Killer Blonde

by Laura Levine

  “Two whole murders, huh?”

  I decided to ignore that.

  “Heidi’s afraid you think she killed SueEllen,” I said.

  Webb sat back in his chair, still tapping the cleft in his chin with his pencil. Maybe that’s how it got so big, from constant pencil-tapping.

  “Seeing as you’ve solved two whole murders,” he said, with a most annoying smirk, “I’ll tell you this much: We’re not ready to charge Heidi with SueEllen’s murder. Not yet, anyway.”

  Ouch. I didn’t like the sound of that.

  “What makes you think she could have possibly done it?”

  “Two dozen people at her birthday party heard her say she wished SueEllen was dead. And the very next day, her wish came true. Plus, your client was the only one home on the day of the murder.”

  He grabbed a pad from his desk, and consulted his notes.

  “Hal Kingsley was in his office. His nurse has vouched for him.”

  “Yeah, the same nurse who’s having an affair with him. Not exactly the most reliable witness.”

  He looked up from his notes.

  “Do you know for a fact they’re having an affair?”

  “No, but I’m pretty sure they are.”

  “We can’t bring charges against a man because you’re ‘pretty sure’ he’s boffing his nurse. And besides, the receptionist also backs up his alibi. You think he’s sleeping with her, too?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Like I was saying,” Webb continued, ignoring my valuable input, “your client was the only one home the day of the murder. Her father was in his office. Her brother was having lunch in the Beverly High football stadium with three of his buddies.”

  “Friends have been known to lie for each other.”

  “And the maid was away on her day off with her boyfriend.”

  I blinked in surprise.

  “Conchi has a boyfriend?”

  “A gardener. Works down the street from the Kingsleys.”

  Wow. Talk about inspirational. If a scared rabbit like Conchi could land a boyfriend, there was hope for all of us.

  “What about the blonde Heidi saw in the hallway?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, oozing skepticism. “The mysterious blonde.”

  “SueEllen’s masseuse is blonde. Maybe it was her.”

  “Afraid not. According to my records, Larkspur O’Leary was busy with clients.”

  “Couldn’t she have sneaked over to the house between appointments?”

  “Nope. She was out in Santa Monica all day. There was no way she could have driven to Beverly Hills and back between appointments.”

  “What about the neighbors? Did any of them see a blonde entering or leaving the house?”

  “Nobody saw this mysterious blonde except Heidi.”

  Clearly, he thought Heidi’s blonde was bogus.

  “I hate to break it to you, Ms. Austen, but your client is the one person who had both motive and opportunity to kill SueEllen Kingsley. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  I got up to leave.

  “One more thing, Ms. Austen,” he said, looking particularly Clint Eastwoodish. “I think I can manage this case on my own. This isn’t Hollywood, or Westwood. This is Beverly Hills.”

  “Right,” I muttered under my breath. “Chinese Chicken Salad Country.”

  I left Lt. Webb’s office, more convinced than ever that Heidi needed my help. Webb clearly had Heidi pegged as a psychotic Cinderella who’d gone berserk and offed her evil stepmom. If he had his way, she’d soon be sharing His ‘n Hers prison jumpsuits with the Menendez brothers.

  I made my way past the suntanned Dudley Do-Rights and down to the parking lot where I retrieved my Corolla.

  Of course, now that my gig with SueEllen had come screeching to a halt, I should have been home thinking up new slogans for my biggest client, Toiletmasters Plumbers. They’d been using their old slogan (In a rush to flush? Call Toiletmasters!) for several years, and they were ready to try something new.

  For a few desultory moments I forced myself to think up slogans. (At Toiletmasters, we take the plunge for you! Let us bowl you over with our prompt courteous service. And others too flushworthy to mention.) But my heart wasn’t in it. I couldn’t stop thinking about Heidi. Webb didn’t believe her story about the blonde in the hallway. If only someone else had seen the blonde, he’d have to take her seriously.

  It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I remembered SueEllen’s Peeping Tom neighbor, the retired astronomy professor. The one with the all-seeing telescope.

  Chapter Ten

  Professor Henry Zeller’s magnificent Tudor house was set back from the street on a blanket of lushly landscaped grounds, within spying distance of Casa Kingsley. I parked out front, and headed up the front path, past an impressive array of rose bushes. When I rang the bell, the chimes played the theme song from The Sound of Music.

  Professor Zeller answered the door, an elderly man festooned with liver spots. I figured he was somewhere between eighty and a birthday announcement on the Today show. He wore khaki pants and a plaid shirt with a plastic pocket protector. Once a scientist, always a scientist, I guess.

  “May I help you?” he asked, blinking into the bright sunlight.

  I assumed my most official voice.

  “I’m here investigating the SueEllen Kingsley murder.”

  “Oh, dear.” He seemed flustered. “I already spoke with the police. Didn’t see anything. Not a thing.”

  “I’m not with the police. I’m a private investigator. May I come in?”

  He hesitated. “Can I see some identification first? Your license?”

  What is it with people nowadays? They’re such fussbudgets when it comes to inviting perfect strangers into their homes.

  “Um…sure.” I rummaged through my purse and whipped out some identification. I flashed it before his watery blue eyes, hoping he wouldn’t realize it was my YWCA card.

  No such luck.

  “That’s a YWCA card,” he said, squinting at the print.

  “Yes, of course,” I said, pedaling furiously. “YWCA. Young Women’s Criminology Association. We get kidded all the time about our name.”

  “The Young Women’s Criminology Association?” He scratched his head, sending tiny flakes of dandruff fluttering to his plaid shoulders.

  “So may I come in?”

  He thought about this for a moment, then must have decided I wasn’t a deranged maniac with a meat cleaver in my purse.

  “All right,” he said finally, ushering me in to the living room.

  I took one look around and realized that The Sound of Music door chimes made perfect sense. The place hadn’t been decorated since Julie Andrews was in dirndls. Lots of harvest gold furniture on an avocado shag rug. A grand piano covered with sepiatoned family photos. And over in the corner, an old console television that was probably still playing The Ed Sullivan Show.

  “Won’t you sit down?” he said.

  I took a seat on a sofa that bore an uncanny resemblance to the one in Rob and Laura Petrie’s house. More family photos were propped up on the coffee table in front of me.

  “How can I help you?” he asked, lowering himself into an armchair.

  “I’m representing Heidi Kingsley.”

  “Little Heidi?” He smiled fondly. “Such a sweet girl.”

  “Actually, the police think she killed SueEllen.”

  His watery blue eyes blinked in disbelief.

  “That’s impossible,” he said vehemently. “She couldn’t have.”

  Suddenly hope surged in my body. How could he be so sure Heidi hadn’t done it, unless he’d seen the real murderer himself? Was it possible that he witnessed the crime? Had he kept his mouth shut so he wouldn’t have to confess he’d been using his telescope to look at naked ladies? Had I solved the case in less than an hour?

  Now all I had to do was get him to tell me what he’d seen. I’d have to go slowly and gentl
y.

  “Heidi swears she saw a blonde woman going into SueEllen’s bathroom at the time of the murder, but the cops don’t believe her.”

  He squirmed in his chair.

  “I was hoping you might have seen someone,” I prodded.

  “No, no,” he said, wiping sweat from his freckled brow. “I saw nothing.”

  “Are you sure? SueEllen told me you’re a retired astronomy professor. She says you own a telescope. Are you sure you just didn’t happen to be looking through your telescope that day?”

  “No,” he insisted, “I saw nothing.”

  Obviously, the gentle treatment was getting me nowhere. I decided to go for the jugular.

  “Look,” I said. “I lied. I’m not a private eye. Not officially, anyway. I’m a writer. Last week I was working with SueEllen Kingsley, ghostwriting a book.”

  “So that was you!” he blurted out. “The one on the toilet bowl. I thought you looked familiar.”

  Then, realizing he’d said way too much, he clamped his mouth shut.

  “I saw you watching SueEllen through your telescope, Mr. Zeller. She told me you watched her all the time. So I’m asking you again. Are you sure you didn’t see anyone that day?”

  “No,” he said, his voice shrill with fear. “I told the police, and I’m telling you. I didn’t see anyone.”

  I knew he was lying through his dentures.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now,” he said, hoisting himself up from his chair.

  Then I spotted one of the photos on the coffee table. Of a teenage girl, with braces and bangs and freckles across her nose.

  “This your granddaughter?” I asked, holding it up.

  He nodded.

  “What if the cops suspected her of murder? Would you sit by silently then?”

  He looked at the picture, then at me. Then back at the picture.

  “Okay,” he said finally, crumpling back down into his chair. “I saw somebody.”

  “A blonde?”

  He nodded. “She came into the bathroom while SueEllen was taking her bath.”

  “Did you get a good look at her?”

  He shook his head. “No. Her back was to me; I couldn’t see her face at all.”

  Damn.

  “Then the phone rang, and I went to get it. It was one of those irritating telemarketers. By the time I came back, the blonde was gone, and SueEllen was dead.”

  He sat there, still stunned at the enormity of what he’d just missed seeing.

  “You’ve got to tell the police,” I said.

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t you see? I’m in a most awkward position. If I tell the police what I saw, they’ll know that I was watching SueEllen. It’ll be in all the papers. They’ll call me a Peeping Tom, a voyeur. My reputation will be ruined.”

  “I’m sure the cops will keep it out of the papers if you want them to.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course.”

  “But what about my wife? When Emily finds out what I’ve been doing, it’ll break her heart.”

  “Oh, Henry. Don’t be a silly old poop.”

  I looked up and saw a pink butterball of a woman standing in the doorway, wearing gardening gloves and a big floppy hat. So that’s who was responsible for those gorgeous roses out front.

  Mr. Zeller’s face turned ashen.

  “How long have you been listening to us, Emily?”

  “Long enough.”

  She whipped off her gardening gloves and strode briskly into the room.

  “You think I don’t know you’ve been peeking at that tart all these years?”

  “You knew?”

  “Of course,” she said, pulling off her hat, and shaking out a halo of soft white curls. “What’s the big deal? You watched SueEllen, and I rented Tom Cruise movies. Now get on the phone this instant and call the police. You’ve got to help poor Heidi.”

  The dear sweet woman. I felt like kissing the toe of her garden boots.

  “Just tell them you were cleaning your telescope,” she said, “and you happened to look in SueEllen’s window.”

  Why hadn’t I thought of that?

  “All right, Emily.” Professor Zeller kissed his wife on her powdery cheek.

  “Oh, don’t be an old mushbag,” she said, shooing him away.

  Then she turned to me.

  “I made double fudge brownies for tea. Care to join us?”

  What did I tell you? The woman was a saint.

  Two brownies later (okay, three brownies later), after thanking the Zellers profusely for calling the police, I bid them a fond farewell.

  “You stop by any time you want, honey,” Mrs. Zeller said. “I like to see a girl with a healthy appetite.”

  I drove back home, feeling quite proud of myself. True, Professor Zeller hadn’t seen the actual murder. But he had seen a blonde. Which meant Lt. Webb would have to take Heidi’s story seriously.

  To atone for the three brownies I’d eaten (okay, four brownies), I made a solemn vow to skip dinner. I made this vow approximately half a block before pulling in to a Burger King and ordering a Whopper to go. I promised myself I’d eat just a few bites, then save the rest for breakfast. Which, incidentally, is one of the many things I like about being single. I can eat a Whopper for breakfast without The Blob lecturing me about healthy eating over his bowl of Froot Loops. Yes, I vowed, as I ordered extra fries, I’d just eat a few teensy bites and save the rest for breakfast.

  I bet you think I came home and ate the whole thing in one sitting. No way. Unh-unh. As promised, I took a few bites and put the rest in the refrigerator. Where it sat for a whole thirty seconds before I got it out and snarfed it down, tossing chunks of burger to Prozac who stood yowling at my feet. Yes, I realize that a burger was the last thing I needed after four fudge brownies (okay, five fudge brownies), but I figured I’d just skip breakfast, thus not changing my planned calorie intake one itty bitty calorie.

  After fighting Prozac for the last fry (Prozac won), I headed off to the shower. I still couldn’t face the tub, not after what I’d seen yesterday.

  Standing there under the hot spray, I realized how exhausted I was. Frankly, I hadn’t slept well last night with Heidi in the bed. It had been ages since I’d shared a bed with another human being (if you consider The Blob human). I’d hovered on my side of the bed, trying not to move, afraid I’d roll over onto Heidi in the middle of the night. After an hour or so of this, I gave up and trudged to the living room, where I slept fitfully on the sofa.

  Now I got out of the shower and toweled off, too tired to even consider blow-drying my unruly mop. I took a feeble pass at brushing my teeth, then slipped on my nightgown and headed to bed where I fully intended to spend the night spread-eagled, watching old Lucy re-runs.

  For a minute, I just lay there, blowing my breath into my cupped hands and smelling the pickles and onions from my Whopper. I considered getting up and gargling, but decided to conserve my energy for something more important. Like reaching for the remote.

  Minutes later, I was watching Lucy stuck in a meat locker, icicles dripping from her eyelashes, when the phone rang. I reached for it groggily, and Kandi’s voice came booming on the line.

  “So? Are you excited?”

  “About what?” I yawned.

  “Don’t tell me you forgot!”

  “Forgot what?”

  “Oh, God,” she groaned. “You did forget.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your date. With Ted Lawson.”

  I bolted up in bed.

  Damn. Tommy The Termite. I’d forgotten all about him. What time did he say he’d pick me up? Seven-thirty. And it was now—aaack!—seven twenty-four.

  “Kandi, honey, gotta run. He’s gonna be here in six minutes, and I’m not dressed.”

  “Jaine, Jaine, Jaine,” Kandi said, sighing deeply. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Okay, so
I forgot. I’ve got other things on my mind.”

  Like a dead body floating in a bathtub, for one.

  I hung up, after promising Kandi I’d meet her for brunch the next day to discuss the details of my date.

  Then I tore out of bed and practically flew into my bra and panties. I threw on a pair of jeans and a black cashmere turtleneck, which I saw to my dismay was covered in cat hair.

  “Prozac!” I shrieked. “How many times have I told you: No napping on my sweaters!”

  Darn cat didn’t even bother to look up from where she was licking her privates. Oh, well. There was no time to change. I’d have to stick with my cat/cashmere blend.

  I pulled on my boots and hurried to the bathroom to throw on some blush. And then disaster struck: I saw myself in the mirror. Aaack! My hair! I hadn’t blown it straight, and now I looked like Elsa Lancaster in The Bride of Frankenstein. At which point, the doorbell rang. I grabbed a rubber band and yanked my ball of frizz into a ponytail.

  I only hoped Tommy the Termite didn’t mind being seen in public with a woman with pickle-and-onion breath who looked like she’d just stuck her finger in an electric socket.

  As I hurried to the door, I cursed myself for saying yes to this date in the first place. I wasn’t ready for romance. Not now. Not yet. Not while the memory of The Blob still lingered in my brain.

  And then I opened the door.

  Standing there before me was a tall guy with dark curly hair and the kind of classically sculpted face you find on a Michelangelo statue or a daytime soap.

  “You must be Jaine.”

  He smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.

  “These are for you,” he said, handing me a darling bouquet of daisies.

  Hmmm. Maybe this dating thing wasn’t so bad, after all.

  Chapter Eleven

  You know how it is when you’re dreading something and you’re dragging your heels and you finally force yourself to go, and it turns out to be a wonderful surprise and you’re glad you made yourself do it?

  Well, that may have happened to you, but it sure didn’t happen to me. My date with Ted Lawson, aka Tommy the Termite, was an utter disaster, the Titanic of blind dates.