Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery)

by Levine, Laura

  “Got it,” he was saying. “I’ll be right over.”

  “Sorry,” he said to me, flipping his phone shut. “I’ve got to go. Emergency. Why don’t I stop by tomorrow for a little chat. Say, nine a.m.?”

  “Of course,” I said, and I headed for my apartment with as much dignity as a woman without any pants can muster.

  The minute I got inside, I headed straight for the bathtub.

  Normally, soaking in a steamy hot bubble bath relaxes me, but not that day. I lay there up to my neck in strawberry-scented bubbles, a mass of raw nerve endings, haunted by the memory of Rocky and Bullwinkle charging after me with bloodlust in their eyes.

  I cringed to think what a sniveling weakling I’d been in front of a pair of fuzzy-tailed rodents. No doubt about it. I was a disgrace to part-time semiprofessional private eyes everywhere.

  And then, as if being terrorized by a pair of squirrels weren’t enough, I had to endure the humiliation of Detective Adam’s Apple seeing me sashaying up my front path without any pants! If only I’d worked on toning my thighs more often. Or ever.

  And why on earth did Detective Adam’s Apple want to talk to me? What if the police had narrowed down their suspects and decided I was the killer? What if Detective Adam’s Apple had shown up to arrest me for Joy’s murder?

  But that couldn’t be. If they were going to arrest me, they would’ve sent a bunch of cops and hauled me away then and there.

  I sank back in the tub, relief flooding my body. I was in the clear, after all.

  But wait! I thought, jolting back up again. What if they wanted to arrest me but didn’t have enough evidence, and Detective Adam’s Apple had dropped by for a casual chat, hoping I’d say something that would nail me as the killer?

  But I wasn’t the killer, I reminded myself, sliding back down in the tub. I was perfectly safe. All I had to do was tell the truth—that although I happened to be in Joy’s office that night, hacking into her computer and hiding under her desk with dust bunnies the size of Chihuahuas, I was as innocent as a babe in swaddling clothes. Surely they’d have to believe me.

  But wait! I jolted back up. Even if they let me go on murder charges, what if they convicted me of computer hacking? How many years would I spend in jail for that?

  By now I practically had whiplash from jerking up and down in the tub so much.

  I was sitting there, picturing myself sharing a jail cell with a gal named Big Mike, looking back on my adventure with Rocky and Bullwinkle as a carefree romp in the wine country, when I heard a loud banging on my front door.

  “Jaine!” I heard Lance calling out. “It’s me.”

  I hauled myself out of the tub and into my chenille bathrobe, then hurried to let him in, leaving a trail of damp footprints in my wake.

  “Guess what, Jaine?” he said, rushing into my apartment, all spiffed up in his Neiman Marcus work togs. “The Town Crier just called. She said she saw you talking with some guy in front of your apartment, half naked!”

  The Town Crier to whom Lance referred was our neighbor across the street, Helen Hurlbutt, a woman who’s never met a rumor she hasn’t felt the urge to spread.

  “So? What’s it all about?” Lance asked, plopping down onto my sofa, wide-eyed with anticipation.

  With a weary sigh, I launched into my saga, telling him how I climbed a tree to spy on Greg Stanton only to be terrorized by a pair of pant-stealing squirrels and then came home to find Detective Adam’s Apple who was coming back to talk to me tomorrow, the very thought of which had me terrified I was going to be arrested for Joy Amoroso’s murder.

  Lance sat there for a beat, slack jawed.

  When at last he’d taken it all in, he said: “You climbed a tree? The woman who gets winded brushing her teeth?”

  “Let’s focus here, Lance. The bottom line of this story is that I may be trotting off to jail for a murder I didn’t commit.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Jaine,” he said with a careless wave. “You can’t possibly be arrested for murder. You’re not the killer.”

  Spoken with an air of such authority that I suddenly found myself soothed to my very core.

  “Then again,” he said, scratching his blond curls, “I just read a story in the paper about some poor guy who was arrested for a murder he didn’t commit and spent thirty years festering in jail until they realized he was innocent all along.”

  Yikes. So much for soothed.

  “But, hey,” he said, seeing the stricken look on my face. “That’s never going to happen to you. I’m a hundred percent positive. Well, eighty-six percent, anyway. Fifty-two percent in a worst-case scenario.”

  “What a relief. I can sleep easy now.”

  My sarcasm went winging over his blond curls.

  “Whatever you do, wear something nice for your interrogation tomorrow. Studies show that well-dressed felons are five times more likely to be acquitted than those dressed like slobs. Just remember—no elastic waist pants!”

  Good heavens. Why does everything with that man always boil down to elastic waist pants?

  “And if worse comes to worst, I’ll get you the best defense attorney Donny’s money can buy. Speaking of Donny,” he added, his eyes lighting up, “look at the fabulous tie he just bought me!” He flapped one of Hugo Boss’s finest in my face. “Isn’t it divine?”

  “Just divine,” I muttered. “Maybe he can get me some cute designer prison wear.”

  Once again, my sarcasm sailed up into the ozone.

  “Gotta run, sweetie,” Lance said, wrapping me in a hug, “or I’ll be late for work. “So glad I could cheer you up!” he cried as he raced out the door.

  And that’s the crazy thing. He actually thought he’d cheered me up.

  Oh, well. There was only one way I was going to get through all this: Hang tough, be strong, and head for the Oreos.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: On the Warpath

  Daddy’s been on the warpath, convinced that Lydia Pinkus stole my diamond ring and is working in cahoots with Lester to sell it on the black market. Did you ever hear anything so absurd? He refuses to accept the fact that someone else might have taken it from the ladies’ room at Le Chateaubriand, or that it fell into the wastebasket and was tossed out by accident. No, he’s certain that Lydia and Lester—or, as he calls them, The Evil Axis—are responsible.

  Of course, Daddy has had it in for Lydia ever since I can remember. Over the years he’s suspected the poor woman of everything from petty theft to murder. Do you remember last year, when he was certain she’d killed Irma, her childhood friend from Minnesota, and was hiding her chopped-up body in her refrigerator? I tell you, when it comes to Lydia, your father’s imagination knows no bounds.

  Now he insists that Lydia and Lester have my ring stashed away somewhere, and he’s determined to get it back. Oh, dear. I just hope he doesn’t try to break into Lydia’s townhouse like he did last year when he was searching for Irma’s body.

  I’ve told him if he takes one step near that townhouse without Lydia’s permission, I’m filing for divorce. He’s promised to behave.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Can’t write much now, Lambchop. Busy working on my plan to tunnel my way into Lydia’s townhouse. Must run to Home Depot to buy a shovel.

  Love ’n’ hugs,

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Cancel That Shovel

  Wonderful news, Lambchop! It looks like I won’t have to tunnel my way into Stinky Pinkus’s townhouse, after all. Lydia’s throwing a party and has invited the neighbors for a slide show presentation of The Gasbag’s recent trip to Nepal. What a snore fest that’s going to be. But luckily, I won’t be around to see it. When they dim the lights, I plan to sneak out and conduct a thorough search of the premises.

  Somewhere in that den of iniquity I k
now I’ll find your mother’s diamond ring. I just hope I get there before The Evil Axis has sold it on the black market.

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  Your Crime-fighting,

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Come to His Senses

  Lydia’s just called. She’s invited us over to see slides from Lester’s recent trip to Nepal. (That man has led such an interesting life!)

  I thought for sure Daddy would make a big fuss about going. But on the contrary, he seems quite enthused. Says he’s always wanted to learn more about Nepal. He even apologized for his accusations against Lydia and Lester. Says he was wrong to think they’d stolen my ring, that he jumped to a foolish conclusion.

  Thank heavens, he’s come to his senses.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Dearest Lambchop—Did I tell you my Belgian Army Knife comes with a miniature crowbar? Perfect for jimmying open Stinky Pinkus’s locked drawers!

  Chapter 18

  I barely slept a wink that night, tossing and turning and dreaming I was being chased by a squirrel with a machete.

  The next morning I woke up drenched in sweat, Prozac clawing at my chest for her breakfast.

  With a pained moan, I staggered to the kitchen.

  “I’m a fool to be worried about going to jail, aren’t I, Pro?” I asked, desperate for reassurance.

  She looked up at me with big green eyes that could mean only one thing.

  Minced Mackerel Guts again? How come I never get any steak tartare?

  Somehow I managed to force down my own breakfast. I was so nervous, I could barely finish my second cinnamon raisin bagel.

  Checking my e-mails, I shuddered to read about Daddy’s plan to “search the premises” of Lydia Pinkus’s town house. But I couldn’t waste time worrying about Daddy. Not with Detective Adam’s Apple on his way over.

  Desperate to make a good impression, I dressed with care, choosing fresh-from-the-cleaners khaki pants, brown suede boots, and a simple black silk pullover sweater.

  Then I blew out my mop of curls and slapped on some makeup, checking every few minutes to make sure I hadn’t forgotten to put on my pants.

  I still had about fifteen minutes till my nine a.m. appointment, so I wisely used the time to straighten my apartment, hoping that neatness counted when it came to avoiding homicide arrests.

  I was just clearing my breakfast dishes from the dining room table when tragedy struck. The knife I’d use to spread strawberry jam on my cinnamon raisin bagels—slick from the butter I’d also slathered on—suddenly slipped from my fingers. I watched in horror as it landed smack dab on my fresh-from-the-cleaners khaki pants. Oh, foo. Now I had a big red blob on my khaki crotch!

  Dashing to the kitchen, I immediately started dabbing out the stain with water from the sink.

  The good news is the stain came out in no time.

  The bad news is that my big red blob was now a big wet blob.

  Just as I was about to race to the bedroom to change, there was a knock on my door.

  Oh, hell. It had to be Detective Adam’s Apple.

  I stood frozen in panic, debating whether or not to keep him waiting while I changed pants.

  Another knock.

  “Ms. Austen?” It was Adam’s Apple’s voice, all right. “Are you there?”

  Dammit. I couldn’t leave him standing outside. I just hoped he wouldn’t notice a stain the size of Rhode Island on my crotch.

  Reluctantly I opened the door.

  “Detective Adam’s ... I mean, Detective Willis. Come in, won’t you?”

  “Thanks,” he said, his eyes riveted on the wet spot on my pants.

  So much for him not noticing.

  “Excuse my pants. I just had a little accident.”

  “Really? You know, there’s medication you can take for that.”

  “No, I meant an accident in the kitchen. I spilled some jam on my pants. And I was washing the stain out. This is just water!” I hastened to assure him.

  At which point, Prozac came sashaying over to join us.

  She does stuff like this all the time.

  “Look who’s here!” he cried, sweeping her up in his arms.

  Prozac proceeded to purr like a buzz saw.

  I like this one so much better than Old Denture Breath.

  “Excuse me,” I said, taking advantage of their love-fest, “while I change into something a little drier.”

  I scooted off to the bedroom to slip on some elastic waist jeans. By the time I got back, Prozac had draped herself across Detective Adam’s Apple like a Vegas lap dancer. I almost expected to see a twenty-dollar bill tucked under her collar.

  “Why don’t you leave the nice man alone?” I said, swooping her off his lap.

  She wasted no time shooting me a filthy look.

  Party pooper.

  “Well,” Detective Adam’s Apple said, brushing cat hairs from his slacks, “I guess I’d better tell you why I’m here.”

  I held up a palm to stop him.

  “I know why you’re here, and I want to tell you you’re wrong. I had nothing whatsoever to do with Joy Amoroso’s death.”

  “But, Ms. Austen—”

  “And I can’t understand why you’re focusing on me when there are so many more viable suspects out there.”

  And before you could say Benedict Arnold, I was ratting out anyone I could think of. I told him how Joy had been threatening to turn Tonio over to the authorities, and how I was almost certain she had been blackmailing Greg. How Aunt Faith had hated Joy’s guts and how Travis had stolen her dating database the minute she was dead. And finally, I told him about Alyce Winters’s diabetes syringe and how she could have used it to poison Joy’s chocolate.

  “Any one of those people could have killed Joy,” I said when I’d finally run out of steam. “So why are you here questioning me?”

  “Actually I’m not here about the murder.”

  “You’re not?”

  Hallelujah! I was a free woman!

  “No, I came on a private matter.”

  “A private matter?”

  “Yes. Of a ... social nature.”

  Omigosh. He was actually blushing. Was it possible he was interested in me?

  Up until that point, I’d viewed Detective Adam’s Apple solely as a potential jailer. But now I took a closer look at him. In addition to that prominent Adam’s apple of his, he had rather appealing brown eyes and a sweet dimple on his left cheek. And even though his dark hair was cropped close, I could see it was thick and shiny.

  All in all, he was a bit of a cutie pie.

  Maybe he was interested in me. Wouldn’t it be something if we started dating and got married and some day we wound up telling our grandchildren the story of how I thought he was coming to arrest me when all along he just wanted to ask me out?

  And before I knew it, I was shouting, “Yes!”

  “Yes what?” he asked.

  Oh, hell. I’d gotten so caught up in my daydream, I’d said yes before he’d even popped the question.

  “I meant, ‘Yes! I’m so happy you’re not here to question me about the murder.’ ” Then, with an eager smile, I asked, “So what’s this private matter you wanted to discuss?”

  He cleared his throat, clearly a tad nervous.

  Aw, how cute. I felt like patting his hand and telling him he had nothing to worry about, that I just happened to be free for the next 267 Saturday nights.

  “Remember how you said you wrote dating profiles for Joy?”

  “Yes, I remember,” I replied, not exactly thrilled at this conversational turn of events.

  “Well, I’ve just joined one of those Internet dating services, and I was hoping I could hire you to write a profile for me.”

  So much for our future grandkids.

  “I’m really good at writing up criminal cases,” he was saying, “but
when it comes to personal stuff, I stink.”

  “I’d be happy to help,” I said, most annoyed at myself for having indulged in that absurd daydream.

  We agreed on a small fee, and he filled me in on his personal info.

  Like me, he was a native Angeleno, born in Manhattan Beach, right next to my home town of Hermosa. When he told me he was into movies, books, and crossword puzzles, I couldn’t help but feel excited.

  “Me, too!” I cried. “I love movies and books and crossword puzzles. I do the New York Times puzzle every day!”

  “That’s nice,” he replied with a mild smile. “I’m also into ultimate Frisbee and beach volleyball.”

  Cancel that romance. No way was anyone ever going to get me and my thighs on a beach, playing volleyball. Or ultimate Frisbee, whatever the heck that was.

  Now it was time for the Big Question.

  “What about looks?”

  I don’t care what anybody says, in the end, that’s all men are really interested in.

  “I’m open to all kinds,” he said.

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely!” A pause, and then he added, “Although frankly, if I’m going to be honest, I think I’d prefer a petite blonde.”

  “Of course you would,” I said with a stiff smile.

  What did I tell you? Just another shallow jerk in the dating pool.

  And you wonder why I never remarried.

  “How soon can you write this up?” he asked.

  “It won’t take me long at all.”

  He gave me his e-mail address, and I assured him he’d have his dating profile by the next day.

  After thanking me for my time and giving Prozac a farewell love scratch, he headed out the door.