Murder Has Nine Lives

by Laura Levine

  But today, at last, I got a lucky break. As I was driving back from the market with a fresh supply of gherkins, I passed Lydia’s townhouse and saw her taking out her trash. And she had a mighty shifty look in her eyes when she was doing it.

  Dollars to doughnuts my thinking cap is sitting there in her garbage, along with her prune pits, dental floss, and empty Metamucil jars.

  And I intend to rescue it ASAP!

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  DaddyO

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Good heavens!

  Daddy thinks Lydia has tossed his Lucky Thinking Cap in her garbage can. Did you ever hear of anything so idiotic?

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: A Tad Disappointed

  Dearest Lambchop—

  For some unfathomable reason, your mother is being very unsupportive. She thinks the battle-axe walks on water, and refuses to believe Lydia had anything to do with the disappearance of my Lucky Thinking Cap. Moreover, she says she refuses to cook me dinner if I go looking for my cap in Lydia’s garbage.

  I must admit I’m a tad disappointed in her.

  Oh, well. Mom’s planning to make meat loaf tonight, and you know how I feel about your mother’s meat loaf. So I’ll just wait until after she’s asleep to go out on my garbage raid.

  Love ’n’ hugs from

  Your determined

  DaddyO

  Chapter 12

  I had a hard time digesting my cinnamon raisin bagel the next morning, having been foolish enough to open my e-mails and read about Daddy’s plans to go rooting around in Lydia Pinkus’s garbage.

  Honestly, I was so distraught, I could barely finish my second bagel.

  But eventually, I regained my equilibrium and called to make an appointment with Emmy, the Reiki healer, who agreed to stop by my apartment later that week.

  I did some heavy-duty gulping when she told me her fee—a hundred bucks an hour—but at that stage I was willing to try anything to get my forlorn furball back in good spirits.

  “Good news, Pro,” I said when I hung up. “The Reiki healer is coming to see us.”

  Prozac just stared down at a spot under my chintz armchair.

  Kill that dust bunny for me, will you? I don’t have the energy.

  If left to my own devices, I would have spent the rest of the day giving Prozac belly rubs. Or primping for my upcoming date with Jim. Or perhaps shopping for some strappy sandals to wear on my Hawaiian vacation. But I had to focus on the murder and clear my name if I intended to actually go on said vacation.

  So I decided to pay a visit to Linda.

  I hadn’t forgotten how angry she’d been during her dramatic face-off with the Pink Panther at Dean’s funeral reception. Angry enough, I now wondered, to have doctored her husband’s cat food with a fatal dose of Raid?

  It was time to find out.

  I drove over to Linda’s place in Westwood, hoping she’d be there when I showed up.

  But, alas, no one came to the door when I rang the bell.

  So I settled down to wait for her in my Corolla with a free copy of War and Peace I’d downloaded on my phone. It was going to be quite a challenge reading War and Peace three sentences at a time on the phone’s tiny screen, but I was up for it. It was a book I’d always meant to tackle. And now was the perfect opportunity.

  I clicked open the book and began to read:

  War and Peace

  By Leo Tolstoy

  I was really quite proud of myself, using this otherwise wasted time to expand my mind, to broaden my horizons, to stretch my literary muscles—

  “Jaine! Are you okay?”

  Someone was tapping at my car window.

  My eyes flew open, and I felt drool on my chin. Good heavens. I must’ve dozed off somewhere on the copyright page.

  I looked up to see Linda standing outside my Corolla, peering down at me through her harlequin glasses.

  “I saw you lying there with your mouth open, and I thought maybe you’d passed out.”

  “No, no. Just resting,” I said, surreptitiously wiping away my chin drool. “Actually, I came to talk to you.”

  “Sure. Come on in the house.”

  I followed her into her charming bungalow, where she kicked off her shoes and curled up on her living room sofa, gesturing for me to take a seat on the other end.

  “Just got back from my therapist,” she said with a sigh. “These past few days haven’t been easy.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You want anything to eat? I’ve got deli leftovers from the funeral reception in the fridge.”

  Actually, I would have liked nothing better than to scarf down some cold roast beef, but Linda seemed so wiped out, I didn’t have the heart to put her to the trouble.

  “No, thanks. I’m fine.”

  “Thank God. I don’t think I can manage the trek to the kitchen.” She sank deeper into the sofa cushions, her arms limp at her sides. “So how can I help you?”

  “Actually, I’m investigating Dean’s murder. The police think I may have killed him, and I’m trying to clear my name.”

  “Why on earth would the police think you killed Dean?”

  “Because he was threatening me with a lawsuit.”

  “But Dean was always threatening to sue people,” Linda said with a dismissive wave. “Half the time he was just blowing off steam.”

  “Well, the police are taking his threat seriously, so I’m doing what I can to track down the killer.”

  “Anything I can do to help, just ask. The sooner Dean’s killer is caught, the happier I’ll be.”

  “For starters, did you see anyone slip out of the soundstage while Nikki left the Skinny Kitty unattended?”

  “No, after I left you and Prozac, I grabbed a bite at the buffet and went over to the conference table to check my e-mails. I wasn’t really paying attention to what was going on around me.”

  “What about Zeke? Was he with you the whole time?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I vaguely remember him wandering off somewhere, but like I said, I wasn’t paying attention.”

  So Zeke had wandered off. And Linda was alone at the time the Skinny Kitty was poisoned.

  Which meant neither the grieving widow nor her worshipful admirer had alibis for the time of the murder.

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to see Dean dead?”

  “Too many, I’m afraid. There’s Ian and Deedee. Dean was threatening to ruin their lives. And there was Dean’s old partner, Artie Lembeck. Artie’s convinced Dean stole his cat food recipe. Dean insisted he didn’t steal it, that he tweaked the recipe and made it better. I wanted to believe Dean. But who knows? Maybe he really did cheat Artie, and Artie was out for revenge.”

  “Anyone else?” I asked.

  “Of course, there’s me.”

  “You?” I said, careful not to mention my train of thought had been chugging along that exact same track.

  “I’m sure the police must have me on their suspect list. After all, everyone knew about Dean’s affair with Camille. I had the perfect motive: The scorned wife. “But believe me,” she said, “the only person I wanted to kill in that triangle was Camille.”

  She picked up the picture of her and Dean on the beach, the one I’d seen at the funeral reception, the one where they both looked so impossibly young.

  “Those were the good days,” she said wistfully. “Dean was so sweet. So funny. He really loved me then.”

  She gazed deeply into the picture, as if longing to escape into the frame, back to the days when her husband really loved her.

  “I wanted to go to law school, but I scrapped all my plans and worked two jobs so Dean could follow his dream and devote himself to his inventions. And how did he repay me? By cheating on me. He’s had women on the side for as long as I can remember. Camille wasn’t the first. Not by a long shot. There were
plenty of others. Like Nikki, the food stylist, to name just one.”

  Whoa! Dean had been boinking Nikki?

  “They first met when Nikki styled some cat food for the Skinny Kitty Web site. Nikki fell head over heels in love with Dean. But as soon as Camille came along, he dumped her like a hot potato. That’s the kind of guy he was.”

  She looked up at me with tears shining in her eyes.

  “And the worst thing is—after all these years, after all his affairs, I still loved him. How sick is that?”

  She started sobbing then, great heaving sobs.

  And at that moment, it was hard to believe that Linda could have poisoned Dean.

  The poor thing had actually loved the bum.

  I gave her some comforting pats on her hand, assuring her she had nothing to be ashamed of, that she’d been brave and loyal under the most trying circumstances.

  Then I thanked her for her time and asked if she’d mind e-mailing me the contact list for everyone on the shoot.

  “Not a problem,” she said with a weak smile.

  I headed back to my Corolla, my mind abuzz with the news flash Linda had just unleashed about Nikki’s affair with Dean. If Dean had dumped Nikki like a hot potato, she had every reason to want him dead.

  I may not have gotten any deli leftovers that morning, but I was walking away with a hot new murder suspect.

  Chapter 13

  Working on the theory that Hell Hath No Fury Like a Food Stylist Scorned, I called Nikki the minute Linda e-mailed me the Skinny Kitty contact list. She agreed to see me that afternoon. And after a nutritious lunch of Cheerios and Oreos (from the ever-important “O” food group), I headed over to the Culver City photography studio where she was working.

  A doe-eyed receptionist with an impressive display of nose rings led the way to the studio kitchen. En route we passed a photographer shooting a mouthwatering bowl of ice cream. At least, I thought it was ice cream.

  “It’s really mashed potatoes,” the receptionist informed me. “Real ice cream would melt under the camera lights.”

  Ice cream. Mashed potatoes. Either one worked for me.

  “Here we are,” the receptionist said, dropping me off at the kitchen.

  I stepped inside to find Nikki stuffing paper towels into a chicken.

  That’s right. Paper towels. I watched in disbelief as she bent over the bird—her apple-cheeked face flushed with perspiration—stuffing it with Bounty’s finest.

  “Hi, Jaine,” she said, catching sight of me.

  Then, no doubt noting the look of incredulity in my eyes, she explained, “I always use paper towels to stuff chickens. It’s a food stylist trick. Makes them look nice and plump. Then I undercook them so they don’t shrink, and give them some color with food coloring. Finally, for that perfect roasted-to-perfection look, I use this!”

  With that, she reached under the counter of her cooking island and brandished a blowtorch.

  Good heavens, I thought, gazing at the poor Bounty-stuffed bird. It was enough to make a person go vegetarian.

  Her chicken plumped up to her satisfaction, Nikki put it in the oven and climbed on a stool at her cooking island.

  “Have a seat,” she said, pointing to another stool.

  Once my fanny was hoisted in place, she asked, “What’s up?”

  This was going to be awkward, so I had to be very tactful and choose my words with the utmost of care.

  “I know all about your affair with Dean.”

  Quick. Somebody enroll me in Tact 101.

  “It’s not something I’m proud of,” Nikki said, blushing clear up to the roots of her blond shag cut.

  “Linda told me Dean dumped you for Camille Townsend.”

  “That he did,” she said with a bitter laugh.

  “I guess you must have been pretty angry.”

  “Hey, wait a minute!” she cried, waving her blowtorch. “If you’re suggesting I killed Dean in a fit of anger over the Pink Panther, you’re crazy!”

  I didn’t like the way she was holding that blowtorch. I just hoped she didn’t go pyromaniac on me.

  “Sure, I was upset when Dean left me, but I never dreamed of killing him. And besides, Dean dumping me was the best thing that ever happened to me. If he hadn’t let me go, I’d have never hooked up with my boyfriend. He’s ten times the man Dean ever was. So no, I didn’t kill Dean, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting. Just asking.”

  Thank heavens she’d stopped fiddling with her fire shooter.

  “No,” she said, going over to the refrigerator and taking out a bunch of carrots. “I got over Dean ages ago. Why, it didn’t even bother me when I heard him and Camille giggling and cooing in Dean’s dressing room on the day of the murder.”

  “You heard them?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Dean’s dressing room was right next to the kitchen. And the walls were paper thin. It was disgusting having to listen to them,” she said, starting to peel the carrots. “But not upsetting. To tell the truth, I felt sorry for Camille. Sooner or later, Dean was bound to dump her, too. That’s the kind of guy he was.”

  “Did you hear anything they said?”

  “Trust me, Jaine. They weren’t doing much talking.”

  “Too bad. It might’ve given us a clue to the killer.”

  Nikki looked up from her carrots and shot me an appraising look.

  “You’re awfully interested in this murder. What’re you? Some kind of cop?”

  “Actually, I’m a part-time semiprofessional PI.”

  “Really? A detective? In that outfit?”

  One of these days I’ve got to stop wearing my CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS T-shirt to work.

  “Yes, really,” I said, trying to give off my best Tough Gal vibes.

  “You ever look for lost things? Like, say, my pink hibiscus ring?” She stared down at her naked finger wistfully. “I’ll pay you twenty bucks if you find it.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t do costume jewelry searches.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Right now all I want to find is Dean’s killer. Are you sure you don’t have any idea who might have done it?”

  “Frankly,” she said, abandoning her carrots to open the gossip floodgates, “I’m surprised the police haven’t arrested Ian Kendrick.”

  “Why Ian?”

  “This isn’t the first time someone died on one of his productions. Years ago, back when he was doing A-list movies, he got into a fight with his lead actor, who threatened to have him fired. Three days later, the actor wound up getting killed when some explosives accidentally detonated on the shoot. Lots of people at the time thought that it wasn’t an accident and that Ian was responsible, but there wasn’t enough evidence to convict him. He never did jail time, but he never got hired on another A-list movie again.”

  Well, well. Another juicy tidbit to add to my files.

  “Thanks for the lead,” I said, getting up to go.

  “You sure you don’t want to track down my ring?” she asked, batting her baby blues. “I’ll bump up the reward to thirty bucks.”

  Thirty bucks? For an entire investigation? Was she crazy? There was no way a woman of my semi-professional standing was going to work for that kind of money. (Well, not unless I really needed it.)

  “Why don’t you just go down to Venice and buy another ring?”

  “I already tried, and they’re all sold out.”

  “Wish I could help,” I said, “but I’ve got my hands full with this murder thing.”

  “Well, good luck,” she said, going back to her carrots. “And before you go, would you mind passing me that deodorant?”

  She pointed to a spray can of deodorant on a shelf behind me.

  Why on earth would she need deodorant? I wondered as I handed it to her.

  “I use it to spray the carrots,” she said, seeing the puzzled look on my face. “Keeps them looking nice and shiny.”

  That did it. The woman had offici
ally ruined chicken dinners for me forever.

  Thank heavens she hadn’t been styling a pizza.

  Chapter 14

  Back home, I spent the next several hours toiling away on the Toiletmasters Touch-Me-Not brochure. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly several hours. More like twenty minutes. After which I tossed all thoughts of hands-free toilet flushing to the winds and headed for the tub, where I proceeded to luxuriate in a strawberry-scented bubble bath, daydreaming about my upcoming date with the hunkalicious Jim Angelides.

  Dating a plumber had never exactly been high on my wish list, but then, I’d never seen eyes as blue as Jim’s. Now plumbing seemed like quite the dashing profession. Just think, when we were married and living in our charming little cottage by the sea, I’d never have to worry about a clogged drain ever again!

  I let my mind wander down fantasy lane, drifting off on moonlit walks on the beach, romantic getaways in the Bahamas, and lingering kisses on the deck of our yacht.

  What can I say? I like to dream big.

  When the last strawberry-scented bubble had bit the dust, I dredged myself out of the tub and started to get ready for my big date.

  After moisturizing, spritzing, spraying, and blow-drying, I slipped into pearl gray slacks, a black cashmere sweater, gold hoop earrings, and my trusty Manolos. I topped it all off with a fabulous black Dooney & Bourke satchel bag I’d picked up half price at Nordstrom.

  “So, Pro. How do I look?” I asked, twirling around for her inspection.

  She gazed up from where she was sprawled out on my bedspread.

  Like the woman who led me to the waters of show biz and then left me to drown.

  Dammit. She was still showing no signs of getting better. I just hoped Emmy, the Reiki healer, would be able to help.