Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire (3 page)

I
left Detective Rea’s office in a pissy mood and headed back to the visitors’ room at the county jail.

“What’s Stacy’s address?” I asked when Howard was once again seated across from me in his smudgy glass cage.

“She lives in Westwood.” A flash of pain swept over his face. “I mean, she lived in Westwood. A place called Bentley Gardens.”

“You remember the exact address?”

“1622 Bentley. Why do you want to know?”

“I want to pay a little visit,” I said, “to the scene of the crime.”

Five minutes later, I was on the freeway, heading over to Westwood. I wanted to talk to Stacy’s neighbor in Apartment Seven, the lady who’d heard Howard screaming. If she heard Howard, maybe she’d heard something else, something that would point me in the direction of the true killer.

Wait a minute, you’re probably asking yourself. I’m a freelance writer, right? So how come I was talking like V.I. Warshawski? That’s just what I was asking myself that day as I headed over to Stacy’s place. What on earth did I think I was doing? Surely, the police had already questioned everyone. If there were any pertinent facts to be discovered, they would have discovered them.

Then I thought of Detective Rea, and that smug grin on his face, and I knew exactly why I was heading over to Westwood.

Stacy lived on a leafy street a couple of miles from the UCLA campus. Bentley Gardens was a small but well-maintained building, with purple pansies bordering the patch of lawn out front.

I parked my car and headed up a flagstone path to a security intercom. I checked out the building directory and found Apartment Seven. The name on the buzzer said “E. Zimmer.” I was just about to ring, when I suddenly wondered: What the heck was I going to say to E. Zimmer?
“Hello, I’m a friend of the man who was arrested for killing your neighbor.”
I don’t think so.

I was standing there trying to figure out a plan of attack when I saw a Jeep pull into the building’s carport. A clean-cut guy in his thirties got out and started taking suitcases from the trunk of his car. I pretended to be looking for something in my purse as he came up the path. He smiled at me absently, then took out his keys and let himself in. I couldn’t help noticing his eyes, a beautiful Aidan Quinn blue.

“Here, let me hold the door for you,” I said, as he juggled his suitcases.

“Thanks.” He flashed me another smile, this one of slightly higher wattage than the first, and made his way in. Needless to say, I slipped in right behind him.

Seven apartments surrounded a postage stamp–sized pool in the courtyard of Bentley Gardens. The pool was deserted, except for a few plastic chaises scattered along its rim.

Mr. Blue Eyes let himself into Apartment Four. I tried to look like I knew where I was going as I scanned the doors, looking for Number Seven. Fortunately, Blue Eyes was too busy schlepping suitcases to pay much attention to me.

I walked past Number Six and saw yellow police tape crisscrossing the door. Obviously Stacy’s place. I approached Number Seven, and could hear the low hum of a TV inside.

I had decided on a plan of attack and was just about to knock on E. Zimmer’s door, when I heard, in a gruff Russian accent: “Who are you?”

I turned to see a dark butterball of a man, glaring at me suspiciously.

I did a little mini-glare of my own. Sounding a lot braver than I felt, I countered, “And you are…?”

“Daryush Kolchev, Building Manager.”

“I’m with the press,” I said, putting my plan of attack into action. And it wasn’t a total lie, either. Back in high school, I was a star reporter for the
Lincoln High Tattler.
Okay, so I wasn’t a star reporter. But I did write some pretty angry Letters to the Editor.

The Russian eyed me skeptically. “Oh?”

“I’m with
The Times
.”

I flashed him a press card. Okay, so it wasn’t a press card. It was my Bloomingdale’s charge card, but I was hoping he wouldn’t know the difference.

“Los Angeles Times
reporter, he came last night, with other media peoples.”

“Oh,” I said, not missing a beat, “not the
Los Angeles Times. The New York Times.”

“I have cousin in New York. Yakov Kolchev. You know him?”

“No, can’t say I do.”

“Okay,” he said, brushing back the few remaining strands of hair on his head. “I talk to you. I tell you just what I told other media peoples last night. Stacy Lawrence, she was angel from heaven. Such a smile. And never once late with her rent. If all my tenants pretty and nice like her, I be happy man.”

Clearly, Howard hadn’t been the only one with a crush on Stacy.

“Hey, how come you’re not writing this down?”

“Not necessary. I have a photographic memory. It’s all in here,” I said, tapping my forehead. If I told one more lie, my nose would start growing. “Did you see anything unusual last night? Anybody suspicious?”

“Sure. I see someone suspicious.”

“Who?” I asked, eagerly.

“The guy they arrested. He look very suspicious to me.”

“See anyone else?”

“No, my wife and I were in apartment watching television. Home Shopping. We buy genuine cubic zirconia. Only $19.95, plus shipping and handling.”

“Well, that’s swell. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to talk to Ms. Zimmer.”

“Better you than me,” he said, rolling his eyes and gesturing toward Number Seven. “That Elaine Zimmer. Miserable lady. Always complaining. Tenants like her, I can do without. Not pretty and peppy like Stacy Lawrence.”

His eyes misted over at the mention of Stacy’s name. But he didn’t stay sentimental for long.

“Be sure you spell my name right for
New York Times
. D-A-R-Y-U-S-H K-O-L-C-H-E-V. Here. I give you card.”

He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a grease-stained business card. “I’m good handyman. You call if something breaks.”

Just then a large woman stepped out from an apartment at the other end of the courtyard.

“Daryush. Come quick. Is diamond bracelet on television. Free shipping and handling!”

Mr. Kolchev thrust his greasy business card into my hand and scurried off to join his wife.

As I stood there watching him, I couldn’t help thinking that Daryush Kolchev had been quite fond of Stacy Lawrence. Maybe a little too fond. And I couldn’t help wondering if Daryush’s rather large, unattractive wife was the jealous type. Jealous enough, perhaps, to bash her rival’s head in with a ThighMaster?

A
famous philosopher (either Aristotle or Judith Krantz, I forget who) once said about being a woman in Los Angeles: If you’re blonde and beautiful, you’re interchangeable. If you’re not, you’re invisible.

Elaine Zimmer was one of the invisible ones.

She answered her doorbell, a short, squat woman in a nurse’s uniform.

“Yes?”

She looked at me with an intimidating blend of suspicion and impatience.

“Hi,” I said, flashing a smile and my Bloomie’s card. “I’m with
The Times
.” It worked so well with Daryush, I figured I’d give it another shot.

But Elaine was a lot smarter than Daryush.

“That’s not a press card. That’s a Bloomingdale’s charge card.”

“Oh?” I faked surprise. “Well, I’m sure I’ve got it in here somewhere.” I rummaged through my purse, looking for my nonexistent press card. “Gosh, I must’ve left it at home. I changed wallets this morning. You know how that is.”

“No, I don’t know how that is.”

She eyed me skeptically and started to shut the door.

“Look, you can call my editor if you don’t believe me. Mark Simms, 213-555-3876.” I figured if I was going to bluff, I might as well bluff on a grand scale. Mark Simms was my gynecologist.

Elaine headed for her telephone, the pants of her two-piece uniform straining at the seams. “What was that number?”

“Forget it,” I said, slipping into the apartment behind her. “I’m not with the press. I’m here on behalf of my client, Howard Murdoch.”

“Oh. The kid who killed Stacy.”

“That hasn’t been proven yet.”

“For crying out loud, they found him covered with her blood.”

“That still doesn’t mean he killed her.”

“Yeah, right,” she said, ushering me toward the door. “Forgive me if my heart isn’t brimming over with sympathy for Mr. Rich.”

“Mr. Rich?”

“I heard he’s Rupert Murdoch’s nephew. Probably a spoiled brat.”

“He’s not Rupert Murdoch’s nephew. I can swear to that.”

“But what about his BMW?”

“Howard doesn’t have a BMW.”

“I saw one parked outside last night. A big black one. I assumed it was his. We don’t get many BMWs on this block. This is definitely a Toyota neighborhood.”

“Look, Ms. Zimmer, I can assure you Howard is far from rich and far from spoiled. He works as an insurance adjuster and lives with his mother.”

She thought this over and seemed to soften. Empathy from one of life’s underdogs for another.

“You want some coffee?” she offered. “I was just fixing myself some.”

“I’d love it.”

I followed her to her cramped kitchen. Her apartment was small: living room, matchbox kitchen, and what I assumed was a bedroom down the hall.

The coffee smelled great. She poured it into UCLA mugs, and we sat at a pine table in her “dining nook,” a tiny alcove jammed between the living room and the front door.

“So who are you, really?” she said, stirring Sweet’n Low into her coffee.

“An associate of Howard’s. He’s my client.”

“You his lawyer?”

“No, his writer.”

“His writer?”

“He hired me to write a letter that would convince Stacy to go on a date with him. Unfortunately for him, I took the assignment.”

“You write letters that get people dates?” she asked, a glint of interest in her eyes.

“Most of the time I write resumes and brochures. Stuff like that. Anyhow, I was wondering if you saw or heard anything unusual last night.”

“Just your client, screaming his head off.”

“You didn’t hear any cries from Stacy? Any indication that she was being murdered?”

“No. I was watching TV, though. There could’ve been some noise that I wouldn’t have heard with the television on.”

“So you heard Howard screaming and called the cops.”

“First, I went next door to see what was going on. The door was open. Howard was in the bedroom, holding the ThighMaster, blood all over him. He was totally out of it. I don’t even think he knew I was there. I could see right away Stacy was dead. Being an RN, I know about those things.”

“A nurse,” I nodded, trying to look impressed. “Where do you work?”

“UCLA. Psychiatric ward.”

“Really?” I could easily picture her wrestling a patient into a straightjacket.

“Anyhow,” she went on, “I saw that Stacy was dead, so that’s when I called the cops. Want a Mallomar?”

I could tell she wanted one, so I said, “Sure.”

“Be right back.” She disappeared into her kitchen, and I looked around the tiny apartment. The place was crammed with white wicker and delicate floral prints. An interesting decorating choice. Nurse Ratched meets Laura Ashley.

I glanced over by the front door and saw a basket of laundry waiting to be washed. My eyes were drawn to a rust-colored stain on one of the blouses. From where I was sitting, it looked a heck of a lot like blood. Of course, it could have been spaghetti sauce, or strawberry margarita mix. It was hard to tell for sure.

“Here we go.”

Elaine was back with a bag of cookies. She held it out, and I took one.

“So,” I said, as she bit into a Mallomar with relish, “what was Stacy like?”

“World-class bitch,” she said through cookie crumbs, chocolate gathering in the corners of her mouth.

“Really?”

“Sweet as pie if you were someone who could do her any good. Treated you like shit if you couldn’t. Men loved her, of course. Blond hair, big boobs. That’s what men really want. Forget all that crap about inner beauty, it’s what’s on the outside that counts.”

She was right, of course. Life isn’t fair, especially to short, stocky nurses with a fondness for chocolate.

“Your manager, Mr. Kolchev, sure seemed to be crazy about her.”

Her face flushed with anger. “That moron,” she spat out. “I ought to sue him. He gave Stacy that apartment, when it belonged to me.”

“What do you mean?”

“The apartment next door. I told him years ago I wanted it. ‘The minute it’s vacant, I want it,’ I told him. It’s a big corner unit. With a den, and a terrace. Daryush promised he’d give it to me. Then two weeks ago, the lady who was living there died, and he gave it to Stacy.”

She reached for another Mallomar.

“She was only living in the building a year, for crying out loud. I’ve been here for ten. Stacy didn’t deserve that apartment. I did!”

Her face was bright red, suffused with rage. Frankly, I was a little spooked. I made a mental note to never have a nervous breakdown at the UCLA psychiatric ward.

“I guess I’d better be going now,” I said, a little too brightly. “Thanks so much for your help.”

“Sure,” she said, normal again, as if she’d just woken from a bad dream.

And as she walked me to the door, I asked myself: Could Elaine Zimmer have been angry enough to kill Stacy over an apartment? Stranger things have happened in the wacky world of Los Angeles real estate.

She hesitated a moment before opening the door to let me out. My stomach lurched. Had she somehow sensed that I suspected her of killing Stacy? Was she about to bump me off with a UCLA coffee mug?

She smiled a tentative smile. “Those letters you write, to get people dates. You think you could write one for me?”

Thank God. She didn’t want to kill me. Like most of the women in Los Angeles, all she wanted was a date.

“Sorry. I’m no longer in the love-letter business.”

“How about Personals ads?” she asked hopefully. “You do those?”

“Nope,” I lied. “Afraid not.”

“That’s too bad.” She sighed, and opened the door.

I felt sorry for her. Poor thing probably hadn’t had a date since the Carter administration. But no way was I going to get involved in someone’s love life. Not again. Not after what happened with Howard. I thanked her for her time and scooted out the door. On my way out, I shot a furtive glance at the stained blouse in the laundry basket.

Sure looked like blood to me.

Back out in the courtyard, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, and the breeze was breezing. It was all so darn idyllic; you’d never dream a young woman had recently been bludgeoned to death on the premises.

I stared at the police tape crisscrossed in front of Stacy’s door and wondered if the door could possibly be open. I doubted it, but what the heck. I reached through the tape, and jiggled the doorknob. Just as I’d thought, it was locked.

I started to walk away when suddenly it occurred to me: I’d left my fingerprints at the scene of the crime. What sort of an idiot was I, anyway? Detective Rea had made that snide joke about arresting me. What if they found my prints on the doorknob and hauled me off to jail?

I rummaged through my purse for a Kleenex, then raced back to the door to wipe my fingerprints away. I was standing there, rubbing the doorknob, picturing myself in one of those unflattering orange jumpsuits, when I heard someone approaching. I quickly stashed my tissue in my pocket and turned to see Mr. Blue Eyes. I smiled feebly, trying to look as law abiding as possible.

“Hi.” He smiled, his blue eyes crinkling in a most attractive way. “Are you from the police?”

“Yes,” I lied. Well, it wasn’t a total lie. After all, I’d just come from police headquarters, hadn’t I?

“What’s going on?”

“There’s been a murder.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Stacy Lawrence was murdered in her bed last night,” I said in my most cop-like manner.

“My God, that’s terrible,” he said, running his fingers through a shock of thick, sandy hair. “But I don’t get it. Stacy doesn’t live in Number Six. Her apartment’s across the courtyard.”

“Not anymore. Apparently the victim moved into Six after the former tenant died.”

(Notice how I said “the victim” instead of “Stacy”? Very coppish,
n’est ce pas?
I couldn’t wait to work “perpetrator” into a sentence.)

“But I thought Elaine Zimmer was supposed to get this apartment.”

“So did Elaine.”

“Wow, she must’ve been steamed,” he said.

At least, that’s what I think he said. I wasn’t paying all that much attention. Somehow I found myself staring at those blue eyes that crinkled at the corners when he laughed.
What the hell was I doing?
I scolded myself. After my ghastly marriage to The Blob, hadn’t I sworn off men forever—or at least until I found one capable of asking for directions?

We were standing there, him talking to me and me staring at him, when suddenly a piercing scream filled the air.

“Whoops,” he said. “My teakettle. Gotta run.”

“Wait! I’d like to ask you some questions.”

(Like, are you seeing anyone? Do you snore after sex? Do you hog the remote?)

“All right,” he said, motioning me to his apartment. “Follow me.”

His apartment was, as they say in decorating circles, eclectic. He had sleek minimalist pieces alongside time-worn antiques. If I had tried something like that, it would have looked ghastly. But his place looked terrific.

He settled me down on his minimalist sofa, while he brewed up some tea in the kitchen. First coffee, now tea—my bladder was getting quite a workout.

“By the way,” he said, coming out from the kitchen with a pot of steaming oolong, “my name’s Cameron. Cameron Bannick.”

“Jaine Austen.”

He settled his lanky body into an armchair across from me. “Love your books.”

“That’s Jaine with an ‘i.’”

“Well, Detective Austen,” he said, “I’m happy to answer any questions I can, but I don’t know how helpful I’m going to be. I’ve been away all month.”

Thank God. That meant he couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the murder. Which meant we could start dating and get married and have a passel of kids with crinkly blue eyes.

“I’ve been on a business trip.”

Solvent, too. Thanks again, God.

“Up in San Francisco, buying antiques for my shop.”

Okay, cancel the wedding. The guy was obviously of the gay persuasion. Great decorator. Impeccable taste. Owns an antiques shop. You don’t have to be Stephen Hawking to figure that one out.

“So,” he said, “what would you like to know?”

Why are the good ones always gay?
That’s what I wanted to know. But what I actually asked was: “Do you know anyone in the building who might want to kill Stacy Lawrence?”

“Only Elaine, for cheating her out of that apartment. I’m kidding, of course. Elaine has a temper, but I can’t believe she’d actually kill Stacy.”

“What about the other tenants?”

“The Garibaldis in Number Two are in their eighties. Mr. Garibaldi uses a walker, and Mrs. Garibaldi isn’t exactly doing handsprings. I doubt they’d have the strength to kill her. There’s Janet Yoshida in Number Three—she’s a medical student at UCLA. Very quiet. Hardly ever here. I don’t think any of them had much to do with Stacy. The only one she was close with was Marian.”

“Marian?”

“The tenant who lived in Number Six before Stacy. She died about three weeks ago. I was in San Francisco at the time.” He sighed deeply. “She was a terrific lady, and a good friend of mine.”

He picked up a framed picture from the coffee table and looked at it fondly.

“That’s us, last year on her birthday,” he said, handing me the picture. “I took her to the Conga Room.”

“The Conga Room? Isn’t that one of those terminally hip clubs for twenty-somethings with multiple body-piercings?”

Cameron smiled. “That’s where Marian wanted to go. She was quite a pistol.”

I looked down at the picture and saw a heavily made-up woman in her seventies with youthful shoulder-length blond hair. Think Kim Basinger, with liver spots. I could tell that in her heyday Marian had been a knockout, but by the time this picture was taken, she was far from her heyday. Cameron sat beside her in the photo, smiling into the camera and holding her hand.

Exhibit A, Your Honor. Handsome young man, on a date with woman old enough to be his grandmother. If I’d had any fleeting hopes that Cameron was straight, that picture pretty much killed them.

“Stacy got a kick out of Marian,” Cameron said. “You see, Marian had been an actress back in the forties and fifties. Made a lot of B movies.
Abbott & Costello Meet Each Other.
Stuff like that. She had a lot of terrific Hollywood war stories, and Stacy liked to pump her for advice.”