Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire (16 page)
Read Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire Online
Authors: Laura Levine
I grabbed my car keys and was heading for the front door when I stopped in my tracks. I’d forgotten all about Prozac. I couldn’t leave her alone in the apartment. I didn’t know exactly what it was I was afraid of, but I
did
know that I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to her.
So I grabbed her cat carrier from the hall closet. Which was, of course, a fatal mistake. The minute she saw it, she undoubtedly thought, “Uh-oh, another trip to that irritating veterinarian who keeps sticking thermometers up my butt.”
The next thing I knew, she was stubbornly entrenched under the sofa, just beyond my reach.
“C’mon, Prozac, honey, I swear we’re not going to the vet’s. We’re going to Auntie Kandi’s and I’ll let you eat Häagen-Dazs French Vanilla till your tummy is as big as a cantaloupe. I promise.”
But she wouldn’t budge. I pleaded, I cooed, I threatened. Finally, I got smart and opened a can of gourmet liver innards. I held it out to her and crooned, “Mmmmmm, yummy liver. Mmmmmm, good.”
A pink nose emerged from under the sofa. A large tummy soon followed. I snatched my beloved furball and tossed her into the carrier, along with the liver.
“I swear,” I said, as she glared at me from her tiny prison, “we’re not going to the vet’s.”
Then I grabbed my gym bag and opened the front door.
Only to find Cameron standing there. With a can of chicken noodle soup in one hand. And a gun in the other.
“I
didn’t really think you were sick,” Cameron said, pushing me back into my apartment with the butt of his gun, “but I brought some soup anyway.”
He smiled his crinkly-eyed grin and shoved me down onto the sofa. Prozac hissed from her carrier, clawing at the latch.
“Hush now, kitty.” He took the carrier from my hands and hurled it across the room, Prozac howling in protest.
“So,” he said, dropping the can of soup onto the coffee table. “You figured everything out, didn’t you?”
I nodded numbly.
“What a comedy of errors, huh?”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a comedy.”
He slouched down comfortably into my over-stuffed armchair and aimed his gun at my left breast.
“I go to kill Marian, but I have no idea that she’s already dead and buried. So I wind up offing that stupid bimbo by mistake. Can you believe my rotten luck?”
“Stacy’s luck wasn’t too hot, either.”
“Oh, come on. She was a piece of trash. No great loss to humanity.”
Now he aimed the gun at my right breast.
“So how did you guess it was me? I had an airtight alibi. I was in San Francisco the night of the murder, having dinner at the Union Street Inn. The proprietor of the inn, one Ann Garrity, will swear to that.”
“Is she your girlfriend? Is that how you got her to lie for you?”
“That cow? My girlfriend? Please, I practically threw up when I had to sleep with her. I just closed my eyes and thought of Sharon Stone.”
“Is that what you were going to do with me tonight? Think of Sharon Stone?”
He grinned apologetically. Like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar.
“Maybe just a little.”
A fresh wave of nausea washed over me. I would’ve puked, but I had nothing left to throw up. So I just sat there, listening to the sounds of my gut heaving and Prozac scratching at her cage.
Cameron looked down at the coffee table and saw the Christie’s auction catalogue.
“So that’s how you figured it out. You were there. At the auction.”
I nodded. “I knew something about the picture was familiar, and tonight I finally figured out what it was. The frame.”
“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but where did you get the picture of Cary Grant?”
“Oh, that. Marian actually dated him for a while. He gave her a framed photo of himself. Then he dumped her for someone else. Barbara Hutton or Randolph Scott, I forget who. Anyhow, she got pissed and covered his picture with that cheesy starlet snapshot of herself. The first time I saw it, I knew the frame was worth a lot of money. And the picture of Cary Grant just made it more valuable.”
“So you became Marian’s new best friend.”
“Right again, Sherlock.” Cameron was playing with the gun now, twirling it like a cowboy in a bad Western.
“She gave you the key to her apartment, just in case of an emergency, never dreaming that the emergency would be you bashing her head in.”
“Hey, I never wanted to kill Marian. She was a harmless old bat. The person I really wanted to kill was my stockbroker. He got me into some very stupid investments. Otherwise I wouldn’t have dreamed of knocking her off.”
“And the key you gave Daryush the day he caught us breaking into Stacy’s apartment. It really
was
the key to the apartment. That’s how you let yourself in the night of the murder.”
“That idiot Daryush. If he’d only changed the locks after Marian died, Stacy would be alive today. Not that it matters. Like I said, she’s no great loss.”
With that, he picked up a magazine from the coffee table and hurled it at the cat carrier, where Prozac was moaning piteously. I wanted to leap up and strangle him, but figured that wasn’t exactly a smart way to go, not with his gun aimed straight at my chest.
“And after the murder, you hid out in your own apartment. Which is why none of the tenants saw or heard anyone running away.”
“Yep. I was lying in bed watching
Jeopardy
when Howard showed up for his date. Poor shmuck.” He shook his head pityingly. “Anyhow, I had a restful night’s sleep, and then the next morning at dawn I snuck out to my Jeep and drove to the beach for a few hours. Then I came back just in time to meet you.”
He looked at me with what I could swear was genuine fondness and clicked something on the gun.
“The safety catch,” he explained. “It’s off now.” He sighed wearily. “I’m going to have to kill you, of course. And it’s really a shame. Because I like you.” He actually managed to look sad.
“Well, don’t do it if it’s going to make you unhappy.”
He smiled again, that wonderful grin that could soften cement.
“That’s what I like about you. You make me laugh. Too bad you couldn’t have minded your own business.”
“I think I should tell you,” I said, trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice, “I just spoke with Detective Rea and told him that you killed Stacy.”
Cameron said nothing. Just sat there looking at me, trying to figure out if I was bluffing. He figured right.
“Nice try,” he said finally. “But I don’t believe you.”
“I did. I swear. If you kill me, he’ll know it’s you.”
“I’ll take my chances. Every day you suspect someone new. I doubt the cops take you very seriously. I’m hoping they’ll pin your murder on Andy. They’ll probably think he had you killed to keep you from testifying at his trial.”
“They’ll never believe that.”
“Really? It works for me.”
He aimed the gun straight at my heart.
“Sorry, hon. I don’t have a choice.”
Just as he was about to pull the trigger, an angry ball of fur burst out of her cage and came hurtling across the room. Prozac, that incredible animal, had clawed the latch free.
I’m sure you’ve read stories of heroic cats who rescued their owners-in-distress by attacking intruders or dialing 911 with their paws.
Prozac isn’t one of them.
She whizzed past Cameron and scooted under the sofa, scared out of her wits. But the sudden movement threw him off guard. I grabbed the can of chicken noodle soup from the coffee table, and hurled it at him, knocking the gun from his hand.
The gun went skittering across the room. Cameron and I went skittering after it. The good news is, I reached it first. The bad news is, Cameron grabbed it out of my hands before I could even find the trigger. And then, just as he was taking aim at my chest for the fifth time that evening, we heard footsteps clomping up the path. A bunch of cops came bursting through the front door, guns drawn.
“Okay, Cameron,” Detective Rea shouted, “drop it.”
And he did.
R
emind me never to badmouth Lance again. It turns out that darling man and thoughtful neighbor had his ear glued to my wall, as usual, and as soon as he realized I was in trouble, he called the police. If it hadn’t been for him, at this very moment I’d be plot mates with Stacy Lawrence at The Vale of Peace.
As a gesture of gratitude, I took him to dinner at a local trattoria where we spent a good part of the evening listening to the couple in the next booth breaking up. This eavesdropping thing can be quite addicting, once you get the hang of it.
Anyhow, Lance isn’t nearly as bad as I thought. He actually likes his job selling shoes at Neiman Marcus, and has a whole repertoire of shoe salesman jokes. Like the one about the bimbo customer who asks, “What have you got to go with a short, fat millionaire?” (I never said they were funny.)
After a few glasses of chianti, Lance said he could get me an employee discount on Neiman Marcus shoes. So instead of a quatrillion dollars for a pair of Manolo Blahniks, I’d only be paying half a quatrillion. But it was sweet of him to offer.
Naturally, they arrested Cameron and charged him with all sorts of unpleasant things. Like murder, attempted murder, and assault with a deadly ThighMaster.
And believe it or not, Detective Rea was kind enough to give me credit for solving the case. Ever since he saved my life, he’s been surprisingly sweet. He actually apologized for not having taken me seriously, and he’s called me several times just to make sure I’m okay.
Anyhow, he sang my praises to the news media, and they ran a story about me in the
Los Angeles Times
. With my picture and everything. True, it was right next to an ad for vericose vein removal. But lots of people read it.
The story mentioned that I was a freelance writer, and my phone has been ringing off the hook with job offers. In fact, just yesterday I was asked to write a brochure for a national plumbing corporation. (I’m not at liberty to divulge their name; let’s just say it rhymes with Toto Tooter.) So I guess you could say I’m back in the toilet again.
I have to confess I miss being a detective. Yes, I know it was dangerous. And I know I almost got mowed down by a BMW. And gunned down by a psychopath. But it was exciting. My blood was rushing, my corpuscles were puscling.
Which is why I’ve signed up for a course at the Learning Annex.
How To Be a Private Eye.
Kandi’s coming with me. Not to meet men. I’m happy to say she’s stuck by her resolution to give up the whole manhunting thing. No, she’s coming to get story ideas for a new show she’s working on, a spin-off of
Beanie & The Cockroach
called
Maggot, P.I.
Who knows? I just might wind up making a career change and become a detective. One of the growing breed of PI’s with PMS.
In fact, I’ve already been working on an idea for an ad in the Yellow Pages. What do you think?
Jaine Austen, Discreet Inquiries
Work Done with Pride, not Prejudice
I know. It needs work.
As for men, my encounter with Cameron has set me back light-years in the Meaningful Relationship department. After The Blob, I thought I’d never love again. After Cameron, I know I never will. It’s over, as far as men are concerned. I’m happy to live out my life single, one of those crazy old ladies whose Significant Other is her cat.
So that about wraps it up. Things have pretty much gone back to normal. Mr. Goldman is still irritating the kapok out of everyone at the Shalom Retirement Home. Andy Bruckner is still doing lunch at Spago—and doing Jasmine in the backseat of his BMW. Prozac is still eating like a longshoreman. And the last I heard, Howard was dating a waitress at the House of Wonton.
Oh, wait a minute. There’s the phone. I’ll be right back.
You’ll never guess who that was. Detective Rea. How’s this for crazy? He wanted to know if I was free for dinner tonight.
He’s got to be kidding, right? Me, go out with a person of the masculine persuasion? After what I’ve just been through? Ridiculous. Impossible. Out of the question.
He’s picking me up at eight.
Please turn the page for
an exciting sneak peek of
Laura Levine’s
next Jaine Austen mystery
LAST WRITES
coming in hardcover in July 2003!
I
should’ve known there was trouble ahead when I saw the sign over the studio gate:
MIRACLE STUDIOS
“If It’s a Good Picture, It’s a Miracle”
Miracle Studios, for those of you lucky enough never to have been there, is a sorry collection of soundstages in the scuzziest section of Hollywood, a part of town where the hookers outnumber the parking meters two to one.
But when I drove onto the Miracle lot that hazy Monday morning, I was a happy camper. I, Jaine Austen, was about to become a bona fide Hollywood Sitcom Writer. After years of toiling at my computer as a freelance writer, churning out brochures and resumes and personals ads, I was about to strike it rich in show biz. No longer would I have to come up with fictional resumes for college grads with room-temperature IQs. Or slogans for my biggest client, Toiletmasters Plumbers (
In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters
).
I owed my good fortune to my best friend, Kandi Tobolowski. Six weeks earlier, she’d called me with the news:
“Guess what,” she said. “I’ve kissed the cockroach good-bye!”
The cockroach to whom she was referring was the star insect of a Saturday morning cartoon show,
Beanie & The Cockroach
, a heartwarming saga of a chef named Beanie and his pet cockroach, Fred. Kandi had been a staff writer on
Beanie
for more years than she cared to admit. Like most animation writers, she’d long dreamed of landing a job in the far more prestigious world of live-action television.
And that day had finally arrived. Her agent had taken enough time off from lunch at Spago to line up a job for her on a comedy called
Muffy ’n Me
—a Saturday morning syndicated show about a buxom teenage girl who gets hit on the head with a volleyball and develops magical powers.
As the Miracle bigwigs pitched it to the network, “It’s
Bewitched
with tits.”
Okay, so it wasn’t going to win any Emmys. But it was a big step up from the cockroach, and Kandi was thrilled. So was I, two weeks later, when she told me she’d managed to get me a script assignment on the show.
At first, I was terrified. After all, I wasn’t much of a comedy writer. But then
Muffy ’n Me
wasn’t much of a comedy. So, after chaining myself to my computer, armed with only my wits and a copy of Henny Youngman’s
Giant Book of One-Liners
, I managed to complete my comedic masterpiece, “Cinderella Muffy.” It’s all about what happens when Muffy magically changes her ratty bathrobe into a glam prom dress, only to have the spell wear off in the middle of the prom, leaving her stranded on the dance floor, doing the Funky Chicken in her jammies.
I know, it sounds ghastly to someone of your refined tastes. But remember, we’re talking Hollywood here, the town that brought you
My Mother the Car
and
The Gong Show
. The head writers loved it! Okay, so maybe they didn’t love it. But they liked it. Enough to invite me to be a “guest writer” on the show for a week. And here’s the truly wonderful part. If they liked working with me, they were going to offer me a staff job! And if I did well on
Muffy,
it would be only a matter of time before I made the leap from syndication to prime time. Do you know how much prime-time sitcom writers make? Well, neither do I. But I hear it’s scads. Truckloads of really big bucks. Think Bill Gates. Think Donald Trump. Think plumbers on overtime!
Ever since I’d handed in my script, I’d had visions of Seinfeldian contracts dancing in my head. I’d already mentally bought my beach house in Malibu, complete with his and hers Jaguars for me and my husband. Not that I had a husband, but I was sure I’d pick one up along the way.
All of which explains why I was in a jolly mood that morning as I drove past the wino sunning himself at the studio gates and onto the Miracle lot. I pulled up in front of the guard booth, where an ancient man with rheumy eyes and the unlikely name of Skippy asked me where I was headed.
“
Muffy ’n Me!
” I grinned.
Was it my imagination or did I see a trace of pity in those rheumy old eyes?
“Park over there,” he said, waving to a tiny spot next to the commissary dumpster.
I parked my trusty Corolla in the shadow of the dumpster and stepped out onto the lot, trying to ignore the smell of rotting garbage. Swinging my brand-new attaché case, I headed over to the office I was to share with Kandi, eager to start on this exciting new chapter of my life. Somehow it still didn’t seem real. I had to keep reminding myself that I actually had a job at Miracle Studios.
Of course, I didn’t know it at the time, but the real miracle was that I’d live to tell about it.