by Laura Levine
“I don’t suppose you saw anyone near the pageant offices at the time of the murder?”
Was it my imagination, or did Luanne squirm in her seat ever so slightly?
“I’m afraid not. Gigi and I went to our hotel room right after the talent competition and stayed there until we heard about Amy’s death.”
“So you were in your hotel room the entire time?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “The entire time.”
But there was a look in her eyes, something sly and cagey, that made me wonder if she was telling the truth.
“Isn’t that right, Gigi?” she called out to her daughter. “I was with you in our hotel room at the time of the murder. Wasn’t I, honey?”
Gigi, who’d been twirling her baton with carefree abandon, now jumped as if hit by a blow dart, sending her baton flying across the room into the table lamp, which toppled to the floor with a crash.
“I told you to watch out for the lamp!” Luanne cried, racing over to assess the damage. “Damn. The base is cracked.”
“I’m sorry, Mom.” Gigi watched Luanne put the lamp back on the table, avoiding my eyes, about as skittish as Prozac on her way to the vet.
“So, Gigi,” I said, joining them in the living room. “Your mom was in your hotel room with you at the time of the murder?”
“Um. Yes. absolutely.”
Gigi lied about as well as I cook.
Not for one minute did I believe her. And so I decided to tell a little fib of my own.
“Funny you should say that. Because I was just talking with someone who swears they saw your mom in the hallway outside Candace’s office.”
My ruse worked.
“What do you mean?” Luanne squeaked.
“Just what I said. I have a witness who saw you at the scene of the crime.”
And suddenly all the starch went out of her.
“Okay,” she said, crumpling down on the sofa, “so I left our hotel room. I went to see Candace. I paid her three hundred bucks to make sure Gigi won the talent contest. But then she gave the prize to some klutz who tap-danced to America the Beautiful.”
So Candace had been accepting bribes, and reneging on them. Yet another motive to mow her down.
“I went to her office to have it out with her and get my money back. But when I got there, she was already dead. At least I thought it was her, lying there in that blue blazer. I didn’t realize it was Amy until later.”
“But my mom didn’t kill her!” Gigi piped up. “I swear. She’d never do that.”
“I bet I know who the killer is,” Luanne said.
“Who?” I asked eagerly.
“Bethenny Martinez. I ran into her in the hallway outside Candace’s office. She’s the one who ratted me out, isn’t she? If you ask me, she’s the killer.”
Yikes. First Heather. Then Luanne. And now Bethenny. All of them at the scene of the crime. That hallway was beginning to look like the 405 at rush hour.
“Well, thanks for all your help,” I said.
“You do believe I’m innocent, don’t you?” Luanne asked, gnawing at her pinky with the embedded rhinestone.
“Um, sure,” I lied.
“And you’re still going to write the lyrics for Gigi?”
Oh, foo. Why on earth had I suggested that idiotic idea?
“Of course,” I said.
“Don’t forget to make them fun and peppy, throw in ‘fire,’ and try to rhyme something with Gigi. So far all I’ve got is Fiji.”
I promised I’d do my best and left her trying to seal the crack in the table lamp with clear nail polish.
Heading out into the bright afternoon sun, I felt a wave of pity for Luanne, with her DayGlo nails and cheesy furniture, trying so hard to make a go of things.
But then, just as I was walking past the carport, I noticed a beat-up black van with the vanity plates: GGs MOM. It had to be Luanne’s car. And I suddenly remembered: Hadn’t Candace said she’d been tailed by someone in a black van?
Had Luanne been the one following Candace?
Was my struggling manicurist with the rhinestone in her pinky the killer, after all?
Chapter 26
It was time to pay another visit to the former Teen Queen. I needed to find out if Bethenny had really been at the scene of the crime, as Luanne claimed—or if Luanne had merely made a wild accusation to cast suspicion away from herself.
Back home, I got on Bethenny’s website and was delighted to see that she was going to be signing copies of her new book, Bethenny’s Beauty Secrets, at a Krispy Kreme doughnut joint out in Burbank the very next day.
A book signing at a doughnut shop? How odd. But I wasn’t complaining. Any event involving doughnuts is always high on my To Do list.
So the next day, after a light lunch of Cheerios and a banana, I headed out to Burbank.
I must confess that on the drive over, I didn’t even think about the murder. I was too busy debating about whether to get a chocolate glazed or strawberry jelly doughnut for dessert. Chocoholic that I am, at first I leaned toward the chocolate. But then I kept thinking of the strawberry jam oozing from a plump jelly doughnut. True, I’d get chocolate with the chocolate doughnut, but I’d get more to eat with the jelly.
What a quandary, huh?
I debated the issue with all the intensity of a Supreme Court justice, and still hadn’t made up my mind when I pulled into the Krispy Kreme parking lot in Burbank.
Walking into the brightly lit shop, I was greeted by the sweet smell of cinnamon and sugar and chocolate.
I’m hoping that’s the way it smells in heaven.
I expected to find Bethenny seated at a table, surrounded by a crowd of fans waiting to buy her book. But when I looked around, all I saw were two customers at the counter: an old man, and a young mom with a toddler.
For a minute I wondered if I’d come to the wrong Krispy Kreme.
Then I heard someone call my name.
“Hi, Jaine!”
I turned to see a pretty Latina behind the counter in a Krispy Kreme polo and visor, her hair in a thick ponytail.
Good heavens. It was Bethenny! Did she actually work here?
Apparently so, because the next thing I knew she was handing a bag of doughnuts to the old guy and asking, “Would you care to buy a book with that? Bethenny’s Beauty Secrets. I wrote it. I used to be Miss Alta Loco Teen Queen.”
She pointed to a stack of books by the napkin dispenser.
There on the cover was Bethenny in her teen queen tiara, holding a hair dryer in one hand and a mascara wand in the other.
The old man blinked at her, puzzled.
“I came here for donuts. Why would I want to buy a book?”
“It has some great beauty tips.”
“Does it tell how to get rid of toe fungus?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Then what good is it?” he said, grabbing his doughnuts and shuffling out the door.
Bethenny sighed and turned to her next customer, the mom with the toddler, who bought a chocolate glazed doughnut, and—after thumbing through the pages of Bethenny’s book—declined to buy it.
Now it was my turn. This was it. My moment of truth. What would it be? The joy of chocolate? Or the mounds of jam inside that hunk of dough?
“I’ll have a chocolate glazed doughnut.”
Of course, you knew chocolate would win.
“And a jelly doughnut.”
I don’t know what happened. The words just sprung out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
“And throw in a cinnamon apple, too,” I said, spotting a last-minute inspiration.
It’s official. I can’t take me anywhere.
“And would you care to buy a copy of my book?” Bethenny asked, with a pitifully hopeful look in her eyes.
Was she kidding? I’d rather buy diet rice cakes. But there was no way I could turn her down, not with her staring at me like Bambi tied to the railroad tracks.
“Of course,�
� I said.
“That’s great!” Bethenny beamed. “Thanks so much! It’s twenty dollars.”
Twenty bucks to get beauty tips from a Krispy Kreme pusher? Oh, well. There was no backing out of it now.
I paid for the book, which Bethenny autographed with a smiley face.
“Do you suppose you could take a break for a few minutes?” I asked, looking around the now empty store.
“Sure, just let me ask my manager.”
“Hey, Brandon,” she called out. “Okay if I take a break?”
A pimply kid who couldn’t have been more than seventeen poked his head out from the kitchen door. “Okay, but just for a few minutes.”
“Want some coffee?” Bethenny asked when he’d retreated. “It’s on the house,” she whispered confidentially.
“Sure. Thanks.”
She poured us both coffee, and grabbed a plain doughnut hole for herself.
Can you believe there are people out there who eat a single doughnut hole at Krispy Kreme?
Me, neither.
Of course, that’s why Bethenny was a size two and I’m a size none-of-your-business. Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned here. So as we settled down at a table, I made a solemn vow to eat just one of my doughnuts (chocolate glazed, of course) and save the rest for later.
“Thanks again,” Bethenny said, “for buying the book. You’re the first person to buy one all day. And probably the last,” she sighed.
“I’m sure sales will pick up,” I offered lamely.
“Oh, please. I couldn’t even get my own mother to buy a copy.”
She stared down at the book on the table between us and shook her head in disgust. “Why on earth did I ever think people would be interested in anything Miss Alta Loco Teen Queen had to say?”
Good question.
“I’m sorry I ever entered the pageant in the first place. It cost my parents a fortune, and what did I get for it? A couple of bowling alley openings, a stupid infomercial, and a tacky clock tiara. Damn thing didn’t even come with batteries. I had to go out and buy them myself.
“And to top things off,” she said, taking a desultory sip of her coffee, “I just wasted five hundred dollars to publish a book no one’s ever going to read.”
I tsked in pity at her tale of woe. I also stared enviously at her doughnut hole. Which she hadn’t even begun to eat. By now, of course, I’d wolfed down my doughnut, and was dying for more. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to reach over and nab her ball of powdered dough.
But this was crazy. I had to stop obsessing about doughnuts and focus on the task at hand.
“Speaking of the pageant,” I said, “I ran into Luanne Summers, who said she bumped into you outside Candace’s office at the time of the murder.”
“Oh?” Bethenny said, stirring her coffee so vigorously I thought she’d snap the wooden stirrer.
“Didn’t you say you were in your hotel room the whole time giving yourself a pedicure?
“A facial,” she snapped. “I said I was in my hotel room giving myself a facial.”
“So which was it?” I asked. “The facial, or Candace’s office?”
A tense beat while she continued to whip away at her coffee. Then she took a deep breath and said, “Both, if you must know. After minimizing my pores, I made a little trip to Candace’s office. I wanted to tell her to keep her paws off Tex Turner. But when I got there, I saw the corpse on the floor and ran like a bunny. Smack into that blabbermouth Luanne.
“But I’m not the killer,” she said with a defiant swish of her ponytail, “if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Maybe her acting lessons with Uta Hagen Dazs were paying off. Because it sure sounded like she was telling the truth.
“Oh, no! I wasn’t wondering that at all,” I stammered. “Just making conversation. Guess I’d better be going,” I said, pushing back my chair. “Good luck with your book.”
“Hey, wait!” she called out as I started for the door. “When is the story coming out?”
“What story?”
“The one about me you’re writing for the L.A. Times.”
Darn. I’d forgotten all about that little fib. I didn’t have the heart to tell her there wasn’t any story. Not now, when she was feeling so low.
“They haven’t set a date yet. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”
Feeling more than a tad guilty, I scooted out the door with my two remaining doughnuts, which, you’ll be happy to learn, were still unsullied in the Krispy Kreme bag. And they stayed that way for a whole three and a half minutes until I got on the freeway and dug into them with gusto.
Chapter 27
Much like an unsuspecting gazelle romping in the jungle, unaware of the cougar in the tree above waiting to pounce, I came home to find a message from Ma Willis on my answering machine.
“Jaine, dear. Scott told me he’s invited you to our little birthday brunch tomorrow. What a ghastly idea! Well, I suppose we’re going to have to put up with you. Just try not to break anything. Dress casual, avoiding all kimono-sleeved blouses. And don’t bring a gift. You couldn’t afford to buy anything decent, anyway.”
Okay, so that’s not what she said. But I could tell that’s what she meant. For those of you who insist on accuracy, the actual words she uttered went something like this:
“Jaine, dear. Scott told me he’s invited you to our little birthday brunch tomorrow, and I couldn’t be more delighted. Dress casual. And please don’t bring a gift. Your presence is the only present we need. See you tomorrow!”
As much as I had the warmies for Scott, I’d totally forgotten about the brunch, banishing it to the dusty corner of my mind reserved for IRS audits and root canals, still shuddering at the thought of my other meals at Hell House.
Damn. In less than twenty-four hours I’d be back with the Willis gang. (And, no doubt, the impossibly perfect Chloe.) My stomach, still stuffed with doughnuts, sank.
Why the heck had I eaten the damn doughnuts, anyway? The last thing I needed were those extra calories clinging to my thighs at Scott’s party.
“Pro, honey,” I moaned to my pampered princess, now snoring on the sofa. “How am I ever going to lose fifteen pounds in twenty-four hours?”
Her big green eyes flew open.
Do you mind? I’m in the middle of a very important nap.
Determined to work off some of those doughnut calories, I decided to go for a nice long walk. I was just heading for the bedroom to change into my sweats when I heard a familiar knock at my front door.
It was Lance, who came sailing into my living room with a garment bag slung over his arm.
“Jaine, sweetie. Wait till you see what I’ve just bought!”
Inwardly, I groaned. I simply did not have time to deal with Lance and his fashion choices.
“Actually, I was just about to go for a walk and get some exercise.”
“You, exercise?” he chuckled. “That’s a good one! Hahahaha!”
“I fail to see what’s so amusing about me exercising.”
“Oh, please. You get winded brushing your teeth. Now seriously, you’ve simply got to see my new tweed jacket!”
With a flourish, he unzipped the garment bag and took out a thick tweed jacket, heather brown with tawny suede elbow patches.
“Isn’t it gorge? I bought it for my wedding trip to the Cotswolds.”
“Wedding trip? To the Cotswolds?”
“Yes, indeedie!” He plopped down next to Prozac on the sofa. “Gary and I had dinner at Obika Mozzarella Bar again last night—the best pumpkin ravioli ever, by the way—and guess what? Some hotshot producer at Fox is reading Gary’s screenplay! We celebrated with a bottle of the most yummy pinot noir and I swear, Gary came thisclose to popping the question.”
Unbelievable, n’est-ce pas? Lance is the only guy I know who can take pumpkin ravioli and turn it into a wedding proposal.
“Gosh, it’s going to be so much fun being married to a screenwriter. Just t
hink of all the ‘A’ list parties I’ll be invited to! And don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll send you selfies from all of them!”
“How very thoughtful.”
“And speaking of the Cotswolds, how’s everything going with your hottie detective?”
“I’m going to another brunch at his parents’ house tomorrow. It’s Scott’s birthday.”
“A birthday brunch! How wonderful! What did you get him?”
“Nothing. His mother called and told me not to bring a gift.”
“But you’ve got to bring a gift! Everyone always says No Gifts. And nobody ever means it. Trust me. Everyone will be bringing something. And you can’t possibly be the only one at the party without a present.”
For once, Lance was making sense.
And besides, it would be just like Ma Willis to tell me not to bring a gift when she knew full well that everybody, and by everybody I mean Chloe, would be bringing one. Anything to make me look bad in Scott’s eyes.
Well, that wasn’t about to happen.
“What on earth am I going to get him? The party’s tomorrow and I haven’t even begun to shop.”
“Fear not! Uncle Lance to the rescue!”
With that, he grabbed his tweed jacket and raced out the door. Minutes later, he was back with a white oblong gift box.
“Voila!” he said, opening the lid. “A Christmas gift from my Aunt Celeste. A genuine Hugo Boss tie. I haven’t had a chance to wear it.”
I looked down at a lush black and gray diamond patterned silk tie.
“It’s beautiful!” I cried. “Thanks so much, Lance!”
“A small price to pay for a wedding in the Cotswolds. Now I’m counting on you to make a good impression tomorrow. What are you going to wear? I know! How about a flirty little sundress?”
“Lance, the closest thing I have to ‘flirty’ are my jeans with the moth holes in the tush.”
“Well, let’s go buy you something!”
“Forget it. I don’t have time to go shopping. I’ve got to walk off fifteen pounds by tomorrow morning. Don’t worry. I’ll think of something nice to wear. Now, please,” I said, shoving him out the door. “Go. I’ve got to exercise!”
He left, chuckling at the thought of me exercising, and the minute he was gone I headed to the bedroom to slip into my sweats. Normally I wear them to veg out with my good friends Ben and Jerry. But today they were going to get a vigorous workout.