Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire (6 page)

T
he first thing I did when I got home from the Sports Club was head for the bathtub.

I don’t know about you, but I get some of my best thinking done in the tub. The tub is where I come up with handy euphemisms for my clients’ resumes and figure out the answers to stubborn crossword puzzle clues. It’s where I make Major Life Decisions, like whether to order Chinese food or pizza for dinner.

The bathtub is where I decided to divorce The Blob. I remember lying there, staring at his shampoo and thinking that I simply could not go on living one more day with a man who washed his hair with Mr. Bubble.

Now I was stretched out in the tub, letting the heat seep into my aching muscles, thinking about Andy Bruckner’s black BMW. Didn’t Elaine Zimmer say she’d seen a black BMW parked outside Bentley Gardens the night of the murder? Was it possible that Andy was the killer? Had he murdered Stacy to put an end to her blackmail threats, as Jasmine had hinted? Or was Jasmine merely a vengeful bitch, implicating Andy to get even with him for having dumped her?

And what about Jasmine? Maybe she was the killer. Had she really been home, exfoliating, the night of the murder? Or had she been at Stacy’s place, bashing her former friend’s head with a ThighMaster? Was it a case of hell hath no fury like an aerobics instructor scorned?

I lay there pondering the possibilities and, not incidentally, wondering if I should order Chinese food or pizza for dinner. Finally, when I was as limp as The Blob on our honeymoon, I wrenched myself out of the tub and toweled off.

I thought about going to Andy Bruckner’s office at CTA, but then I remembered the phone message from my angry client, the one who was waiting for his brochure. I had to remind myself that, as much fun as I was having in the land of make-believe, I was not actually a reporter. Or a cop. Or an attorney. I was a freelance writer, with bills to pay and a voracious cat to feed.

I slung my hair back into a ponytail, got into my pajamas, and hit the computer.

For the rest of the day, I banged away at “E-Mail Etiquette and You,” taking time out only to feed Prozac some Moist Mackerel Morsels and nuke a bag of microwave popcorn for myself.

It was dark out when I finally finished. I read over what I had written, feeling quite proud of myself. Here I’d taken a very boring subject and, in a mere nine hours, turned it into a much less boring subject. If they gave out Pulitzers for corporate brochures, I’d be a sure-fire winner.

It was with great pleasure that I faxed my client my opus. It was with even greater pleasure that I faxed him my invoice.

As if sensing my good mood, Prozac ambled over, rubbing her body against my ankles. It was just her way of saying, “Who cares about your silly brochure? Get your priorities straight. It’s time to rub my belly.”

I was in the middle of giving Prozac a vigorous belly rub when I realized that, aside from my Banana Blast and microwave popcorn and an old Altoid I’d found next to my keyboard, I hadn’t eaten anything all day. Suddenly I was hungry. Too hungry to wait for the pizza delivery guy.

I fixed myself a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and a glass of milk, and hunkered down at my kitchen table with my favorite part of the newspaper—the obituaries.

I don’t know why I’m so fascinated with obituaries. I think it was George Burns who once said he read the obituaries every morning just to make sure his name wasn’t there. I’m not at that stage of life yet, but I still like to read them. I like reading about women with names like Alma and Gladys who moved out to Los Angeles back when L.A. was still a backwater town. They came here from places like Nebraska and Iowa and married their first husbands, had a bunch of kids, and maybe a job, too, and then the Second World War broke out, and they started working for the Red Cross, and eventually their first husbands died, and they met husband Number Two and possibly Number Three at their bridge clubs, and after their second and third honeymoons, they went back to work, not retiring till at least seventy and not dying till at least eighty-five, leaving a whole passel of loving kids and grandkids and great-grandkids behind.

I read those obits and think to myself, My God, what full lives those women led. And they did it without microwaves or Dustbusters or bikini waxes.

Sometimes when I’m reading about Alma or Gladys, I think about my own life, what gaping holes there are. I ask myself: Do I really want to spend the rest of my life with Prozac as my significant other? Without a husband? Without kids? Without stretch marks? When I die, who’ll visit my grave? Whose eyes will mist with tears and remember what a nice person and lousy cook I was?

I tell myself it’s The Blob’s fault. That he’s soured me on men forever. But that isn’t true. The truth is I’m a coward. Afraid of taking a chance. Of getting hurt. It’s easier to curl up with Prozac and read the obituaries.

And so I sat there that night, scanning the death notices between bites of peanut butter and jelly, looking for long happy lives.

Instead, I found Stacy Lawrence.

There she was, between Morton Landers, Beloved Father and Grandfather, and Frieda Lipman, Cherished Aunt.

If Stacy had been beloved and cherished by anyone, it wasn’t mentioned in her obituary. The announcement was short and to the point. Stacy had passed away on the fourteenth. Funeral services would be held on the nineteenth.

The nineteenth was tomorrow, I realized, swallowing a particularly chunky mouthful of peanut butter.

I made up my mind to be there.

Stacy was laid to rest in The Vale of Peace, a sylvan glade dotted with oak trees, floral hedges, and a lovely view of the Hollywood Freeway. The minister conducting the service had to shout to be heard over the roar of the cars whizzing by.

I’d driven over from Beverly Hills and joined the small knot of mourners at Stacy’s gravesite, hoping none of them would question my right to be there.

As the minister droned on about how the Lord works in mysterious ways, I studied my fellow mourners.

A middle-aged couple, clearly Stacy’s parents, stood at the minister’s side, grim and dry-eyed. The woman was an older, faded version of Stacy. She had the hard-bitten look of a truck-stop waitress. I could tell she’d been a beauty once, but those days were a distant memory. Stacy’s father was a bloated man with an intricate web of veins on his nose and a gut that threatened to pop his shirt buttons. Neither of them showed any discernible emotion.

Were they struggling to hide their despair? Or was there simply no despair to hide? Was it possible that Stacy’s parents weren’t all that crazy about their own daughter?

Standing next to Stacy’s parents was Daryush Kolchev, the manager of Bentley Gardens. Unlike Stacy’s parents, Daryush was full of emotion. Tears misted his raisinette eyes, and periodically he dabbed at them with a none-too-clean hankie.

The other mourners were all young and good-looking. Undoubtedly Stacy’s wannabe actor friends. They stood in a semicircle around her grave, dressed trendily in black. I felt like I was at an actor’s workshop, and the class assignment had been “Grief.” Lots of deep sighs. And downcast looks. Hands demurely crossed. None of it rang true. Except maybe for the guy standing next to me, an ebony-haired hunk with a tasteful gold hoop in one ear. He was crying uncontrollably, tears streaming down his cheeks and glop running from his nose. It wasn’t pretty, but I had a feeling those tears were genuine.

The minister went on fighting the roar of the freeway, shouting out nice things about a young woman he probably didn’t know.

Somewhere between the eulogy and the Lord’s Prayer, I happened to glance over at a nearby oak tree. Standing there, apart from the crowd, was a well-dressed man in a raincoat and sunglasses. I could have sworn I’d seen him someplace before. And I had. It took me a minute or two to figure it out, but then it came to me. It was Andy Bruckner.

What was Andy Bruckner doing at Stacy’s funeral? Surely he’d want to try and keep a low profile where Stacy was concerned. Maybe he was crazy in love with her and came to pay his respects. Or maybe he killed her and came to make sure she was really dead.

The possibilities buzzed in my head like flies in an outhouse. This detective stuff was hard work. I was beginning to wonder how Kinsey Millhone ever managed to make it to the letter B, when suddenly the sobbing young man next to me whirled around and shouted, “You killed her!”

He was pointing straight at me.

Everyone was staring at me. I felt like a thug in a police lineup.

“I assure you, I had nothing to do with Ms. Lawrence’s death—”

But the hunk didn’t hear a word I was saying. Instead, he stormed past me, over to where Andy was standing.

I breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn’t been pointing at me, after all. Tears still streaming down his cheeks, he lunged at Andy, shouting, “You sonofabitch! If it weren’t for you, Stacy would be alive today!”

I turned to one of my fellow mourners, a pretty young thing with purple hair and a diamond stud in her left nostril.

“Who is that guy?” I asked her.

“Devon MacRae,” she said. “Stacy’s ex-boyfriend.”

Aha. Probably the hunk Cameron had seen with Stacy at the Bentley Gardens swimming pool.

Several of the black-clad actor wannabes now sprang into action and pulled Devon away from Andy. Andy picked up his sunglasses, which had fallen to the ground in the scuffle. He put them on and turned to the rest of us, trying his best to look as if he hadn’t been scared out of his wits.

“Drunk,” he said dismissively of his attacker.

It was true. I’d gotten a whiff of Devon’s breath. There’d been enough gin on it to make a pitcher of martinis.

By now The Vale of Peace security guards had come on the scene and had Devon MacRae in custody.

Very interesting, I thought, as they dragged him away, still screaming curses at Andy. Stacy’s ex-boyfriend was a violent man. With a bad temper. And a penchant for booze.

Sure seemed like a hot suspect to me.

Poor Stacy was forgotten in the aftermath of Devon MacRae’s outburst. The beautiful young things dropped their mourning poses and huddled together, buzzing about the scene they’d just witnessed.

I walked over to where they were standing.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Do any of you know how I can get in touch with Devon MacRae?”

They looked at me coolly. The gal with the purple hair finally piped up. “Last I heard, he was parking cars at Palmetto.”

Palmetto—for those of you with better things to do with your life than keep up with Hollywood status symbols—is a mega-trendy L.A. restaurant where the elite meet to bullshit each other over Chinese chicken salads. I made a mental note to stop by and sully their parking lot with my lowly Toyota.

“Thanks,” I smiled at my purple-haired friend.

I was just about to turn away when Daryush came bustling over.

“Such a tragedy,” he said, taking out his hankie and honking his nose. Now I’ve never actually heard a duck in heat, but I imagine it would sound a lot like Daryush blowing his nose. A few of the pretty young things looked over at us and giggled.

“And that crazy boyfriend of hers,” he sniffled, “making such a scene. Shame on him.”

I murmured a sympathetic “hmmm.”

“So. You still working on story for
New York Times?”

“Yes,” I nodded, in my most investigative reporterish mode.

Daryush turned to the pretty young things. “This lady,” he informed them proudly, “is reporter from
New York Times.”

Suddenly, they were all smiles.

All at once, it seemed like everyone was handing me flyers for upcoming equity-waiver productions. “I’m doing
Hedda Gabler
at the Glendale playhouse,” said the girl with the purple hair. “I hope you can make it.”

“I’m doing
King Lear
at a Lutheran potluck dinner,” said another, thrusting his flyer into my face.

“I’m doing a one-woman show about my life as a salesclerk at The Gap.”

Busy little bees, weren’t they?

I finally managed to wrench myself away from my new best friends and headed over to the parking lot, Daryush at my side.

“So,” I said as we walked along, “I see your wife couldn’t make it.”

Daryush shifted uncomfortably.

“No. Unfortunately Yetta could not come.”

Why did I get the feeling that there’d been no love lost between Yetta and Stacy?

“You be sure and send me your story,” Daryush said as he climbed into a dirty white van.

“I will. Don’t worry.”

I was watching him drive away, wondering if it were at all possible that Yetta had offed Stacy, when I heard a seductive, “Hi, there.”

I turned and saw Andy Bruckner, flashing me a high-wattage smile. “I hear you’re with
The New York Times.”

“Uh…right.”

“And that you’re doing a story about Stacy’s murder.”

I nodded.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms…?”

I thought about telling him I was Maureen Dowd, but I figured he might actually know the real Maureen Dowd. So I reluctantly went with the truth.

“Austen. Jaine Austen.”

And before he could say, “Love your books,” I quickly added, “No relation.”

“I’m Andy Bruckner of CTA. Perhaps you’ve heard of my agency.”

“Of course, Mr. Bruckner.”

“Look, Ms. Austen, I hope you won’t misinterpret what happened back there. Devon MacRae is a very unstable young man.”

“I could see that.”

“I just hope you don’t get the wrong idea about Stacy and me. Our relationship was strictly business. Stacy Lawrence was a client of the agency. Nothing more.”

I nodded as if I actually believed him.

“So I’d appreciate it if you could keep my name out of your story.” He flashed me another smile, half-flirting, half-fawning.

“Sorry, Mr. Bruckner. I can’t promise that.”

For a fleeting instant, I could see a glint of anger in his eyes. But he quickly blinked it away. “You know,” he said, just a little too casually, “we’re always looking for new writers at CTA.”

“Is that so?”