Death by Tiara

by Laura Levine

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  I looked up to see Dr. Fletcher glowering in the doorway.

  Slamming the door shut behind him, he walked toward me, eyes smoldering, hands clenched into tight fists. No longer the mild-mannered academic, but a goon in lace panties.

  “I thought you were giving a speech at assembly,” I stammered.

  “It was a short speech. Now your turn. What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Er . . . looking for my Phi Beta Kappa pin?”

  “I doubt you’ll find it in my dictionary. Let’s cut the crap, shall we?”

  “Okay,” I said, gathering my courage. “I know Candace was blackmailing you, and it wasn’t about your smoking habits.”

  I held up his girly photos to drive home my point.

  Dr. Fletcher let out a soft sigh.

  “If you must know, Candace caught me trying on Taylor Van Sant’s gown and threatened to tell the school board unless I forked over ten grand.”

  “Sounds like a perfect motive for murder,” I pointed out.

  “Forget about it, Sherlock. I didn’t try to kill her. I cashed in a CD and paid her off. And if you don’t believe me, you can check my records at Bank of America.”

  I believed him, all right. I just wondered if he paid her off after he screwed up his attempt to kill her.

  “I’m paying Candace for her silence, but I’m not about to pay off anybody else.” He picked up the heavy glass paperweight from his desk. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut about what you’ve seen here today. We wouldn’t want anything to hurt that brainy little Phi Beta Kappa head of yours,” he said, sliding his finger along the sharp edge of the glass. “Would we?”

  If he thought he could scare me by waving a lethally blunt instrument in front of my face, he was absolutely right.

  “Not a problem,” I assured him, backing out the door. “My lips are sealed.”

  Looking down, I realized I still had his black lace garter dangling from my arm.

  “Ciao for now,” I said, tossing it to him. “By the way, you looked great in those capris!”

  Then I darted out of his office, where I proceeded to bump smack dab into Ms. Comstock.

  “There wasn’t any kid in the parking lot with spray paint,” she snarled, looking none too happy.

  “Oh? Really? I must’ve scared him off. Lucky I was there, huh?”

  Seeing no need to prolong our little chat, I put my fanny in overdrive and scooted off.

  “Hey,” she called out after me. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “Did I ever!”

  Chapter 22

  Agal can work up quite an appetite snooping around for ladies’ underlovelies, and by now I was starving. So I headed over to the nearest McDonald’s for a Quarter Pounder and fries.

  I was just licking a dollop of ketchup from my fingers when my cell phone rang. I grabbed it eagerly, ketchup be damned, hoping it was Scott.

  But alas, it was Heather Van Sant.

  “Hi, Jaine. How’s everything coming along with your investigation?”

  “Fine,” I assured her, gulping down a fry.

  “Wonderful! Let’s set up an appointment for you to stop by the house and give me a detailed progress report.”

  Oh, foo. I was hoping to hop on the freeway and avoid rush-hour traffic. And I really didn’t want to have to drive back down to Alta Loco tomorrow. Surely, I could give her a progress report over the phone.

  “And while you’re here I can pay you for the lyrics you wrote. And give you a retainer for your detective services.”

  “I can be there in ten minutes.”

  Heather came to the door in a sports bra and bike shorts, her exposed midriff tight as a snare drum.

  “Forgive the gym rat look,” she said, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from her fat-free hip. “I’m expecting my personal trainer.”

  She led the way inside, hot pink sneakers squeaking on the hardwood floor.

  In the living room, I was surprised to see Taylor, slouched in an overstuffed armchair, chewing gum and reading Steppenwolf.

  “Hey, Jaine,” she said, looking up from her book.

  “Taylor, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “I’ve been keeping her home these past few days,” Heather said. “Poor darling needs to decompress from the trauma of the murder.”

  Taylor, not looking the least bit traumatized, blew a ginormous bubble with her gum.

  “That better be sugarless,” Heather snapped, eyeing the bubble. Then, gesturing to the sofa, she said, “Have a seat, Jaine.”

  I cased the sofa for small animals, and sure enough, there was Elvis, doing his impersonation of a throw pillow.

  “Look, Elvis!” Heather called out, waking him from his snooze. “It’s Auntie Jaine.”

  Elvis glared up at me, fangs bared, as I sat down next to him.

  “He’s crazy about you,” Heather gushed, oblivious to the look of sheer malice he was lobbing in my direction.

  “Here’s your money,” she said, picking up a check from the coffee table. “A thousand for the lyrics and for coming with us to the Amada Inn. An extra hundred for sniffing Luanne and Gigi at Mocktail Hour. And a thousand for your retainer. Is that enough?”

  Enough? I came thisclose to throwing my arms around her and showering her with baby kisses.

  “This’ll be fine,” I said, staring at the zeros in a happy daze.

  “So,” she asked, sitting next to Taylor in a matching overstuffed armchair. “What have you discovered so far?”

  “Tell us everything!” Taylor chimed in.

  And I told them. About how furious Bethenny had been when she’d learned Candace was having an affair with Tex. How Tex might have wanted to kill Candace to save his marriage. And how Eddie might have wanted to bump her off to avenge his honor. And finally I told them how Candace had been blackmailing Dr. Fletcher.

  The only thing I didn’t mention was Dr. Fletcher’s penchant for ladies’ frocks. As far as I was concerned, what the man did in his private life was his business, and I wasn’t about to destroy his career over a pair of black lace garters.

  “That’s great!” Heather cried when I was finished. “So many suspects!”

  “You have to go to the police!” Taylor said, equally pumped.

  “I will, as soon as I have some evidence connecting one of them to the crime. All I have now is motive.”

  Both mother and daughter slumped down in their seats, deflated.

  “But don’t worry,” I said. “I’m bound to come up with something soon.”

  Total horse poop on my part, but they looked so dejected I had to say something.

  “Well,” I said, getting up from the sofa, “I guess I’d better be going.”

  “Don’t go, Jaine!” Heather said. “Mario should be here any minute. He’s the best personal trainer in all of Alta Loco. You can work out with us.”

  A workout? Oh, glug. I’d rather play kneesies with Elvis.

  “I really should hit the freeway before rush hour,” I demurred.

  “Pish tosh!” Heather said with a dismissive wave. “Nothing personal, hon, but if those hips of yours get any wider, they’re going to need their own zip code.”

  “Mom!” Taylor chided.

  “Jaine knows I’m only saying it because I care about her. Really, hon. You must take exercising seriously. Why, I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you asleep on that exercycle at the Amada Inn!”

  The minute those words came out of her mouth, she realized she’d made a mistake and blushed bright red clear down to her cleavage.

  “Hold on, Heather. The only way you could’ve seen me asleep on that exercycle is if you’d been in the hallway outside Candace’s office at the time of the murder.”

  “Okay, so I went to see Candace,” she said, with a defiant toss of her hair extensions. “I wanted to confront her about kicking Taylor
out of the pageant. But when I got to her office, I saw her lying there, dead. At least I thought it was her. Later, of course, I learned it was Amy. The minute I saw the body, I panicked and ran back to my room. But I swear, I didn’t kill her!”

  And suddenly, for the briefest instant, I wondered if she was telling the truth. Had Amy really been dead by the time Heather got to Candace’s office? Or had Heather killed Amy by mistake, a homicidal pageant mom willing to mow down anyone standing in the way of her daughter’s crown? And had she hired me, not to prove her innocence, but to throw suspicion in someone else’s direction?

  I was pondering this unsettling scenario when suddenly I heard a man’s voice boom:

  “Hello, everybody! Where are the two most beautiful women in Alta Loco?”

  If this was Mario, the personal trainer, they weren’t kidding about the “personal” part.

  But the guy who came sailing into the room was no personal trainer. A tall, imposing guy with Slavic cheekbones and pale hair slicked back, he wore the nosebleed-expensive suit of a CEO or Mafia chieftain.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Taylor said.

  “Hello, dollface,” he said leaning down to kiss her cheek.

  I detected a trace of an accent in his gravelly voice.

  “Jaine,” Heather said, “I’d like you to meet my husband Nicky. Nicky, this is Jaine Austen, the gal I was telling you

  about. The private eye.”

  “Nikolai Vanzantsnikov, at your service.” He took my hand and shot me a smile—almost blinding me with the gold fillings glinting in his teeth, not to mention the diamonds twinkling in his massive pinky ring.

  “Nicky’s originally from Russia,” Heather explained. “He shortened his last name for business purposes. It’ll make it so much easier when Taylor breaks into show biz.”

  Taylor rolled her eyes at this unfounded burst of optimism.

  Meanwhile, the Russian husband still had my hand in his. For a minute I thought he was actually going to bring it to his lips and kiss it, but he refrained and instead stared into my eyes with laser-like intensity.

  “You, I like. You remind me of my Aunt Olga. Strong lady. Once punched a bear unconscious.”

  Gosh, Heather was right. I really did have to trim down if I reminded him of his Aunt Olga, the bear puncher.

  “You find the killer?” he asked.

  “Not yet, but I’m doing my best.”

  “Don’t worry. If you don’t find killer, I will. Nicky Vanzantsnikov will never let his wife go to jail for crime she did not commit. I tell Heather all along, don’t waste time on silly Alta Loco beauty pageant.”

  At last, a parent with some common sense.

  “Skip local idiots and enter our darling daughter in Miss America pageant.”

  So much for common sense.

  “I cannot believe this Candace lady, disqualifying my Taylor. Bad lady. Deserves to be punished. You know what they say . . .”

  “Never cross a guy with gold fillings and a diamond pinky ring?”

  Okay, so I didn’t really say that. Not out loud, anyway.

  “What goes around comes around,” Nicky intoned with a solemn nod. “Something tells me this Candace lady, she will pay for what she did.”

  His blue eyes narrowed into icy slits. At that moment, I had no trouble picturing him tying a cement block to an enemy’s ankle and tossing said enemy in a convenient river.

  And suddenly a whole new scenario began to play out in my mind. What if Nicky was the killer? What if Heather called him in tears when Candace kicked Taylor out of the pageant, and he came running over to the Amada Inn, pinkie ring blazing, determined to wreak justice?

  I drove home that afternoon, stuck in traffic and nagged with doubts.

  It seemed hard to picture Heather as a killer.

  But Nicky? The guy had hit man written all over him.

  Chapter 23

  I returned home to find Prozac on the sofa, just where I left her, hard at work clawing a throw pillow.

  Looking over at the Kitty Condo, I saw all the treats were gone.

  How maddening! The little rascal had eaten everything and ignored the scratching post.

  “Prozac,” I said, snatching the throw pillow from her. “Why aren’t you playing on your Kitty Condo?”

  She gazed up at me with undisguised disdain.

  Oh, please. If that thing is a condo, I’m a Pomeranian.

  I threw open the window to get rid of the stink of the Little Liver Lumps still lingering in the air, then stomped off to my bedroom to slip into something more comfortable.

  If only there was some way to get Prozac to use the damn condo, I mused, as I changed into flip-flops and a Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs sleep tee.

  And then it hit me.

  In a burst of brilliance worthy of S. Freud, I decided to try a little psychology on my fractious furball. Like most divas, Prozac often wants what she can’t have.

  “Okay,” I said, hurrying out into the living room, “since you don’t want the Kitty Condo, it’s mine, all mine. And you can’t play with it.”

  With that, I got a bag of Oreos from the kitchen and put it on one of the condo platforms.

  “Gosh, this is fun,” I said, sitting down next to the condo and plucking one of the Oreos from the bag. “Cookies taste so much better when they’re served from a carpeted platform! Yum!”

  Prozac eyed me with disdain.

  I’ve seen better acting on Duck Dynasty.

  Then I got down on all fours and began clawing at the scratching post.

  “Mommy loves scratching the post. See how much fun Mommy’s having? Mommy’s scratching. Mommy’s clawing!—Dammit, Mommy just broke a nail!”

  Then from outside I heard a familiar voice.

  “Jaine?”

  I looked up and saw Scott staring at me through the open window.

  Oh, hell! There I was on all fours in my Cuckoo for Coco Puffs sleep shirt, my tush in the air, my thighs on display in broad daylight, scratching a cat post.

  “Scott!” I cried, mortified.

  “Can I come in?”

  “Of course!”

  I scrambled to my feet, cursing myself for changing into my dratted sleep shirt. Then I headed for the door, conscious of my bare thighs, picturing Chloe’s fat-free beauties with nary an ounce of cellulite to mar their perfection.

  When I finally screwed up enough courage to open the door, I found Scott standing there, looking tres hunky in his detective suit and tie.

  “I suppose you’re wondering what I was doing just now,” I said, blushing I don’t know how many shades of red.

  “Not really,” Scott said with a mischievous grin. “I was too busy admiring the view.”

  Oh, hell. He’d undoubtedly seen my tush in all its glory.

  “Actually,” I said, yanking down my sleep shirt, “I was trying to get Prozac to use her new Kitty Condo. Without much luck, I’m afraid.”

  Meanwhile, Prozac had leapt off the sofa and was now rubbing herself, ecstatic, against Scott’s ankles.

  She gazed up at him worshipfully.

  I’ll play in your condo any time you want, big boy.

  “That’s enough, Pro,” I said, prying her off his ankles and plunking her down on the sofa, where she proceeded to shoot me one of her death ray glares.

  (Really. If looks could kill, I’d have been wearing a toe tag.)

  “Why don’t I go put on some jeans?” I said, eager to cover my thighs.

  “Don’t!” Scott said, pulling me into his arms. “You look fine just the way you are. More than fine.”

  Then he smiled a smile that could melt titanium, and the next thing I knew we were locked in a steamy embrace. By the time we came up for air, my thighs were a distant memory. All I could think about was Scott and his heavenly kiss.

  I was all set for Round Two of our smoochfest, when Scott said, “I’m sorry I haven’t called sooner. It’s been crazy busy at work.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, eager to resume
our lip lock.

  But he kept on talking.

  “The reason I stopped by is because I wanted to ask you to brunch at my parents’ house on Sunday.”

  Oh, god. Not another brunch at Hell House. I didn’t care how kissable he was, I couldn’t face his parents. Not again. Not ever.

  “I don’t think so, Scott. Not after what happened with your dad’s eye.”

  “Don’t be silly. Nobody blames you for that.”

  Yeah, right. I was surprised Ma Willis hadn’t taken out a restraining order against me.

  “Look,” he said, as if reading my thoughts, “I know my mom has been rough on you, but like I already told you, she’s that way with all my dates. It just takes time to win her over.”

  In my case, I was guessing a millennium or so.

  “And besides,” he added, his Adam’s Apple bobbing most appealingly, “it’s my birthday on Sunday. And I’d hate to spend it without you.”

  And without further ado, my heart melted. Yours would have, too, if you could’ve seen his Adam’s apple.

  “Of course, I’ll come,” I cooed.

  “Wonderful!” he said, once again taking me in his arms.

  At last! Part II of our smoochfest was about to begin. But just as our lips were about to meet, there was a knock on my front door.

  Grrr. Of all the rotten timing.

  Reluctantly I tore myself away from Scott and opened the door to find Lance, holding an elaborate display of white silk roses and tulips.

  “Hi, Jaine!” he said, barging right in.

  Oh, for heaven’s sakes. Such an aggravating man. Surely he must have seen us through the window playing kissy face. What the heck was he doing barging in like this?

  “Scott,” I said, barely containing my annoyance, “you remember my neighbor, Lance Venable.”

  “So nice to see you again,” Lance said, then turned to me, holding out the flowers. “These came for you while you were out.”