Death by Pantyhose (25 page)

"I knew I hadn't heard the last of him. The
guy was no dummy; surely he'd made copies of
the tape. But what the heck." He barked out another laugh. "I can afford it. Thanks to the pita
bread king."

A reasonable story, but I wasn't convinced. A
guy like Spiro wouldn't want Vic hanging around
dangling incriminating evidence over his head
for years to come. No, a guy like Spiro would
want Vic out of the way for good.

"It's the truth," he said, as if sensing my
doubts. "When I left Vic he was alive and rotten
as ever.

"Do you mind my asking where you were at
the time of the murder?"

"Not at all. I was at Pete the bartender's,
watching porno flicks."

At last. I'd met a husband worse than The Blob.

"If you don't believe me, ask Pete. He'll back
me up."

I was sure he would. Spiro was Pete's boss.
The guy who signed his paycheck every week. A
lowlife like Pete would be happy to lie for Spiro
and give him an alibi.

Not that I didn't believe Spiro hung out at
Pete's place to watch porn. The guy was probably a charter member of Dirtbags Anonymous. I
just didn't think he was there the night of the
murder.

But I couldn't let Spiro see how I felt if I expected to get out of there in one piece.

"Well, that all makes perfect sense." I tried my
best to sound like I believed him. "So can I go
now?"

"Not so fast," he said, blocking my exit with
his baseball bat. "You're not going to do anything foolish like go to the cops with what I just
told you, are you?"

"Of course not!" I lied, wondering how
quickly I could get to the nearest police station.

"You'd better not. Because I'll deny everything. I plan to destroy the recorder the minute
you leave.

"One word to anybody," he said, leaning in to
me so close I could see flecks of Danish in his
chest hair, "and you're history."

With that, he swung the bat with ferocious
force-missing my skull by mere inches.

So much for going to the cops.

- headed out to the Mercedes, my knees shaking like a pair of maracas.

No doubt about it. Spiro was my man. The guy
had "killer" written all over him. He had motive
and opportunity. Plus he was strong enough to
fell an ox. Too bad he was about to destroy my
one and only piece of evidence. I was certain Vic's
recorder would be trashed within the hour.

How the heck was I going to nail the guy?

My only chance was Pete the bartender.

Spiro was probably calling him at that very
moment and dictating his alibi. Somehow I had
to wring the truth out of Pete and get him to
admit that Spiro was nowhere near his place at
the time of the murder.

I climbed in the Mercedes and began rooting
around in my purse for Pete's business card. Finally I found it at the bottom of my purse, underneath some Life Savers. I fished it out gingerly. I
only hoped it hadn't contaminated the Life
Savers.

Then I got out my cell phone and punched
in his number. He answered on the first ring.

"Hey, babe," he crooned, low and breathy, his
idea of sexy-and my idea of an obscene phone
caller. "I was just talking to Spiro. He said you
might call."

"Is it okay if I stop by? I'd like to talk to you."

"Sure, babe-but I hope we do more than
just talk."

In your dreams, buster.

"So," I chirped, ignoring his sledgehammer innuendo, "how do I get to your place?"

He gave me directions to his "pad" out in
Laurel Canyon.

"See you soon," he said, his voice as slimy as
axle grease. "I'll leave the lights low and my expectations high."

Ugh. Just listening to him made me want to
wash my ear out with soap. Somehow I managed
to say good-bye without gagging.

Before heading out to Laurel Canyon, I drove
over to McDonald's for an Egg McMuffin. I simply couldn't face Pete on an empty stomach.

It was almost noon when I got there.

"Sorry," the lady behind the counter said, "we
stopped serving Egg McMuffins an hour ago."

A 'weary middle-aged woman with tightly
permed hair, she looked out of place among
her teenage coworkers.

"Couldn't you whip one up?" I begged. "I've
been lusting for one all morning."

"Yeah, well, I've been lusting for George
Clooney all morning, honey. I guess it's not
gonna happen for either of us."

It seemed like everywhere I went lately I was
running into comedians.

I sighed and ordered a Quarter Pounder and
fries-with extra onions on my burger, in case
Pete got too chummy.

A half hour later, I was driving up the steep,
torturously winding roads of Laurel Canyon, a
rustic retreat popular with artists and performers and people who don't mind taking hairpin
curves at fifty miles an hour.

Not that I was going fifty. The Hitlermobile
was struggling to hit thirty, groaning every inch
of the way, leaving a colorful trail of exhaust
fumes in its wake. On level ground it had behaved relatively well, but now that it faced an
uphill challenge, it was clearly showing its age.
The last time the car had successfully navigated a
steep incline was probably at Berchtesgaden.

I followed Pete's directions to the letter, and
in no time I was lost. I must've run into at least
five dead ends looking for his street. After cursing Pete out for giving me such crummy directions, I pulled over to the side of the road,
hoping there was a street map in the glove compartment.

But when I tried to open the glove compartment door, the damn thing came off in my hand.
I tossed it on the floor, hurling a few choice epithets at Crazy Dave and his wreckmobiles.

Luckily, though, I did find a map insidealong with a piece of petrified baklava.

I managed to locate Pete's street on the map,
and five minutes later I was pulling up in front
of a rundown cabin on a deserted cul de sac.

The cabin looked like something out of a
Charles Manson photo album. Choked by overgrown shrubbery and infested with wood rot-I
could practically hear the termites munching
away at the foundation.

Worst of all, there wasn't another house in
sight.

Suddenly I was nervous. Pete was a big guy.
With dirty fingernails and a penchant for pornography. I didn't like the idea of being alone with
him in this isolated cabin. Not one bit.

But I couldn't wimp out now. If things got
dicey, I'd just have to fight him off with my
trusty hair spray. Yes, I know most women use
mace, but I've found Extra Hold Aqua Net
works just as well.

I checked my purse, reassured to find my
Aqua Net ready for action, then got out of the
car and headed up the steps to the front door of
the cabin.

I took a deep breath, hoping it reeked of
onions, and knocked.

Pete came to the door in jeans and a stained
undershirt. I was so glad he decided to dress for
the occasion.

"C'mon in," he said, waving me inside. "I
made you a martini." Then he added, with a
most repulsive leer, "To get you in the mood."

If he wanted to get me in the mood to throw
up, it was working.

I followed him into a living room decorated
in what I can only describe as Biker Bar Grunge.
Lots of black leather, accented by the occasional
empty beer can under the furniture.

Dominating the room was a monster-screen
TV, which took up nearly an entire wall. And gracing the screen was a nubile young blonde in
a lab coat.

`Mintage porn," Pete said, pointing to the
screen with pride. "A collector's item. You're
gonna love it."

As I was soon to discover, this "collector's
item" was a mind-defying opus about a nuclear
physicist named Desiree and her rocket scientist
boyfriend Randy. I didn't want to question its
authenticity, but it was the first time I'd ever
seen a nuclear physicist in platform wedgies and
a rocket scientist with a nose ring.

"I've got one of the biggest collections of
pornography in the country," Pete boasted.

Is that so? Your mother must be very proud.

I managed a weak, "How interesting."

"Let me show you something."

As long as it's not you, naked.

I tried not to flinch as he took my elbow. He led
me out into a hallway lined with floor-to-ceiling
shelves, all of them jammed with videos and DVDs.

"I've got over five hundred movies!"

And would you believe? Not one of them was
The Sound of Music.

I- -lanced at the titles on the shelves: Lawrence
Does Arabia. Rosemary's Booby. When Harry Nailed
Sally. And others way too tacky to repeat to a
reader of your delicate sensibilities.

"C'mon," he said, steering me back into the
living room. "Let's get comfy."

He gestured to a worn black leather sofa
patched in several places with duct tape.

I sat down, making a mental note to fumigate
my outfit the minute I got home.

"Here's your martini," he said, handing me a
drink big enough to get Seabiscuit snockered.

"I can't," I said coyly. "Not unless you have
one, too."

I smiled what I hoped was an encouraging
smile.

"Great minds think alike," he said, picking up a
martini from where he'd left it on an end table.
"Hope you don't mind. I started without you."

No, I didn't mind. Not at all. In fact, Pete had
unwittingly come up with the answer to my
problem; I'd get him drunk and loosen his
tongue. And when his defenses were down, I'd
get him to tell me the truth about Spiro.

"So what did you want to ask me?" he said,
plopping down next to me on the sofa, his answers
all rehearsed and ready to go.

But this was way too soon; he wasn't drunk
yet.

"So you like erotic movies," I said, evading his
question.

I looked up at the blonde on the screen, who
had taken off her lab coat and was now splitting
atoms in her thong underwear.

What was it about these porn actresses? Occasionally I'd come across them on the Whoopsie
Doodle Channel in the middle of the night. They
all had the same generic sex kitten face, the same
dead look in their eyes. And this blonde was no
exception; she looked like every other X-rated
blonde I'd zapped past on my way to a Lucy rerun.

"Oh, sure," Pete said. "I love porn. How
about you?"

"Actually, I haven't seen all that many of
them."

"We've got to do something about that," he
said, inching closer to me. "Now drink up."

"You, too," I said, wagging a playful finger at
him.

I faked a sip of my martini and watched with
satisfaction as he took a healthy slug of his.

"Like I said, this one is a real collector's item.
Made about ten years ago. It's out of circulation
now. Can't get it anywhere."

The blonde was now totally naked and going
at it hot and heavy with Randy, the rocket scientist.

"Oh, Sugar Buns! Sugar Buns!" Randy was
calling out in ecstasy.

"Sugar Buns?" I repeated.

"Yeah," Pete said, "that's the name of the
movie.

Where had I heard that name before?

And then it hit me. That's what Vic had called
Regan at the Laff Palace. I remembered how inappropriate it had seemed at the time, calling
an ice princess like Regan Sugar Buns.

I took another look at the blonde up on the
screen. Good heavens. No wonder she looked
familiar. I had seen her before. Not on the
Whoopsie Doodle Channel. But in Bel Air. That
young girl up on the screen, doing obscene
things with a Bunsen burner, was Regan Dixon.
Ten years younger, and a lot trashier. But it was
Regan, all right.

I looked at her legs, wrapped around her
costar's torso. They were the same spectacular
legs I saw that day in Regan's house in Bel Air
when her robe slipped open-right down to the
birthmarks on her thighs! And now those same
birthmarks were pulsating with fake passion on
Pete's monster TV.

Regan had clearly done a makeover on her self over the years, smoothing out the rough
edges and honing herself into a classic beauty.
But I was certain that "Sugar Buns" and Regan
Dixon were one and the same.

Suddenly a whole new scenario sprang up in
my mind. All along I'd assumed that Reganlike Allison and Dorcas and Holly before herhad fallen under Vic's spell. But what if Regan
never loved him? What if he'd never won her
over with his oily charm? Vic obviously had
known about her porno past. What if he'd been
blackmailing her into their professional and romantic relationships? What if he'd threatened
to expose her unless she hooked up with him?
And if Vic had been blackmailing her, Regan
Dixon had a perfect motive for murder!

I'd come to Pete's cabin certain Spiro was the
killer, and suddenly Regan had taken over as my
Prime Suspect.

"Hey, babe." Pete's voice jolted me back to
the cabin. "You in the mood yet?"