by Laura Levine
“Cops have been known to make mistakes. Just ask Rodney King.”
“Point taken,” he said. He still had two biscotti left on his plate. I had to sit on my hands to keep myself from grabbing one.
“But be careful, okay? This detective stuff sounds kind of dangerous.”
“I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s actually sort of exciting. And to be perfectly honest,” I said, surprised at my own candor, “I could use a little excitement in my life right now.”
He looked up, interested.
“Things a little on the blah side?”
“Terminally.”
“Same here.”
Really? There was a story behind that remark, one that I was dying to hear.
He picked up one of his biscotti, and then put it down with a sigh. “I’ve just been through a pretty messy breakup, and I’ve been spending way too much time staring at the walls.”
A breakup. So that’s why he was alone on Valentine’s Day. Who did he break up with, I wondered. A girl? A guy? I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking. And I don’t mind telling you I was getting pretty uncomfortable, biting my tongue and sitting on my now-numb hands.
“So,” he said, grinning mischievously. “You’re looking for excitement. I’m looking for excitement. What should we do about it?”
I had a million ideas, none of which I can repeat in a family murder mystery.
“I know,” he said. “Let’s go get some margaritas.”
Margaritas? What did that mean? Did he want to ply me with tequila so he could take me back to his place and ravish me? Or did he simply want a drink?
Stick around. You’ll find out.
Chapter Nine
We polished off a pitcher of margaritas at a bar down the street. I was hoping Cameron would tell me more about his ex, but we spent the whole time talking about movies. The ones we loved. (Gone with the Wind. Rosemary’s Baby. Shadow of a Doubt.) And the ones we hated. (The English Patient. Runaway Bride. And the complete oeuvre of Pauly Shore.)
Cameron kept his hands to himself and made no romantic moves whatsoever. The whole thing was strictly PG-13.
At 2 A.M., we licked the last of the salt from our margarita glasses, and Cameron drove me back to my place. He insisted on walking me to my door. For a foolish instant, I got excited. He could have just dropped me off at the curb. Did this mean he wanted to ravish me, after all? For the first time in more years than I could remember, I felt stirrings in the vicinity of my G spot.
“This was fun,” he said, as we stood at my doorstep.
I stood there tentatively, hoping for a kiss. A hug. Anything involving body contact. But all I got was a crinkly-eyed smile.
“Well, see ya,” he said, and started down the path toward his car. As he passed Lance’s apartment, I saw Lance at the window, eyeing Cameron with interest.
“Take a number, Lance,” I muttered, as I headed off to bed.
I woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed, my head throbbing like an angry rap tune. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Prozac sitting on my chest, demanding to be fed.
As I hauled myself out of bed and staggered into the kitchen, I made a vow: No more margaritas after 11 P.M. Ever. No exceptions. Except maybe if I have them with burritos to absorb the alcohol.
I gave Prozac her breakfast, a smelly can of fish innards optimistically called Shrimp, Cod and Sole Souffle. She pounced on it with gusto, practically inhaling the stuff. You’d think she hadn’t eaten for a week.
Trying to ignore the fish fumes, I started to put up some water for coffee. And then suddenly I remembered: My 8 A.M. aerobics class at the LA Sports Club. I looked at the clock: Seven thirty-five.
I tore into my bedroom and threw on a pair of sweats. I’d change into my workout gear at the gym. I grabbed a moldy old leotard that I’d bought for a yoga class at the Y. I’d gone to the class only twice. Unfortunately, I had to drop out to cope with an ever-expanding workload. (Okay, so I dropped out to watch Seinfeld reruns.)
I was on my way out the door when the phone rang. I let the machine take it. It was an angry client, wondering whatever happened to the brochure I was supposed to be writing for his company (“E-Mail Etiquette and You”). Just one of several projects I’d been neglecting lately. I vowed to myself I’d work on it as soon as I got back from the aerobics class.
I strapped myself into my Corolla and made my way over to the Sports Club, wishing I’d had time for a cup of coffee and a liposuction. I dreaded having to expose my flab to an aerobics class full of Barbies and Kens.
Miraculously, I made it to the club with five minutes to spare. I showed my Guest Pass to the receptionist with the snooty British accent and girded my loins for the humiliation that was sure to befall me in Advanced Aerobics.
The less said about the whole ordeal the better. I was straining and puffing like I’d never strained and puffed before. And that was just getting my leotards on over my hips.
Jasmine Manning was an exotic beauty with olive skin, startling green eyes, and a waterfall of chestnut curls cascading down her back. It was hard to believe Stacy could have stolen a man away from her.
Jasmine led the class with unbounded energy—part cheerleader, part Marine drill sergeant. My fellow classmates, with their washboard abs and buns of steel, had no trouble keeping up with her. I, on the other hand, with my jello thighs and marshmallow tummy, felt like every breath might possibly be my last. The only parts of my body I managed to move with ease were my eyelids.
Trust me. It was not a pretty picture. My thighs were rubbing together so badly, I was afraid they were going to set my leggings on fire.
But eventually the torture ended, and I hobbled over to Jasmine. I was sweating like a pig, and she was fresh as a daisy, smelling softly of jasmine. How clever of her, I thought, to smell like her name.
“Great class,” I managed to gasp.
“Are you all right?” she asked, eyeing me with concern. “Can I get you a glass of water?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” I assured her, wondering if I’d ever be able to breathe normally again.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m fine. Really. But I need to talk to you.”
“Sure.” She flashed me a bubbly smile. “About what?”
“Stacy Lawrence.”
Suddenly the bubbles went flat.
“What about her?”
“You know she was murdered?”
“Yeah,” she said, not exactly grief-stricken.
“I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Are you from the police?”
“No, I’m an attorney.” I liked being an attorney with Wendy, the Barracuda Saleslady, so I thought I’d try it again. “I represent Clive Murdoch.”
“Who’s that?”
A person I just made up. But, hey. She didn’t know that.
“The father of the young man who was arrested for Stacy’s murder. Mr. Murdoch believes that his son has been falsely arrested and has hired me to try and find out who committed the crime.”
“I’m sorry,” she said coolly, “but I really can’t help you.”
She tossed her curls and turned to go.
“Mr. Murdoch is a very rich man,” I called after her. “He’s offering a reward of $100,000 for any information leading to the arrest of the real murderer.”
She stopped in her tracks.
“Let’s go have a smoothie,” she said.
The bubbles were back.
Every muscle of my body screeching in protest, I somehow managed to hoist myself onto a stool at the Smoothie Bar. Jasmine slid onto hers like syrup on a stack of pancakes. Throwing calorie caution to the winds, I ordered a thick concoction of bananas, yogurt, and chocolate syrup called a Banana Blast. Jasmine ordered a strawberry smoothie, which she sipped one milligram at a time.
“So,” I said, after I’d sucked up half my drink in a single gulp, “tell me about Stacy. Did you like her?”
“Sure. Stacy wa
s great.” It was Frank Sinatra in The Manchurian Candidate all over again. “I liked her a lot.”
“In spite of the fact that she stole your boyfriend?”
Jasmine stirred her smoothie cautiously.
“Who told you that?”
“I have my sources.”
“Okay, so I didn’t like her. Nobody did. She was an arrogant, self-centered bitch. But that doesn’t mean I killed her.”
“Of course not. I don’t for a minute think you had anything to do with her death,” I lied.
Jasmine took a mini-sip of her smoothie, somewhat mollified.
“But just for the record, where were you the night of the murder?”
“If you must know,” she sniffed, huffy again, “I was home alone, exfoliating.”
“Exfoliating?”
“Leg wax, bikini wax, eyebrow shaping. Once a month I devote an evening to getting rid of unwanted hair.”
My mind boggled. If a stunner like Jasmine was home waxing her loins on Valentine’s Day, what hope was there for mere mortals like me and Elaine Zimmer?
“Do you have any idea who might have killed Stacy?”
She took a deep breath, clearly reluctant to speak.
“I probably shouldn’t be talking to you like this, but I could really use that hundred thousand.”
“Go on,” I urged.
“Well,” she sighed, “it could be Andy.”
“Andy?”
“Andy Bruckner. Stacy’s boyfriend. My ex.”
Ah, the hotshot agent Cameron had told me about. I recognized his name. Andy Bruckner was a major player in Hollywood, a partner at Creative Talent, one of the most powerful agencies in town. CTA represented an impressive roster of directors and writers, the kind of people who earn more money in a year than your average third-world country.
“I think Stacy may have been blackmailing Andy,” Jasmine said.
“What makes you say that?”
“It’s just a feeling I have. These past few months, Stacy seemed to be buying a lot of expensive things. Diamond earrings. A new stereo. She even bragged that Andy was going to buy her a BMW.”
“How do you know Andy didn’t give those to her as gifts?”
“Hey, I dated the guy. Andy will spring for dinner and an occasional cashmere sweater. But that’s about it. You don’t date a guy like Andy Bruckner for gifts.”
“What do you date him for?”
All of you out there who think she’s about to say “love” or “affection” or “intellectual stimulation,” go straight to the back of the class and put on your dunce caps.
“You date him for contacts. Andy knows every producer on every lot in Hollywood.”
“But what did Stacy have on Andy to blackmail him with?”
“She probably threatened to tell his wife about their affair.”
“Andy’s married?”
“Of course. They all are,” she said plaintively. “Before Andy was cheating on me with Stacy, he was cheating on his wife with me. Of course, he was still cheating on his wife when he was cheating on me with Stacy. . . .”
Ah, what a tangled web we weave when we’re a lecherous agent with a penchant for pretty young things.
“Isn’t it possible that Andy might have decided to leave his wife for Stacy? Or that his wife knew about his cheating, and didn’t care?”
“No, it’s not possible,” Jasmine said firmly. “Andy likes to fool around, but he’d never give up his wife.”
“Why?”
“Catherine Owens Bruckner is old L.A. money. Tall, cool, beautiful. Very WASPier-than-thou. She’s a Jewish-boy-from-Brooklyn’s dream come true. The perfect trophy wife. He’d never give her up.”
“He wouldn’t trade her in for someone younger and firmer?”
“No way. Andy likes being part of Catherine’s Old Money world. Besides, the alimony payments would kill him.”
“How touching,” I said, slurping down the last of my Banana Blast.
“So maybe Andy killed Stacy to shut her up,” Jasmine opined.
Maybe, indeed.
“Well, I’d better go,” she said, sliding down from her stool. “Or I’ll be late for my next class.”
“Thanks for all your help, Jasmine.”
She gazed at me coolly.
“I can be very helpful for a hundred grand.” With a final toss of her curls, she headed back to her torture chamber.
Alone at the bar, I eyed Jasmine’s smoothie. She’d barely made a dent in it. I was just about to plunk my straw into its frothy pink foam when I felt someone tap me on my shoulder. I whirled around. It was Jasmine. Yikes, how embarrassing.
“Uh, I hope you don’t mind my finishing your smoothie.” I blushed. “I thought you were through with it.”
“That’s okay. Help yourself. I just came back to tell you that Andy is over there.” She pointed to a thin, muscular guy standing at the reception desk. Of course, ninety percent of the guys at the Sports Club are thin and muscular. This one had curly brown hair and a decidedly flirtatious manner.
He leaned over and whispered something to the snooty British receptionist. She burst out in a spasm of giggles. “Oh, Mr. Bruckner!” she cooed.
“Later, babe.” He shot her a smile that was meant to be devastating and started for the exit.
I regretfully abandoned Jasmine’s smoothie and hurried after him.
But just as I reached the exit turnstile, who should pop up in my path but Wendy “The Barracuda” Northrup.
“Ms. Austen!” she said, blocking my exit. “Why don’t you come with me to my office, and we can sign those contracts?”
“I’d love to,” I lied, “but I’m due in court.”
I snaked past her and slipped through the turnstile.
“When can I expect to see you?” she shouted after me.
“When hell freezes over,” I muttered under my breath.
I dashed out into the street, just in time to see Andy Bruckner driving away in a black BMW.
Chapter Ten
The first thing I did when I got home from the Sports Club was head for the bathtub.
I don’t know about you, but I get some of my best thinking done in the tub. The tub is where I come up with handy euphemisms for my clients’ resumes and figure out the answers to stubborn crossword puzzle clues. It’s where I make Major Life Decisions, like whether to order Chinese food or pizza for dinner.
The bathtub is where I decided to divorce The Blob. I remember lying there, staring at his shampoo and thinking that I simply could not go on living one more day with a man who washed his hair with Mr. Bubble.
Now I was stretched out in the tub, letting the heat seep into my aching muscles, thinking about Andy Bruckner’s black BMW. Didn’t Elaine Zimmer say she’d seen a black BMW parked outside Bentley Gardens the night of the murder? Was it possible that Andy was the killer? Had he murdered Stacy to put an end to her blackmail threats, as Jasmine had hinted? Or was Jasmine merely a vengeful bitch, implicating Andy to get even with him for having dumped her?
And what about Jasmine? Maybe she was the killer. Had she really been home, exfoliating, the night of the murder? Or had she been at Stacy’s place, bashing her former friend’s head with a ThighMaster? Was it a case of hell hath no fury like an aerobics instructor scorned?
I lay there pondering the possibilities and, not incidentally, wondering if I should order Chinese food or pizza for dinner. Finally, when I was as limp as The Blob on our honeymoon, I wrenched myself out of the tub and toweled off.
I thought about going to Andy Bruckner’s office at CTA, but then I remembered the phone message from my angry client, the one who was waiting for his brochure. I had to remind myself that, as much fun as I was having in the land of make-believe, I was not actually a reporter. Or a cop. Or an attorney. I was a freelance writer, with bills to pay and a voracious cat to feed.
I slung my hair back into a ponytail, got into my pajamas, and hit the computer.
For the rest
of the day, I banged away at “E-Mail Etiquette and You,” taking time out only to feed Prozac some Moist Mackerel Morsels and nuke a bag of microwave popcorn for myself.
It was dark out when I finally finished. I read over what I had written, feeling quite proud of myself. Here I’d taken a very boring subject and, in a mere nine hours, turned it into a much less boring subject. If they gave out Pulitzers for corporate brochures, I’d be a sure-fire winner.
It was with great pleasure that I faxed my client my opus. It was with even greater pleasure that I faxed him my invoice.
As if sensing my good mood, Prozac ambled over, rubbing her body against my ankles. It was just her way of saying, “Who cares about your silly brochure? Get your priorities straight. It’s time to rub my belly.”
I was in the middle of giving Prozac a vigorous belly rub when I realized that, aside from my Banana Blast and microwave popcorn and an old Altoid I’d found next to my keyboard, I hadn’t eaten anything all day. Suddenly I was hungry. Too hungry to wait for the pizza delivery guy.
I fixed myself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and a glass of milk, and hunkered down at my kitchen table with my favorite part of the newspaper—the obituaries.
I don’t know why I’m so fascinated with obituaries. I think it was George Burns who once said he read the obituaries every morning just to make sure his name wasn’t there. I’m not at that stage of life yet, but I still like to read them. I like reading about women with names like Alma and Gladys who moved out to Los Angeles back when L.A. was still a backwater town. They came here from places like Nebraska and Iowa and married their first husbands, had a bunch of kids, and maybe a job, too, and then the Second World War broke out, and they started working for the Red Cross, and eventually their first husbands died, and they met husband Number Two and possibly Number Three at their bridge clubs, and after their second and third honeymoons, they went back to work, not retiring till at least seventy and not dying till at least eighty-five, leaving a whole passel of loving kids and grandkids and great-grandkids behind.
I read those obits and think to myself, My God, what full lives those women led. And they did it without microwaves or Dustbusters or bikini waxes.
