Murder Gets a Makeover

by Laura Levine

  Maybe even the ultimate revenge: Murder.

  “Do you think Anna might have built up enough resentment over the years to have killed Bebe?” I asked.

  “She’s such a timid little thing, it’s hard to believe, but then I’d never believe she was boffing Miles, so anything’s possible. Like I said, Bebe had so many enemies, anyone could have done it.”

  Heidi was right. Anyone could have done it. Including, I hated to admit, Heidi herself.

  It didn’t seem very likely. But I couldn’t afford to rule anyone out.

  “If only I hadn’t shown up at the studio the night of the murder,” I said.

  “Talk about bad timing,” Heidi agreed.

  “Where were you that night?” I asked, as casually as possible. “Far from Brentwood, I hope.”

  “I was here at the apartment, working on my sculpture.”

  “Your sculpture?”

  “Yes, it’s a hobby of mine. I love to make things out of found objects. I troll the trash on garbage days, looking for stuff to work with. It’s been a wonderful creative outlet, the only thing that kept me sane working for Bebe.”

  She proceeded to tell me about her latest project—a giraffe made from vacuum cleaner parts—as she snipped away at my hair.

  When she’d snipped her last snip, she plugged in a diffuser and started shaping my curls.

  Then she stepped back and looked me over.

  “I love it!” she cried, grinning. “Let’s go look in the mirror.”

  With that, she led me down a narrow hallway to her bathroom, a cluttered affair with a claw-foot tub and blouses drying from her shower rod.

  I checked myself out in her medicine cabinet mirror and loved what I saw—a nimbus of glorious curls that framed my face to perfection.

  “Heidi, I adore it! Are you sure I can’t pay you something?”

  “Absolutely not. It’s my pleasure.”

  No way could this darling woman possibly be a killer.

  “C’mon,” she said, taking my hand, “I want to show you my giraffe.”

  We crossed the narrow hallway to the bedroom she used as her studio.

  “What do you think?” she asked, showing me an ingenious configuration of vacuum cleaner parts.

  “Wow,” I said, gobsmacked.

  But my eyes had strayed from the giraffe to a sculpture in the corner of the room.

  Another animal. This time, a horse. And not just any horse. This one had been made entirely out of—wait for it—wire hangers.

  Heidi may not have seemed like a killer, but she sure had plenty of experience working with the murder weapon.

  Chapter 16

  I drove home, more than a tad discombobulated by the sight of Heidi’s wire-hanger horse. Heidi was a darling woman and fantastic hairstylist, but, as much as it pained me, I had to add her to my suspect list. With Bebe gone, Heidi was free to accept the lucrative studio job she’d been lusting after.

  All thoughts of Heidi went flying out the window, however, when I returned home and stepped into my living room.

  The place was a shambles.

  I gasped to see books knocked down from my bookcase, my African violet overturned, seat cushions upended, and throw pillows strewn all over the room.

  For a frightening instant, I thought I’d been burglarized.

  But then I saw the culprit—my pampered princess snoring on the sofa, her catnip mouse in tatters on the floor below.

  No, I hadn’t been robbed. Just hit by Hurricane Prozac.

  “Prozac Elizabeth Austen!” I cried. “Look at this godawful mess you’ve made!”

  She opened a sleepy eye and purred proudly.

  Impressive, isn’t it?

  Then she rolled over and resumed her beauty rest, her snores as loud as my curses as I stomped around, putting books back up on the shelf, vacuuming spilled dirt from my African violet, and returning throw pillows to their rightful places. Not to mention picking up the trash from the knocked-over garbage bin in my kitchen.

  When all had been restored to order, I fixed myself a dietetic lunch of Wheat Thins and chunk white tuna (filched from Trudy’s gift stash for Prozac).

  It wasn’t exactly a Quarter Pounder, but it would have to do. I wanted to stay as svelte as possible for my date with Justin that night.

  Just as I was scraping the last shards of tuna from my plate, the phone rang. It was the gang from Tip Top, with some changes for the “Drop Your Pants” radio spots. It wasn’t much, just a few tweaks. I should have been able to churn it out in an hour, tops.

  But when I sat down at my computer, with a few extra Wheat Thins for sustenance, I found myself struggling to keep my eyes open.

  Ever since this whole Cat Who Saved a Toddler’s Life thing began, Prozac had been in flaming diva mode, hogging my pillow, draping her tail over my nose, and putting a serious damper on my quality sleep time. That, plus all the energy I’d spent cleaning up in the wake of her catnip rampage, had left me wiped out.

  I struggled to peck out a few sentences on my keyboard, but it was no use. I simply couldn’t keep my eyes open.

  So I put my head down on the table to rest.

  My, that felt good. All I needed was a few minutes, and I’d be up and running.

  Yeah, right.

  The next thing I knew, I was being jarred out of a deep sleep by a loud knocking at my front door.

  I checked the time: Six o’clock.

  Omigosh, it was Justin, and I hadn’t had a chance to change my outfit. What’s more, I had sleep crud in my eyes and tuna on my breath. A fact confirmed by Prozac, who was sniffing my face, clearly peeved.

  Hey, is that MY tuna I smell on your breath?

  “Just a minute!” I called out, racing to the bathroom, where I splashed water on my face and swished my mouth with Listerine.

  Then a mad dash to open the front door.

  Justin, my boy toy dreamboat, was standing there all spiffed up for his violin recital, his hair slicked back, his dimple flashing. Underneath his TEAM BEBE bomber jacket, he wore a dress shirt and tie.

  “Hey there,” he said, shooting me a most endearing grin. “Ready to hear me put Itzhak Perlman to shame?”

  “Almost. I’m afraid I fell asleep, and I haven’t had a chance to change.”

  “No worries,” he said, looking me up and down. “You look great.”

  And he seemed to mean it.

  Brava! I was one of those women who could get away with elastic-waist jeans and no makeup!

  “But what’s that in your hair?” Frowning, he reached into my curls and pulled out something brown and crumbly. “Is this an Oreo?”

  Okay, so I didn’t have Wheat Thins with my tuna. I had Oreos. (You should have guessed as much.)

  And Justin had just plucked a rather large chunk from my hair.

  How mortifying.

  Stuff like this happens to her all the time.

  By now Prozac had scurried to Justin’s side and was doing her pole dance routine around his ankles.

  One time she woke up with a pretzel in her ear.

  He bent down to pick her up.

  “How are you, cute thing?”

  Just fine, now that you’re here. Whaddaya say you ditch the cookie monster and spend the next several hours scratching me behind my ears?

  “That’s enough out of you, young lady,” I said, wrenching her from Justin’s arms and plopping her down on the sofa. “Justin and I need to leave if we don’t want to be late for his violin recital.

  “Shall we?” I said to Justin, ignoring Prozac’s yowls of protest and hustling him out the door.

  Outside, I saw his motorcycle parked at the curb.

  Fooey. I’d forgotten about those darn motorcycle helmets. So much for my fabulous Heidi do.

  “So how are things going with your murder investigation?” Justin asked as we made our way down the front path. “Any suspects?”

  “Plenty!” I told him about Anna and Miles’s secret affair, Miles’s bogus alibi
, and Heidi’s wire-hanger horse.

  “Just so long as I’m not on your list,” he said, flashing me his dimple.

  “Of course not. Haha.”

  And then—like a bolt of lightning that should have struck me several chapters ago—I wondered: What if Justin was the killer? Up to that moment, I’d been so blinded by his Adorability Quotient, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind.

  By now, we were at the curb. After strapping on our helmets and making sure Justin’s violin was secure in his storage case, we climbed on board the cycle.

  “Here we go!” he cried, taking off.

  Riding along with my arms around Justin’s waist, my body pressed up against his, I should have felt all sorts of tingling in my lady parts.

  But my lady parts were distinctly tingle-free.

  Instead all I felt was a growing sense of unease, wondering with every bump in the road if Justin had knocked off Queen Bebe.

  True, of all her employees, Bebe seemed to treat Justin fairly well, and he’d seemed immune to her abuse. But who knew what secret resentments he might have been harboring? His nonchalance could be an act. Maybe he’d been seething inside over something awful Bebe had done to him, waiting for the right moment to wring a wire hanger around her neck.

  I had to face facts.

  For all I knew, I could be riding with my arms clutched around the world’s most adorable killer.

  Chapter 17

  We rode over to the recital, me stewing all the way, hoping Justin wasn’t the killer. I reminded myself that with Bebe dead, Justin was out of a job. Unlike Heidi, he had no new lucrative gig waiting in the wings. So he had every reason to want Bebe alive and well and signing his paychecks.

  By the time we got to the parking lot of the middle school in Westwood where the recital was taking place, I was so lost in my thoughts, I barely noticed when I shook off my helmet and a few more Oreo crumbs came flying out of my hair.

  “Wish me luck,” Justin said, taking his violin from his storage case.

  “Of course,” I said with a stiff smile. “Good luck.”

  “Hey,” he said, “what’s wrong?”

  I stood there, tongue-tied, unable to get my mouth to work.

  “I can tell something’s bothering you. What is it?”

  He looked so earnest and innocent, I was beginning to feel foolish for ever having suspected him. But I had to be sure.

  Summoning my courage, I took the plunge.

  “I’m embarrassed to ask, but where were you the night of the murder?”

  “Wow,” he said, wide-eyed. “I’m on your suspect list after all. Do you actually think I killed Bebe?”

  “Not really,” I admitted. “But I have to ask. Just to ease my mind.”

  “Consider your mind eased. I was with Mrs. Fletcher, my violin teacher, prepping for the recital. Honest!”

  Then he took me by the hand and led me inside to the school auditorium, abuzz with parents clutching videocams and cell phones.

  A plump sixtysomething gal with steel-gray hair crimped into a tortured perm was standing in the aisle, passing out programs. As she greeted her guests, I couldn’t help but notice a most unsettling mole on the side of her nose.

  “Justin!” she cried, catching sight of him. “Guess what? I invited the music critic from the Los Angeles Times, and he said he might be able to make it.”

  “That’s great, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Get ready to be discovered!” she crowed. “And who might this be?” she added, noticing me.

  “Mrs. Fletcher, I’d like you to meet my friend Jaine.”

  “A pleasure, my dear,” she said, handing me a program. “Welcome to the annual recital of the Fletcher Music Academy! Are you by any chance interested in taking violin lessons?”

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “What a shame! You really ought to consider it. Those long, tapering fingers of yours were made for the violin!”

  She sure knew how to sling the bull poo. My fingers, while perfectly serviceable, are far from long and tapering.

  “Mrs. Fletcher,” Justin broke in, “would you mind telling Jaine where I was the night Bebe Braddock got killed?”

  “With me, like you always are every Monday and Thursday night, taking a violin lesson.” She beamed with pride. “Don’t tell the others,” she whispered conspiratorially, “but Justin is my star pupil!”

  “Now am I in the clear?” Justin asked me as we headed down the aisle.

  “Absolutely,” I nodded, thrilled he had an alibi.

  My mind finally at ease, I took a seat while Justin headed backstage to await his time slot.

  Meanwhile, as Mrs. Fletcher fluttered about, handing out programs, I heard her whisper to a couple in the row in front of me, “Don’t tell the others, but Louisa is my star pupil!”

  Why did I get the feeling that all Mrs. Fletcher’s pupils were her stars?

  Eventually everyone was seated, and Mrs. Fletcher got onstage to thank them for showing up, blabbity blah-ing about how gratifying it had been to work with her students, to see their latent talents blossom before her very eyes.

  Then, one by one, her protégées took the stage to do their thing.

  Now I’m no music critic, not even close, but I think it’s fair to say they were all on the higher end of the stink-o-meter. None of them was about to be discovered by the Los Angeles Times or any other reputable news outlet.

  Some of them got through their pieces without stumbling too badly, others with more than an occasional wrong note. One kid managed to drop his bow no fewer than three times.

  Most of the performers were kids, way younger than Justin.

  Each one wrapped up their piece—no matter how faltering—to thunderous applause from family and friends.

  Finally it was Justin’s turn.

  Unlike the other deer-in-the-headlights students, he strode out onto the stage with authority and confidence. Then, tucking his violin under his chin, he began to play.

  Surely, he had to be better than the kidlets.

  But, alas, he was not. In fact, to be perfectly honest, he was a tad worse. At one point, he hit a screech of a note that sounded a lot like Prozac at the vet’s office.

  I certainly hoped he had a Plan B career in the works.

  He finished to frantic applause from Mrs. Fletcher, took a bow, and looked over at me.

  I gave him a thumbs up, a fake smile plastered on my face.

  Not a moment too soon, the recital was over, Mrs. Fletcher again thanking everyone for showing up, and blathering on about a discount package she was offering—ten violin lessons for the price of five.

  Eventually Justin came out from backstage to join me.

  “So? How was I?”

  “Great!” I managed to lie, my smile still welded to my face, hoping he was buying it.

  “You’re not just saying that?”

  “No way,” I lied again.

  “I think I may have missed a note or two.”

  “If you did, I didn’t notice.”

  One more lie, and I’d be running for Congress.

  Just then we were joined by Mrs. Fletcher.

  “Bravo!” she gushed. “Wonderful performance, my dear. Absolutely inspiring!”

  What the what?!

  “Just keep up your lessons for a few more years, and one day you’ll be playing that violin at Carnegie Hall!”

  Was she kidding? There was no way in hell Justin was ever going to make it as a concert violinist. Clearly Mrs. Fletcher was giving him false encouragement so he’d keep paying for music lessons. What a moneygrubbing old crone.

  I was sorely tempted to report her to the Better Business Bureau.

  “Isn’t she great?” Justin said as we headed out to the parking lot. “Lots of her former students have made it to the LA Philharmonic. I just know I’m going to get there, too.”

  Somebody needed to tell Justin the truth. But it wasn’t going to be me.

  Sooner or later, he’d r
ealize he wasn’t cut out for the concert stage. With his looks and charm, he’d have lots of doors open to him, for sure. Maybe not the door to Carnegie Hall, but something told me he’d wind up on his feet.

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

  A blinding flash of his dimple, and then he zeroed in for a blockbuster kiss.

  My lady parts, so recently on life support, were now alive and well and doing the conga.

  “I guess I’d better be going,” he said, when we finally came up for air. “I don’t want to rush into things. That never works in the long run.”

  For someone so much younger than me, he was awfully wise. I’d been ready to throw caution (and my undies) to the wind.

  “And I want this to work,” he said, tracing his finger along my cheek.

  “Me too,” I gulped, my knees now the consistency of Silly Putty.

  After another rocketblaster of a kiss, he turned and headed off down the front path.

  Justin may have stunk as a violinist, but when it came to smooching, he was a certified virtuoso.

  You’ve Got Mail

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Marvelous News!

  Marvelous news, sweetheart! I finally finished War and Peace. Not the novel, of course, but the movie! Luckily I was able to rent it at the library. A wonderful picture starring Audrey Hepburn, looking ever so lovely as the heroine, Natasha. I’m still having trouble with all those Russian names, but at least I have a vague idea of the plot.

  On the irritating front, Daddy’s been gone practically every night, tailing Lydia, on his ridiculous mission to catch her in a tryst with a married man. He can follow her all he wants, but he’ll never find anything incriminating.

  Actually, it’s quite peaceful here, without Daddy shouting out the wrong answers to Jeopardy! Quite peaceful, indeed.

  I bought the wine for the book club today. Think I’ll go open a bottle and have a weensy sample.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten