Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire (5 page)

“Of course, you don’t have to pay the membership fee in one lump sum. We can break it out in installments if you’d prefer.”

“Actually, I’m not sure I’m ready to join right now.”

An icy chill descended in the room.

“Oh?”

I rummaged in my purse and pulled out an LA Sports Club ad I’d clipped from
Los Angeles Magazine,
offering a free trial workout to prospective members.

“I think I’d like to try one of these trial workouts first.”

“Fine,” Wendy chirped, conceding defeat, but only temporarily. “When shall I schedule you? How about Thursday afternoon? We’ve got Beginner’s Stretch at 3
P.M
. That should be just right for you.”

She obviously had me pegged for the out-of-shape puffball that I was.

“Actually, Stacy often talked to me about another aerobics instructor who worked here. Said she was terrific. I’d really like to be in one of her classes. I can’t quite remember her name, though. I think it was Iris or Violet. Some sort of flower name.”

“Oh, you must mean Jasmine.”

“That’s it. Jasmine.”

“But Jasmine teaches the advanced workout. That class will be far too strenuous for you.”

“Oh, no,” I protested. “I’m in much better shape than I look.”

Wendy believed that one about as much as I did.

“It meets Thursday at 8
A.M
.”

“Sounds great. I’ll be there.”

We exchanged smiley good-byes and I headed out of her office, past the receptionist with the British accent, and into the street, where I was happy to see there were still a few fat people left in the world.

O
n my way back from the gym, I swung by Bentley Gardens, hoping to get a chance to speak with Stacy’s neighbors—the Garibaldis and Janet Yoshida.

Luckily, I caught them in. Mr. and Mrs. Garibaldi were exactly as Cameron described them: a frail couple in their eighties who no doubt got winded brushing their teeth. No way could they have bludgeoned Stacy to death. They had trouble enough just answering the door.

I handed them the same line I’d given Daryush, that I was a reporter from
The New York Times
. By now I was beginning to believe it myself. I almost wanted to take out a subscription so I could see my byline on the front page.

“The New York Times!”
Mrs. Garibaldi cooed. “Imagine that. Your parents must be so proud! Come in. Have a nectarine.”

She took me by the elbow and led me into their living room.

“You know Oprah?” Mr. Garibaldi asked.

Mrs. Garibaldi shot him a look. “Now why would she know Oprah?”

“I don’t know. She comes from New York. I just thought she might know Oprah.”

“Of course she doesn’t know Oprah.”

“How about Rosie? You know Rosie?”

I assured Mr. Garibaldi that I didn’t know Oprah or Rosie. Or Regis. Or Montel. Or Eddie, the dog on
Frasier
. Then I asked them if they’d seen or heard anything suspicious the night of the murder.

“Not a thing,” said Mrs. Garibaldi.

“We usually turn down our hearing aids after
Jeopardy
,” Mr. Garibaldi explained.

After promising I’d send them a copy of my story, I thanked the Garibaldis for their time, and their nectarine, and headed down the courtyard to visit Janet Yoshida, the UCLA med student.

Janet was a slip of a thing with a waist the size of my kneecap. She was studying for an anatomy exam when I knocked on the door. Peering out at me from behind thick tortoise-rimmed glasses, she looked about as capable of murder as Mother Teresa. She, too, had seen nothing and heard nothing the night of the murder.

I left her to her textbooks and headed home to get ready for my date with Cameron.

I kept telling myself it was no big deal, just a simple movie date with a platonic acquaintance. Nothing to get into a lather over.

Yeah, right. Four hours later, my bedroom was a shambles. Clothes strewn everywhere. Why was everything so damn tight? One of these days, I really had to switch dry cleaners. They were obviously shrinking my clothes with inferior cleaning fluids.

Finally, after trying on enough clothing to start my own department store, I decided on the same outfit I’d started off with—a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I corralled my mop into a ponytail, spritzed myself with Jean Naté, and broke out a pair of suede boots I’d been saving for a special occasion.

Cameron picked me up at seven, his blue eyes crinkling, looking very J. Crew in chinos and a chambray shirt. I found myself wondering how he’d look in something a tad more formal—like a wedding tuxedo.

“What an interesting place you’ve got,” he said, looking around my apartment.

I have to admit, it does have a certain carefree Ikea-ish charm.

“And who’s this?” he asked, as Prozac circled his ankles like a lovestruck teenager.

“That’s Prozac, my significant other.”

“What a doll,” he said, scooping her up in his arms.

“She hates strangers,” I warned him. “Don’t be surprised if she scratches.”

Then, before my astonished eyes, Prozac—the same cat who barely acknowledges my existence—started licking Cameron’s face with all the abandon of an X-rated movie star. I’m surprised she didn’t give him a hickey.

I watched, incredulous, as she lay cuddled in Cameron’s arms, licking his face and purring in ecstasy.

God, how I envied her.

Marian’s movie was a 1945 RKO musical about two sisters who go to Miami to meet rich husbands. Marian played a hatcheck girl. Not exactly a starring role. But she had a few funny lines, and she knew how to deliver them. The mostly gay audience laughed out loud at her zingers. I could see why Cameron had liked her so much; she looked like she’d be a lot of fun.

Now we were sitting in a coffeehouse called Garland’s, in the heart of the distinctly gay district of Silver Lake. The place was loaded with good-looking guys, several of whom had their eyes on Cameron.

Our waitress was a twenty-something sprite with an orange buzz cut and a nose the size of a cherry pit.

“Look at that nose,” Cameron whispered. “It’s got to be a nose job.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “Looks to me like she was born with it.”

“Okay, I’ll ask her,” he said, and motioned to her. “Oh, waitress!”

“Cameron, what are you doing? You can’t ask someone if she’s had a nose job.”

“And I don’t think those breasts are hers, either.”

“You’re not going to ask her about them, too?”

“C’mon, this is L.A. She won’t mind.”

“Hi, guys!” The waitress came bopping up to our table. I was too embarrassed to even look at her.

“Look,” Cameron began, “I was wondering…”

“Yes?”

“Could we have some refills on our espressos?”

“Sure thing, guys.”

She bounced off, and Cameron grinned at me. “Gotcha.”

“Oh, you! You really had me going.”

And he really did have me going. I couldn’t help myself. He was just so darn cute.

“Well, you’re sure an easy mark,” he was saying to me. “Hope you’re not so gullible on the force.”

“The force? What force?”

“The police force.”

“Oh, right.”

He shot me a look.

“You’re not really a cop, are you?”

“Oh, fudge. I screwed that one up, didn’t I? No, I’m not really a cop.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“What gave me away?”

“Well, for starters,” he said, “Elaine told me about your Bloomingdale’s press card.”

“I should have figured that maybe you two would compare notes.”

“And besides, I don’t think cops go around saying, ‘Oh, fudge.’”

“Yeah, I guess it’s not their F-word of choice.”

He took a bite of his biscotti. I’d long since finished mine. I’d started out nibbling daintily, hoping Cameron would think I was one of those frail little things who eat like a bird. But somewhere around the fifth nibble, I forgot to be dainty and snarfed them down like a longshoreman.

“Elaine tells me you’re a writer.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“She says you’re trying to get this Murdoch guy off the hook.”

“I just can’t believe he killed Stacy.”

“The cops do.”

“Cops have been known to make mistakes. Just ask Rodney King.”

“Point taken,” he said. He still had two biscotti left on his plate. I had to sit on my hands to keep myself from grabbing one.

“But be careful, okay? This detective stuff sounds kind of dangerous.”

“I’ll be fine. Besides, it’s actually sort of exciting. And to be perfectly honest,” I said, surprised at my own candor, “I could use a little excitement in my life right now.”

He looked up, interested.

“Things a little on the blah side?”

“Terminally.”

“Same here.”

Really? There was a story behind that remark, one that I was dying to hear.

He picked up one of his biscotti, and then put it down with a sigh. “I’ve just been through a pretty messy breakup, and I’ve been spending way too much time staring at the walls.”

A breakup. So
that’s
why he was alone on Valentine’s Day. Who did he break up with, I wondered. A girl? A guy? I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking. And I don’t mind telling you I was getting pretty uncomfortable, biting my tongue and sitting on my now-numb hands.

“So,” he said, grinning mischievously. “You’re looking for excitement. I’m looking for excitement. What should we do about it?”

I had a million ideas, none of which I can repeat in a family murder mystery.

“I know,” he said. “Let’s go get some margaritas.”

Margaritas? What did that mean? Did he want to ply me with tequila so he could take me back to his place and ravish me? Or did he simply want a drink?

Stick around. You’ll find out.

W
e polished off a pitcher of margaritas at a bar down the street. I was hoping Cameron would tell me more about his ex, but we spent the whole time talking about movies. The ones we loved. (
Gone with the Wind. Rosemary’s Baby. Shadow of a Doubt
.) And the ones we hated. (
The English Patient. Runaway Bride.
And the complete oeuvre of Pauly Shore.)

Cameron kept his hands to himself and made no romantic moves whatsoever. The whole thing was strictly PG-13.

At 2
A.M
., we licked the last of the salt from our margarita glasses, and Cameron drove me back to my place. He insisted on walking me to my door. For a foolish instant, I got excited. He could have just dropped me off at the curb. Did this mean he wanted to ravish me, after all? For the first time in more years than I could remember, I felt stirrings in the vicinity of my G spot.

“This was fun,” he said, as we stood at my doorstep.

I stood there tentatively, hoping for a kiss. A hug. Anything involving body contact. But all I got was a crinkly-eyed smile.

“Well, see ya,” he said, and started down the path toward his car. As he passed Lance’s apartment, I saw Lance at the window, eyeing Cameron with interest.

“Take a number, Lance,” I muttered, as I headed off to bed.

I woke up the next morning, bleary-eyed, my head throbbing like an angry rap tune. The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Prozac sitting on my chest, demanding to be fed.

As I hauled myself out of bed and staggered into the kitchen, I made a vow: No more margaritas after 11
P.M
. Ever. No exceptions. Except maybe if I have them with burritos to absorb the alcohol.

I gave Prozac her breakfast, a smelly can of fish innards optimistically called Shrimp, Cod and Sole Souffle. She pounced on it with gusto, practically inhaling the stuff. You’d think she hadn’t eaten for a week.

Trying to ignore the fish fumes, I started to put up some water for coffee. And then suddenly I remembered: My 8
A.M
. aerobics class at the LA Sports Club. I looked at the clock: Seven thirty-five.

I tore into my bedroom and threw on a pair of sweats. I’d change into my workout gear at the gym. I grabbed a moldy old leotard that I’d bought for a yoga class at the Y. I’d gone to the class only twice. Unfortunately, I had to drop out to cope with an ever-expanding workload. (Okay, so I dropped out to watch
Seinfeld
reruns.)

I was on my way out the door when the phone rang. I let the machine take it. It was an angry client, wondering whatever happened to the brochure I was supposed to be writing for his company (“E-Mail Etiquette and You”). Just one of several projects I’d been neglecting lately. I vowed to myself I’d work on it as soon as I got back from the aerobics class.

I strapped myself into my Corolla and made my way over to the Sports Club, wishing I’d had time for a cup of coffee and a liposuction. I dreaded having to expose my flab to an aerobics class full of Barbies and Kens.

Miraculously, I made it to the club with five minutes to spare. I showed my Guest Pass to the receptionist with the snooty British accent and girded my loins for the humiliation that was sure to befall me in Advanced Aerobics.

The less said about the whole ordeal the better. I was straining and puffing like I’d never strained and puffed before. And that was just getting my leotards on over my hips.

Jasmine Manning was an exotic beauty with olive skin, startling green eyes, and a waterfall of chestnut curls cascading down her back. It was hard to believe Stacy could have stolen a man away from her.

Jasmine led the class with unbounded energy—part cheerleader, part Marine drill sergeant. My fellow classmates, with their washboard abs and buns of steel, had no trouble keeping up with her. I, on the other hand, with my jello thighs and marshmallow tummy, felt like every breath might possibly be my last. The only parts of my body I managed to move with ease were my eyelids.

Trust me. It was not a pretty picture. My thighs were rubbing together so badly, I was afraid they were going to set my leggings on fire.

But eventually the torture ended, and I hobbled over to Jasmine. I was sweating like a pig, and she was fresh as a daisy, smelling softly of jasmine. How clever of her, I thought, to smell like her name.

“Great class,” I managed to gasp.

“Are you all right?” she asked, eyeing me with concern. “Can I get you a glass of water?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” I assured her, wondering if I’d ever be able to breathe normally again.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’m fine. Really. But I need to talk to you.”

“Sure.” She flashed me a bubbly smile. “About what?”

“Stacy Lawrence.”

Suddenly the bubbles went flat.

“What about her?”

“You know she was murdered?”

“Yeah,” she said, not exactly grief-stricken.

“I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Are you from the police?”

“No, I’m an attorney.” I liked being an attorney with Wendy, the Barracuda Saleslady, so I thought I’d try it again. “I represent Clive Murdoch.”

“Who’s that?”

A person I just made up. But, hey. She didn’t know that.

“The father of the young man who was arrested for Stacy’s murder. Mr. Murdoch believes that his son has been falsely arrested and has hired me to try and find out who committed the crime.”

“I’m sorry,” she said coolly, “but I really can’t help you.”

She tossed her curls and turned to go.

“Mr. Murdoch is a very rich man,” I called after her. “He’s offering a reward of $100,000 for any information leading to the arrest of the real murderer.”

She stopped in her tracks.

“Let’s go have a smoothie,” she said.

The bubbles were back.

Every muscle of my body screeching in protest, I somehow managed to hoist myself onto a stool at the Smoothie Bar. Jasmine slid onto hers like syrup on a stack of pancakes. Throwing calorie caution to the winds, I ordered a thick concoction of bananas, yogurt, and chocolate syrup called a Banana Blast. Jasmine ordered a strawberry smoothie, which she sipped one milligram at a time.

“So,” I said, after I’d sucked up half my drink in a single gulp, “tell me about Stacy. Did you like her?”

“Sure. Stacy was great.” It was Frank Sinatra in
The Manchurian Candidate
all over again. “I liked her a lot.”

“In spite of the fact that she stole your boyfriend?”

Jasmine stirred her smoothie cautiously.

“Who told you that?”

“I have my sources.”

“Okay, so I didn’t like her. Nobody did. She was an arrogant, self-centered bitch. But that doesn’t mean I killed her.”

“Of course not. I don’t for a minute think you had anything to do with her death,” I lied.

Jasmine took a mini-sip of her smoothie, somewhat mollified.

“But just for the record, where were you the night of the murder?”

“If you must know,” she sniffed, huffy again, “I was home alone, exfoliating.”

“Exfoliating?”

“Leg wax, bikini wax, eyebrow shaping. Once a month I devote an evening to getting rid of unwanted hair.”

My mind boggled. If a stunner like Jasmine was home waxing her loins on Valentine’s Day, what hope was there for mere mortals like me and Elaine Zimmer?

“Do you have any idea who might have killed Stacy?”

She took a deep breath, clearly reluctant to speak.

“I probably shouldn’t be talking to you like this, but I could really use that hundred thousand.”

“Go on,” I urged.

“Well,” she sighed, “it could be Andy.”

“Andy?”

“Andy Bruckner. Stacy’s boyfriend. My ex.”

Ah, the hotshot agent Cameron had told me about. I recognized his name. Andy Bruckner was a major player in Hollywood, a partner at Creative Talent, one of the most powerful agencies in town. CTA represented an impressive roster of directors and writers, the kind of people who earn more money in a year than your average third-world country.

“I think Stacy may have been blackmailing Andy,” Jasmine said.

“What makes you say that?”

“It’s just a feeling I have. These past few months, Stacy seemed to be buying a lot of expensive things. Diamond earrings. A new stereo. She even bragged that Andy was going to buy her a BMW.”

“How do you know Andy didn’t give those to her as gifts?”

“Hey, I dated the guy. Andy will spring for dinner and an occasional cashmere sweater. But that’s about it. You don’t date a guy like Andy Bruckner for gifts.”

“What do you date him for?”

All of you out there who think she’s about to say “love” or “affection” or “intellectual stimulation,” go straight to the back of the class and put on your dunce caps.

“You date him for contacts. Andy knows every producer on every lot in Hollywood.”

“But what did Stacy have on Andy to blackmail him with?”

“She probably threatened to tell his wife about their affair.”

“Andy’s married?”

“Of course. They all are,” she said plaintively. “Before Andy was cheating on me with Stacy, he was cheating on his wife with me. Of course, he was still cheating on his wife when he was cheating on me with Stacy….”

Ah, what a tangled web we weave when we’re a lecherous agent with a penchant for pretty young things.

“Isn’t it possible that Andy might have decided to leave his wife for Stacy? Or that his wife knew about his cheating, and didn’t care?”

“No, it’s not possible,” Jasmine said firmly. “Andy likes to fool around, but he’d never give up his wife.”

“Why?”

“Catherine Owens Bruckner is old L.A. money. Tall, cool, beautiful. Very WASPier-than-thou. She’s a Jewish-boy-from-Brooklyn’s dream come true. The perfect trophy wife. He’d never give her up.”

“He wouldn’t trade her in for someone younger and firmer?”

“No way. Andy likes being part of Catherine’s Old Money world. Besides, the alimony payments would kill him.”

“How touching,” I said, slurping down the last of my Banana Blast.

“So maybe Andy killed Stacy to shut her up,” Jasmine opined.

Maybe, indeed.

“Well, I’d better go,” she said, sliding down from her stool. “Or I’ll be late for my next class.”

“Thanks for all your help, Jasmine.”

She gazed at me coolly.

“I can be very helpful for a hundred grand.” With a final toss of her curls, she headed back to her torture chamber.

Alone at the bar, I eyed Jasmine’s smoothie. She’d barely made a dent in it. I was just about to plunk my straw into its frothy pink foam when I felt someone tap me on my shoulder. I whirled around. It was Jasmine. Yikes, how embarrassing.

“Uh, I hope you don’t mind my finishing your smoothie.” I blushed. “I thought you were through with it.”

“That’s okay. Help yourself. I just came back to tell you that Andy is over there.” She pointed to a thin, muscular guy standing at the reception desk. Of course, ninety percent of the guys at the Sports Club are thin and muscular. This one had curly brown hair and a decidedly flirtatious manner.

He leaned over and whispered something to the snooty British receptionist. She burst out in a spasm of giggles. “Oh, Mr. Bruckner!” she cooed.

“Later, babe.” He shot her a smile that was meant to be devastating and started for the exit.

I regretfully abandoned Jasmine’s smoothie and hurried after him.

But just as I reached the exit turnstile, who should pop up in my path but Wendy “The Barracuda” Northrup.

“Ms. Austen!” she said, blocking my exit. “Why don’t you come with me to my office, and we can sign those contracts?”

“I’d love to,” I lied, “but I’m due in court.”

I snaked past her and slipped through the turnstile.

“When can I expect to see you?” she shouted after me.

“When hell freezes over,” I muttered under my breath.

I dashed out into the street, just in time to see Andy Bruckner driving away in a black BMW.