Death by Tiara (25 page)

Luckily your mom has forgiven me.

I think the box of fudge I gave her helped.

Love ’n’ snuggles from
Daddy

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Mom Was Right

I’ve been thinking it over, Lambchop, and I’ve come to the conclusion that your mom was right about Nellybelle. As much as I loved her, she was probably of inferior quality. I’ll never make that mistake again.

Which is why I just ordered a top-of-the-line EZ Rider motor scooter from Big Al’s Discount Scooter Warehouse—where every bike comes with a free harmonica! Can’t wait to learn how to play it!

Love ’n’ hugs from
Daddy

Chapter 30

I
was jolted awake the next morning by a loud banging on my bedroom wall.

“Quick, Jaine!” Lance was shouting at me through our paper-thin walls. “Turn on the Channel Five news!”

Wiping sleep from my eyes and Prozac from my chest, I reached for the remote and clicked on the TV just in time to see a photo of Dr. Fletcher taken in happier days, smiling into the camera, the proud principal of Alta Loco High.

A perky newscaster with impossibly white teeth, perhaps a former Miss Teen Queen America, was talking about how Dr. Fletcher had been arrested for the assault of a Beverly Hills woman, June Austen—good heavens, could no one get my name right?—and was now a prime suspect in Amy Leighton’s murder.

As I watched footage of Dr. Fletcher being escorted in handcuffs to a police van, I couldn’t help noticing how frightened he looked. So weak and vulnerable. Not at all the image of a murderous psychopath.

Was it possible he wasn’t the killer?
I wondered, as I headed for the bathroom to brush my teeth.

But then I caught a glimpse of my neck in the bathroom mirror, blotched with ugly black and blue marks. Once again, I could feel Dr. Fletcher’s arms choking the life out of me. And suddenly he didn’t seem so innocent anymore.

Dr. Fletcher was the killer, all right, and I was glad he was behind bars.

It was with a sense of great relief that I tootled off to the kitchen to fix Prozac some Hearty Halibut Guts and nuke myself a cinnamon raisin bagel.

A sense of relief that came to a crashing halt, however, when I read the latest emails from my parents. I was sitting there, shuddering at the thought of Daddy behind the wheel of Nellybelle, plowing into the Tampa Vistas community pool, when Lance came knocking at my door.

“How’re you feeling, hon?” he asked as he breezed in, decked out in cut-offs and a tank top.

“Okay, but my neck’s a little sore.”

“Acck!” he cried, eyeing my bruises. “You poor thing! You look like you’ve just done ten rounds with a Jersey Housewife. Stay right there, and Uncle Lance will fix you an ice pack.”

He scooted off to my kitchen. Seconds later he came back out, chomping on a cinnamon raisin bagel.

“Hope you don’t mind; I took your last bagel.”

Of course I minded!

Then, tossing me a cold can of Diet Coke, he said, “Rub this on your neck. It’s practically as good as an ice pack.

“I still can’t get over it!” he said as he plopped down on my sofa. “I, Lance Venable, actually caught a killer!”

“You??”

“Yes, me! Don’t you remember how I tackled that burly thug to the ground?”

“Burly thug? Dr. Fletcher can’t weigh more than a hundred and forty pounds soaking wet. And you didn’t tackle him. He tripped over a loose brick.”

“Yes, but right after that, I tackled him and sat on his chest till the police came.”

“Wait a minute.
I
was the one sitting on his chest.”

“Technically, perhaps, but if it weren’t for my arms of steel holding him down, he surely would have gotten away. That’s the story I posted on Twitter, anyway, and I’m sticking to it.”

Can you believe this guy? Talk about delusional.

“Well, gotta run,” he said, getting up. “Must take a selfie of me on the front path to tweet to my followers. I’ve got three hundred twenty-two new ones ever since I tweeted about how I saved your life!”

Any minute now, he’d be awarding himself a Nobel Peace Prize.

“Mind if I take your Diet Coke?” he said as he grabbed it from my neck. “I’m thirsty from the bagel.”

With that, he breezed out the door.

I was just about to dash after him and snatch back my Diet Coke when the phone rang. I picked it up to hear Heather’s voice, bubbling with excitement.

“Jaine, dear. I just heard the news about Dr. Fletcher’s arrest. I’m not the least bit surprised he turned out to be the killer. I knew there was something evil about him the first time I saw him!”

Was she kidding? The first time she saw him waiting for the elevator at the Amada Inn, she was practically kissing his fanny, hoping to get him to vote for Taylor.

“Anyhow,” she was saying, “I’ve got terrific news. The teen queen crowning ceremony has been rescheduled for tomorrow, and Taylor is back in the contest!”

“That’s wonderful. How did that happen?”

“My husband had a word with pageant headquarters and everything got straightened out.”

I remembered Nicky, her hit man of a husband. I just hoped there were no tire irons involved.

“Taylor really wants you to be at the crowning ceremony. She’s so very fond of you.”

The last thing I wanted was to sit around watching a teen queen get crowned with a clock-tiara, but Taylor was a sweet kid, so I agreed to go.

The minute I hung up, the phone rang again. It was Taylor.

You cynics out there who think she was calling because she wanted me to bring M&M’s are all wrong.

This time she wanted Kit Kat bars.

Chapter 31

I
showed up at the Amada Inn the next day, pitying the poor souls checking in, and took the hotel’s one and only working elevator to the top floor. Over in the Rooftop Ballroom, rows of chairs had been set up for the crowning ceremony. Next door in the dressing room, nervous teens sat in makeup chairs as their moms fussed over them, applying blush, curling lashes, and adding wiglets to their already huge hair.

Making my way through a miasma of hairspray, I found Taylor decked out in her fifteen-hundred-dollar Vera Wang gown, having her hair done by a skinny guy in gold lamé jeans, who I could only assume was a professional stylist.

Heather hovered nearby, Elvis in her arms.

“Hey, guys!” I called out.

“Jaine, thank heavens you’re here! Taylor’s been asking about you all morning.”

“Hi, Jaine.” Taylor waved a manicured finger at me, and I surreptitiously pointed at my purse, to let her know her Kit Kats were close at hand.

Then I looked over and saw that, as bad luck would have it, Luanne and Gigi were at the very next makeup station.

Luanne was sipping coffee from a paper cup, shouting out unwanted directions as Gigi applied her own makeup. No designer duds for Gigi; her gown was a sequined special straight from a prom shop. But Gigi was a pretty girl, and she looked damn good in it.

“More blush!” Luanne screeched at her. “You need rosy cheeks.”

Gigi rolled her eyes.

“Mom, I wanna be Teen Queen, not Ronald McDonald.”

“I’m so glad Taylor had her makeup done by a trained professional,” Heather bragged, loud enough for Luanne to hear.

“Some girls need all the help they can get,” Luanne muttered.

Heather bristled. “Of all the nerve! Taylor, did you hear what she just said?”

Taylor shot her mom a warning look.

“Mom, if you make a scene, I swear I’m getting up and walking out right now.”

Reluctantly, Heather clamped her lips shut and turned her attention to Taylor’s hair.

“Here, Jaine. Watch Elvis, will you? I want to do Taylor’s bangs. Nobody does bangs like I do.”

She thrust the little beast in my arms, and he greeted me as he usually did—with a nasty growl and much baring of fangs.

“Here’s his favorite chew toy,” Heather said, handing me a bright chartreuse bone, covered liberally in dog spit. Elvis started gnawing on it as Heather grabbed a comb from Mr. Gold Lamé and began working on Taylor’s bangs.

Eventually Taylor was gussied up to Heather’s exacting standards and twirled around for inspection.

“Gorgeous!” Heather proclaimed.

And I must admit, she was right. With her big brown eyes, tiny waist, and flawless complexion—all wrapped up in that Vera Wang gown—Taylor was quite a stunner.

“You look really nice,” Gigi said, eyeing Taylor’s dress with envy.

“Thanks,” Taylor smiled. “So do you.”

“That’s the sportsmanlike way!” Mr. Gold Lamé exclaimed, waving his hair dryer in the spirit of peace. “May the best contestant win!”

“Don’t worry,” Heather said. “Taylor will.”

“No way!” Luanne shot back. “My Gigi’s going to walk away with that crown.”

“Only if she rips it off my Taylor’s head.”

By now the two were glaring at each other in Dragon Mom mode.

“Wake up and smell the hair spray,” Luanne sneered. “Gigi’s going to win.”

“Taylor!”

“Gigi!”

“Taylor!”

“Gigi!”

This fascinating battle of wits was in full swing when Candace’s new assistant, a harried young slip of a thing, came hurrying by, her clipboard poking out from the crook of her arm. No doubt in a rush to obey Candace’s latest command, she accidentally jostled Luanne.

And that’s when things went from bad to World War III. I watched in dismay as Luanne’s coffee went flying out of her paper cup—right down the front of Taylor’s fifteen-hundred-dollar Vera Wang gown.

“I’m so sorry!” Candace’s assistant cried.

But Heather was deaf to her apology. She whirled on Luanne, fire in her eyes.

“You did that on purpose!”

“I did not!” Luanne shot back. “It was an accident!”

But Heather wasn’t buying it.

“Oh, please. You’ve been sniping at me ever since this pageant began. That was no accident. You spilled that coffee on purpose!” she shouted. “You spilled it on purpose!”

You spilled it on purpose!

And with those words everything clicked into place.

I knew who the killer was.

Not Dr. Fletcher, whose only crimes were assault and tacky taste in garter belts. The killer, I felt certain, was Candace.

Candace said she’d accidentally spilled Coke on Amy’s red blazer the day of the murder. But what if it wasn’t an accident? What if she’d spilled that Coke on purpose, so Amy would be forced to change into Candace’s blue blazer?

All along I’d assumed that Candace was the intended victim and that the killer had killed Amy by mistake. But what if there was no mistake? What if Candace had been plotting to kill Amy?

Candace had been on the take, accepting bribes from desperate pageant moms. Maybe mousy little Amy hadn’t been so mousy. Maybe she knew about Candace’s cheating ways and had been threatening to expose her.

So Candace maneuvered her into a blue blazer and killed her to shut her up, careful to leave her body face down, to make it look like the killer had mistaken Amy for Candace.

Hadn’t Bethenny been grousing about how her Tiphany clock-tiara had come without batteries? Then why was the tiara clock working the day it was used as a murder weapon? Because Candace had put batteries in the clock and then set the time to when she knew she’d be at the dance rehearsal. Then, smashing the tiara on Amy’s skull, she’d stopped the clock, giving herself an airtight alibi.

Yes, I’d bet my bottom Pop-Tart Candace was the killer. I had to call Brunhilde and tell her what I knew. I just hoped she’d take me seriously, considering I didn’t have a shred of evidence.

By now, Mr. Gold Lamé was dabbing club soda on Taylor’s Vera Wang. Miraculously the coffee stain was coming out.

“See?” Heather said to Luanne. “Your nasty little trick has failed! Now nothing can stop my Taylor from winning the crown!”

“I’ll be right back,” I said to Heather, shoving Elvis in her arms. “I’ve got to make a call.”

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“I know who Amy’s killer is.”

With that I grabbed my cell phone from my purse and dashed out to the hallway.

“But I thought Dr. Fletcher was the killer,” Heather said, hot on my heels, toting Elvis.

“Nope,” I said, once we were alone in the corridor. “It’s Candace.”

“Candace? Isn’t she was the one the killer was trying to knock off?”

“That’s what she wanted everyone to think.”

I told her my theory.

“What marvelous news!” she cried when I was finished. “I can’t wait to see her royal snootiness rot in jail, after the way she treated my Taylor.” Then her brow furrowed in doubt. “But wait a minute. What about that man who jumped out from her bushes and attacked her with a knife?”

“If you ask me, Candace probably staged that little scene herself. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she had Eddie stab her.”

Suddenly from behind us we heard a mirthless laugh.

We whirled around to see Candace, with a sneer on her face and a gun in her hand.

A gun, which, I might add, was aimed most unnervingly at my gut.

“Eddie, stab me? Not bloody likely. He’s such a wuss, I had to stab myself. But it was very convincing, don’t you agree? It made everyone think I was being stalked by a killer!

“And I was careful not to go too deep,” she added, quite pleased with herself. “Just a scratch, really. All better now!”

Indeed, all that remained on her arm was a tiny bandage.

“Well, enough about me,” she said, getting down to business. “Time to get rid of you two. First things first. Hand over your cell phone, Sherlock.”

Reluctantly I tossed my phone to her.

“Can’t have you trying to dial 911 on the sly, can I?”

Damn. That’s just what I’d been planning to do.

“Okay, girls. Time to take a little walk.”

With her gun at our backs, Candace nudged us over to the elevators. I prayed that someone would walk by, but everyone was in the dressing room, getting ready for the grand crowning ceremony. If only Elvis would start barking and attract their attention. But, no. The little prince had apparently taken a vow of silence.