by Laura Levine
With my heart in my stomach, I read how a homeless man had found Lupe’s body in a Dumpster, her head bashed in and left for dead. She’d been brought to USC County General Hospital, where her chances of survival were listed as “slim.”
Clearly the killer had struck again.
Poor Lupe must have seen something incriminating the night of the murder, some clue to the killer’s identity. Maybe she even saw who did it.
When I’d run into her at the mall yesterday she said she was going to meet a prospective employer. A friend of Bunny’s who was willing to pay her three times what Marvin was paying her. She said they were meeting at the food court, and if she got the job they were going to the supermarket so her new boss could show her what foods she liked.
It hadn’t occurred to me at the time, but now I wondered why a prospective employer would meet a job candidate at the mall. Didn’t people usually interview cooks in their homes? Wouldn’t they want to show them their kitchens? And why go to the supermarket to show Lupe what she liked? Why not just write out a shopping list?
I should’ve suspected that inflated salary was too good to be true.
Yes, Lupe must’ve seen something important out on that patio. But, afraid to go to the cops lest they deport her, she kept her mouth shut. Somehow the killer found out and, taking no chances, lured her to the mall with the promise of a high-paying job.
It was possible, of course, that Lupe had been blackmailing the killer for a better job, but I had a hard time picturing timid little Lupe as a blackmailer.
Whatever the scenario, I was willing to bet my bottom Pop-Tart that the woman Lupe met at Century City was Bunny’s killer.
And I had to stop her before I became Victim #3.
Armed with Lupe’s newspaper photo, I zipped over to Century City to track down my Mystery Woman.
Was it Fortuna, I wondered, the unstable actress whose true love Bunny had stolen? Or Ellen, the ex-wife hoping to reunite with her husband? Or Sarah, the stepdaughter who’d loathed Bunny from the moment she’d laid eyes on her?
Or maybe it was one of the party Barbies. Any one of them could have been nursing a secret grudge.
For the second day in a row, I pulled into the Century City parking lot. Still a bit rattled about yesterday’s movie mishap, I was careful to park in a well-lit space.
I made my way up to the food court and groaned to see the place packed with customers. It was almost lunchtime, and the midday crowds were gathering to be fed.
Well, I wasn’t about to wait in any lines.
Switching to Take Charge mode, I headed straight for the nearest concession, a place called California Tater, where two teenage kids were cranking out orders.
“Excuse me,” I called out. “I need to ask you guys a question.”
One of the kids, a moonfaced girl with a purple streak in her hair, looked up from the Coke machine.
“Sorry,” she said. “You gotta wait your turn.”
“Yeah, lady,” one of her customers echoed. “Get in line, like the rest of us.”
I turned to see everyone in line scowling at me. Wilting under their collective glare, I crept meekly to the end of the line.
California Tater was one of those places that served baked potatoes a zillion different ways. And I have to confess their bacon-cheese tater looked mighty tempting. But I could not allow myself to be distracted by baked potatoes when I had a killer to track down.
The line moved slowly, but at last it was my turn.
“What can I get you?” the purple-haired teen asked as I stepped up to the counter.
“Like I said eight customers ago, I need to ask you guys a question.”
“You sure you don’t want a potato?”
“No, I don’t want a potato. I just want to know if either of you saw this woman here yesterday.”
I held up Lupe’s photo, but all I got were a couple of blank stares.
I repeated this process at a few other food stands, waiting on endless lines, flashing Lupe’s photo to more teenagers in paper hats. But aside from one kid who identified her as Jennifer Lopez, nobody remembered seeing her.
Trudging to the end of yet another line, I gazed out onto the food terrace. How I wished I were sitting there in the sun, inhaling a bacon-cheese baked potato. And as I watched the busboys running around clearing tables, it suddenly occurred to me that maybe one of them saw Lupe’s mystery woman.
So I scooted outside to question them. It wasn’t easy chasing after them as they hustled about. And communication was a bit of a hurdle since English seemed to be their distant second language.
But at last I struck gold with a stocky brown-eyed guy with a reasonable command of the English language.
“Si,” he said, gazing down at Lupe’s picture. “I saw her. Muy hermosa. Very pretty.”
“Did you notice who she was with?”
“She wasn’t with anybody. She sat alone for a long time. Like she was waiting for somebody. Then a man came and she left with him.”
“A man?” I blinked in surprise.
“Si. Un hombre.”
“What did this man look like?”
“I wasn’t looking at the man,” he shrugged. “I was looking at her. Like I said, she was muy hermosa.”
Honestly, men are the most irritating witnesses. All they deposit in their memory banks are sports scores and Playboy centerfolds.
“Don’t you remember anything about him?” I asked.
He pondered a beat and finally managed to dredge up a smidgeon of a description. But as it turned out, his smidgeon was all I needed.
“He was a tall man,” he said. “With a hat.”
“A hat? What kind of hat?”
“Like that,” he said, pointing to a teenager in a baseball cap.
A baseball cap, huh?
Okay, class. Who’s the one person who’d been wearing his Mattress King baseball cap since the day I first laid eyes on him?
A gold star, with extra glitter, to all of you who said Owen Kendall.
Chapter 24
Owen was in the Mattress King parking lot when I drove up, giving last-minute instructions to two delivery men. He barked out orders with drill sergeant precision, alert and confident, a far cry from the sniveling wreck he’d been the last time I’d seen him.
I waited till the delivery guys took off, then got out of my Corolla.
“Hey, Owen,” I called out.
“Oh, hi, Jaine.”
A veil of sorrow slid over his features as he slipped back into the role of grieving lover.
“Can we talk?” I asked.
“Sure thing. Come with me. I just need to get something from the stockroom.”
I followed him into the bunker-like building, where he grabbed a carton from one of the shelves.
“Our new mattress samples finally came in.”
Flushing at the memory of my purloined mattress sample, I got down to the business at hand.
“I suppose you heard what happened to Lupe.”
“What a tragedy,” he tsked. “The streets just aren’t safe anymore.”
“I don’t think it was a random act of violence, Owen.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I think the person who attacked Lupe was Bunny’s killer.”
“Oh?”
He grabbed a box cutter from a shelf and began opening the carton.
“I’m guessing Lupe saw something the night of the murder, something she shouldn’t have seen. And so the killer had to get rid of her.”
“Interesting theory,” he said, as casual as can be. But he was gripping that box cutter so hard, the veins in his hand were popping like ropes.
“It just so happens I ran into Lupe at Century City yesterday, right before she was attacked. She told me she was there to meet a woman for a job interview. But I don’t think there was any job. I think the killer lured her there and then drove her to a deserted alley and bashed in her head.”
“Have any idea who it was
?” he asked, still Mr. Casual.
“I sure do. I’ve got an eyewitness who saw Lupe meeting someone at the food court.”
By now he’d pulled the mattress sample out of the carton and was examining it like it was the Rosetta Stone. Anything to avoid eye contact.
“My witness swears it was you.”
Okay, so I exaggerated a tad.
“What?!”
At last he turned to face me, a phony smile plastered on his face.
“My witness says he saw the two of you leave the mall together.”
“How could it possibly be me? You said Lupe was going to meet a woman. Last I looked, I was still leaving the toilet seat up.”
“Oh, come on, Owen. It would have been easy for you to call Lupe and disguise your voice. You figured if she told anyone about the interview, the cops would be looking for a woman.”
“Don’t be absurd. I was nowhere near Century City yesterday.”
“Mind my asking where you were?”
“Home. I took off early. I had a migraine and my head was splitting.”
“See anybody? Talk to anybody?”
“Of course not. I took a Zomig and collapsed on my bed.”
“Not much of an alibi, is it?”
“That’s where I was, Jaine.” Another plastic smile. “Why on earth would I want to hurt Lupe?”
“My guess is she saw you out on the patio the night of the murder, adding weed killer to Bunny’s dirty martini.”
At that, all pretense of bonhomie flew out the stockroom.
“I already told you,” he said, steely-eyed, “I couldn’t have killed Bunny. I was crazy in love with her. I wanted her to leave Marvin and run away with me.”
“I’m sure you did, Owen. But I’m guessing she said no. Bunny was a fickle lady. It was fun at first, sleeping with her son-in-law, but after a while she got tired of you. No way was she about to run off with you and give up Marvin’s millions. So you flipped out. You figured if you couldn’t have her, no one could.”
“That’s not true, Jaine. And I wouldn’t go around telling that story if I were you.”
And then he put down the mattress sample and picked up the box cutter. A sudden jolt of fear ran down my spine. That thing had sliced through thick cardboard like butter. I shuddered to think what it would do to my vital organs.
What an idiotic move this had been. Why the hell had I come here to confront him? I should’ve gone straight to the cops.
“My best friend knows where I am,” I lied, slowly backing away from him. “So if anything happens to me, the cops will know it’s you.”
He kept coming toward me, that damn box cutter clutched in his hand.
“My friend knows the whole story!” I began babbling. “How you were crazy in love with Bunny and how you killed her in a fit of passion because she wouldn’t leave Marvin and run off with you!”
I took another step backward. It turned out to be my last step. I’d backed myself up against a mattress. I was trapped.
It was then that I heard an explosive “Hah!”
I turned to see Sarah standing in the open entrance of the stockroom, her squat body silhouetted in the sunlight.
Owen’s box cutter clattered to the concrete floor.
She sauntered toward us, a bitter smile on her face.
“Owen—crazy about Bunny? That’s a laugh! The only person Owen is crazy about is Owen!”
“Sarah, sweetheart,” Owen cooed, attempting to put his arm around her.
She swatted him away like a pesky fly.
“And as for killing Bunny in a fit of passion, not bloody likely, not when he was busy boffing his receptionist.”
Owen’s eyes widened with fake innocence. “Honey, what are you talking about?”
“The next time you take naked pictures of your bimbo,” she snapped, “find a more imaginative hiding place than your night table.”
With that, she reached into her purse and hurled a bunch of photos at him.
One of them landed at my feet. I picked it up and saw Amy, the mousy receptionist, stretched out seductively on a bare mattress wearing nothing but a smile and a pair of stilettos.
Owen’s face drained of color.
“Sarah, sweetheart, I can explain everything.”
“Save it for my attorney, Owen,” she snapped, heading out the door. “We’re getting a divorce.”
“Honey, please! Wait!”
He ran out after her, but she was already in her car and zooming out of the lot.
Without missing a beat, he got in his BMW with the M KING II license plates, and took off after her.
I stared down at the X-rated photo of Amy. So Owen was her boyfriend, the one who was going to take her on a romantic getaway weekend. And that mattress she was lying on—it was the one in the back of the stockroom. That day when I found Owen sleeping there, it wasn’t because he was in mourning over Bunny. It was a post-whoopie nap!
So much for my Owen-killing-Bunny-in-a-crime-of-passion theory.
With a dispirited sigh, I began gathering the rest of the pictures. The last thing Amy needed was for the delivery guys to get a load of these. Although with a slimebucket like Owen, they were probably already whizzing around the Internet.
What an operator. Cheating on his wife with Bunny, and cheating on Bunny with poor little Amy. How wrong I’d been about the guy. All along I’d assumed he was the weak one and Bunny was the cold, calculating one.
But wait a minute. What if it was just the reverse? What if Bunny was the one who’d fallen head over heels in love with Owen? What if she was the one begging Owen to leave Sarah? What if she threatened to tell Sarah about their affair and cut him off from the Cooper zillions?
Surely that was a motive for murder!
If only I had proof.
And without wasting another minute, I marched into the Mattress King office to find some.
I found Amy at her desk, tears streaming down her cheeks as she tossed her possessions into a cardboard box. In her prim white blouse and low-heeled pumps, it was hard to believe this was the same gal who’d been stretched out in sex kitten mode in those mattress photos.
Lenny was hovering over her as she packed, patting her shoulder and making sympathetic clucking noises.
“Marvin just called and fired her,” he explained to me in a hushed whisper.
“I guess Sarah must have told him about you and Owen,” I said, handing her the pictures.
She took one look at them and broke out in a fresh volley of tears.
“I never meant to hurt Sarah,” she sobbed. “Owen swore they had an open marriage and that she’d agreed to a divorce.”
“What a bastard,” Lenny tsked. “Taking advantage of the poor kid like that.”
“Owen’s more than just your garden variety SOB. I’m pretty sure he’s also Bunny’s killer.”
“Owen?” Amy blinked in disbelief.
“You’re kidding!” Lenny gasped, openmouthed.
“Afraid not. I need to search his office. Which one is it?”
Lenny pointed to a door behind Amy’s desk.
“Wait!” Amy called out as I started to hurry off.
I thought she was going to try to stop me, to tell me that no matter how big a rat Owen was, he couldn’t possibly be capable of murder.
But, no. Blushing ever so modestly, all she said was, “If you find a pair of leopard skin thongs, they’re mine.”
Owen’s office was little more than a glorified cubicle: desk, file cabinet, and no-frills metal visitor’s chair.
Hoping against hope I’d find something that would nail him to the mat, I began going through his papers and files, rifling through old work orders, invoices, phone bills, and car service receipts.
Heaven knows what I expected to find. A diary confession? A receipt for weed killer?
Needless to say I found neither of the above. Although I did find Amy’s leopard skin thong in his file cabinet, jammed in back of one of the drawers, along with a b
ottle of scotch and a tube of something called “Stim-U-Lady Love Cream.”
I checked the messages on his answering machine, but there were none from Bunny.
If only I could check his e-mail, too.
I sat down at his computer, hoping he might have left his account open, but no such luck. How on earth could I gain access to his e-mail without his password?
Frantically, I started guessing. I tried Owen1. Owen2. Owen3.
This was ridiculous. There had to be thousands of Owens with e-mail accounts. I could be here forever.
“Amy,” I called out the open door, “do you know Owen’s birthday?”
Lots of people use their birthday as their password; maybe Owen did, too.
“July twenty-first,” she sniffled. “That’s when we were supposed to get married. He said he wanted the two most special events of his life to happen on the same date.”
Oh, barf. What a bucket of bilge.
“What year?” I asked.
“1982.”
I tried Owen721, Owen82, and Owen72182. Nada. So I started the whole process over with his last name.
After typing in enough combinations to induce carpal tunnel syndrome, I had to admit defeat.
Elbows propped on Owen’s desk, my head in my hands, I glanced down idly at one of the receipts in his in-box. From Santa Monica BMW, for a recent tune-up.
And that’s when I saw it. The name on his vanity plates:
M KING II.
What the heck? It was worth a shot. I typed it in, and bingo! His e-mails popped up on the screen.
Eagerly, I opened his “old mail” file. In addition to the messages guaranteeing to keep Owen active in the sack for hours on end, there were a bunch of letters from “Bunny-Love.”
I scanned the subject lines:
“Missing you.” “Have you told her yet?” “Why haven’t I heard from you?”
My eyes riveted on the one that said, FINAL WARNING!!!
With trembling hands, I clicked it open. It was short and not-so-sweet:
Either you tell Sarah about us, or I will.
So I was right. He’d killed her to shut her up.
At last. I had that shred of evidence I’d been praying for.