by Laura Levine
Yes, this wasn’t the first time. Just last year I’d been a suspect in a murder at a teenage beauty pageant (a harrowing saga you can read all about in Death by Tiara, now available in paperback and on all the usual e-gizmos).
“Darn it, Pro,” I sighed, slumping down onto the sofa, still warm from the cops’ fannies. “What am I going to do?”
A world-weary glance from her perch on the keyboard.
Personally, I’m thinking of joining a convent.
I’d just gone to the kitchen for a restorative dose of Oreos when my frazzled nerves were shaken by another knock at my door. Had the cops changed their mind and returned to arrest me on the spot?
But thank heavens it was only Lance, who, unlike me, was in the sunniest of moods.
“Who were those two guys I saw walking down the path?” he asked, sailing into the living room.
“The police. They think I might have killed Dean Oliver.”
“I don’t believe it!” he cried, horrified.
“I know. It’s awful, isn’t it?”
“Is that what you wore to talk to the police? Those grungy sweats with the grape jelly stain on the sleeve? It’s no wonder they suspect you of murder.”
“Hey, a little less fashion critique and a little more sympathy, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, hon,” he said, taking my hand in his. “You know I worry about you. If you get suspected of one more murder, we’re gonna have to buy you a getaway car.” Then, seeing the stricken look in my eyes, he added, “But don’t worry, sweetie. I’m sure they’ll find the real killer. And besides, you’ve got to look on the bright side.”
“Which is?”
“I was nowhere near the studio at the time of the murder and have an airtight alibi!”
“Yeah, that’s the bright side, all right.”
“Well, here’s something that’ll really cheer you up.”
“You’re leaving me alone and going back to your apartment?”
“Now, now, we mustn’t be bitchy just because we’re a suspect in a murder case. Guess where I just came from? Lunch with Deedee! She signed Mamie on as a client! She says she’s going to make her the most famous show biz dog since Lassie. And she practically guaranteed her a costarring role in a new Brad Pitt movie! Is that unbelievable, or what?”
“It truly is unbelievable,” I said, with the brightest fake smile I could muster. “So you had lunch with her, huh?”
“At the Peninsula. It was absolutely glorious!”
“She stick you with the check?”
“As it happened, she forgot her wallet, so I picked up the tab. But she assured me she’d pay me back with my first paycheck. Well, must dash and tell Mamie the good news. She’ll be so excited. And try not to worry about that murder thing, hon. Once Mamie lands this part with Brad Pitt, I’ll get you the finest lawyer money can buy. Ciao for now!”
And off he dashed, with three of my Oreos.
I was just reaching into the bag to grab one for myself when I flashed back on what the cops said right before they left. Those three miserable words:
“Don’t leave town.”
This murder could take months to solve. If I couldn’t leave town, I’d have to kiss my Hawaiian vacation good-bye.
No way was that going to happen.
Somehow, someway, I would find the killer in time to soak up the Maui sun.
In the meanwhile, I did the next best thing and soaked up some Oreos.
Chapter 9
As luck would have it, I got a chance to start my investigation the very next day.
While leafing through the L.A. Times, I saw there was to be a memorial service for Dean that morning at St. Paul’s Church in Westwood.
And so, after an hour cranking out ideas for the Touch-Me-Not toilet (“Look, Ma! No hands!”), I gussied myself up in my funereal best: black slacks, black tee, black blazer, and my one and only pair of Manolos. True, the T-shirt, a Home Shopping Channel gift from my mom, sported the slogan “Crazy Cat Lady,” but nobody need know about that if I kept my blazer buttoned.
After wrestling my mop of curls into a sedate bob, I popped on a pair of silver hoop earrings, grabbed my purse, and headed for the door.
“See you later, hon,” I called out to Prozac.
She didn’t even look up from where she was sprawled out on the sofa, next to a pair of panty hose I’d left for her to play with. Normally, they’d have been in ribbons by now, but today she’d totally ignored them.
Poor thing was still deep in her funk.
I got in the Corolla and drove over to St. Paul’s, ruing the day I’d ever gotten her involved in that damn Skinny Kitty commercial.
* * *
Trying to find a parking spot in Westwood is like panning for gold in the Sahara. After circling around for what seemed like eons, I finally managed to nab a spot about six blocks from St. Paul’s and clomped over to the church, cursing my Manolos every step of the way.
I headed inside and was surprised to find the large, wood-beamed chapel almost full.
Somehow I hadn’t pictured Dean as the kind of guy with friends.
All the mourners were seated toward the front of the church, leaving the last few rows empty.
I spotted Linda up front, with Zeke at her side, his shoulder almost touching hers. I bet he was one happy camper, sitting so close to his heartthrob.
A few rows behind Linda, the Pink Panther was seated—for once, all in black—her surgically enhanced profile peeking out from under a wide brimmed black hat.
I slipped into the last pew, empty except for a guy with a shopping bag in his lap.
Up at the pulpit, the priest was in the middle of his eulogy.
“Although I didn’t know Dean well,” he was saying, “he was a generous contributor to the church building fund and a dynamic presence in the congregation.”
And by “dynamic presence,” he undoubtedly meant “pain in the butt.”
“The person I really knew well was Dean’s wife, Linda,” the priest went on, shooting her a sorrowful smile. “My heart and prayers go out to her in her time of need.”
A soft murmur of approval rippled through the audience.
He then asked if anyone wanted to say a few words about Dean.
A few people got up to speak, all of them friends of Linda, all of whom spouted some token niceties about Dean and then, like the priest, went on to talk with great feeling about what a wonderful wife Linda had been.
In death, as in life, Linda was the popular one in that marriage.
After a while, I glanced over and was shocked to see the guy next to me pulling out a bottle of champagne from his shopping bag.
Unlike the other mourners, he was not dressed in black, but in jeans and a sweatshirt, a baseball cap clamped on a headful of frizzy red hair.
Aware of my glance, he sidled over next to me and opened the twist-top bottle.
“A bit of bubbly?” he whispered, pouring some into a plastic glass.
I shook my head no.
“More for me then,” he said, taking a healthy glug.
“You realize that this is a funeral service, right?” I whispered.
“Yep,” he nodded. “I just dropped by to make sure Dean was really dead.” Now he reached into his shopping bag and pulled out a pastry. “Care for a cheese puff?”
Honestly. Did he really think I was crass enough to eat a cheese puff at a funeral service?
(It was delicious, by the way.)
“Artie Lembeck,” he said, handing me his business card. “You know that diet cat food Dean claimed he invented?”
“Skinny Kitty,” I nodded.
“He didn’t invent it. I did. The bum tricked me into signing over the rights to the recipe. Sold it to him for only five hundred bucks. Then Dean turned around, ramped up production, and started making a fortune on it. Cut me off at the knees. “So here’s to Dean,” he whispered, holding up his champagne glass. “May he rot in hell forever.”
At which point, a woma
n a few rows in front of us turned around to give us an angry “Shhhh.”
But I hardly noticed, boggled as I was over Artie’s little tirade.
Quite the eulogy, wasn’t it?
It was enough to make me wonder if I’d just been sharing a pew with Dean’s killer.
* * *
I left Artie glugging down the rest of his champagne and clomped the six long blocks back to my Corolla.
The priest had wrapped up the funeral service by inviting us all to a reception at Linda’s house. And now, armed with directions I’d picked up from a church attendant, I got in my Corolla and took off.
As I drove, I thought about my chat with Artie. The guy clearly detested Dean and was thrilled to see him dead. But had he been the one to spritz that fatal blast of Raid?
Was it possible Artie knew about the shoot and went to the studio to have it out with Dean? Had he overheard Dean’s temper tantrum? Had he then hidden in some empty office, waiting until he saw Nikki leave the kitchen, and dashed in to poison the Skinny Kitty?
I had to admit it seemed pretty unlikely. But anything was possible. Especially with a guy who brought cheese puffs to a funeral.
I found Dean and Linda’s house in a modest pocket of Westwood, on a tree-lined street filled with 1930s bungalows. It was a charming cottage, tasteful and understated.
I figured Linda was the one who’d picked it out.
I headed up a brick pathway lined with roses, past an open wrought iron gate. The front door was unlocked, so I let myself into the living room where Linda sat in an armchair, surrounded by well wishers. Zeke stood on guard behind her chair in a dark blue suit, his sandy hair flopping onto his forehead, his cheeks flushed with excitement. He was trying to look somber, but I could tell he was loving every minute of his new role as Linda’s protector.
I looked around the living room, with its original sconces and crown molding. On an end table beside me sat a framed picture of Dean and Linda taken years ago on a sandy beach. I picked it up to get a closer look. Dean smiled winningly into the camera, his hair free of gel and blowing in the wind, not a trace of the arrogance I’d come to know. Linda, looking boyish in a one-piece bathing suit, smiled up at him adoringly.
By now, the crowd around Linda had thinned, and I walked over to pay my respects.
“Jaine,” Linda said, with a wan smile. “How nice of you to come.”
Poor Linda. Her face was mottled; behind her harlequin glasses her eyes were red-rimmed with tears.
“I’m so sorry about Dean,” I said.
And at that moment, of course, I was sorry. Sorry he was dead, sorry Linda was in so much pain, and most of all, sorry I was a suspect in this whole darn mess.
“It’s been a terrible shock,” Zeke said, still trying his best to look like someone who gave a damn.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I asked.
“We’ll be fine,” Zeke assured me. Accent on the we.
“Please help yourself to something at the buffet,” Linda added, pointing to an adjacent dining room.
A fresh batch of mourners had lined up behind me, so after offering my sympathies one final time, I skedaddled over to the dining room, where I was happy to find a lovely spread of deli cold cuts, pasta salad, kosher pickles, and assorted cookies.
Still a bit full from the cheese puffs I ate at the funeral (if you must know, I had three), I reined myself in and made myself the weensiest roast beef sandwich, with just a smidgen of pasta salad and the tiniest sliver of a cookie.
As I stood there, scarfing down my chow, I listened to the chatter of the mourners around me.
Poor Linda. Such a wonderful woman.
How she put up with Dean, I’ll never know.
I’m surprised they had the service in a church. The only thing Dean ever worshipped was himself.
Ouch.
I only hoped Dean couldn’t hear us in hell.
I was just polishing off my sandwich when I looked up and saw Nikki Banks walk in the front door and make her way over to Linda. Without her food stylist’s apron, she looked surprisingly sophisticated in a black sweater and slacks.
Linda shot her the same wan smile she’d given me, chatted for a bit, then waved her over to the buffet.
“Hey, Nikki,” I called out as she approached. “Good to see you. Sorry it’s under such sad circumstances.”
“I know,” Nikki tsked. “I tried to make it to the memorial service, but I was stuck at work. I’m styling a burger shoot. God, it’s tough keeping lettuce crispy.”
Then, turning to the buffet, she cried, “Food! Wonderful! I didn’t have time for lunch.”
“The roast beef’s great,” I said.
She looked down at the spread and frowned. “Parsley garnish,” she said, picking up a sprig from the deli platter. “How passé.”
Then she turned to me and grinned. “Sorry. Occupational hazard of being a stylist.”
As she whipped together a turkey on rye, I decided to toss a few questions her way.
“I still can’t get over what happened to Dean,” I said.
“It’s so awful,” Nikki agreed, spreading some mustard on her rye. “And I feel so guilty. If I hadn’t left the cat food alone in the kitchen, he’d still be alive today.”
“You mustn’t blame yourself. You had no idea there was a killer in the studio. Speaking of which, did you happen to notice anyone hanging around in the corridor when you left the kitchen?”
I eagerly awaited her reply, wondering if perhaps she’d spotted Artie, the vengeful inventor.
But, alas, she’d seen nothing.
“Like I told the police, I didn’t see a soul. And I didn’t see anyone leaving the soundstage while I was at the buffet, either.”
“What about Linda and Zeke? Were they with you the whole time you were at the buffet?”
“No, they wandered off. But I wasn’t paying attention to anyone. I was too busy worrying about whether Dean would have another hissy fit before the shoot was done.
“What a horrible day that was,” she said, arranging some pasta salad on her plate in a perfect mound. “And to top everything off, I lost my ring. Remember the pink hibiscus ring you liked so much? I took it off to wash my hands at the kitchen sink and forgot to put it back on. When I called the studio to see if anyone found it, they insisted no one had turned it in. But I don’t trust that dingbat receptionist. If you ask me, she’s probably wearing it as we speak.”
I remembered the receptionist with the big hair and bigger attitude and figured Nikki might well be right.
“Do you have any idea who may have wanted to kill Dean?” I asked, easing the conversation away from costume jewelry and back to the murder.
“Take a number,” Nikki said, swallowing a mouthful of turkey sandwich. “Dean made enemies like I make brownies—by the dozen.”
I briefly wondered if Nikki could have done it, but it seemed hard to believe she’d want to kill Dean just because he was hard to work with. If everybody ran around killing impossible bosses, half of corporate America would be tucked away in their crypts.
Having come to a dead end with Nikki, I was debating whether or not to reach for another cookie when I suddenly became aware of a wave of whispers rippling through the room.
I looked around and saw everyone’s eyes riveted on the front door, where Camille Townsend, aka the Pink Panther, had just made a grand entrance, her hourglass figure swathed in designer black, her wide-brimmed hat cutting a dramatic swash across her cheekbones.
Linda’s face hardened at the sight of her.
Now the whispers stopped, and the house was so quiet, you could hear a kosher pickle drop.
As the Panther tottered over to Linda on her Louboutins, Zeke rushed out from behind Linda’s chair, papa bear protecting his cub.
But Linda stopped him.
“No, Zeke,” she said, standing up. “I’ll take care of this.”
The Panther would have to be brain dead not to sense the hostil
ity oozing her way.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” she said, smiling stiffly.
“Really?” Linda shot back. “How about sleeping with my husband? You sorry about that, too?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Panther said, blushing under the brim of her hat.
“Everyone knows you two were having an affair. You may have made a fool of me while Dean was alive, but not anymore. Please leave. You’re not welcome here.”
The Panther, clearly unaccustomed to being called out in public, lobbed Linda a look of sheer malice and stormed off.
Linda watched her go, a satisfied smile on her face.
Well, whaddaya know? It looked like mousy little Linda had just sprouted a pair of claws.
Chapter 10
The next day, I decided to pay a return visit to Kleinman Productions for a tête-à-tête with the receptionist. As I recalled, she had a peripheral view of the hallway from her desk. And I was hoping she might have looked up long enough from Entertainment Weekly to see the killer sprinting into the studio kitchen.
This time when I showed up, I found her with her nose buried in The Hollywood Reporter, reading an article about Beyoncé.
I hadn’t paid much attention to her the day of the shoot, so caught up had I been in my dreams of Prozac’s stardom. But today I took in her jet black bubble of hair, goth-white skin, and squinty eyes circled in liner so thick she looked like a punk raccoon.
I checked her fingers for hibiscus rings but saw only a couple of silver snakes slithering up to her knuckles.
“Can I help you?” she asked, tearing herself away from her magazine.
A rhinestone-lettered necklace dangling in her cleavage informed me that her name was Angie.
“I sure hope so, Angie. I was here last week for the Skinny Kitty commercial.”
“Yeah, I remember you. First you parked in Mr. Kleinman’s parking spot. And then your cat screwed up the commercial.”
“Guilty as charged,” I said, just barely managing to fake a smile.
“So what do you want?” she snapped.
Looked like somebody skipped receptionist school the day they were teaching The Polite Way to Greet Visitors.
“Actually, I was wondering if you could answer a few questions about Dean Oliver’s murder.”