Murder Gets a Makeover

by Laura Levine

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Paydirt!

  At last, Lambchop! Tonight I hit paydirt in my search to get the goods on Stinky Pinkus!

  She got in her car at about six o’clock, all dolled up and ready for action in what I can only guess was her new Victoria’s Secret push-up bra and lace garter belt.

  I followed her as she drove out of Tampa Vistas, keeping a careful three car lengths behind. Everything was going smoothly until I got stopped at a red light and watched her speed away. I drove around for a while, certain I’d lost her. Then, just as I was about to throw in the towel and head back home, I spotted her heading into a cozy little restaurant, appropriately called The Hideaway.

  I pulled into the parking lot and, after waiting a few minutes, got out of my car and went inside.

  The restaurant was a hideaway, all right—dimly lit and lined with red leather booths, Frank Sinatra crooning in the background. The booths were filled with couples holding hands and playing footsies. I couldn’t help but notice several older gents taking their “nieces” out to dinner.

  It wasn’t easy to see in all that gloom, but I soon spotted Lydia in a corner booth, cozying up to a balding guy in a too-tight suit. The man had all the sex appeal of a wet flounder. What a perfect match.

  In the glow of the candle flickering at their table, I saw a wedding ring on The Flounder’s finger. Bingo! Just the ammunition I was looking for.

  I whipped out my cell phone and got a picture of the happy couple—to prove to Mom once and for all that Lydia was having an affair with a married man.

  Just as I snapped the photo, I was approached by a goon of a maître d’, a hulking brute who looked like he’d tossed more than his fair share of dead bodies in the Hudson River.

  “What do you think you’re doing, buddy?” he growled.

  For the first time, I realized I probably looked out of place in my baseball cap and aviator sunglasses.

  “I was just getting a picture of your restaurant to show my wife,” I said, in a burst of inspired fibbing. “I want to take her here for our anniversary.”

  “Yeah, right,” said the goon, lobbing me a skeptical look as he shoved me out the door.

  But I didn’t care. I’d accomplished my mission. I couldn’t wait to show your mom the picture of Lydia and her lover.

  Unfortunately, when I got back in my car to check my phone, I realized that in my haste to get the shot, my thumb had blocked out Lydia’s half of the picture.

  But I know what I saw—the revolting sight of The Battle-Axe cozying up to The Flounder!

  And I’m more determined than ever to bring her down, toppling her reign of terror at Tampa Vistas!

  Love ’n snuggles

  From your triumphant,

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Utter Bilge!

  I was nestled down on the sofa just now, watching a relaxing episode of House Hunters, when Daddy came barging in the front door, making a ruckus, claiming he had “proof positive” that Lydia is having an affair!

  He says he followed her to a restaurant called The Hideaway and swears he saw her in a corner booth with her married lover.

  His “proof positive”? A picture of the so-called lovers, with Daddy’s thumb blocking out the woman in the picture. What’s more, he admits that he lost track of Lydia’s car on the ride over to the restaurant, but insists he recognized her heading inside.

  Of all the utter bilge! Not only has Daddy needed new glasses for ages, he’s notoriously bad at recognizing people. Why, just the other week, he claimed he saw Meryl Streep thumping cantaloupes at the market!

  I’m so darn annoyed I never got to see which house Darryl and Kristin of Dallas chose. It was a toss-up between a Craftsman and a ranch, and I was rooting for the Craftsman.

  Oh, well. Time for another sip of my book club wine, which is really quite refreshing. Must remember to buy a replacement bottle tomorrow.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Advanced Surveillance

  Guess what, Lambchop? In my valiant effort to unmask Stinky Pinkus as the sanctimonious hypocrite she is, I’ve decided to go high tech and have just sent away for a drone. You know, one of those flying metal doohickeys that let you take video footage from the sky. With this kind of advanced surveillance, I’m sure to gather all the evidence I need to convict Stinky in the court of public opinion.

  The drone is fairly high tech, but I’m sure I’ll get the hang of it in no time. Stay tuned for further developments from Tampa Vistas’s champion of justice—

  —Your ever loving,

  Daddy

  Chapter 18

  The next morning, after treating myself to a delicious cinnamon raisin bagel—and even more delicious daydreams of my smoochfest with Justin—I made the mistake of opening my emails.

  I cringed at the thought of Daddy’s trip to The Hideaway restaurant, decked out in his baseball cap and 99-cent store sunglasses.

  Mom was right, of course. No way was Lydia Pinkus, Tampa Vistas’ bastion of respectability, having an affair. Whoever Daddy had seen at The Hideaway, it sure as heck hadn’t been Lydia.

  Eager to escape the drama at Tampa Vistas, I closed out my emails and turned my attention back where it belonged—to Bebe’s murder.

  I definitely needed to have a chat with Anna, the adulterous seamstress, so I texted her, asking if I could drop by.

  “K” she texted back.

  Not exactly brimming with hospitality, but at least she hadn’t turned me down.

  It was a tough slog through L.A.’s always torturous traffic, but eventually I made it to Anna’s place in Hollywood—a weary looking box of a building that had probably looked shabby back when it was brand new.

  Now it was far from new, painted a muddy brown, lined with settling cracks, and dotted with water stains. A sign out front informed me that I’d arrived at Sunset Gardens.

  Whatever gardens had once been there were long gone. The only greenery I saw were the weeds coming up through the cracks in the sidewalk.

  The security gate was unlatched, so I let myself into a tiny courtyard with a postage stamp-sized pool. Floating on the pool’s murky surface were a Frisbee and several cans of Bud Light. A snoring slacker was sprawled out on a deck chair—the source, I suspected, of the floating beer cans.

  Scooting past him, I climbed a metal staircase to Anna’s second-floor apartment and rang the bell. Seconds later, the door was opened by a cute young thing in cutoffs and a tank top.

  I was just about to ask where Anna was when I realized the cute young thing was Anna. What a far cry from the timid critter in the seamstress smock kneeling at my knees, her mouth full of pins.

  Up close, I could see a definite resemblance to Bebe. But while everything seemed pinched on Bebe, Anna’s features were gentler—her lips just a bit fuller, her eyes a bit wider. Looking at her was like looking at Bebe through a soft-focus lens.

  “C’mon in,” she said, ushering me into a cramped living room, furnished with what looked like a combination of thrift shop finds and castoffs from Bebe.

  The only window in the room provided a depressing view of the neighboring apartment building.

  “If I’m not careful,” she said, following my gaze, “I can see Mr. Boyarsky across the way showering. And trust me, that’s not a pretty picture.

  “Have a seat,” she said.

  I plopped down on her sofa as she snapped on a pair of rubber gloves.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I do some cleaning while we talk. I need to stay busy to get my mind off Bebe.”

  What exactly was she so eager to get her mind off? I wondered. Feelings of grief—or guilt?

  “No problem,” I said.

  With that, she began dusting an étagère jammed with knickknacks and photos. I couldn’t help but notice that her dust rag was a TEAM BEBE T-shirt.

  So
much for team spirit.

  “I’m so sorry about Bebe,” I said. “My sincere condolences for having to put up with such a dreadful sister for all those years.”

  Okay, so I didn’t say the last part, but I was thinking it.

  “I still can’t believe she’s gone,” Anna sighed.

  Then she picked up a framed photo from the étagère and brought it over to me.

  “Here’s a picture of me and Bebe with our parents when we first came to the United States.”

  I looked down at a faded photo of Anna’s family. Her parents stood stiffly in heavy overcoats, unwilling or unable to smile for the camera, two little towheaded girls at their side.

  “We came here with only the clothes on our back, and all the family valuables sewn into the lining of Mama’s coat. That’s me,” she said, pointing to the younger of the two girls, clinging to her mother. “I was a scared little kid. Not like Bebe. Look at her.”

  She pointed to the older girl, standing straight, chin up, a determined smile on her face.

  “Bebe was the brave one in the family. She picked up English right away, made lots of friends. She was even a cheerleader in high school. Then after graduation, she sold one of Mama’s brooches, got herself a good haircut and nice clothes, and landed a job at Macy’s. That’s where Tatiana discovered her and hired her as her assistant. Before long, Bebe was doing so well, she left Tatiana to start her own business.

  “And every step of the way,” she said, putting the photo back on the étagère, “she always took care of me.”

  This is how she took care of you? I looked around the shabby room with the view of Mr. Boyarsky’s bathroom. Paying slave wages and treating you like dirt?

  As if reading my thoughts, Anna said, “I know Bebe could be rough on me, but underneath it all, she was a loving sister, and I’m going to miss her terribly.”

  This little tribute might have been very moving had I not known about Anna’s affair with Miles. And it was hard (actually, impossible) to picture Bebe loving anyone but herself. I felt certain Anna would survive quite nicely without her.

  “I suppose you know I’m a suspect in the case,” I said, getting down to business.

  “Yes, I heard they found your fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

  Thank you, Motormouth Miles.

  “I swear, I didn’t kill your sister.”

  “If you say so,” she said with a shrug. “Sorry, no disrespect, but it’s hard to know who or what to believe.”

  My sentiments exactly.

  “Do you have any idea who might have killed Bebe?” I asked. “Aside from me?”

  “If I had to guess, I’d say Tatiana. She never really forgave Bebe for walking away with so many of her clients. I think she’s been nursing a powerful grudge all these years.”

  True. But remembering how miserably Bebe had treated Anna, I wondered if Anna hadn’t been nursing a powerful grudge of her own.

  “Well, that’s done,” Anna said, wiping the last of the dust from the étagère.

  She pulled off her rubber gloves, and for the first time I noticed something very interesting—a bandage on the palm of her right hand.

  “What happened to your hand?” I asked.

  “Oh, that,” she said, jerking her hand behind her back. “I cut myself with a seam ripper.”

  Was it my imagination or did she seem distinctly uncomfortable?

  Maybe she’d cut her hand with a seam ripper. Or maybe, just maybe, she cut it with the sharp edge of a wire hanger as she twisted it into a noose.

  Chapter 19

  Back in my Corolla, I checked my cell phone and found a text from the L.A. Times reminding me of my interview with Prozac at eleven that morning.

  Yikes. I’d forgotten all about it.

  I’d just have time to race home and gussy myself up for the camera. I was determined to look as good as possible and counteract that ghastly image of my tush currently circulating in cyberspace.

  Just my luck, I ran into a traffic jam in the heart of Beverly Hills (where traffic jams tend to look like a Mercedes Benz parking lot), and by the time I got home, I had little more than a half hour to prep.

  As I dashed up the front path, Lance came ambling out of his apartment, tanned and buff, in his gym togs.

  “Hey, Jaine,” he said. “How’s it going?”

  “No time to talk, Lance. The reporter from the L.A. Times will be here soon, and I’ve got to hurry.”

  “What reporter from the L.A. Times?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? They want to do an interview about Prozac saving that toddler’s life.”

  “No, you didn’t tell me. How exciting! Let me know how it goes.”

  And off he trotted to perfect his already perfect body at the gym.

  Racing into my apartment, I found Prozac hard at work on one of her power naps. I hurried past her to my bedroom, where I scoured my closet for an interview outfit. Working on the assumption that the camera would add ten unwanted pounds, I decided on a black cashmere crew-neck and indigo skinny jeans.

  Next it was time to do my makeup. Usually I just slap on some lipstick and go, but today I went the whole nine yards—foundation, blush, and mascara. I even managed a quickie eyebrow tweeze.

  Prozac, who had roused herself from her slumber and was now perched on the toilet tank, watched me do my makeup with a distinct air of superiority.

  Lucky for me, I’m a natural beauty. So I never have to primp and fuss.

  I polished off my beauty regimen by scrunching my hair with some curl-defining gel and surveyed myself in the bathroom mirror.

  Not bad. Not bad at all.

  If I played my cards right, soon the new improved version of me would be obliterating my ghastly cyber tush.

  A quick spritz of cologne and I was ready for my close-up. And not a moment too soon. Because just then the reporter showed up.

  She turned out to be a young gal in her early twenties. Very early twenties.

  “Hi,” she introduced herself, “I’m Sarita Mehta from the Los Angeles Times.”

  “So nice to meet you.” I looked around for a photographer, but Sarita appeared to be all alone.

  No photographer? Phooey! Don’t tell me I’d done all that primping for nothing?!

  “Isn’t somebody going to be taking pictures for this story?” I asked, ushering her inside.

  “Yes, me. I’ll be reporting—and taking pictures, too. The Times usually saves full-time photographers for breaking news stories.”

  Well, that was a relief. The new improved me would be in the paper after all.

  “Have a seat,” I said, gesturing to my overstuffed chintz armchair.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I record our session,” she said, taking a slim silver mini-recorder from her purse and placing it on the coffee table.

  “Not at all.”

  “So where’s this heroic cat of yours?” she asked, looking around.

  Last time I saw her, my heroic cat had been clawing my toilet paper to ribbons.

  “Prozac, honey!” I called out. “Come here and meet the nice reporter from the newspaper!”

  Normally, Prozac ignores any and all requests I make, but I swear that cat understands English. She knew something important was afoot, because seconds later, she came prancing into the living room, swishing her tail proudly.

  Here I am! The Cat Who Saved a Toddler’s Life!

  She looked up at Sarita and stopped in her tracks, clearly unimpressed.

  Wait, what? You’re not famous. Where’s Anderson Cooper? Shouldn’t he be covering this story?

  “C’mon, Pro,” I said, scooping her up in my arms. “Sit on Mommy’s lap while she chats with the nice lady.”

  She instantly wriggled free from my grasp.

  I don’t feel like sitting on your lap. And how many times have I told you? You’re not my mommy!

  With that, she leaped onto the coffee table, riveted by the sight of Sarita’s recorder.

  What’s thi
s? A present for moi to destroy?

  Before I could stop her, she’d swiped it off the table with her paw, her killer instinct ignited.

  Prepare to meet your death, shiny silver thing!

  Luckily I managed to grab her just as she was about to pounce on the recorder.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said to Sarita.

  “That’s okay,” she replied with a weak smile. “I guess I’d better keep it in my lap.”

  I could almost hear her thinking, For this I spent two years at Columbia Journalism school?

  “So,” she said, her hand hovering protectively over the recorder, “tell me all about how Prozac saved that toddler’s life.”

  Oh, how I wanted to tell her the truth, that my feline foodie was only in it for the chicken nugget. But I couldn’t risk missing out on a flattering picture in the paper.

  So I dove right in and told tell her the fairy tale version of the story, with Prozac selflessly racing in the path of an oncoming car to push Trevor out of harm’s way.

  “That’s really remarkable,” Sarita said.

  Prozac preened.

  Not only that, I vanquished the evil alien from the Planet Acorn. Not to mention some extremely dangerous pantyhose and several pot holders possessed by the devil!

  “So tell me all about your relationship with Prozac,” Sarita said. “How long have you had her? What are her favorite foods? Why did you name her Prozac?”

  You’d think by now the answer to that last one would have been obvious, but I was more than happy to oblige her with some chatter.