Death by Tiara

by Laura Levine

  She put her head in her hands and choked back what sounded like a sob. Then, in a frightened voice, she said: “I think someone’s been following me.”

  “What?” Eddie cried, alarmed.

  “A van’s been on my tail the past few days.”

  “What kind of van?”

  “I don’t know. It was big. And black.”

  “Are you sure you’re not just being paranoid?” Eddie asked.

  “I’m not being paranoid. Someone’s been following me! What on earth am I going to do?”

  I glanced over at the ski mask perched on Eddie’s desk.

  For starters, I felt like telling her, try sleeping in separate bedrooms. Better yet, separate states.

  “Don’t worry, honey,” Eddie said, putting his arm around her. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  “Just like it was the other night when the killer came at me with that knife?”

  Was it my imagination or did I see Eddie blush?

  “I should’ve never let you out alone at night,” he said. “And it’s not going to happen again. I’m going to hire a bodyguard to protect you whenever you leave the house.”

  That was all very well and good, but who was going to protect her when she was alone with Eddie?

  Chapter 20

  I took off from Alta Loco, haunted by the memory of that ski mask, and wondering if Eddie had indeed flipped out and tried to kill Candace. He had absolutely no alibi for the time of the murder. According to him, he’d been in his room working on material for the pageant crowning ceremony. Since Eddie seemed to lift his material directly from 1,000 Jokes for Any Occasion, I hardly saw the need for much preparation.

  But Eddie wasn’t my only suspect without an alibi. Neither Bethenny nor Tex had witnesses to their whereabouts at the time of the crime. Had Bethenny really been giving herself a facial as she’d claimed? Had Tex really been spying on his employees?

  Those were the thoughts swirling around my brain as I slogged through traffic—that, and whether to stop off at McDonald’s or KFC for lunch.

  KFC won out, and one mini-bucket of chicken bites later, I was driving over to Pet Palace. In my latest foray in the DVD Armoire Wars, I’d decided to buy Prozac a scratching post. Surely once she got her paws on a pole of thick, plush carpeting, she’d lose interest in my armoire.

  After surveying various models, I decided to go for broke and spent way too much money on something called a Kitty Condo, a multi-tiered structure with platforms and ladders, and three carpeted beds, one in turquoise referred to as “the pool.”

  Lowell, my helpful Pet Palace clerk, rang up my sale, and asked if I’d care to pay thirty dollars extra for assembly. I assured him that I was perfectly capable of assembling a simple Kitty Condo and headed home.

  A half hour later, I was sitting on my living room floor, surrounded by assorted Kitty Condo parts, cursing in languages I didn’t even know I knew.

  The diabolical fiends at Kitty Condo were sadists of the highest order, providing their unsuspecting customers with instructions so indecipherable, they may as well have been written in Sanskrit. What’s worse, they had the gall to leave out steps four, six, and twelve in their “Easy Seventeen-Step Assembly.”

  Somebody ought to report those people to the Better Business Bureau.

  (But I’m busy right now writing this book, so you do it, okay?)

  Thoroughly disgusted, I decided to take a chardonnay break.

  I was sitting on my sofa, sipping some of Chateau Costco’s finest, when Lance showed up.

  He sailed into my living room in a designer suit and tie, fresh from his job fondling ladies’ bunions at Neiman Marcus.

  “Hi, sweetie. I just stopped by to tell you about my fantastic dinner date with Gary, the UPS guy. Is this a good time for you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well,” he said, plopping down on the sofa, “we went to the most charming little Italian restaurant in Century City, Obika Mozzarella Bar. Mozzarella to die for! We shared a margarita pizza and a bottle of wine, and the rest was dating history. I swear, Gary looked so handsome, I hardly even noticed our stunning waiter.

  “And how about you, hon? How are things with you and Detective Sublimely Wealthy?”

  “Not so hot.”

  “Oh, no!” he said, taking my hands in his. “Tell Uncle Lance everything! Spill your little heart out.”

  And I did. I told him all about the Great Frisbee Fiasco. How Scott and I had been planning to drive up to Santa Barbara but had been hijacked to brunch at Hell House; how Chloe was waiting for us in her bikini; how I’d sprayed my hair with Cat-Away and stunk up the whole brunch; how I was stuck with Grammy Willis while Scott romped on the lawn playing Frisbee with Chloe; and how I accidentally bopped Pa Willis in the eye with the Frisbee and sent him to the hospital for stitches.

  When I was through, Lance tsked in pity.

  “Poor Jaine,” he said, gazing down at my hands, still clutched in his. “When’s the last time you had a manicure? Your nails are a wreck.”

  “Did you not hear a word I just said? I sent Pa Willis to the hospital.”

  “Of course I heard. Another Jaine date gone bad. So what else is new? If only you’d let me know before the date, I could’ve given you some pointers. Pointer Number One: Never spray your hair with cat repellent. It’s things like that, Jaine, that make it so hard to forge meaningful relationships in life.

  “But don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll help you win Scott back. I’ll think of something. We’re going to have that double wedding in the Cotswolds if it’s the last thing I do!”

  That spoken with all the fervor of Scarlett O’Hara vowing never to go hungry again.

  I shuddered at the thought of what idiotic scheme he might come up with.

  “Hey, what’s all this?” he said, finally noticing the Kitty Condo parts scattered behind the sofa.

  “A scratching post for Prozac. It’s utterly impossible to assemble.”

  “I’ll be happy to help you with it, hon.”

  “You will?”

  What an angel!

  “Yes, of course. But not now. I’m meeting Gary at the movies in an hour. Must go home and make myself fabulous. An easy job, I know, but still, one mustn’t shirk one’s duties. A lesson you’d be wise to learn, Jaine.”

  And with that, he went sailing back out the door.

  I barely restrained myself from hurling my glass of chardonnay at him.

  Instead I finished it and turned my attention back to my Kitty Condo.

  I think the wine really helped.

  Less than an hour later, it was completely assembled.

  All it took was patience, tenacity, and a house call from Lowell at Pet Palace.

  Chapter 21

  Alas, Prozac showed no signs of moving into her Kitty Condo. From the moment Lowell and I first showed it to her, she’d given it the cold shoulder, avoiding it much like I avoid the health food section of my local supermarket.

  The next morning after breakfast, she’d hopped on the sofa as she usually does, barely giving the condo a glance.

  But I couldn’t worry about the condo, not when I still had a murder to solve.

  It was high time I resumed my investigation and paid a visit to Dr. Edwin Fletcher, principal of Alta Loco High School.

  You haven’t forgotten that touching little scene near the vending machine at the Amada Inn, have you? The one where Candace had threatened to tell the world the truth about Dr. Fletcher unless he coughed up ten grand?

  Sure sounded like blackmail to me. And a most emphatic motive for murder.

  I called and told him I was investigating the case on behalf of Heather. Fortunately he agreed to see me, and after hanging up, I headed to my bedroom and slipped into my dress jeans, spanky white tee, and navy blazer. Hoping to make an extra special impression on the good doctor, I pinned my Phi Beta Kappa key on the lapel of my blazer.

  Yes, I said Phi Beta Kappa.

  Impressed? You s
hould be.

  I was quite proud of that key, having nabbed it for only two bucks at the same flea market where I bought my USDA meat inspector badge.

  I was almost ready to go. But before I left, I had one very important chore to do—“decorate” the Kitty Condo.

  If there was one thing that would get Prozac to try out her new home-away-from-home, it was chow.

  I very cleverly loaded the condo with kitty treats: Chopped Chicken Chunks, Tasty Tuna Tidbits, Little Liver Lumps, and the ever-popular Seafood Entrails Party Mix. Surely my feline chowhound wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of all those goodies.

  “Bon appétit!” I cried as I left my apartment, confident that when I returned, she’d be all settled in to her new home, lounging in the condo pool.

  Minutes later, I was in my Corolla and once again trekking down the 405 freeway to Orange County. If this kept up, they’d soon be naming a lane after me.

  At a little after eleven, I pulled into the parking lot of Alta Loco High, an ersatz mission-style building with a red tile roof and Moorish archways.

  Entering through massive double doors, I made my way along a wide linoleum corridor, breathing in the heady aroma of Mr. Clean and old gym socks. Down at the end of the hall, I found the administrative offices. There I was greeted by Dr. Fletcher’s secretary, a stocky prison warden of a woman with blunt-cut gray hair and a most intimidating unibrow. The nameplate on her desk read IRMA COMSTOCK.

  After I cleared my throat to get her attention, she looked up from where she was hard at work on the Daily Jumble.

  “What is it?” she snarled in welcome.

  “I’m Jaine Austen. Here to see Dr. Fletcher.”

  “Jane Austen? Like the writer?”

  “It’s Jaine with an ‘i.’ You see, my mom was reading Pride and Prejudice when she was pregnant with me, and—”

  “Yeah, whatever,” she said, clearly uninterested in my mother’s reading habits. “Follow me.”

  Hoisting herself up from her swivel chair, she led me into the good doctor’s inner sanctum, then promptly stomped back to her Daily Jumble.

  I looked around the large imposing room, no doubt designed to intimidate unruly students. Arched windows let in the bright sun, backlighting Dr. Fletcher, whose slim body was dwarfed behind a huge desk. The walls were lined with framed degrees from UCLA and Berkeley, as well as a slew of awards for Alta Loco High, “A California Distinguished School.”

  Completing the honors was a large leaded-glass paperweight with a metal plaque proclaiming Dr. Fletcher “Principal of the Year” from the Alta Loco Chamber of Commerce.

  “Ah, Ms. Austen,” he said, springing up to greet me. “So nice to see you.”

  He leaned forward to shake my hand, sending a blast of citrusy aftershave in my direction. Something about that scent seemed familiar.

  “Sit down, won’t you?”

  He gestured to one of two chunky leather chairs facing his desk.

  “I see you’re Phi Beta Kappa,” he said, eyeing my blazer lapel as I took a seat.

  I smiled modestly.

  “You must be very proud. That takes a lot of hard work.”

  Not if you shop at the right flea markets.

  “I’m afraid I won’t be able to spare you much time,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I’m working on a speech I have to deliver at the school assembly at two this afternoon.”

  Looking down at his desk, I saw a legal pad, upon which he had been making notes in a painstakingly precise hand.

  “Of course,” I assured him. “I understand. Just a few questions.”

  “Go ahead,” he said, hands clasped in front of him on his desk like an obedient student.

  “First off, can you think of anyone who may have wanted to kill either Amy or Candace?”

  “Absolutely not. Amy was such a mousy little thing. I can’t believe she had any enemies. And as for Candace, she may have made alienated a few pageant moms—after all, emotions run high at these events—but I doubt anyone hated her enough to kill her.”

  “Even you?”

  “What on earth do you mean by that?” His eyes, pale gray behind his wire-rimmed glasses, grew wide with surprise.

  Now was my time to pounce.

  “The night before the murder, I overheard Candace threatening you. She said she was going to tell everyone the truth about you.”

  He managed a bark of a laugh.

  “Oh, that.” His hands were now clasped so tight, they were practically melded together, knuckles white with strain. “It was nothing, nothing at all. I promised Mother I’d give up smoking, and I fell off the wagon. Candace caught me taking a puff out in the courtyard and was threatening to tell her.”

  Oh, please. What a crock of poo poo. Candace had been threatening to blab to the world, not just his mommy, and was demanding ten grand for her silence. Surely a stolen cigarette wasn’t worth ten grand. I wasn’t buying his story. Not one bit.

  And I was just about to tell him so when once again I became aware of his citrusy aftershave. And suddenly I remembered where I’d smelled it before! On Taylor’s missing ball gown after Candace had returned it to her!

  Omigosh. Was Dr. Fletcher the one who’d nabbed Taylor’s Vera Wang? Was this pillar of the educational community a cross-dresser? Was this the secret Candace had been threatening to expose?

  Something told me I was on to something.

  “Do you mind my asking where you were at the time of the murder?”

  “In my hotel room,” he said, with an angry glare.

  Doing what? I wondered. Saying Yes to the Dress?

  “Any witnesses?”

  “Afraid not. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve really got to get back to work.”

  With that, he pressed a button on his intercom, instantly summoning the formidable Ms. Comstock.

  “Show Ms. Austen out, will you?” he instructed her.

  Before I knew it, Ms. Comstock had me in her steel grip, and minutes later I was back out in the parking lot.

  But not for long. Dr. Fletcher wasn’t about to get rid of me that easily.

  I whiled away the next couple of hours in my Corolla, playing Scrabble for One and checking in vain for a text message from Scott. I hadn’t heard from him in days, and by now I was convinced that my Frisbee fiasco had pretty much put the kibosh on our relationship.

  At a little after two, when I knew Dr. Fletcher would be busy delivering his speech at the student assembly, I headed back to his office.

  The ever-charming Ms. Comstock looked up from the Daily Jumble she was still trying to solve.

  “Can I help you?” she grunted, glowering at me from under her massive unibrow.

  I sprang into action, using a plan I’d carefully devised in the parking lot.

  “I seem to have lost my Phi Beta Kappa pin, and I’m afraid it must have fallen off in Dr. Fletcher’s office.”

  “You’re Phi Beta Kappa?” She blinked in disbelief. “Someone who spells Jane with an ‘i’?”

  Look who’s talking. The lady who took three hours to finish the Daily Jumble.

  “Yes, I am,” I said, fingering my bare lapel, which was indeed missing its Phi Beta Kappa pin, due to the fact that I’d taken it off and stashed it in my purse.

  “Mind if I look around for it?”

  “Okay,” she said, eyeing me warily, “but make it snappy.”

  Quickly I trotted into Dr. Fletcher’s office.

  Much to my dismay, I realized that Ms. Comstock was trotting right behind me.

  But I was prepared for just such a contingency.

  “By the way,” I said, “do you happen to know who drives a brown Dodge Dart?”

  “That’s my car.”

  Of course, I already knew that. While in the parking lot, I’d seen the Dodge Dart in question parked in a space with Ms. Comstock’s name on it.

  “I think I saw a kid heading for your car with a can of spray paint.”

  Her unibrow furrowed in dismay.
>
  “Oh, hell! Half of these hoodlums oughta be in jail.”

  And with that, she was off like a shot.

  It wouldn’t take her long to discover there was no kid in the parking lot with a can of spray paint, so I had to hurry.

  I started rummaging around the room, praying that Dr. Fletcher was deep enough into his cross-dressing to leave evidence of it here in his office. I checked out his closet, hoping I’d find a red-carpet gown, or at the very least a tasteful little black dress. But, alas, all I found was a raincoat and umbrella.

  Then I raced over to his desk, riffling through his drawers, uncovering the usual pens and paper clips, as well as a stash of vitamins, granola bars, and some “Bullworker” upper body exercise ropes.

  If Dr. Fletcher was a cross-dresser, it looked like he was in great shape under his underlovelies.

  I continued my search, but all it yielded were some attendance sheets and a pamphlet on locker room hygiene.

  But then, at last, I hit pay dirt. In the bottom right drawer, I found a dictionary. How odd, I thought, to keep a dictionary in a drawer. Most people keep them on their desks, or on a bookshelf. Why was this one hidden away where no one could see it?

  Lifting it out of the drawer, I opened it up and found my answer.

  There, pressed between Flamboyant and Flaubert, was a black lace garter belt. And a handful of photos. All selfies of Dr. Fletcher, dressed in women’s outfits: There he was in capris and a halter top. Dressed for success in a pencil skirt and white silk blouse. Very Betty Crocker in a shirtwaist and apron.

  And finally, the belle of the ball, in Taylor’s Vera Wang gown! True, he hadn’t been able to zip it all the way up. But that didn’t seem to bother him as he smiled into the camera, sporting a blond shag wig, batting false eyelashes, his lips a bright Revlon red.

  No doubt about it. Dr. Fletcher was a cross-dresser, and Candace had been ready to expose him, right down to his black lace garters.

  And I had to admit he looked pretty darn good as a woman. That Bullworker had really paid off; his arms were well toned, not a hint of middle-aged flab anywhere. Gazing at the photos, I felt a twinge of envy. It’s a tad depressing when a guy in his fifties looks better in capris than I do. I was standing there, admiring his sylphlike waist when suddenly I heard an angry voice booming: