Murder Gets a Makeover

by Laura Levine

  Two out of three wasn’t bad.

  “You in the mood for pizza?” he asked.

  “Always.”

  “Let’s get some.”

  “But they don’t serve food here.”

  “No problem,” he said, taking out his cell phone. “I’ll have it delivered.” And just like that, he was on Grubhub ordering pizzas and Cokes.

  Bless him! Suddenly the club, which had, up to now, seemed impossibly loud and way too hip for the likes of moi, seemed warm and welcoming. Maybe I could pull off this younger vibe after all.

  Our pizzas soon arrived, and before long we were gabbing away between bites of garlic and pepperoni.

  “So what’s it like working for Bebe?” I asked, wondering if Justin belonged to the I Hate Bebe club.

  “It’s not so bad,” he said. “I’ve learned how to tune her out when she’s on one of her rampages. And the pay’s pretty good, much better than I’d be earning as a barista. Best of all, I get this fabulous TEAM BEBE bomber jacket,” he added with a laugh.

  “Are you planning on pursuing a career in the fashion industry?”

  “Heck, no. I’m studying to be a classical violinist.”

  Let’s take stock here, shall we? He was adorable, loved pizza, and was a violin prodigy to boot. No doubt about it. I’d hit the dating jackpot.

  “In fact,” he was saying, “I would have asked you to a performance of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto No. 9 tonight, but most women aren’t interested in that stuff.”

  “Oh, I simply adore classical music!” I said, back on my lying streak, a woman who wouldn’t know Beethoven’s Violin Concerto No. 9 if it came and sat on my lap.

  “Really? Would you like to come to my violin recital next Thursday?”

  “I’d love it!”

  “It’s a date. Now what do you say we get out on that dance floor?”

  By then I was on such a high, I didn’t even flinch at the prospect of navigating the dance floor on my four-inch Manolos.

  “I just need to make a quick trip to the ladies’ room,” I said, the wine and Coke having rushed through my urinary tract at Indy 500 speed.

  “Okay. Meet you on the dance floor.”

  I got up and hustled to the ladies’ room, where I checked myself in the mirror and was happy to see my hair was not nearly as flat as I thought it would be. After a quick tinkle, I washed my hands, refreshed my lipstick, and made my way back out to the club.

  Everyone seemed to be in a wonderful mood, giggling and laughing as I headed for the dance floor.

  Justin was there waiting for me.

  “Ready to show ’em how it’s done?” he asked.

  “You betcha!” I replied, still aware of people giggling nearby. In fact, the giggling had grown a lot louder. What the heck was so funny? I wondered.

  I was about to find out.

  “Hey!” someone shouted, pointing at my tush. “You’re the lady whose cat saved a toddler’s life!”

  I turned around to check my tush and realized that in my haste to return to Justin, I’d accidentally tucked the back of my tunic into my elastic-waist jeans.

  Once again, my fanny was on display for all the world to see.

  Mortified, I quickly pulled the tunic out from where it was trapped in my jeans. But not quick enough to stop Justin from taking a peek at my fanny.

  “I thought I recognized Prozac earlier,” he said. “That was her in the video. And you, too, right?”

  “Yes,” I nodded, shamefaced.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I was embarrassed about that awful shot of me bending over at the end.”

  “Are you kidding?” Justin said, shooting me a lethal dose of his dimple. “That was my favorite part!”

  Omigosh. It was his favorite part! Justin liked my tush!

  With happy heart, I sashayed out to the dance floor and proceeded to shake it with gusto.

  You’ve Got Mail

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Hot on the Trail

  I’ve been quite the gumshoe these past few days, Lambchop, hot on the trail of The Battle-Axe—disguised in a baseball cap and nifty aviator sunglasses I bought at the 99 cent store. At first it was pretty boring, following Stinky Pinkus to the library, the historical society, and the stupid health food shop where she stocks up on wheat germ.

  But today I finally got lucky, following her to the mall, where she popped into Victoria’s Secret. Yes, that Victoria’s Secret, home of the push-up bra and lace garter belt. Fifteen minutes later, she came sailing out, a Victoria’s Secret shopping bag swinging from her arm. If I had even a shred of a doubt before, it was swept away today. The Battle-Axe is having an affair for sure!

  Now all I have to do is prove it.

  Love ’n hugs

  From your intrepid,

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Too Much Rockford!

  Oh, my stars. Your daddy has been watching far too many Rockford Files reruns. He’s been tailing Lydia for days, wearing the most ridiculous pair of oversized sunglasses he bought at the 99 cent store, hoping to catch her in the arms of her “married lover.”

  Today he came home, all excited because he saw Lydia coming out of Victoria’s Secret with a shopping bag. He’s convinced she’s buying sexy lingerie for her adulterous trysts. Of all the ridiculous notions! Just because she stopped in at Victoria’s Secret doesn’t mean she’s having an affair. Why, just last year I bought an adorable Victoria’s Secret hoodie, the perfect topper for my Home Shopping Club sequined pink capri set.

  Besides, Lydia has no time for an affair. She’s busy handling some important family matters and has appointed me to lead this month’s book club. I’m flattered, of course, but I still haven’t made it past chapter one of War and Peace. There’s no way I can finish that mountain of a book in time for the meeting. I’ll just have to read the plot highlights on Wikipedia.

  I’ve decided to have the meeting out on the patio and serve wine spritzers along with my whipped cream fruit parfait, which should look lovely in my beautiful crystal parfait bowl. Maybe with all those calories and wine, the gals won’t care that I haven’t finished (or barely even started) the book.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Just the Beginning

  My Victoria’s Secret discovery is just the beginning. I’m determined to catch The Battle-Axe in the arms of her married lover. (Although why any man would choose to have a fling with The Battle-Axe, I’ll never know. She has all the allure of a Sherman tank.)

  Gotta run, Lambchop. Rockford Files is on!

  Love ’n snuggles from,

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Just started reading the plot summary of War and Peace on Wikipedia, and I still can’t keep all those Russian names straight! This will never do!

  XOXO,

  Mom

  Chapter 9

  Wake up! Wake up! I opened a bleary eye the next morning to find Prozac pawing at my chest in a frenzy.

  Time to fix breakfast for your beloved kitty!

  It was six AM, and I’d gotten all of three hours of sleep.

  “Go away, Pro. It’s time you learned to use a can opener and fix your own breakfast.”

  An indignant meow.

  It’s not my fault you stayed out half the night, leaving me alone with nothing to do but rip a new hole in your quilt.

  Indeed I looked over and saw a fresh lump of stuffing sprouting from my quilt.

  With a weary sigh, I got of bed, carefully checking for an unwanted surprise in my slippers. You’ll be happy to know Prozac did not make good on her threat to poop in them.

  (Instead, as I was later to learn, she pooped in my running shoes.)

  In the kitchen, I sloshed a can of Minced Mackerel Guts into her bowl and put it down in
front of her.

  She sniffed at it dismissively.

  Minced mackerel guts? For The Cat Who Saved a Toddler’s Life? Outrageous! Make me eggs Benedict and make it snappy!

  “You’ll eat minced mackerel guts and like it, young lady.”

  I guess she could tell I meant business because, after giving me the stink eye, she proceeded to swan dive into her chow.

  Leaving her sucking up mackerel guts, I hurried back to bed and drifted off into a delicious sleep. I’m ashamed to admit I did not wake up until one o’clock that afternoon. And even then, I didn’t get out bed. Instead I lay there for another half hour, a goofy smile on my face, thinking about my date with Justin.

  After a glorious session on the dance floor, I rode home on the back of Justin’s motorcycle, my arms wrapped around his waist, feeling the heat of his body against mine.

  Back at my duplex, he walked me up the path to my front door.

  “Well, good night,” he said. “I had fun.”

  And with that he started back down the path.

  That was it? He had fun? After I’d practically grown an umbilical cord to his abs, was he blowing me off?

  Then before I knew it, he whirled around and was back at my side, sweeping me up in a wowie-zowie good-night kiss I wouldn’t soon forget, lust bubbles bursting all over my body.

  “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said, breaking away, “but you were just so irresistible, I couldn’t stop myself.”

  Omigosh! I was irresistible!

  Then he swept me up into another swoon-worthy smacker.

  When we finally came up for air, he said, “I’d better go. I’ve got work tomorrow.”

  Don’t go! I felt like wailing, but I managed to rein in my hormones and let myself into my apartment, still reeling from his kisses.

  Now, lying in bed, I wondered if maybe this younger man thing could work out. Hadn’t Audrey Hepburn, Susan Sarandon, and Demi Moore all hooked up with younger men? And what about Queen Victoria and her boy toy, John Brown? This kind of romance happened all the time. Why not to me?

  I thought of how cute Justin was, his lofty musical ambitions, his great moves on the dance floor, and his even better moves on my front doorstep. I was ready to take the plunge.

  In a happy glow, I floated off to the kitchen to nuke myself a cinnamon raisin bagel. (Okay, two cinnamon raisin bagels.) Dee-lish, especially with gobs of butter and strawberry jam.

  Once I’d scraped every last crumb from my plate, I parked myself at my computer where, believe it or not, I managed to tear my thoughts away from Justin long enough to open my emails. Which I instantly regretted, cringing at the thought of Daddy tailing Lydia Pinkus to Victoria’s Secret.

  But I refused to spoil my good mood worrying about Daddy. Instead I buckled down and spent the rest of the afternoon finishing the Tip Top radio spots.

  After which I treated myself to a nice long soak in the tub, whiling away the time with some X-rated Justin fantasies.

  My muscles limp as linguini, I climbed back into my pajamas (yes, I’d been wearing them all day—absolute heaven and one of the perks of being a freelance writer) and ordered Chinese takeout for dinner.

  It showed up in no time, and I was just about to dig into my shrimp with lobster sauce when the phone rang.

  Cue the storm clouds. It was Bebe.

  I groaned inwardly at the sound of her voice.

  “Anna’s finished the alterations on your outfits,” she said, “and I need you to come over to my studio right now to try them on.”

  “Now?”

  Grrr! How aggravating! Just as I was about to eat.

  “Yes, now. I need to make sure the clothes fit before the photo shoot.”

  I eyed my shrimp with lobster sauce longingly. Parting was such sweet sorrow!

  What a ghastly end to a perfectly lovely day.

  I slammed down the phone and shoved some shrimp in my mouth, little realizing just how ghastly things were about to get.

  Chapter 10

  Ishowed up at Casa Bebe, as instructed, surprised to find the picket gate out front wide open.

  L.A.’s ubiquitous evening fog had rolled in, and the air was nippy. I hurried to the front door, wishing I’d worn a jacket over the sweats I’d hurriedly thrown on after Bebe’s call.

  I rang the bell several times, but there was no answer, so I started around the side of the house.

  Out back, I saw that the French doors to Bebe’s studio were flung wide open. How odd—with all this fog rolling in. Even odder, when I reached the studio, I saw Bebe slumped over her desk, her blond extensions splayed out around her.

  Was it possible she was napping?

  “Hi, Bebe,” I called out.

  No response.

  I hesitated to wake her, afraid of erupting Mount Bebe. But I couldn’t stand there all night, not when I had a carton of shrimp with lobster sauce waiting for me at home.

  I crossed over to her desk, breathing in the scent of her Pine-Sol perfume.

  And, for the first time, I noticed something stiff and metal poking out from Bebe’s hair at the back of her neck.

  This did not look good. Not good at all.

  With a sinking sensation in my tummy, I pulled Bebe’s hair apart and gasped to see a wire wound tight around her neck. Omigod! She’d been strangled—with one of her detested wire hangers!

  It was then that I thought I heard a strange chirping noise coming from Bebe.

  What if she was still alive? As much as I disliked the woman, I couldn’t let her die.

  So I frantically began untangling the wire from her neck.

  “Bebe!” I shrieked once I’d loosened it. “Are you okay?”

  The only response I got was the chirping noise. Which I now realized was coming from a cricket. I’d been in such a panic, I’d assumed it was Bebe.

  But, no. Her body was still as a tomb, no signs of breathing.

  She was gone, after all.

  With trembling hands, I got out my cell phone and called 911.

  It didn’t take long for the police to show up.

  And when they did, it suddenly occurred to me that I was standing at the scene of a crime with my fingerprints all over the murder weapon.

  I warned you this day would not end well.

  Was I right, or was I right?

  * * *

  Why, oh, why had I touched that damn wire hanger? And how on earth had I mistaken a cricket for Bebe?

  What if the police found out how Bebe had used me as target practice for her insults? Or how I’d gleefully thrown darts at her poster? What if they thought that, sick of being humiliated, I’d snapped and killed her in a murderous rage?

  Those were the fears swirling around my brain as I stood shivering outside Bebe’s studio, waiting for the detective investigating the case to show up. When he finally did, he turned out to be a no-nonsense African American guy, graying at the temples, his hooded eyes looking like they’d seen far too many things he’d rather forget.

  “Detective Washington, LAPD Homicide,” he said, by way of introduction.

  He flashed me his ID, and I couldn’t help noticing his first name was Denzel.

  “Denzel Washington?” I said. “Loved you in Training Day, haha.”

  Not even a glimmer of a smile. So much for cozying up to the cops.

  Denzel took down my statement, issuing me a stern lecture about never touching anything at the scene of the crime, no doubt miffed that I’d compromised their physical evidence.

  “I was just trying to save Bebe,” I offered lamely. “I thought I heard her making a noise, but it turned out to be a cricket.”

  “A cricket, huh?” he said, clearly filing me away in his mental Rolodex as a prize doofus.

  He proceeded to ask me some very disconcerting questions about whether Bebe and I had been on good terms. I couldn’t possibly tell them the truth, that I thought she was an utter nightmare, a despot in designer togs. So I yakked about how grateful I was for her gene
rosity in giving me the makeover.

  I tried to sound appreciative, but I could tell Denzel wasn’t quite buying it.

  “Here’s my business card,” he said, eying me suspiciously, “just in case there’s something else you decide you’d like to tell me.”

  Then he let me go with a warning not to leave town.

  Never a good sign.

  * * *

  As you can imagine, I was more than a tad frazzled by the whole experience, and the last thing I needed was Lance bursting into my apartment the next morning before work, blathering about Bebe’s murder.

  “I can’t believe it!” he cried. “Strangled with a wire hanger! It’s a Mommie Dearest Murder! . . . Mmm, yummy!”

  That last part said as he snatched up a donut I’d been about to eat.

  “Apparently one of her clients found her. I wonder who it was.”

  “Me,” I sighed, slumping down onto my sofa, reliving the whole miserable experience.

  “You? I swear, Jaine, if you find one more dead body, you can open your own cemetery.”

  Prozac looked up from where she’d been busy clawing one of my throw pillows.

  If she’d been home with me, ministering to my every need, this never would have happened.

  “What’s worse,” I moaned, “my fingerprints are all over the murder weapon.”

  “How did that happen?” Lance asked, dunking his purloined donut into my coffee.

  I told him everything.

  “Ouch!” he said when I was through. “That’s awful! But you’ve got to look on the bright side.”

  “Which is?”

  “Prozac’s video has more than five thousand views!”

  A triumphant meow from Prozac.

  I’m a star! Quick! Somebody buy me a limo!