Death of a Gigolo

by Laura Levine

  From her perch on the armchair, Prozac gave a commiserating meow.

  Tell me about it. I’m surprised she still remembers our names.

  “Poor Prozac,” Lance cooed, scooping her up in his arms. “Has Jaine been ignoring you, too? Well, don’t you worry. Uncle Lance still loves you.”

  He then proceeded to plaster her with a nauseating bunch of baby kisses.

  Talk about chewing the scenery.

  “So what’s new with The Blob?” Lance asked when he’d finally stopped slobbering over Pro.

  “I wish you’d stop calling him that.”

  “Why not? That’s what you always used to call him.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you? Dickie’s changed!”

  “I saw the picture you posted on Instagram. The one with you and Dickie drinking lemongrass smoothies.”

  It’s true. I’d actually glugged down one of those disgusting concoctions to score points with my adorable ex.

  “Whenever I offer you one of my smoothies,” Lance huffed, “you practically bite my head off.”

  Once again, he spoke the truth. Lance has forever been trying to get me to eat his ghastly health foods, efforts I’ve fought with every fiber of my elastic waist pants.

  “So?” I shrugged. “I’ve seen the error of my ways.”

  “Really?” he asked, eyeing my CRB slathered with butter and strawberry jam.

  “Okay, okay. I don’t eat healthy when Dickie’s not around. But I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

  “To be perfectly honest, Jaine, I’m very hurt.”

  He settled down with Prozac in his lap, scratching the very ears I’d offered to scratch just a little while ago.

  “Now that you’ve got a guy in your life, you have no time for me. I thought we were friends. Friends don’t desert friends when they find a new boyfriend.”

  Was he kidding? I can’t tell you how many times Lance has gone AWOL with a new hottie, leaving me alone with only Ben and Jerry for company.

  But just because he did it to me didn’t make it right.

  “I’m sorry, Lance. I’m afraid I have been neglecting you. Let’s get together one night, the three of us.”

  “Dickie, too?” Lance said, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

  “I’m sure once you get to know him, you’ll like him.”

  “Well, okay,” Lance agreed. “I’ll do it. I’ve missed you terribly, honey.”

  In his lap, Prozac purred.

  I’ve missed you, too, sweetums.

  Chapter 18

  I showed up at La Belle Vie later that morning, wondering if I still had a job.

  Now that Tommy was dead, I feared Daisy would lose interest in her steamy romance novel and cut me free. I was actually growing fond of C. Weatherly, that passionate turquoise miner, and would be sad to see her bite the dust.

  Not only that, I’d checked my contract and discovered that if for any reason I didn’t finish the book, Daisy would not be paying me ten grand, but a vastly reduced $2,500.

  After stowing my purse in the office, which seemed awfully lonely without Kate (and Voodoo Tommy), I wandered over to the gym.

  The police had finished their crime scene investigation, and the only memento of the murder was a rusted blood stain on the tanning bed where Tommy’s head had been.

  I stared at the tanning bed, remembering Tommy’s lifeless body in his god-awful leopard print thong, the ugly snake tattoo on his upper thigh, his beloved Swiss Army Knife plunged into his neck.

  What a grisly way to go.

  Trying to erase that gruesome image from my mind, I made my way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. There I found Solange and Raymond knocking back mimosas and croissants.

  “Wonderful news!” Solange exclaimed when she saw me. “Raymond and I just spoke with Daisy, and she’s raising our salaries back to where they were before Tommy cut them.”

  “She said she realized how much she needed us and couldn’t afford to lose us,” Raymond grinned.

  “Just think!” Solange clinked her mimosa glass against Raymond’s. “I’ll never have to iron one of Tommy’s stupid thongs again!”

  “Bye-bye, Tater Tots!” Raymond added, returning her clink.

  Something told me they’d be back in Daisy’s will, too.

  “Mimosa, Jaine?” Raymond asked.

  “Thanks, but it’s a bit too early for me.”

  I left them slugging down their mimosas and headed back to the office, where I settled down at my desk with my coffee (and the weensiest sliver of croissant).

  I’d just opened Fifty Shades and was about to reunite with C. Weatherly when Daisy wandered in, wearing wrinkled pajamas and terry robe. Her pixie cut lay flat and greasy against her scalp; her face haggard and etched with wrinkles.

  No Insta-Lift for Daisy that day.

  In her hands she held a teacup, the contents of which smelled an awful lot like bourbon.

  “Jaine, dear,” she said, taking a slug of her “tea.” “We need to talk.”

  Oh, hell. I could practically see my ten grand sprouting wings and flying out the window.

  “Would you mind awfully taking over Kate’s duties until I can find a suitable replacement?”

  Yay! She hadn’t cut me off from the book after all!

  “It won’t involve much work,” she promised. “I don’t plan on making very many social engagements in the foreseeable future.”

  That said with a small, sad smile.

  “I don’t mind at all,” I assured her.

  “Wonderful.” She started for the door, then stopped. “I almost forgot. The book.”

  Dammit. Here’s where I got the ax.

  “How’s it coming along?”

  “Fine,” I said. “Do you still want me to work on it?”

  “Yes, of course. Why wouldn’t I?”

  “I thought maybe, what with Tommy’s death, you might have soured on the project.”

  “No, I can’t let that stop me. I’ll admit I’m not terribly enthused about Fifty Shades of Turquoise at the moment, but I refuse to abandon it.”

  Her spine stiffened with resolve.

  “I threw away my life once, and I’m not about to do it again. Don’t misunderstand,” she added. “I’ll always treasure my days with Tommy. The only other man who ever made me feel so special was my father.”

  She reached over and picked up the framed photo of herself as a toddler on her father’s lap and gazed at it wistfully.

  “What about Clayton?” I asked. “He seems crazy about you.”

  “Clayton is a darling man, and I’m very fond of him, but I’ll never feel the same way about him as I did about Tommy.”

  She stared out into space, eyes misted with tears, perhaps envisioning Tommy lying by the pool, working on his tan.

  “It may take a while,” she said, “but I’m determined to get through this. So keep writing, Jaine.”

  With that, she drifted out of the room, the distinct scent of bourbon in her wake.

  Chapter 19

  Daisy spent the day in bed in her pajamas, watching movies on TCM, Esme glued to her side. The Bel Air charity doyenne had come whooshing in on a cloud of designer perfume, bearing lilies in one hand and a vat of chicken soup in the other—clearly thrilled to resume her former role as Daisy’s BFF.

  Everybody wanted Tommy dead, but something told me Esme wanted it most of all.

  I thought about how eager she’d been to throw Kate under the bus, blabbing to the police about how she’d seen Kate heading to the gym before the murder.

  And I remembered the look of sheer panic on her face when Tommy threatened to slash Daisy’s contributions to her charity.

  Now I wondered: Why had Esme been so shattered by Tommy’s threat? True, a cut from a major donor would be upsetting but not devastating. Surely she had other donors willing to back her efforts to coddle the homeless furbabies of Bel Air.

  My suspicions aroused, I Googled the Bel Air Anim
al Welfare League.

  The website came up on the screen—a single home page with a blurry photo of Esme holding a puppy.

  Aside from that, there was nothing. Zippo. Zero board members. No kennels. And most important, no charity registration number.

  Could it be? Was Esme running a scam?

  I needed to speak to her alone, without Daisy.

  Checking Kate’s computer, I found Esme’s address in Daisy’s contacts file and drove over there the next morning before work.

  Much to my surprise, I discovered that the Bel Air society matron did not live in Bel Air. Nowhere close. Instead I found her in that no man’s land between Westwood and Santa Monica known as West Los Angeles.

  Her house was one of those architectural orphans, a squat single-family home hemmed in on both sides by looming apartment buildings, a holdover from earlier years when the street was completely residential.

  After snagging a parking spot, I made my way up the front path to Esme’s house, past a patch of lawn that hadn’t seen a sprinkler system in decades, bordered by azaleas thick with dust.

  I tried to peek inside, but all the windows were shrouded in heavy drapes.

  The place was so rundown, for a minute I wondered if I was at the wrong address.

  I rang a rusty doorbell, and seconds later the door swung open.

  Esme stood there, tall and stately in a floral silk kimono, out of place amidst her modest surroundings.

  A look of shock flitted across her face; then she quickly regained her composure.

  “How nice to see you, Jaine!” she lied.

  In her hand, I noticed, she held a most yummy looking chocolate glazed donut.

  “Do you mind if I come in for a minute?” I asked.

  “Not at all,” she fibbed again, ushering me into a tiny living room decorated with furniture that can only be described as Early Econo-Lodge.

  “Excuse the decor. I’m staying here in my maid’s house while I have my Bel Air estate tented for termites.”

  “That’s strange,” I said. “This is the only address Daisy has for you in her files.”

  She smiled stiffly, and I could practically see the wheels spinning in her brain as she decided whether to try foisting another lie on me.

  I guess she figured it was hopeless.

  “Okay, you got me,” she said, sinking down onto a worn chenille sofa. “This is my humble abode.”

  Accent on the humble.

  “Do me a favor, will you? I’ve never had Daisy over here, and I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell her the truth about where I live.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Your secret’s safe with me. This one, anyway.”

  She gazed at me warily. “What do you mean?”

  “I checked out the website for the Bel Air Animal Welfare League,” I said, sitting on a frayed armchair. “It doesn’t look like much of a site. Or a charity, for that matter. Have you been lying to Daisy about that, too?”

  “Got me again,” she groaned, listlessly tossing her donut onto a rickety TV tray.

  “The charity’s not a complete fake, though. I do make donations to the local ASPCA. But I use most of the money to pay my expenses. The rent on this hellhole is astronomical, and I’ve got to dress the part if I want to keep up my image.”

  “I see,” I nodded, barely restraining myself from grabbing her abandoned donut. That chocolate glaze looked scrumptious.

  “I used to have real money,” Esme was saying, “back when my husband was alive. But then he upped and died on me, and things went downhill fast.

  “Things got so bad I had to take a job as a saleslady at Saks. That’s where I met Daisy. I was on my lunch break at Saks’s restaurant. Daisy came and sat next to me, and the next thing I knew we’d struck up a conversation. She just assumed from my designer clothes that I was a customer, not an employee. And I didn’t have the courage to tell her the truth.

  “The more I got to know her, the more I realized what a generous soul she was. And she had so much money, I figured she wouldn’t miss a couple of grand a month to keep me afloat. So I started the Bel Air Animal Welfare League. Daisy bought into it completely and started writing me very generous checks.

  “It was all going great until Tommy came along and convinced Daisy to cut my funding.”

  She grimaced in disgust.

  “What an odious young man. Picking his teeth at the table, cleaning the gunk from under his nails, and that dreadful tattoo of a snake on his thigh. Ugh. A total thug. I can’t believe Daisy was foolish enough to fall for him.”

  She retrieved her abandoned donut and took a halfhearted bite.

  (How anyone can be halfhearted when eating a chocolate glazed donut is beyond me.)

  “What’s with all these questions, anyway?” Esme asked, suddenly suspicious. “Last I heard, you were a writer, not a police officer.”

  “I’m trying to help Kate clear her name. Apparently, she’s the prime suspect in the case.”

  “As well she should be. I saw her heading toward the gym right before the murder. And she’d practically threatened to kill Tommy. Everybody heard her screaming at him. It all points to her being the killer, don’t you think?”

  “Not necessarily. It could easily have been someone else.”

  She saw where this train of thought was chugging.

  “Surely you can’t suspect me!”

  “Maybe just a tad,” I admitted. “After all, Tommy was cutting off your financial lifeline.”

  At that she sat up straight, starch returning to her spine.

  “Tommy was a dreadful man, and I absolutely loathed him. But I can assure you I didn’t kill him.”

  Fire burned her eyes, a flame of righteous indignation.

  She was either telling the truth or a darn good actress.

  “Well, thanks for your time,” I said, getting up. “I’d better be going.”

  “I hope you won’t be telling Daisy about my charity ‘irregularities.’ ” Esme smiled imploringly. “It’s more than just the money. I’m really very fond of her and would be heartbroken to lose her friendship.”

  Once again, her words rang true.

  I agreed not to say anything and headed out the door, ready to scratch her off my suspect list.

  It was only when I was back in my Corolla driving over to Krispy Kreme for some chocolate-glazed donuts that I remembered what Esme said about Tommy’s snake tattoo. Tommy had always worn boxer shorts at the pool; his upper thighs never visible.

  And the door to the gym was closed when Esme came rushing over to join us right after the murder.

  So how on earth had Esme known about Tommy’s tattoo—unless she’d seen it before stabbing him to death?

  Chapter 20

  Daisy was waiting for me when I showed up at La Belle Vie—sitting at my desk in her pajamas, staring at the picture of her beloved billionaire daddy.

  At her elbow was a steaming mug of “tea.”

  I could smell the bourbon from across the room.

  “Jaine, dear,” she said, catching sight of me. “I need you to make some arrangements.”

  It turned out that Tommy’s next of kin, an estranged sister in Alaska, did not give a flying frisbee about her brother’s remains and had happily released them to Daisy.

  “I’m going to have Tommy cremated and scatter his ashes at sea. I want to do it in Malibu near the restaurant we were so fond of.” She smiled at the memory of her happy lunches with Tommy the Terrible. “So I need you to charter a yacht and make all the arrangements.”

  “Not a problem,” I assured her.

  “And I’d like to see some more pages from our book when you get a chance,” she added. “I’ve thought it over, and I’ve decided it will be a good distraction for me.”

  Thus saddled with a boatload of work, I passed the day in a flurry of phone calls and heaving bosoms, with no time to pursue my murder investigation.

  At five I had to rush off and meet Dickie. I’d agreed to join him at his s
pin class. For once, I was actually looking forward to working out—eager to turn over a new leaf and spin my calories away.

  And I had plenty that needed spinning, especially after that pit stop at Krispy Kreme.

  Having scarfed down a couple of chocolate-glazed beauties, I’d decided to skip lunch. Which was all very noble, but left me starving at five PM when I hurried home to change into athletic togs.

  Needless to say, I did not own a pair of bike shorts (the last thing my thighs needed were to be squished into skintight Spandex), so I threw on some old sweats.

  Then I opened a can of Hearty Halibut Innards for Prozac, who’d been thumping her tail with displeasure as she watched me get dressed.

  You’re going out again?? Who’s going to give me my after-dinner belly rub?

  But her snit fit was forgotten the minute she sniffed those halibut innards, and soon she was swan diving into her chow with the expertise of an ace fighter pilot.

  I, too, was quite the speed demon as I scarfed down some emergency Oreos before taking off for Dickie’s gym in Santa Monica.

  Sad to say, those emergency Oreos did not even begin to appease my raging appetite.

  I tried to ignore my hunger pangs, but it was no use.

  Which is why, as I pulled into the gym parking lot, I reached into my glove compartment for a bag of emergency M&M’s.

  (I’ll say this about me. When it comes to junk food, I’m always prepared for an emergency.)

  Just as I popped a handful in my mouth, I saw Dickie driving into the lot.

  Damn! I couldn’t let him see me cheating on Hapi’s god-awful diet. I gulped down the M&M’s as quickly as I could, shoving the rest of them into my sweatpants pocket.

  By now, Dickie had spotted my Corolla and pulled up alongside me.

  Frantically, I checked my smile in my rearview mirror to make sure I had no chocolate on my teeth.

  “Hi, bunny face,” Dickie said when I got out of my car. As he zeroed in for a quick kiss, I prayed he wouldn’t smell the chocolate on my breath.

  Luckily he didn’t.

  “C’mon,” he said. “I can’t wait till you try spinning. You’re going to love it!”

  And off I trotted, happily picturing myself frolicking on the beach in the new bikini I intended to buy just as soon as I’d spun myself into shape.