Death by Tiara

by Laura Levine

  Dr. Fletcher was the killer, all right, and I was glad he was behind bars.

  It was with a sense of great relief that I tootled off to the kitchen to fix Prozac some Hearty Halibut Guts and nuke myself a cinnamon raisin bagel.

  A sense of relief that came to a crashing halt, however, when I read the latest emails from my parents. I was sitting there, shuddering at the thought of Daddy behind the wheel of Nellybelle, plowing into the Tampa Vistas community pool, when Lance came knocking at my door.

  “How’re you feeling, hon?” he asked as he breezed in, decked out in cut-offs and a tank top.

  “Okay, but my neck’s a little sore.”

  “Acck!” he cried, eyeing my bruises. “You poor thing! You look like you’ve just done ten rounds with a Jersey Housewife. Stay right there, and Uncle Lance will fix you an ice pack.”

  He scooted off to my kitchen. Seconds later he came back out, chomping on a cinnamon raisin bagel.

  “Hope you don’t mind; I took your last bagel.”

  Of course I minded!

  Then, tossing me a cold can of Diet Coke, he said, “Rub this on your neck. It’s practically as good as an ice pack.

  “I still can’t get over it!” he said as he plopped down on my sofa. “I, Lance Venable, actually caught a killer!”

  “You??”

  “Yes, me! Don’t you remember how I tackled that burly thug to the ground?”

  “Burly thug? Dr. Fletcher can’t weigh more than a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. And you didn’t tackle him. He tripped over a loose brick.”

  “Yes, but right after that, I tackled him and sat on his chest till the police came.”

  “Wait a minute. I was the one sitting on his chest.”

  “Technically, perhaps, but if it weren’t for my arms of steel holding him down, he surely would have gotten away. That’s the story I posted on Twitter, anyway, and I’m sticking to it.”

  Can you believe this guy? Talk about delusional.

  “Well, gotta run,” he said, getting up. “Must take a selfie of me on the front path to tweet to my followers. I’ve got three hundred twenty-two new ones ever since I tweeted about how I saved your life!”

  Any minute now, he’d be awarding himself a Nobel Peace Prize.

  “Mind if I take your Diet Coke?” he said as he grabbed it from my neck. “I’m thirsty from the bagel.”

  With that, he breezed out the door.

  I was just about to dash after him and snatch back my Diet Coke when the phone rang. I picked it up to hear Heather’s voice, bubbling with excitement.

  “Jaine, dear. I just heard the news about Dr. Fletcher’s arrest. I’m not the least bit surprised he turned out to be the killer. I knew there was something evil about him the first time I saw him!”

  Was she kidding? The first time she saw him waiting for the elevator at the Amada Inn, she was practically kissing his fanny, hoping to get him to vote for Taylor.

  “Anyhow,” she was saying, “I’ve got terrific news. The teen queen crowning ceremony has been rescheduled for tomorrow, and Taylor is back in the contest!”

  “That’s wonderful. How did that happen?”

  “My husband had a word with pageant headquarters and everything got straightened out.”

  I remembered Nicky, her hit man of a husband. I just hoped there were no tire irons involved.

  “Taylor really wants you to be at the crowning ceremony. She’s so very fond of you.”

  The last thing I wanted was to sit around watching a teen queen get crowned with a clock-tiara, but Taylor was a sweet kid, so I agreed to go.

  The minute I hung up, the phone rang again. It was Taylor.

  You cynics out there who think she was calling because she wanted me to bring M&M’s are all wrong.

  This time she wanted Kit Kat bars.

  Chapter 31

  I showed up at the Amada Inn the next day, pitying the poor souls checking in, and took the hotel’s one and only working elevator to the top floor. Over in the Rooftop Ballroom, rows of chairs had been set up for the crowning ceremony. Next door in the dressing room, nervous teens sat in makeup chairs as their moms fussed over them, applying blush, curling lashes, and adding wiglets to their already huge hair.

  Making my way through a miasma of hairspray, I found Taylor decked out in her fifteen-hundred-dollar Vera Wang gown, having her hair done by a skinny guy in gold lamé jeans, who I could only assume was a professional stylist.

  Heather hovered nearby, Elvis in her arms.

  “Hey, guys!” I called out.

  “Jaine, thank heavens you’re here! Taylor’s been asking about you all morning.”

  “Hi, Jaine.” Taylor waved a manicured finger at me, and I surreptitiously pointed at my purse, to let her know her Kit Kats were close at hand.

  Then I looked over and saw that, as bad luck would have it, Luanne and Gigi were at the very next makeup station.

  Luanne was sipping coffee from a paper cup, shouting out unwanted directions as Gigi applied her own makeup. No designer duds for Gigi; her gown was a sequined special straight from a prom shop. But Gigi was a pretty girl, and she looked damn good in it.

  “More blush!” Luanne screeched at her. “You need rosy cheeks.”

  Gigi rolled her eyes.

  “Mom, I wanna be Teen Queen, not Ronald McDonald.”

  “I’m so glad Taylor had her makeup done by a trained professional,” Heather bragged, loud enough for Luanne to hear.

  “Some girls need all the help they can get,” Luanne muttered.

  Heather bristled. “Of all the nerve! Taylor, did you hear what she just said?”

  Taylor shot her mom a warning look.

  “Mom, if you make a scene, I swear I’m getting up and walking out right now.”

  Reluctantly, Heather clamped her lips shut and turned her attention to Taylor’s hair.

  “Here, Jaine. Watch Elvis, will you? I want to do Taylor’s bangs. Nobody does bangs like I do.”

  She thrust the little beast in my arms, and he greeted me as he usually did—with a nasty growl and much baring of fangs.

  “Here’s his favorite chew toy,” Heather said, handing me a bright chartreuse bone, covered liberally in dog spit. Elvis started gnawing on it as Heather grabbed a comb from Mr. Gold Lamé and began working on Taylor’s bangs.

  Eventually Taylor was gussied up to Heather’s exacting standards and twirled around for inspection.

  “Gorgeous!” Heather proclaimed.

  And I must admit, she was right. With her big brown eyes, tiny waist, and flawless complexion—all wrapped up in that Vera Wang gown—Taylor was quite a stunner.

  “You look really nice,” Gigi said, eyeing Taylor’s dress with envy.

  “Thanks,” Taylor smiled. “So do you.”

  “That’s the sportsmanlike way!” Mr. Gold Lamé exclaimed, waving his hair dryer in the spirit of peace. “May the best contestant win!”

  “Don’t worry,” Heather said. “Taylor will.”

  “No way!” Luanne shot back. “My Gigi’s going to walk away with that crown.”

  “Only if she rips it off my Taylor’s head.”

  By now the two were glaring at each other in Dragon Mom mode.

  “Wake up and smell the hair spray,” Luanne sneered. “Gigi’s going to win.”

  “Taylor!”

  “Gigi!”

  “Taylor!”

  “Gigi!”

  This fascinating battle of wits was in full swing when Candace’s new assistant, a harried young slip of a thing, came hurrying by, her clipboard poking out from the crook of her arm. No doubt in a rush to obey Candace’s latest command, she accidentally jostled Luanne.

  And that’s when things went from bad to World War III. I watched in dismay as Luanne’s coffee went flying out of her paper cup—right down the front of Taylor’s fifteen-hundred-dollar Vera Wang gown.

  “I’m so sorry!” Candace’s assistant cried.

  But Heather was deaf to
her apology. She whirled on Luanne, fire in her eyes.

  “You did that on purpose!”

  “I did not!” Luanne shot back. “It was an accident!”

  But Heather wasn’t buying it.

  “Oh, please. You’ve been sniping at me ever since this pageant began. That was no accident. You spilled that coffee on purpose!” she shouted. “You spilled it on purpose!”

  You spilled it on purpose!

  And with those words everything clicked into place.

  I knew who the killer was.

  Not Dr. Fletcher, whose only crimes were assault and tacky taste in garter belts. The killer, I felt certain, was Candace.

  Candace said she’d accidentally spilled Coke on Amy’s red blazer the day of the murder. But what if it wasn’t an accident? What if she’d spilled that Coke on purpose, so Amy would be forced to change into Candace’s blue blazer?

  All along I’d assumed that Candace was the intended victim and that the killer had killed Amy by mistake. But what if there was no mistake? What if Candace had been plotting to kill Amy?

  Candace had been on the take, accepting bribes from desperate pageant moms. Maybe mousy little Amy hadn’t been so mousy. Maybe she knew about Candace’s cheating ways and had been threatening to expose her.

  So Candace maneuvered her into a blue blazer and killed her to shut her up, careful to leave her body face down, to make it look like the killer had mistaken Amy for Candace.

  Hadn’t Bethenny been grousing about how her Tiphany clock-tiara had come without batteries? Then why was the tiara clock working the day it was used as a murder weapon? Because Candace had put batteries in the clock and then set the time to when she knew she’d be at the dance rehearsal. Then, smashing the tiara on Amy’s skull, she’d stopped the clock, giving herself an airtight alibi.

  Yes, I’d bet my bottom Pop-Tart Candace was the killer. I had to call Brunhilde and tell her what I knew. I just hoped she’d take me seriously, considering I didn’t have a shred of evidence.

  By now, Mr. Gold Lamé was dabbing club soda on Taylor’s Vera Wang. Miraculously the coffee stain was coming out.

  “See?” Heather said to Luanne. “Your nasty little trick has failed! Now nothing can stop my Taylor from winning the crown!”

  “I’ll be right back,” I said to Heather, shoving Elvis in her arms. “I’ve got to make a call.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I know who Amy’s killer is.”

  With that I grabbed my cell phone from my purse and dashed out to the hallway.

  “But I thought Dr. Fletcher was the killer,” Heather said, hot on my heels, toting Elvis.

  “Nope,” I said, once we were alone in the corridor. “It’s Candace.”

  “Candace? Isn’t she was the one the killer was trying to knock off?”

  “That’s what she wanted everyone to think.”

  I told her my theory.

  “What marvelous news!” she cried when I was finished. “I can’t wait to see her royal snootiness rot in jail, after the way she treated my Taylor.” Then her brow furrowed in doubt. “But wait a minute. What about that man who jumped out from her bushes and attacked her with a knife?”

  “If you ask me, Candace probably staged that little scene herself. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she had Eddie stab her.”

  Suddenly from behind us we heard a mirthless laugh.

  We whirled around to see Candace, with a sneer on her face and a gun in her hand.

  A gun, which, I might add, was aimed most unnervingly at my gut.

  “Eddie, stab me? Not bloody likely. He’s such a wuss, I had to stab myself. But it was very convincing, don’t you agree? It made everyone think I was being stalked by a killer!

  “And I was careful not to go too deep,” she added, quite pleased with herself. “Just a scratch, really. All better now!”

  Indeed, all that remained on her arm was a tiny bandage.

  “Well, enough about me,” she said, getting down to business. “Time to get rid of you two. First things first. Hand over your cell phone, Sherlock.”

  Reluctantly I tossed my phone to her.

  “Can’t have you trying to dial 911 on the sly, can I?”

  Damn. That’s just what I’d been planning to do.

  “Okay, girls. Time to take a little walk.”

  With her gun at our backs, Candace nudged us over to the elevators. I prayed that someone would walk by, but everyone was in the dressing room, getting ready for the grand crowning ceremony. If only Elvis would start barking and attract their attention. But, no. The little prince had apparently taken a vow of silence.

  “Lucky for me,” Candace was saying as she bonked my spine with the butt of her gun, “my new assistant overheard you saying you knew who the killer was. And I was afraid you might have figured out the truth.”

  By now my brain was spinning like a crazed hamster. If I could get Candace to confess to the murder, I’d have Heather as a witness. None of which would mean anything, of course, if she wound up using that gun on us. But it was worth a try. I had to keep her talking.

  “You killed Amy to shut her up,” I said, hoping to egg her on.

  She took the bait.

  “Silly little thing. She was going to report me to pageant headquarters for taking bribes. Very foolish of her. I wasn’t about to give up the pageant. Not after all the work I put into it, not to mention all the money I siphoned out of it.”

  “So you spilled your Coke on her blazer so she’d be forced to wear one of yours. Then you knocked her off with the clock-tiara, setting the time for when you’d be at the dance rehearsal. And you were careful to leave her face down, so everyone would think the killer had mistaken her for you.”

  “Well, aren’t you the smarty pants,” Candace said, giving me a particularly sharp jab with her gun.

  “Then you played the victim, pretending the killer was still out to get you, running around without makeup, looking your worst, very Woman in Jeopardy. You staged the phony stabbing, and claimed there was someone in a black van following you.”

  We came to a stop at the elevators and Candace stepped in front of us, her gun once more pointed straight at my gut.

  “Congratulations, Ms. Austen. You win first prize in the amateur detective contest: An all-expenses-paid trip for two down a nice long elevator shaft.”

  Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a walkie-talkie device. “Eddie!” she barked into it. “Get over here now!

  “When he gets here,” she informed us, “he’s going to pry those elevator doors open, and you two are going to take an express ride straight to the bottom. A tragic accident. Some careless Amada Inn employee will have left the doors open by mistake. That’s what Eddie and I will tell the police after we discover your bodies.”

  Then, in a moment of bravery that surprises me to this day, I said, “Let’s get out of here, Heather.”

  Heather looked at me like I was nuts.

  “But she’s got a gun.”

  “She won’t dare shoot it. Not without attracting a crowd. If she fires that gun, she’d be arrested on the spot.”

  “Not if I use Fluffy here as a pillow to silence my shots.”

  In a flash, Candace reached out and wrenched Elvis from Heather’s arms.

  Heather’s eyes were wide with horror.

  “You’d kill an innocent dog?”

  “Whatever works.”

  “Bite her, Elvis!” Heather shrieked. “Attack!”

  But Elvis, a graduate of the Prozac School of Heroic Action, just sat nestled in Candace’s arms, sniffing her perfume.

  “The party’s over, girls,” Candace said. “And if you want your sissy fleaball to be alive for your funeral, you’d better shut up and stay put.”

  “Sissy fleaball? How dare you speak that way about my Elvis?” Overcome with the fury of an outraged pet owner, she hissed, “Drop dead, bitch!”

  “Sorry, sweetheart,” Candace said, waving her gun. “
You first. In fact, I’m not even going to wait for Eddie. I like Plan B better. Where I use the fleaball to silence my shots.”

  Oh, God. I couldn’t let this happen. Why the hell did Heather have to antagonize Candace? Did she always have to be getting into a fight? I had to do something to stop the bloodshed.

  If only I had my purse! I could try whacking her over the head with it. Or at least enjoy a final Kit Kat bar before going to meet my maker.

  But I was totally defenseless.

  And then, like a saliva-soaked miracle from heaven, I felt it in my pocket. Elvis’s chew toy! Just where I’d shoved it before dashing out to call Brunhilde.

  Now, as Candace put her gun up against poor Elvis’s tummy, I grabbed the chartreuse bone and hurled it at her. Due to my expert aim—and the fact that she was standing less than three feet away—I managed to hit her smack in the face.

  Startled, she dropped her gun—and Elvis.

  As soon as the gun hit the ground, I kicked it away from her and raced over to get it.

  Meanwhile, Heather, furious, had tackled Candace like an NFL linebacker.

  “How dare you call my Elvis a sissy fleaball? I’ll have you know he’s a purebred Bichon stud!”

  I’d kicked the gun a lot farther than I thought, and just as I was bending down to grab it, someone else snatched it out from under me.

  I looked up and saw Eddie glaring down at me from underneath his bad toupee.

  Oh, hell.

  “Get up off my wife!” he instructed Heather, iron in his voice.

  “What took you so damn long?” Candace hissed. “They know everything. Now hurry up and open those elevator doors, so we can throw them down the shaft.”

  Eddie stood there, pointing the gun back and forth between me and Heather.

  I told myself what I’d told Heather earlier, that he wouldn’t dare fire, not without attracting a crowd. I ordered myself to run for help. But all I could see was Eddie squeezing the trigger and me being blown to smithereens.

  So in a moment of cowardice that pretty much canceled out my earlier moment of bravery, I stayed put, frozen in fear.