by Laura Levine
“Bel Air Bar & Grill,” he said, tossing the receipt on the coffee table in front of us. “Love that place. They make a damn good martini. Beefeater gin. Forget all these fancy new gins. There’ll never be another gin as good as Beefeater.”
Time to take a detour from martini lane.
“I couldn’t help but notice the date on the receipt,” I said.
“The date?” He blinked, puzzled.
“It seems you were there the day of Tommy’s murder.”
“So? What of it?”
“Marco stopped by La Belle Vie that day and said you were out of town visiting your son in Carmel.”
“Oh, that,” he said, waving away his presence in L.A. “A little fib I made up so I wouldn’t have to be near the happy couple. Frankly, I was appalled when Daisy announced her engagement to that lowlife piece of trash. No way was I going to the wedding.”
“Which meant you were here in Bel Air the day of the murder.”
“Yes, but I had nothing to do with Tommy’s death, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“Not implying. Just wondering.”
A look of annoyance flitted across his face.
“Esme told me you were snooping around asking questions about the murder. Good riddance to bad rubbish, but I’m not the one who took Tommy out.”
“Any idea who might have done it?”
“Kate, of course. Esme saw her going into the gym.”
“Anyone other than Kate?”
“Why are you so sure she didn’t do it?”
“I worked side by side with her, and I don’t believe she’s capable of murder. This accusation hanging over her head is ruining her life. If you can think of anything that might help clear her name, I’d really appreciate it.”
He hesitated a beat before he replied.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he said, squirming uncomfortably on the sofa. “But Esme once mentioned something about hiring a hit man to do away with Tommy. At the time I thought she was kidding. And I still do. But there’s always the remote possibility she meant it.”
At which point there was a knock on the door, and Marco entered, bearing Clayton’s lunch on a tray. Triple-decker club sandwich bursting with ham and turkey. With a side of curly fries.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Clayton said, “my lunch is ready and I’m in the middle of a very important match.”
He nodded at the avatars on the screen.
“Show Ms. Austen out, will you, Marco?” he said, his smile a heck of a lot chillier than it had been when I first showed up.
I thanked him for his time and followed Marco out of the room.
As we headed to the foyer, Marco started talking about what a great guy Clayton was and how much he enjoyed working for him. But I wasn’t really paying attention, distracted by what Clayton had said about Esme (not to mention those curly fries).
Was it possible Esme hired a hit man to bump off Tommy? Had she tiptoed out of the living room the morning of the murder to let in her murderous accomplice? And then pointed an accusing finger at Kate to draw suspicion away from herself?
I was lost in my thoughts when I heard Marco saying, “I’ll always be grateful to Mr. Manning for saving my life.”
“Clayton saved your life?” I asked, snapping to attention.
“He hired me when no one else would. I’m a convicted felon. Did time in prison for grand theft auto when I was a kid. When I got out, I was a mess. Screwed up my life with a series of bad marriages and dead end jobs. And booze. Way too much booze. I was on the skids, one step away from cirrhosis of the liver, when Mr. Clayton took a chance on me and hired me to be his butler. He literally saved my life.”
His eyes shone with gratitude.
“There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for that man.”
Anything?
And suddenly it occurred to me: Maybe it wasn’t Esme who’d used a hit man to bump off Tommy. Maybe it was Clayton.
I flashed back to the morning of the murder, when Marco showed up with Clayton’s wedding present. He’d asked if he could use the restroom and said he’d let himself out. What if, before leaving, he’d paid a quick trip to the gym to bump off his employer’s detested nemesis?
A convicted felon, Marco was no stranger to crime. And he just said he’d do anything for Clayton.
Now I wondered if that included murder.
Chapter 27
I got back to La Belle Vie just in time to join Daisy and Esme for lunch out on the patio.
Daisy was pale and wan in a turquoise jog suit. Whatever energy she’d shored up for scattering Tommy’s ashes at sea had been leeched out of her.
“Hello, Jaine,” she greeted me absently, no doubt lost in thoughts of her beastly beloved.
“Don’t sit there!” she cried out as I started to take a seat. “That’s where Tommy used to sit. I know it’s foolish, but for the time being, I’d rather no one else sit there.”
“I totally understand,” I lied, moving to another chair and hoping Daisy hadn’t gone round the bend in her grief.
Somehow she managed a faint smile when Solange wheeled out our lunch.
“How lovely,” she said, eyeing the shrimp scampi swimming in garlic butter that Raymond had whipped up for our dining pleasure.
“Divine!” Esme exclaimed, pouncing on the stuff the minute her plate hit the table. “My compliments to Raymond!”
Daisy proceeded to pick at her food while Esme and I scarfed ours down with gusto.
Compared to Daisy, Esme was the picture of health, bright-eyed and beaming, salt-and-pepper hair particularly puffy under its helmet of hair spray. She’d probably be doing a jig on the table if she didn’t have to fake mourning Tommy’s death.
“Where’s Clayton?” she asked between scampi bites.
“He’s busy with an important tennis match,” Daisy said. “He’s such a talented player.”
With a joystick, maybe. With a tennis racket, not so much.
“He’s stopping by tonight to take me to dinner. I’m not really in the mood to go, but Clayton says I need to get out more.”
“How right he is!” Esme enthused. “Which is why I wanted you to see this.” She reached into her tote and took out a glossy brochure. “A twenty-one-day cruise to Tahiti. On Crystal Cruise Lines!”
Crystal? Only one of the most expensive barges tootling around the seven seas.
“I don’t know,” Daisy said, listlessly flipping through the brochure. “I doubt I’d be very good company.”
“But you have to get away from all these memories. A change of scenery is just what you need.”
Daisy thought this over, then forced a smile.
“You’re right, Esme. It does sound like a good idea.”
I remembered our chat after Tommy’s death and Daisy’s steely determination not to let it destroy her.
“But I’ll only go if you come with me. My treat, of course.”
“Anything you want, Daisy, darling,” Esme cooed.
A free luxury cruise for Esme. Yep, life was sweet now that Tommy was out of the picture. She was sopping up her scampi butter with a sourdough roll when Solange came out to the patio.
“Phone call for you, Ms. Kincaid. From the UCLA School of Business.”
“That must be about the scholarship I’m setting up in Tommy’s name,” Daisy said, scraping back her chair. “He had such a comprehensive grasp of the financial world.”
Wow, somebody was still drinking the Tommy Kool-Aid.
Daisy followed Solange back into the house, leaving me alone with Esme.
Just the opportunity I’d been waiting for.
The more I thought about it, the more implausible it seemed that Esme hired a hit man to kill Tommy. Hit men cost big bucks, and Esme didn’t have that kind of money. Or any kind of money, for that matter.
But I hadn’t forgotten what she’d said at our last meeting. Namely, that she’d known about Tommy’s snake tattoo—something she would have been aware of o
nly if she’d seen him in his thongs at the gym.
Perhaps right before plunging a Swiss Army Knife in his neck.
I tore myself away from my one remaining shrimp, eager to question her before Daisy returned.
“So, how’s everything going, Esme?”
“Much better than the last time we spoke. Daisy’s reinstated her contributions to the Bel Air Animal Welfare League.”
Having demolished all her shrimp, she now reached over and plucked one of Daisy’s.
What the what? I thought, my jaw dropping just a tad. I’ve been known to nab an extra cookie or three in times of crisis but never off someone’s plate without their permission.
“She won’t miss it,” Esme said, off my look of disbelief. “Daisy’s eating like a bird these days. Anyhow, I hope I can still count on you not to say anything to her about my tiny bookkeeping irregularities.”
Tiny bookkeeping irregularities? That’s like calling the Grand Canyon a pothole.
“No, I won’t say anything,” I assured her, only because I didn’t want to upset Daisy. “But I did want to talk to you about something else.”
“Oh?” Eyebrows arched. “What’s that?”
“When we last spoke, you mentioned a snake tattoo on Tommy’s upper thigh. I never knew about it until I saw him lying dead in the gym. He never wore briefs at the pool. Only boxers. I was wondering how you knew about the tattoo, unless you’d seen him in the gym the morning of the murder.”
She looked up from her purloined scampi and zapped me with a steely glare.
“Of course I saw his tattoo. Didn’t you ever notice the way that thug sat, with his legs spread, flaunting himself like a stud on a porno site? All you had to do was look, and you could see everything. And I mean everything!”
She bristled in disgust.
I nodded as if I believed her, but I had my doubts.
Maybe because I’d seen Tommy plenty of times at the pool and never noticed anything X-rated.
Or maybe because the scampi-nabbing Esme was lying through her teeth.
Chapter 28
All you romance fans are probably wondering what happened with Dickie after you last saw him scooting out of my apartment.
Not much, I’m afraid.
I hadn’t seen him since that god-awful movie date with Lance. He claimed he was busy working overtime at his ad agency. But, my paranoia having kicked in, I was certain he was cooling off on our relationship.
Which is why I was overjoyed when he called me after lunch and asked me to meet him at a Hapi-ness workshop in Hollywood that night.
True, I hated Hapi’s no fat/no fun diet and inwardly rolled my eyes at his cornball affirmations. But I couldn’t deny the fact that his beloved guru had helped Dickie turn his life around.
And so I eagerly agreed to join him at the workshop.
“See you there at six,” Dickie said, after he’d given me Hapi’s address.
“Wonderful!”
“I hope you read the pamphlet I sent you—about the Hapi Way of Life?”
“Absolutely,” I fibbed.
Hadn’t read a word of it. Nary a syllable. When it showed up in the mail weeks ago, I’d tossed it on my pile of unpaid bills and hadn’t looked at it since.
I made a mental note to fish it out and read it ASAP, then spent the rest of the afternoon with C. Weatherly (who by now was having the raging warmies for Max Laredo, her studly turquoise miner).
I was just wrapping up a scene where Clarissa trips over a hunk of turquoise and Max catches her in his brawny arms, sending Clarissa’s pulse skyrocketing, when I checked the time and realized it was after five. Leaving my plucky heroine in the throes of lust, I set out for the Hapi-ness workshop.
Crosstown traffic was its usual hellish mess, but I managed to make it there on the dot of six.
As I pulled up to the address Dickie had given me, I got my first glimpse of Hapi House: a rundown clapboard bungalow festooned with Japanese lanterns. I was about to head into the driveway when I saw a big DON’T EVEN THINK OF PARKING HERE sign on the gate.
Which, I must say, was a tad churlish for a guy who was supposed to be spreading sweetness and light, n’est-ce pas?
After an extremely frustrating search, I finally found a parking spot five blocks away. Which is why I showed up for the workshop fifteen minutes late, breathless and sweating like a turquoise miner.
The front door was open, so I let myself into the living room, where about a dozen people were seated cross-legged in a circle, eyes closed, chanting:
Today in every way I am getting happier and happier.
Scanning the group, I spotted Dickie in sweatpants and an ab-hugging tank top, which was all I really needed to get happier and happier.
A moon-faced guy with a shaved head, swathed in a white, gauzy robe, sat raised above the others on a platform.
I figured this had to be Hapi.
His deep brown skin meant he was either of the Indian persuasion or a spray tan fanatic. I couldn’t help noticing the esteemed guru was seated on a comfy pillow, while the rest of the gang sat on the scuffed wooden floor.
I stood there, waiting until Hapi called an end to the chanting and gave everyone permission to open their eyes.
“Ah, welcome,” he said, catching sight of me. “You must be Dickie’s friend, Jaine.”
Dickie waved and scooched over to make room for me next to him in the circle.
I was relieved to see that the gals here were a lot less gorgeous than the stunners at spin class. Most were pasty-faced women with limp, stringy hair. Which is what happens when you go on a diet that eliminates the all-important Chunky Monkey/Oreo food group.
As I settled down next to him, Dickie beamed me his sexy smile, and I breathed a sigh of relief. That disastrous night with Lance hadn’t cooled him on our relationship after all.
“Now we’re all going to close our eyes and go to our inner happy places,” Hapi said. “A serene, comfortable haven, where all is calm and stress-free—be it the beach at sunset, a bubbling brook, a cozy fire on a winter’s afternoon. Whatever brings you joy.”
I had no trouble whatsoever finding my happy place—Domino’s, where I was soon lost in a reverie of a mushroom and sausage pizza dripping with cheese.
Frankly, I was a bit peckish, having had nothing to eat since those five scampi at lunch.
(Okay, six scampi. Following Esme’s shameful example, I’d grabbed one of Daisy’s shrimp from her plate.)
Back in my reverie, I’d polished off my pizza and was now scarfing down some Chunky Monkey. Hapi was right. This meditation thing was really quite relaxing.
So relaxing, in fact, that before I knew it I’d dozed off. Which I realized when I felt Dickie jabbing me awake with his elbow.
“You were snoring,” he whispered in my ear.
Oh, Lord. How embarrassing.
Next to me, one of the pasty-faced gals tsked in disapproval.
But at least Hapi hadn’t noticed. He sat on his pillow, eyes closed, lost in meditation.
Afraid I’d drift off and start snoring again, I kept my eyes open as the others continued to meditate. There I sat, wishing I’d grabbed a snack before I left La Belle Vie and wondering if there was a Domino’s nearby, when out of the corner of my eye I noticed something crawling across the room.
Taking a closer look, I realized it was a beetle. And not just any beetle. This thing was humungous, the Mike Tyson of beetles.
And it was crawling right toward me.
With a screeching yelp, I whipped off one of my sneakers and whacked the critter to oblivion.
Everyone’s eyes sprang open.
“Omigosh!” cried one of the Hapi campers, gasping in horror at the dead bug.
“I know,” I said. “Isn’t it the ickiest thing you’ve ever seen?”
“You’ve killed it!” another camper moaned.
“No need to thank me,” I said, modestly. “Although I’d strongly recommend getting an exterminator out here A
SAP.”
You’d think they’d all be grateful, but no, they just stared at me, horror-struck.
“You killed Cleopatra,” Hapi said, a sickly cast spreading across his deep tan.
“No, no. Cleopatra’s been dead thousands of years. I killed a bug. That’s all.”
“I thought you said you read the Hapi-ness pamphlet,” Dickie whispered in my ear. “Didn’t you see the part about how Hapi and his followers, like the ancient Egyptians, believe that beetles are holy? Cleopatra was Hapi’s prized possession.”
Oh, hell! I’d just killed Hapi’s holy beetle!
Looking up, I saw the shiny-pated guru giving me the stink eye.
“Don’t be angry,” he said to his flock with forced calm, the veins in his temple throbbing with a vengeance. “Our visitor didn’t realize what she was doing. Everyone, repeat after me:
I find the good in everyone I meet, even if she happens to be a complete nincompoop.
Okay, so he left off the nincompoop part, but I knew damn well he was thinking it.
The veins in his temple still throbbing, Hapi adjourned the meeting early while one of the faithful scooped up Cleopatra’s remains.
Suffice it to say, I wasn’t going to be winning the Hapi House Miss Congeniality award.
“Can you ever forgive me?” I asked Dickie as we left Hapi’s bungalow and made our way to the street.
“Of course, Jaine. Forgiveness is a cornerstone of the Hapi way of life. Now come here,” he said, leading me to his car. “I have something for you.”
I perked up, hoping it was something along the lines of a smooch.
But when we got to his car, an impressive BMW convertible, he didn’t wrap me in his arms. Instead he popped open his trunk and took out a pale blue crystal.
“It’s a creative energy crystal,” he said. “I thought it would help you with your book.”
Awww. Was he the sweetest guy ever, or what?
Here I’d just killed Hapi’s holy beetle, and he wanted to help me with my book.
“Oh, Dickie,” I cried, throwing my arms around his neck. “You’re the best.”
I waited for him to return my ardor, much like Max Laredo did with Clarissa Weatherly, and engulf me in a fiery kiss.
But all I got was a chaste peck on my forehead.