by Laura Levine
Her eyes widened with fear.
“If the cops find out I’ve got Frenchie’s necklace, they’ll think I killed her for sure. Oh, Jaine. What am I going to do?”
Then I did something very foolish.
“Give it to me,” I said.
She handed it to me and I slipped it into my pocket.
“I’ll keep it until this whole thing blows over.”
“Oh, thank you, Jaine,” she said, throwing her arms around me. “You’re an angel!”
Then she climbed into Grace’s Jag and drove off, clutching the steering wheel with white knuckles, her absurd monkey handbag on the seat beside her.
It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I realized just how foolish I’d been.
What if Becky had been lying to me? What if, in spite of her childlike appearance, she was a cold-blooded killer? What if she’d taken Frenchie’s Maltese cross from around her neck right after she’d stabbed said neck in the jugular? Had the cops zeroed in on the right suspect after all?
But then why had Becky hired me to investigate? Maybe she thought I was such an incompetent dufus that I’d nail the wrong person. Or maybe she was so deep in denial-land, she’d convinced herself she was innocent. Maybe she honestly thought there was a “real killer” out there.
Guilty or innocent, one thing was certain: I’d been an idiot to take the necklace. At the very least, I could be arrested for withholding evidence. At worst, I could be arrested for aiding and abetting a criminal.
By the time I drove up to my duplex, I was a nervous wreck. I couldn’t wait to pour myself a glass of chardonnay.
But as luck would have it, I couldn’t find a parking space. That’s the trouble with my apartment. It’s got plenty of charm, but no parking. I drove around for what seemed like hours, until I finally found a spot.
I parked the Corolla and headed for my duplex, fingering the gold pendant in my pocket like a bad luck charm. At one point, I took it out and checked it for dried blood. I didn’t see any, but that didn’t mean anything. Becky would’ve washed it away by now.
Finally I got home and poured myself a glass of chardonnay. By the time I’d finished it, I felt a lot better. Surely, Becky wasn’t a killer. I’d overreacted, that’s all. I’d go on with my investigation and find the real killer and have a good laugh over how scared I’d been.
But just to play it safe, I hid the Maltese cross in a pair of hot pink sequinned mules my mom had bought me from the Home Shopping Channel. She ordered them to go with the hot pink sequinned capri’s and tank top she’d also sent me. Over the years, I’ve tried to tell my mom I’m a writer, not a hooker, but she still insists on sending me these outrageous outfits. But that’s a whole other story, one I intend to share with a therapist, as soon as I can afford one.
In the meanwhile, though, I had a murder to solve. So I put in a call to the sad-eyed detective in charge of the case, whose name, according to his business card, was Lt. Frank Mula.
Luckily, he was in when I called.
“Lt. Mula,” I said, “this is Jaine Austen.”
“Right. And I’m Charles Dickens.”
“Don’t you remember? I’m the one who found the body at Passions.”
“Oh, right. Sorry about that. How’re you doing?”
“Fine. In fact, I’ve got some information that might be of help to you.”
“Actually, we’ve got a pretty good handle on the case.”
“That’s great,” I said. “But I think you’re really going to be interested in what I’ve got to say.”
“Okay,” he said, not exactly bubbling with enthusiasm. “What is it?”
I told him how I’d visited his star witness, R.D. Butler, and how R.D. was blind as a bat without his contacts, and how he could have easily gotten the time wrong when he saw Becky’s car in the parking lot.
“Very interesting,” he said, not sounding the least bit interested. In fact, I could’ve sworn I heard him stifling a yawn.
Then I told him about the jacaranda blossoms on the roof of Grace Lynbrook’s car, and how they must’ve got stuck there in the rain, and how the only night it had rained in the past two weeks was the night of the murder.
“So you see,” I said, feeling quite Sherlock Holmesian, “I’m pretty sure Grace Lynbrook was at Passions the night of the murder.”
I sat back and waited for him to be bowled over by my powers of deduction.
I waited in vain.
“What are you?” Lt. Mula asked. “Some kind of detective?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.”
“I thought you were a writer.”
“I am. I do the detecting part-time.”
“Funny, I never would have figured you for a private dick.”
If one more person said that, I’d scream.
“So what do you think of my jacaranda-in-the-rain theory?”
“I’ll have our guys in forensic meteorology check it out.”
“Forensic meteorology? I’ve never heard of that before. Is there really such a thing?”
“No, not really,” he said, with a most annoying chuckle. “A little cop humor.”
Harty har har. Très amusing.
“Thanks for the input,” he said. “I’ll look into it. But I’ve got to go now. Important call coming in.”
Before I could reply, he clicked me off the line. At least, he thought he clicked me off the line. But unbeknownst to him, I was still there.
“Hey, Eddie,” I heard him say. “We on for bowling tonight?”
I slammed down the receiver in disgust.
Lt. Mula wasn’t going to be looking into any of my theories. He’d obviously written me off as an incompetent amateur.
I’d just have to prove him wrong, wouldn’t I?
Fifteen minutes later, I was up to my earlobes in bubbles.
I’d retreated to the bathtub to think about the case. I do some of my best thinking in the tub. That’s where I thought of my highly successful slogan for The Ackerman Awning Company: Just a Shade Better. Hey, it’s not Shakespeare, but it pays the rent.
So there I was, lying in the tub, loofa-ing my thighs while I tried to figure out who killed Frenchie Ambrose.
Grace Lynbrook sure had the motive. And I couldn’t rule out Maxine, not with that mutilated photo of Frenchie in her photo album. There was Frenchie’s husband, Owen, who for all I knew could have been faking those tears of grief. And what about Grace’s buddy, Amanda Tucker? I remembered what she’d said to Grace, that she knew all along that Grace would get her store back. Just how had she been so sure, unless she’d had a hand in getting rid of Frenchie?
“What do you think?” I asked Prozac, who was perched on top of the toilet tank. “Who’s our killer?”
But Prozac was too busy licking her genitals to participate in the conversation.
I reached for the legal pad and pencil I’d brought to the tub and started to make notes. I always find it helps to write things out when I’ve got a problem to solve. I’d gotten as far as…
My Suspects
by Jaine Austen
…when the doorbell rang.
Who on earth could that be? Maybe it was Lance, back from the dry cleaners with my Prada suit.
I hauled myself out of the tub, and into my bathrobe.
“Lance?” I said, hurrying to the door. “Is that you?”
“No, ma’am. It’s the police.”
The police? Damn. They’d probably been tailing Becky and saw her giving me the Maltese cross. And now they were going to arrest me for aiding and abetting a criminal!
“Just a minute,” I called out. I hurried into the bedroom and threw on a pair of sweats. By the time I opened the front door to the two Beverly Hills cops on my front step, I was in an advanced state of panic.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. As long as they couldn’t find the cross, the cops had no proof that I had it in my possession. I’d just have to play it cool.
I plastered
a phony smile on my face.
“Can I help you, officers?” I said, my voice a terrified squeak. So much for cool.
“Yes, ma’am,” one of them said, “you can.”
Just remember, I told myself. Admit nothing. As long as they can’t find the cross, you’re safe.
And then to my horror I saw Prozac sashaying into the living room, a hot pink sequinned mule in her mouth.
I stood there, frozen to the spot, as she pranced over to the cops, the mule dangling from her mouth.
Look what I brought you, she seemed to be saying. An ugly shoe.
Oh, God, I prayed, please let it be the mule without the cross.
No such luck.
Prozac dropped the shoe at the cops’ feet and the cross came tumbling out.
“I know I shouldn’t have done it!” I wailed, going from cool to coward in record time. (Remind me never to get a job as an international spy.)
“That’s right,” one of the cops said. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I don’t know what came over me.”
“That’s not much of an excuse,” the other cop said, shaking his head.
“I suppose you’re going to arrest me,” I said, already picturing myself sharing a jail cell with a woman named Big Pete.
The cops exchanged puzzled looks.
“We don’t usually arrest people for illegal parking, ma’am.”
“Huh?” I blinked, puzzled.
“You own a white Corolla, right?”
“That’s right.”
“You parked it illegally in front of a driveway.”
Was that it? They were here because I’d parked in a driveway? There was a God, after all!
“We got a call from the homeowner, and you’ve got him blocked in. You’ve got to move your car. And we’re going to have to give you a ticket.”
“That’s all right, officer. I don’t mind. Only sixty dollars? What a bargain.”
And it was true. For the first time in my life, I was actually thrilled to get a ticket.
After reparking the Corolla, I headed back to my apartment, where I found Prozac, the little traitor, howling for her dinner. She looked up at me with innocent green eyes, as if she hadn’t just tried to sell me down the river.
“You don’t deserve this,” I said, tossing her a bowl of Fancy Fish Entrails.
Then I stashed the Maltese cross in my sock drawer, threw my aborted suspect list in the trash, and climbed into bed with some Progresso Minestrone, which I ate straight from the can. I’d had enough detecting for one day.
I spent the rest of the night watching an Andy Hardy film festival on TV. By the time the last movie rolled around (Andy Hardy Has Prostate Problems), Andy was middle aged and I was exhausted. So I turned out the light and called it a day.
The last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep was Prozac curling up in the crook of my neck, breathing Fancy Fish Entrails in my face.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Calm before the Storm
Oh, dear. You’ll never guess what happened! Alistair’s been in touch with a reporter from the Tampa Tribune who’s doing a story on local community theater. He wants to see our play, but he’s working under a deadline. So Alistair’s pushed up our opening. Believe it or not, we’re going on stage with Lord Worthington’s Ascot in just two days. Good heavens, I’m a nervous wreck! Not only do I have to learn all my lines, but I have to learn them with a British accent!
And Daddy hasn’t made things any easier, what with all his crazy shenanigans. Although he seems to have calmed down in the past few days. He’s stopped making up his own dialogue and coughing during the love scenes.
And yet, somehow I don’t trust him. It’s like the calm before the storm. I just know he’s up to something. I can feel it in my bones.
To: Shoptillyoudrop
From: Jausten
Don’t worry, Mom. I’m sure Daddy realized how badly he was behaving and has turned over a new leaf. Just go out there on opening night, and knock ’em dead!
To: DaddyO
From: Jausten
Mom thinks you’re up to something. Are you?
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Who? Moi?
Chapter 17
The sun was streaming in my bedroom window when I woke up the next morning. It was an impossibly beautiful day, with a sky as blue as a starlet’s eyes. Whatever doubts I’d had about Becky’s innocence had vanished in the night. I simply could not believe she was capable of murder.
So it was with a great sense of relief that I headed to the kitchen to fix breakfast.
“Here you go, Prozac,” I said, tossing her a bowl of pink mush. “Yummy shrimp guts.”
I stared into my Mother Hubbard-ish cupboards, wondering what I could scrape up for my breakfast. I was debating between a stale Pop Tart and a stale bagel when the doorbell rang.
It was Lance.
“Look what I brought,” he said, holding out two paper sacks. “French roast coffee and croissants still warm from the bakery. With butter. And strawberry jam.”
Why are all the good ones always gay?
Three minutes later, we were sitting at my dining room table, watching the butter melt on our croissants.
“I’ve got good news for you,” Lance said. “The cleaners think they can get out the wine stains from your Prada suit.”
“Oh, Lance. That’s wonderful!”
I would’ve thrown my arms around him and hugged him, but I couldn’t tear myself away from my croissant.
“So tell me all about your investigation,” Lance said. “Do you have any idea who did it?”
“Not really. But I’ve got plenty of promising suspects.”
I ran down my list of suspects, filling him in on the jacaranda blossoms on Grace’s car; the mutilated head in Maxine’s photo album; Frenchie’s cuckolded husband, Owen; and Grace’s good buddy and possible partner in crime, Mrs. Amanda Tucker.
“I didn’t know Amanda Tucker was a friend of Grace’s,” Lance said, reaching for another croissant. I’d long since finished my second and was working on my third.
“Do you know her?” I asked.
“Not personally, but I see her picture in the society pages all the time. The woman has had her face tightened so many times, I’m surprised she can still close her eyes.”
“Know anything about her?”
“Just that she’s got money up her kazoo. Her husband was a billionaire oil baron.”
“Was? As in past tense?”
“Yes, he died sometime last year. Huge funeral. I sold a lot of black Manolos that week. And speaking of Manolos,” he said, checking his watch, “I’ve got to run or I’ll be late for work.”
“Aren’t you going to finish your croissant?” I said, eyeing half a croissant on his plate.
“Nah, I’m full.”
Leave it to a skinny person to be full after one and a half measly croissants.
Lance tootled off for work, and—after polishing off his croissant—I headed for the computer. I caught up on my parents’ e-mails and groaned. Daddy was up to something, all right. One of these days, I swear, I’m going to see his mug shot on a post office wall. But I couldn’t worry about Daddy. Not now, not with this murder hanging over my head. So I deleted all thoughts of my parents and logged on to the L.A. Times archives to do a search on Amanda Tucker.
Like Lance said, her name showed up in a bunch of society stories. One of the articles mentioned that she was the widow of the late billionaire Andre Tucker. Then I did a search on Andre, and guess what, folks? According to the Times, Andre died of food poisoning, leaving his wife his entire billion-dollar fortune. It was officially ruled an accidental death, but I wasn’t so sure. After all, poison was poison. For all I knew, it was premeditated murder.
And just like that, I had a new Number-One Suspect.
Amanda Tucker lived in the toniest part of
Brentwood, where fixer-uppers sell for millions. And Amanda’s place was far from a fixer-upper. Separated from the street by a six-foot hedge, it had a front lawn as big as a football field. I parked my Corolla in the street, the only economy car for miles around, and began the trek up the path to the front door.
The house was an English country extravaganza, with leaded-glass windows and wood beams galore. I almost expected to see the Duke and Duchess of Windsor stroll out onto the front lawn for a game of croquet.
I’d decided to drop by unannounced and catch Mrs. Tucker by surprise. I figured she was less likely to turn me down if I showed up in person.
I rang the doorbell and sniffed the heady aroma of lilacs in bloom. The door was quickly opened by a stocky woman in a maid’s uniform.
“Yes,” she said, squinting at me. “What is it?”
I smiled my most engaging smile.
“I’m here to see Mrs. Tucker.”
“If you’re here about the Passions murder,” she said, her arms crossed firmly in front of her formidable bosoms, “Mrs. Tucker has nothing to say except that Grace Lynbrook is one of the finest, most honorable women she’s had the privilege to know.”
She started to close the door.
“Wait,” I said. “I’m not here about the murder.”
“Oh? Then what do you want?”
I put on my tap shoes and started lying like a congressman up for reelection.
“Didn’t they call you from the magazine?”
“No,” she said. “What magazine?”
“Vanity Fair. We’re doing a piece on Los Angeles fashion trendsetters, and we want to interview Mrs. Tucker.”
