Death of a Neighborhood Scrooge

by Laura Levine

  I couldn’t possibly tell her the truth—that I’d bartered my services for Prozac’s room and board—and blow my cover as a rich person.

  “Actually, he hadn’t gotten around to paying me when he was killed,” I said, tap dancing around the truth.

  “He never would have come through with the money. The man would sooner part with a kidney than a dollar.”

  “I suppose the police have come to question you,” I said, steering the subject back to the murder.

  “Yes. They were here. They wanted to know if we saw anyone going into the Parkers’ house the morning of the murder.”

  “Did you?”

  “No, Evan and I were at church that morning, then Skyping with the kids in Aspen.”

  “No other questions from the police?” I asked.

  “No. Just routine inquiries.”

  “I thought they might have asked you about that rather loud quarrel you had with Scotty outside his house about your Christmas decorations.”

  Her smile grew stiff then. Very stiff.

  “We discussed it briefly. But the police didn’t take it seriously. Scotty fought with all the neighbors.”

  Okay, now was the time to move in for the kill.

  “What about the blackmail photo? Did the police take that seriously?”

  “What blackmail photo?”

  She barely batted an eyelash, playing it cool.

  “The envelope Scotty gave you that day in his office. He told me it contained a compromising photo of you with another man. Not your husband.”

  Of course, Scotty had told me no such thing, but she didn’t need to know that.

  “You mean that picture of me and Lucas?”

  She rolled her eyes, exasperated.

  “For heaven’s sakes. Lucas is my brother. He was up from Orange County visiting. He took me to lunch and I hugged him good-bye. End of story. Only Scotty would turn a loving brother/sister embrace into an extramarital affair.”

  She blew off the whole thing so convincingly, I was tempted to believe her. But I couldn’t forget her reaction the day she saw the picture, how her face turned ashen at the sight of it.

  “If that was your brother, why were you so upset when you saw the picture? Why didn’t you say something to Scotty?”

  And then suddenly, all the granite in her turned to mush. Her face crumpled, her eyes misting with tears.

  “If you must know,” she said, sinking down onto one of the island stools, “that was the day Lucas first told me he had been diagnosed with cancer. He’s been having chemo and radiation and it looks like he’s going to pull through, thank heavens. But when I saw that picture, I remembered how terrible I’d felt when I’d first learned the news, how terrified I’d been at the thought of losing him.

  “Suddenly my quarrel with Scotty over a stupid electrician’s bill seemed meaningless. So I got my priorities straight and walked out the door.”

  Mrs. Sinclair may have been a bit of a snob, and she may have had ghastly taste in hors d’oeuvres, but for what it’s worth, I believed her.

  Scotty had been all wrong about that embrace in the Mercedes. It hadn’t been an affair. Mrs. Sinclair was still very much in love with her husband. Of that I was convinced, especially when she returned to the living room with the wine and crudités.

  She set them down on the coffee table, and kissed her husband lightly on the forehead. In return, he squeezed her hand.

  They were in love, all right.

  I thanked Mrs. Sinclair for her time, assuring her I’d gotten more than enough decorating ideas to inspire me and my fictional decorator. Then I made my way down their front path, hoping someday I’d be lucky enough to find the kind of love the Sinclairs shared.

  Chapter 21

  Back at Casa Van Hooten, Lance was waiting for me with dinner on the kitchen island—a low-cal meal of broiled salmon and asparagus. Much to my surprise, it was really quite delish, but barely made a dent in my appetite.

  As I always say, a meal without starch is like a day without Oreos.

  I hankered for some bread or potatoes, but Lance quickly put the kibosh on any starchfest.

  “We need to slim down if we want to be in shape for our dates on New Year’s Eve.”

  “What dates? We don’t have any dates.”

  “Don’t be such a Debbie Downer. Just toss your wishes out to the universe, and the universe will make it happen!”

  “Lance, you’ve got to stop believing the messages in your fortune cookies.”

  “I must admit,” he said, a cloud of doubt in his eyes, “I’m getting a tad worried. It’s been ages since my dinner date with Graham, and aside from that Merry Christmas text, I haven’t heard a word from him.”

  “Actually,” I said, “I ran into him yesterday.”

  “Really?” Lance sat up with a jolt, ignoring the asparagus he was about to spear. “How did he look? Was the sun glinting off the hair on his calves?”

  “I don’t know, Lance. I wasn’t checking his calf hairs.”

  “I don’t understand,” Lance sighed. “We had so much fun at dinner. Why hasn’t he asked me out?”

  “Why are you sitting around waiting for him to make the next move? Why don’t you ask him out?”

  “No way. Absolutely not. I asked him out first. Now it’s his turn to ask me. I made up my mind after Justin and I broke up that the next time I met an interesting man, I was going to play hard to get. I was much too eager with Justin and I’m convinced that’s why it all went south. I’ve got to play it cool with Graham and retain my air of mystery.”

  “Then maybe you’d best cut down on your seventeen texts a day.”

  “Point well taken. Just this last one,” he said, taking out his phone, “to send him the picture I took of our salmon and asparagus.”

  * * *

  After dinner we retired to the living room with cups of no-cal tea, admiring the Christmas tree and breathing in the slightly woodsy aroma of its acorn garlands.

  “Yes,” Lance mused, stirring his tea, “I’ve absolutely got to play it cool with Graham. I refuse to be seen as desperate and needy. And speaking of desperate and needy, how are things with you, hon? How did your date go with Nice Guy ?”

  “Don’t ask,” I sighed. “He turned out to be a white-collar criminal. Under house arrest at his marina condo for insider trading.”

  “A condo in the marina? Sounds like a keeper to me!”

  “Forget it, Lance. No way am I going out with him. In fact, I think I’ve had it with Smatch. I’ve made up my mind to take down my profile.”

  Lance put down his teacup, alarmed.

  “That’s ridiculous! You can’t give up on Smatch because of one crappy date.”

  “Two crappy dates. Don’t forget about the married actor.”

  “You can’t give up because of two crappy dates. Did Madame Curie give up when she was trying to discover the radio? Did Orville Redenbacher give up when he was inventing popcorn? Did Henry the Eighth give up after his first five wives?”

  “First of all, Orville Redenbacher did not invent popcorn, and Madame Curie discovered radium, not the radio.”

  “I hate it when you nitpick. My point is: You’re never going to find Mr. Right if you give up the search. You’ve got to kiss a lot of frogs to find your prince.”

  If I kissed one more frog, I’d be an honorary amphibian.

  But Lance had a point. I thought about the Sinclairs and how happy they were. I wanted what they had. Especially now that I’d been jilted by Prozac.

  “Okay, you’re right,” I conceded. “I’ll stay on Smatch.”

  “Good for you, sweetheart!”

  Bolstered by my decision to give love another chance, I sprang from the sofa and headed for the kitchen to celebrate with one of the several pints of Chunky Monkey I’d stocked in Mrs. Van H’s freezer.

  But much to my horror, when I opened the freezer door, I discovered it was a Chunky Monkey–free zone. Not a pint to be found. No frozen goodies
of any kind.

  “What the hell happened to my Chunky Monkey?” I demanded, storming back into the living room.

  “Oh,” Lance said, not even bothering to look up from where he was no doubt shooting Graham another text, “I gave all our desserts to a homeless shelter.”

  “What??!”

  “Like I said before, it’s time to shape up for our New Year’s Eve dates!”

  Resisting the urge to strangle him with an acorn garland, I grabbed my car keys and set off for the nearest supermarket—Ralphs in Westwood, right across the street from the UCLA campus.

  Because most of the students were home for winter break, the parking lot was fairly empty, and I hustled inside, where I was soon cradling two pints of Chunky Monkey in my arms.

  In no time I was at the checkout counter, paying ten cents extra for a plastic bag I would possibly use later to suffocate Lance.

  Back outside, I made my way across the nearly deserted lot to my Corolla and was just about to open the door when I felt what seemed like an iron clamp on my shoulder, spinning me around. I turned to find myself face to face with former football star and jailbird, Marlon Jenkins.

  Holy Mackerel! Up close he was like two stories tall!

  And from the way his unibrow was bristling, I could tell he was not a happy camper.

  “Hi, Marlon,” I managed to squeak.

  “Don’t ‘Hi, Marlon’ me,” he snapped. “The cops came to talk to me today. Apparently somebody blabbed about my fight with Scotty. How I threatened to come back and take care of him once and for all.

  “And I think that blabbermouth was you!” he added, flexing his massive biceps.

  By now he was so close I could look up into his nose hairs.

  “I can assure you it wasn’t me,” I said, my voice quivering like the lily-livered weakling I am.

  “You were there the day I attacked him.”

  “I wasn’t the only one who saw you. The way gossip travels on your block, I’m sure all the neighbors knew about it the next day.”

  “Yeah, but you’re the only one who’s been snooping around asking questions.”

  Down by his side, it looked like his bandaged fist was squaring off to deliver a knuckleburger.

  “I’d mind my own business if I were you,” he growled, his breath—none too savory—blasting down on me. “You wouldn’t want to wind up sharing space in the morgue with Scotty, would you?”

  Call me wacky, but I if wasn’t mistaken, it looked like I’d just received a death threat.

  I was standing there, shaking in my shoes, tensing for the impact of a knuckleburger, when Marlon turned on his heels and stomped off to a nearby monster SUV.

  As he sped off in his van, I somehow managed to gather my wits and did what any sensible person would do after receiving a death threat.

  I went back to the market for another pint of Chunky Monkey.

  Okay, two pints.

  Chapter 22

  I woke up the next morning, deep in the throes of a Chunky Monkey hangover—tummy aching, head throbbing, my breath reeking of chocolate and bananas.

  As I sat up in bed, checking for chocolate stains on my pillowcase, I felt a sharp stab in my shoulder. And suddenly the memory of my meetup with Marlon came rushing back into my consciousness.

  Good heavens. The man had threatened to kill me!

  I needed to call Lt. Muntner and tell him about Marlon’s death threat. It took several phone calls to track down the detective, but when I finally did, I was shunted to his voice mail. After leaving an urgent message for him to call me, I hung up, resolving to put all thoughts of Marlon aside and get on with my day.

  Normally at this point I’d be padding downstairs for breakfast. But that morning—Ripley’s, take note—I actually had no appetite.

  Instead I decided to go for a brisk walk, hoping the exercise would clear the cobwebs from my brain and the Chunky Monkey from my thighs.

  Throwing on some capris and a tee, I started down the stairs. At the sound of Lance rattling around the kitchen, I snuck out the front door, unwilling to face a lecture about the evils of Chunky Monkey binges.

  I set off, determined to walk for a full hour. Needless to say, after twenty minutes I was wheezing like an old jalopy. So I threw in the towel and turned around to go back home, fantasizing about a cinnamon raisin bagel slathered with butter and strawberry jam.

  I’d just about staggered back to Casa Van Hooten when I noticed a sprawling Spanish hacienda with a FOR SALE sign out front. The listing agent, I saw, was Bitsy Clayton—the same agent who’d called Elise the day I stopped by to visit.

  Even though Marlon was now the front-runner in my suspect sweepstakes, I couldn’t afford to rule anyone out. I still hadn’t forgotten my theory that Elise may have discovered Scotty’s will while she was raiding his office on Christmas Eve, giving her ample motive to bump him off. Nor had I forgotten those rubber gloves I’d seen on her dinette table, the gloves she may have worn while wielding the murder weapon.

  On an impulse, I took out my cell phone and called Bitsy, pretending to be a prospective buyer, and made an appointment to see the Spanish hacienda later that morning.

  It was a long shot, but I was hoping Bitsy might help me figure out exactly when Elise had learned of her inheritance.

  Back at Casa Van H, Lance was unfortunately still in the kitchen, sipping his ghastly grass smoothie. Somehow I managed to tune out his binge eating lecture as I scarfed down my cinnamon raisin bagel.

  Then I headed upstairs to my heavenly rain forest shower, luxuriating under its tingling jets of hot water. Getting out of the shower, however, I was alarmed to see an ugly red bruise on my shoulder. A memento from my meet-up with Marlon. And that was just from his grip. I shuddered to think what he might have done if he’d actually landed a jab.

  For a minute I was tempted to heed Marlon’s warning and give up my investigation.

  But only for a minute. I refused to let the big lug intimidate me. We Austens are made of sterner stuff. I would be strong. I would be courageous. Most important, I would be ratting him out to the cops the minute Lt. Muntner returned my call.

  In the meanwhile, it was time to spiff myself up for my appointment with Bitsy Clayton.

  I wore the same outfit I wore on my disastrous date with Ryan Gosling II—silk blouse, skinny jeans, blazer, and Manolos. The look, I fervently hoped, of a gal who could maybe possibly in her wildest dreams afford to buy a house in Bel Air.

  After scrunching my curls and slapping on some lipstick, I flipped open my laptop and checked out Bitsy’s website. It was really quite impressive, loaded with photos of fabulous homes she was representing, as well as pictures of megamansions she’d sold in the past. Clearly, Bitsy was a mover and shaker in the rarefied world of Bel Air real estate. Scrolling through the photos of her past listings, I blinked in recognition to see Connie’s house in the photo gallery. So Bitsy had been Connie’s broker. A fun factoid that was about to come in quite handy.

  * * *

  As it happened, my outfit was not quite good enough for Bel Air. It might have passed muster in Mar Vista or Cheviot Hills, but I could see by the way Bitsy Clayton was looking me over that she had her doubts about me as a prospective buyer. For this kind of nabe, I should have been sporting haut couture togs and rocks on my fingers the size of Milk Duds.

  “So nice to meet you,” Bitsy said, with a dubious smile.

  A short, bouncy dame, a tad on the plump side, she had the baby-faced looks of a menopausal kewpie doll.

  She reached out to shake my hand, almost blinding me in the process with an eye-popping diamond on one of her pudgy fingers.

  Her smile, however, remained dubious.

  And it was at this moment that I decided to play the Connie card. After all, it had worked so well with Mrs. Sinclair, I figured I’d give it another shot.

  Making use of the info I’d unearthed on Bitsy’s website, I said, “One of your former clients, Connie Van Hooten, has told me so
many wonderful things about you.”

  “You know Connie?” Bitsy asked, with just a tad too much incredulity in her voice for my liking.

  “Indeed, I do. We’re both on the board at St. John’s Hospital.”

  By now, I was beginning to believe it myself.

  “Well, come on in,” she said, her smile turning a lot more genuine. “Let me give you the tour.”

  And we were off and running. For the second time in two days I was getting a Bel Air house tour. One more house, and I’d be starring in my own episode of House Hunters.

  Bitsy guided me through the charming Spanish beauty, pointing out its vaulted beamed ceilings, Moorish archways, and painstakingly preserved original tile.

  Bitsy proved to be quite a Chatty Cathy, babbling on about the home’s original features and modern conveniences, waxing euphoric about the state of the art media room and farmhouse kitchen sink.

  As much as I tried, I simply could not stem the flow of her sales chatter and get the conversational ball bouncing over to Scotty’s murder. But finally, in the kitchen, as Bitsy stopped to wipe a smudge off an otherwise spotless quartz counter, I got the opening I’d been waiting for.

  “I suppose you’ve heard about the murder on the next block?” I said quickly, before she could resume her sales spiel.

  “Yes, poor Scotty Parker,” she tsked. “Such a lovely man.”

  Obviously, she hadn’t known him very well.

  “I hope it won’t be affecting property values in the neighborhood,” I said, my brow furrowed with fake concern.

  “Of course not,” she assured me with a wave of her bejeweled hand. “Bel Air property values never go down.”

  “Connie told me that Scotty’s first wife, Elise, has inherited everything,” I tossed out casually, pretending to inspect the eight-burner stainless steel oven. “Including the house.”

  “I know!” Bitsy beamed. “I’m her broker.”

  “Wow. What a coincidence,” I said, hoping she’d believe that’s all it was. “From what I hear, poor Elise could really use the windfall. Connie said she called her with the good news on Christmas Day.”

  This, of course, was the feeble trap I was setting. If I could get Bitsy to say that Elise had called her on Christmas Day, the day before Elise got the official news she was inheriting everything, that would be proof that Elise had known about the will, giving her more than enough motive to kill Scotty.