Murder Has Nine Lives

by Laura Levine

  At which point, I could practically feel a curtain slam down between us.

  “Forget it. I already talked to the cops, and that was bad enough. I didn’t like their attitude, not one bit. Just because a gal has a DUI or two, that doesn’t make her a criminal, for heaven’s sake. And that shoplifting charge was never proven!”

  “I’m sure it wasn’t,” I said in my silkiest voice. “And I’m not a cop,” I hastened to assure her. “I’m a part-time semi-professional PI.”

  “I thought you were an animal handler.”

  “Like I said, the PI thing is just part-time.”

  “Forget it. I’m not talking to anybody.” And with that, she hunched her shoulders and went back to Beyoncé.

  “I really need your help,” I said, throwing myself on her mercy. “The cops think I might have killed Dean.”

  I gave her my most beseeching look, the kind Pro gives me when she’s all out of bacon bits.

  Without batting an eyelash, she replied: “That’s too bad, honey. Better lawyer up.”

  A regular heart of gold, huh?

  And once again she returned to The Hollywood Reporter, moving her lips every syllable of the way.

  I was about to give up and head out the door when I got an idea.

  “I see you’re reading about Beyoncé,” I said. “You a fan?”

  For the first time, I saw a hint of a smile on her pinched little face.

  “Totally! I just love her.”

  “She’s coming to Staples Center in a few weeks,” I pointed out. A fun fact I’d picked up from an ad on the back of the magazine.

  “Yeah, I know,” Angie sighed. “It’s sold out already.”

  “It just so happens I work security at Staples Center.”

  “Really?” The raccoon eyes lit up.

  “You betcha. I get free passes to all the concerts.”

  “You do?”

  “Absolutely. I can get you in to see Beyoncé’s show.”

  “You can?”

  “Sure!” By now, my lies were flowing like ketchup on the Fourth of July. “All you have to do is answer a few questions.”

  “Omigod! That’s wonderful.” Then her brow furrowed in suspicion. “Let me see the passes first.”

  What a distrustful little worm.

  “I don’t get them until the concert opens,” I said, hanging tough.

  “Oh, all right,” she caved. “What do you want to know?”

  “Just this. Did you happen to see anyone, anyone at all, slip into the studio kitchen between eleven thirty and noon on the day of the murder?”

  “Nope,” she said.

  “You sure?”

  “Absolutely. Mr. Kleinman went off to a meeting, so I skipped out to have a pedicure. I wasn’t even here.”

  Foo. All that lying for nothing.

  “So you have no idea who might have poisoned the Skinny Kitty that day?”

  “Sure. I know who did it.”

  What a delightful young woman!

  “Who?”

  “The agent. That Deedee lady.”

  “Really? What makes you so sure?”

  “When I was coming back from the nail salon, she was out in the parking lot, talking on her cell phone. And I heard her say, ‘Don’t worry. I know exactly how to do it. When I’m through, Dean won’t ever bother me again.’ ”

  Whoa. Talk about your damning testimony.

  “Did you tell that to the police?”

  “I sure did. I’m surprised they haven’t arrested her yet.”

  “Thanks so much,” I said, starting for the door. “I really appreciate your help.”

  “Hey, wait!” she called out after me. “What about the free concert passes?”

  “I’ll drop them off as soon as I get them.”

  With a cheery wave good-bye, I scooted out to the parking lot, making a mental note to send her a Beyoncé CD for her troubles.

  In the meanwhile, I had more important matters to attend to.

  Jumping in my Corolla, I headed over to see Deedee, my kitten-doping, bill-shirking agent.

  Something told me she might have just added “cold-blooded killer” to her résumé.

  * * *

  At first I thought I got Deedee’s address wrong.

  When I walked up to what was supposed to be her office, all I saw was a Chinese restaurant. A dingy hole in the wall called the House of Wonton.

  I got there in the middle of the lunch rush, which at the House of Wonton wasn’t much of a rush. Only about a third of the tables were filled.

  A middle-aged hostess in what looked like a capri set straight from the Home Shopping Channel held out a menu.

  “Just one?” she asked.

  “Actually, I’m not here for lunch. I think I’m at the wrong address. I’m looking for Deedee Walker, the animal agent.”

  “You’re at the right place,” the hostess replied. Was it my imagination, or did she roll her eyes at the mention of Deedee’s name? “She’s here. Down the hall, past the kitchen and the ladies’ room.”

  Deedee worked out of a Chinese restaurant? Clearly, my agent to the animal stars was going through some hard times.

  I walked through the dimly lit restaurant with its cracked leather booths, down a hallway redolent of fried onions, past a steamy kitchen filled with shouting cooks and clanging pots. Then, just beyond the ladies’ room, as promised, I found a door with Deedee’s name on it.

  Poking my head inside, I saw Deedee sitting at a desk awash with papers, Chinese take-out cartons, and a stack of Parrots Today magazines. I figured the bright green critter on the cover was Deedee’s star parrot, Pierre.

  Behind her, the walls were lined with framed photos of cats, dogs, birds, and the occasional hamster.

  “Hi, Deedee,” I said, stepping inside.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned, staring glassy-eyed into space. “I’m doomed.” Her face ashen, she held out the shards of a fortune cookie in her hand. “Do you know what this means?” she asked.

  “You just had Chinese for lunch?”

  “There was no fortune in my fortune cookie. That’s a very bad omen.” Another moan as she stared down at the cookie shards.

  “I just know the police are going to arrest me!” she wailed, her bangles jangling in a Greek chorus of despair. “They heard what I said about Dean before he was killed, that I’d ‘taken care of him forever.’ And I could tell by the way they were looking at me that they think I’m the one who sprayed his cat food with Raid.”

  At that point, I couldn’t help thinking the same thing.

  “But I’m innocent!” she cried, as if reading my thoughts. “I never went near the damn cat food. After Dean made his ridiculous accusations against me—which were totally false, by the way; I have never ever so much as cheated my clients out of a single penny—I went out to the parking lot and called Emmy, my Reiki healer. She gave me instructions on how to exorcise Dean’s evil spirit from my body. That’s what I meant when I said I’d taken care of him forever. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” I fibbed, still not convinced that she wasn’t the killer. Or that she hadn’t been cheating her clients. I hadn’t forgotten that humungous bill she’d saddled me with at the Peninsula.

  “I’d never hurt anyone,” Deedee insisted. “Ever. Reiki is all about channeling positive energy. Have you ever tried it?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  My preferred method of channeling positive energy, FYI, has always been chocolate.

  “Emmy is the most wonderful Reiki healer. And she’s fabulous with weight loss. You really ought to give her a try to trim down those hips of yours. She works with animals, too. If you don’t mind my saying, I think darling Prozac could use a little help in the anger management department.”

  Of course, I did mind her saying, especially that crack about my hips, but I swallowed my irritation.

  “What a wonderful idea!” I chirped. “Do you have her card?”

  “In fact,
I do,” she said, rummaging around in her desk. “Here it is!” she said, handing me a business card stained with what I suspected was a blot of soy sauce.

  I’d be contacting Emmy, all right, not for weight loss or animal anger management, but to check Deedee’s alibi and find out if she was really on the phone while the Skinny Kitty was left unattended.

  “Speaking of the murder,” I said, cranking the conversation back to where I wanted it, “I don’t suppose you noticed anyone slipping into the kitchen during the break.”

  “No. Like I told the police, I was out in the parking lot.”

  “Was Ian with you the entire time?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I thought I saw him in his car, slugging back some gin, but I was so busy exorcising Dean from my psyche, I lost track of him.”

  She gazed at me earnestly.

  “When I’m in a Reiki healing state, I see nothing. I hear nothing. That’s why it’s so effective. You really ought to give it a try, Jaine. Your hips will thank you.”

  If she made one more crack about my hips, I’d swat her with a copy of Parrots Today.

  But I refrained from physical violence and managed to stay focused on the matter at hand.

  “Dean was pretty rough on Ian that day. He threatened to ruin his career. Do you think Ian might have killed him to shut him up?”

  “Far be it from me to cast suspicion on anyone—I know how painful that can be—but rumor has it Ian’s desperate for work. He really couldn’t afford to have Dean running around bad-mouthing him.”

  “So you think he’s the killer?”

  “Possibly. But why speculate about Ian when it’s me the police suspect? Oh, Jaine! I don’t know what I’m going to do. What if they haul me off to jail? I’m way too attractive to go unmolested.”

  Hello? Earth to Deedee. Have you looked in a mirror lately?

  I felt fairly certain that a fifty-something woman with a spare set of chins would be safe from unwanted advances behind bars.

  “But I’ve got to stop panicking,” Deedee said, taking a deep breath. “I must remain calm, at peace with my inner chakras. I must drink from life’s pool of serenity. I must bathe in the shower of love. I must—

  “Holy Mackerel!” she cried, jumping up and pointing at something over my shoulder.

  I whirled around, thinking maybe the killer had shown up to dash off a quickie double homicide.

  But no. I now saw Deedee was pointing at a shiny brown bug scampering up her wall.

  “Damn the House of Wonton and their miserable cockroaches!”

  She reached into her purse and pulled out a can of Raid, blasting the critter to oblivion.

  When my heart finally stopped fibrillating, I thanked Deedee for her time and headed out to my Corolla. It wasn’t until I was back in the bright light of day that I realized the significance of what I’d just seen.

  Deedee carried around a can of Raid in her purse! If she was the killer, maybe she didn’t even need the Raid in the studio kitchen.

  Maybe she came prepared with her very own murder weapon.

  Chapter 11

  “Prozac, honey. I’m begging you. Just have a teeny bite.”

  I was sitting in bed with Prozac later that afternoon, trying to hand-feed her freshly sautéed chicken tenders. But she was lost in another world.

  “Fatty.” He called me “fatty.” I may never eat again.

  “You’ve got to eat something, honey. Or you’ll waste away.”

  If only I had a working index finger, I could be a bulimic.

  “Yummy chicken!” I crooned, taking a bite. “Yummy, yummy, yummy!”

  And indeed it was yummy. Before I knew it, I’d scarfed down three tenders.

  Roused from her reverie, Prozac lobbed me a look of stern disapproval.

  Clearly, I’ve learned all my bad eating habits from you.

  Turning away, she gazed at the TV just in time to see a cat food commercial. She watched in disgust as a computer-generated cat did the cha-cha.

  Feh. You call that acting?

  “Oh, Pro,” I moaned. “What am I going to do with you?”

  I’d called Dr. Madeline earlier that afternoon, thinking maybe she’d give Prozac a kitty antidepressant. But Dr. M. explained that antidepressants are used to treat anxiety in animals, not depression. So there’d be no Prozac for Prozac.

  Dr. M. advised me to lavish Prozac with even more attention than I was already giving her, which hardly seemed possible. That cat gets more attention than a stripper at a bachelor party.

  Now I thought about Emmy, Deedee’s Reiki healer. Deedee said she worked with animals. I sincerely doubted Prozac would respond to any New Age mumbo jumbo, but I had nothing to lose. Besides, it would be a good excuse to meet Emmy and check out Deedee’s alibi.

  I made a mental note to call her and was just about to bite into another chicken tender when there was a knock on my door.

  Leaving Prozac glaring at the TV, I shuffled off to get it.

  It was Lance, who came sailing in like an extra from West Side Story, in tight jeans and a black leather jacket.

  “What do you think?” he asked, whirling around. “I’m going for the bad boy look.”

  “If you’re going for bad boy, I’d lose the ascot.”

  “Don’t be silly, Jaine,” he said, fluffing a foulard ascot around his neck. “I’m a bad boy with impeccable taste. I thought I’d wear this outfit to Mamie’s Brad Pitt movie audition. I have a feeling Brad is into black leather.

  “I can see it now,” he said, gazing off into an imaginary future. “I walk into the room, and Brad and I lock eyeballs. Cupid shoots his arrow, and before you know it, it’s pffft to ‘Brangelina’ and hello to ‘Brance’!”

  “I hate to bust your bubble, Lance, but Brad Pitt isn’t gay.”

  “Maybe not in your fantasies.”

  “And besides,” I pointed out, “he probably won’t even be there.”

  “Don’t be such a Debbie Downer. Even if Brad doesn’t show up, you never know who will be there. I’ve always wanted to date someone in the movies. Other than an usher, of course. And who knows? Maybe I’ll get discovered. Frankly, I’ve always thought I’d make a fabulous actor.”

  The next thing I knew, he’d be nominating himself for an Academy Award.

  “I saw Deedee today,” I said, trying to tether him back down to earth. “She’s terrified she’s going to be arrested for Dean’s murder.”

  “I know,” Lance said. “I spoke to her earlier. I’ve been worried sick.”

  Whaddaya know? A little empathy from Mr. Moi.

  “You think she can work on my contract from jail?”

  So much for empathy.

  “Lance, for once in your life, can you think of somebody other than yourself?”

  “What’re you talking about? I’m always thinking of others. Why, just last week I donated an old tuxedo to a homeless shelter.”

  “How very thoughtful.”

  “Anyhow,” he said, plopping down on my sofa, “I just hope this whole murder thing gets wrapped up soon. Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

  “I hate to say it, but so far, my leading suspect is Deedee. She had motive, and a can of Raid.”

  “Your leading suspect? Don’t tell me you’re doing your PI impersonation again.”

  “It’s not an impersonation, and yes, I’m doing it.”

  “For crying out loud, Jaine. You almost got bumped off last year, tracking down the killer at that beauty pageant. Did you not learn anything from that whole experience?”

  “How to tape a bathing suit to your tush so you don’t get a wedgie.”

  “Seriously, Jaine,” he said, his eyes wide with concern. “You’ve got to promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “I promise.”

  “Do you want my help? I could come along and protect you. Along with my impeccable fashion sense, I’ve got remarkably keen powers of deduction.”

  Oh, glug. The last thing I needed w
as Lance playing Poirot at my side.

  “Thanks, Lance. But I can handle this.”

  “Just don’t get yourself hurt. I don’t know what I’d do without you, sweetie.”

  With that he took me in his arms and wrapped me in a fuzzy bear hug.

  See? Moments like these are why I put up with the guy.

  “Oops. I’m crushing my ascot,” he said, breaking away from our embrace. “Must run. I’m off to the salon to add more highlights to my hair. I can’t decide which color to go with: Sun Kissed or Ash Blond. What do you think?”

  “Ash Blond.”

  “Sun Kissed, it is!”

  And off he sailed, my aggravating bestie.

  I headed back to the bedroom where I found Prozac staring at the bedspread, her chicken tenders still untouched.

  New Age or not, I really had to give that Reiki healing thing a shot.

  As I settled down next to Pro, scratching her behind the ears, the phone rang.

  I picked it up to hear:“Hey, Jaine. It’s me. Jim Angelides.”

  Omigosh. Phil’s cutie pie nephew. I’d just about given up on him.

  “I know it’s the last minute, but I was wondering if you’re free for dinner tomorrow.”

  Forget about it. Absolutely not. I knew the rules. I couldn’t possibly let him think I was available at such short notice. I’d play it cool and tell him I was sorry but I had other plans.

  You know where this is going, right?

  “Pick me up at seven,” were the words I actually uttered.

  Maybe when the Reiki healer showed up, she could work on my backbone.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Still Missing

  Dearest Lambchop—

  Your diligent daddy has been hard at work trying to memorize the Scrabble dictionary, but it’s just not the same without my Lucky Thinking Cap, which, I’m sorry to say, is still missing.

  I know Lydia has it stashed away somewhere, but so far I’ve had no opportunity to retrieve it. Unfortunately the battle-axe has recently installed a high-tech security system, thwarting my efforts to bust into her stronghold and do a thorough search of the premises.