by Laura Levine
“Hold, please.”
And hold I did, drumming my fingers on the dining room table, trying to ignore Prozac hissing at the mention of Desiree’s name.
Finally, the woman got back on the line.
“Can you be here at one o’clock?”
Sometimes it pays to be sneaky.
* * *
The Panther’s magnificent Bel Air estate, Casa Rosa, lived up to its name, its impeccably landscaped grounds awash in pink roses and peonies. The house itself was a white sandstone wonder, with turreted roofs and a front portico so grand, I almost expected a doorman to come racing out and take my car.
Instead, I parked in front of one of the mansion’s five (yes, five!) garages.
The soft-spoken woman I’d talked to on the phone came to the door in a spotless white maid’s uniform and ushered me into a foyer fragrant with the heady aroma of Stargazer lilies, a huge bunch of which were on display on a table by the front door.
“Miss Camille is in her bedroom,” the maid said, leading me up a flight of marble stairs, which, I must admit, gave me the heebie jeebies, reminding me as they did of my recent brush with death at Ian’s place.
Soon I was being ushered into a palace of a bedroom. I’d expected it to be done up in pink, but it was all pristine white—white plush carpeting, white satin bedding, white chaise longue, and white lacquered furniture—the perfect backdrop for the sprays of pink roses and peonies strategically dotted around the room.
Off to the side was a walk-in closet the size of a small airplane hangar. Good heavens. The woman had more clothes than my local Bloomie’s.
The Panther was reclining on the chaise in a pink velvet jog suit, with Desiree in her lap, staring down at her hands.
Lying sprawled on her white satin bed were two German shepherds decked out in collars studded with pink bling.
I marveled at the two dogs, wondering how they made it across the snowy white carpeting and onto the satin bedding without leaving a single speck of dirt. Did the Panther have a special maid on tap just to dustbust after her dogs?
“Miss Austen to see you, ma’am,” the maid announced.
The Panther looked up from her reverie.
“Thank you, Sofia.”
It was easy to see that she had once been a model, with her fabulous cheekbones and flowing mane of glossy brown hair. Lithe and willowy in her jog suit, she’d not gained an ounce since the days she’d walked the runway. And any hint of a wrinkle on her face had been Botoxed to oblivion.
Over on the bed, the German shepherds, now roused from their nap, took one look at me and began snarling.
“Tristan! Isolde!” the Panther scolded. “Behave yourselves.”
And just like that, they put their heads back down and resumed their naps.
I gazed at them wistfully, thinking how nice it must be to have pets who actually do what you tell them to.
The Panther turned to me now and blinked in confusion.
“Aren’t you the woman from the Skinny Kitty shoot? The one with the obstreperous cat?”
“She’s not so much obstreperous as strong willed,” I said, leaping to Prozac’s defense.
“But you told Sofia you were a writer.”
“It’s true. I’m a freelance writer. The Skinny Kitty job was actually the first time I took my cat on a commercial shoot. And probably the last,” I added with a rueful smile.
“Anyhow,” I said, launching into the tiny fib I’d fabricated for the occasion, “I sometimes write for Cat Fancy magazine, and when I heard they were looking for a cat for their new centerfold feature, I immediately thought of your Desiree. I just knew she’d be perfect for the job.”
“Isn’t that nice, Desiree?” the Panther cooed, stroking the beauty in her lap. “How’d you like to be a centerfold?”
The cat yawned in reply. I guess it was a bit of a comedown from national TV.
“All I have to do is take a few photos and send them on to my editor. Once she sees Desiree, I know she’s going to love her. Do you mind?” I asked, taking out my cell phone.
“Go right ahead,” the Panther replied. “Desiree loves having her picture taken.”
And indeed the cat preened as I snapped her picture, posing like the pro her mistress had once been.
“Thanks so much for stopping by,” the Panther said when I was done playing Magazine Photographer. “Let me know if your editor likes the pictures.”
Clearly my cue to go. But I couldn’t leave now. I hadn’t even begun to question her about the murder.
“Um. I’m supposed to get a few facts for the centerfold. You know. Desiree’s turn-ons. Turnoffs. Favorite scratching spots. Stuff like that.”
“Of course,” the Panther said. “Have a seat.” She gestured to the chair at her mammoth vanity.
I pretended to record our interview on my phone as the Panther told me all about Desiree’s turn-ons (filet mignon, Perrier, Porthault pillowcases), turnoffs (canned cat food, tap water, domestic caviar), and favorite scratching spot (Mommy’s antique armoire). Finally I’d run out of inane questions to ask.
“Well, thanks for stopping by,” the Panther said.
Once again, I ignored her cue to leave.
“It’s such a shame we had to meet under such tragic circumstances,” I tsked. “I still can’t get over what happened to poor Dean.”
“Such a wonderful man,” she said, shaking her head. “So amazing in bed.”
Okay, so she didn’t say “in bed,” but trust me, I could read between the lines.
“Dean and I met at a charity gala and clicked right away. I knew the minute I met him we were destined to be lovers.”
Okay, she said “friends.”
“We grew incredibly close in a very short time. “Confidentially,” she said, stroking Desiree, “I think he was lonely. He told me he no longer loved his wife, that he’d outgrown her.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, Dean and Linda met when they were quite young. Dean became a man of the world. But poor Linda stayed the same provincial girl Dean dated in high school.”
“Do you think Linda knew she was losing him? Do you think she might have snapped under the emotional pressure and killed him?”
“I doubt it,” the Panther said. “She loved him too much to kill him. But I suppose anything’s possible.”
“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”
She shook her head, dazed at the very thought.
“God, no. Who’d want to kill a charismatic man like Dean?”
Yikes. Somebody sure had been drinking the Kool-Aid in that relationship.
“I ran into Nikki the other day,” I said, “and she told me that Dean’s dressing room was right next to the kitchen at the Skinny Kitty shoot. I don’t suppose you saw or heard anybody in the kitchen on the day of the murder? Someone who might have tampered with the cat food?”
“I didn’t hear a thing. Dean and I were way too preoccupied working on our ad campaign.”
By which, of course, she meant going at it like bunny rabbits.
“But I did see something.”
At last. A lead!
“I took a break from our work session to go the ladies’ room, and just as I got there, I thought I saw Zeke, the writer, slipping into the kitchen. Of course, it might not have been Zeke. I’m extremely nearsighted, and the ladies’ room was way down at the other end of the hall. For all I know, the person I saw wasn’t even going into the kitchen, but into another room down the hallway. I thought about telling the police, but I didn’t want to get Zeke in trouble. He seems like a sweet young man, and I can’t believe he’d kill his own cousin.”
I, on the other hand, had no trouble whatsoever picturing Zeke as a cold-blooded killer.
And I made up my mind to have a chat with him ASAP.
In the meanwhile, I thanked the Panther for her time and left her as I’d found her—reclining on her chaise longue, staring down at her hands.
I wondered what she wa
s thinking about.
Her lost love? The fragility of life?
Or simply whether it was time for a manicure.
Chapter 18
Checking the Skinny Kitty contact list, I was surprised to see that Zeke’s address was the same as Linda’s. At first I thought it was a typo. But when I called Linda to ask her about it, she explained that Zeke lived in a guest cottage at the back of her property.
And so twenty minutes later, I was walking up the flagstone path to Zeke’s guest quarters, a charming cottage with shutters at the windows and a profusion of pansies out front.
Zeke came to the door in jeans and a T-shirt, his sandy hair tousled, holding a can of Red Bull.
“Hey, Jaine!” he cried. “Linda told me you were investigating Dean’s murder. Wow! That is so cool! Who’d a thunk it? You? A PI? Talk about casting against type!”
It looked like somebody had been nipping just a tad too much Red Bull.
“Entray, entray!” he said, waving me inside his tiny home—a single room with a futon, TV, and a large desk; the latter jammed with a laptop, piles of papers, and a giant thesaurus.
Off to the side was a tiny kitchenette.
“Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to his futon.
As I sank down into its marshmallow depths, I noticed something very interesting hanging over Zeke’s desk: a well-worn dartboard with Dean’s picture on it. Several darts were piercing the dearly departed’s nose.
“Nice decorating touch,” I said, gesturing to the wall art.
Zeke had the good grace to blush.
“I suppose I should get rid of it, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Too many happy memories.”
“Doesn’t Linda mind?”
“I make sure she never sees it.”
With that, he pulled out the darts and flipped the board over, revealing a mirror on the other side.
“Very clever.”
“It’s kept me from being evicted, that’s for sure. So, can I get you something to drink? I’m afraid all I’ve got is Red Bull.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“Me too,” he said, taking a big slug from his can. “More than fine. I’m great!”
Then he flung himself into the swivel chair from his desk and scooted it across the room to face me.
“I’ve been on a writing marathon ever since Dean died, working on my novel. My creative juices have been positively flowing! I realize now that Dean was holding me back, always criticizing me, and taking nasty shots. It’s a wonder I was able to write a single syllable.”
With that, he jumped up and raced to his desk.
“Look!” he said, holding up a stack of manuscript pages. “Just look at all the pages I’ve written!”
He grinned proudly, flush with the excitement of a writer who’s been churning out pages—or perhaps a killer who’s been getting away with murder.
“And it’s not just my life that’s improved,” he said, scooting back to his swivel chair. “Linda’s so much better off with Dean gone. The guy treated her like dirt. Cheating on her with the Pink Panther right under her nose. Why, I remember one night not long ago I saw Camille sneaking in the side door of the main house after midnight.
“Poor Linda,” he tsked. “Upstairs sleeping while God knows what was going on downstairs in her own house. “But that’s all over now,” he said, taking a final slug of Red Bull and crushing the can in his fist. “Linda won’t have to put up with that crap anymore. Dean won’t ever be able to hurt her again.”
Time for the big question.
“Are you the one who made sure he’d never hurt her again?”
“If you’re asking if I killed him, the answer is no. I hated the guy, but I’m not a killer.”
The jury was still out on that one.
“Actually,” I said, “I was just talking to Camille Townsend, who said she saw you outside the studio kitchen at the time the cat food was poisoned.”
“That’s a lie!” he said, his face flushed with anger. “I went to the men’s room. But that’s it. I went nowhere near that kitchen!”
He was so forceful in his denial, I was tempted to believe him.
Then, just when I was considering writing him off as a suspect, his cell phone rang.
“What’s up?” he said, answering it. “Okay, sure. I’ll be right there.”
“That was Linda,” he said, bounding out of his chair, his anger forgotten. “The mail just came. I got a letter from The New Yorker. I bet they’re buying the short story I sent them! Be right back.”
He was out the door like a shot.
And the minute he was gone, I was at his desk, snooping.
I checked out the first few paragraphs of his manuscript (I sure hoped he wasn’t counting on a yes from The New Yorker) and rummaged around the detritus of his desk. Sitting on top of a pile of bills was a mushy greeting card with two kittens cuddling on the front cover. Inside it said, You had me at “meow.”
It was signed, To Linda, XOXO, Zeke.
Not exactly a Shakespearean sonnet, but clearly Zeke was about to make his moves on his beloved.
Then, unable to resist the lure of his open laptop, I clicked on Zeke’s recent search history.
Whaddaya know? There among “literary agents” and “sex toys” were three recent searches—for poisons.
And just like that, Zeke went from would-be author to could-be killer.
* * *
Later that night I was stretched out in the tub, thinking about Zeke, who—in case you’re wondering—didn’t sell his short story to The New Yorker. He’d come back to his cottage, tossing his rejection letter into a wastebasket crammed, I suspected, with many other like-minded missives. But, still fueled by Red Bull, he shrugged off this temporary setback and practically pushed me out the door, eager to resume work on his novel.
Now I wondered if Zeke had used some of his unbounded energy to zap a bit of Raid on Dean’s Skinny Kitty. Surely those online poison searches were a tad incriminating.
And yet, if he really had killed Dean, would he be foolhardy enough to blab about how happy he was to be rid of him? Wouldn’t he try faking some grief?
And what about my other suspects du jour? There was Ian and his Murder Scrapbook. And my unscrupulous agent, Deedee, who trotted around with a convenient can of Raid in her purse.
“Oh, Pro!” I sighed. “So many suspects, so little proof.”
Prozac, who was perched on the toilet tank, merely stared at me, glassy-eyed.
How I longed for the days when I’d pour my heart out to her, only to have her yawn in reply. Now the poor thing didn’t even have the energy to open her mouth.
I was lying there, wondering if she was ever going to be her old self again, when I heard Lance knocking at my front door.
“Open up, Jaine. It’s urgent!”
Of course, Lance’s idea of urgent is a BOGO sale at H&M. Nevertheless, I wrenched myself from the tub.
“Hold on!” I cried. “I’ll be right there.”
Minutes later, I was in my robe, leaving damp footprints on the floor as I hurried to get the door.
“Hey, sweetie,” he said, sailing in, clad in faded jeans and an I ♥ MAMIE T-shirt. “Here’s your New York Times. Hope you don’t mind. I borrowed it this morning.”
So that’s where it went!
He held it out gingerly by the edges. Quickly I grabbed it from him, only to discover it was covered with wet, slimy stuff.
“What’s this wet goo?” I asked.
“Dog spit,” Lance replied. “Mamie’s been rehearsing with it all day. The Brad Pitt gig fell through, but Deedee lined up an audition for a Polish sausage commercial. Mamie is up for the part of the family dog who brings in the morning paper. You should see her carrying that paper in her little mouth. She’s such a pro. I just know she’s going to be a star!” His eyes shone with dreams of glory and six-figure paychecks. “Today Polish sausage. Tomorrow the world!”
But I was only half listening
to his babble. All I cared about was my puzzle. It wasn’t too late to fill it in. It would be my special after-dinner treat.
I opened the paper eagerly, hoping that inside, the puzzle would be dry. But when I finally fished it out, I groaned to see the squares obliterated by dog spit.
Grrr.
“And look at all these great new publicity photos!” Lance gushed. By now, he’d settled on the sofa and was holding out a bunch of glossies. “Here’s Mamie as a doctor.” (Mamie with a stethoscope around her neck.) “Here she is as a flamenco dancer.” (Mamie with a rose clenched in her teeth.) “Here she is as a ballet dancer.” (Mamie in a tutu.) “Isn’t Mamie just the cutest doggie you’ve ever seen?”
Prozac, who’d wandered in from the bathroom, looked up at Lance with jaded eyes.
The cuter they are, the harder they fall.
“And here’s one more,” Lance said, whipping out a final photo. “Me, as a doctor. The photographer let me wear Mamie’s stethoscope. He said he’d take more pictures of me, in case I decide to go into show biz. Which, as you know, I’m seriously thinking of doing. Tell me, is it just me, or do I bear an uncanny resemblance to Laurence Olivier?”
“It’s just you.”
But he was oblivious to my barb, too busy staring at himself as a doctor.
“Well, gotta run, hon,” Lance said, finally tearing himself away from his head shot. “You don’t mind if I take your paper again tomorrow, do you?”
“Touch my paper, and you’re a dead man.”
“Okay, okay,” he said, palms out in self-defense. “If that’s how you feel, I won’t take your paper. I’ve learned my lesson.”
Thank goodness for that.
“I’ll take Mr. Hurlbutt’s paper across the street. He doesn’t seem like much of a reader to me.”
“Why can’t Mamie rehearse with this paper?” I asked, holding out the paper he’d stolen that morning.
“Ick, no. It’s got spit all over it. Who’d want this?”
“Well, thanks so very much for returning it.”
“No problem, hon. That’s what friends are for.”
And with that, Lance sailed out the door, a five-letter word for the most irritating man in the world.