by Laura Levine
“Nobody called from Vanity Fair.”
In the bright light of day, I could see a healthy mustache on her pursed lips.
“Damn those idiots at the office.” I whipped out my cell phone and called my own answering machine.
“Kimberly,” I barked into the phone, “I’m here at Amanda Tucker’s and they say you never called to set up the appointment…I don’t want to hear any excuses. You’ve got a job to do, so do it!”
I snapped the phone shut.
“Unbelievable!” I said. “These kids want to become writers, and they can’t make a simple phone call.”
The maid stared at me impassively. Was she buying any of this?
“Wait outside,” she said finally. “I’ll tell Mrs. Tucker you’re here.”
Whoopee! She bought it.
As I stood there cooling my heels, I realized I was taking a chance. After all, Mrs. Tucker had seen me at Passions. It was very possible she might recognize me. But I had the distinct impression that Amanda Tucker’s main focus in life was Amanda Tucker. Somehow I didn’t think she paid a lot of attention to the people around her. At least I hoped not.
Minutes later, the maid came back and nodded curtly.
“Follow me,” she instructed.
And I did, to an English country living room, full of chintz and fresh-cut flowers. Amanda Tucker was waiting for me in tight white capri’s and an even tighter pink angora sweater. I couldn’t help noticing her boobs, two perfect globes, popping out from the angora. Man-made, no doubt.
“Pleased to meet you, Ms.—?”
“Russell,” I said, improvising wildly. “Rosalind Russell.”
Was I insane? Giving her the name of a dead movie star?
“You mean, like the movie star?”
“Yes,” I smiled feebly. “My mom was a big fan.”
“Have we met somewhere before? Your face looks familiar.”
Damn. She was more observant than I’d thought.
“Possibly,” I said. “Were you at the Women’s Wear Daily cocktail thing last month?”
“No, that’s not where I saw you.”
“I have a very familiar face,” I said. “This happens to me all the time.”
“Oh, well. No matter,” she said. “I’ll think of it eventually. Won’t you sit down, Ms. Russell? Can I have Gerta bring you something to drink?”
“No, I’m fine.”
“Some apple strudel, perhaps? Fresh from the oven?”
“No, thanks.”
Okay, so I didn’t really say that. The words that popped out of my mouth, as you’ve probably already guessed, were:
“Sure. I’d love some.”
Amanda momentarily abandoned her Lady of the Manor pose and hollered, “Gerta! Bring us some strudel.”
Then she plopped her flat tush on the sofa opposite me and sat back against a small mountain of throw pillows.
“I’m just so thrilled,” she gushed. “Imagine, being interviewed by Vanity Fair!”
Then she looked around.
“Where’s the photographer? You are taking pictures, aren’t you?”
“Of course. The photographer’s coming later. That’s how we work; I do the interview first, and then he comes to take pictures.”
“Good,” she said. “That will give me plenty of time to put on some makeup.”
Yeah, right. As if she wasn’t already wearing enough makeup to stock a Clinique counter.
“So,” she said, plastering a smile on her taut face. “Fire away. Ask me anything.”
What the heck was I going to ask her? I knew as much about high fashion as she did about Kmart specials.
“Um…” I finally managed, “who are your favorite designers?”
She started rattling off names and then suddenly stopped.
“Wait a minute. Aren’t you going to take notes? Don’t you have a tape recorder?”
“Right. My tape recorder.”
I reached into my purse and took out my cell phone.
“Isn’t that a cell phone?”
“It’s also a tape recorder. Terrific little invention. The microphone is embedded right here.” I pointed to one of the input holes at the end of the phone.
“What won’t they think of next?” she said.
I put the phone on the coffee table.
“Try to talk into the little hole, okay?”
And she was off and running, rambling on about her favorite designers. It was then that I noticed the throw pillow she was cradling in her lap. It was moss green silk, embroidered with the motto Don’t Get Mad. Get Even.
I remembered that day in Passions when Mrs. Tucker overheard Frenchie making fun of her and vowed she’d get revenge. I wondered if she’d made good on her threat with the help of a Jimmy Choo knockoff.
My musings came to a halt when Mrs. Tucker suddenly interrupted herself.
“Now I know where I saw you!” she cried. “Passions!”
Rats.
“Didn’t I see you there, in a Prada suit?”
“That’s right. I was there to interview Grace Lynbrook for my Vanity Fair story.”
“That’s funny,” she said. “Grace never mentioned that you were interviewing her.”
“That’s because she signed our confidentiality agreement.”
“Confidentiality agreement?”
“We make all our interview subjects sign a pledge to keep their interviews a secret until the story is actually published.”
If I told one more lie, my nose would start growing.
“Besides,” I said, “what with the murder at Ms. Lynbrook’s store, I imagine our interview was the last thing on her mind.”
Extra credit for me for steering the conversation to the murder.
“Terrible tragedy, wasn’t it?” I said.
“Terrible,” she echoed.
“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”
But I wasn’t about to hear any of Amanda Tucker’s ideas, because just then I looked out the window and saw Grace’s Jaguar coming up the driveway.
I had to get the hell out of there, and fast.
“May I use your rest room?” I asked.
“Of course. It’s down the hall to your right.”
I tossed my cell phone in my purse and started for the door.
“Wait,” Amanda said. “Why are you taking your tape recorder?”
“Battery’s low. Gotta recharge.”
I dashed down the hallway, bumping into Gerta, who was carrying a plate of warm apple strudel. Somehow I managed to restrain myself from grabbing a piece and continued down the hallway.
At last I found the bathroom, another floral fiesta with hand-rolled linen guest towels and enough potpourri to fumigate the city dump. But its most important feature, as far as I was concerned, was a window. I quickly opened it and leaped out, landing in a lilac bush below.
(A word of advice: Try never to land in a lilac bush. They’re not nearly as comfy as you might think.)
After extricating myself from the lilac branches, I crept along the side of the house until I heard Grace’s voice coming from an open window. I stopped in my tracks and listened.
“Bad news,” she was saying. “Some private eye knows that we were back at the store the night of the murder.”
So I was right! They were at the store that night. Whatever they were up to, they were in it together.
“Not so loud,” Amanda said. “The reporter might hear you.”
“What reporter?”
“The one from Vanity Fair. She said she interviewed you for her story. On Los Angeles trendsetters.”
“I didn’t talk to any reporter from Vanity Fair.”
“You didn’t?” Amanda said, a most suspicious note in her voice.
I thought it was an opportune moment to make my getaway, which I did, plucking lilac twigs from my tush as I ran.
Chapter 18
I was back home in my bathroom rubbing aloe vera on my fanny when Becky called. She s
ounded excited.
“I just thought of something that could be really important,” she said.
“What is it?”
“Well, this morning I went to the supermarket to get some carob powder to make brownies, and I accidentally locked myself out of my VW.”
“And?”
“And when I looked in my wallet where I usually keep my spare key, the key wasn’t there!”
So far, this sounded like a case for a locksmith.
“And then I remembered. A couple of months ago, Maxine’s car was in the shop, and I loaned her my VW. I gave her my spare key. I forgot all about it, but today I realized she never gave it back.”
“So, on the night of the murder, Maxine had a key to your car.”
“That’s right.”
Very interesting.
“Do you park your car in a garage?” I asked.
“No, out on the street.”
“Where Maxine would have had easy access to it. Which means she could’ve driven it to Passions.”
Maybe R.D. Butler really did see an orange VW at the time of the murder. With Maxine the mousy accountant behind the wheel.
“It’s so hard to picture Maxine as a killer,” Becky said. “Besides, why would she want to implicate me? I never did anything to hurt her.”
“To save her own hide.”
“That’s pretty rotten,” Becky said.
“Killers usually are.”
I hung up, promising Becky I’d have another chat with Maxine. Then I dusted my tush with baby powder and headed out to the valley. Putting my pants on first, of course.
I found Maxine and Sparkles watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
“Jaine! How nice to see you,” Maxine said, ushering me into her oatmeal living room. “It’s the end of the movie, Sparkles’ favorite part, where Holly Golightly rescues her cat.”
Sparkles was curled up on Maxine’s recliner, dead to the world, her tiny pink tongue hanging out from her mouth.
Maxine scooped her up in her arms.
“Wake up, Sparkles! This is the part where we always cry, remember?”
The three of us watched as Audrey Hepburn, George Peppard, and Audrey’s orange cat embraced in the rain, and the credits rolled. Well, Maxine and I watched. Sparkles had conked out again.
“What a wonderful movie,” Maxine said, with a sigh.
Then she clicked off the TV and turned to me, beaming.
“Guess what?” she said. “Grace has hired me back at Passions!”
“That’s wonderful, Maxine.”
“Why don’t you stay for dinner and help me and Sparkles celebrate?” she said, shooting me a shy smile. “We’re having Kentucky Fried Chicken. Extra crispy.”
For a disgraceful instant I considered accepting her invitation. I happen to be particularly fond of the Colonel’s cuisine. But I was about to accuse the woman of murder. I couldn’t very well say, Pass the wings, and by the way, did you bump off Frenchie?
“Actually, Maxine, I came to ask you something about the murder.”
“Oh?”
Was it my imagination, or did I see her stiffen?
“Becky says that several months ago, you borrowed her car.”
“That’s right. Mine was in the shop, and I had an important periodontal appointment. My gums were bleeding something awful. So Becky loaned me her car.”
“Becky says you never gave her back her spare key.”
“Oh, gosh. That’s right. I forgot all about it,” she said, jumping up from the recliner. “I’ll go get it. It’s got to be in my purse somewhere.”
She scurried off and seconds later came back with a large brown tote.
“I carry so much junk in here,” she said, rummaging through its contents. “Here it is. It was stuck in my pocket pack of Kleenex. I always carry Kleenex in my purse. And floss, too. One time I got a piece of shrimp stuck in my teeth; it was just awful. Ever since then I never leave home without floss in my purse.
“But I don’t understand,” she said, handing me the key. “What does this key have to do with Frenchie’s murder?”
I took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy. I’d forgotten how fragile she was. Was I really going to accuse this little mouse of murder?
Then I steeled myself.
“Maxine, you didn’t by any chance happen to drive Becky’s car to Passions the night of the murder, did you?”
Much to my surprise, Maxine didn’t fall apart. On the contrary, her face clouded over in anger.
“I already told you,” she said, her jaw clenched. “I didn’t kill Frenchie.”
So. The mouse had some backbone, after all.
“What if I told you I had an eyewitness who saw a woman matching your description getting out of Becky’s car that night?”
Now technically, I wasn’t lying. I didn’t actually say I had an eyewitness; I just asked her what she’d say if I had one.
“Whoever told you that is lying!” Her face flushed with anger. “I did not take Becky’s car to Passions that night! I took my own!”
Then she gasped as she realized what she’d just blurted out. And suddenly, the anger was gone; the mouse was back. She looked scared to death.
“I think you’d better tell me about it,” I said.
“If I do, will you tell the police?”
“Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”
I sat there, trying my best to look trustworthy.
“All right,” she said, finally.
She slumped down in the recliner and began stroking the comatose Sparkles.
“I couldn’t sleep that night. I couldn’t stop thinking about how badly Frenchie had treated me. I decided to fix the account books, so she wouldn’t be able to cheat Grace out of the store. At about two A.M., I drove over to Passions. But when I got there, Frenchie was already dead. I’ll never forget that horrible sight as long as I live. I didn’t stay to fix the books. I just ran. And that’s the truth. I swear, I didn’t kill her.”
And then she burst into tears.
“You do believe me, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said.
And at that moment, I did. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t a killer. Maybe all it meant was that I was a gullible softie and she was a damn good liar.
Then I handed her a Kleenex from her pocket pack and walked out the door.
Let’s do a head count of all the people who showed up at Passions the night of the murder, shall we?
First there was Becky, who went back to get her designs. Then there were Grace and Amanda, who came to do Lord knows what. And now there was Maxine, who claimed she was there to re-cook the books. If any more people had shown up, they would’ve had to take a number.
I drove back home to Beverly Hills, making a pit stop at KFC. I’d had a craving for the Colonel’s chicken ever since Maxine mentioned it. And I hadn’t had a thing to eat since my croissants at breakfast, so I was starving.
Prozac sprang to attention when I walked through the door. That cat can smell chicken cooking in Nevada. She practically opened the bucket herself.
As she howled around my ankles, I cut up some bite-sized bits of chicken and put them in her bowl. Then I settled down on the living room sofa with the bucket in my lap. I was just reaching for my second thigh when the phone rang. Remembering Prozac and the Case of the Purloined Roast Chicken, I took the bucket with me to answer the phone.
It was Kandi.
“So,” she said, without any preamble, “what are you going to wear?”
“What am I going to wear where?”
“On your sunset cruise.”
Damn. Today was my date with Darrell, the speed-dating sailor, and I’d forgotten all about it.
Kandi sighed theatrically. “You forgot all about it, didn’t you?”
“Okay, so I forgot. Big deal.”
“Yes, it is a big deal. How do you expect to wind up in a relationship if you can’t even remember that you’ve got a date?”
“But I don’t care if I wind up in a relationship.”
“Of course you do. It’s subliminal. You just don’t realize it.”
Now it was my turn to sigh. “I’m supposed to meet Darrell at the marina at four. It’s almost three now. I’d better hang up and get ready.”
“Good luck, sweetie. And wish me luck, too.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“On a date with Anton.”
“Anton?”
“The New Age performance artist I met at Starbucks. He invited me to see his act.”
“What does he do? Play Beethoven’s Fifth on the espresso machine?”
“Très amusing, Jaine. I don’t know what he does exactly. But whatever it is, I’m sure it’ll be fantastic.”
What can I tell you? Look up “optimist” in the dictionary, and there’s a picture of Kandi. Look up “pessimist,” and there’s a picture of me. And just my luck, it’ll be unflattering.
“This is so great,” she said. “You’re going out with your dream guy, and I’m going out with mine. It’s like a spiritual double date.”
“Kandi, how do you know he’s your dream guy? You barely know him.”
“I can tell. I’ve got an instinct for these things.”
Yeah, right. When it comes to men, Kandi’s instincts are about as reliable as a broken alarm clock.
“So aren’t you going to wish me good luck?” she asked.
After wishing her gobs of good luck (something told me she was going to need it), I hung up and looked down into my bucket of golden fried chicken. I had a choice. I could either finish the bucket and show up for my date with a bloated tummy, or I could do the sensible thing and put the chicken in the refrigerator.
For once—alert the media!—I did the sensible thing. Honest. I put the bucket in the fridge. You can ask Prozac if you don’t believe me.
I spent the next twenty minutes trying on outfits. I finally decided on jeans and a red T-shirt, topped off by a blue blazer and white sneakers. I was going for the natty-nautical look.
After brushing my teeth and gargling vigorously, I proceeded to slap on some makeup and blow out the curls from my bangs. I had no idea what the frizz factor would be like out at the marina, so I blasted my freshly straightened bangs with a helmet of hair spray. I threw the can of hair spray in my purse, just in case I ran into a passing fog bank.
