This Pen for Hire

by Laura Levine

  “Hi,” he grinned. “You sleep okay?”

  “Great,” I said. “How about you?”

  “Fine.”

  “It was awfully nice of you to give up your bed.”

  “No problem,” he said, stretching lazily and giving me a lovely view of his thighs. “What can I get you for breakfast?”

  “Oh, no. Let me cook you breakfast. It’s the least I can do.”

  “Okay,” he smiled. “Help yourself.” He pointed me in the direction of the kitchen. “I’ve got eggs and bacon and English muffins and oatmeal and bananas.” I couldn’t help but be impressed. My breakfast menu back home consisted of Cheerios and Pop-Tarts.

  “What would you like?” I asked him.

  “Surprise me.”

  I headed for the kitchen, suddenly panicked. Had I lost my mind, offering to actually cook something that couldn’t be heated up in the microwave? Oh, well, I told myself, I’d just fry up some eggs. How bad could they be?

  As it turned out, astoundingly bad. Think Cher-noble.

  I just assumed that Cameron’s fry pan was non-stick, but it wasn’t, and before I knew it the eggs were permanently bonded to the pan. In a panic I hacked away at them, scraping off as much as I could, and tossing the blackened remains down the garbage disposal.

  “How’s everything going in there?” Cameron called from the living room.

  “Fine, just fine.”

  At which point, my English muffins popped up out of the toaster, two charred lumps of coal.

  I mashed them down the garbage disposal, too. “By the way, don’t use the garbage disposal. It’s broken.”

  Oh, Christ.

  Suddenly Cameron was standing there in the doorway. Staring at the clouds of smoke hovering over the kitchen.

  “Having trouble?” he asked with a glint of a smile.

  “I’m sorry,” I confessed. “I burnt the eggs. And the English muffins. And I put them down the garbage disposal.”

  He sat me down at the kitchen table before I could do any more damage, and then proceeded to whip up bacon and eggs with consummate ease. He was going to make some lucky woman a wonderful wife.

  Due to the massive clouds of smoke in the kitchen, we decided to eat our breakfast in the living room. We settled down on the sofa, balancing our plates on our laps.

  The bacon and eggs were deelish. At first I tried to peck at them daintily, like a skinny Audrey Hepburnish dancer. But after about three bites, I gave up and wolfed everything down, like a hungry truck driver.

  I was just sopping up the last of my eggs with my English muffin when I looked up and saw Cameron watching me intently. Oh, God. What was wrong? Did I have a glob of yolk on my chest?

  “I love the way you eat,” he said. “With such gusto.”

  Translation: Gad, what a pig.

  “Most women I know just pick at their food. I hate that. Here, finish my bacon.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “No, really. I’m stuffed. Okay, maybe just a bite.” I popped the bacon in my mouth, and grinned. I couldn’t help feeling—in spite of evil BMWs and dyslexic warning notes—that all was right with the world. That all couldn’t, in fact, be any righter.

  Which was, of course, God’s cue to send in the shit. Which She did, right on schedule.

  Just as I was finishing the last of Cameron’s English muffin, the doorbell rang. Cameron disappeared down the hall to get it. I heard him open the door, and then a woman’s voice, soft and sexy.

  The next thing I knew, a willowy brunette in tight jeans and a halter top came floating into the room.

  I wiped the bacon grease from my mouth, hoping I didn’t look as houseboatish as I felt.

  “Hey, Jaine,” Cameron said, “I’d like you to meet a close friend of mine, Asa Morgen.”

  I smiled woodenly, wondering just how “close” they were.

  “Asa, this is Jaine Austen.”

  She smiled at me, taking in my pajamas and tousled hair. I could see the look of surprise in her eyes. What, she seemed to be wondering, is Cameron doing with her?

  As if in answer to her unspoken question, Cameron piped up quickly, “Jaine’s a good buddy of mine.”

  “I knew you couldn’t possibly be dating her. Not with those thighs.” Okay, she didn’t really say that, but I could tell she was thinking it.

  “Jaine, Asa is Marian Hamilton’s granddaughter.”

  It was then that I noticed her wedding ring and breathed a sigh of relief. She was married! And, I assumed, out of circulation.

  “So nice to meet you,” I cooed.

  “Can I get you some coffee, Asa?” Cameron asked.

  “No, thanks. I just stopped by to give you something.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a package wrapped in tissue paper. “Grandma left this to you in her will.” Cameron took the package from her hands and gently removed the tissue paper. “It’s a picture of her when she was under contract at RKO.”

  “I always loved this picture,” Cameron said. Then he reached over and hugged her. She hugged him back, with just a little too much enthusiasm, if you ask me.

  Finally she broke her grip on him and made some noises about having to get to the gym. Cameron walked her to the door.

  I picked up the photo of Marian, framed in a lovely silver art deco frame. It was a studio publicity still from the forties. Marian was wearing a two-piece swimsuit and leaning up against a fake palm tree, fake clouds in the sky behind her. Her blond hair sprayed out onto her shoulders, her full lips parted. It was clearly meant to be a sexy pose. But there was something about her, maybe the freckles that weren’t quite airbrushed out, or the slightly startled look in her eyes, that made her seem vulnerable and achingly innocent. I could see why Cameron was so fond of the picture.

  He came back into the room, grinning.

  “How do you like that?” he said. “I bet Asa thought we were having a thing together. Isn’t that a hoot?”

  I managed to dredge up a weak laugh. I didn’t see what was so damned hootworthy about us having a “thing” together.

  He picked up the picture of Marian and gazed at it fondly.

  “I always wanted this. I’m glad she remembered.”

  Then he placed it on the mantel of his fireplace. He stood back and admired the effect. “She was quite a woman,” he said, his eyes misting over with tears.

  Then, clearly embarrassed by his emotions, he made a big show of checking his watch.

  “Hey, look at the time. I’d better hurry if I want to open the shop by ten.” He started for the kitchen with the breakfast plates. “So, what’s on your agenda for today?”

  “I think I’ll head over to the Sports Club and talk to Jasmine. Maybe I can get her to admit that she was at Stacy’s apartment the night of the murder.”

  Cameron dropped the dishes in the sink with a clatter.

  “You’re kidding.”

  “About what?”

  “You’re not seriously going to do any more detective stuff, are you? Not after what happened last night.”

  “Of course I am.”

  “You’re nuts. What if the driver in the BMW comes after you again?”

  “Don’t you see? The whole BMW episode just proves that Howard didn’t do it. Someone is trying to scare me. The person who really killed Stacy. And I’m going to find him. Or her.”

  He shot me a look of disbelief.

  “It’s just something I have to do,” I added feebly.

  He walked over and held me by the shoulders. “Jaine, read my lips. What you’re doing is dangerous. You could get hurt. Or killed. Maybe even fatally.”

  He was right, of course. But for some reason, I wasn’t afraid. Which just goes to show what a fool I was.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Cameron and I got dressed (not together, alas) and headed out of his apartment at about ten. Cameron made me promise to at least consider giving up the investigation. And I did consider it. For all of about three an
d a half seconds.

  We walked along the courtyard, dappled with the morning sun. Birds were chirping, flowers were blooming, and the grass was as lush as Astro Turf. I stopped to look at Stacy’s apartment across the way. It was still hard to believe a murder had taken place there.

  “I think Stacy’s parents are coming this weekend to clear out her stuff,” Cameron said, following my gaze.

  “Look!” I said.

  “Where?”

  “The door. It looks like it’s open.”

  I hurried over, and sure enough, the door to Stacy’s apartment was open—just a crack.

  I peered in, eager to get a glimpse of the murder scene. I have to admit I was surprised at what I saw. I guess I expected the place to be done up in Early Malibu Barbie. With lots of turquoise pillows and conch shells and surfboards propped up against the walls.

  But it was actually rather nondescript, decorated with the kind of boring brown tweedy stuff you find at furniture rental places. The living room had no charm, no character. There was only one thing that stuck out like a sore thumb.

  And that was Daryush.

  He was standing at a desk in the living room, his Pillsbury Doughboy belly threatening to pop the buttons on his workshirt, rifling through the contents of the desk drawers. He shook his head in frustration, muttering in Russian. There was an angry set to his jaw that I’d never seen before.

  So intent was he in his search that I probably could have done a tap dance on the kitchen counter and he wouldn’t have looked up. But I wasn’t taking any chances. I backed away from the door and hurried over to where Cameron was waiting for me at the mailboxes.

  “You’ll never guess what I just saw.”

  “The ghost of Stacy Lawrence?”

  “No, Daryush.”

  “Wow, what a surprise. A building manager in the apartment of one of his tenants. Alert the media.”

  “He was snooping in Stacy’s desk.”

  “Snooping?”

  “Yes. As in frantically looking in all the drawers.”

  “Maybe he was looking for her lease.”

  “Oh, come on. Even you don’t believe that.”

  “No,” he conceded. “I guess I don’t.”

  “Stacy obviously had something Daryush wanted. The question is, did he want it badly enough to kill her?”

  “Of course not. Daryush is harmless. The guy can’t even kill a cockroach. I should know. I had to pay for my own exterminator.”

  “He didn’t look so harmless to me.”

  Cameron sighed. “You’re not going to give up this detective stuff, are you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, just promise me one thing. If anything goes wrong, if you’re in trouble, if you need anything, anything at all . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t come whining to me.”

  Of course, he was kidding. At least, I hoped he was.

  Cameron dropped me off at my place, and I hurried up the path to my apartment. I opened the front door with some trepidation and found myself staring into a pair of angry green eyes.

  Prozac’s.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she seemed to be saying. Along with “I want my breakfast!” And “I smell bacon on your breath.”

  I scooped her up in my arms and begged her to forgive me. But she just narrowed her eyes and pouted. And don’t tell me cats can’t pout. Mine does. Worse than a teenager whose nose ring gets rusty in the rain.

  I headed for the kitchen, Prozac skittering around my ankles, and opened a can of Tender Liver & Giblets Souffle.

  “Here you go, darling,” I cooed. “Breakfast.”

  Prozac shot me a dirty look.

  “Okay, if you want to nitpick—brunch.”

  While Prozac was busy inhaling her food, I looked around the apartment. Still no sign of intruders, thank goodness. I checked my answering machine, wondering if I’d received a phone threat to go along with my mail threat and freeway threat. But there was just one benign message. From Kandi, wanting to know if I was free for dinner that night. I called her back and set up a time. Then I called the Sports Club to check on Jasmine’s schedule. Fortunately, she was going to be there all afternoon.

  After a quick shower and a change of outfit, I once again scooped Prozac into my arms to kiss her good-bye.

  “Forgive me, precious lover doll?”

  She yawned in my face, her breath a powerful melange of liver and giblets.

  Some cats really know how to get even.

  I was on my way out to the Corolla when I ran into Lance, who informed me that my refrigerator’s motor was awfully loud, and could I please do something about it.

  I ground my teeth to a fine pulp. “Oh, for crying out loud, Lance. I’m sick and tired of your constant complaints. Put a sock in it, willya?”

  Okay, so I didn’t really say that. Coward that I am, I muttered something about reporting the pesky refrigerator to the landlord and escaped to my car.

  On my way over to the Sports Club, I went over my growing list of suspects: Andy, Jasmine, Elaine, Devon, and now Daryush. Just when I thought I had incriminating evidence against one suspect, another one cropped up to complicate things.

  I found Jasmine drinking mineral water at the Sports Club smoothie bar. I slipped onto the stool next to her, eyeing a piece of chocolate cheesecake in the display case.

  “Remember me?” I smiled.

  “Sure,” Jasmine said, gorging herself on a whole sip of water. “You’re Howard Murdoch’s attorney.

  Or a reporter from The New York Times. Depending on what day it is.”

  “I gather you’ve been talking with Andy Bruckner.”

  “You gather right.”

  “Look, I may not be an attorney, or a reporter, but I am investigating this case on behalf of Howard Murdoch.”

  “Bully for you,” she said, and swirled her stool so her back was facing me.

  “Can’t we please talk?”

  “You still offering a $100,000 reward?”

  “Afraid not.”

  “Then we can’t talk.”

  I decided to take a gamble.

  “I’ve got a witness who says he saw you going into Stacy’s apartment the night of the murder.” (Not true, of course, but she didn’t know that.)

  She whirled around to face me, fear creeping into her spectacular hazel eyes.

  “That’s absurd.” She tried to fake a laugh.

  “He’s prepared to sign a sworn statement to that effect.”

  Her flimsy veneer of bravado crumpled like a Tijuana face-lift.

  “Okay, I was at her apartment,” she sighed. “I stopped by to pick up a sweater she’d borrowed from me. I’d loaned it to her months ago and she never returned it. So I went over to get it. But she was alive when I left her. Honest.”

  “One of the neighbors says she heard Stacy arguing with someone.”

  Was there no end to the lies I was prepared to tell?

  “Okay, so we argued. She got a pesto stain on my sweater, and I was pissed. I still am pissed, as a matter of fact. I brought the sweater to my dry cleaners and they’re not sure they can get it out.”

  “You have my deepest sympathies.”

  “It happens to be cashmere.”

  Righteously indignant, she grabbed her water and slid off the stool.

  “Look, I don’t care if you believe me or not. When I left Stacy, she was alive and well and heading for her bedroom to take a nap. I didn’t kill her, and I’ve got nothing to be afraid of.”

  Then she tossed her mane of dark curls and stomped off.

  A very impressive performance. I was sitting there at the smoothie bar wondering whether or not to believe it when a buff young waiter came over and flashed me a blinding smile.

  “What can I get you?”

  I looked up at the chocolate cheesecake in the display case. Good Lord, after the big breakfast I’d just had, the last thing I needed was a piece of cheesecake.

&nb
sp; “Just some mineral water, please.”

  Okay, so I didn’t really say that. I ordered the cheesecake. And I ate it all, every last crumb. Are you happy now?

  I was mashing the last of the cheesecake crumbs in the tines of my fork when I felt a sudden chill at my side.

  “I’d like a word with you, Ms. Austen.”

  I turned around to face the stony gaze of Wendy “The Barracuda” Northrop. I popped a smile on my face.

  “Oh, hi there, Wendy!”

  Wendy didn’t bother to smile back.

  “I know that you’re not really an attorney, Ms. Austen.”

  “I guess word travels fast in the gym biz.”

  “We are not a gym, Ms. Austen. We are a sports club. One of the country’s premiere sports clubs, in fact, and we do not appreciate being lied to.”

  What was all this “we” stuff? Who did she think she was? Queen Victoria?

  “What you did was utterly tacky and underhanded. You really didn’t intend to join the club, did you?”

  “Not exactly, no.”

  “Well,” she sniffed. “I just want to know one thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you changed your mind?”

  “Huh?”

  “About joining. We’re having a half-yearly special. One month of free racquetball for every $3,000 membership.”

  Incroyable, n’est ce pas? Only in L.A.

  “Sounds like quite a bargain,” I said, “but I think I’ll pass.”

  Wendy’s jaws clamped together in an angry vise.

  “In that case, please leave the premises immediately.”

  “But—”

  She pointed to the exit, très dramatic.

  “Immediately!”

  I slunk out the door, a shameless sports club scofflaw, everyone within earshot of our little scene tsk-tsking in disgust.

  I headed over to the parking lot to get my car, still smarting over my public humiliation. But then I saw something that made me forget all about my encounter with The Barracuda. There, in the shadow of his BMW, Andy Bruckner was locked in a steamy embrace with a beautiful young woman. And just who was that beautiful woman?

  None other than our gal Jasmine. Now that Stacy was out of the way, it sure looked like she and Andy were an item again. Which kept her firmly entrenched on my list of suspects. According to my lightning calculations, Jasmine had the opportunity for murder. She had a motive.