Killer Blonde (17 page)

She held up my screwdriver.

“She was probably going to use it to jimmy open the window.”

“No! I was using it to protect myself, in case the killer attacked me.”

They exchanged “loony alert” looks, much like the looks I was getting last night from the Beverly Hills cops.

Eduardo shook his head, pityingly.

“Just another drug addict looking for a quick fix,” he said. “The neighborhood is full of them.”

“Better cuff her,” Ramirez said.

“You don’t understand—”

“We understand,” Washington said, slapping a pair of handcuffs on my wrists. “We understand you’re going to jail.”

Grabbing me by the elbows, they escorted me out to their squad car. Ramirez was nice enough to read me my rights en route.

Eduardo shouted his thanks to the cops, then headed back inside.

“You’ve got to believe me. I’m a private investigator.”

They had a good chuckle over that one.

“Oh, yeah? Let’s see your license.”

“I don’t exactly have a license, but I’m investigating the SueEllen Kingsley murder.”

By now, Washington was on the phone, reporting to headquarters.

“Suspect apprehended. Probably a junkie looking for drug money.”

A junkie? What on earth would make them think I was a junkie?

And then I saw my reflection in the window of the squad car. Of course, they thought I was a junkie. I was dressed in my ratty sweats, which, thanks to that kamikaze runner, were clotted with sand. My hair was wild and I reeked of seaweed. Not exactly a profile of your law abiding citizen.

“I swear on a stack of bibles, I’m not a junkie. I really am investigating a murder. And the man in that house is a killer.”

“Yeah, right,” Washington said. “And I’m Mike Tyson.”

I didn’t want to say anything, but she did bear a vague resemblance to him.

“Don’t you understand? The minute we leave, he’s going to destroy the wig and our only shred of evidence will be gone.”

“Obviously on hallucinogens,” Ramirez said, shaking his head.

“Don’t worry,” Washington said, as she shoved me into the backseat of the squad car. “You’ll sleep it off in a nice comfy jail cell.”

I
begged the cops to call Lt. Webb to verify my story, but they refused.

“Call him yourself,” was Officer Washington’s helpful suggestion.

Which is exactly what I did after being finger-printed and booked at the Van Nuys jail. For those of you gals planning to get arrested in West Los Angeles, that’s where they take you, all the way out to scenic Van Nuys, the Used Car Lot Capital of the World.

I can’t tell you how humiliating it was riding out there on the freeway, handcuffed in the backseat of the squad car like some sort of criminal. Which, of course, we both know I wasn’t.

What really steamed me was that scads of people were zooming past us, breaking the speed limit by at least ten miles per hour, while I—who never ever go beyond the speed limit, mainly because my Corolla has the horsepower of Mr. Ed—was the one being carted off to jail.

When they finally let me use the phone, I called Lt. Webb, but just my luck, he wasn’t in. I left a frantic message on his voice mail about Eduardo’s wig and my ignominious arrest, and begged him to call Van Nuys and explain to the cops that I was not a felon, but an innocent writer-detective.

I later found out that Lt. Webb’s six-year-old boy had fallen off a jungle gym and was rushed to the emergency room with a nasty cut. Lt. Webb had gone to be at his side while the kid got stitches. Which, I have to confess, surprised me. Not that the kid got stitches, but the fact that Lt. Webb even had a kid. Somehow I didn’t picture Lt. Webb with a family. I pictured him living alone in a sparsely furnished condo with nothing for company except a bottle of scotch and a Soloflex machine.

But the point is, he did have a little boy, and he had rushed to the emergency room. All of which explains why I spent the next three hours sharing a jail cell with a hooker named Desiree.

Nearly six feet tall in her stiletto heels and Dolly Parton bouffant do, Desiree had been arrested for soliciting in the K-Mart parking lot. Talk about your blue light specials.

I tried not to stare at her outfit. Her bustier top was straight out of
Moulin Rouge,
and if her miniskirt had been any shorter it would’ve been a belt.

“What’re you in for?” she asked, pushing back the cuticles on her inch-long nails.

“Attempted burglary. But it’s a ghastly mistake. I didn’t do anything.”

“Me, neither,” she said, loudly, so the cop on duty could hear. “I was just shopping for underwear.”

Yeah, right. If she was wearing underwear, I was wearing the Hope diamond.

“I can’t help it if some stranger started feeling me up in the parking lot. Right, honey?”

“Uh, right,” I said, not wanting to offend a six foot tall hooker whose fingernails would qualify as lethal weapons in an airport security check.

As the minutes sped by like hours, Desiree and I struck up a friendship. She told me about her ex-husband, a charming fellow who liked to shoot rats at the city dump, and I told her about The Blob, and how his rear end was surgically attached to our Lazy-Boy. We both agreed we were much better off single.

It turned out that Desiree’s real name was Martha Dubyk, and that her lifelong dream was to become a professional psychic.

“I’ve got a real gift,” she said. “I can see the future clear as if it was on TV.”

“Is that so?”

“I worked at the Psychic Hotline for a while, but you make more money at phone sex.”

Who says jail isn’t educational?

“Some day when I’ve saved up enough dough, I’m gonna open a little salon on Sunset Plaza, where the rich people go. I’m gonna be a Psychic to the Stars.”

Then she sidled up to me, so close I could smell the Juicy Fruit on her breath.

“In fact,” she whispered, “I once gave a reading to Mr. X.” She named a Hollywood star famous for his action flicks. “Of course, I was on my back at the time. But he was very impressed.”

“I’m sure he was.”

“Say, how about I do you?”

For a frightening minute, I thought she was propositioning me. But then I realized she merely wanted to predict my future.

She took my hands in hers, the better to feel my “emanations,” and, after much sighing and hand squeezing, told me that I’d soon be hearing from my long-lost sister, that my parents wanted me to know they were well and happy in heaven, and that I was about to take up a career in the medical profession.

“Wow. That’s amazing,” I said.

And it was. She got absolutely everything wrong. For one thing, I don’t have a sister. For another, as you well know, my parents are alive and nutty in Tampa Vistas. And just the thought of going to the doctor’s office for a routine checkup gives me the heebie jeebies.

I just hoped she kept her day job.

We shot the breeze a while longer. I told Desiree about my life as a writer of industrial brochures, and Desiree told me how to make a guy reach orgasm in thirty seconds or less.

Finally, a cop came over to our cell and said I was free to go. Lt. Webb had called and vouched for me. I bid Desiree a fond farewell and headed outside to breathe the fresh air of freedom.

I wasn’t out in the fresh air of freedom for two seconds when I realized I had no way of getting back home. My car was still out in Ocean Park.

So I went back inside to a pay phone and called Kandi.

“You’re where?” she shrieked, when I told her where I was.

“At the Van Nuys Jail,” I repeated.

“What’re you doing in jail?”

“Getting sex tips from a hooker.”

“What?”

“I’ll explain everything when I see you.”

I asked if she could tear herself away from the adventures of
Beanie & the Cockroach
and pick me up.

“Don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll be right there.”

Which wasn’t exactly true. It took her forty minutes to drive over from the studio, which left me plenty of time to sit on the front steps of the jail, breathing the fresh air of freedom, along with the carcinogens from the passing traffic.

“You poor thing!” Kandi said when she saw me. She put her arms around me and gave me a comforting hug.

“Phew,” she said, breaking away. “You smell just like rancid seaweed. What on earth happened?”

I gave her the
Reader’s Digest
version of my adventures.

I told her about how I’d been walking on the beach trying to figure out who on earth could’ve killed SueEllen, and how I’d stepped in a seaweedy wave, and how I was spying on Eduardo when he caught me and was about to drag me to his studio when the cops showed up and thought I was a burglar, and how they threw me in jail with Desiree, and that I was certain Eduardo was a killer who’d stop at nothing to keep the world from discovering the black lace panties in his underwear drawer.

“Holy Moses,” she said, when I was through.

My sentiments exactly.

“Desiree really slept with Mr. X?”

“Focus, Kandi. That’s not the main point. The main point is that Eduardo Jensen was the blonde Heidi saw on the day of the murder.”

By now we were inching along on the 405 freeway. There are times when it’s smooth sailing on the 405. Those times are usually between 3 and 3:05 a.m. The rest of the time, it’s the world’s longest parking lot. Kandi, always an impatient driver, was weaving in and out of the crawling stream, trying to catch the fastest lane.

“No,” she said, “the main point is you almost got killed. I told you this investigation was dangerous.”

“You were right,” I acknowledged.

“Now I hope you’ll listen to me when I tell you to…buzz off, jerkhead!”

“What?”

“Sorry, I was talking to that idiot in the BMW. Did you see the way he cut me off? Damn BMW drivers.

“I hope you choke on your cell phone!” she shouted out the window.

And then she burst out crying.

“Kandi, honey, it’s nothing to cry over. Just another self-centered BMW driver. There are millions of them out there.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s that creep Matt.”

Uh-oh. I smelled trouble on the Love Boat.

“How could I have been foolish enough to fall for a guy who waxes his chest hair?”

“He waxes his chest hair?”

“Says it cuts down on drag time when he’s swimming laps. Anyhow, remember I told you he had something important he wanted to ask me? Guess what it was.”

Something told me it wasn’t,
Will you marry me?

“He wanted to know if I was interested in investing in a tae kwon do studio.”

“What a jerk.”

“It gets worse. After dinner, we went on one of his irritating after-dinner walks. He was so damn annoying with all that constant exercising. So there we were, walking along on a quiet side street, when we heard footsteps coming up behind us. We turned around and saw a huge guy with a shaved head and tattoos up and down his arms. I swear, he looked like an escaped convict.”

“Yikes.”

“The guy glared at Matt and said,
I need cash.
Now normally I would have been terrified, but I wasn’t really scared because Matt is a martial arts expert. I figured,
Haha, you lowlife thug. You’ve met your match.
But Matt took one look at the guy, and you’ll never guess what he did.”

Something told me the answer wasn’t,
Beat him to a pulp.

“He took one look at the guy, and started running.”

“No!”

“Yes! He left me all alone with this ghastly thug.”

“My God,” I gasped. “What did you do?”

“What could I do? I handed him my purse and said—Move your ass, you stupid moron!”

“You said that to the thug?”

“No, no. I was talking to that idiot in the Camry.

“If you were going any slower,” she shouted to the car in front of us, “you’d be going backwards!

“Anyhow,” she said, resuming her story, “it turned out he wasn’t a convict. He was a Romanian exchange student, and he’d ran out of gas. With his thick accent, it came out sounding like ‘cash.’ He just wanted to know where the nearest gas station was.”

“Oh, honey. What an incredible ordeal.”

Of course, there was a bright side to all this. At least I wouldn’t have to sit through any more
Isn’t Matt Wonderful?
stories.

“Can you believe he ran off and left me like that? And I didn’t even have my car.”

“How did you get home?”

“Oh, Stanislau gave me a lift.”

“Stanislau?”

“The Romanian exchange student. He’s actually very nice. He’s taking me to the movies Sunday. And afterwards we’re going to his favorite Romanian restaurant.

“You know,” she said, giving the finger to a dawdler in an adjacent Cadillac, “I’ve always been fascinated with the Slavic nations.”

I sat back and took advantage of the lull before the onslaught of
Isn’t Stanislau Wonderful?
stories.

Kandi dropped me off at my Corolla, where I was thrilled to find a $60 parking ticket propped on the windshield. A little gift from the City of Los Angeles.

But the day was about to take a turn for the better. Because when I got back to my apartment, there was a message from Lt. Webb on my machine.

The cops had shown up at Eduardo’s just in time to find him burning the wig in his fireplace. Fortunately, they were able to fish out a large portion of it unscathed by flames.

Not only that, but the gallery owner who’d given Eduardo his alibi confessed that he’d been lying to protect his client. When the cops put the squeeze on him, he admitted Eduardo had been nowhere near Santa Barbara on the day of the murder.

“Thanks so much, Jaine,” Webb said on the machine. “We really couldn’t have broken this case without you.”

I played the message three times just to hear those words.

“Did you hear that, Prozac?” I said, scooping her up in my arms. “They couldn’t have broken the case without me!”

Whew! Ever hear of deodorant?
was what she was no doubt thinking as she wriggled free from my loving embrace.

And she was right. It was definitely time to wash up. And then I realized with a surge of joy: At last it was safe to go back to the bathroom!

Oh, happy day.

I tootled off to the bathroom, peeling off my clothes en route.

I opened the bathroom door and gasped. No, I didn’t see another hair dryer in the tub. But I did see myself in the mirror. Not a pretty picture. Think Medusa on a bad hair day.

Too exhausted for a bath, I took a quick shower. Standing under the hot spray, I felt all the tension of the past few days drain out of my body. I emerged from the shower, squeaky clean, smelling of Ivory soap instead of Eau de Seaweed.

I slipped into my ancient pink chenille bathrobe and fed Prozac an early dinner of Savory Beef Guts. Then I unplugged the phone and collapsed into bed.

It had been one heck of a day. My first time in jail. My first ride in a squad car. My first encounter with a psychic hooker. And most amazing of all, I realized just before I drifted off to sleep, the first time I’d spent a day without eating. It’s true. I hadn’t eaten a thing since that Egg McMuffin I’d picked up for breakfast. For one whole day, I’d actually forgotten about food.

Quick, somebody call Ripley’s Believe It or Not.