Murder Has Nine Lives

by Laura Levine

  I stepped into a massive foyer, replete with an elaborate wrought iron staircase straight from a Warner Brothers swashbuckler. Any minute now, I expected Errol Flynn to come leaping over the bannister in velvet tights.

  Geez, I thought, looking around, this house was humungous. Cleaning it could take ages. No wonder Ian needed two Mighty Maids.

  “Cleaning supplies are in the service porch,” Ian said, waving his highball glass vaguely toward the back of the house. “We’ll talk when you’re through.”

  Oh, no. No way was I cleaning this mini-coliseum, only to have him change his mind and clam up on me later on.

  “Nope,” I said, standing my ground. “We talk first. Then I clean.”

  We locked eyeballs in a stare down, but what with all that gin coursing through his veins, it was clearly hard for Ian to stay focused.

  “All right,” he said, finally looking away. “But you’d better do a good job on the bathroom grout.”

  He now led me to a barn of a living room, with Spanish floor tiles and an oversized fireplace. Dusty drapes hung from floor-to-ceiling windows, and large empty squares dotted the walls where paintings once hung.

  Why did I get the feeling he was selling off his assets one by one?

  The only pieces of furniture in the room were a worn leather sofa, a rumpsprung armchair, and a coffee table stained from decades of sweaty highball glasses.

  Ian flung himself down onto the sofa, miraculously managing to keep the flaps of his robe shut, and motioned for me to sit across from him in the armchair. Then he reached for a bottle of gin on the coffee table and refreshed his highball.

  “Care for a nip?” he asked, holding out the bottle. “Glasses are in the kitchen. You’ll probably have to wash one.”

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  “Pardon the way I look,” he said. “I was just watching one of my old movies on TV.”

  And indeed, the end credits were rolling on a bulky old TV on the floor near the fireplace.

  Ian stared at the TV, gulping at his gin, as the movie faded out and Turner Classic Movies maven Robert Osborne popped up on the screen.

  “That was one of the early films of director Ian Kendrick, who had a successful string of movies in the nineties but, after a fatal accident on the set of Thunderbolt, sadly faded into obscurity.”

  “I’m still here, Bob,” Ian said with a bitter smile, snapping off the TV.

  “That must have been a terrible time for you,” I said as gently as I could.

  Ian looked at me with an air of studied nonchalance.

  “Why? I had nothing to feel guilty about. If anyone should have felt guilty, it was the special effects guys. They were the ones in charge of explosives. It was a tragic accident, but I had nothing to do with it.”

  I got the distinct impression he was reciting words written decades ago by a long-gone press agent.

  “So Dean is the second person to have died on one of your sets,” I pointed out.

  “What of it?” Ian huffed. “Just because he died on my set, that doesn’t mean I killed him.”

  “Do you have any idea who did?”

  “Why the hell do you need to know?” he snapped, no longer the least bit nonchalant.

  “Like you, Ian, I’m a suspect in Dean’s murder, and I’m trying to clear my name.”

  He glared at me, indignant. “Who says I’m a suspect?”

  “I’m just assuming you are, since Dean was threatening to ruin your career.”

  “So I had a motive to kill him. Big deal. So did half the people who ever met him. But I swear I was out in the parking lot the whole time that cat food was left unattended. I didn’t go near the stuff.”

  “If you didn’t, who did?”

  “If you ask me, it’s that pipsqueak writer Zeke. Anyone could see he was dying to get Dean out of the way so he could get his hands on Linda.”

  “Can you think of anyone else who might’ve wanted to see Dean dead?”

  “I can think of everyone else. Everybody hated the guy. They were probably waiting on line to poison that cat food.”

  “And you saw nobody going into the kitchen while the cat food was unattended?”

  “I already told you, I was out in my car, spending quality time with my Starbucks thermos. Now is that all?”

  “It certainly seems like it.”

  “Okay, then,” he said, slamming his highball down on the coffee table. “Time for you to start cleaning.”

  And clean I did.

  I spent the next three hours hauling around an ancient vacuum, battling dust bunnies the size of honeydews, and scrubbing bathroom grout with a toothbrush. Out of the goodness of my heart, I’ll spare you my encounter with The Toilets That Time Forgot.

  Three hours later I was sweating like a pig. By then, I didn’t care if Ian was the killer; I just wanted to go home and soak my aching muscles in a soothing bubble bath.

  I’d finally made my way up to Ian’s bedroom, a cavernous lair with a bare mattress on the floor and an ancient TV on a scarred dresser. Like most of the other rooms in the house, it looked like all the good furniture had been sold.

  In spite of my fatigue, I began rummaging through Ian’s dresser drawers, hoping I might unearth a valuable clue or, even better, some Tylenol.

  But all I found were a depressing number of condoms and some magazines, the titles of which are not fit for publication in a family-friendly novel.

  It was when I was vacuuming his closet, however, that I struck pay dirt. And I do mean dirt. That closet had a layer of dust thicker than a shag carpet. I was lifting a pile of moldering laundry from the floor to get in and vacuum when I saw a large book peeking out from under some unsavory undies. Plucking the undies aside, I picked up the book, which I now saw was a scrapbook.

  I opened it and began turning the pages. All of which were filled with newspaper and magazine clippings. There were a few movie reviews, and pictures of Ian as a young man. (I must admit, he’d been quite a looker.) But most of the book was filled with clippings about Gavin Hudson’s murder. Variety. The Los Angeles Times. The Hollywood Reporter. Newsweek. Ian had collected them all.

  And then, coming to the end of the collection, I turned the page to see the start of a whole new collection: clippings about Dean Oliver’s murder. Ian had pasted in what looked like every newspaper and online story he could find.

  In spite of the sweat soaking my clothes, a chill ran down my spine.

  Was Ian keeping a scrapbook of the murders he’d committed?

  I was sitting there, looking down at Dean’s face smiling up at me from his obituary, when suddenly the scrapbook was jerked from my hands.

  I looked up and saw Ian standing over me, breathing thunder.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he said, the veins in his neck throbbing.

  “I . . . I found this scrapbook under your laundry,” I said, scrambling to my feet, “and I was just dusting it off.”

  I started backing out of the room, but with every step back I took, Ian took a step forward.

  “Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s not nice to go snooping in other people’s belongings?” he said, his eyes shining with a manic gleam. “A girl could get hurt that way.”

  By now my heart was pounding. I ordered myself to stay calm and keep backing away. One step after another. And another. And . . . damn! I’d just tripped over the dratted vacuum cleaner.

  “I swear I wasn’t snooping,” I lied, regaining my balance. “I didn’t even notice what was in the book.”

  “Like hell you didn’t.”

  I continued backing up, and Ian continued advancing.

  Then something made me turn around. I don’t know if it was luck, a guardian angel, or that manic gleam in Ian’s eyes. But turn I did and realized with a gasp that I’d backed up to the top of the winding wrought iron staircase. One more step and I’d have gone hurtling down its steep tile stairs.

  I reached for the rail and tore down the ste
ps, grabbing my purse from the living room on my way out the door.

  Ian didn’t give chase, just stood at the top of the steps, his eyes boring into mine.

  Outside, I scrambled into my Corolla and took off, grateful I hadn’t wound up as another clipping in Ian’s murder memory book.

  Chapter 16

  Back home, I made a beeline for the bathtub, where I spent the next hour soothing my frazzled nerves with a hot bath and a healing dose of Double Stuf Oreos.

  Feeling somewhat revived, I slipped into my sweats and tried to work on the Touch-Me-Not brochure. But I simply couldn’t stay focused. I kept thinking about how close I’d come to hurtling down Ian’s wrought iron staircase.

  Finally, I gave up and decided to do some mindless grunt work. It was about time I cleaned my desk, otherwise known as my dining room table, where papers tend to multiply like telemarketers at dinnertime.

  I was tossing out an impressive pile of junk mail and long-expired coupons when I came across the contract I’d signed for the Skinny Kitty shoot.

  I glanced through the pages, mourning the five thousand dollars I would never earn, when I stumbled on a clause that lit a ray of hope in my heart. Apparently, those generous folks at Skinny Kitty had promised to pay me one thousand dollars if, for any reason, the commercial didn’t get made.

  That clause, I knew from prior writing assignments, was known as a kill fee.

  At the time I’d signed the contract, I’d been so focused on the five grand, I hadn’t even noticed the one-thousand-dollar consolation prize.

  Wasting no time, I called Deedee, who, wouldn’t you know, didn’t pick up.

  I left her a message, telling her I wanted to collect my kill fee and asked her to please call me back as soon as possible.

  I really wanted that thousand bucks.

  I only hoped Deedee hadn’t already spent it.

  * * *

  I fell into an uneasy sleep that night, still haunted by the memory of Ian staring down at me from the top of his staircase with that maniacal gleam in his eyes.

  Soon I was dreaming that I was back in Ian’s bedroom, his murder memory scrapbook in my hands. I was turning the pages, fingers trembling, when I heard footsteps down the hall. I dashed into the closet and pulled the door shut, shuddering as the footsteps grew nearer and nearer.

  “I know you’re in there, Jaine,” I heard Ian saying in a ghastly singsong whine, “and I’m coming to get you. There’s going to be a whole chapter about your murder in my scrapbook!”

  By now he was at the closet door. He tried to open it, but I held fast.

  “Let me in!” he cried, pounding on the door, louder and louder, till the noise was roaring in my ears.

  Then I felt a ferocious yank and lost my grip on the doorknob. The door was opening! Any second now he was going to kill me!

  And that’s when I woke up, sitting up in bed with a jolt, clammy with sweat.

  Thank heavens it was only a dream.

  I was just about to sink back down in my pillows when I saw someone standing in the shadows at the foot of my bed. Oh, hell! The knocking I’d heard in my dream had been real! It was probably Ian. Somehow he’d forced his way in. The crazed director was out to kill me, after all!

  Adrenaline rushing through my veins, I reached for my cell phone on my night table and hurled it at him.

  “Hey!” A woman’s voice called out in protest. “Are you crazy? You could’ve hurt me with that thing.”

  A wave of relief washed over me as I realized it wasn’t Ian—but Kandi.

  I switched on the light, and sure enough, Kandi was standing at the foot of my bed, her hair rumpled, a feverish look in her eyes.

  “Kandi!” I cried, checking my clock radio. “It’s two a.m. What the heck are you doing here? And how did you get in?”

  “I knocked for ages, but there was no answer. So I let myself in with the spare key you gave me in case of an emergency.”

  “Emergency? What emergency? Is something wrong?”

  Once again, I noticed the feverish look in her eyes.

  “Kandi, honey.” I leaped out of bed and rushed to her side. “What is it?”

  “You’ve got to help me!” she said. “I need to borrow your credit card, just for a few minutes.”

  “My credit card?”

  “Yes, I saw the most fabulous boots online at Neiman Marcus, suede knee-highs on sale, fifty percent off, and I absolutely must have them! C’mon,” she said, grabbing me by the wrist. “Let’s go to your computer and order them. I can pay you back right now. I brought cash.”

  She reached into her jeans pocket with her free hand and waved a wad of bills in my face.

  Prozac, who had been snoring on my pillow, was now fully awake and shooting us dagger glares.

  Some of us are trying to sleep, you know.

  “Kandi!” I cried as she dragged me out to the living room. “Get a hold of yourself! Remember the new leaf you turned over. You’re a recovering shopaholic. You can’t do this stuff anymore.”

  “And I won’t do it anymore. Not after tonight. Not ever again. Just this once. So hurry up. Give me your card. I’ll take anything. Visa. MasterCard. Amex. Even Discover.”

  By now, she’d hauled me to my computer at my dining room table.

  “Kandi, sweetheart,” I said, tugging her back over to my sofa. “You’ve got to be strong and resist the urge. Hang in there, honey!”

  “Just one more pair of boots!” she pleaded. “That’s all I ask.”

  I shook my head firmly.

  “One is too many, and a hundred’s not enough.”

  She blinked in confusion.

  “What the heck is that supposed to mean?”

  “It’s a classic line from The Lost Weekend. Remember? Ray Milland? The crazed alkie trying to give up booze?”

  “For heaven’s sakes, Jaine. Must you compare me to some actor who’s been dead a million years? Couldn’t I at least be Sandra Bullock in 28 Days?”

  “The point is, Kandi,” I said, pulling her down on the sofa, “you don’t need another pair of boots, not when you’ve got a whole closetful sitting in your condo at home.”

  I shot her my sternest no-nonsense look (a little something I’d picked up from Prozac).

  “Okay, okay,” she said, abashed. “You’re right. I won’t order the boots.”

  See? All it took was a firm hand and an iron will. I was really quite proud of myself.

  “How about a pair of slippers? I saw a cute pair at Zappo’s for under forty bucks.”

  “You can’t order anything, Kandi. That’s what it means when you’re a recovering shopaholic.”

  “How about socks? Ones with little pom-poms on the ankle?”

  “There’ll be no boots. No slippers. No socks with pom-poms. What you need is a great big hug and a bowl of Chunky Monkey.”

  As it turned out, I was the one who needed the Chunky Monkey. All Kandi needed was the hug and a nap.

  She tumbled into bed alongside me (and a snoring Prozac). When I woke the next morning, I found a note from her on my night table.

  Darling Jaine—

  Thank you for saving me from myself.

  How can I ever repay you?

  XOXO,

  Kandi

  P.S. I know! How would you like a beautiful

  hand-knit cell phone cover?

  Chapter 17

  I sprang out of bed that morning, ready to forget yesterday’s angst and face the new day with a smile. Which is what I did. For a whole twenty-seven seconds, until I padded to the front door for my newspapers and discovered The New York Times was missing.

  As far as I’m concerned, there are only three things that make life worthwhile: Chocolate, chocolate, and The New York Times crossword puzzle.

  I simply can’t start my day without it.

  I searched under the jasmine bush next to my front door, thinking maybe the newspaper delivery guy tossed the paper there by mistake. But it was nowhere in sight.


  Grumbling and cursing, I stomped off to the kitchen and fixed Prozac her morning Minced Mackerel Guts.

  She nibbled at it listlessly, very Blanche DuBois dining at the Kowalskis.

  After nuking myself a CRB and making do with the L.A. Times crossword, I turned my attention back to where it belonged: Dean Oliver’s murder.

  Given yesterday’s harrowing encounter with Ian, I was ready to lock him up and throw away the key. But I couldn’t ignore that pesky “innocent until proven guilty” thing our justice system is so fond of.

  Which meant I’d have to keep on investigating.

  I remembered what Nikki said about hearing Dean and the Pink Panther through the paper-thin walls that separated the kitchen from Dean’s dressing room. Now I wondered if the Pink Panther had heard anything on the day of the murder that might lead me to the killer.

  Checking in with my pals at Google, I discovered that the Pink Panther, aka Camille Townsend, had worked as a fashion model until she hooked up with a Silicon Valley honcho and walked away with a bundle in a divorce settlement.

  Could I risk calling her and going with the truth, telling her that I was investigating Dean’s murder? Did I really have to resort to a sneaky subterfuge to see her? After all, the Panther was one of the few people who actually liked Dean. Surely she’d want to help me find the killer.

  For once, I decided to stick with the truth. And after waiting until a decent hour, I called the Pink Panther’s phone number on Linda’s contact sheet.

  A soft-spoken woman with a Hispanic accent answered.

  “Jaine Austen,” I said in my most professional voice, “calling for Ms. Townsend.”

  “I’m sorry, but Miss Camille isn’t taking any phone calls.”

  Okay, time for the sneaky subterfuge.

  (I’d had one warming on the back burner of my brain all along.)

  “Can you tell her I’m a writer with Cat Fancy magazine, and we want to feature her cat Desiree in our first ever centerfold?”

  After years of being a writer, I’ve found that most people simply can’t resist the temptation of seeing themselves—or their significant others—in print.

  A moment of silence while my soft-spoken friend thought over my offer. Then, finally, the words I longed to hear: