“But I didn’t kill her. Not that I wouldn’t have liked to,” she added wistfully. “I just didn’t have the nerve.”
I didn’t know about that. With her tats and nose ring and black leather biker togs, she looked like a pretty tough cookie to me.
“You can’t seriously think I poisoned that chocolate?” she asked, sensing my skepticism.
“Maybe just a little,” I confessed.
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes. It wasn’t me. It was Tonio.”
So that’s who she’d been protecting yesterday.
“Joy was threatening to turn him over to the authorities.”
“For driving without a license?”
“No way. It was much more serious than that. I heard her tell him she was going to press criminal charges.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. All I know is that she said he’d be spending the next five to ten years behind bars. If that isn’t motive for murder, I don’t know what is.”
So Tonio was lying when he told me Joy had been threatening to report him to the DMV. Last I checked, you don’t do five to ten for driving without a license.
“I’m sure Tonio killed Joy to shut her up,” Cassie said as she got up to go back into the salon.
And I must confess, I was inclined to agree with her.
Chapter 27
After a pit stop at McDonald’s for one of their yummy low-calorie Southwest Salads, I headed over to see Tonio.
According to Cassie, he was still living in Joy’s apartment in Westwood. I drove over, taking a chance he’d be home.
There are two kinds of high-rises that line the Wilshire Corridor: Expensive and Ridiculously Expensive. Joy and Tonio’s place was one of the more modest affairs.
No circular driveway. No doorman out front. No marble lobby straight from Versailles. Just a simple buzzer at the front entrance.
I buzzed the apartment marked AMOROSO, and seconds later Tonio’s gravelly voice came over the line.
“Who is it?”
“Jaine Austen,” I called out.
I had a lie all prepped and ready to go: I was there to pay a belated condolence call.
But before I had a chance to roll out my whopper he said, “What a coincidence. I was just about to call you. Come on up. I’ve got your paycheck.”
My paycheck? What a darling man. Surely someone so thoughtful couldn’t possibly be a killer, could he?
(I tend to grant automatic sainthood to anyone who hands me a paycheck.)
Tonio greeted me at the door to his fifteenth-floor apartment in jeans and a black T-shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up to reveal bulging biceps. His normally slicked black hair was tousled and his face was in definite need of a shave.
Very Stanley Kowalski in Mourning.
He led me into a spacious living room with sliding glass doors opening onto a terrace over Wilshire Boulevard. Even fifteen floors up I could hear the traffic whooshing by below.
The place was furnished froufrou ornate, just like Joy’s office, chock-a-block with dainty antiques in peaches and pale green. Tonio stood looming against the petite furniture, a hit man in a china shop.
I followed him to the far end of the room, which had been set up as an office area.
Taking a seat behind an ornate desk, he tore a check from a checkbook and handed it to me.
“Joy’s business account is tied up in probate, so I’m paying you myself.”
Indeed, I looked down and was thrilled to see a check made out to me in the amount of three thousand dollars. From a joint checking account belonging to Joy and Tonio.
“This is really very kind of you,” I said.
By now I was feeling like the heel of the century for suspecting him of murder.
“By the way,” he asked, as I stood there basking in the glow of my money, “how did you get my address?”
“Cassie gave it to me. I felt bad about not spending more time with you at the memorial service, and I wanted to pay a belated condolence call.”
“Oh, right. The memorial service.” His eyes clouded over. “That was a pretty rough day.”
“How are you holding up?”
“I’m managing,” he shrugged.
He picked up a picture of Joy from the desk, the one from her ads, shot through layers of Vaseline, and let out a deep sigh.
“She was the love of my life, and I’m really going to miss her.”
Once more I took in his unshaved beard and tousled hair. Clearly he hadn’t been taking care of himself. It seemed hard to believe that anyone could actually love Joy, but it looked like Tonio was taking her death pretty hard.
“Thanks for stopping by, Jaine,” he said. “I really appreciate it. I’d like to talk some more, but the cleaning lady should be here any minute, and all hell breaks loose once she starts that vacuum.”
He got up to walk me to the door.
I hated to do it, after how nice he’d just been, but I couldn’t leave without questioning him.
“By the way,” I said as we started for the living room, “Cassie told me she heard Joy threatening to turn you over to the police.”
He stopped in his tracks and stared at me in disbelief.
“Are you harping on that again? I already told you, she was going to report me to the DMV for driving without a license.”
“Cassie said she was going to press criminal charges. And that you’d be serving time in jail.”
“I don’t know what the hell that girl is talking about. All that purple hair dye must be affecting her brain,” he said, shaking his head. “I loved Joy, and she loved me. And she wasn’t about to send me off to jail.”
His eyes now filled with tears. Which looked pretty genuine.
I was just about to write Cassie off as a goth goofball who’d gotten her facts wrong when a nubile young bimbette came wandering into the living room in mini-shorts and a halter top.
Something told me she was not the cleaning lady.
“Jasmine!” Tonio cried. “I thought I told you to stay in the bedroom.”
“I got hungry,” she pouted.
I watched as Jasmine sauntered over to the open kitchen area, her fanny jiggling big time in her mini-shorts.
But it wasn’t her fanny that caught my eye. It was the honker sapphire earrings dangling from her ears. I’d seen those earrings before. On Joy Amoroso. She’d been wearing them the night she bumped into me and Skip on our very first date from hell.
Several days later, she’d had one of her snit fits when they’d gone missing, convinced someone from her maid service had stolen them. At the time I thought she was overreacting, that she’d probably misplaced them.
But she’d been right. Her earrings had been stolen. Not by her maid service, but by Tonio.
“You ripped off Joy’s earrings!” I blurted out. “That’s why she was going to turn you over to the cops. And that’s why you killed her.”
“I told you not to wear that bling in public!” Tonio shouted to his bimbette, who was now busy opening a carton of yogurt.
“I’m not in public,” she whined. “I’m home with you, sweetpants.”
So much for Joy being the love of his life.
And that tousled hair of his had nothing to do with grief. It was bed head!
“Leave us alone, Jasmine,” he said through gritted teeth. “I need a moment with Jaine.”
“Okay,” she shrugged, sashaying back across the living room to a hallway that undoubtedly led to their bedroom love nest.
“Just FYI,” she added. “We’re almost outta yogurt.”
As she disappeared down the hallway, Tonio turned to me.
Gone was the sensitive mourner who’d greeted me at the door. In his place was a fairly intimidating street thug.
“You say I stole those earrings. I say Joy misplaced them and then I found them after she was dead.”
He smiled an oily smile that made the hairs on my neck stand on end.
“And what I say g
oes. Even if it’s not exactly the truth.”
He then began advancing on me, forcing me to retreat backward with every step he took.
“Yes, Joy was threatening to turn me over to the cops, but I didn’t kill her. When I went with Joy to her office to beg her not to turn me in, she ate one of her goddamn Godivas, and the candies were fine then. So the chocolate had to have been poisoned after we got back to the party. And after we got back to the party, your boyfriend Skip had me cornered for the rest of the night, yakking about his dead cat. Which meant I couldn’t have poisoned Joy’s chocolate.”
His face was so close to mine, I could smell the Juicy Fruit on his breath.
“Got that, Sherlock? I couldn’t have poisoned the damn chocolate!”
I looked around and suddenly realized I’d backed myself out onto his terrace, fifteen stories above Wilshire Boulevard, the din of traffic loud in my ears.
“If you say a word about the earrings to anybody, you’re history. You understand?”
“I understand,” I squeaked in a terrified whisper.
By now I could feel the cold metal rail of the balcony pushing into my spine.
I saw Tonio look down at the traffic below and flex his rather formidable biceps. For a frightening instant I wondered if he’d changed his mind and decided to get rid of me for good. One push, and I’d be roadkill.
But I wasn’t about to go without a fight. Not now. I had mountains to climb. Flowers to smell. Pizzas to eat.
Before he could make a move, I shoved my way past him, racing back into the living room and out the front door, vowing never again to make accusations against a man with upper arms the size of sandbags.
Chapter 28
The minute I left Tonio, I drove like a maniac to the bank to cash my paycheck. But I was too late. He’d already stopped payment.
Me and my big mouth.
Why couldn’t I have been smart enough to accuse him of murder after I’d cashed the darn thing?
I drove home, pretty much convinced Tonio killed Joy to stop her from going to the cops. And what about that joint checking account? For all I knew, it was worth a ton of money. Money that Tonio had access to the minute Joy died. Yet another motive for murder.
But what if I was wrong and Tonio was telling the truth? What if he didn’t kill her? I remembered Joy eating that chocolate with no ill effects while I was hiding under her desk during her tête-à-tête with Tonio. So whoever slipped the poisoned chocolate in the Godiva box had to have done it after Joy and Tonio had gone back to the party. And I had seen Skip yakking at Tonio most of the night. Was it possible they were together the whole time, as Tonio claimed?
As much as I hated the idea, I knew I’d have to give Skip a call.
Back in my apartment, after fortifying myself with an Oreo or three, I took a deep breath and dialed his number.
He picked up on the first ring. I could just picture him hovering over the phone.
“Jaine, how lovely to hear from you! But why haven’t you returned my calls, you naughty girl?”
I haven’t mentioned this until now because I wanted to spare you the gooey awfulness of it all, but Skip had been bombarding me with messages, most of them in baby talk, asking Prozac to come over for a play date.
“Sorry, Skip, but I’ve had a lot on my plate.”
“All of it organic, I hope. Ha ha.”
“Ha ha,” I echoed, forcing a chuckle, and then got down to business.
“I’ve got something very important I need to ask you about Joy’s murder.”
“Of course, my dear. I’ll be happy to answer your question.”
“Great. I need to know—”
“But only in person.”
“What?”
“I have to see you and your darling Prozac one more time. I’ve been missing you both so very much.”
“I already told you, Skip. Prozac’s not for sale.”
Prozac looked up from where she was lounging on my computer keyboard.
I could be for rent, if the price is right.
“Just let me see her this one last time,” Skip pleaded, “and I’ll answer anything you want to ask.”
“Okay,” I grudgingly replied. “But promise me. No caviar for Prozac.”
“You have my word of honor. No caviar.”
Then he urged me to hurry on over.
“I can’t wait to see my favorite gal,” he gushed. “And you, too, Jaine.”
I hung up, dreading the thought of taking Prozac with me to Skip’s Malibu manse. It seemed as if she’d finally forgiven me for the whole Diamond Collar Affair, and I didn’t want him to do anything to spark her sulk cycle all over again.
But on the plus side, at least the visit would give me a chance to return the collar.
I’d thought about mailing it to him, but was leery about trusting such a valuable bauble with the United States Postal Service, the same folks who’ve been known to deliver my Christmas cards some time around Flag Day.
I headed to my bedroom closet and reached up to the shelf where I’d hidden the Tiffany box behind a blanket.
Alarm bells started ringing when I saw the blanket had been moved.
Pawing behind the blanket, I found the top of the box. Then the bottom. But no collar.
Frantically I raced to the kitchen for my stepladder to do a thorough search of the shelf. Standing on the ladder, I tossed down every blanket, every sweater, and every shoe box in sight. But the diamond collar was nowhere to be found.
Dammit. Prozac had struck again.
She hadn’t forgiven me for taking away her collar. Hell, no. She’d been gloating because she filched the damn thing!
No doubt she’d stashed it away in a hiding spot of her own.
“Prozac!” I cried, storming out into the living room, waving the empty Tiffany box. “Where the heck is the collar??”
She gazed up lazily from where she was lounging on my keyboard.
That’s for me to know and you to find out.
I spent the next forty-five minutes ransacking my apartment, checking under pillows and seat cushions, inside old boots, behind P. G. Wodehouse, even raking through Prozac’s litter box.
All the while Prozac was following me around, delighted at my antics.
This is way better than The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
Finally, in a fit of frustration, I whirled on her.
“If you don’t show me where you hid that collar, I swear you’ll never get another pizza anchovy as long as you live!”
She could tell I meant business.
After shooting me a filthy look, she led me into the kitchen and plunked herself down next to the trash can.
Of course! The trash can! Prozac’s holy grail of leftovers—thanks to my landlord’s refusal to fix my garbage disposal. Home of old pizza crusts, moo shu pork slivers, and tuna shards. I can’t count the times I’d come home to find the trash can on end, Prozac sniffing around, trolling for snacks.
She’d probably hidden the collar there among her prized pizza crusts.
In a flash I was scrounging around in the garbage, plowing through each and every piece of trash. But, alas, I came up empty-handed. (If you don’t count a free cereal sample I’d thrown out by mistake.)
I was sitting there, feeling quite dejected, trying to get up the energy to wash my hands so I could eat my free cereal, when suddenly I heard the sound of a truck coming down the street.
Not just any truck. The garbage truck.
Omigosh! It was garbage day. And suddenly I wondered: What if Prozac hid the collar in a bag of garbage I’d already brought out to the curb?
I had to stop the truck before they carted it away!
Racing outside, I groaned to see the giant truck pulling up right outside my duplex.
I got there just as the automated arm of the truck was hoisting up my black garbage can.
“Stop!” I shrieked to the driver. “Let my garbage go!”
The garbage man, a wiry g
uy with a toothpick dangling from his mouth, looked down at me from the height of his cab.
“Say what?”
“Please put down my trash can. There may be a diamond collar in there.”
“A diamond collar?” he asked, shifting the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.
“Yes. From Tiffany’s. My cat threw it away by mistake.”
“Your cat threw away your diamond collar?”
“Actually, it’s hers, not mine.”
“You bought your cat a diamond collar? From Tiffany’s?” He shook his head in disgust. “Only in Beverly Hills.”
“No, no, it was a gift from an infuriating old codger who made me have a picnic lunch with his dead mother and got into a fight with a blind jazz pianist and offered me twenty-five thousand dollars for Prozac. My cat was mad at me for not letting her keep the collar, and at first I thought she’d forgiven me, but no way, she’s not the forgiving kind. Why, she once sulked for three straight weeks after I tried to give her a bath, something I’ll never try again, that’s for sure. Anyhow, she found the collar where I hid it in the closet and then she hid it somewhere else, and I’ve searched everywhere in the apartment even behind P. G. Wodehouse but it wasn’t there, so I’m guessing she stashed it in the trash because that’s where she always goes digging for snacks.”
As I may have mentioned, I tend to babble under stress.
The garbage man just sat there chewing on his toothpick.
Finally, he said: “The guy offered you twenty-five grand for some Prozac? Hasn’t he ever heard of generics?”
“Look, it’s all very confusing. Can’t I please just have my garbage back?”
“All right, lady.”
And much to my eternal relief, he released the can to the ground. “Just one more thing,” he called out as he drove off down the street. “You might want to try some of your friend’s Prozac. Sure looks like you could use some.”
Alone with my garbage, I wasted no time diving in.
Soon I was elbow deep in old pizza crusts and banana peels—not to mention Skip’s appalling soy-carob pie. I continued burrowing my way through all sorts of glop until at last, plunging my arm into a mass of sodden moo shu pork, I felt something hard.
Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) Page 18