by Laura Levine
These were the questions bouncing around in my brain as I headed down my front path early the next morning.
My questions came to a screeching halt, however, at the sight of Peter Connor walking toward me, looking très adorable in a T-shirt and shorts.
For a bordering-on-skinny guy, he had marvelously muscular thighs.
Reluctantly I wrenched my eyes away from his bod. I really had to get a hold of myself. I didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of dating this guy. Aside from the obvious difference in our Desirability Rankings, there was the pesky little matter of me being a murder suspect. Not to mention the fact that I’d recently decapitated his Limoges Buddha figurine.
(Which, in all the hoo-ha of the murder, I’d forgotten all about replacing.)
“There’s something I need to talk to you about,” he said, looking very solemn.
Oh, Lord. What if he’d found the busted Buddha and figured out I’d done it? What if he’d seen me dashing into his office? What if he’d been coming to my apartment to demand reparations?
“Oh?” I said, affecting an air of stilted nonchalance.
“I heard how the cops brought you in for questioning,” he said, “and I just want you to know I can’t believe you had anything to do with Cryptessa’s death.”
Thank heavens. He hadn’t found the Buddha! And he didn’t think I was a homicidal maniac!
“That’s very kind of you to say.”
Aside from Emmeline, he was the only one on the block who hadn’t assumed I was guilty.
My heart, already gooey, was on the verge of completely melting when I suddenly remembered my duties as a part-time semi-professional PI. No one, not even Peter, could be ignored as a potential suspect. Could Peter himself be the killer?
It hardly seemed likely. He barely knew Cryptessa. And I had a tough time believing he’d kill her simply because she caused a ruckus at his housewarming party. After all, I was part of that ruckus, too, and I was still alive.
“You going for a run?” he now asked, eyeing the sweats I was wearing.
Moi? Going for a run? Let’s all pause for a round of hearty chuckles.
Of course I wasn’t going for a run. I was going to the corner Starbucks for a mocha latte espresso and blueberry muffin.
But so overcome was I by Peter’s vote of support (and fabulous thighs) that I found myself saying:
“Oh, yes. I love to run. I go running all the time.”
“Great,” Peter said. “Let’s run together.”
“Now?” I blinked, an out-of-shape deer in the headlights.
“Yes, now. How about it?” he grinned, flashing me that yummy cleft in his chin.
Oh, groan. No way could I possibly keep up with him. I’d have to make up some excuse. I’d tell him I just remembered an important phone call I had to make. Or a doctor’s appointment I had to keep. I’d make up something—anything.
But much to my annoyance, the words that actually came out of my mouth were:
“Sure, why not?”
What the heck was wrong with me? Clearly my proximity to his fabulous thighs was playing havoc with my powers of speech.
“Okay, let’s go!” he said.
And with that, he took off, his fab t’s churning like pistons.
As I hurried to catch up with him, I forced myself to think positive thoughts. I could do this if I really put my mind to it. Absolutely. I’d be the Not-So-Little Engine that Could.
I can do it, I told myself. I can do it. I can do it!
And you’ll be happy to know that my positive thinking worked—for a whole block and a half. After that I was wheezing like an asthmatic Edsel.
“Am I going too fast for you?” Peter asked, slowing down.
“Sprained ligament,” I managed to gasp. “Got it hiking over at Griffith Park.” (Would these lies never stop?) “It’s slowed me down a bit.”
“If you’d rather,” he offered, “we can walk.”
Oh, God, yes!
“It probably would be best.”
We began walking and eventually I was able to breathe without making ugly gurgling noises.
“So what was it like being questioned by the police?” Peter asked.
“Not too awful.”
(A lot easier, in fact, than that block and a half of running.)
“I suppose you know that the killer was wearing my ape suit,” I said.
“That’s what I heard.”
“But I swear I wasn’t in it.”
“I believe you, Jaine.”
He patted my shoulder reassuringly, sending a small jolt of excitement down my spine.
“I don’t suppose you noticed anyone going into your bedroom the night of the murder?” I asked when I’d recovered my composure. “Anyone who could have slipped into my ape suit?”
“No, I’m afraid I was busy talking with my guests. I’m just sorry,” he said, shooting me a sidelong glance, “that I didn’t get to spend more time with you.”
My heart, which was still pounding from his touch, now did a flip-flop. I only hoped I’d live through this walk to possibly date him someday.
“By the way,” Peter said, “I never did thank you properly for those brownies you baked for my housewarming. True confession,” he added with a sheepish grin. “I ate one that fell on the rug. Just dusted it off when everyone was gone and popped it in my mouth.”
He picked up food from the floor and ate it???
A sure sign we were meant for each other.
“Anyhow, it was fantastic,” he said. “The best I ever ate.”
I should have confessed right then and there that it was from Mrs. Fields, but did I? Of course not.
“Oh, it was nothing,” I said instead. “I love to cook.”
Was I mad? First I’d lied about the running, and now this??
Clearly some demon had gotten control of my tongue.
And it got worse.
Because then, with a simpering Martha Stewart smile, I found myself saying, “Someday I’ll have to have you over for dinner.”
“Great,” he replied, not missing a beat. “How about tomorrow?”
Yikes. I never thought he’d take me up on it. Not so soon, anyway. I needed at least a couple of weeks (possibly years) to learn how to turn out an edible meal. No way could I fake it by tomorrow night.
I absolutely, positively had to dream up an excuse to get out of this.
So naturally, the words that came out of my mouth were:
“Sure. See you at seven.”
What can I say? I blame it all on those thighs.
Chapter 15
By the time I got home, I was in a much better mood. That’s because I stopped off for my espresso latte and blueberry muffin. Nothing, I find, lifts one’s spirits like a jumbo blueberry muffin with a high-voltage caffeine chaser.
How foolish I’d been to panic over fixing dinner for Peter. How difficult could it be? Surely with a little help from the Internet, I’d be able to find a nice, easy main course recipe. That, plus a salad, a loaf of crusty French bread, and some of my famous “homemade” brownies for dessert and—voilà—dinner would be served!
Checking in with my good friends at Google, I soon found the perfect recipe—Goof-Proof Meatloaf. Only six ingredients. And ten minutes’ assembly. Even I couldn’t screw that one up.
Feeling quite proud of myself, I then proceeded to search online for a figurine to replace Peter’s busted Buddha. And as luck would have it, I located one just like it on eBay for only thirty-five dollars. Eagerly I sent away for it. This was my lucky day.
Well, not quite.
Because just then I got a phone call from Marvin Cooper.
“Jaine, sweetheart,” he said. “I got the Larry Lumbar spots.”
Right away I smelled trouble.
“And?” I asked.
“And I loved ’em. I just want to make a few tiny tweaks.”
For those of you non-writers out there, that means: Batten down the hatches. Page
One rewrite ahead.
“First tweak,” he said. “I want you to dump Larry Lumbar.”
What did I tell you?
“He’s a great character, but I’ve been talking with my marketing team (the guys at his golf club), and they say the bad back approach has been done to death. So I took it to my research team (his brother-in-law Sid), and guess what they found out?”
“Previously undiscovered lint in Sid’s navel?”
Okay, so I didn’t really say that.
“The average ten-year-old mattress is swarming with dustmites. You can only see ’em with a microscope, but they’re ugly little critters. So I want to do a campaign featuring a dustmite named Danny whose mattress is about to be replaced by a brand-new Mattress King mattress.”
“Danny the Dustmite?”
“Great idea, huh?”
J. Walter Thompson, eat your heart out.
“Think you can get me some ads by tomorrow?”
“Sure thing, Marv.”
I hung up with a groan and opened a new file on my computer. Thanks to the remaining caffeine in my system, I was soon deep into the adventures of Danny Dustmite. I was just at the part where Danny was warning his fellow dustmites, Oh, no! A brand-new Mattress King! Get ready to bite the dust! when I was brought back to reality by a racket at my front door.
I opened it to find Lance, breathless with excitement.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve been doing!”
“Going to med school in Heidelberg? Reading Marcel Proust in the original French? Knitting wine cozies for the homeless?”
“Ouch,” he winced, stabbing himself in the heart with his fist. “What have I done to deserve such sarcasm?”
“Estelle called from Estelle’s Costume Shop. It seems I owe two hundred and sixty-five dollars for a missing ape suit—an ape suit that wouldn’t be missing if you hadn’t pulled a fast one and rented it for me in the first place.”
He had the good grace to look ashamed.
“I still don’t know what came over me,” he said with big puppy dog eyes. “I plead temporary insanity.”
“Only temporary?”
“Honest, Jaine. I’m sorry. I’ll pay the bill.”
“If it hadn’t been for you and that stupid ape suit,” I sputtered, “I wouldn’t be a murder suspect today!”
“But I tried to make it up to you. Didn’t I set you up with one of the finest lawyers in L.A.?”
“No, in fact, you did not. For your information, Raoul Duvernois is not licensed to practice law in California.”
“Oh, that,” he said with a careless wave. “A mere formality.”
“Maybe in Guatemala. But here in L.A. it’s considered a bit of a no-no.”
“Not only have I set you up with a legal mastermind,” he said, ignoring my objections, “but I’ve taken it upon myself to investigate the case.”
“You have?”
“I’ve been scouting around like mad, digging for evidence!”
“Find anything?” In spite of myself, I was interested. Was it possible Lance had found a clue that would point me to Cryptessa’s killer?
“I’ve found scads of hot info!” he nodded eagerly, plopping down on my sofa and grabbing one of the decoy apples I’d picked up at the supermarket, now in a bowl on my coffee table.
“Like what?” I asked, plopping down next to him.
“Like for one thing, Mr. Hurlbutt has had three failed hair transplants! And Kevin Moore owns twelve pairs of Christian Louboutin shoes, none of which she bought from me, the stinker. And get this: Lila Wood has been stealing her neighbor’s newspapers for the past fifteen years! Apparently she gets up at the crack of dawn, reads the paper, and then puts it back in the driveway. She even bought a professional sealer to reseal the plastic wrapping. When you think of all the money she spent on that sealer, she could’ve been buying the papers. Well, maybe not fifteen years’ worth—”
“You call that evidence?!” I screeched, snatching the apple from his hand. “How is any of that supposed to get me off the hook for murder?”
“If you’ll just be patient,” he said, grabbing the apple back, “I’ll get to the stuff about the murder.”
“I ran out of patience three hair transplants ago. Just tell me what you learned about Cryptessa.”
“Well,” he said, taking a deep breath, “you know how Cryptessa was always accusing her cleaning lady of stealing from her?”
I thought back to the day I paid my condolence call, and how Cryptessa had claimed Rosita was robbing her blind.
“About a week before she died, Cryptessa set a trap for Rosita and left some money out on her dresser. When it was gone at the end of the day, she confronted Rosita on her front lawn, reading her the riot act. Mrs. Hurlbutt just happened to be walking by and overheard the whole thing.”
“Yeah, right. If I know Mrs. Hurlbutt, she was hiding in the bushes, taking notes.”
“Anyhow, when Cryptessa threatened to report Rosita to the police, Rosita got furious and said, Try it, and you’ll be very sorry.”
Damn that Mrs. Hurlbutt. Why the hell hadn’t she told me this little nugget when I was questioning her?
“For all we know,” Lance was saying, channeling his inner Hercule Poirot, “Rosita killed Cryptessa to keep her from blabbing to the cops.”
Sure sounded like a motive for murder to me. Especially if Rosita was an illegal immigrant. Her whole life would be destroyed if Cryptessa sicced the cops on her. Who’s to say she didn’t take a break from her serving duties at Peter’s party to slip into my abandoned ape suit?
“I got you Rosita’s phone number,” Lance said, holding out a slip of paper, “in case you wanted to talk to her.”
I have to admit I was touched. True, Lance could be a royal pain in the fanny, but when push came to shove, he had my back.
At times like this, I just wanted to give him a hug.
“I stopped by Peter’s house this morning to get it,” he said, waving the slip of paper. “Peter told me he’d been out running with you. ‘Running?’ I said. ‘With Jaine? The woman gets winded brushing her teeth!’ We both had a jolly laugh about that. Anyhow, here’s Rosita’s number. No need to thank me. I’ll just take a few more of these apples.”
Apples in hand, he went sailing out the door.
Okay, cancel that hug.
When I gave Rosita a call, there was no answer. No big surprise in the middle of the day. I was guessing, and hoping, that she was busy working at a new job. So I whiled away the rest of the afternoon with my good buddy Danny Dustmite, and at around six o’clock, I gave her another try.
This time, she picked up.
“Hola?”
In the background, I could hear a TV playing, with raucous bursts of canned sitcom laughter.
“Rosita? This is Jaine Austen.”
“Who?”
“Cryptessa’s neighbor from down the street.”
“Oh, right. The lady who killed Van Helsing.”
“I did not kill that bird. It was just an unfortunate parakeet heart attack.”
“How can I help you?” she asked, a wary note in her voice.
“I need to talk to you about something.”
“If it’s about Cryptessa’s murder,” she said firmly, “I’ve said all I’m going to say to the police.”
Oh, foo. Time for Plan B.
“Actually, I wanted to talk to you about cleaning my apartment.”
“I can give you Wednesday afternoons,” she said, noticeably perkier.
“I’m afraid I can’t afford your services on a regular basis. I just need a one-time cleaning.”
“All right. How about next Wednesday?”
I didn’t want to wait that long. Who knew where I’d be next Wednesday? Sharing a prison cell with a gal named Duke, perhaps?
“Do you think you could do it sooner?”
“I’m pretty booked up.”
“How about tonight?” I asked.
“Tonight?”
/>
“Yes, it’s a bit of an emergency. I’m having a dinner party tomorrow and I’d really like the place to look nice.”
Which was no lie.
“I don’t usually work nights.”
“It won’t take long. It’s just a small one-bedroom apartment. You’ll be through in an hour, an hour and a half, tops.”
“I’ll have to bring Jennifer, my little girl. I can’t leave her home alone.”
“That’s fine.”
“And it’ll cost you fifty dollars.”
Ouch.
“Of course!” I chirped. “See you at seven?”
Rosita showed up promptly at seven, with her little girl in tow. A skinny ten-year-old with her mother’s huge brown eyes, Jennifer wore the plaid skirt, white blouse, and navy crew neck of a local parochial school. Slung across her back was a hot pink book bag.
She graced me with her mother’s shy smile, and then suddenly her eyes lit up.
“Look, Mom!” she cried, catching sight of Prozac lounging on the sofa. “A cat!”
“Be careful,” I said as she raced toward her. “Sometimes she scratches.”
But Prozac, as she often is with strangers, was a perfect angel, letting Jennifer pick her up and cuddle her.
(I guess she saves all her scratches for me.)
“Oh, Mom,” Jennifer cooed. “She’s so cute!”
Prozac gazed up at her with big green eyes.
So I’ve been told.
“Time to do your homework, honey,” Rosita said.
Prozac shot her a dirty look.
Party pooper.
Reluctantly Jennifer let Prozac go and settled down at my dining room table with her books.
“I guess I’d better get started cleaning,” Rosita said.
I’d been hoping to work in a bit of chat time, but Rosita was in no mood to gab.
“Where’s your vacuum?” she asked briskly.
I dug it out from my closet where it had been vacationing for an embarrassing number of weeks, and the next thing I knew, Rosita was whirling around the apartment, cleaning my floors, kind enough not to gasp at the dust bunnies the size of Chihuahuas under my bed.