Death by Pantyhose (24 page)

Then I shuffled off to the kitchen, where I
threw my pillowcase in the washer and sloshed
some Savory Sardine Slop in a bowl for Prozac.

Still hung over from my ice cream binge, I
skipped breakfast (honest, I did!) and settled
down at my computer to check my e-mails.

So Daddy was banned from the Tampa Vistas
clubhouse. Again. I can't say I was surprised.
Even worse, it looked like Mom was destined to
live with Daddy's lucky Hawaiian shirt until death
did them part. But on the plus side, at least
Daddy realized how much Mom meant to him.

I sat there musing about the nature of true love
and hideous fashion statements when it suddenly
occurred to me that Daddy and I weren't all that
different. He'd attacked a perfect stranger before a crowd of stunned moviegoers, and I'd attacked the CEO of Union National Bank before
a crowd of stunned partygoers. I guess the nut
didn't fall too far from the cuckoo tree.

A sobering thought which was interrupted
by the phone ringing. I was in no mood for conversation, so I let the machine get it.

It was Andrew.

For once the sound of his voice didn't thrill
me. All it did was bring back unpleasant memories of me sitting on Rupert Van Skoyk's chest.

`jaine, we need to talk. Please call me."

"Sorry, Andrew," I sighed. "No can do."

Andrew was an incredibly appealing guy, but we
had nothing in common. I didn't care if he
came from Duluth; he was on the "A" list now,
and I was strictly a "C" list girl. Besides, what did it
matter? He was headed back to Germany. Any
way I looked at it, I'd wind up getting hurt.

There was no way I was going to return his
call. I'd put him out of my mind and do what I
should have done yesterday, instead of running
around shopping for a dress I couldn't afford.

I'd get my act together and find Vic 's killer.

So I settled down on the sofa with my pad and
pencil and began writing.

Allison. Sweet on the outside-but was she a killer underneath? Callously dumped by Vic; did she get re venge with a pair of Dorcas's pantyhose? And then,
when I started asking questions, did she take out her
trusty toolbox to sabotage Wheezy?

Manny. Another pushover on the outside. But had he
been pushed once too often? After all those years nursing Vic through the rough times, did he go berserk
when Vic tossed him aside for Regan Dixon? Holly
claims he was sniffing around Dorcas's tote bag. And
he knew his way around cars; was he the one who jimmied Wheezy's gear stick?

Hank. Head over heels in love with Allison. Openly admitted he hated Vic. Did he kill him to get rid of the
competition? And yet the guy weighed about as much
as my right thigh. Hard to believe he could come out
the winner in a struggle with Vic.

Holly. No alibi for the night of the murder. Furious at
Vic for double-crossing her. She stole Dorcas's lipstick
from her tote bag; who's to say she didn't lift a pair of
pantyhose, too? Did she live up to her Cute, but Psycho
T-shirt and strangle her cheating lover?

Spiro Papadalos. Guilty of major fashion crimes.
(Those gold chains! That horrible jumpsuit!) But
murder? Not likely. No apparent motive. Vic generated business for him; why would he want to see him
dead?

Pete the bartender. One of the cast of thousands who
didn't like Vic. But why kill him? And why use Dorcas's pantyhose? Why implicate her when he was one
of the few people in the club who seemed to like her?
And most important, why were the world's biggest
losers always attracted to me?

I looked over my list, discouraged. Nobody
stood out as a prime suspect. I didn't care how
much Allison and Manny knew about cars; I
couldn't picture either of them strangling Vic
with a pair of pantyhose.

As for my other suspects: Hank was too
wimpy; Spiro actually respected Vic; and as
much as I would've liked to put Pete behind
bars and take him off the dating scene permanently, he simply didn't have a viable motive.

That left me with Holly as my leading contender. And yet, I wasn't convinced of her guilt.
On the contrary, I had a sneaking suspicion she
might be innocent. Those tears of hers in the
bistro ladies' room seemed genuine to me.

So I was back where I started: nowhere. I'd
cross-examined everyone, but all I had to show
for it were some guesses and vague ideas.

And then I realized there was one person I
hadn't cross-examined, someone who might
prove to be a very reliable eyewitness: Me.

Maybe I'd seen something at the Laff Palace
that night, something I'd discounted, that would
be the key to solving the murder. Could I possibly
have noticed someone go over to Dorcas's tote
bag and forgotten about it in the excitement of
the ensuing drama?

I had to search my memory and go over the
events of that night, beat by beat. For the next
fifteen minutes, I racked my brain, trying to recreate the events of the evening, but the only
image that kept flashing before my eyes was the
sight of me sitting astride Rupert Van Skoyk's
chest. That, and an Egg McMuffin dripping
with butter. (Hey, what did you expect? I didn't
have any breakfast.)

I got up from the sofa, disgusted. This would
never do.

Maybe if I went back to the club and sat at the
bar I'd spark a memory.

It was worth a shot.

Spiro's sports car was the only car in the lot
when I drove up to the Laff Palace.

"Well, well. If it isn't Nancy Drew," he said
when he came to the door, his gold chains glinting in the hazy sun. "How's it going?"

"Not so hot," I confessed.

"That's the breaks," he said. Mr. Sympathy.

"Do you mind if I come inside and sit at the
bar for a while? I'm trying to spark some memo-
rtes.

"Go ahead." He shrugged. "Spark away. Of
course, you know there's a two-drink minimum.

Seeing my look of disbelief, he laughed and
said, "Only kidding, Sherlock."

Just then a delivery truck drove onto the lot
and headed around back.

"There's my meat guy," Spiro said, ushering
me inside. "Gotta go open the back door for
him. You know the way to the bar."

He flipped on the house lights and hurried
off to take delivery of his Grade Z meats.

I made my way over to the bar and sat where I
was sitting the night of the murder. At first all I
could think about were the cockroaches that
were no doubt scampering along the baseboards. But gradually, images from that fateful
night started coming back to me.

I saw Dorcas bombing on stage, tossing bits of her pantyhose to the booing jocks in the audience. I saw those same jocks howling with laughter at Vic. I saw Vic taunting Dorcas and the other
comics smirking at his nasty cracks. I saw Manny
crumple in defeat when Vic dumped him, and
Allison burst into tears. I saw Holly's face at the
edge of the crowd, smiling when Vic told Allison
he was leaving her. And Hank racing over to fight
Vic-and then, shamefaced, chickening out. And
then I saw Dorcas doing what Hank didn't have
the nerve to do-lunging at Vic, her hands
clamped around his neck.

That's the moment I needed to concentrate
on. When all eyes were on Dorcas. Did I see anyone, anyone at all near her bag? No, all I could
picture was the look of surprise on Vic's face, the
rage burning in Dorcas's eyes-and that Egg McMuffin dripping with butter.

Drat. I really should have stopped off and
had breakfast.

Obviously my stroll down memory lane wasn't
working. I got up from the bar stool and walked
over to Spiro's office to thank him and say goodbye. But he wasn't there. He was probably still in
the kitchen with the delivery guy.

I figured I'd wait a few minutes, and if he didn't
come back, I'd let myself out. I could always call
and thank him later.

As I sat down to wait, the phone rang. After a
few rings, the machine got it.

"Spiro?" A raspy voice came through the
speaker. "Are you there? It's me, Rocco. If you're
there, pick up! It's urgent!"

Or, as Rocco put it, "oigent."

He sounded pretty desperate, so I hurried
over to Spiro's desk and answered the phone.

"Spiro's away from his desk right now; can I
take a message?"

"Yeah, sweetheart, you sure can."

It turned out Rocco was a race track buddy of
Spiro's, calling with a bunch of hot tips. Not exactly my idea of urgent, but then, I'm not a guy
named Rocco.

"You got a pencil and paper?" he asked.

I looked around for something to write with,
but there was nothing on Spiro's desk except a
half-eaten Danish, a photo of his mustachioed
wife, and an issue of a publication called Pussies
Galore. (Hint: It wasn't about cats.)

When I opened the desk drawer to look for a
pencil, I saw something small and silver winking
out at me. I froze in my tracks. It was Vic's
phony "cigarette lighter," the recorder he used
to steal the other comics' acts.

Thanks to my keen powers of perception, I
knew it was Vic's right away. Mainly because it
had his initials engraved on it.

"You got that pencil yet?" Rocco rasped.

"Sorry," I mumbled, "Spiro's joined Gamblers
Anonymous."

Then I hung up and snatched the recorder
from the drawer. I felt around and finally found
a row of tiny control buttons on the bottom. I
pressed the "Play" button, and the sounds of a
woman in ecstasy (or faking it, anyway) came out
through the speaker.

I'll spare you the tawdry details of what I
heard; the only stuff suitable for publication in
a family novel was "Oh, Spiro, baby! " "You're my
big bad lover daddy!" and "I take MasterCard,
Visa, and American Express."

I seriously doubted that the orgiastic gal on the tape was Spiro's wife. It was hard to believe
his own wife was charging him for sex. Although
I certainly wouldn't blame her if she did.

No, clearly Spiro was cheating on his wife. It
looked like Vic had captured those illicit moments on his tape recorder and was blackmailing Spiro with his recorded lovefest.

Lord knows how long the blackmail had been
going on. Maybe Spiro got tired of making payments and decided to put an end to it with a
pair of pantyhose.

At last! A piece of evidence. An Exhibit "A"!

But I couldn't just stand there congratulating
myself. Any minute now, Spiro would be finished
with the meat man. I had to get out of there.

I tossed the recorder in my purse and made a
dash for the door.

I peered into the hallway, relieved to see no
sign of Spiro, then hurried to the exit, praying I
didn't run into him. My prayers were answered.
I slipped outside and was just about to head for
my Mercedes when I noticed Spiro's sports car.

For the first time it hit me that it wasn't just
any sports car, but a Lamborghini-long and
low slung and exotic, like something from a futuristic comic strip.

And then I flashed on Allison's neighbor, the
little kid in the Batman suit who swore he saw the
Batmobile the night of the murder. He really did
see a car outside Vic's bungalow that night. But
the " Batmobile" he saw was Vic's Lamborghini!

just then I felt a searing pain in my shoulder
socket.

"You left without saying good-bye," Spiro
hissed in my ear as he twisted my arm practically
to the breaking point.

I began screaming for help, but my cries were
drowned out by the belching of a passing bus.

He yanked me back in the club and slammed
the door shut. I kept on screaming, hoping the
meat man might hear me.

"You're wasting your breath," Spiro said.
"The delivery guy already left."

He shoved me into his office and down onto
a chair.

I eyed the door, wondering if I could make a
break for it.

"Don't even think about it," he said, grabbing
the baseball bat he kept behind his desk.

Then he held out his open palm.

"Okay, hand it over."

"Hand what over?" I said, doing a very bad
job of trying to look innocent.

"The recorder. I know you have it."

"Really," I blinked, "I don't know what you're
talking about."

"Listen, Sherlock. The next time you swipe
something from someone's drawer, remember
to shut the drawer. Don't leave it wide open."

Ouch. Game over.

Reluctantly I handed him the recorder.

"I guess you heard the tape," he said.

I nodded.

"Can you believe it?" Spiro scratched his hair
transplants, incredulous. "After I gave Vic his
start in the business, the ungrateful sonofabitch
was blackmailing me! He threatened to play the
tape for my wife unless I forked over ten grand.
And I couldn't let that happen."

He picked up the photo of his wife with her
stiff smile and faint mustache.

"She's not much to look at. But she's got an
inner beauty.

"And," he added, with a nauseating wink, "a
father worth six billion dollars. You ever hear of
Abe Bajanian, the Pita King?"

I shook my head.

"Sells pita bread to every grocery chain in the
country. I wasn't about to lose any of that in a
messy divorce. I had to do something."

"So you drove over to Vic's bungalow and
strangled him," I said, wondering how the heck
I was going to get out of there without getting
bludgeoned to death with the baseball bat.

He barked out a bitter laugh.

"No, I didn't kill him. I thought about it, but
in the end I didn't want to risk it. I stopped by
the bungalow, but only to pay him off. Wrote
out a check for ten grand on the spot. He gave
me the tape and threw in the tape recorder.
What a sport. I guess he figured he wouldn't
need to steal jokes anymore, not with a staff of
network writers on his payroll.