by Laura Levine
As I stood there, pondering the nature of the human psyche and its ability to heal itself, who should I see driving in to the parking lot but Brad Kingsley? The lovely Amber sat at his side, running her fingers through his thick curls.
And you’ll never guess what Brad was driving: A brand new cherry red Ferrari.
Brad tossed his key to the valet, and strode into the restaurant, Amber on his arm. King of the mountain. Top of the hill. If he saw me, he gave no indication of it.
“Wow,” Kandi said, eyeing the Ferrari. “I’d kill for a car like that.”
“You’re not the only one,” I said, wondering if Brad Kingsley had done just that.
Back in Beverly Hills, I lucked out and found a parking spot in front of my duplex. As I headed up the front path, I glanced in Lance’s living room window. Lance and a cute redheaded guy were sitting on the sofa, feet propped up on the coffee table, eating bagels. I was glad at least one of us was having a love life.
I let myself into my apartment where I found Prozac napping on the Sunday paper. She opened one green eye, and shot me a look that said: What? No leftovers?
“Sorry, Prozac. I was hungry. I finished everything. So sue me.”
If she’d had the opposable thumbs to call a lawyer, she probably would have.
I made myself a cup of coffee and settled down on the sofa with the Sunday crossword puzzle. There’s nothing I like better than whiling away a Sunday afternoon driving myself crazy thinking up a seven letter word for “African simian.” You’ll be proud to know I finished the whole thing in less than an hour, thanks to my razor sharp brain and three crossword puzzle dictionaries.
I was just reaching for the comics, when I saw the headline on the front page of the Metro section: Police Search for Mysterious Blonde in Kingsley Murder.
So Professor Zeller’s call to the cops had paid off. Lieutenant Webb was finally getting off his ass and looking for Heidi’s blonde.
And he wasn’t the only one. I intended to look for her, too.
What’s more, I intended to find her.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: IT’S BAAACK!
Horrible news. The toupee is back. We were sitting in the breakfast nook this morning, eating our cornflakes and bananas when the doorbell rang. It was the garbage man, with Daddy’s toupee in his hand.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said, “but we don’t take dead animals.”
Can you believe it? The ghastly thing keeps turning up like a bad penny. And now it’s worse than ever. Before, it just smelled of Lysol. But now, after sitting in the garbage can with Taffy’s cat food, it smells of Lysol AND tuna. Oh, honey. I’m simply at my wit’s end.
To: Shoptillyoudrop
From: Jausten
Hang in there, Mom. Daddy can’t possibly wear the wig, now that it’s been fermenting in the garbage.
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Great news!
Great news, pumpkin. I got my toupee back. It’s hard to believe that your mother would sink so low, but she actually threw it in the garbage. She admitted it. Said she’d do it all over again. But she won’t get the opportunity. From now on, that toupee never leaves my head. She claims I can’t possibly wear it, now that it’s been sitting in the garbage. But she’s wrong. I’ll just wash it in Woolite and tumble dry low and it’ll be good as new!
Your loving,
Daddy
PS. Here’s a cute joke:
What kind of coffee did they serve on the Titanic? Decaf!
To: DaddyO
From: Jausten
I seriously doubt your toupee is washable. Maybe you should make Mom happy and throw it away.
PS. Thanks for the joke, but I think the coffee on the Titanic is supposed to be Sanka. Because the ship sank. Get it?
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Are you sure?
Are you sure about that, honey? I don’t think they made Sanka back then.
Chapter Thirteen
The next morning, after catching up on the latest in Daddy’s toupee saga, I started hunting down blondes. First, I called Larkspur. Her machine picked up and told me to have “the best day ever” and to please leave a message. After promising to stop and smell the roses, I told her I needed to talk with her right away and to please get back to me as soon as possible.
Then I called Hal Kingsley’s office, hot on the trail of Blonde Number Two, Hal’s nurse Denise. Heidi said she thought Hal and Denise were having a thing together. I figured the only way I could observe the two of them in action was to make an appointment with the good doctor.
So I called and pretended I wanted the fat sucked out of my thighs. Of course, that was no lie. I did want the fat sucked out of my thighs; I just couldn’t afford the thousands of bucks Hal Kingsley charged to do it. I’d be lucky if I could afford the consultation fee. Considering that I still hadn’t been paid for the four days I worked for SueEllen, my bank balance was perilously low. Oh, well. I’d worry about that later. Right now, I needed to nose around Hal’s office.
The receptionist informed me that the first available appointment was two weeks away. That would never do. I put on my most needy voice and told her how this was an emergency liposuction, that my high school reunion was coming up, and I couldn’t face my former classmates with thighs the size of hamhocks. The receptionist, recognizing a true medical emergency when she heard one, managed to squeeze me in at 1:15 that afternoon.
My next blonde was Ginny Pearson, SueEllen’s best friend from her game show days. Luckily, she was listed in the phone book and was home when I called. She agreed to see me that morning.
I assumed Ginny was another trophy wife, living in a mansion in Bel Air, busy with ladies’ luncheons and bikini waxes and telling the cook what to make for dinner. So I was surprised to find her living in a modest apartment in West Hollywood.
The Hollywood Royale was a boxy stucco building with narrow balconies and ugly fiberglass curtains on the windows. I pressed the buzzer for G. Pearson, and she buzzed me into a tiny lobby littered with abandoned junk mail. I took the elevator up to the third floor and made my way down a corridor in desperate need of a paint job. Scuff marks from careless movers covered the walls. I suspected that tenants were constantly moving in and out of the Hollywood Royale. It didn’t seem like a place you’d want to be stuck in for long.
I rang the bell to Ginny’s apartment, and a willowy blonde in a black pantsuit opened the door. I could easily picture her pointing to an entertainment center on national television. There was something about her face that looked familiar. At first I thought I remembered her from one of her game shows, but then I recognized her. It was the blonde waitress from SueEllen’s party, one of the few friendly faces I’d seen, the one who gave me the baby lamb chops.
“Oh, hi.” Her eyes lit up in recognition. “I remember you. Baby lamb chops, right?”
“That’s me.”
“Come on in,” she said, ushering me into her living room, which looked surprisingly good, in spite of cottage cheese ceilings and cheap carpeting. Somewhere along the line, Ginny had picked up some good furniture. Big overstuffed pieces in pricey slipcovers.
I took a seat in one of the overstuffed chairs. Up close I could see the armrests were threadbare from years of use.
“So how can I help you?” Ginny asked, shaking her blonde pageboy away from her face. “You said on the phone that you’re investigating SueEllen’s murder.”
“Yes, I am.”
“Did Hal hire you?”
“No, not exactly. I’m working on my own, on behalf of Heidi.”
Her eyes widened with surprise. “Heidi?”
“Yes, the police think she might have had something to do with SueEllen’s death.”
“But that’s impossible.”
“Well, you heard what she said at the party. About wishing SueEllen was de
ad.”
“Oh, come on. She’s a teenager. They say things like that all the time.”
“I know. It’s ridiculous. But the cops are taking it seriously. And that’s why I’m investigating. I thought you could help. Heidi tells me you and SueEllen were best friends.”
“We were.”
The way she said it made me wonder: Did she use the past tense because SueEllen was dead, or because somewhere along the line they’d stopped being best friends?
“Forgive me for asking, but what were you doing waitressing at her party? Why weren’t you a guest?”
She shrugged. In the bright morning sunlight I could see a web of fine lines around her eyes. “I needed the money. Even a place like this charges rent,” she said, gesturing to the small apartment. “I waitressed at a lot of SueEllen’s parties. SueEllen was kind enough to give me work.”
Yeah, right. If SueEllen was so kind, why didn’t she just write her a check, instead of putting her in the humiliating position of being her servant?
“So the two of you were really close.”
“Well, not as close as we used to be, back in the old days. You know how it is. It was one of those friendships that you hold onto because of your shared history. I suppose if we met each other today, we wouldn’t have been friendly. But back then, when we were first starting out, we were like sisters. We shared an apartment, not far from this one, as a matter of fact. I’m afraid SueEllen got bitchier as she got older. I know she was pretty terrible to Heidi. But back when we lived together, she was a lot of fun.”
She shook her head, lost in the memories of a kinder, gentler SueEllen.
“SueEllen was smarter than me, though. She always went for the rich guys. Me, I had a weakness for musicians. I didn’t care about money back then. What a jerk, huh?”
“Do you know anyone who’d want to kill her?” I asked.
“Her caterer, maybe. She drove the poor guy nuts. But seriously, no. It’s hard to believe anyone disliked her enough to kill her.”
Hard for her to believe, not so hard for me.
“You know,” she said, her voice cracking, “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
And with that, she wiped a tear from her cheek, the first tear I’d seen shed for SueEllen Kingsley since this whole mess began.
“I hate to ask you this,” I said, feeling ashamed of myself for suspecting this lovely woman of murder. “But do you mind telling me where you were on the day SueEllen was killed?”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not insulted. The police asked me the same thing. I was working that day.”
“Working? Where?”
“I’m a saleslady at Bloomingdale’s. Hosiery.”
“Oh.”
How the mighty had fallen.
“You ever need an employee discount on pantyhose, I’m your girl.”
Embarrassed by her display of emotion, Ginny reined in any further tears. She got up briskly, straightening the jacket of her pants suit.
“In fact,” she said, “my shift starts in a half hour. If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late.”
She got her handbag and keys, and we rode down in the elevator together, both of us trying to ignore the Fuck You etched into the faux wood paneling. I walked her to her car, a white Mercedes that had to be at least 20 years old. Another memento of the good old days.
“If you think of anything that might shed some light on the murder, give me a call,” I said, handing her my card.
“Sure,” she said. “Poor Heidi. She must be terrified.”
Then she got in her car, and drove off to the hosiery counter at Bloomingdale’s.
As I watched the Mercedes disappear down the street, I wondered if Ginny secretly resented SueEllen’s good fortune. Had she hated her for living in splendor while she was spending her days selling knee highs? Had she gone berserk with jealousy and tossed a hair dryer in SueEllen’s tub? She said she was working the day SueEllen was killed. Could she possibly have slipped away on her coffee break, and bumped off her old roommate?
But Ginny seemed genuinely upset about SueEllen’s death. That tear of hers looked convincing to me. It was possible she’d killed SueEllen, but not likely.
At least, I hoped not.
Dr. Frankenstein meets Laura Ashley.
That was the scene at Hal Kingsley’s waiting room. Patients who’d just been taken apart and stitched together again sat around on dainty chairs, among pots of fresh flowers in flatteringly soft light.
When I showed up, there were two other patients there. One was a Chanel-clad dame whose skin had been pulled back tighter than a kettle drum. The other woman, in jeans and a leopard skin top, looked like she’d just gone ten rounds with Oscar de la Hoya. A thick bandage straddled her nose and, in spite of huge Jackie O sunglasses, I could see a patchwork of black and blue bruises ringing her eyes.
I thought about all the crazy things people do in the name of beauty. At one end of the spectrum, there were Dr. Hal’s patients and their fancy Beverly Hills face lifts. At the other end was my father, with a dead squirrel glued to his head.
I gave my name to a pert brunette at the reception desk.
“Right,” she nodded. “The emergency liposuction.”
She leaned over to get a look at my thighs.
“Those are emergencies, all right.”
Okay, so she didn’t really say that, but I’m sure that’s what she was thinking. I could tell from her size 2 waist that she probably had thighs the size of broomsticks.
“Have a seat and fill this out,” she said, handing me a medical questionnaire. I sat down in one of the dainty chairs, trying not to stare at the prematurely embalmed Chanel lady.
When I was through filling out my medical history, I checked out the magazines neatly displayed on the coffee table. Vogue. Elle. Harper’s Bazaar. No Good Housekeeping for this crowd. In the middle of the table there was a photo album, bound in sumptuous maroon leather. It was Dr. Hal’s Before & After book.
I leafed through the photos, past wattle-free necks, chin implants, and chiseled noses. After a while I began to notice a similarity among the noses. All of them were straight and skinny with a little bump at the end. Wait a minute. That was Julia Roberts’ nose. Good heavens. There was a whole army of women walking around Los Angeles with Julia Roberts’ nose.
Just when I was thinking that Hal should be paying Julia royalties, I heard my name called out.
“Jaine Austen?”
The other two patients looked over at me, curious.
“No relation,” I told them.
A buxom blonde nurse stood in the doorway. I knew right away it was Denise. Mainly because she was wearing a name tag that said “Denise.”
She had the hardened look of a truck stop waitress. Definitely a notch below SueEllen and Larkspur. Maybe Hal was tired of Ice Queens and New Agers. Maybe he was entering The Floozy Years.
“Right this way,” she said, smiling stiffly. I wondered if her impressive set of boobs were part of her employee benefits package.
I followed her down a carpeted hallway. She wore her bushy blonde hair pulled back in a pony tail. Heidi said the blonde in the hallway had straight hair like Larkspur. But as I knew so well from years of personal experience, even the curliest of hair can be tamed with a hair dryer.
She led me into a wood-paneled office, furnished with an imposing antique desk and leather club chairs. Hal was clearly going for the Lord of the Manor look.
There were two things that struck me about Hal’s office. Number One, there were no photos of his wife and kids, the standard doctor’s ploy to keep flirtatious female patients at bay. Perhaps Hal Kingsley didn’t mind flirtatious patients.
The second thing I noticed was a door in the paneling behind Hal’s desk. I wondered where it led.
“Have a seat,” Denise said, “and the doctor will be right with you.”
“I really appreciate your seeing me on such short notice. I know it must be a difficult time for
the doctor.”
For a minute, she looked as if she had no idea what I was talking about.
“You know,” I prompted. “What with his wife’s tragic death.”
“Oh, right,” she said, finally remembering. Clearly SueEllen’s death wasn’t tops on her tragedy priority list.
“Yes,” she said, as if reading from a prepared script, “we’re all in a state of shock.”
If she was in a state of shock, I was in the state of Hawaii.
“I guess Dr. Kingsley must be burying his sorrow in his work,” I said.
“Right,” she nodded, no doubt making a mental note to add “burying his sorrow in his work” to her script.
At which point, Hal Kingsley came striding into the room.
“Ms. Austen,” he said. “Good to see you.”
Then he glanced at Denise who lingered in the doorway.
“That’ll be all, Denise.”
“Yes, doctor,” she said with a worshipful smile.
“So, Jaine,” Hal said, consulting my file. “I see that you’re interested in having liposuction on your thighs.”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I must say, you’re a perfect candidate for the procedure.”
“Oh?”
“You know how this town is. I get women in here all the time with not enough fat on their thighs to butter a piece of bread. And still, they want liposuction. It’s ridiculous. But someone like you, that’s a whole other story.”
Well, thanks heaps. What a thrill to learn my thighs were gargantuan enough to qualify for surgery.
