Death by Tiara (18 page)

“A scratching post for Prozac. It’s utterly impossible to assemble.”

“I’ll be happy to help you with it, hon.”

“You will?”

What an angel!

“Yes, of course. But not now. I’m meeting Gary at the movies in an hour. Must go home and make myself fabulous. An easy job, I know, but still, one mustn’t shirk one’s duties. A lesson you’d be wise to learn, Jaine.”

And with that, he went sailing back out the door.

I barely restrained myself from hurling my glass of chardonnay at him.

Instead I finished it and turned my attention back to my Kitty Condo.

I think the wine really helped.

Less than an hour later, it was completely assembled.

All it took was patience, tenacity, and a house call from Lowell at Pet Palace.

Chapter 21

A
las, Prozac showed no signs of moving into her Kitty Condo. From the moment Lowell and I first showed it to her, she’d given it the cold shoulder, avoiding it much like I avoid the health food section of my local supermarket.

The next morning after breakfast, she’d hopped on the sofa as she usually does, barely giving the condo a glance.

But I couldn’t worry about the condo, not when I still had a murder to solve.

It was high time I resumed my investigation and paid a visit to Dr. Edwin Fletcher, principal of Alta Loco High School.

You haven’t forgotten that touching little scene near the vending machine at the Amada Inn, have you? The one where Candace had threatened to tell the world the truth about Dr. Fletcher unless he coughed up ten grand?

Sure sounded like blackmail to me. And a most emphatic motive for murder.

I called and told him I was investigating the case on behalf of Heather. Fortunately he agreed to see me, and after hanging up, I headed to my bedroom and slipped into my dress jeans, spanky white tee, and navy blazer. Hoping to make an extra special impression on the good doctor, I pinned my Phi Beta Kappa key on the lapel of my blazer.

Yes, I said Phi Beta Kappa.

Impressed? You should be.

I was quite proud of that key, having nabbed it for only two bucks at the same flea market where I bought my USDA meat inspector badge.

I was almost ready to go. But before I left, I had one very important chore to do—“decorate” the Kitty Condo.

If there was one thing that would get Prozac to try out her new home-away-from-home, it was chow.

I very cleverly loaded the condo with kitty treats: Chopped Chicken Chunks, Tasty Tuna Tidbits, Little Liver Lumps, and the ever-popular Seafood Entrails Party Mix. Surely my feline chowhound wouldn’t be able to resist the lure of all those goodies.

“Bon appétit!” I cried as I left my apartment, confident that when I returned, she’d be all settled in to her new home, lounging in the condo pool.

Minutes later, I was in my Corolla and once again trekking down the 405 freeway to Orange County. If this kept up, they’d soon be naming a lane after me.

At a little after eleven, I pulled into the parking lot of Alta Loco High, an ersatz mission-style building with a red tile roof and Moorish archways.

Entering through massive double doors, I made my way along a wide linoleum corridor, breathing in the heady aroma of Mr. Clean and old gym socks. Down at the end of the hall, I found the administrative offices. There I was greeted by Dr. Fletcher’s secretary, a stocky prison warden of a woman with blunt-cut gray hair and a most intimidating unibrow. The nameplate on her desk read I
RMA
C
OMSTOCK
.

After I cleared my throat to get her attention, she looked up from where she was hard at work on the Daily Jumble.

“What is it?” she snarled in welcome.

“I’m Jaine Austen. Here to see Dr. Fletcher.”

“Jane Austen? Like the writer?”

“It’s Jaine with an ‘i.’ You see, my mom was reading
Pride and Prejudice
when she was pregnant with me, and—”

“Yeah, whatever,” she said, clearly uninterested in my mother’s reading habits. “Follow me.”

Hoisting herself up from her swivel chair, she led me into the good doctor’s inner sanctum, then promptly stomped back to her Daily Jumble.

I looked around the large imposing room, no doubt designed to intimidate unruly students. Arched windows let in the bright sun, backlighting Dr. Fletcher, whose slim body was dwarfed behind a huge desk. The walls were lined with framed degrees from UCLA and Berkeley, as well as a slew of awards for Alta Loco High, “A California Distinguished School.”

Completing the honors was a large leaded-glass paperweight with a metal plaque proclaiming Dr. Fletcher “Principal of the Year” from the Alta Loco Chamber of Commerce.

“Ah, Ms. Austen,” he said, springing up to greet me. “So nice to see you.”

He leaned forward to shake my hand, sending a blast of citrusy aftershave in my direction. Something about that scent seemed familiar.

“Sit down, won’t you?”

He gestured to one of two chunky leather chairs facing his desk.

“I see you’re Phi Beta Kappa,” he said, eyeing my blazer lapel as I took a seat.

I smiled modestly.

“You must be very proud. That takes a lot of hard work.”

Not if you shop at the right flea markets.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to spare you much time,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I’m working on a speech I have to deliver at the school assembly at two this afternoon.”

Looking down at his desk, I saw a legal pad, upon which he had been making notes in a painstakingly precise hand.

“Of course,” I assured him. “I understand. Just a few questions.”

“Go ahead,” he said, hands clasped in front of him on his desk like an obedient student.

“First off, can you think of anyone who may have wanted to kill either Amy or Candace?”

“Absolutely not. Amy was such a mousy little thing. I can’t believe she had any enemies. And as for Candace, she may have made alienated a few pageant moms—after all, emotions run high at these events—but I doubt anyone hated her enough to kill her.”

“Even you?”

“What on earth do you mean by that?” His eyes, pale gray behind his wire-rimmed glasses, grew wide with surprise.

Now was my time to pounce.

“The night before the murder, I overheard Candace threatening you. She said she was going to tell everyone the truth about you.”

He managed a bark of a laugh.

“Oh, that.” His hands were now clasped so tight, they were practically melded together, knuckles white with strain. “It was nothing, nothing at all. I promised Mother I’d give up smoking, and I fell off the wagon. Candace caught me taking a puff out in the courtyard and was threatening to tell her.”

Oh, please. What a crock of poo poo. Candace had been threatening to blab to the world, not just his mommy, and was demanding ten grand for her silence. Surely a stolen cigarette wasn’t worth ten grand. I wasn’t buying his story. Not one bit.

And I was just about to tell him so when once again I became aware of his citrusy aftershave. And suddenly I remembered where I’d smelled it before! On Taylor’s missing ball gown after Candace had returned it to her!

Omigosh. Was Dr. Fletcher the one who’d nabbed Taylor’s Vera Wang? Was this pillar of the educational community a cross-dresser? Was this the secret Candace had been threatening to expose?

Something told me I was on to something.

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

“In my hotel room,” he said, with an angry glare.

Doing what?
I wondered.
Saying Yes to the Dress?

“Any witnesses?”

“Afraid not. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve really got to get back to work.”

With that, he pressed a button on his intercom, instantly summoning the formidable Ms. Comstock.

“Show Ms. Austen out, will you?” he instructed her.

Before I knew it, Ms. Comstock had me in her steel grip, and minutes later I was back out in the parking lot.

But not for long. Dr. Fletcher wasn’t about to get rid of me that easily.

I whiled away the next couple of hours in my Corolla, playing Scrabble for One and checking in vain for a text message from Scott. I hadn’t heard from him in days, and by now I was convinced that my Frisbee fiasco had pretty much put the kibosh on our relationship.

At a little after two, when I knew Dr. Fletcher would be busy delivering his speech at the student assembly, I headed back to his office.

The ever-charming Ms. Comstock looked up from the Daily Jumble she was still trying to solve.

“Can I help you?” she grunted, glowering at me from under her massive unibrow.

I sprang into action, using a plan I’d carefully devised in the parking lot.

“I seem to have lost my Phi Beta Kappa pin, and I’m afraid it must have fallen off in Dr. Fletcher’s office.”

“You’re Phi Beta Kappa?” She blinked in disbelief. “Someone who spells Jane with an ‘i’?”

Look who’s talking. The lady who took three hours to finish the Daily Jumble.

“Yes, I am,” I said, fingering my bare lapel, which was indeed missing its Phi Beta Kappa pin, due to the fact that I’d taken it off and stashed it in my purse.

“Mind if I look around for it?”

“Okay,” she said, eyeing me warily, “but make it snappy.”

Quickly I trotted into Dr. Fletcher’s office.

Much to my dismay, I realized that Ms. Comstock was trotting right behind me.

But I was prepared for just such a contingency.

“By the way,” I said, “do you happen to know who drives a brown Dodge Dart?”

“That’s my car.”

Of course, I already knew that. While in the parking lot, I’d seen the Dodge Dart in question parked in a space with Ms. Comstock’s name on it.

“I think I saw a kid heading for your car with a can of spray paint.”

Her unibrow furrowed in dismay.

“Oh, hell! Half of these hoodlums oughta be in jail.”

And with that, she was off like a shot.

It wouldn’t take her long to discover there was no kid in the parking lot with a can of spray paint, so I had to hurry.

I started rummaging around the room, praying that Dr. Fletcher was deep enough into his cross-dressing to leave evidence of it here in his office. I checked out his closet, hoping I’d find a red-carpet gown, or at the very least a tasteful little black dress. But, alas, all I found was a raincoat and umbrella.

Then I raced over to his desk, riffling through his drawers, uncovering the usual pens and paper clips, as well as a stash of vitamins, granola bars, and some “Bullworker” upper body exercise ropes.

If Dr. Fletcher was a cross-dresser, it looked like he was in great shape under his underlovelies.

I continued my search, but all it yielded were some attendance sheets and a pamphlet on locker room hygiene.

But then, at last, I hit pay dirt. In the bottom right drawer, I found a dictionary. How odd, I thought, to keep a dictionary in a drawer. Most people keep them on their desks, or on a bookshelf. Why was this one hidden away where no one could see it?

Lifting it out of the drawer, I opened it up and found my answer.

There, pressed between Flamboyant and Flaubert, was a black lace garter belt. And a handful of photos. All selfies of Dr. Fletcher, dressed in women’s outfits: There he was in capris and a halter top. Dressed for success in a pencil skirt and white silk blouse. Very Betty Crocker in a shirtwaist and apron.

And finally, the belle of the ball, in Taylor’s Vera Wang gown! True, he hadn’t been able to zip it all the way up. But that didn’t seem to bother him as he smiled into the camera, sporting a blond shag wig, batting false eyelashes, his lips a bright Revlon red.

No doubt about it. Dr. Fletcher was a cross-dresser, and Candace had been ready to expose him, right down to his black lace garters.

And I had to admit he looked pretty darn good as a woman. That Bullworker had really paid off; his arms were well toned, not a hint of middle-aged flab anywhere. Gazing at the photos, I felt a twinge of envy. It’s a tad depressing when a guy in his fifties looks better in capris than I do. I was standing there, admiring his sylphlike waist when suddenly I heard an angry voice booming:

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

I looked up to see Dr. Fletcher glowering in the doorway.

Slamming the door shut behind him, he walked toward me, eyes smoldering, hands clenched into tight fists. No longer the mild-mannered academic, but a goon in lace panties.

“I thought you were giving a speech at assembly,” I stammered.

“It was a short speech. Now your turn. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Er . . . looking for my Phi Beta Kappa pin?”

“I doubt you’ll find it in my dictionary. Let’s cut the crap, shall we?”

“Okay,” I said, gathering my courage. “I know Candace was blackmailing you, and it wasn’t about your smoking habits.”

I held up his girly photos to drive home my point.

Dr. Fletcher let out a soft sigh.

“If you must know, Candace caught me trying on Taylor Van Sant’s gown and threatened to tell the school board unless I forked over ten grand.”

“Sounds like a perfect motive for murder,” I pointed out.

“Forget about it, Sherlock. I didn’t try to kill her. I cashed in a CD and paid her off. And if you don’t believe me, you can check my records at Bank of America.”

I believed him, all right. I just wondered if he paid her off
after
he screwed up his attempt to kill her.

“I’m paying Candace for her silence, but I’m not about to pay off anybody else.” He picked up the heavy glass paperweight from his desk. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep your mouth shut about what you’ve seen here today. We wouldn’t want anything to hurt that brainy little Phi Beta Kappa head of yours,” he said, sliding his finger along the sharp edge of the glass. “Would we?”

If he thought he could scare me by waving a lethally blunt instrument in front of my face, he was absolutely right.

“Not a problem,” I assured him, backing out the door. “My lips are sealed.”