by Joanne Fluke
We put our shoes on something Libby called her “mud rug,” an area rug so pristine, it was hard to imagine it had ever been sullied by a speck of actual mud.
“I’ll be right back,” she trilled. “Make yourself comfortable in the living room.”
She pointed to a room off the foyer and then scurried to the back of the house.
I made my way through an arched entranceway to the living room.
Yikes, I thought, looking around. The place was a real-life issue of Martha Stewart Living.
The furniture was upholstered in a palette of white and beige, accented by colorful throw pillows and strategically placed vases of fresh-cut flowers. Cinnamon spice potpourri scented the air. And framed in the window was a magnificent Christmas tree, studded with what looked like exquisite handmade ornaments—angels and snowflakes and fragrant pomander balls. What a masterpiece. It made the one at Rockefeller Center look like a blue light special at Kmart. I wondered if the resourceful Libby had grown the darn thing herself.
Padding around the room in my socks, hoping I wouldn’t skid into a tailspin on the freshly waxed floors, I came across a pine étagère filled with artfully arranged photos and mementos.
There was Libby on the beach with a sunburned potbellied man, both of them wearing leis, smiling into the camera. Her deceased husband, I presumed. There were several pictures of twin boys at various stages in their lives, from diaper days to high school graduation. But what caught my attention was a framed newspaper photo of Libby grinning at the camera, clutching a trophy. The headline above the photo read: LIBBY BRECKER, 42, WINS ANNUAL ROSE COMPETITION FOR FIFTH CONSECUTIVE YEAR. And indeed, proudly displayed and dramatically lit on a center shelf were five golden trophies from the West Los Angeles Gardening Club for Most Beautiful Rose.
Interesting, I noted, how the roses got better shelf space than her husband and kids.
Libby was crazy about her roses, all right. Crazy enough, I wondered, to have killed someone she thought poisoned them?
“I see you’re looking at my family pictures.”
I turned to see Libby sailing into the room with a tray of cookies and milk.
“The twins just went off to college this year,” she said, putting the tray down on a gleaming pine coffee table. “Golly, I’ve missed them. Empty nest syndrome, you know.”
Why did I get the feeling she was secretly relieved not to have to worry about the twins tracking mud onto her floors?
“I brought us some cookies.”
She waved me over to the matching white sofas that fronted the fireplace and I sat across from her, sinking into a luxurious down cushion.
“Have one,” she offered. “They’re chocolate chip.”
As if I didn’t know. I can smell a chocolate chip cookie baking in Pomona. And these looked particularly scrumptious, studded with chunks of chocolate and walnuts.
Of course, I couldn’t possibly allow myself to have a cookie, not after the brownie I’d just had at Willard and Ethel’s. (Okay, so I had a brownie at Willard and Ethel’s. Okay, two brownies. Oh, don’t go shaking your head like that. I’d like to see what you’re eating right now.)
The last thing I needed was another calorie clinging to my thighs. But I couldn’t say no, could I? Not after all the trouble she’d gone to put them on a tray and bring them out to me. No, under the circumstances, the only polite thing to do was eat a cookie. But just one, that was all.
“Thanks,” I said, grabbing one. “They look scrumptious.”
“They are,” she said, with a confident nod.
I took a bite. I thought I’d died and gone to cookie heaven.
With great effort, I forced myself to resume my questioning.
“So do you know anyone on the block who might’ve wanted to see Garth dead?”
“Of course not!” Libby exclaimed, plucking an errant cookie crumb from her lap. “He wasn’t a very popular man, but nobody actually wanted him dead.”
“Nobody?” I asked, suppressing the urge to reach for another cookie. “Are you sure there wasn’t anybody who had it in for Garth?”
“Well, maybe Willard Cox,” she conceded. “He and Garth fought like cats and dogs. But I doubt Willard actually climbed up on Garth’s roof and jimmied the shingles, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Speaking of Mr. Cox,” I said, grateful for the opening she’d just given me, “he happened to mention an altercation you had with Garth.”
“Me?” A brief blip of annoyance flashed across her face.
“Yes, he said you accused Mr. Janken of poisoning your roses.”
“Willard said that? How absurd!” She laughed a tinkly laugh about as genuine as Maxine Fiedler’s hair color. “I never accused Garth of any such thing.”
“I heard the same thing from a few other people,” I lied, trying to rattle her.
But she was a cool customer.
“Golly, no,” she smiled serenely. “Garth and I had a perfectly cordial relationship. I pride myself in bringing out the best in even the most difficult people.”
“So you don’t think he poisoned your roses?”
“Not at all,” she cooed. “Roses get sick and die all the time. I’m sure Garth had nothing to do with mine dying, and if Willard Cox or anyone else said anything to the contrary, they’re sadly mistaken.
“Gracious!” she said, jumping up from the sofa. “Look at the time!
“If I don’t get started refinishing the twins’ bedroom shutters, they’ll never get done in time for Christmas break.”
Her lips were smiling but her eyes had turned to steel. My audience with Libby had clearly come to a close.
I retrieved my shoes from her “mud rug” and as I did, I was gratified to see a defiant pink dustbunny clinging to the baseboard of her floor. Somehow the little devil had managed to escape annihilation during Libby’s recent waxing and buffing fest.
More power to you, little dustbunny, I thought, as I put on my shoes.
I thanked Libby for her time and headed back out to my Corolla.
I wasn’t buying her Little Miss Sunshine act, not for a minute. I’d bet my bottom Pop Tart her relations with Garth had been about as cordial as a Ku Klux Klan reception for Martin Luther King.
No, Libby Brecker had been lying through her perfectly whitened teeth. Now all I had to do was prove it.
Chapter Five
That night, after a Spartan dinner of tuna and a toasted English muffin (honest, that’s all I ate!), I went out to the storage space behind my duplex and dug out my Christmas tree.
It was one of those wimpy tabletop models, with the ornaments already glued on—a sorry sight compared to the towering extravaganza at Libby’s.
I used to have real trees with real ornaments, but Prozac, convinced the ornaments were evil spirits from hell, was constantly diving at them with the ferocity of a kamikaze pilot. The poor trees never stood a chance.
And so I was stuck with my pathetic tabletop model.
I plopped it down on an end table, and after dusting it off and draping it with tinsel, I turned to where Prozac was lounging on the sofa.
“How does it look, sweetie?”
She glared at it through slitted eyes and got to her feet. Tail erect and waving in anticipation of an ornament ambush, she cautiously approached it. Then she put her nose to one of the branches and took a sniff.
“So?” I asked. “What do you think?”
She sniffed under the tree, then turned to me.
What? No presents?
Then, having decided the tree was free of lurking enemies, she curled up and went to sleep.
Minutes later, I settled down next to her on the sofa with a cup of cocoa and a stack of Christmas cards. I’d long since conceded defeat to Prozac in the photo-card skirmish, and had picked up some cards with an old-fashioned drawing of Santa on the cover.
I got out my address book and began my task. I tried to think of heartfelt personalized messages in twenty-five words or les
s, but I couldn’t concentrate. Ever since I’d left Libby’s house that afternoon, I’d had the nagging feeling I’d seen something significant there. An elusive something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Now I drummed my pen against my teeth, trying to remember exactly what it was. Images began flitting through my brain: The Swarovski Rudolph, the family photos, the newspaper clipping, the trophies, the handmade Christmas angels, the “mud rug,” the defiant pink dustbunny—
And that’s when it hit me. It wasn’t a dustbunny I’d seen clinging to Libby’s baseboard—it was a piece of flocking. Pink flocking. Just like the pink flocking I’d seen on Garth’s Candyland roof!
True, Libby could have been working on a project of her own that involved pink flocking. The woman was probably working on more projects than the NASA space team. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help wondering if she’d picked up that piece of pink fluff while jimmying the shingles on Garth Janken’s roof.
Yes, folks. It’s very possible that Libby Brecker’s latest project had been Attempted Homicide.
Armed with my Dustbunny Discovery, I paid a visit to the cop in charge of the Janken case, Lt. Frank DiMartelli.
DiMartelli worked out of the West Los Angeles precinct, a concrete bunker of a building in a none-too-glamorous part of town. I spent a good twenty minutes on a wooden bench exchanging pleasantries with a 6’4” transvestite named Cheyenne before the good lieutenant ushered me to his desk.
A laconic guy with droopy bloodhound eyes, DiMartelli nodded absently as I told him of my suspicions, all the while fiddling with a chocolate Santa on his desk. Occasionally he picked up a yellow legal pad and jotted down a note, but I had the sneaky suspicion he was working on his Christmas list.
“In other words,” he said when I was through, “you’re accusing Libby Brecker of murder because you saw a dustbunny on her baseboard.”
“It wasn’t a dustbunny. It was a piece of flocking.”
“Are you sure it was flocking?”
“Of course, I’m sure.”
He shot me a penetrating look from beneath his droopy lids.
“Pretty sure, anyway,” I hedged.
“We’ll check into it,” he said. “When hell freezes over.”
Okay, so he didn’t say the part about hell freezing over, but I knew that’s what he was thinking. Clearly he’d written me off as an interfering nutcase.
“Well, thanks for your time,” I said, not feeling the least bit grateful. “And bon appetit,” I added, with a nod to the chocolate Santa.
Then I got up and headed out the door.
I glanced back just in time to see him wad up the notes he’d just taken and toss them in the trash.
All in all, not a terribly satisfying meeting.
There was, however, some good news to report that week. I’d just come home from my fruitless visit to Lt. DiMartelli, and was stretched out on my sofa, trying to dredge up the energy to tackle my Christmas cards. I’d abandoned my original plan to write heartfelt personal messages, settling for the slightly less imaginative “XOXOXO, Jaine.” But now even X’s and O’s seemed like a lot of work, and I was lying there staring at the ceiling, when the phone rang.
After fishing it out from between two sofa cushions, I heard a soft male voice come on the line.
“Jaine? It’s Tyler Girard.”
Omigosh, the sweetie from L.A. Girlfriends!
I bolted up, suddenly rejuvenated.
“Congratulations, Jaine. You’re now officially an L.A. Girlfriend.”
“That’s wonderful!” I squealed.
“I told you there wouldn’t be any problems. We’ve already matched you with your Girlfriend.”
“When do I meet her?”
“I’ll fax you her background information and phone number, and you can set up a date.”
“I can’t wait!” I said, eager to start my life of selfless giving.
“I’ll also send along a copy of our Girlfriends Guidelines. Some rules and regulations you need to follow. Nothing major. Suggested venues for your dates, stuff like that.”
“How can I ever thank you for giving me this marvelous opportunity?”
“No need to thank us, Jaine. We’re happy to have you on board. Oh, and while I’ve got you on the phone, there’s something else I’d like to ask you.”
No, I’m not married, and yes, I’d love to go out with you.
But he was not, alas, about to ask me out on a date.
“You mentioned at our meeting that you’re a writer.”
“Yes, I am.”
“It so happens we’ve been looking for someone to write press releases for us. Have you ever done any PR?”
Okay, so it wasn’t a date, but it was the next best thing. A potential job, always a welcome prospect at Casa Austen.
“Oh, yes,” I assured him. “I’ve done lots of PR. Why, just last year I won an award for a promotional campaign I wrote.”
“Really? Who was your client?”
Drat. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me this.
“Um. Toiletmasters Plumbers.”
Not exactly the Fortune 500 image I was hoping to impart.
“And what were you promoting?”
Phooey. I was hoping to avoid this one, too.
“A new product of theirs. Called Big John.”
“Big John?”
“A large-sized commode for large-sized people.”
“Really? And you won an award for that?”
“Yes,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster. “The Golden Plunger Award from the Los Angeles Plumbers Association.”
Miraculously, he did not burst out into gales of derisive laughter. On the contrary, much to my amazement, the next words out of his mouth were:
“Do you think you might be interested in doing some work for us?”
“Absolutely,” I assured him.
“Great! I’ll introduce you to Sister Mary Agnes at the Christmas party, and you can set up an interview with her.”
“The Christmas party?”
“Yes, every year L.A. Girlfriends has a big Christmas bash.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”
Was it my imagination, or was there a hint of romance in his voice? Was Tyler possibly angling for an L.A. Girlfriend of his own?
I hung up in a happy glow. I’d started out to do something charitable, and already I was being rewarded. Not only was there a possible job on my horizon, there might even be a date. With a really nice guy.
But the biggest reward, I reminded myself, would be the satisfaction I’d get from making a difference in the life of a motherless girl.
Yes, I, Jaine Austen, was about to leave the world of the Self-Involved and become one of life’s Noble Givers.
Chapter Six
I had a date with an angel.
Really. That was my L.A. Girlfriend’s name: Angel Cavanaugh, a twelve-year-old only child living with her dad, whose interests were listed on her profile as “outdoor activities” and “the arts.”
When I phoned to set up the date, she was in the shower, and her father took the call.
“We’re so grateful you’re doing this,” he said. “It means the world to us.”
How wonderful to feel so appreciated. Why hadn’t I discovered this volunteer stuff years ago?
I asked him what Angel wanted to do on our date, and he said anything I planned would be okay with her.
Then I hung up and went into a planning frenzy, making and discarding a dozen ideas. I finally decided that, since Angel liked outdoor activities, it might be fun to drive out to the Santa Monica Pier and toss a frisbee on the beach. One of the rules in the Girlfriends Guidebook was to stay away from expensive venues. The girls, they warned, mustn’t see their mentors as a source of financial support. Which was lucky for me, since I was having trouble enough supporting myself.
The day of my “Girlfriends” date dawned clear and bright, with a
hint of winter chill in the air. A Los Angeles winter, that is—the temperature had dipped all the way down to the low seventies. A perfect day for a trip to the beach.
And so it was with an air of eager anticipation that I fed Prozac her Savory Salmon Entrails and nuked myself a bagel. I couldn’t wait to get started on the first chapter of my new altruistic life. After a quick shower, I threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and grabbed a hoodie in case it got chilly out on the pier.
“Bye, Pro,” I called out, when I was ready to leave on my great adventure. “Wish me luck.”
She looked up from where she was napping on my keyboard.
I still don’t see why you have to spend the day with some needy kid when you could stay home and scratch my back.
But she couldn’t work a guilt trip on me. Not today. I headed out to my Corolla, brimming with good intentions, Mother Teresa in elastic-waist jeans.
I drove over to the address Angel’s dad had given me, which turned out to be a low-rent apartment building a fender’s throw from the 405 freeway. It was one of those two-story affairs with an outdoor stairway that looked like it had been a motel in a former life. As I climbed the metal steps to the Cavanaughs’s apartment on the second floor, I could hear the dull roar of the freeway in the background.
Kevin Cavanaugh answered the door, a skinny guy in his late thirties. With hollow cheeks and dark circles under his eyes, he had the look of a guy in desperate need of a vacation. Or, barring that, a nap.
“So happy to meet you,” he said, pumping my hand. “C’mon in.” He ushered me into his living room, and once again I was reminded of a motel. All the essentials were there—sofa and TV and coffee table, but none of the frills. No sign of a woman’s touch anywhere.
“Angel, honey.” he called out. “Jaine is here.”
We stood there smiling awkwardly at each other, waiting for Angel to come out. When some time had passed and there was still no sign of her, he shouted, “You ready, or what?”
“I’m commmmming!”
And then, to my amazement, a twelve-year-old hooker walked into the room.
Her skinny body was jammed into spandex capris and a midriff-exposing T-shirt, the words JAIL BAIT emblazoned in sequins across her flat chest. Completing the outfit were a pair of kitten-heel flip-flops and a faux leopard skin minipurse.
