Death of a Trophy Wife

by Laura Levine

  My first instinct was to go to the cops. But I couldn’t. Not unless I wanted to be accused of computer hacking.

  So I called Marvin and told him the whole story. Thank heavens he was able to access the e-mails from Bunny’s computer. He put in a call to the cops, and the next day they carted Owen downtown for questioning.

  Of course, he denied everything and lined up a hotshot attorney to defend him.

  But things weren’t looking good. One of the Barbies came forward and told the cops she remembered hearing Bunny and Owen arguing the night of the murder. I told them about running into Lupe at Century City the day of her attack, and how she’d been heading off to meet a prospective employer. Now the cops were bringing in the busboy from the food court to see if he could identify Owen from a lineup. Criminal charges were definitely hovering over Owen’s head. Especially if Lupe regained consciousness.

  Yes, everything was looking quite rosy. Here on this side of the country, anyway.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  EXPLODING CHICKEN ROCKS LOCAL COOKATHON

  The annual Tampa Vistas Cookathon was brought to an abrupt halt today when a Turbomaster 3000 convection oven shattered and sent glass flying everywhere.

  Early reports are sketchy, but according to the police, the cause of the mishap was an exploding chicken.

  No injuries were reported.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Gruesome Details

  Dearest Jaine—

  Thanks to your father, I can never show my face in public again. I may as well hang my picture in the Most Wanted section at the post office and be done with it.

  As you can see from the item in the Tampa Tribune, Daddy’s chicken exploded and ruined the whole cookathon. The Tribune didn’t go into all the gruesome details (thank heavens!), but I don’t see why I should be the only one who has to be haunted by them for the rest of my life. So I’m sharing them with you, sweetheart.

  Here’s what happened: Right after breakfast (Cheerios à la Hank), Daddy snuck over to Lydia Pinkus’s town house to search for his Secret Spice (which I still say is nothing more than paprika). He hid in the bushes until he saw Lydia and her Aunt Ida leave for the cookathon. Then he shimmied up her palm tree and let himself in through the sliding glass balcony door, which Lydia hadn’t bothered to lock. I shudder to think what would have happened if she had locked it. I wouldn’t put it past that crazy father of yours to have busted the glass.

  Once he was inside he searched Lydia’s town house high and low for the Secret Spice, which of course he couldn’t find, because, as anyone with a grain of sense could have figured out, it wasn’t there! In fact, right after he left for Lydia’s, I found the dratted bottle where Daddy had dropped it behind the oven.

  Anyhow, what with all the time he wasted at Lydia’s, he was almost two hours late for the cookathon. With only twenty minutes left before the final bell, he stuffed his chicken without popping the popcorn first. He just tossed handfuls of unpopped corn into the bird and doused it with that Secret Spice. Then he threw it into the Turbomaster and ramped up the temperature to inferno proportions.

  Needless to say, in the intense heat of the Turbomaster, the popcorn started popping like crazy, and the poor bird just couldn’t contain it. The Turbomaster began rattling and making a godawful racket. I told Daddy to shut the darn thing off, but would he listen? Of course not! When does that man ever listen to reason?

  The next thing you know the Turbomaster was exploding like a rocket. Glass shattered everywhere. All I can say is it’s a good thing nobody was injured, except for Daddy, who got a tiny cut on his arm.

  It serves him right.

  Your furious,

  Mom

  PS. I may never speak to him again!

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: In the Doghouse

  I suppose Mom wrote you about my little mishap at the cookathon. I’m afraid she’s in a bit of a tiff.

  And apparently she found my Secret Spice behind the oven. She claims I dropped it there, but we both know better, don’t we? That’s obviously where Old Pruneface hid it to sabotage my chances at the cookathon. I tell you, lambchop, the woman is the devil in support hose.

  But I’m keeping mum about my sabotage theory. I’m in the doghouse with your mom, and I can’t risk getting her even angrier than she already is.

  I’m hoping to get back in her good graces with a dozen roses, and dinner reservations at Le Chateaubriand, Tampa Vistas’ finest steak house.

  Keep your fingers crossed, lambchop, that she forgives me.

  XOXO,

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Daddy’s Peace Offering

  If Daddy thinks he can win me over with a couple of roses and a steak dinner, all I can say is…he may be right. After all those popalicious chickens, I could go for a nice juicy steak.

  Besides, I can tell he feels terrible about what happened. And he’s agreed to never again go anywhere near the kitchen except for a glass of water.

  Well, must run and get ready for our dinner date. I’m going to wear a fabulous new Georgie O. Armany beaded top I got from the shopping channel, only $49.95, plus shipping and handling!

  Love and kisses,

  Mom

  PS. Now that I think about it, maybe it’s a good thing Daddy’s chicken exploded. I mean, thanks to this whole cookathon disaster, I’ll never have to look at that dratted Turbomaster again!

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Good News, Lambchop!

  Good news, lambchop! I’m back in your mom’s good graces! She’s upstairs right now getting all gussied up for our dinner at Le Chateaubriand.

  She’s a very wise woman, your mom. She said from the get-go the Turbomaster 3000 was nothing but a piece of junk. And I have to confess, she was right. It was very shoddily built.

  So I’ve ordered the new improved Turbomaster 5000! I paid extra for overnight delivery. It’s coming tomorrow!

  Love ’n’ hugs,

  Daddy

  PS. I’m not allowed in the kitchen anymore, so I’ll set it up in the garage. Mom’ll never even know it’s there.

  Chapter 25

  Now that he was no longer the cops’ number one suspect, Lance was in seventh heaven. Brimming over with gratitude and affection for yours truly, he insisted on taking me out to dinner to celebrate his freedom.

  “It’s not going to be a health food restaurant, is it?” I asked as we tooled out to Santa Monica in his Mini Cooper.

  “No, it’s not a health food place. There’ll be plenty of high-cholesterol goodies to clog your arteries.”

  It was one of those rare nights in Los Angeles—balmy and fog free. The perfect night for a drive to the beach. I, however, was not paying much attention to the passing scenery. All I could think about was Daddy and his exploding chicken! Honestly, one of these days I just know he’s going to get his own chapter in Ripley’s Believe It or Not.

  The restaurant turned out to be a swellegant converted cottage with beamed ceilings and rustic hardwood floors. A stunning would-be actress ushered us to a table out on a patio dotted with twinkly fairy lights and trendy people picking at their food. The only thing more breathtaking than the setting, I was about to discover, were the prices.

  I ordered the Caesar salad and pork chop, which—fasten your seat belts—was thirty-two dollars. For one measly pork chop! And that was one of the cheaper items on the menu. I intended to eat every last sliver of the thing. And possibly have the bone bronzed.

  “Fabulous news, Jaine,” Lance said, as I slathered a marvelously crusty dinner roll with artisan herb butter. “Neiman’s called and I’m getting my job back.”

  “That’s wonderful!” I replied, feeling a lot less guilty about ordering that pork chop.

  “Not only that, the cops said I was free to leave town. So Barbados, here I come!”<
br />
  He was so happy, he barely touched the tiny sliver of arugula on his plate masquerading as an appetizer.

  I, on the other hand, dug into my Caesar salad with gusto.

  “I can’t get over how terrific everything worked out,” he gushed.

  “Mmmf,” I said, reaching for a sesame-studded cracker from the breadbasket.

  “Just last week, I was an unemployed murder suspect, and now I’m dating the man of my dreams. Isn’t life fabulous?”

  “Yeah. And these crackers aren’t bad, either. You should give them a try.”

  “And I owe it all to you! Not meeting Peter, of course. I suppose I should thank the cops for that. But if it weren’t for you, I’d still be their number one suspect. How can I ever thank you, Jaine?”

  “You can never go wrong with chocolate.”

  “No, seriously.”

  “I was being serious.”

  “How else can I ever thank you?”

  “By never cooking me a diet dinner ever again.”

  “Oh, all right,” he conceded with a sigh. “No more diets. But I’ve got to come up with a better gift than that.”

  “Surprise me. And in the meanwhile, if you’re not going to eat your croutons, fork ’em over.”

  I smell pork!

  I’d just walked in the door, and Prozac was sniffing at me with all the intensity of a bloodhound on a convict hunt.

  Where the heck are my leftovers?

  “I’m sorry, Pro, but there aren’t any leftovers.”

  Her big green eyes widened with indignation.

  Surely you jest!

  “There was one measly pork chop. It was barely bigger than an Oreo.”

  After several more sniffs failed to uncover any pork, she looked up at me again.

  Let me get this straight. You’re saying there are no leftovers?

  “I swear, the only thing left over from that meal was my napkin.”

  And just like that, she switched into Drama Queen mode, channeling Sarah Bernhardt in one of her hammier roles, tail thumping, green eyes luminous with grief.

  If you really loved me, you would’ve saved me something!

  Then she leaped up on the sofa and curled into a furry ball of hostility.

  “C’mon, Pro,” I said sitting down next to her. “How about a nice long back scratch, with extra scratching behind the ears?”

  She swatted me away with her paw.

  Not tonight. I’ve got a headache.

  Something told me I’d be sleeping solo that night.

  I left her to sulk and was heading for the bedroom to get undressed when the phone rang. My caller ID said “Kendall,” and for a frightening instant I thought it was Owen. So I let the machine get it.

  I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard Sarah’s voice, and picked up the phone.

  “Hey, Sarah. How’s it going?”

  “If you mean, how does it feel to be rid of a lying, cheating slimebag of a husband, the answer is: quite liberating. In fact, as we speak I am eating cookies in bed, dropping all the crumbs I darn well please.”

  A girl after my own heart.

  “Anyhow, I hope I’m not calling too late, but Dad wanted me to invite you and Lance to Bunny’s memorial service.”

  “Marvin wants me there? I mean, Bunny wasn’t exactly fond of me.”

  “But Dad is. He’s very grateful for all you’ve done. And so am I. Do you think you can make it? It’s the day after tomorrow.”

  “Of course. Where’s it going to be?”

  “The rooftop at Neiman Marcus.”

  “You’re having a memorial service at a department store?”

  “Bunny always said when she died she wanted her ashes scattered over Neiman Marcus. It was in her will. And Dad is honoring her request.”

  Which was pretty darn nice of him, I thought, after the way Bunny had treated him and his family.

  “Actually, it should be a lot of fun,” Sarah said. “There’s going to be a full bar, strolling mariachis, and fireworks at the end.”

  “Was that in Bunny’s will, too?”

  “No. That was my idea. And considering the occasion, it was worth every penny.”

  Chapter 26

  No expense had been spared for Bunny’s farewell bash. Neiman’s rooftop had been transformed into a tropical paradise, with potted palm trees, lush gardenias, and flaming tiki torches lighting up the starry night. And, as promised, a trio of mariachis serenaded the guests.

  But the most festive sight of all, as far as I was concerned, were a bunch of waiters trotting around with heaping platters of hors d’oeuvres.

  Sarah greeted us when Lance and I showed up, a lei around her neck and a wide grin on her face.

  Never had I seen her look so happy.

  “Hey, you guys!” she beamed. “Great to see you.”

  Lance had the good grace to blush. As well he should have, after his abominable behavior that day in Sarah’s lab.

  “Please accept my apologies, Sarah,” he said. “I guess I was a tad out of line accusing you of Bunny’s murder.”

  “No biggie.” She shrugged magnanimously. “All’s well that ends well, that’s what I always say.”

  And for Sarah, Bunny’s death had clearly been the happiest of all possible endings.

  “Quite a crowd,” I said, surveying the scene.

  Indeed, the joint was jumping. Marvin and Ellen, in matching Hawaiian shirts, were arm in arm, chatting with Lenny, who glowed with pleasure, happy to have his old buddy back. Statuesque Fiona, dressed to the nines in a startling Marlene Dietrich tuxedo outfit, was working the room, passing out her business cards to the Barbies. Everywhere I looked, happy partygoers were chatting and laughing as they slugged down their cocktails and hors d’oeuvres.

  Some of the Barbies were actually eating.

  “Well, grab yourself a drink at the bar and enjoy!”

  As Sarah flitted off to chat with other guests, Lance and I made our way to the bar. Unlike the one at Bunny’s Dirty Martini party, it was stocked to the gills with all kinds of alcohol.

  Lance ordered a mai tai, while I opted for a frosty margarita.

  “To Bunny,” Lance said, raising his glass in a toast.

  “For her sake, I hope they sell Manolo Blahniks in hell.”

  “Oh, Jaine,” Lance gushed, gazing up at the stars. “Isn’t life marvelous? To be young and tan and free to go to Barbados whenever you want!”

  Still on cloud nine over having received his Get Out of Jail card, he’d been waxing euphoric like this for days.

  “We’re going to have so much fun at this party,” he said, hooking his arm in mine. “Just you and me, the two musketeers, best buddies through thick and thin—

  “Oh, Marci! Yoo hoo!”

  He waved to a Botoxed blonde.

  “One of my best customers,” he explained. “I’ll just go say a quick hi, and be back in a flash.”

  Yeah, right. That was the last I spoke to my best bud and fellow musketeer all night.

  Without wasting another precious second, I tackled a passing waiter and snagged myself a rumaki. (Okay, two rumakis.) I’d just finished scarfing them down and was about to reach for a mini chicken kabob when Fiona came gliding up to me, radiant in her tuxedo outfit. Only a statuesque woman like Fiona could carry off that look so well.

  “Jaine, sweetheart!” she cried, giving me an air kiss. “So lovely to see you.”

  “You, too. You’re looking wonderful.”

  “Quite a difference from the last time we met,” she winked.

  I’ll say. Gone were her bloodshot eyes, her sleep-matted hair. Today she was bright-eyed and b-tailed, her make-up impeccable, her spiky hair moussed to perfection.

  “I’m simply mortified over the way I behaved when you showed up at my apartment that day. As you may have noticed, I was a bit under the influence.”

  A bit? Her breath had been strong enough to start a bonfire.

  “When Bunny died, I guess I went a little nu
ts. So I hit the bottle. But I finally came to my senses. After all, life goes on and all that. I’m working the perfume counter at Saks now.

  “It’s not so bad.” She shrugged. “I get an employee discount and all the shopping bags I can carry. And with any luck, I can build up my business again. Which reminds me, sweetie,” she said, handing me a bunch of her business cards, “if you know anyone who needs a stylist, spread the word!”

  Then, plastering an upbeat smile on her face, she headed off to work the room.

  Which left me free to track down that waiter with the mini chicken kabobs. I spotted him in the crowd and hurried to his side, and as I did I bumped into Lenny.

  “Hey, Jaine!” He grinned.

  Phooey! He’d just nabbed the last kabob.

  I guess he could see the look of disappointment in my eyes. Or maybe I was drooling. It’s hard to remember. Whatever the reason, he took pity on me.

  “You take it,” he said, handing me the kabob.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t,” I said, whipping it from his hand before he could change his mind.

  “What a turnout, huh?” he said, looking around.

  “Mmmph,” I nodded, my mouth full.

  “Give the people what they want, and they’ll come out in droves.”

  Oh, man. Wasn’t anybody going to even pretend to be in mourning mode?

  “I heard you were the one who fingered Owen. Nice job. Funny, though. I would’ve never figured him for the killer. Guess that’s why I’m a mattress salesman and not a cop. And speaking of mattresses, remember—the next time you’re in the market for a Comfort Cloud, you know who to call!”

  Leaving me with a jaunty wave, he started for the bar.