by Laura Levine
Sometimes when I’m reading about Alma or Gladys, I think about my own life, what gaping holes there are. I ask myself: Do I really want to spend the rest of my life with Prozac as my significant other? Without a husband? Without kids? Without stretch marks? When I die, who’ll visit my grave? Whose eyes will mist with tears and remember what a nice person and lousy cook I was?
I tell myself it’s The Blob’s fault. That he’s soured me on men forever. But that isn’t true. The truth is I’m a coward. Afraid of taking a chance. Of getting hurt. It’s easier to curl up with Prozac and read the obituaries.
And so I sat there that night, scanning the death notices between bites of peanut butter and jelly, looking for long happy lives.
Instead, I found Stacy Lawrence.
There she was, between Morton Landers, Beloved Father and Grandfather, and Frieda Lipman, Cherished Aunt.
If Stacy had been beloved and cherished by anyone, it wasn’t mentioned in her obituary. The announcement was short and to the point. Stacy had passed away on the fourteenth. Funeral services would be held on the nineteenth.
The nineteenth was tomorrow, I realized, swallowing a particularly chunky mouthful of peanut butter.
I made up my mind to be there.
Stacy was laid to rest in The Vale of Peace, a sylvan glade dotted with oak trees, floral hedges, and a lovely view of the Hollywood Freeway. The minister conducting the service had to shout to be heard over the roar of the cars whizzing by.
I’d driven over from Beverly Hills and joined the small knot of mourners at Stacy’s gravesite, hoping none of them would question my right to be there.
As the minister droned on about how the Lord works in mysterious ways, I studied my fellow mourners.
A middle-aged couple, clearly Stacy’s parents, stood at the minister’s side, grim and dry-eyed. The woman was an older, faded version of Stacy. She had the hard-bitten look of a truck-stop waitress. I could tell she’d been a beauty once, but those days were a distant memory. Stacy’s father was a bloated man with an intricate web of veins on his nose and a gut that threatened to pop his shirt buttons. Neither of them showed any discernible emotion.
Were they struggling to hide their despair? Or was there simply no despair to hide? Was it possible that Stacy’s parents weren’t all that crazy about their own daughter?
Standing next to Stacy’s parents was Daryush Kolchev, the manager of Bentley Gardens. Unlike Stacy’s parents, Daryush was full of emotion. Tears misted his raisinette eyes, and periodically he dabbed at them with a none-too-clean hankie.
The other mourners were all young and good-looking. Undoubtedly Stacy’s wannabe actor friends. They stood in a semicircle around her grave, dressed trendily in black. I felt like I was at an actor’s workshop, and the class assignment had been “Grief.” Lots of deep sighs. And downcast looks. Hands demurely crossed. None of it rang true. Except maybe for the guy standing next to me, an ebony-haired hunk with a tasteful gold hoop in one ear. He was crying uncontrollably, tears streaming down his cheeks and glop running from his nose. It wasn’t pretty, but I had a feeling those tears were genuine.
The minister went on fighting the roar of the freeway, shouting out nice things about a young woman he probably didn’t know.
Somewhere between the eulogy and the Lord’s Prayer, I happened to glance over at a nearby oak tree. Standing there, apart from the crowd, was a well-dressed man in a raincoat and sunglasses. I could have sworn I’d seen him someplace before. And I had. It took me a minute or two to figure it out, but then it came to me. It was Andy Bruckner.
What was Andy Bruckner doing at Stacy’s funeral? Surely he’d want to try and keep a low profile where Stacy was concerned. Maybe he was crazy in love with her and came to pay his respects. Or maybe he killed her and came to make sure she was really dead.
The possibilities buzzed in my head like flies in an outhouse. This detective stuff was hard work. I was beginning to wonder how Kinsey Millhone ever managed to make it to the letter B, when suddenly the sobbing young man next to me whirled around and shouted, “You killed her!”
He was pointing straight at me.
Everyone was staring at me. I felt like a thug in a police lineup.
“I assure you, I had nothing to do with Ms. Lawrence’s death—”
But the hunk didn’t hear a word I was saying. Instead, he stormed past me, over to where Andy was standing.
I breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been pointing at me, after all. Tears still streaming down his cheeks, he lunged at Andy, shouting, “You sonofabitch! If it weren’t for you, Stacy would be alive today!”
I turned to one of my fellow mourners, a pretty young thing with purple hair and a diamond stud in her left nostril.
“Who is that guy?” I asked her.
“Devon MacRae,” she said. “Stacy’s ex-boyfriend.”
Aha. Probably the hunk Cameron had seen with Stacy at the Bentley Gardens swimming pool.
Several of the black-clad actor wannabes now sprang into action and pulled Devon away from Andy. Andy picked up his sunglasses, which had fallen to the ground in the scuffle. He put them on and turned to the rest of us, trying his best to look as if he hadn’t been scared out of his wits.
“Drunk,” he said dismissively of his attacker.
It was true. I’d gotten a whiff of Devon’s breath. There’d been enough gin on it to make a pitcher of martinis.
By now The Vale of Peace security guards had come on the scene and had Devon MacRae in custody.
Very interesting, I thought, as they dragged him away, still screaming curses at Andy. Stacy’s ex-boyfriend was a violent man. With a bad temper. And a penchant for booze.
Sure seemed like a hot suspect to me.
Poor Stacy was forgotten in the aftermath of Devon MacRae’s outburst. The beautiful young things dropped their mourning poses and huddled together, buzzing about the scene they’d just witnessed.
I walked over to where they were standing.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do any of you know how I can get in touch with Devon MacRae?”
They looked at me coolly. The gal with the purple hair finally piped up. “Last I heard, he was parking cars at Palmetto.”
Palmetto—for those of you with better things to do with your life than keep up with Hollywood status symbols—is a mega-trendy L.A. restaurant where the elite meet to bullshit each other over Chinese chicken salads. I made a mental note to stop by and sully their parking lot with my lowly Toyota.
“Thanks,” I smiled at my purple-haired friend.
I was just about to turn away when Daryush came bustling over.
“Such a tragedy,” he said, taking out his hankie and honking his nose. Now I’ve never actually heard a duck in heat, but I imagine it would sound a lot like Daryush blowing his nose. A few of the pretty young things looked over at us and giggled.
“And that crazy boyfriend of hers,” he sniffled, “making such a scene. Shame on him.”
I murmured a sympathetic “hmmm.”
“So. You still working on story for New York Times?”
“Yes,” I nodded, in my most investigative reporter-ish mode.
Daryush turned to the pretty young things. “This lady,” he informed them proudly, “is reporter from New York Times.”
Suddenly, they were all smiles.
All at once, it seemed like everyone was handing me flyers for upcoming equity-waiver productions. “I’m doing Hedda Gabler at the Glendale playhouse,” said the girl with the purple hair. “I hope you can make it.”
“I’m doing King Lear at a Lutheran potluck dinner,” said another, thrusting his flyer into my face.
“I’m doing a one-woman show about my life as a salesclerk at The Gap.”
Busy little bees, weren’t they?
I finally managed to wrench myself away from my new best friends and headed over to the parking lot, Daryush at my side.
“So,” I said as we walked along, “I see your wife co
uldn’t make it.”
Daryush shifted uncomfortably.
“No. Unfortunately Yetta could not come.”
Why did I get the feeling that there’d been no love lost between Yetta and Stacy?
“You be sure and send me your story,” Daryush said as he climbed into a dirty white van.
“I will. Don’t worry.”
I was watching him drive away, wondering if it were at all possible that Yetta had offed Stacy, when I heard a seductive, “Hi, there.”
I turned and saw Andy Bruckner, flashing me a high-wattage smile. “I hear you’re with The New York Times.”
“Uh . . . right.”
“And that you’re doing a story about Stacy’s murder.”
I nodded.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. . . ?”
I thought about telling him I was Maureen Dowd, but I figured he might actually know the real Maureen Dowd. So I reluctantly went with the truth.
“Austen. Jaine Austen.”
And before he could say, “Love your books,” I quickly added, “No relation.”
“I’m Andy Bruckner of CTA. Perhaps you’ve heard of my agency.”
“Of course, Mr. Bruckner.”
“Look, Ms. Austen, I hope you won’t misinterpret what happened back there. Devon MacRae is a very unstable young man.”
“I could see that.”
“I just hope you don’t get the wrong idea about Stacy and me. Our relationship was strictly business. Stacy Lawrence was a client of the agency. Nothing more.”
I nodded as if I actually believed him.
“So I’d appreciate it if you could keep my name out of your story.” He flashed me another smile, half-flirting, half-fawning.
“Sorry, Mr. Bruckner. I can’t promise that.”
For a fleeting instant, I could see a glint of anger in his eyes. But he quickly blinked it away. “You know,” he said, just a little too casually, “we’re always looking for new writers at CTA.”
“Is that so?”
“You have any movie ideas in that pretty head of yours?”
Good Lord. The guy was about as subtle as a Mack truck.
“Not really.”
“Why don’t you come to my office, and we’ll kick some around? Paramount’s looking for romantic comedies. I bet you’d be good at that.”
“Really, Mr. Bruckner, I know nothing about making movies.”
“That’s never stopped anyone before. So how about it. Tomorrow, at four?”
“Okay,” I said. “Fine.”
“Here’s my card.”
He handed me his card, with a wink. The same wink he gave to the receptionist at the Sports Club. Then he got in his BMW and drove off.
I realized, of course, that Andy Bruckner had just offered me a whopper of a bribe. If I kept him out of my “story,” he’d get me a movie deal. And those movie deals, I knew, could run well into six figures.
I have to admit, I was surprised. Not that he bribed me. After all, this was Hollywood.
No, the surprising thing was that I was actually wondering if I could come up with a movie idea by four o’clock tomorrow.
Chapter Eleven
I drove home, fantasizing all the way.
What if I took Andy up on his offer? What if I came up with a blockbuster movie? Of course, eventually Andy would figure out that I wasn’t really with The New York Times. But by then, maybe he’d be so in love with my idea that he’d let bygones be bygones and go ahead with the project anyway. Maybe he’d take it to a major studio, and they’d greenlight it at the first pitch meeting, and he’d get me hundreds of thousands of dollars. Maybe even millions.
By the time I pulled up in front of my duplex, I was mentally living at the beach in Malibu, best friends with Babs Streisand, driving a pale blue Jaguar, and married to Mel Gibson.
I was halfway up the path to my apartment, planning my wedding to Mel, when Lance Venable stuck his head out his front door.
“Your phone’s been ringing all morning,” he said, exasperated.
“That’s what telephones usually do,” I said, as calmly as I could.
“Can’t you turn off the ringer when you’re gone? You know how thin the walls are.”
The guy was impossible. I’m surprised he didn’t cry when I peeled an onion. “Okay,” I sighed. “I’ll try to remember.”
I let myself into my apartment and checked out my answering machine. Two itsy-bitsy messages. That’s Lance’s idea of ringing off the hook. One was a wrong number, and the other was from Cameron. I got a squishy feeling in the pit of my stomach when I heard his voice on the machine. I tried to tell myself it was just indigestion, but I knew better. I was falling for the guy.
“Hi, Jaine. It’s Cameron. You free for dinner tonight? Call me at work. 555-4849.”
My heart leapt. He wanted to have dinner. Unlike our trip to see Marian’s movie (where I’d paid for my own ticket), this sounded like a real date to me. True, Cameron was probably gay. But I didn’t know that for sure. Maybe he was ambivalent about his sexuality. Maybe all it would take to turn the tide was the love of a good woman with a kind heart and generous thighs.
I let myself slide into fantasyland again. Forget Malibu and Mel Gibson. This time, it was me and Cameron honeymooning in Bermuda. There we were on the balcony of our oceanfront hotel suite, the waves lapping gently on the shore beneath us, the balmy night air fragrant with hibiscus or gardenia or whatever it is that blooms in Bermuda. We’d been out all night, dining and dancing under the stars. Now we were back in our five-star suite, alone at last, our bodies aching with desire. And just as Cameron was about to tear off my nightie in a passionate frenzy, my telephone had the nerve to ring.
I whipped it from the receiver angrily. “Yes?” I snapped.
“Ms. Austen, this is Detective Rea, L.A. Police.”
There was an edge to his voice that I didn’t like.
“You don’t really work for The New York Times, do you, Ms. Austen?”
“Well, no.”
“Daryush Kolchev seems to be under the impression that you do.”
“Really?”
“Apparently you told him you were a reporter with that publication. What’s more, you told Wendy Northrop at the Sports Club that you were a lawyer. What next? A medical degree?”
“I was just trying to get some information that might lead to the arrest of the real murderer.”
“We’ve already got the real murderer. And his name is Howard Murdoch.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Did you know Andy Bruckner was having an affair with Stacy Lawrence? And she may have been blackmailing him? That sure sounds like a motive for murder to me.”
So there, Mr. Smarty Pants!
“Did you know,” he countered, “that Andy Bruckner has an ironclad alibi for the night of the murder?”
Ooops.
“He was working late in his office, and his assistant was with him the entire time.”
Phooey.
“What about a hit man? He could have hired a hit man, couldn’t he?”
“Look, Ms. Austen. I’ve been very patient with you. But my patience is running out. Leave the detective work to the police. Believe it or not, we know what we’re doing.”
“Yeah, right. That’s why O.J. Simpson is spending the rest of his life playing golf in Florida.”
And that’s when he hung up on me.
“It was lovely talking to you, too,” I said to the dead phone line. What an unpleasant man, I thought, as I headed to the kitchen to fix myself some lunch.
Much to my disappointment, a roast-beef sandwich on rye had not miraculously materialized in my refrigerator since the last time I’d looked. I rummaged around in my cupboards and managed to unearth a free sample of cereal that had been left at my front door weeks ago, along with my morning paper. I dug into my Honey Wheat Frosted Sugar Pops with gusto, trying to ignore the fact that I was out of milk and eating them dry.
I stretc
hed out on the sofa, dropping Sugar Pops into my open mouth. Funny, what Detective Rea had said about Andy working late the night of the murder. Why wasn’t he home with his wife? After all, the murder had been committed on Valentine’s Day, the most romantic day of the year. Was there trouble in the Bruckner household? And did that trouble have anything to do with Stacy Lawrence?
I was just polishing off the last of the Sugar Pops when I remembered Cameron’s message.
“Can you believe it?” I said to Prozac, who was napping on top of the bookcase. “An attractive man actually wants to take me to dinner.”
Ever the empathetic companion, Prozac yawned and went back to sleep.
I called Cameron’s number at the antiques shop. Now remember, I told myself as the phone rang, Play it cool. Don’t sound too eager. Men like a challenge.
Cameron answered the phone. “Cameron’s.”
“Hi, Cameron,” I yapped, like an eager puppy. “It’s Jaine. I got your message. I’d love to have dinner with you! What a wonderful idea.”
Am I hopeless or what?
“That’s great.”
Then I remembered: I had a class that night at the Shalom Retirement Center.
“But I can’t,” I sighed. “I’ve got to teach tonight.”
“I didn’t know you were a teacher.”
“Yes, I teach a memoir-writing class to senior citizens.”
“That sounds like a hoot. Can I come?”
“Of course you can come! What a fantastic idea!”
Obviously the concept of “playing it cool” was way beyond my grasp.
Cameron said he’d pick me up, and that we could stop off somewhere for a burger before class. I hung up and did a little happy dance, scaring the bejesus out of Prozac, who stared at me wide-eyed from her perch on top of the bookshelf. I kept it up, dancing on my toes, leaping like a crazed ballerina, until Lance started banging on our shared wall.
“Keep it down in there, willya?”
“No problem!” I sang out.
I had a date with Cameron, and nothing was going to bust my bubble.
Or so I thought.
Cameron picked me up at six. Once again, I’d gone through half my wardrobe trying to decide what to wear. This time, I’d chosen black crepe slacks from Ann Taylor and a luscious ecru silk blouse I’d bought on sale at Nordstrom.
