by Laura Levine
She had a point there. A point I hadn’t considered.
“Besides,” she said, “if you ask me, he’s gay.”
“You think so?”
“Of course he’s gay. Antiques dealer. Fabulous apartment. Platonic relationship with an older woman. Taking you to a campy movie in Silver Lake, a neighborhood with more gays per square foot than a Bette Midler concert. It’s all Classic Homosexual.”
Now it was my turn to rip a napkin to shreds. Kandi was right. How could I have been stupid enough to think that Cameron was interested in me romantically? I was a Marian-substitute. Nothing more.
And what if he had flown to L.A. the night of the murder? It would have been easy enough to fly in, kill Stacy, and fly back up to San Francisco. And then get in his car and drive back to L.A. the next day, just in time to flash a blue-eyed smile at a dopey writer pretending to be a cop.
I downed the rest of my mocha latte in a single gulp, wishing it were Scotch.
The next day I called Cameron and told him I had to check on his whereabouts the night of the murder. Not that I believed in the slightest that he had anything to do with the murder, I assured him. It was strictly routine cop stuff.
“Sure thing,” he said, “I understand. I was staying at the Union Street Inn.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. A cooperative suspect. Definitely a good sign.
“Are we still on for the movies?” he asked.
“If your alibi checks out.”
We both laughed. He was kidding. I wasn’t.
I hung up and called San Francisco.
“Union Street Inn,” a woman answered briskly. “Ann Garrity speaking.”
“This is Detective Austen of the LAPD,” I said, with as much authority as I could muster.
“Really?” she asked, curious. “How can I help you?”
“I’m checking on the whereabouts of one of your guests, a Mr. Cameron Bannick, on the night of February fourteenth.”
“Oh, he was here at the Inn.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, we had a special Valentine’s dinner, and I remember seeing him at a table all by himself, and wondering why a handsome man like Mr. Bannick was alone on Valentine’s Day.”
“So you can say with utter certainty that Cameron Bannick was at your hotel having dinner at 8 P.M. on the fourteenth?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Thank you so much.”
“My pleasure. May I send you one of our brochures? We have a midweek special, only $89 per night, double occupancy, with complimentary breakfast and afternoon wine bar.”
“Sure. Why not?” I gave her my address. Who knew? Maybe some day I’d actually have someone to share a double occupancy with.
I hung up and scooped Prozac into my arms. “Cameron has an alibi, darling! He isn’t a murderer, after all!”
Prozac shot me one of her know-it-all looks, as if to say, “Sounds like you’ve really fallen for this guy.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I huffed, dumping her unceremoniously on the sofa. “My feelings for Cameron Bannick are strictly platonic. I realize he’s undoubtedly gay and couldn’t possibly return my affections. Surely you don’t think I’d be foolish enough to fall for him, do you?”
She didn’t deign to answer this one. We both knew very well just how foolish I was capable of being.
After my tête-à-tête with Prozac, I decided to pay a visit to the LA Sports Club, hoping to get a chance to talk to Stacy’s ex-best friend Iris or Violet or Hyacinth.
I was heading down the path to my car when my neighbor Lance Venable, he of the x-ray hearing, sprang from his front door. Obviously he’d been sitting at his window, just waiting to pounce.
“Oh, Jaine!” he called out.
“Hi, Lance. How’s it going?”
Why do I even bother to ask? With Lance, nothing’s ever going right.
“Look, I hate to complain. . . .”
No, you don’t, I thought. You love to complain. You majored in complaining at Yenta U.
“. . . But your cat’s been pissing on my impatiens again.”
It’s true. Every once in a while Prozac sneaks out of my apartment for the sole purpose, it seems, of pissing on Lance’s impatiens. I think she knows it drives him nuts.
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be. There’s such a thing as a leash law, you know.”
“I think that’s for dogs.”
“Well, it should be for cats, too.” His blond curls shook indignantly. “So the next time you’re having one of your heart-to-heart talks with your cat, tell her to quit pissing on my impatiens, okay?”
I swear, the guy must spend his entire life with his ear glued to my wall.
The LA Sports Club is a block-long monument to the Body Beautiful, a Taj Mahal with StairMasters. All marble and brass and gleaming wood, it’s light-years removed from my usual house of exercise, the fungus-infested YMCA.
Most of the members are reed-thin model types who haven’t had a hot fudge sundae in decades. (Or if they have, they’ve promptly barfed it back up.)
Actually, I don’t think they let you in if you’re bigger than a size twelve. But somehow I managed to suck in my gut and make it past a receptionist with a tony British accent, to the office of Wendy Northrop, Membership Counselor. Or as I came to know her, “Wendy Northrop, Barracuda Saleslady.”
Wendy was a haughty brunette, forbiddingly thin. Think Nancy Reagan on diuretics.
“How can I help you?” she said, flashing me a brittle grin.
I could tell by her steely demeanor that she was never going to fall for my phony cop routine, or for my phony reporter routine, so I decided to try the one thing she’d be most likely to fall for: a potential customer.
“I’m thinking of joining your gym.”
“Our Club,” she corrected me. “We like to think of our guests as members, not customers.”
Yeah, right, and I like to think of myself as Julia Roberts.
“Anyhow, I’m thinking of joining.”
“Not a moment too soon, lardbucket.” Of course, she didn’t really say that. But she was thinking it, I know.
“Membership starts at $3,000.”
Holy smokes. It was all I could do to keep from sputtering, “You’ve got to be kidding. Do you realize how many Eskimo Pies I can buy for $3,000?”
Instead I played it cool and said, “Oh?”
“Plus a monthly fee of $300.”
There must have been drool seeping out of my slack-jawed mouth because she quickly added, “I realize that’s a bit steep for most people.”
“No, no, not at all.” I tried to look as if I were the kind of person for whom $3,000 was chump change. “It’s no problem.”
Her smile brightened considerably. “Let me take you on a tour of the facilities. I’m sure you’ll be impressed.”
Flabbergasted was more like it. Never under one roof had I seen so many big chests, tiny waists, and long manes of lustrous hair. And that’s just the guys.
Wendy took me everywhere. The racquetball courts where Type A-Plusses were cheerfully going for each other’s jugulars. The Olympic-sized swimming pool where the phrase “swimming with sharks” was undoubtedly coined. The equipment room with StairMasters as far as the eye could see. The plushly carpeted aerobics classes where anorexic women were burning off their last remaining ounces of fat. And the Smoothie Bar where blenders whirred to a disco beat. There was also, unbelievably, a real bar. With actual alcohol. Somehow that didn’t quite jibe with the carrot-juice-and-green-tea feel of the place, but I for one liked the idea of kicking back after a grueling workout with a frosty margarita. Which is why I for one have thighs the size of ham hocks.
After a pit stop at the ladies’ locker room, where I saw more silicone than Dow Chemical produces in a decade, we headed back to Wendy’s office.
“So, what do you think?” she asked when we were sitting across from each other in her all-beige office.
“It’s every bit as nice as Stacy told me it would be,” I said, carefully piloting the conversation.
“Stacy?”
“Stacy Lawrence,” I said solemnly. “The aerobics instructor who was murdered. Poor Stacy was a client of mine.”
“A client?”
“I’m an attorney.” Good heavens! Would my runaway lying streak never end?
“Really? How interesting.”
The dollar signs were now sparkling in Wendy’s eyes. She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a contract, confident she had just reeled in a live one.
“Poor Stacy,” I said. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”
Wendy did a very good imitation of someone who actually gave a damn. “I know. It’s a tragedy.” She shook her head sadly. Then, after a suitable interval of about one millionth of a second, she rallied and asked, “So. Will you be paying for your membership by check or credit card?”
“Stacy was such a wonderful person,” I sighed, determined not to be sidetracked.
“Oh, yes,” Wendy chimed in, with all the sincerity of a campaign promise. “Stacy was one of the most admired and beloved instructors here at the Club.”
As Wendy spoke, I was reminded of the movie The Manchurian Candidate, where Frank Sinatra has been brainwashed into saying wonderful things about Laurence Harvey, a guy he really hates. Whenever Sinatra praises Harvey, he speaks in a wooden monotone, a glazed look in his eyes. Wendy had that exact same expression when singing Stacy’s praises. I’d have bet my bottom dollar, which was none too far away, that she didn’t mean a word of it.
“Of course, you don’t have to pay the membership fee in one lump sum. We can break it out in installments if you’d prefer.”
“Actually, I’m not sure I’m ready to join right now.”
An icy chill descended in the room.
“Oh?”
I rummaged in my purse and pulled out an LA Sports Club ad I’d clipped from Los Angeles Magazine, offering a free trial workout to prospective members.
“I think I’d like to try one of these trial workouts first.”
“Fine,” Wendy chirped, conceding defeat, but only temporarily. “When shall I schedule you? How about Thursday afternoon? We’ve got Beginner’s Stretch at 3 P.M. That should be just right for you.”
She obviously had me pegged for the out-of-shape puffball that I was.
“Actually, Stacy often talked to me about another aerobics instructor who worked here. Said she was terrific. I’d really like to be in one of her classes. I can’t quite remember her name, though. I think it was Iris or Violet. Some sort of flower name.”
“Oh, you must mean Jasmine.”
“That’s it. Jasmine.”
“But Jasmine teaches the advanced workout. That class will be far too strenuous for you.”
“Oh, no,” I protested. “I’m in much better shape than I look.”
Wendy believed that one about as much as I did.
“It meets Thursday at 8 A.M.”
“Sounds great. I’ll be there.”
We exchanged smiley good-byes and I headed out of her office, past the receptionist with the British accent, and into the street, where I was happy to see there were still a few fat people left in the world.
Chapter Eight
On my way back from the gym, I swung by Bentley Gardens, hoping to get a chance to speak with Stacy’s neighbors—the Garibaldis and Janet Yoshida.
Luckily, I caught them in. Mr. and Mrs. Garibaldi were exactly as Cameron described them: a frail couple in their eighties who no doubt got winded brushing their teeth. No way could they have bludgeoned Stacy to death. They had trouble enough just answering the door.
I handed them the same line I’d given Daryush, that I was a reporter from The New York Times. By now I was beginning to believe it myself. I almost wanted to take out a subscription so I could see my byline on the front page.
“The New York Times!” Mrs. Garibaldi cooed. “Imagine that. Your parents must be so proud! Come in. Have a nectarine.”
She took me by the elbow and led me into their living room.
“You know Oprah?” Mr. Garibaldi asked.
Mrs. Garibaldi shot him a look. “Now why would she know Oprah?”
“I don’t know. She comes from New York. I just thought she might know Oprah.”
“Of course she doesn’t know Oprah.”
“How about Rosie? You know Rosie?”
I assured Mr. Garibaldi that I didn’t know Oprah or Rosie. Or Regis. Or Montel. Or Eddie, the dog on Frasier. Then I asked them if they’d seen or heard anything suspicious the night of the murder.
“Not a thing,” said Mrs. Garibaldi.
“We usually turn down our hearing aids after Jeopardy,” Mr. Garibaldi explained.
After promising I’d send them a copy of my story, I thanked the Garibaldis for their time, and their nectarine, and headed down the courtyard to visit Janet Yoshida, the UCLA med student.
Janet was a slip of a thing with a waist the size of my kneecap. She was studying for an anatomy exam when I knocked on the door. Peering out at me from behind thick tortoise-rimmed glasses, she looked about as capable of murder as Mother Teresa. She, too, had seen nothing and heard nothing the night of the murder.
I left her to her textbooks and headed home to get ready for my date with Cameron.
I kept telling myself it was no big deal, just a simple movie date with a platonic acquaintance. Nothing to get into a lather over.
Yeah, right. Four hours later, my bedroom was a shambles. Clothes strewn everywhere. Why was everything so damn tight? One of these days, I really had to switch dry cleaners. They were obviously shrinking my clothes with inferior cleaning fluids.
Finally, after trying on enough clothing to start my own department store, I decided on the same outfit I’d started off with—a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I corralled my mop into a ponytail, spritzed myself with Jean Naté, and broke out a pair of suede boots I’d been saving for a special occasion.
Cameron picked me up at seven, his blue eyes crinkling, looking very J. Crew in chinos and a chambray shirt. I found myself wondering how he’d look in something a tad more formal—like a wedding tuxedo.
“What an interesting place you’ve got,” he said, looking around my apartment.
I have to admit, it does have a certain carefree Ikea-ish charm.
“And who’s this?” he asked, as Prozac circled his ankles like a lovestruck teenager.
“That’s Prozac, my significant other.”
“What a doll,” he said, scooping her up in his arms.
“She hates strangers,” I warned him. “Don’t be surprised if she scratches.”
Then, before my astonished eyes, Prozac—the same cat who barely acknowledges my existence—started licking Cameron’s face with all the abandon of an X-rated movie star. I’m surprised she didn’t give him a hickey.
I watched, incredulous, as she lay cuddled in Cameron’s arms, licking his face and purring in ecstasy.
God, how I envied her.
Marian’s movie was a 1945 RKO musical about two sisters who go to Miami to meet rich husbands. Marian played a hatcheck girl. Not exactly a starring role. But she had a few funny lines, and she knew how to deliver them. The mostly gay audience laughed out loud at her zingers. I could see why Cameron had liked her so much; she looked like she’d be a lot of fun.
Now we were sitting in a coffeehouse called Garland’s, in the heart of the distinctly gay district of Silver Lake. The place was loaded with good-looking guys, several of whom had their eyes on Cameron.
Our waitress was a twenty-something sprite with an orange buzz cut and a nose the size of a cherry pit.
“Look at that nose,” Cameron whispered. “It’s got to be a nose job.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Looks to me like she was born with it.”
“Okay, I’ll ask her,” he said, and motioned to her. “Oh, waitress!”
; “Cameron, what are you doing? You can’t ask someone if she’s had a nose job.”
“And I don’t think those breasts are hers, either.”
“You’re not going to ask her about them, too?”
“C’mon, this is L.A. She won’t mind.”
“Hi, guys!” The waitress came bopping up to our table. I was too embarrassed to even look at her.
“Look,” Cameron began, “I was wondering . . .”
“Yes?”
“Could we have some refills on our espressos?”
“Sure thing, guys.”
She bounced off, and Cameron grinned at me. “Gotcha.”
“Oh, you! You really had me going.”
And he really did have me going. I couldn’t help myself. He was just so darn cute.
“Well, you’re sure an easy mark,” he was saying to me. “Hope you’re not so gullible on the force.”
“The force? What force?”
“The police force.”
“Oh, right.”
He shot me a look.
“You’re not really a cop, are you?”
“Oh, fudge. I screwed that one up, didn’t I? No, I’m not really a cop.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“What gave me away?”
“Well, for starters,” he said, “Elaine told me about your Bloomingdale’s press card.”
“I should have figured that maybe you two would compare notes.”
“And besides, I don’t think cops go around saying, ‘Oh, fudge.’”
“Yeah, I guess it’s not their F-word of choice.”
He took a bite of his biscotti. I’d long since finished mine. I’d started out nibbling daintily, hoping Cameron would think I was one of those frail little things who eat like a bird. But somewhere around the fifth nibble, I forgot to be dainty and snarfed them down like a longshoreman.
“Elaine tells me you’re a writer.”
“Guilty as charged.”
“She says you’re trying to get this Murdoch guy off the hook.”
“I just can’t believe he killed Stacy.”
“The cops do.”
