Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire (11 page)

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.

C
ameron 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 and 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 AstroTurf. 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.

“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 under-handed. 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.

And who knows? She may even have had the keys to a black BMW.

“T
he cockroach was arrested on a morals charge.”

Kandi and I were slurping margaritas at our favorite Mexican restaurant, Paco’s Tacos, a festive joint with piñatas hanging from the ceiling and burritos to die for.

Kandi was talking about the actor who plays Fred the cockroach on Kandi’s show
Beanie & The Cockroach.

“The guy’s insane. He keeps exposing himself to fat ladies. They arrested him in the dressing room at Lane Bryant. Thank God the studio was able to keep it out of the tabloids.”

A sweet young Latina in a full skirt and peasant blouse came over to take our orders.

Kandi ordered a shrimp tostada. I was lusting after the beef burrito combination plate, but it had been an astronomically high-calorie day, what with bacon and eggs for breakfast and chocolate cheesecake for lunch. So I decided to keep it light and order the Mexican seafood salad.

“I’ll have the beef burrito combination plate.” The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Extra cheese on my refried beans.”

I know, I know. I’m impossible. Remind me of this shameful episode the next time I start whining about my big tush.

“Where were you last night?” Kandi asked. “I kept calling, but you weren’t in.”

“Actually, I spent the night at Cameron’s.”

“The gay guy?”

“He’s not gay.”

Kandi’s eyes lit up with excitement.

“Does this mean you actually had sex? With another person in the room?”

“No. We haven’t slept together.”

“Then why were you spending the night at his place?”

“He was afraid I might be in danger.”

“From what?”

“It’s a long story.”

And I told it to her, filling her in on everything that had happened since the last time we talked. I told her about my talk with Devon and my aborted meeting with Andy, about Jasmine’s perfume and Elaine’s new apartment, and Daryush’s habit of going through his tenant’s drawers. And, of course, about the evil BMW. All this, while managing to pack away a beef burrito combination plate.

“Good Lord,” she said when I was through. “That freeway thing sounds really scary.”

“I know I should be frightened, but the crazy thing is, I’m not. Not much, anyway.”

“Don’t you think you should let the police handle this?”

“I can’t. They think Howard did it.”

“Of course he did it. That’s obvious.”

“You don’t understand. Howard Murdoch is a shy little nerd. He couldn’t possibly have killed anyone.”

“Need I remind you that this shy little nerd was found with a bloody ThighMaster in his hands?”

“I don’t care. Something in my gut tells me he didn’t do it. And I’ve got to trust my instincts. I’m an excellent judge of character.”

“Yeah, right. That’s why you wound up marrying The Blob.”

She had a point there.

“You’ve got to promise you’ll be careful,” she said. “I’m worried about you.”

“I promise. I’ll be careful.”

Kandi licked the last of the salt from her margarita glass.

“So what’s with this Cameron guy? You think he’s interested in you?”

“Nah. I’m not his type. His last girlfriend had thighs the size of my ankles.”

“Oh, well. Who needs him? You’re going to meet an absolutely wonderful guy at Christie’s.”

In all the hoo-ha of the last few days, I’d forgotten about Kandi’s scheme to meet Eligibles while bidding for bibelots at an auction house.

“They’re having an auction tomorrow. And we’re going to be there.”

I put up a few feeble objections, but Kandi was firm.

“We’re going,” she decreed. “Get used to it.”

I got used to it, and was just popping the last of my refried beans into my mouth when the waitress came by to ask if we wanted dessert.

They have a marvelous flan on the menu, but there was no way I was going to order it. No way at all. Not in a million trillion years, I told myself, would I let one more calorie down my gullet.

P.S. It was yummy.

I woke up the next morning consumed with guilt over all I’d consumed the night before. I vowed to go on a strict diet—nothing but veggies and fruit and skinless chicken breasts—a vow that I managed to keep for a full fifteen minutes before I broke down and nuked myself a cinnamon-raisin bagel.

While waiting for the cream cheese to melt on my bagel, I leafed through my Jobs Pending file. Not a pending job in sight. A situation that would normally send me spiraling into a mild case of hysteria. But for some reason, that day I didn’t care. Clearly, I was growing more than a little obsessed with Stacy’s murder. My mind kept wandering back to the sight of Daryush, standing in Stacy’s apartment, going through her desk drawers. What the heck had he been looking for?

I slapped a dab of Smucker’s strawberry preserves on top of the melted cream cheese, and reached for the phone.

“Hello, Cameron. It’s me. Jaine.”

“Hi. How’s it going? Have you thought about what I said? About giving up that crazy investigation of yours?”

“Yes, I thought about it.”

“And?”

“And I will. Just as soon as we break into Stacy’s apartment.”

“
What?
”

“Remember what you said about Stacy’s parents? How they’re supposed to clear out her apartment this weekend? I want to take a look around for clues before they get there.”

“Call me nutty, but isn’t that the first thing the police do after a murder? Look for clues?”

“Yes, but they look for blood and blunt instruments and stuff like that. We’re going to be looking for insignificant stuff the police overlooked. Like, for instance, what Daryush was searching for in Stacy’s desk.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’?”

“I’m going to need your help, Cameron.”

“Forget it. I’m not helping you.”

“Why not?”

“Ever hear the expression ‘breaking and entering’? People get arrested for it all the time.”

“Fine,” I said, in what I hoped was a tone of icy disapproval, and what I feared was a nasal whine. “If you don’t want to help me, I’ll manage myself.”

There was silence on the line for a few nerve-racking seconds. Then Cameron sighed deeply.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll help. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”

“Oh, Cameron,” I squealed. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, you’re an angel, an absolute angel—”

“Skip the eulogy, okay? Just how are we supposed to break into Stacy’s apartment?”

And I told him my idea.