Death by Pantyhose (19 page)

"So sorry. Wrong number."

Then I hung up and called Regan's office.
The gargoyle answered.

"Regan Dixon's office, this is Meredith."

"Oh, hi, Meredith," I said. "It's Carolyn from
Steven Spielberg's office."

"Oh?" Her voice rose an octave or two. "Really?"

"Yes, Steven read about Regan's terrible loss,
and he'd like to send her some flowers."

"How lovely," she cooed.

"But I'm afraid we don't have her home address on our Rolodex."

"No problem. Here it is."

And just like that, she gave me Regan Dixon's
Bel Air address.

What can I say? It pays to be sneaky.

Wheezy sputtered up the hilly streets of Bel
Air, straining every inch of the way. It was like
climbing Mount Everest on roller skates.

At last I pulled up in front of Regan's spiffy
Tudor manse, just in time to see Scott roaring
away in his BMW. I parked behind a beat-up yellow workman's van, grateful that Wheezy wasn't
the only low-rent vehicle on the block. Although compared to Wheezy, the van looked
like a Bentley.

As I headed up the path to Regan's house, I
wondered if she'd turn me away. If she was anything like her secretary, I'd be gone in a heartbeat.

I rang the bell and hoped for the best.

Regan answered the door, and I gulped back
my surprise. The last time I'd seen her, she was a
tall, cool power broker. But today, without her
designer suit and Jimmy Choos, she was about
as powerful as a feather duster. She stood in the
doorway, a surprisingly tiny figure, in a cashmere
robe, clutching a glass of white wine to her chest,
her eyes wide with grief.

First Allison. Now Regan. In death, as in life,
Vic had left a trail of devastated women behind
him.

I told Regan that I was investigating Vic's
murder, carefully omitting the fact that I was
working for Dorcas. And much to my relief, she
asked me in.

I followed her into a cavernous living room
professionally decorated in various shades of
beige. She sunk into a pillowy armchair and gestured for me to take a seat on the sofa.

Somehow I thought she'd be surrounded by
friends to comfort her and dry her tears. But it looked like her only friend was Mr. Chardonnay.
Maybe it was true what they said about being
lonely at the top.

"Want some wine?" she asked, picking up a
bottle from where it sat on her coffee table.

"Not while I'm working, thanks."

"Oh, I understand, officer."

So that's why she let me in so easily. She
thought I was a cop. No sense cluttering her
brain with the facts.

She helped herself to another glass of wine,
and before I knew it, she was pouring her heart
out. I guess she really needed someone to talk
to.

"I know Vic seemed a little rough on the outside, but underneath, he was a wonderful person.

Yeah, right. Like Idi Amin, with one-liners.

"If only I hadn't gone to New York that night.
If only I'd stayed with Vic, he might not have
been killed."

She looked up at me with wide green eyes.
How pretty she was, even in her misery. Life
sure isn't fair, is it? When I'm miserable, I get
puffy eyes, a snotty nose, and Ding Doncrumbs on my bathrobe. But snot wouldn't dare
show up in a nose as delicate as Regan's.

As she reached over to pour herself another
glass of wine, her robe slid open, revealing an
amazingly fat-free thigh, not an ounce of cel11
lulite anywhere. For crying out loud, even her
birthmarks looked good.

Of course, if I stopped eating all those damn
Ding Dongs and worked out every once in a
while, maybe my thighs would look good, too.
Really, one of these days I had to start going to the gym. Just a few weeks on the treadmill, and I
was sure I'd see a huge improvement. As soon as
this case was over, I vowed, I'd sign up at the Y.
Before long the pounds would simply melt away,
and I'd have the slim cellulite-free thighs of my
dreams. And no more Ding Dongs! Absolutely
not. Except as a special treat. Or if they were on
sale at the market. Or if I got really depressed.
Or-

Suddenly I realized that Regan was looking at
me questioningly. Oh, dear. She'd obviously
asked me something, and I had no idea what it
was.

"You wanted to talk to me?" she was saying.
"About the case?"

"Oh, right. Yes, of course."

I asked her if she saw anyone go near Dorcas's
tote bag, but like everyone else, all she saw was
Dorcas trying to strangle Vic.

"Dorcas was crazy that night," she sighed. "If
only Vic hadn't goaded her, he might be alive
today."

"Ms. Dixon, I don't believe Dorcas killed Vic."

She looked up from her wine with interest.

"If she didn't, who did?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about.
Are you sure you didn't see anybody go near
that tote bag the night of the murder? Manny
Vernon, for instance?"

She shrugged apologetically.

"I wish I could help, but I didn't even know
Dorcas had a tote bag. And why are you asking
about Manny? Do you think he's the killer?"

"It's possible. I 'was hoping you could verify
something he said."

I told her what Manny had said about splitting Vic's commission.

"That's nonsense," she said, with an impatient wave of her hand. "Absolute nonsense.
Vic's network deal wasn't finalized until after his
contract with Manny expired. There's no way
Premiere Artists was going to split that money
with Manny.

"Personally," she sighed, "I feel sorry for
Manny. That's the story of his life. He helps stru-
gling comics get started and then when they
make it big, they leave him. I'd like to give him a
little something, but it's not up to me. You know
what they call Premiere Artists on the street? The
Barracuda Tank." She smiled wryly. "We didn't
get that nickname by splitting multimillion-dollar
commissions.

"Thank you, Ms. Dixon. You've been very
helpful."

I left Regan in the hands of her good buddy
Mr. Chardonnay and headed back out to
Wheezy.

Very interesting, I thought as I chugged back
into town. It looked like Manny Vernon was
alive and well in The Viable Suspect Department.

he last thing I wanted to do that afternoon
was face Gustavo and squirm under the heat
of his withering glare.

"He's awfully intimidating," I warned Lance
when I met him outside the salon.

' Jaine," he said, checking his reflection in the
salon window, "I'm a shoe salesman at Neiman
Marcus. I've jammed size eight bunions into size
six slingbacks and broken up fistfights at the
Ferragamo `fifty percent off sale.' You think I'm
going to be intimidated by a hairdresser with attitude?"

He took my hand and led me inside.

"Don't worry. I'll handle everything."

He strode up to the reception desk, where
the doll-like Deedee was making notes in her
appointment book.

"May I help you?" she asked, looking up with
a smile.

The minute she saw me and my orange frizz,
her smile froze.

"I need to talk with Gustavo," Lance said, all
business.

"I'm sorry," Deedee replied. "He's with a
client right now."

"That's too damn bad, honey. I've still got to
talk with him."

Wow. I never knew Lance could be so tough.
Like Rambo, with highlights.

"I'm sorry, sir," Deedee said, her voice now a
frightened squeak, "but that's impossible."

"Is it? Just watch me.

"Where's his station?" he asked, turning to
me.

"Over there," I said, "behind the curtain."

And before Deedee could stop him, Lance
was striding across the salon. By now all the stylists had stopped working. No scissors were snipping. No dryers were blowing. The only action I
could see were a bunch of jaws dropping.

"Lance, do you really think this is -a good
idea?" I said, hurrying after him.

"Trust me, Jaine. I know what I'm doing."

He flung open the curtain to Gustavo's station, where Gustavo was putting the finishing
touches on a customer's hairdo. Which, incidentally, looked spectacular. Why couldn't he have
done a beautiful job like that for me?

If Gustavo had heard any of the ruckus, he
wasn't letting on. He played it cool, working on
his customer, his back to us.

"Hey, Gustavo," Lance snapped, "I need to
talk with you."

Gustavo whirled around to face us, in tight
black jeans and equally tight T-shirt, very little of
his perfectly toned body left to the imagination.

Lance took one look at the guy and melted
like a stick of butter in a microwave.

"Yes?" Gustavo prompted. "What did you
want to say?"

"Oh," Lance gushed, "I just came to tell you
what a great job you did on my friend Jaine's
hair. Just super."

Now it was my jaw's turn to drop.

Gustavo looked Lance up and down and
liked what he saw.

"Glad you approve," he said, with a sexy smile.
"You should let me do you sometime."

"Why don't I set up an appointment right
now?" Lance said, lobbing the sexy smile right
back at him.

"Excellent idea," Gustavo volleyed.

Good heavens. Any minute now, they'd be
lathering each other up in the shampoo station.

"I'd better go now," Lance said. "I didn't
mean to interrupt."

"No trouble," Gustavo assured him. "No trouble at all."

Lance tore himself away from Gustavo and
hurried back to Deedee to make an appointment.

"Nice seeing you, sweetheart," Gustavo said to
me, snapping his curtain shut in my face.

My cheeks burning, I turned and saw Gustavo's clients buzzing excitedly about what had
just taken place. They were lapping this up like
puppies at feeding time.

"Give your tongues a rest, ladies. You'll wear
out your face-lifts."

And yes, I really did say that. I was that angry.

I stormed out of the salon and was stomping back to my car, practically breathing fire, when
Lance caught up with me.

`jaine, I'm so sorry. I guess I went a little
crazy. Latin men have that effect on me."

"I hope you two will be very happy. Be sure to
send me an invitation to the wedding."

"Let me make it up to you," he said, whipping
out his cell phone. "I'm going to call a stylist
friend of mine and set up an appointment for
you. She's fabulous. I promise."

"Forget it, Lance. I've had it with stylists."

And I meant it. I just wanted to go home and
spend the next year or so soaking in the tub.

But then Lance said two little words that
made me change my mind:

"My treat."

"Oh, I can't let you do that."

"C'mon, it's the least I can do after bailing
out on you like that."

Yeah, actually, it was.

"Please," he said. "I insist. It'll ease my guilty
conscience."

"You sure this friend of yours knows what
she's doing?"

"I swear on a stack of Cosmos."

I thought of how nice it would be to be able
to look at my hair in the mirror again without
crying.

"All right," I said. "What's her address?"

I could always soak in the tub another day.

Everybody knows about miracle workers like
Moses and Annie Sullivan and the guy who invented the Eskimo Pie. But here's a new entry
for the Miracle Worker Hall of Fame: Lance's hairdresser friend, an adorable sprite named
Susie Q. (Short for Quinn.)

Okay, so Susie didn't part the Red Sea or
teach Helen Keller to talk, but she did-bless
her adorable soul-turn me back into a human
being.

When I first saw her spiky punk haircut, I had
my doubts. It wasn't exactly the look I had in
mind for myself. But two hours later I was a true
believer. The ghastly Sunkist orange was gone
from my hair; it was a rich glossy auburn, acres
nicer than my real color. And the cut she gave me
put that rat Gustavo to shame. She layered it for
volume and blew it out into a glorious silken bob.