Murder Has Nine Lives (12 page)

Chapter 18

C
hecking the Skinny Kitty contact list, I was surprised to see that Zeke's address was the same as Linda's. At first I thought it was a typo. But when I called Linda to ask her about it, she explained that Zeke lived in a guest cottage at the back of her property.

And so twenty minutes later, I was walking up the flagstone path to Zeke's guest quarters, a charming cottage with shutters at the windows and a profusion of pansies out front.

Zeke came to the door in jeans and a T-shirt, his sandy hair tousled, holding a can of Red Bull.

“Hey, Jaine!” he cried. “Linda told me you were investigating Dean's murder. Wow! That is so cool! Who'd a thunk it? You? A PI? Talk about casting against type!”

It looked like somebody had been nipping just a tad too much Red Bull.

“Entray, entray!” he said, waving me inside his tiny home—a single room with a futon, TV, and a large desk; the latter jammed with a laptop, piles of papers, and a giant thesaurus.

Off to the side was a tiny kitchenette.

“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to his futon.

As I sank down into its marshmallow depths, I noticed something very interesting hanging over Zeke's desk: a well-worn dartboard with Dean's picture on it. Several darts were piercing the dearly departed's nose.

“Nice decorating touch,” I said, gesturing to the wall art.

Zeke had the good grace to blush.

“I suppose I should get rid of it, but I can't bring myself to do it. Too many happy memories.”

“Doesn't Linda mind?”

“I make sure she never sees it.”

With that, he pulled out the darts and flipped the board over, revealing a mirror on the other side.

“Very clever.”

“It's kept me from being evicted, that's for sure. So, can I get you something to drink? I'm afraid all I've got is Red Bull.”

“No, thanks. I'm fine.”

“Me too,” he said, taking a big slug from his can. “More than fine. I'm great!”

Then he flung himself into the swivel chair from his desk and scooted it across the room to face me.

“I've been on a writing marathon ever since Dean died, working on my novel. My creative juices have been positively flowing! I realize now that Dean was holding me back, always criticizing me, and taking nasty shots. It's a wonder I was able to write a single syllable.”

With that, he jumped up and raced to his desk.

“Look!” he said, holding up a stack of manuscript pages. “Just look at all the pages I've written!”

He grinned proudly, flush with the excitement of a writer who's been churning out pages—or perhaps a killer who's been getting away with murder.

“And it's not just my life that's improved,” he said, scooting back to his swivel chair. “Linda's so much better off with Dean gone. The guy treated her like dirt. Cheating on her with the Pink Panther right under her nose. Why, I remember one night not long ago I saw Camille sneaking in the side door of the main house after midnight.

“Poor Linda,” he tsked. “Upstairs sleeping while God knows what was going on downstairs in her own house. “But that's all over now,” he said, taking a final slug of Red Bull and crushing the can in his fist. “Linda won't have to put up with that crap anymore. Dean won't ever be able to hurt her again.”

Time for the big question.

“Are you the one who made sure he'd never hurt her again?”

“If you're asking if I killed him, the answer is no. I hated the guy, but I'm not a killer.”

The jury was still out on that one.

“Actually,” I said, “I was just talking to Camille Townsend, who said she saw you outside the studio kitchen at the time the cat food was poisoned.”

“That's a lie!” he said, his face flushed with anger. “I went to the men's room. But that's it. I went nowhere near that kitchen!”

He was so forceful in his denial, I was tempted to believe him.

Then, just when I was considering writing him off as a suspect, his cell phone rang.

“What's up?” he said, answering it. “Okay, sure. I'll be right there.”

“That was Linda,” he said, bounding out of his chair, his anger forgotten. “The mail just came. I got a letter from
The New Yorker
. I bet they're buying the short story I sent them! Be right back.”

He was out the door like a shot.

And the minute he was gone, I was at his desk, snooping.

I checked out the first few paragraphs of his manuscript (I sure hoped he wasn't counting on a yes from
The New Yorker
) and rummaged around the detritus of his desk. Sitting on top of a pile of bills was a mushy greeting card with two kittens cuddling on the front cover. Inside it said,
You had me at “meow.”

It was signed,
To Linda, XOXO, Zeke
.

Not exactly a Shakespearean sonnet, but clearly Zeke was about to make his moves on his beloved.

Then, unable to resist the lure of his open laptop, I clicked on Zeke's recent search history.

Whaddaya know? There among “literary agents” and “sex toys” were three recent searches—for poisons.

And just like that, Zeke went from would-be author to could-be killer.

* * *

Later that night I was stretched out in the tub, thinking about Zeke, who—in case you're wondering—didn't sell his short story to
The New Yorker
. He'd come back to his cottage, tossing his rejection letter into a wastebasket crammed, I suspected, with many other like-minded missives. But, still fueled by Red Bull, he shrugged off this temporary setback and practically pushed me out the door, eager to resume work on his novel.

Now I wondered if Zeke had used some of his unbounded energy to zap a bit of Raid on Dean's Skinny Kitty. Surely those online poison searches were a tad incriminating.

And yet, if he really had killed Dean, would he be foolhardy enough to blab about how happy he was to be rid of him? Wouldn't he try faking some grief?

And what about my other suspects du jour? There was Ian and his Murder Scrapbook. And my unscrupulous agent, Deedee, who trotted around with a convenient can of Raid in her purse.

“Oh, Pro!” I sighed. “So many suspects, so little proof.”

Prozac, who was perched on the toilet tank, merely stared at me, glassy-eyed.

How I longed for the days when I'd pour my heart out to her, only to have her yawn in reply. Now the poor thing didn't even have the energy to open her mouth.

I was lying there, wondering if she was ever going to be her old self again, when I heard Lance knocking at my front door.

“Open up, Jaine. It's urgent!”

Of course, Lance's idea of urgent is a BOGO sale at H&M. Nevertheless, I wrenched myself from the tub.

“Hold on!” I cried. “I'll be right there.”

Minutes later, I was in my robe, leaving damp footprints on the floor as I hurried to get the door.

“Hey, sweetie,” he said, sailing in, clad in faded jeans and an
I ♥ MAMIE
T-shirt. “Here's your
New York Times
. Hope you don't mind. I borrowed it this morning.”

So that's where it went!

He held it out gingerly by the edges. Quickly I grabbed it from him, only to discover it was covered with wet, slimy stuff.

“What's this wet goo?” I asked.

“Dog spit,” Lance replied. “Mamie's been rehearsing with it all day. The Brad Pitt gig fell through, but Deedee lined up an audition for a Polish sausage commercial. Mamie is up for the part of the family dog who brings in the morning paper. You should see her carrying that paper in her little mouth. She's such a pro. I just know she's going to be a star!” His eyes shone with dreams of glory and six-figure paychecks. “Today Polish sausage. Tomorrow the world!”

But I was only half listening to his babble. All I cared about was my puzzle. It wasn't too late to fill it in. It would be my special after-dinner treat.

I opened the paper eagerly, hoping that inside, the puzzle would be dry. But when I finally fished it out, I groaned to see the squares obliterated by dog spit.

Grrr.

“And look at all these great new publicity photos!” Lance gushed. By now, he'd settled on the sofa and was holding out a bunch of glossies. “Here's Mamie as a doctor.” (Mamie with a stethoscope around her neck.) “Here she is as a flamenco dancer.” (Mamie with a rose clenched in her teeth.) “Here she is as a ballet dancer.” (Mamie in a tutu.) “Isn't Mamie just the cutest doggie you've ever seen?”

Prozac, who'd wandered in from the bathroom, looked up at Lance with jaded eyes.

“And here's one more,” Lance said, whipping out a final photo. “Me, as a doctor. The photographer let me wear Mamie's stethoscope. He said he'd take more pictures of me, in case I decide to go into show biz. Which, as you know, I'm seriously thinking of doing. Tell me, is it just me, or do I bear an uncanny resemblance to Laurence Olivier?”

“It's just you.”

But he was oblivious to my barb, too busy staring at himself as a doctor.

“Well, gotta run, hon,” Lance said, finally tearing himself away from his head shot. “You don't mind if I take your paper again tomorrow, do you?”

“Touch my paper, and you're a dead man.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, palms out in self-defense. “If that's how you feel, I won't take your paper. I've learned my lesson.”

Thank goodness for that.

“I'll take Mr. Hurlbutt's paper across the street. He doesn't seem like much of a reader to me.”

“Why can't Mamie rehearse with
this
paper?” I asked, holding out the paper he'd stolen that morning.

“Ick, no. It's got spit all over it. Who'd want this?”

“Well, thanks so very much for returning it.”

“No problem, hon. That's what friends are for.”

And with that, Lance sailed out the door, a five-letter word for the most irritating man in the world.

Chapter 19

B
y now Prozac had reached the depths of her depression, slinking around the apartment like an extra from
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
, a lifeless automaton, a shell of her former self.

She clawed me awake for her breakfast the next morning, barely grazing my nightgown, looking down at me with glazed eyes.

I gulped in dismay. What happened to my pampered princess, stomping on my chest, demanding her chow?

Thank heavens Emmy, the Reiki healer, was stopping by that afternoon. I only hoped she'd be able to rouse Prozac from her funk and bring back the fractious furball I knew and loved.

I actually did roll over and fall asleep again, and for the first time in I don't know how long, I slept until ten. I must admit, it felt divine.

At this point, the old Prozac would have been yowling for her breakfast at ear-shattering decibels. But today she just followed me as I padded to the kitchen and sloshed some minced mackerel guts in her bowl.

Leaving her pecking at her chow, I headed for the front door where I was happy to find my unsullied newspapers—along with a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts and a note from Lance.

See? Lance may be a tad self-centered at times, but his heart's in the right place. That's why I love the guy.

Damn that man!

Back in my kitchen, I nuked myself some instant coffee, then settled down with
The New York Times
crossword puzzle and a single Krispy Kreme doughnut. Yes, that's all I was going to allow myself. One chocolate glazed doughnut with most of the sprinkles missing. Not a bite more.

Twenty minutes later, I'd finished the puzzle and both doughnuts.

Okay, so I had two. You would have, too. They were scrumptious. And they couldn't have been very fattening, what with all the sprinkles missing.

And besides, I'd make up for the extra calories with a superlight lunch. I'd order the bacon ranch salad at McDonald's. Only 190 calories!

Come to think of it, as long as I was saving so many calories at lunch, there was no reason I couldn't have another doughnut now, right? With all those sprinkles missing, it was practically a diet doughnut....

This is why you should never bring me doughnuts.

After scarfing down half a third doughnut, I finally tore myself away from the Krispy Kreme box and headed for my bedroom to get dressed.

I comforted myself with the thought that the chocolate on my doughnuts was filled with energizing endorphins.

And that morning, I was going to need all the energy I could get. Because I'd made up my mind to confront Deedee and demand the thousand bucks she owed me.

* * *

I'd left Deedee about half a dozen messages, none of which she'd returned. Which left me no alternative but to drive out to Hollywood and corner her at work.

When I showed up at the House of Wonton, they were just getting started on the lunch crowd. The hostess, clad in a turquoise capri set with sequined butterflies flitting across her chest, waved me through to the back.

Marching across the restaurant, I was determined to hang tough with the ever-elusive Deedee. I'd simply tell her I wanted my thousand-dollar kill fee, and I wanted it
now
.

I stomped down the hallway past the kitchen, picking up a few choice curse words from the cooking staff, and arrived at Deedee's door. I knocked sharply. Then, without waiting for permission to enter, I flung the door open to find Deedee sitting at her desk, her chopsticks askew in her hair, eyes closed, clutching a crystal to her chest.

“Deedee?” I said.

No response.

“Deedee?”

Still no response.

If she thought she could get out of paying me my money with some sort of fake meditation act, she was nuts.

Just as I was about to reach over and yank the crystal from her hands, her eyes flew open.

“Jaine! How long have you been standing there? I've just been communing with my crystal in my never-ending search for inner peace.”

Yada yada. Blah blah blah. What a load of poo poo.

“Thank heavens you stopped by!” she added, with what looked like a genuine smile.

I must admit, I was taken aback. I was expecting a rat caught in a trap, not someone who actually seemed happy to see me. Maybe getting my kill fee wouldn't be so tough, after all.

“I know who killed Dean!” She beamed with pride.

“You do?”

Well, this was good news. I could wrap up this case and concentrate on getting a decent pair of strappy sandals for my trip to Hawaii.

“Who was it?”

“Dean.”

Huh?

“I'm convinced it was suicide,” Deedee said, with a confident nod. “Dean was an evil man, cheating on his wife, threatening to ruin my career and Ian's. So careless with other people's lives. It all caught up with him. Somewhere deep in his soul he had a spark of conscience. A spark that grew over time into an unbearable burden. Then, overcome with remorse over his evil ways, he decided to end it all.”

“So he killed himself by poisoning his own cat food?” I asked, oozing skepticism.

“Admittedly an unusual way to go, but people do strange things.”

She picked up her crystal and gazed into it, a faraway look in her eyes.

“Dean reminds me a lot of my ex-husband. Elmore. A selfish man, thought only of his own carnal desires. Started having affairs almost from the day we got married. Then one day a tall redhead named Ursula walked into our office. She had a poodle she wanted to get into show business. The dog was terrible. Could barely find his own tail. But Elmore signed the dog anyway. I should have known then it was all about Ursula. Before long, he'd left me for her. A year later he had the nerve to invite me to their wedding.

“He never thought I'd show up. He just sent me the invitation to rub salt in my wounds. That's the kind of person he was. But I went with my head held high. I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me unhappy.

“When he saw me at the reception, something powerful happened. After all those years of being selfish, his conscience finally kicked in. I could see it in his eyes. He knew he'd done wrong. He knew he'd sinned.”

Her eyes shone with a feverish intensity.

“I wasn't surprised when he keeled over at the wedding dinner. They said it was a heart attack. But I knew better. It was his conscience. He couldn't live with the despicable human being he'd become. The stress of it all killed him. He did it to himself. Just like Dean killed himself.”

Wow. This was serious loony tunes chat. Any minute now, she'd be telling me her chopsticks were receiving signals from outer space.

“That's my theory anyway,” she said modestly.

“I'll be sure to keep it in mind. But actually, Deedee, there's another reason I stopped by. The same reason I left those seven messages on your phone.”

“You left me seven messages?” She blinked in fake confusion. “Well, gosh. I never got them. Darn cell phone. Always on the fritz. Last time I ever buy my electronics at Toys‘R'Us. Haha.”

“I want to talk to you about my kill fee from the Skinny Kitty shoot. According to my contract, you owe me a thousand dollars.”

“Oh, that,” Deedee said with a wave of her caftanned arm. “Honey, you can't get paid until Dean's estate is settled. That could take weeks or months. Maybe even years.”

At which point, she started shuffling papers on her desk, pretending to look them over. I could tell it was all an act, because the paper she was studying so intently was upside down.

“I promise to call the minute I hear anything about your money,” she said, her eyes refusing to meet mine.

“You do that.”

“And think about my suicide theory.”

“I'll give it all the thought it deserves,” I assured her.

Which was, of course, none.

* * *

I headed back out into the restaurant, seething. The nerve of that woman, yapping about her husband's lack of conscience when clearly hers had disappeared some time along with the Tyrannosaurus rex.

I was muttering a colorful stream of four-letter words I'd picked up from the cooking staff when suddenly I noticed a customer in a Miami Dolphins baseball cap. I didn't much care about the guy. Or his cap. What my eyes were riveted on were the steaming fried rice and egg rolls on his plate.

Good heavens, they looked dee-lish.

But I couldn't possibly think of eating Chinese food, not after the two and a half doughnuts I had for breakfast. No way! Absolutely not! As soon as I left the restaurant, I was heading straight for McDonald's and a 190-calorie bacon ranch salad.

Reluctantly I tore my eyeballs away from Mr. Dolphin and continued toward the front of the restaurant.

As I approached the reception desk, the hostess smiled at me, her sequin butterflies glittering in the sunlight streaming in from the street.

“Have a nice day,” she said.

“Okay, you talked me into it. I'll have some fried rice and an order of egg rolls.”

She blinked, puzzled.

“What's that?”

“I'd like to order some food. Fried rice and egg rolls. To go.”

“Fine,” she said, nodding.

“And throw in some fortune cookies!”

Oh, Lord. I can't take me anywhere.

The hostess wrote out my order and handed it to a passing waiter. Then she turned to me and asked, “You're Deedee's client, aren't you?”

“Sort of,” I nodded.

“Watch out,” she warned. “She'll rob you blind.”

“I figured as much.”

“Untrustworthy lady,” she tsked. “Always late with her rent. I let her stay here only because I feel sorry for her. Her husband left her for another woman. Then he died. Terrible tragedy.”

“I know. She was just telling me. He had a heart attack.”

“Heart attack?” She shook her head vehemently, sending her sequined butterflies aflutter. “No, no heart attack.”

“Then how did he die?”

“Food poisoning. Just like the Skinny Kitty man.”

Well, how do you like them wontons?

Ten minutes later, I left the restaurant with my fried rice, egg rolls, and a hotter-than-ever murder suspect.