Killer Blonde

by Laura Levine

  Yeah. They’re saying, “Burn me.”

  Outside of the contents of an unflushed toilet I’d once stumbled on in Tijuana, never in my life had I seen such nauseating stuff. How the heck was I going to get out of buying one of these monstrosities?

  “They’re all so wonderful,” I chirped, “I’d really like to bring my fiancé back to help me decide.”

  “Your fiancé?”

  “Yes,” I lied. Maybe if he thought I had a fiancé, he’d stop doing his Fabio impersonation.

  No such luck.

  “Why are all the good ones always taken?” he said with a wink.

  I followed Eduardo back to his tiny bungalow. My visit was almost over, and I still hadn’t managed to work SueEllen into the conversation. I had to say something. And fast.

  “I can see why SueEllen was such a big fan of your work,” was the best I could come up with.

  “Yes, she was,” he said, without a trace of modesty.

  “Such a tragedy, the way she died.”

  “A tragedy,” he echoed.

  By now we were almost at the front door.

  “Who on earth would want to kill her?” I asked.

  “I have no idea,” he said, a note of caution creeping into his voice.

  “Do you know that the police suspect Heidi?”

  “No, I didn’t know. But I’m not surprised, given that scene at her birthday party.”

  “I don’t think Heidi did it,” I said. “In fact, I’m sure it was someone else.”

  “Oh?” he said, his smile frozen.

  “I was thinking that maybe somebody had a key to her house, and let himself in while everybody else was gone.”

  Note the strategic use of the word himself.

  “Wow,” he said, making a big show of checking his watch. “Would you look at the time? I’ve got to rush to another appointment. You talk it over with your fiancé, and get back to me, okay?”

  He held the front door open for me, but I didn’t leave.

  “Look, Eduardo,” I said, abandoning my art lover pose, “I heard SueEllen threatening you the night of Heidi’s birthday party.”

  “Is that so?”

  By now his eyes had lost their sexy glint; they were as cold as the chrome on his high tech furniture. Fabio had definitely left the building.

  “I was standing outside the poolhouse. I heard everything. SueEllen said she was going to tell everybody about your ‘indiscretion,’ and that it would ruin your career. And then, the very next day, she died.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “What are you implying? That I killed SueEllen to keep her from talking?”

  “It’s an interesting theory.”

  And then he surprised me. He threw his head back and laughed.

  “You’re crazy,” he said. “Yes, SueEllen was a bitch, and yes, she was threatening to air my dirty laundry in public, but I sure as hell didn’t kill her.”

  “Just how dirty was your laundry?”

  “None of your business.”

  “I know, but tell me anyway.”

  He laughed again.

  “Why not? I’ve got nothing to hide. The truth is, SueEllen caught me having sex with a teenage girl, the daughter of one of my biggest customers. She was pissed that I’d been cheating on her. SueEllen and I were lovers, but you probably already knew that.”

  I nodded.

  “Everybody knew it,” he said, “including her husband, I’ll bet. Anyhow, she threatened to tell the girl’s mother and everybody else on her Rolodex.

  “At first I was panicked. But then, after I thought about it, I calmed down. The kid was eighteen; they couldn’t put me in jail. And so what if I lost her mother as a customer? I had plenty more. And it occurred to me that having everyone know I’d been sleeping with a hot young teenager might lend me a certain air of rakish charm.

  “So you see,” he said, smiling smugly, “I had no reason to kill SueEllen.”

  “Do you mind my asking where you were the day of the murder?”

  “Yeah, I mind. But I’ll tell you anyway, just like I told the police. The day SueEllen was killed I was in Santa Barbara, having lunch with a gallery owner. I’ll give you his card if you want to call him.”

  He sounded awfully sure of himself.

  “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  “I hope that answers all your questions,” he said, opening the front door with a flourish.

  “Yes, thanks.”

  I walked out of the bungalow with the uneasy feeling that Eduardo was watching me, and headed back to Main Street where I’d parked the Corolla.

  When I reached into my purse for my car keys, I discovered something round and warm and wrapped in tin foil. What a pleasant surprise. It was the bagel and cream cheese I’d bought for Mr. Lactose-Intolerant. I could do with a snack. After all, it had been a whole forty-five minutes since I’d last eaten.

  So there I sat behind the steering wheel, munching on my bagel and thinking about my meeting with Eduardo. Those paintings of his were truly disturbing. I had no trouble picturing him as the killer. But according to him, he’d been in Santa Barbara at the time of the murder, and had no real motive to kill SueEllen.

  Everything he said made perfect sense. But this is the same guy who said his tofu-carob-lecithin shake was delicious. Which puts a bit of a damper on his believability, don’t you think?

  I had some time to kill before my appointment with Larkspur, so I stopped off at the bank to deposit Hal’s check. And not a moment too soon. My bank balance was so low, the flowers on my designer checks were beginning to wilt. Until I landed another writing assignment, I’d have to be very careful about how I spent my money. I swore to myself I’d make no frivolous purchases, just the bare necessities.

  On my way home, I decided to stop off at Bloomingdale’s—not to buy anything, of course. No, I only went there because I was hoping to run into Ginny. I wanted to see her reaction when I told her that I knew she’d once been engaged to Hal Kingsley. When I got to the hosiery department, though, she was nowhere in sight. And neither was anybody else. I guess you were out of luck if you wanted to buy socks.

  I asked a regal redhead in costume jewelry if Ginny was working that day.

  “Yes, she work today,” she answered in a thick Russian accent. I had a feeling that at one time in her life, she’d been on the other side of the counter, doing the buying, not the selling. That’s the way it is at Bloomingdale’s. The place seems to be staffed with women, like Ginny and this Russian dame, who’ve fallen on hard times.

  “You like this?” she asked, holding up a two-hundred-dollar crystal and pearl necklace. “It will look marvelous on you, I can tell.”

  I did like it. A lot. But I couldn’t afford it.

  “Sorry, no. I don’t think so.”

  “Come on. We just try on. For fun.”

  But I was strong. No frivolous expenses.

  I walked away from the necklace without a backward glance, feeling quite proud of myself.

  But as long as I was in Bloomie’s, I figured I might as well stop off for a lipstick. I was almost at the bottom of my current tube of Frosted Bronze, and I really needed another. So I headed over to the cosmetics counter, where a woman who looked like she could’ve been the former Shah-ette of Iran asked if she could help me.

  “I need a lipstick,” I said, firm in my resolve not to spend a dime more than I had to. “That’s all. Just a lipstick.”

  Twenty minutes later, I walked away with three hundred dollars worth of cosmetics.

  I know, I’ve got the backbone of an egg noodle. But the Shah-ette swore to me that my Magic Restorative Eye Crème would make my fine lines and wrinkles disappear in a matter of weeks. And the way I saw it, I was saving money. When you think of the thousands of dollars it would have cost to have an eye job from Hal Kingsley, I was actually being very frugal.

  Vowing to spend not a penny more, I headed straight for the hosiery department to see if Ginny had returned.<
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  Okay, so I didn’t head straight for the hosiery department. I made a quick pit stop at the Eileen Fisher boutique, where I dropped another fifty bucks on a cotton pullover. But once again, I was saving money, since the pullover had been marked down from $135. If I kept this up, I’d be saving thousands of dollars in no time.

  Thankfully, I didn’t keep it up. I tore myself away from Eileen Fisher and went downstairs to talk to Ginny. But she was still nowhere in sight. Once again, I was reminded of how easy it would have been for her to slip out of the store on her break and drive over to SueEllen’s. But if she’d been on her break, wouldn’t someone have remembered, and told the police? And wouldn’t she have to clock in and out?

  These were the questions I mulled as I left the store and headed for the parking garage. But I stopped mulling in front of Tiffany’s. Because that’s where I saw Ginny coming out of the store, arm in arm with Hal Kingsley.

  What the heck had they been doing in Tiffany’s? Buying a ring? After twentysomething years, was the engagement back on?

  I ducked behind a popcorn kiosk and watched the lovebirds as they headed toward Bloomingdale’s. And here’s the interesting part. After Hal kissed her goodbye, Ginny walked straight past the employee’s entrance and headed back into the store through the customers’ door.

  So that’s how she could’ve slipped away and murdered SueEllen without anyone knowing. No need to clock in and out. Just use the customers’ entrance. With the dearth of sales help in department stores nowadays, no one would even know she’d been gone.

  Chapter Eighteen

  An hour later, I was standing in my living room in my bra and panties, humiliated beyond belief as Larkspur O’Leary circled around me, examining my body from all angles. Prozac sat on the sofa, licking her privates and taking in the scene.

  “I always like to get a good look at my client’s physiology,” Larkspur explained, opening the window so the sun could highlight every nook and cranny of my cellulite.

  I squirmed uncomfortably, cursing myself for eating those damn bagels. The cream cheese had already taken up permanent residence in my thighs.

  “I have a special massage technique that breaks down cellulite,” Larkspur said. “That’s why I’m so popular.”

  She stared at my thighs appraisingly, her delicate brows furrowed in what I can only assume was disgust.

  “I see we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

  I could just hear her now, talking with her fellow masseuses. I couldn’t believe my eyes. She had cellulite the size of large-curd cottage cheese!

  Then she rummaged through her tote bag and took out a thermos.

  “I’ve brewed you a special tea,” she said, pouring me a cup. “I make it for all my clients. It’s very relaxing. Drink it while I set up the massage table.”

  I took a sip. It tasted like rancid tree bark. Not that I know what rancid tree bark tastes like. I’m guessing.

  “Drink every drop,” she said, as she deftly opened the heavy massage table. For such a tiny thing, she was awfully strong. Strong enough, I wondered, to overpower SueEllen and force her into a deadly bathtub?

  I smiled weakly and forced myself to drink the tree bark.

  Larkspur spread a fresh sheet on top of the table, and plopped a cassette into a boom box she’d brought with her. Strains of tinkly sitar music filled the air. I don’t know about you, but I for one am not a tinkly sitar music fan.

  “It’s a relaxation tape,” she said.

  “Very soothing,” I lied.

  “Now hop on board,” she said, patting the massage table.

  Easier said than done. After a few futile attempts at hoisting myself up, I finally did it.

  Prozac giggled from her perch on the sofa. Okay, so she didn’t exactly giggle, but I know she was enjoying this whole humiliating scene.

  “You know,” Larskpur said, running her finger along my thigh, “you really should avoid dairy products. They’re regular cellulite magnets.”

  Was it my imagination, or was there a vast anti-dairy conspiracy underfoot? First, there was the guy outside the latte shop, then Eduardo with that ghastly non-dairy glop in his blender, and now Larkspur. Was I the only person in Greater Los Angeles who still felt any allegiance to Elsie the cow?

  “Now roll over on your tummy.”

  After I rolled, she started slathering a lovely lavender-scented oil on my back. A delicious warmth seeped into my muscles. I was feeling very mellow. But this wasn’t the time to be mellow, I reminded myself. I had a suspect to question.

  “Such a shame about SueEllen,” I threw out for my opening gambit.

  Larkspur wasn’t having any of it. She put her finger to her rosebud lips, and shushed me.

  “No negative thoughts. Otherwise, you won’t be totally relaxed.”

  “Right,” I muttered.

  “Close your eyes, and imagine yourself on a beach, somewhere in the Caribbean. I hear Jamaica’s awfully nice if you don’t mind the hostile townspeople. Imagine yourself lying in the sand, the palm trees swaying, cooling you with soft breezes.”

  I tried imagining myself on the beach, but frankly, all I could think about was how crappy I’d look in a bathing suit with my large-curd cellulite. No doubt about it; one of these days, I was really going to have to lose a few pounds.

  In the meanwhile, though, I had a suspect to question. And no idea how to do it. Larkspur clearly didn’t want to talk about the murder. How was I going to pump her for information? Why the heck hadn’t I worked out a game plan in advance? First I’d wasted time pretending to look at Eduardo’s paintings, and now I was throwing away $200 on a massage that was getting me nowhere. I obviously had a lot to learn about the detective biz.

  I was feeling quite annoyed with myself when I happened to glance down at Larkspur’s open tote bag. And that’s when I saw it: a looseleaf binder with the word “appointments” embossed in gold on the cover.

  At that moment I knew what I had to do. I had to steal that book.

  According to Lt. Webb, Larkspur had been with clients out in Santa Monica the day SueEllen was murdered. He said she wouldn’t have had time to drive over to Beverly Hills and toss a hair dryer into SueEllen’s tub between appointments. But maybe Larkspur could have driven from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills in time to kill SueEllen. It would all depend on traffic, and exactly where in Santa Monica her clients lived. If I could find out where Larkspur’s appointments were on the day of the murder, I could do a test run, and drive the distance myself.

  Yes, I’d have to steal the book. The question, of course, was how.

  And then I thought of an absolutely brilliant idea. I’d pretend I was having a hypoglycemic attack and send Larkspur into the kitchen to get me some apple juice. Then, while she was in the kitchen, I’d hide the book under one of the sofa cushions. I’d seen a similar plan on an old episode of Three’s Company, the one where Jack is trying to get rid of Mr. Roper so he won’t discover the chimpanzee he’s got hidden in the hall closet. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t brilliant, but it was all I could think of at the time.

  True, I didn’t have hypoglycemia—or apple juice, either. But it didn’t matter. By the time Larkspur got back to the living room, I’d pretend I was feeling better. Then, after she’d gone, I’d pore over her book and find out the names of her clients and do my test run. Maybe I’d even solve the murder, stunning the cops with my investigative acumen.

  Now all I had to do was wait for the massage to be over. After all, it was costing me two hundred bucks; I might as well get my money’s worth. I closed my eyes, wondering if Larkspur really could get rid of my cellulite. Wouldn’t it be great if she could? I let my mind drift to that Caribbean beach she’d been talking about. I saw myself walking along the shoreline in a string bikini, my thighs as smooth and silky as hot fudge sauce. Then, just as I was making smoldering eye contact with a bronzed cabana boy, I heard Larkspur chirp:

  “All done!”

  “That’s impossible,” I
said. “You just started.”

  “No,” she said, “it’s been almost an hour.”

  I checked my wristwatch. She was right. It had been almost an hour.

  “You fell asleep.”

  “I did?”

  “It’s the tea,” she said, nodding. “It’s very relaxing. Lots of my clients fall asleep.”

  And then I realized: I didn’t have to go through my phony hypoglycemic attack. I didn’t have to steal the appointment book, or question Larkspur’s clients, or do any test drives from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills.

  Because I already knew how Larkspur could have killed SueEllen.

  She could have drugged her client with her tree bark tea. Then she could have moseyed over to SueEllen’s and tossed the hair dryer in the tub, knowing she had all the time in the world—because her client was sound asleep on the massage table, dreaming of cellulite-free thighs.

  I barely contained my impatience as Larkspur packed up her things.

  “Remember,” she said. “Stay away from dairy products. And caffeine!”

  Then she whipped out her appointment book and asked if I’d like to schedule another massage. I told her I’d get back to her. Yeah, right. I’d get back to her. When Oreos weren’t fattening, that’s when I’d get back to her.

  The minute she was gone, I dashed to the phone, and called Lt. Webb.

  “What is it now?” was his cordial opening line.

  “I’ve got news for you,” I said. “Larkspur O’Leary’s alibi isn’t as ironclad as you think it is.”

  “Hold on a sec,” he said, then shouted out to somebody else in the room. “I want the ahi nicoise salad and a Diet Coke. And make sure the ahi is rare.”

  Our tax dollars at work.

  “You were saying?” he said, grudgingly turning his attention back to me.

  “I know how Larkspur could have killed SueEllen.”

  “Is that so?”

  And I told him about the tea.

  “Well, I’ve got news for you, too,” he said when I was through.

  My heart sank; something in his voice told me it wasn’t going to be good news.