by Laura Levine
The auctioneer was a tall Brit with a velvet baritone voice. He stood at a podium, next to some more Valkyrie assistants. Another bank of beauties manned a row of telephones, accepting phone bids, most likely from celebrities who didn’t want to drive up the prices by appearing in person.
The items for sale were not displayed on the premises as I had imagined they would be, but on a TV monitor next to the auctioneer.
I found Kandi in one of the back rows reading a catalogue, an auction paddle at her side. Thanks to Beanie & The Cockroach, her bank account was a lot healthier than mine.
“It’s about time,” she hissed, as I slid into the seat next to her.
“What did I miss?”
“Not much. The most hideous chair just sold for sixteen thousand dollars.”
“I don’t want to say anything,” I whispered, “but most of these guys look gay.”
“Not that one. Over there.” She nodded in the direction of a chunky guy across the aisle, in bermuda shorts and a Miami Dolphins baseball cap. Kandi was right. He didn’t look gay. He looked like a guy who’d gone out not to bid on collectibles, but for a pastrami on rye.
“Rich but unpretentious,” she said, sizing him up.
Just then he looked up at us, and smiled.
“Bingo,” Kandi whispered.
We spent the next half hour trying to look as if we were serious buyers. Every once in a while, when she was certain that there were other bidders, Kandi would raise her paddle. Each time she did, I got nervous. What if, God forbid, the other bidders backed out and she was stuck paying sixteen grand for a hideous chair? But, as she whispered to me, she wanted Mr. Pastrami to think she was a player.
Most of the items up for sale were home furnishings from the estates of bygone movie moguls. If you ask me, it was all pretty ghastly, the kind of stuff you see at your elderly aunt’s house, who hasn’t redecorated since Eisenhower was president. But hey, this was L.A. The stuff was selling for major bucks.
I was sitting there, thinking what fools these Angelinos be, when something popped up on the screen that caught my eye, the first item that I actually would have liked to own.
It was a photo of Cary Grant, in a simple silver frame. The photo had been inscribed, “With Love From Archie.” Archie Leach, as I well knew, was Cary Grant’s real name. The auctioneer said the frame was a one-of-a-kind piece and had been designed by a famous art deco designer whose name I didn’t know. The frame didn’t look so one-of-a-kind to me; I’d probably seen knock-off copies of it at K mart.
The bidding started at five thousand. Now I like Cary Grant as much as the next person, but honestly. Five thousand dollars for a picture? Kandi raised her paddle at six. Mr. Pastrami upped the bid to seven. Someone on the phone bid twenty! Twenty thousand dollars for an eight- by-ten glossy. Then, to my horror, I saw Kandi raise her paddle at twenty-five thousand. Oh, jeez, I thought, shifting uncomfortably in my seat, she’s going to be stuck this time for sure.
I needn’t have worried. Twenty-five thousand dollars was just the beginning. The bids started flying like Frisbees in Santa Monica. The pastrami guy bid thirty, one of the phone people bid sixty, and a frumpy lady in polyester bid seventy-five. Gradually, the other bidders fell by the wayside (Kandi among them, thank goodness). In the end, the frumpy lady in polyester duked it out with one of the anonymous celebs on the phone. The picture finally sold to the phone bidder for one hundred and twenty-three thousand dollars.
Kandi turned to Mr. Pastrami and shrugged philosophically, as if to say, “C’est la vie.” He flashed her a smile. She flashed him one back.
I was beginning to think that Kandi’s crazy let’s-meet-guys-at-an-auction scheme was actually working, when out of nowhere a dainty redhead with an impressive set of boobs came gliding down the aisle, a diamond on her wedding-ring finger the size of a grape. She plunked herself down next to Mr. Pastrami and kissed him on his cheek.
Kandi’s face fell. “Let’s split,” she said with a sigh.
The last thing I saw as we headed up the aisle was Mr. Pastrami putting his arm around the redhead’s shoulder and copping a feel of one of her impressive breasts.
Score one for the tits.
Kandi turned in her auction paddle to the blondes at the front desk, and we stepped out into the cool night air. We decided to drown our sorrows in burritos, so we headed down Camden to the El Torito Grill, an upscale Mexican joint with plenty of dimly lit booths, just right for girl talk.
“This is insane,” Kandi said after two frosty Cuervo margaritas were delivered to our table by our stunning actor/waitperson. “I have a good life. A great job. Lots of friends. Why am I driving myself crazy trying to meet men?”
“Sex?” I hazarded a guess.
“Oh, please. I’ve had some of my best sex with a Double A battery. I’m beginning to think that Gloria Steinem was right when she said ‘A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.’ ”
“Did Gloria Steinem say that?”
“Either her, or Ellen DeGeneres. I’m not sure. Anyhow, the point is, I’m sick of this crap. I didn’t even think that guy at the auction was cute. He was a tubby dufus that I wouldn’t look at twice on the street.”
She took a healthy slug of her margarita.
“You’ve got the right idea, Jaine. From now on, I’m going to be like you. I’m not going to give a shit about guys. If a man comes along, fine, but I’m not going to run myself ragged chasing after them.”
Isn’t it ironic? Here Kandi was swearing off men, just when I’d started getting interested in them again.
“From now on I’m declaring a moratorium on men. No more blind dates. No more personals. No more showing up at places just because I think there’ll be guys there. No more obsessing. No more plotting. No more—Oh, God. That guy at the bar. I think he’s smiling at us.”
“Wow. That was some moratorium. Lasted a whole two seconds.”
“You’re right,” she sighed. “Old habits die hard.”
“Besides,” I said, “I think he’s smiling at the twenty-year-old blonde in the next booth.”
Kandi turned and saw that there was indeed a young blonde sitting behind us.
“Damn,” she said, taking a hefty slug of her margarita. “I’m so sick of blondes, aren’t you?”
“Totally.”
“Let’s move to some place like Malaysia. No blondes there.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Our burritos came and we dove into them with gusto. What with Kandi’s newfound resolve to give up men, I didn’t talk about Cameron and my growing attraction to him. I didn’t talk about the murder, either. I guess I wanted a break from thinking about suspects and alibis and bloody Thigh-Masters.
What we talked about mostly was Kandi and why she’s so obsessed with meeting men. My theory is that it’s an occupational hazard of never having been married. People wonder what’s wrong with you. So you want to hook up with someone, anyone, just to prove you’re lovable. I think it’s one of the reasons I hooked up with The Blob. Either that, or temporary insanity.
After a few hours of soul-searching chatter about life and love and how Jennifer Aniston gets her hair so straight, we finally paid our bill and headed outside. It was ten-thirty, and Beverly Hills was deserted. (After 10 P.M., the only people walking the streets of Beverly Hills are winos, hookers, and ex-New Yorkers.)
We strolled over to where Kandi’s car was parked, and hugged each other good-bye.
“Thanks for being my friend,” Kandi said, her voice husky with emotion.
“Ditto, kiddo.”
“Want me to walk you to your car?” she offered. “Then you can drive me back to mine.”
“Nah, that’s okay. I’m sure the parking lot’s safe.”
We hugged each other again, and I headed off to get my car.
The municipal lot was fairly empty at that time of night. My footsteps echoed as I walked past the sleepy attendant on duty at the ticket booth. It suddenly occurred to m
e that maybe the lot wasn’t so safe after all. I was sorry I hadn’t taken Kandi up on her offer. The dimly lit stairwell seemed risky, so I rang for the elevator.
The elevator door opened immediately. I stepped inside and pressed the button for the fourth level. Just as the doors were beginning to shut, a muscular black man dressed in baggy gang-banger shorts came rushing up to the elevator. I prayed the door would shut before he could get on, but he thrust his shoulder inside, and the doors sprang open again.
It was one of those godawful moments when you want to run for your life, but you don’t want to seem like a bigoted idiot who assumes every large black man is a thug. I stood there frozen with indecision as the doors slid shut.
“You going to four?” he asked, checking the lit button on the panel.
“Yes.”
“Me too.”
The elevator creaked its way up to the fourth level. I stood there, cursing myself. I should’ve run while I had the chance. The elevator finally jerked to a stop, and the doors opened.
I got out. So did the black man in the baggy shorts. I walked over toward my car. Baggy Shorts was right behind me.
I was so busy picturing the possible headlines (Freelance Writer Mugged in Parking Lot or Freelance Writer Strangled With Her Own Control Top Pantyhose), that at first I didn’t hear the roar of the car’s engine.
“Hey, lady! Watch out!”
I looked up and saw it coming straight at me. A black BMW. The same black BMW that had come after me on the freeway.
I dived between two parked cars and felt a frightening whoosh of air as the car missed me by inches.
My heart pounding wildly, I watched in horror as the car sped past me down the spiraling path to the exit. But it was going way too fast to negotiate the curve. Brakes screeching, it spun out of control and crashed into a concrete pole, the front end caving in like an expensive Bavarian accordion.
The black man came racing to my side.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I lied.
Together we walked over to the BMW. At last I’d get to identify my pursuer. I looked in the front seat. Sitting there unconscious, slumped over the steering wheel, was a curly-haired young guy in an Armani suit. At first I had no idea who he was. And then it came to me.
I remembered the day I’d shown up at Andy Bruckner’s office, and the obnoxious twerp in the Larry King suspenders who’d given me the brush.
The man behind the wheel—my freeway stalker—was none other than Kevin Delaney, Andy Bruckner’s assistant.
Chapter Twenty-one
The man in the baggy shorts whipped out a cell phone from one of his cargo pockets and called 911. The next thing I knew, Andy Bruckner’s assistant was being carted off to the hospital, and I was telling my story to a soft-spoken cop with liquid brown eyes and a sympathetic manner.
I told him how I’d gotten off the elevator, and how the BMW had come charging at me. Baggy Shorts corroborated my story.
“The guy was aiming right for her,” he said.
“And it wasn’t the first time.”
I told the cop how I’d been chased on the freeway, and about the M.Y.O.B. note I’d found on my living room floor. I told him that the driver of the BMW was Andy Bruckner’s assistant at CTA, and that Andy had been having an affair with Stacy.
Unlike Rea, this cop actually listened. As I talked, he nodded and took notes. At last, someone was taking me seriously.
When I was through talking, I turned and saw that Baggy Shorts was still at my side.
“You feel okay?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” I assured him.
“I’m only asking because I’m a doctor, and you look sort of shaken,” he said. “If you need me to be a witness in court, just give me a call.” He handed me his card.
“Thanks so much. You’ve been awfully nice.”
“No problem.”
Then he got into a Jaguar and drove off. I looked down at his card and saw that my would-be mugger was no ordinary doctor but Chief Cardiovascular Surgeon at UCLA Medical Center. So the next time you need an accurate first impression of someone, don’t come running to me.
By now, a tow truck had appeared on the scene, and the BMW was being carted away.
“Can I go now?” I asked the cop.
“Sure. But I’d like to stop by your place and get that note you told me about.”
The cop, whose name was Officer Fenton, followed me back to my apartment, which of course made me a nervous wreck. I don’t know about you, but I hate driving in front of a cop. I’m certain I’m going to forget to signal or not stop long enough at a stop sign, and that I’ll wind up running over a pedestrian that I didn’t see because I was too busy looking at the cop in the rearview mirror.
But I’m happy to say we made it back to my place without incident. Nary a pedestrian was harmed. As Officer Fenton walked me up the path to my apartment, I could see Lance peeking out from between his blinds. Apparently the man was surgically attached to his window treatments.
I ushered the cop into my apartment and fished out the M.Y.O.B. note from my desk drawer.
“Here it is,” I said, pointing out the “B” pasted on backwards. “I think whoever sent this is probably dyslexic.”
The cop nodded. “Makes sense to me.”
What a nice guy. Acres nicer than Rea.
He thanked me for my time, and I walked him to the door. As he headed down the path to his squad car, I saw that Lance had left his post at the window and was now standing in his open doorway, in full busybody mode. I quickly retreated back inside, hoping he hadn’t seen me.
No such luck. Seconds later he was knocking at my door.
“Jaine,” he called out. “Open up.”
I’m ashamed to say I spent the next few minutes hiding out in the bathroom until Lance finally gave up and went away.
When I was certain he was gone, I dead-bolted the front door and sank down onto the sofa, exhausted.
Prozac, the little angel, sensing how tired I was, leapt up on my stomach and began yowling for her midnight snack.
“For crying out loud, Prozac, don’t you ever lose your appetite?”
She shot me a look as if to say, “Look who’s talking.”
So I hauled myself up and headed for the kitchen.
“There. I hope you’re happy,” I said, scooping some gourmet fishguts into her bowl.
Then I staggered to my bedroom, where I fell asleep with my clothes on and slept soundly until 7 A.M. when I was clobbered awake by the insistent ringing of my telephone.
I picked it up groggily.
“Officer Fenton here.”
Officer Fenton? Who the heck was Officer Fenton? Then I remembered. The cop with the Bambi eyes.
“Mr. Bruckner’s assistant regained consciousness a couple of hours ago. And I thought you might like to know that he’s confessed to everything.”
I sat up, suddenly wide awake.
“He admits he killed Stacy Lawrence?”
“No. But he does admit he’s been stalking you in the BMW. And that he’s the one who sent you the warning note. Incidentally, you were right. He is dyslexic.
“He says he was doing everything on orders from Andy Bruckner. He also says that Mr. Bruckner was not, as he claimed, working late the night of the murder. That, on the contrary, he left the office early that evening.”
“Sure doesn’t look good for Andy, does it?”
“You might want to check out the morning news on TV.”
“Thanks. I’ll do that.”
I hung up and flipped on the television. I zapped back and forth between the local morning news shows, which were filled with hard-hitting coverage of fender benders, smog alerts, and Liz Taylor’s latest hip replacement surgery. Finally, after sitting through about twenty minutes of Happy Anchor banter, I found it:
Live footage of the cops escorting Andy into police headquarters. According to the Miss-America-with-a-microphone reporter standing
nearby, famed Hollywood agent Andy Bruckner was being arrested for the brutal murder of aerobics instructor Stacy Lawrence.
I watched as Andy cowered behind his $500-an-hour lawyer. He held up his hands to shield his face from the news cameras, and I could see that his Rolex was sharing space on his wrist with an LAPD handcuff.
Nearby, Detective Timothy Rea was talking to reporters, looking as smug as the day I’d first met him. He said he had good reason to believe that Andy Bruckner was responsible for the death of aerobics instructor Stacy Lawrence. I was waiting for him to give me some credit. (“Frankly, we couldn’t have solved the case without valuable input from talented freelance writer Jaine Austen.”) But all he said was, “No further comment at this time.”
Then—just as the camera cut back to the newsroom and a live interview with Liz Taylor’s chiropractor—the phone rang. It was Cameron.
“Did you see the morning news?”
“I not only saw it, I’m responsible for it.”
“What?”
I gave him an update on last night’s adventures in the parking lot and all its ramifications.
He whistled softly.
“So Howard is innocent. We were right all along.”
“ ‘We’? What do you mean, ‘we’? For the longest time you thought he was guilty.”
“Okay, okay. So I came on the bandwagon a little late. Don’t I get any credit for being your reluctant Watson?”
“Of course you do,” I laughed.
“Seriously, this calls for a celebration. C’mon over to the shop about noon, and I’ll take you to lunch.”
“Sounds good.”
I wrote down the address of his antiques shop on La Brea Avenue, then padded into the kitchen to brew myself a fresh cup of instant coffee.
I should have been happy, right? After all, I’d helped solve a major murder case. But now that the police had arrested Andy, I wasn’t sure they had the right guy.
I know, I’m impossible. Here I’d been bitching and moaning about what a creep Andy was, so you’d think I’d be overjoyed at his arrest. But somehow it didn’t feel right to me. As much as I disliked the guy, I couldn’t picture him doing the actual killing. He was the kind of person who hired other people to do his dirty work for him.
