Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire (4 page)

“So Stacy wanted to be an actress?”

“She was blond. She was beautiful. She thought her navel was the center of the universe. Sure, she wanted to be an actress.”

“And Marian was fond of Stacy?”

“She was flattered by her attention. Stacy reminded Marian of herself when she was young.”

“Did Marian ever mention anyone in Stacy’s life who might have perpetrated the crime?” (Yes! I worked in “perpetrated”!)

“You mean, like a jealous lover or something?”

“Exactly.”

“Stacy dated a lot. Plenty of boyfriends du jour. She was going hot and heavy with an actor for a while. I saw him at the pool a couple of times. I couldn’t help noticing he was a very handsome guy.”

I’ll bet you couldn’t.

“The macho type, very muscular. Could probably bench-press a refrigerator. He seemed crazy about Stacy. But I guess he wasn’t successful enough for her, because eventually she threw him over for someone else. Some hotshot agent.”

Hmm. Spurned ex-boyfriend. Sounded promising.

“Anyone else who might have held a grudge?”

Cameron laughed. “You’ll have to take a number on that one. Stacy was a bitch. Lots of people resented her.”

“Like for instance?”

“There was a girlfriend of hers at the health club. Another aerobics instructor. I can’t remember her name. Iris, or Violet. Some flower name. Anyhow, she and Stacy were best friends, until Stacy made a play for her boyfriend, the hotshot agent. Stacy eventually managed to steal him away. So it’s just a wild and crazy guess, but I’d say the former best friend is holding a bit of a grudge.”

Betrayed best friend. Rich agent-lover. Two more juicy suspects. I made mental note to check out the LA Sports Club.

“If you couldn’t help her in some way,” Cameron said, “Stacy had no use for you. She once came into my shop looking for an étagère. She saw one she liked. When I wouldn’t go down on the price, she got all pissy and barely spoke to me after that.

“Anyhow, lots of people didn’t like her. I have no idea if any of them was angry enough to kill her.”

“Were you?”

“Hell, no,” he said, shaking his head at the absurdity of the notion. “Stacy meant nothing to me, one way or the other. She was definitely not my type.”

That’s for sure. Wrong gender.

“More tea?” He held out the pot.

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

He put down the teapot, and then, before I knew what was happening, he was actually saying, “Look, if you’re not doing anything Wednesday night, maybe you’d like to catch a movie.”

“With you?”

“Yeah.” He grinned. “With me. They’re playing one of Marian’s old films at a revival theater in Silver Lake.”

I’m afraid I just sat there, gulping, for an unattractive beat or two. Was Cameron Bannick, he of the glorious blue eyes, actually asking me out on a date? Was it possible he wasn’t gay, after all? That he was simply a breathtaking stud with an affinity for armoires?

“I probably shouldn’t be asking you out on a date. I don’t know if the department would approve.”

“What department?”

“The police department.”

“Oh, right.”

“So, how about it? Are we on for the movies?”

Somehow I managed to nod yes.

M
y heart was pounding. My pulse was racing. And my palms were sweating. No, it wasn’t sex. Or a heart attack. It was Starbucks. I swear, they put enough caffeine in their lattes to jumpstart a diesel truck.

I was sitting across from Kandi, taking cautious sips of a mocha latte, listening to Kandi let off steam. And she was plenty steamed. In fact, I couldn’t decide who was letting off more steam—Kandi or the espresso machine.

Kandi’s date with the Antonio Banderas look-alike had been an utter disaster. Which I could have predicted. Men who look like Antonio Banderas don’t need to join Foto-Date.

“The guy was short and fat and wore a toupee so obvious it practically had the price tag still on it.”

“Where on earth did he get that picture he sent you?”

“From Antonio Banderas’s fan club.”

“You mean, the picture he sent you was actually Antonio Banderas?”

“Do you believe the nerve of that guy?” she said, tearing her napkin into angry shreds. “When I asked him if sending out Antonio Banderas’s photo wasn’t just a tad dishonest, he said, ‘Of course not. After all, I look just like him.’”

“You’re kidding.”

“I was so upset, I practically choked on my Chicken McNuggets.”

“He took you to McDonald’s? Wasn’t he supposed to take you to a restaurant on the beach?”

“Yeah, right. The closest I got to the water that night was the ladies’ room, where I spent a good twenty minutes trying to escape through an overhead window.”

“You poor thing.”

“And remember how he said he was a doctor? He’s a doctor, all right. Of phrenology. He reads the lumps on people’s heads.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He shares office space with a psychic named Wamsutta.”

She drank the last of her espresso with an angry slurp.

“I’ve had it with Foto-Date. I should have known better than to sign up with a dating service that advertises in the
National Enquirer.
”

“Look, I hate to say I told you so—”

“Then don’t,” she said, grabbing my napkin. Having already ripped hers to shreds, she now began to mutilate mine.

“And if all that weren’t bad enough,” she moaned, “the cockroach has a hernia.”

“What?”

“Carl, the actor who plays Freddie the cockroach on
Beanie & The Cockroach,
has a serious hernia problem, so we’re going to have to shut down production for a whole week. And we’re way behind on scripts as it is. I don’t suppose you’ve come up with any cockroach stories?”

“No, the cockroach muse hasn’t struck.”

She shot me a dirty look, then flounced over to the counter. Minutes later she came back with a chocolate chip muffin the size of a Volkswagen.

“Here,” she said, cutting it in two. “Have half.”

“I can’t. Really. If my thighs get any bigger, I’ll have to rent them out as condos.”

“C’mon. It’s a muffin. Muffins are healthy.”

“There’s no way I’m eating this muffin,” I said, grabbing my half. We sat and chewed companionably for a minute or two.

“Oh, well,” Kandi said, obviously mellowed out by her chocolate fix. “The cockroach’s hernia will heal, and I’ll live to date again. Which reminds me. I heard of a great new way to meet guys—Christie’s auction house.”

The woman is tireless in her search for a mate. Utterly tireless.

“The place is loaded with eligibles. The script supervisor on
Beanie
met her fiancé there. A stockbroker. They were bidding against each other for a painting. He got the painting, and she got him. I’m sending away for their auction schedule. We’ll go together.”

“I don’t think so. Those kind of ritzy places intimidate me.”

“Don’t be silly. You’ve got to start dating one of these days.”

“Actually, I am dating.”

Kandi put down her half of the muffin. “You are?”

“Well, not exactly dating, but I do have a date.”

“With who?”

“Someone I met while I was investigating a murder.”

“A murder? Oh, my God. Tell me all about it.”

And I did.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, when I was through. “You’ve been impersonating a cop?”

“And a newspaper reporter.”

“You’d better be careful or you’ll wind up in His ’n Hers jail cells with Howard.”

“Oh, come on. They don’t arrest you for telling little white lies.”

“Just be careful, will you? This whole thing sounds dangerous to me.”

She was right, of course. It was dangerous. And I realized, much to my surprise, that the danger was a turn-on. For the first time in a long time I had some adrenaline pumping through my veins alongside Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey. And it felt good.

“I can’t believe you’re dating one of the suspects.”

“I told you. We’re not really dating. We’re just going to a movie together. And he’s not really a suspect. He was away in San Francisco at the time of the murder.”

“That’s what he says. There’s a crazy new invention called an airplane that whisks people from San Francisco to Los Angeles in no time at all.”

She had a point there. A point I hadn’t considered.

“Besides,” she said, “if you ask me, he’s gay.”

“You think so?”

“Of course he’s gay. Antiques dealer. Fabulous apartment. Platonic relationship with an older woman. Taking you to a campy movie in Silver Lake, a neighborhood with more gays per square foot than a Bette Midler concert. It’s all Classic Homosexual.”

Now it was my turn to rip a napkin to shreds. Kandi was right. How could I have been stupid enough to think that Cameron was interested in me romantically? I was a Marian-substitute. Nothing more.

And what if he
had
flown to L.A. the night of the murder? It would have been easy enough to fly in, kill Stacy, and fly back up to San Francisco. And then get in his car and drive back to L.A. the next day, just in time to flash a blue-eyed smile at a dopey writer pretending to be a cop.

I downed the rest of my mocha latte in a single gulp, wishing it were Scotch.

The next day I called Cameron and told him I had to check on his whereabouts the night of the murder. Not that I believed in the slightest that he had anything to do with the murder, I assured him. It was strictly routine cop stuff.

“Sure thing,” he said, “I understand. I was staying at the Union Street Inn.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. A cooperative suspect. Definitely a good sign.

“Are we still on for the movies?” he asked.

“If your alibi checks out.”

We both laughed. He was kidding. I wasn’t.

I hung up and called San Francisco.

“Union Street Inn,” a woman answered briskly. “Ann Garrity speaking.”

“This is Detective Austen of the LAPD,” I said, with as much authority as I could muster.

“Really?” she asked, curious. “How can I help you?”

“I’m checking on the whereabouts of one of your guests, a Mr. Cameron Bannick, on the night of February fourteenth.”

“Oh, he was here at the Inn.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, we had a special Valentine’s dinner, and I remember seeing him at a table all by himself, and wondering why a handsome man like Mr. Bannick was alone on Valentine’s Day.”

“So you can say with utter certainty that Cameron Bannick was at your hotel having dinner at 8
P.M
. on the fourteenth?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Thank you so much.”

“My pleasure. May I send you one of our brochures? We have a midweek special, only $89 per night, double occupancy, with complimentary breakfast and afternoon wine bar.”

“Sure. Why not?” I gave her my address. Who knew? Maybe some day I’d actually have someone to share a double occupancy with.

I hung up and scooped Prozac into my arms. “Cameron has an alibi, darling! He isn’t a murderer, after all!”

Prozac shot me one of her know-it-all looks, as if to say, “Sounds like you’ve really fallen for this guy.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I huffed, dumping her unceremoniously on the sofa. “My feelings for Cameron Bannick are strictly platonic. I realize he’s undoubtedly gay and couldn’t possibly return my affections. Surely you don’t think I’d be foolish enough to fall for him, do you?”

She didn’t deign to answer this one. We both knew very well just how foolish I was capable of being.

After my tête-à-tête with Prozac, I decided to pay a visit to the LA Sports Club, hoping to get a chance to talk to Stacy’s ex-best friend Iris or Violet or Hyacinth.

I was heading down the path to my car when my neighbor Lance Venable, he of the x-ray hearing, sprang from his front door. Obviously he’d been sitting at his window, just waiting to pounce.

“Oh, Jaine!” he called out.

“Hi, Lance. How’s it going?”

Why do I even bother to ask? With Lance, nothing’s ever going right.

“Look, I hate to complain….”

No, you don’t,
I thought.
You love to complain. You majored in complaining at Yenta U.

“…But your cat’s been pissing on my impatiens again.”

It’s true. Every once in a while Prozac sneaks out of my apartment for the sole purpose, it seems, of pissing on Lance’s impatiens. I think she knows it drives him nuts.

“I’m sorry.”

“You should be. There’s such a thing as a leash law, you know.”

“I think that’s for dogs.”

“Well, it should be for cats, too.” His blond curls shook indignantly. “So the next time you’re having one of your heart-to-heart talks with your cat, tell her to quit pissing on my impatiens, okay?”

I swear, the guy must spend his entire life with his ear glued to my wall.

The LA Sports Club is a block-long monument to the Body Beautiful, a Taj Mahal with StairMasters. All marble and brass and gleaming wood, it’s light-years removed from my usual house of exercise, the fungus-infested YMCA.

Most of the members are reed-thin model types who haven’t had a hot fudge sundae in decades. (Or if they have, they’ve promptly barfed it back up.)

Actually, I don’t think they let you in if you’re bigger than a size twelve. But somehow I managed to suck in my gut and make it past a receptionist with a tony British accent, to the office of Wendy Northrop, Membership Counselor. Or as I came to know her, “Wendy Northrop, Barracuda Saleslady.”

Wendy was a haughty brunette, forbiddingly thin. Think Nancy Reagan on diuretics.

“How can I help you?” she said, flashing me a brittle grin.

I could tell by her steely demeanor that she was never going to fall for my phony cop routine, or for my phony reporter routine, so I decided to try the one thing she’d be most likely to fall for: a potential customer.

“I’m thinking of joining your gym.”

“Our Club,” she corrected me. “We like to think of our guests as members, not customers.”

Yeah, right, and I like to think of myself as Julia Roberts.

“Anyhow, I’m thinking of joining.”

“Not a moment too soon, lardbucket.” Of course, she didn’t really say that. But she was thinking it, I know.

“Membership starts at $3,000.”

Holy smokes. It was all I could do to keep from sputtering,
“You’ve got to be kidding. Do you realize how many Eskimo Pies I can buy for $3,000?”

Instead I played it cool and said, “Oh?”

“Plus a monthly fee of $300.”

There must have been drool seeping out of my slack-jawed mouth because she quickly added, “I realize that’s a bit steep for most people.”

“No, no, not at all.” I tried to look as if I were the kind of person for whom $3,000 was chump change. “It’s no problem.”

Her smile brightened considerably. “Let me take you on a tour of the facilities. I’m sure you’ll be impressed.”

Flabbergasted was more like it. Never under one roof had I seen so many big chests, tiny waists, and long manes of lustrous hair. And that’s just the guys.

Wendy took me everywhere. The racquetball courts where Type A-Plusses were cheerfully going for each other’s jugulars. The Olympic-sized swimming pool where the phrase “swimming with sharks” was undoubtedly coined. The equipment room with StairMasters as far as the eye could see. The plushly carpeted aerobics classes where anorexic women were burning off their last remaining ounces of fat. And the Smoothie Bar where blenders whirred to a disco beat. There was also, unbelievably, a real bar. With actual alcohol. Somehow that didn’t quite jibe with the carrot-juice-and-green-tea feel of the place, but I for one liked the idea of kicking back after a grueling workout with a frosty margarita. Which is why I for one have thighs the size of ham hocks.

After a pit stop at the ladies’ locker room, where I saw more silicone than Dow Chemical produces in a decade, we headed back to Wendy’s office.

“So, what do you think?” she asked when we were sitting across from each other in her all-beige office.

“It’s every bit as nice as Stacy told me it would be,” I said, carefully piloting the conversation.

“Stacy?”

“Stacy Lawrence,” I said solemnly. “The aerobics instructor who was murdered. Poor Stacy was a client of mine.”

“A client?”

“I’m an attorney.” Good heavens! Would my runaway lying streak never end?

“Really? How interesting.”

The dollar signs were now sparkling in Wendy’s eyes. She opened her desk drawer and pulled out a contract, confident she had just reeled in a live one.

“Poor Stacy,” I said. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

Wendy did a very good imitation of someone who actually gave a damn. “I know. It’s a tragedy.” She shook her head sadly. Then, after a suitable interval of about one millionth of a second, she rallied and asked, “So. Will you be paying for your membership by check or credit card?”

“Stacy was such a wonderful person,” I sighed, determined not to be sidetracked.

“Oh, yes,” Wendy chimed in, with all the sincerity of a campaign promise. “Stacy was one of the most admired and beloved instructors here at the Club.”

As Wendy spoke, I was reminded of the movie
The Manchurian Candidate,
where Frank Sinatra has been brainwashed into saying wonderful things about Laurence Harvey, a guy he really hates. Whenever Sinatra praises Harvey, he speaks in a wooden monotone, a glazed look in his eyes. Wendy had that exact same expression when singing Stacy’s praises. I’d have bet my bottom dollar, which was none too far away, that she didn’t mean a word of it.