by Laura Levine
“I’ve got to go now,” Grace said, checking her watch. “I’ve got a shipment coming in from New York.”
With Frenchie gone, it looked like Grace was back in the saddle at Passions. Then she turned on her heel and walked to her car, a silver Jaguar sedan.
“I’m really sorry,” Maxine called after her, in a soft, sad voice.
But I wasn’t paying attention to Maxine any more. Or Grace, either.
No, my eyes were riveted on the roof of Grace’s Jaguar. Which I now saw was plastered with jacaranda blossoms. I remembered the jacaranda tree in Passions’ parking lot, and how the blossoms were sticking to Frenchie’s car in the rain. And here they were, stuck to Grace’s car. It hadn’t rained at all since the night of Frenchie’s murder. If these were fresh blossoms, they would’ve blown away in the wind. But they were stuck on, plastered there by the rain.
And then I wondered: Was it possible that Grace had driven to Passions the night of the murder? Was she the one who stabbed Frenchie with a fake Jimmy Choo and sent her to that Great Boutique in the Sky? Had Grace been prepared to try anything—including murder—to get her store back?
Frenchie’s apartment building was a nondescript concrete box called Malibu Villas. Its name was clearly a figment of the owner’s imagination, since it was nowhere near Malibu, and nothing remotely like a villa.
I rode up in a creaky elevator with a pair of twentysomething bimbettes in T-shirts so tight they were practically tourniquets. The place was undoubtedly populated by transient young singles. Frenchie’s middle-aged husband must have stood out like a sore thumb.
Owen Ambrose answered the door to his apartment, holding a beer stein filled with what looked like scotch. His florid face was glistening with sweat.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I murmured.
“Who’re you?” he muttered, gazing at me with glassy eyes.
“I’m Jaine Austen. A business associate of Frenchie’s.”
“Come on in,” he said, almost blowing me away with the booze on his breath.
I stepped inside and was surprised to see that the living room was filled to capacity with pricey oversized furniture, the kind of stuff you see in sprawling estates, not a crackerjack apartment with an unobstructed view of the Golden Arches.
“Help yourself to the buffet,” Owen said, pointing to a card table draped with a black crepe paper tablecloth.
Frenchie’s memorial buffet consisted of pretzels, Cheezits, and a mammoth jug of Costco scotch. It’s a good thing he hadn’t spent a lot of bucks on the spread, because—aside from me—nobody had shown up.
I grabbed a handful of pretzels and took a seat on a large overstuffed sofa across from a fake fireplace whose electric logs glowed like burners on a hot plate.
“Who’d you say you were again?” Owen asked, squinting at me.
“A business associate of Frenchie’s.”
He scratched his head, sending a small shower of dandruff to his shoulders.
“I can’t understand why more people didn’t show up at the church. You’d think they would have wanted to come.”
“Only to make sure she was really dead.”
Of course, I didn’t really say that. I just tsk-tsked sympathetically and stared into the phony fire.
“Aw, who am I kidding,” he said, draining the scotch from his beer stein. “I’m not really surprised. Most people didn’t like Frenchie. She could be a real bitch. But God, how I loved her.”
Clearly the Costco scotch had loosened his tongue.
“I left my wife and kids for her. Just packed up and moved out. After eighteen years of marriage. Arlene didn’t deserve to be treated that way. No, she didn’t. But what can I say? I was crazy in love.”
He hauled himself up from his armchair and weaved his way to the buffet table. I watched, fascinated, as he poured himself another steinful of scotch.
“I knew Frenchie was only interested in me for my money.”
Money? I wondered. What money?
“I was rich when she met me,” he said, as if in answer to my question. “I’d made a fortune in a dot-com startup company. When Frenchie and I were first married, we lived like kings. A five-bedroom house in Beverly Hills. Beach place in Malibu. All this furniture,” he said, gesturing around the room, “came from the beach house.”
“It’s very nice,” I said, trying to keep up my end of the conversation.
“But we all know what happened to the dot-com bubble,” Owen said, plopping down into his armchair. “Poof!”
He took a frighteningly large gulp of scotch, to get him through that awful memory.
“Once I lost my money, it was all over. Frenchie had no use for me. She cheated on me right and left and didn’t bother to hide it. I should’ve hated her, but I didn’t. I couldn’t stop loving her. It was like she had me under a spell or something. Like that movie with Marlene Dietrich, where she sings ‘Falling in Love Again’.”
“The Blue Angel.”
“Yeah, like The Blue Angel,” he said, taking another mammoth gulp of scotch. I could practically see his liver corroding before my eyes.
“Let me get you something to eat,” I said.
“Nah, nah,” he said, waving me away. “Not hungry. I could do with some scotch, though. Get me some more, will ya, hon?”
He held out his stein, like an alcoholic Oliver Twist.
“Really,” I said. “Let me fix you something to eat.”
Before he could stop me, I made my way into his tiny kitchen. I rummaged around the mostly empty cupboards until I found a can of tuna. Somehow I managed to toss together a tuna salad sandwich on a stale bagel.
“Here,” I said, handing it to him. “You’ve got to eat something.”
Reluctantly he took a bite.
“You know, for something you whipped together on the spur of the moment, this is really pretty bad.”
Look who was talking. The Cheezit King.
“Eat it anyway,” I ordered. “Or I’ll make you another.”
I waited till he’d finished eating, then got down to business.
“I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but the police think Becky Kopek killed your wife.”
“Sweet little Becky?” He looked genuinely surprised. “That’s impossible.”
“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”
“No, not really. Lots of people disliked Frenchie. But I didn’t think anybody hated her enough to kill her. Arlene probably would have wanted to kill her at one time. But she’s remarried now. To a gynecologist. She says my leaving her was the best thing that ever happened to her. So it couldn’t be Arlene. I figure whoever called Frenchie that night must’ve done it.”
“Somebody called her?”
“Yeah, she got a phone call from Passions’ alarm company. They said someone had broken into the store. So she drove over. But it turns out the alarm company never called her. Whoever made the call was probably luring her down there so they could kill her.”
“Did she say whether it was a man or a woman on the phone?”
He shook his head. “Nah. She just grabbed her keys and ran. And that was the last I ever saw of her.”
His eyes filled with tears, and the next thing I knew he was sobbing onto his bagel crusts.
Somehow I managed to get him to lie down on the sofa. Then I wrapped some ice in a towel and put it on his forehead.
By the time I’d grabbed a handful of Cheezits and made my way to the front door, he was snoring like a buzzsaw.
I sat in my Corolla, munching my Cheezits (and the Quarter Pounder I’d bought to go with them), and puzzling over that phony phone call from the alarm company. If someone wanted to lure Frenchie to the store to kill her, why didn’t they bring a murder weapon? How could they know in advance that she was going to be wearing lethal heels? Maybe they lured her to the store intending only to confront her, but then things got out of hand, and the next thing they knew they were going for her jugular.
T
hen again, maybe Owen was lying. Maybe there was no call. Maybe Frenchie went to the store to get some work done, and Owen followed her. His grief seemed genuine, but who knew? Maybe all those affairs of hers finally got to him. After years of being cuckolded, had he assuaged his bruised ego with a deadly fashion accessory?
It was only speculation, of course, but it made sense to me.
I popped the last pickle slice from my burger into my mouth, then put the car in gear and headed off to pay a call on my next suspect, Maxine the bookkeeper.
Chapter 14
Maxine’s apartment was out in the valley, on a busy street in Sherman Oaks. The sign out front read Luxury Apartments. I gazed up at the beige stucco building with the rusted hibachis on the balconies. If these were luxury apartments, I was a size 2. First Malibu Villas, and now this. What was it with these apartment building owners? Hadn’t they ever heard about the concept of truth in advertising?
I parked out front and headed up to Luxurious Arms, as I was now calling it. The front path was littered with discarded Thai take-out menus. I found Maxine’s name and apartment number on the directory. Luckily someone had left the door open, so I didn’t have to buzz Maxine and ask her to let me in. Something told me she might not have said yes.
The lobby was a small square room with gold-flecked mirrored walls. I pressed the button for the elevator. As I waited for it to show up, I thought of Maxine’s tearful apology to Grace on the steps of the church. She’d begged Grace to forgive her for behaving “so horribly.” What the heck was that all about?
At last, the elevator doors opened, and I got on. I pressed the button for the third floor, and the doors slowly creaked shut. After another eternity, it started moving, squealing and moaning every inch of the way. The elevator had to have been one of Mr. Otis’s first models. I was certain that any second now, the cable would snap.
I cursed myself for eating that Quarter Pounder. Just my luck it would be that final quarter of a pound that broke the cord. I could see the headlines now: Woman in Elastic-Waist Pants Steps on Elevator, Cable Snaps. I sighed with relief when the elevator finally opened its doors onto the third floor.
I made my way down the corridor to Maxine’s apartment and rang the bell. I heard footsteps approaching; then a shadow flitted across the peephole.
Maxine opened the door, in a faded terry bathrobe.
“Jaine,” she said, “what are you doing here?”
I couldn’t think of a convincing lie to explain my presence outside her door, so I went with the truth.
“Actually, I’m investigating Frenchie’s murder.”
She blinked, puzzled. “I don’t understand. I thought you were a writer.”
“I am, but I also do a little private investigating on the side. Do you mind if I come in?”
I guess she minded, because she just stood there, blocking my path.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I already told the police everything I know.”
So much for going with the truth.
Just as she was about to shut the door in my face, I felt something furry around my ankles. I looked down and saw an old gray cat. Quickly, I scooped it up in my arms.
“What a darling kitty,” I cooed. I guess the cat must have smelled the Quarter Pounder on my breath, because it started nuzzling my cheek.
“That’s Sparkles,” Maxine said, smiling indulgently at her cat. “She really likes you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” I said, scratching Sparkles behind her ears. “She’s adorable.”
Yes, I was sucking up to Maxine, but I wasn’t lying. I think all cats are adorable. And Sparkles was no exception.
“Would you believe she’s eighteen years old?”
Actually, I did believe it, but I pretended to be surprised.
“No! Really?”
Maxine nodded sadly. “She’s got arthritis now. My vet says there’s nothing we can do.”
“Would you like the name of my vet? She’s terrific.”
“You’ve got a cat, too?”
“Oh, yes. She’s the love of my life.”
By now, all Maxine’s resistance had melted away. I was a fellow cat lover.
“Come on in,” she said. “I was just about to make some tea.”
Still holding Sparkles, I followed Maxine into her apartment and looked around. The place was furnished in brown tweedy furniture, the kind of generic stuff you see at furniture rental places. I found it hard to believe that someone would actually go out and buy furniture this bland. It was like decorating your room with oatmeal.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Maxine said. “I’ll go put on the water for tea.”
She scurried off to her kitchen, and I took a seat on an oatmeal sofa, still cradling Sparkles in my arms. The cat stared up at me worshipfully. Why couldn’t Prozac ever give me some of this worshipful action?
Sparkles and I whiled away the next few minutes in a mutual lovefest until Maxine came back with a plate of Mallomars.
“Want one?” she asked, holding out the plate.
“Thanks,” I said. “Mallomars are my favorite.”
“Mine, too.” She smiled shyly and sat down across from me in a muddy brown La-Z-Boy.
Sparkles wriggled free from my arms and slowly made her way over to Maxine, who picked her up, and settled her in her lap.
“Is my Sparkles comfy?” she cooed, in the same nauseating baby talk favored by cat lovers the world over.
“Such a tragedy about Frenchie,” I said, getting down to the topic du jour.
“Yes,” she echoed woodenly. “A tragedy.”
Call me crazy, but this wasn’t exactly the griefstricken response I’d expected. Maxine had been Frenchie’s only friend at Passions. Possibly her only friend, period. Shouldn’t she be a tad more upset?
“Do you have any idea who might have killed her?”
“Well, you heard what Becky said about wanting to see Frenchie’s corpse on the sales floor.”
“You don’t really think Becky is capable of murder, do you?”
“You’d be surprised at what some people are capable of,” she said, rubbing Sparkles’ belly with slow, even strokes. “I learned that the hard way.”
“What do you mean?”
But she didn’t get a chance to answer, because just then the tea kettle started shrieking.
“I’ll be right back,” she said, putting Sparkles down on the La-Z-Boy and heading for the kitchen.
Alone in the living room, I looked around for signs of a personal life and found nothing. No knickknacks. No vacation souvenirs. No framed photos of loved ones. The room had about as much personality as a Motel 6.
I wandered over to a small oak bookshelf and scanned the books. Not much of interest. Just a few accounting books and some Reader’s Digest Condensed Classics. I was about to return to the sofa when I noticed a brown leather volume stuck between two condensed classics. I pulled it out and saw that it was a photo album.
I brought it back to the sofa and started leafing through it. There weren’t many pictures in the album: two formal portraits of a man and a woman, smiling stiffly at the camera, probably Maxine’s parents. The rest were snapshots of Maxine as an awkward child, an awkward teenager, and an even more awkward adult.
Aside from Maxine and her parents, there were no other people in the book. Just a bunch of cats. Poor Maxine. What a lonely life she must have led. I was about to close the book and put it back on the shelf when a photo fluttered to the floor. It was a picture of Maxine at the beach, grinning into the camera. And for once, she wasn’t alone. No, she stood arm in arm with Frenchie. At least I thought it was Frenchie. I recognized the Maltese cross on her chest. But I couldn’t be sure, because her face and neck had been slashed beyond recognition.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
I turned and saw Maxine. Her cheeks were flushed with anger.
“I was just looking at your photo album,” I stammered. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
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“Well, I do,” she said, snatching the mangled picture from me.
“The person with you in that picture,” I said. “It’s Frenchie, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s Frenchie.” The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable.
“I don’t understand. I thought you liked her.”
“I did,” she said. “Once.”
She crumpled down into the La-Z-Boy. Sparkles meowed at her feet, too old and arthritic to make the leap into her lap.
“Want to tell me about it?” I asked.
She hesitated a beat. I smiled my most sympathetic smile. And I wasn’t acting. At that moment, just thinking about that sad empty photo album, I really did feel sorry for her. I guess she must have decided she could trust me, because the next thing I knew, she was spilling her guts.
“I’ve never had many friends,” she said, lifting Sparkles up into her lap. “So when Frenchie came to work at Passions and started asking me to join her for lunch, I was thrilled. Frenchie was everything I wasn’t. Beautiful and confident and sophisticated. I couldn’t believe she’d chosen me to be her friend. Before long, we weren’t just having lunch together. We’d go out for dinners and movies, and sometimes we even went shopping together. For the first time in my life, I felt special.”
She smiled at the memory.
“Then one night we were having dinner out at the beach, and Frenchie told me about her plan. It would be so easy, she said, to doctor Grace’s account books and make it look like she’d been cheating on her taxes. Then Frenchie could use the doctored books to blackmail Grace into selling her the store. She said that Grace was old-fashioned, that she wasn’t keeping up with the times. That it was only a matter of time before she ran Passions to the ground.
“At first I refused. No way was I going to do that to Grace. But Frenchie convinced me that I’d actually be doing Grace a favor. She told me that Grace had confided in her that she had a heart condition. Frenchie said that the stress of running the store could kill her.
“When I still hesitated, she said that once she took over the store, she’d double my salary. I must’ve been crazy, but I agreed to do it. Frenchie had this way about her; she could get me to do whatever she wanted.”