Jaine Austen 2 - Last Writes (14 page)

And this time it paid off. I felt something. Hard and smooth. Like a pencil. I pulled it out and saw that it wasn’t a pencil but a tortoise-shell hair ornament, shaped like a chopstick. It looked vaguely familiar. Where had I seen it before? Then I remembered: It was the same tortoise-shell ornament I’d seen nestled in Bianca’s hair.

Holy Moses. So I’d been right the other day. It looked like Bianca had been sleeping with Quinn, after all. Was there a woman on the planet—except for me and Helga—who hadn’t been sleeping with the guy?

I gazed down at the chopstick and wondered: Was it possible that Bianca was the one who sprinkled the rat poison onto Quinn’s donut?

But according to Detective Incorvia, Bianca had an alibi. She’d been with Danny, the production assistant, the entire time the prop room was empty. But had she really? I could’ve sworn I saw Danny running around backstage while I was talking with Wells and Zach. What if he and Bianca hadn’t been together? What if she’d made a deal with him?
We’ll each say we were together; that way the cops will leave us alone
. Not that she was anywhere near the prop room, she’d assure Danny.
But why have the cops bother us with questions? We don’t want to wind up like Kandi, do we, with our pictures splashed across the papers and our careers in the toilet?

Yes, Bianca had definitely wormed her way onto my list of suspects. Which by now was growing faster than mushrooms in the rain.

There was Audrey (the scorned lover) and Stan (the jealous husband) and Vanessa (the jaded jailbait) and Dale (the cell phone maniac whose career had skyrocketed since the demise of his rival).

And what about Vanessa’s mom? Maybe she killed Quinn. Maybe she couldn’t stand the thought of a smarmy, middle-aged man with thong underwear and salacious T-shirts boffing her daughter. True, Vanessa’s mom had seemed about as murderous as a Carmelite nun, but who knew what was lurking under her docile facade? Jeffrey Dahlmer was a mild-mannered guy, until you let him loose with a carving knife.

I wiped my fingerprints from the chopstick and left it out on the sofa, where I hoped the cops would discover it.

Then I tiptoed out the door. But not before grabbing one last kiss for the road.

Chapter Seventeen

“T
he butler did it!” Mr. Goldman said.

It was Tuesday night and I was back at the Shalom Retirement Home, trying to conduct my memoir-writing class. But the only thing my students wanted to talk about was the murder.

“What butler?” Mrs. Pechter said. “There was no butler in the show.”

“Sure there was,” said Mr. Goldman. “The guy with the English accent.”

“Wells Dumont doesn’t play a butler,” I explained. “He’s Muffy’s neighbor.”

“A fact which you’d know,” huffed Mrs. Rubin, “if you’d actually watched the show instead of flirting with the wardrobe lady.”

“She had the hots for me,” Mr. Goldman said, direct from Delusionland.

“It said in the
Enquirer
that the little girl, Vanessa Whatshername, was shtupping Quinn Kirkland,” Mrs. Pechter said. “Can you imagine? If I was her mother, I’d have killed him with my bare hands.”

“Okay, class,” I broke in. “It’s time to get started.”

“What are you doing reading a rag like the
Enquirer
?” Mrs. Rubin asked.

“I found it in the laundry room. And look who’s talking. I’m not the one who watches Jerry Springer.”

“Jerry’s shows happen to be very educational.”

“So who wants to read me an essay?”

“I say the murderer was Audrey Miller. I heard on
Access Hollywood
she was shtupping him, too.”

“You watch
Access Hollywood?
That’s worse than Jerry Springer.”

“I say it was the other actor. Dale Burton. The one who plays Muffy’s father.”

“Oh, please. He couldn’t have done it. He’s such a sweet man. He looks just like my son Ronny.”

“
Entertainment Tonight
says now that Quinn Kirkland is dead, Dale Burton’s part is bigger than ever.”

“So how about it, class? Who’s got an essay for me?”

“I hate to say this, Jaine, darling. But I think it was your friend Kandi. She was the only one who was seen in the prop room.”

“Mrs. Zahler,” I said. “how about you? Why don’t you read us what you’ve got?”

But Mrs. Zahler had other plans.

“I say it was accidental food poisoning,” she said.

“I’ll never forget the time I ate a bad clam in the Marina,” Mrs. Pechter chimed in. “I didn’t think I’d live to tell about it.”

“That’s nothing. My cousin got a perforated ulcer from a piece of glass in his pizza.”

“My sister-in-law once found a worm in a Caesar’s salad.”

“I still say the butler did it.”

For the second week in a row, we read no essays. The murder was the topic of choice. Suspects were discussed. Motives delved into. After much debate, everyone agreed on one thing: Never, ever, order tuna salad in a Mexican restaurant.

I drove home from Shalom, my mind whirling with suspects. It was all so damn frustrating. The more I learned, the less I knew.

I wished there was some way I could tell Detective Incorvia about Bianca’s hair ornament. But if I told him, he’d want to know what I was doing in Quinn’s trailer. Call me paranoid, but I had a feeling that breaking and entering a dead man’s trailer was definitely a police no-no.

What I needed was a bath. Yes, a steamy soak in a strawberry-scented tub would feel absolutely marvelous right now. I’d lower the lights, pour myself a teensy tad of chardonnay, and soak myself till my muscles were the consistency of Campbell’s chicken noodles.

I pulled up in front of my duplex, happy to see that Lance’s lights were out. I still hadn’t left his treatment on Audrey’s desk, and I didn’t want him asking me about it.

I crept past his place, just in case he was lying in wait for me, and let myself into my apartment. My answering machine was blinking. Wow. One whole message. How popular can a gal get?

It was Detective Incorvia.

“Ms. Austen, I just wanted to let you know. We found Kandi Tobolowski’s fingerprints all over the prop room.”

“So?” I shouted at the machine. “That doesn’t mean she killed Quinn. All it means is she was stupid enough to go snooping around the damn prop room, looking for stethoscopes.”

“Oh, and by the way,” Incorvia’s voice continued, “do you think it’s okay if a script runs more than a hundred and twenty pages?”

I deleted his message with an angry jab of my finger. When the heck was he going to put some effort into finding the real murderer? I was surprised he even remembered there’d been a murder, what with having to deal with the really important issue of his page count.

I headed over to Prozac, who was curled up on the sofa, napping on my toothbrush. She barely glanced at me. She was sulking, still pissed at me for abandoning her.

I gave her a conciliatory kiss, which she returned with a smelly Bumblebee yawn.

I got undressed and ran the water for my bath, tossing in a generous fistful of bath salts. Then I poured myself that teensy tad of chardonnay. (Okay, so it was a Flintstone’s orange juice glass, and I filled it all the way to the top of Fred’s toga.)

I was just about to step in the tub when I thought: Why not keep a pad and pencil handy in case I had a brainstorm in the tub? Actually, I get some of my best ideas in the tub. The tub is where I came up with one of my most successful ad campaigns (
When You Gotta Go, Go Toiletmasters!
).

Naked as a jaybird, I dashed to the living room and opened the briefcase I’d bought especially for my gig on
Muffy ’n Me
. I thought it gave me a much-needed air of competence. I reached in to grab a legal pad and felt something cold and clammy. I couldn’t imagine what it was. A piece of fruit I’d stuck in there and forgotten? I opened the briefcase wider to get a better look when suddenly something green and slimy leaped out.

Want to guess what it was? I’ll give you a clue. It had big bulging eyes and was covered with warts.

No, it wasn’t my ex-husband. It was a frog.

One of the frogs from the audition had somehow gotten loose and taken up residence in my briefcase. And now it was spronging all over my living room.

Prozac’s eyes widened with blood lust. Her old hunting instincts, long confined to attacking my pantyhose, came bubbling to the surface. I could practically read her mind:
Gee, I’ve always wanted to try frog’s legs
. She assumed her attack position, crouched down in a vigilant coil, ready to pounce. I quickly swooped her up in my arms. If I couldn’t solve a murder, at least I could prevent one.

I turned and looked for the frog, but now it was nowhere in sight. Damn. Where had it gone?

So there I was, stark naked, roaming around my apartment with a cat in my arms calling, “Here, froggy. Here, froggy!” Which, of course, was the perfect time for the doorbell to ring.

“Jaine, it’s me,” Lance called from outside my front door. “Wanna gossip?”

“Actually, Lance. I’m stark naked and I’ve got a frog loose in my apartment.”

“Well,” he said, miffed. “If you’re not in the mood to talk, just say so.”

And off he stomped into the night.

Oh, well. I’d explain everything tomorrow. Meanwhile, I had a frog to catch. I locked a howling Prozac in her cat carrier and proceeded to search the apartment.

I looked everywhere, every nook, every cranny, every closet. But the only critters I found were dustbunnies.

I was on my hands and knees, tossing shoes out of my closet, when I glanced down into my new Joan & David leather boots, the ones that cost more money than an economy car. Two beady eyes were staring up at me. I could only assume they belonged to the frog.

“There you are, you little rascal.”

I reached in and grabbed it. Not a pleasant experience for either of us. Then I dashed into the living room, where I opened the latch to the cat carrier. Prozac streaked out, and I put the frog inside.

Poor little thing. It looked scared. And probably hungry, too. What the heck do you feed a frog? Lettuce, maybe, and dead flies. I rummaged around in my refrigerator, but all I found was a bottle of garlic-stuffed olives. Definitely not froggie chow. I checked my windowsills for dead flies, but came up empty-handed. As a last-ditch effort, I put some Bumblebee on a plate and shoved it into the cage. But the frog ignored it.

“A Starkist man, are you?”

Oh, well. I was sure he’d survive until tomorrow. I’d bring him back to the studio, where the casting department would reunite him with his rightful owner.

By now, my bath water was ice cold. So much for brainstorming in the tub. I was too exhausted to think, anyway. I drained the water from the tub and took a quick shower instead. Then I locked the frog in the bathroom, safe from Prozac’s deadly clutches.

I crawled into bed and lay there staring at the ceiling. Gad, what a day.

Prozac stood outside the bathroom door, hissing and scratching. She would’ve sold her soul to get her paws on that frog.
If only there were some way to open the bathroom door
, she was undoubtedly thinking.
Why the heck don’t cats have opposable thumbs, anyway?
Or words to that effect.

Yes, Prozac had a major problem on her hands, with absolutely no idea how to solve it.

I knew exactly how she felt.

I woke up the next morning to the sweet sounds of a frog ribbiting.

Prozac had given up her murderous vigil sometime in the middle of the night and was now curled up against my tummy, the picture of innocence. Cats are amazing, aren’t they? One minute, they’re furry little angels; the next, they’re merciless killing machines.

I hoisted myself out of bed and headed for the bathroom, where I performed my morning toilette under the watchful eye of my amphibian houseguest. Then I padded out to the kitchen and rustled up breakfast: Tuna for Prozac, coffee and garlic-stuffed olive for me. Prozac was torn between the tuna and the frog. Which would be tastier? Probably the frog. But you know the old adage: A fish in the hand is worth two frog’s legs in the bathroom.

She went for the tuna.

I grabbed my coffee and hurried to the bedroom to throw on some clothes. I wanted to get to the studio as soon as possible before, you’ll pardon the expression, the frog croaked.

I was just heading down the path to my car when Lance popped out from his apartment.

“See, Lance?” I held up the cat carrier and showed him the frog. “There really was a frog in my apartment last night.”

“I know,” he said, a tad on the cranky side. “I heard it ribbiting all night long.”

What did I tell you? The man has x-ray hearing.

“So did you give my treatment to Audrey?”

“Yes,” I lied. Anything to get him off my back.

“Oh, that’s great,” he said, the ribbits in the night totally forgotten.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” I warned him. “Audrey can be a pretty tough critic.”

“I just know she’s going to love it,” Lance said. “I mean, what’s not to like?”

Obviously Lance and Mr. Goldman were roommates in Delusionland.

“Yes,” I managed to say. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

One more lie, and I’d turn into a congressman.

You should have seen the look on Bianca’s face when I dropped the frog at her desk.

“Yuck,” she said. “How disgusting.”

I couldn’t tell whether she was talking about the frog or me.

“One of the animal trainers must have left it here yesterday,” I said.

Bianca went back to buffing her nails. “You’ll have to bring it over to casting. That’s not my department.”

“No,
you’ll
have to bring it to casting, you snotty little bitch. You’re the secretary. Running errands
is
your department.”

Okay, so that’s not exactly what I said. My exact words were, “Okey-dokey.”

The casting people were thrilled to see me. Apparently the frog’s owner had put in a frantic Missing Amphibian call. They greeted my warty friend with welcoming coos and promised they’d return my carrying case as soon as possible. I bid the frog a fond farewell.