Death by Tiara

by Laura Levine

  “Really?”

  I found this hard to believe as this exact same floral arrangement had been on Lance’s coffee table for the past three years.

  “Yes, really,” he said, plucking a card from the flowers. “Read the card.”

  I opened the tiny envelope, which, by the way, was devoid of a florist’s name, and pulled out a card.

  “With love always, from Cyril,” I read aloud.

  Who the hell was Cyril supposed to be?

  I was about to find out.

  “An old boyfriend of Jaine’s,” Lance said to Scott, setting the flowers on my dining room table and arranging them just so. “Head over heels in love with her. Jaine has that effect on men. I don’t know what it is about her, but she’s just irresistible.”

  Over on the sofa, Prozac was coughing up a hair ball. Or pretending to. No doubt her comment on me as a femme fatale.

  Meanwhile Lance was singing my praises to Scott, touting me as if I were Helen of Troy, Cleopatra, and Scarlett O’Hara all rolled into one.

  I knew what this was all about. Lance said he was going to think of a way to help me woo Scott.

  And this was it. He’d come up with “Cyril.”

  Clearly he was trying to make Scott jealous.

  My first instinct was to put an end to this nonsense and tell Scott the truth. But then I saw a look in Scott’s eyes, a look of uncertainty, the same look I got in my eyes when Chloe came sashaying by.

  I liked that look a lot—on Scott.

  “Well, I guess I’d better leave you two lovebirds alone,” Lance was saying.

  So happy was I with the result of his little scheme that I actually meant it when I said, “Thanks so much for stopping by.”

  “Poor Cyril,” I said when Lance had skipped off to his apartment. “It was sweet of him to think of me.”

  “I hope I don’t have anything to be concerned about,” Scott said, eyeing the silk flowers uneasily.

  “Oh, no. Not at all. It’s all over between us. Just like it is between you and Chloe.”

  There it was again, that uneasy look in his eyes. He felt threatened, all right. And just like Prozac going after some Little Liver Lumps, he moved in to protect his territory.

  Once again I found myself swept up in his arms.

  It turned out I didn’t have to worry about Scott seeing me in my ratty old T-shirt, after all. Because thirty seconds later, I wasn’t wearing it anymore.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Just When I Thought It Was Safe

  Just when I thought it was safe to answer the phone again, I got a call from Lydia Pinkus this morning, telling me she saw Daddy running around her front lawn in his underwear in the middle of the night!

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: In the Doghouse

  I’m afraid I’m in the doghouse with your mom, Lambchop. And it’s all because of that battle-axe Lydia Pinkus. What the heck was she doing looking out her window at 2 AM, that’s what I want to know. Why wasn’t she asleep like any normal human being?

  But I suppose I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Yes, it’s true I was running around in my underwear on Lydia Pinkus’s lawn, but there’s a perfectly logical explanation. You see, last night, I was still feeling a little miffed about the whole La Cucaracha affair, smarting at the indignity of having to silence my trusty golf cart horn forever. I couldn’t sleep and decided to go out to the garage freezer for a little ice cream.

  So I got out of bed, threw a robe over my boxer shorts, and headed outside. I was just walking up the driveway where I’d parked my golf cart when I remembered I’d left my beloved golf cap on the front seat. And at that very moment, I looked over and discovered that I wasn’t the only one who liked my cap. There behind the wheel of my golf cart was a raccoon, with my golf cap clutched in his little paws, nibbling at my pom-pom!

  I raced over to grab it from him, but as soon as he saw me coming, he was off like a rocket with my cap in his mouth. Well, I couldn’t very well let him steal my golf cap, could I? So I started running after him. I chased that damn critter three and a half blocks all the way to Lydia Pinkus’s townhouse. Somewhere along the way—I think it was in Mrs. Thorndahl’s front yard—my robe got caught on a rose bush, and I had no choice but to leave it behind.

  Which is why, when I finally caught up with the raccoon in Lydia’s front yard, I was wearing nothing but my boxers. I don’t know why she’s making such a stink over it. I happen to have rather shapely legs, if I do say so myself.

  But I digress. Back to the scene on Lydia’s lawn. By now I was close enough to grab my cap from the raccoon, but when I reached out to get it, he started hissing quite fiercely. And I must confess that your old Daddy got a wee bit scared. What if he attacked me? What if I wound up in the hospital getting a series of highly painful rabies shots?

  I was just debating what to do when Lydia came out on her balcony and started hollering. At the sound of her voice, I swear that raccoon cringed in fear, dropped the cap, and skedaddled out of there.

  I’m telling you, Lambchop, the battle-axe is one scary lady.

  United at long last with my golf cap, I put it on and headed back home.

  No big deal, really. I don’t see why everybody is making such a fuss.

  Love ’n’ hugs from

  Your much maligned,

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Lost His Marbles

  Daddy just told me what happened last night. Can you believe a grown man chasing a raccoon for a silly golf cap?

  Honestly, I think your father has lost his marbles.

  On the plus side, though, he’s feeling so guilty, he let me have some Oreos from the freezer.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Low Profile

  Your mom’s had a few Oreos, and is feeling a lot calmer. Best to keep a low profile today.

  Love ’n’ hugs from

  Daddy

  P.S. I’ll say one thing for that raccoon. He had excellent taste in hats.

  Chapter 24

  If you think I’m going to tell you what happened with me and Scott, you’ve got another think coming. My mom sometimes reads these little stories of mine when she’s all out of Janet Evanovich books, and I’m not about to let myself in for one of her lectures on The Dangers of Dipsy Doodle.

  (If you’re reading this, Mom, I slipped out of my sleep shirt into a nice comfy chastity belt.)

  Let’s just say a good time was had by all, and I was still floating around in a romantic glow the next morning as I scarfed down my cinnamon raisin bagel.

  So happy was I that I didn’t even flinch when I opened my emails and read about Daddy chasing a raccoon through the streets of Tampa Vistas in his boxer shorts. Indeed, my prevailing sentiment at the time, I believe, was:

  That Daddy! What a scamp!

  I polished off my CRB in no time and was just about to nuke another when there was a knock on my door.

  My heart leapt.

  Could it be Scott? Back for a return engagement?

  Fluffing my hair and wiping bagel crumbs from my robe, I hurried to the door and swung it open, only to find a big blond lunk of a woman looming in my doorway.

  Oh, hell. It was Brunhilde, the detective investigating the murder.

  Needless to say, I was not exactly thrilled to see her.

  Lest you forget, when last we met, she’d sort of suspected me of being the killer—making noises about how I might have wanted to kill Candace to avenge her bad-mouthing Prozac.

  Was it possible she still suspected me? Had she somehow gathered evidence tying me to the crime? What if I’d inadvertently touched something and left fingerprints in the pageant office when I was comforting Candace after the murder?
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  Oh, God. What if Brunhilde was here to arrest me for a crime I didn’t commit? Wouldn’t you know I’d be hauled off to jail, just when everything was going so well with Scott!

  But I couldn’t allow myself to panic. I had to stay cool and collected.

  “Mind if I come in?” Brunhilde asked.

  “Please don’t arrest me!” I shrieked. “I swear I’m not the killer!”

  Okay, so I’ve still got to work on cool and collected.

  “I repeat,” Brunhilde grunted. “Mind if I come in?”

  “Of course. Have a seat,” I said, gesturing to the sofa, where Prozac was in the middle of her post-breakfast snooze.

  Brunhilde sat down as far as she could get from my little angel, who woke up from her nap and began sniffing the air with interest.

  Mmm. Bratwurst!

  Like a flash, she was at Brunhilde’s side, her little pink nose twitching with glee.

  Sauerkraut! And Heineken, too! Hey, this gal’s a one-woman Oktoberfest!

  Brunhilde flinched in annoyance. Clearly she was not a cat person, so I quickly scooped up Prozac and plopped her on the floor.

  Upon which, the little darling shot me a filthy look.

  Well! Of all the nerve!!

  With an angry swish of her tail, she stalked off toward my bedroom, throwing in an ear-piercing yowl for good measure.

  That cat sure knows how to milk the drama out of an exit.

  Turning back to Brunhilde, I resumed our little tête-à-tête.

  “As I was saying, I assure you I didn’t kill Amy.”

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  “Really?”

  A wave of relief washed over me.

  “According to Tex Turner, you’ve been running around impersonating a police officer. An offense punishable by up to three years in prison, I might add.”

  Dammit. I was back to doing time again.

  “I didn’t mean any harm,” I stammered. “I was just trying to question his secretary.”

  “I already told you to leave the police work to us,” she said, with a most unsettling flex of her biceps.

  “Yes, sir—I mean, ma’am. I promise, no more impersonating a police officer. Cross my heart.”

  “And what about Phi Beta Kappa members? I hear you’ve been passing yourself off as one of those, too. Dr. Fletcher checked the membership rolls. And you’re not listed.”

  Good heavens. You’d think people would have better things to do with their time than to go ratting me out to the cops.

  “Look, Ms. Austen,” Brunhilde said, hauling herself up from the sofa, “I warned you once to keep your nose out of this case. And I don’t want to have to do it again. The next time I get a complaint about you, I’m coming back with an arrest warrant.”

  “You have my word! My nose is officially out of the case!” I lied, fingers firmly crossed behind my back.

  Yes, I know I should have stopped my investigation right then and there. And I gave it some serious thought. For a whole thirteen seconds. But when it comes to murder, I’m a lot like Prozac with a throw pillow.

  I just can’t seem to let go.

  I promised myself there’d be no more impersonations. But they couldn’t arrest me for asking questions, could they? There’s such a thing as freedom of speech in this country, right?

  All of which is why, when Luanne Summers called me later that morning and offered me a job writing novelty lyrics for Gigi, I got in my Corolla and tootled down to Alta Loco.

  My nose was back in business again.

  Chapter 25

  I expected to find Luanne and Gigi in an Alta Loco McMansion, complete with swaying palms and gurgling fountain.

  But much to my surprise, the address Luanne gave me turned out to be a rundown apartment building a stone’s throw from the freeway. A one-story structure built over a carport, its gray clapboard exterior was blotched with water stains and flaked from years in the sun.

  Luanne came to the door in skinny jeans and oversized tee, her fingernails painted an eye-popping lime green.

  “Come in,” she said, ushering me into her living room. Even though the apartment was at the front of the building, facing away from the freeway, I could hear the dull roar of the cars seeping through her windows.

  “Excuse the crappy digs.” She gestured to her mismatched thrift shop furniture. “My husband got all the good stuff in the divorce. Silly me, I signed a prenup.

  “But that’ll all change once Gigi gets discovered,” she added with a confident nod. “You know, pageants are a gateway to the world of acting and modeling.”

  Luanne had clearly been drinking the pageant Kool-Aid.

  Meanwhile, Gigi, the future actress/model in question, was in the middle of the living room in shorts and a tank top, awkwardly twirling a baton.

  “Hi, Ms. Austen,” she said, when she saw me.

  “Be careful you don’t break that lamp!” Luanne shouted, as the baton came perilously close to a ceramic-based table lamp.

  “Gigi’s learning a new talent,” Luanne explained. “We want to make more of an impression at the next pageant. Not that she wasn’t wonderful as Cleopatra, right?”

  “Absolutely,” I lied.

  Frankly I thought the table lamp could have given a better performance.

  “These batons have wicks at the end, so you can set them on fire,” Gigi gushed, with all the glee of a budding pyromaniac.

  “Yep, my little girl is learning how to juggle flaming batons!” Luanne beamed with pride.

  Instantly my mind was flooded with images of the Amada Inn going up in smoke.

  “I’m sure to win next time!” Gigi said, her big blue eyes shining with determination.

  “You bet you will, honey!” Luanne assured her. “Now keep on practicing while Ms. Austen and I have a little chat about your novelty lyrics.”

  I followed Luanne to a cramped dining alcove and took a seat at a scarred wooden table littered with mail and assorted pageant brochures.

  Up against the wall was a clothing rack stuffed with glittery gowns and costumes. Gigi’s pageant wardrobe, no doubt.

  “I want something fun and bouncy that Gigi can sing while she’s twirling the batons,” Luanne said, settling down onto a rickety chair across from me. “Work ‘fire’ in the lyrics, of course, and Gigi’s many talents. So what do you think? Can you do it?”

  Not without the help of my good friend Jose Cuervo.

  “Well, I—”

  “Good! I knew you’d say yes!”

  Then, somewhat uneasily, she added, “So how much was Heather paying you?”

  “Five hundred dollars.”

  She gulped in dismay.

  “That’s a little steep. I don’t make much at my job at the nail salon.”

  For the first time I noticed a rhinestone embedded in the pinky of her lime green nails. No doubt her own handiwork.

  “By the way,” she said, pulling out a slip of paper from the pile of junk on her table and sliding it across to me, “here’s a coupon for ten percent off your first visit to the salon. Which, if you don’t mind my saying, you could really use. What do you cut your nails with? A chainsaw?”

  Of all the nerve! I happen to use a pair of vintage manicure scissors I picked up at the same flea market where I got my USDA inspector badge and Phi Beta Kappa pin.

  “Anyhow,” Luanne was saying, “I don’t make much, but I’ve got a savings bond left over from the divorce settlement. Maybe I could cash that in.”

  “No!” I shouted. “I couldn’t possibly let you do that.”

  I thought of all the money she was pouring into these pageants. Heaven knows how much that Cleopatra barge had set her back. And the rack of costumes. That had to be a few thou right there. The woman was living on the edge to support her crazy pageant dreams. I wasn’t about to let her dip into her savings. No way.

  Then I had an idea.

  “I’ll write the lyrics for free,” I said, “if you’ll answer some quest
ions about the murder at the Amada Inn.”

  “The murder? Why do you need to know about the murder?”

  I wasn’t about to tell her I was helping Heather. I wanted her to cooperate, not stab me with a flaming baton.

  “I’m afraid I’m a suspect.”

  “You?” She blinked in surprise.

  “The detective in charge of the case thinks I’m some sort of animal nut who may have tried to kill Candace because she insulted my cat.”

  All of which was true.

  “But I thought Heather was their prime suspect,” Luanne said, not bothering to hide her disappointment.

  “Not anymore.”

  “Damn. If anyone deserved to be dragged off to prison, it’s that godawful woman.”

  “So can you answer a few questions?” I asked.

  “If I do, you’ll write Gigi’s lyrics for free?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Go ahead,” she shrugged. “Ask away.”

  “First off, can you think of anyone who’d want to kill either Amy or Candace?”

  “I can’t think of a soul who’d want to kill Amy. Poor little thing,” she clucked. “Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m sure the killer was out to get Candace.”

  “Do you have any idea who that could be?”

  “I still say Heather did it. You saw how furious she was with Candace at the talent show.”

  “Anybody other than Heather come to mind?”

  “Nope.”

  Luanne had clearly tried and convicted Heather of the crime, so I decided to switch to another line of questioning.