting my next maneuver in what would go down in family history as the Great DVD Armoire Wars.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Good as New!

  Wonderful news, Lambchop! Nellybelle’s all fixed, purring like a kitten, as good as new!

  This afternoon I’m putting on my plaid golf cap (the one with the pom-pom on top) and taking her on the road!

  Love ’n’ hugs from

  Mr. Fixit, aka Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Purring Kitten

  Your dad could barely contain his excitement this morning, strutting around the kitchen in that ridiculous plaid golf cap of his. He claims he’s finally put Nellybelle’s engine back together again.

  When he dragged me out to the garage to show me his “purring kitten,” I saw a piece of metal lying on the ground.

  “You’ve got a part left over,” I said.

  “It’s just a tiny part,” he said. “It can’t be very important.”

  He’s taking it for a spin after lunch. I doubt he’ll make it past the driveway.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Hellish Day

  You won’t believe this, but the golf cart is working! Daddy’s been driving all around Tampa Vistas, wearing that ridiculous plaid golf cap and honking his La Cucaracha horn. He even took it out on the golf course, honking the horn and destroying everyone’s game.

  The phone has been ringing off the hook with complaints about that dratted horn.

  He woke up poor Mrs. Thorndahl who’s recuperating from gallbladder surgery, ruined the transcendental meditation class on the clubhouse greens, and had every dog in the neighborhood barking nonstop all afternoon.

  I’m so mad I could spit!

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Wonderful Day!

  Dearest Lambchop—

  Nellybelle made her grand debut today, and everyone loved her! Everywhere I went people were shouting hello. At least I think that’s what they were shouting; it was hard to hear over La Cucaracha.

  Your mother claims people have been complaining about Nellybelle, but I simply can’t believe that’s true. A few old fussbudgets may have objected to her exuberant horn, but anyone with a spirit of adventure was sure to be impressed with her sleek lines and aerodynamic design. I can promise you, the vast majority of the people who saw her loved her.

  Gotta run, there’s someone at the front door.

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Colossal Nerve!

  You won’t believe what just happened, Lambchop.

  That old battle-axe Lydia Pinkus showed up with a petition from seventy-five neighbors demanding that I stop riding around honking Nellybelle’s horn.

  She rambled on about how I was in violation of the Tampa Vistas noise pollution ordinance and ordered me to cease and desist playing La Cucaracha on Nellybelle.

  “I’d urge you to comply with this request,” she had the nerve to say, “or your golf cart will towed away at your own expense.”

  Of all the unmitigated gall! I thought this was America, the land of the free and the home of the brave.

  Whatever happened to freedom of speech? Freedom of press? The right to bear golf carts??!

  No way am I backing down. I’m going to fight this thing all the way to the Supreme Court if need be!

  Love ’n’ hugs from

  Your irate,

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: No Pork Chops

  I just told Daddy if he doesn’t get rid of that stupid horn, he could forget about any pork chops for dinner tonight.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: On Second Thought

  On second thought, Lambchop, I’ve decided not to aggravate your mom. I’ll take down Nellybelle’s horn. I’ll miss La Cucaracha, but I’ll still have my plaid golf cap with the pom-pom on top!

  They’ll never take that away from me!

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  Daddy

  Chapter 17

  I left my windows open all night, so by the next morning just the faintest trace of Cat-Away lingered in the air.

  Still miffed at me for taking away the armoire, Prozac clawed me awake with a vengeance.

  But I didn’t care. I sat up and greeted the warm spring morning with a smile. Today was the day Scott was taking me for a drive up to Santa Barbara. I’d gotten a text from him last night reminding me he’d be picking me up this morning at ten.

  After feeding Pro some Luscious Lamb Innards, I settled down to a skinnifying breakfast of half a cinnamon raisin bagel—absolutely dry, no butter, no jam. (Okay, so I had a smidgeon of jam. The tiniest dab, really. I had to have something to keep the raisins company.)

  Then I checked my emails, shuddering to read about Daddy running amok in Nellybelle, blasting all of Tampa Vistas with his La Cucaracha horn.

  I cheered up considerably, however, when I opened an email from Phil Angelides, my boss at Toiletmasters, with an assignment to update a brochure for Big John, their line of supersized commodes.

  I still had two hours to go before Scott was due to show up, so I used the time wisely to get started on the Big John brochure.

  Oh, who am I kidding?

  Of course I didn’t use my time wisely. I spent the next hour and a half trying on outfits for my date with Scott.

  I tried leggings and skinny jeans, baggy jeans and capris. Tank tops and tunics, cardigans and pullovers. I tried the sporty look, the nautical look. Casual-elegant and boho chic.

  By the time I was through, I had half my closet piled up on my bed.
/>   I finally went with the first outfit I’d tried on, jeans and a T-shirt.

  All that fuss for jeans and a tee.

  Oh, well. On the plus side, I discovered an uneaten Almond Joy in the pocket of my nautical blazer.

  Before I knew it, it was 9:40. Less than twenty minutes to put myself together for my big date! Frantically, I threw on some makeup, blew out my bangs, sprayed on some perfume, and grabbed a cardigan to drape over my shoulders.

  Then I checked myself out in the mirror over my dresser. I must admit, I looked pretty darn good. My bangs had blown out nice and straight. All I needed was a spritz of hair spray in case Scott and I took any romantic strolls along the beach in Santa Barbara.

  I reached for the can and gave myself a spritz.

  And suddenly I was overwhelmed with the familiar yet nauseating odor of pine needles and rotting garbage.

  Cat-Away!

  I’d left the can on my dresser yesterday, and in my haste I’d grabbed it by mistake.

  I was a walking, talking city dump.

  At which point, I heard a knock on my front door. Oh, hell! It was Scott! Right on time.

  With sinking heart, I headed for the living room.