Death by Tiara (22 page)

Good question.

“I’m sorry I ever entered the pageant in the first place. It cost my parents a fortune, and what did I get for it? A couple of bowling alley openings, a stupid infomercial, and a tacky clock tiara. Damn thing didn’t even come with batteries. I had to go out and buy them myself.

“And to top things off,” she said, taking a desultory sip of her coffee, “I just wasted five hundred dollars to publish a book no one’s ever going to read.”

I tsked in pity at her tale of woe. I also stared enviously at her doughnut hole. Which she hadn’t even begun to eat. By now, of course, I’d wolfed down my doughnut, and was dying for more. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to reach over and nab her ball of powdered dough.

But this was crazy. I had to stop obsessing about doughnuts and focus on the task at hand.

“Speaking of the pageant,” I said, “I ran into Luanne Summers, who said she bumped into you outside Candace’s office at the time of the murder.”

“Oh?” Bethenny said, stirring her coffee so vigorously I thought she’d snap the wooden stirrer.

“Didn’t you say you were in your hotel room the whole time giving yourself a pedicure?

“A
facial,
” she snapped. “I said I was in my hotel room giving myself a facial.”

“So which was it?” I asked. “The facial, or Candace’s office?”

A tense beat while she continued to whip away at her coffee. Then she took a deep breath and said, “Both, if you must know. After minimizing my pores, I made a little trip to Candace’s office. I wanted to tell her to keep her paws off Tex Turner. But when I got there, I saw the corpse on the floor and ran like a bunny. Smack into that blabbermouth Luanne.

“But I’m not the killer,” she said with a defiant swish of her ponytail, “if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Maybe her acting lessons with Uta Hagen Dazs were paying off. Because it sure sounded like she was telling the truth.

“Oh, no! I wasn’t wondering that at all,” I stammered. “Just making conversation. Guess I’d better be going,” I said, pushing back my chair. “Good luck with your book.”

“Hey, wait!” she called out as I started for the door. “When is the story coming out?”

“What story?”

“The one about me you’re writing for the
L.A. Times
.”

Darn. I’d forgotten all about that little fib. I didn’t have the heart to tell her there wasn’t any story. Not now, when she was feeling so low.

“They haven’t set a date yet. I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

Feeling more than a tad guilty, I scooted out the door with my two remaining doughnuts, which, you’ll be happy to learn, were still unsullied in the Krispy Kreme bag. And they stayed that way for a whole three and a half minutes until I got on the freeway and dug into them with gusto.

Chapter 27

M
uch like an unsuspecting gazelle romping in the jungle, unaware of the cougar in the tree above waiting to pounce, I came home to find a message from Ma Willis on my answering machine.

“Jaine, dear. Scott told me he’s invited you to our little birthday brunch tomorrow. What a ghastly idea! Well, I suppose we’re going to have to put up with you. Just try not to break anything. Dress casual, avoiding all kimono-sleeved blouses. And don’t bring a gift. You couldn’t afford to buy anything decent, anyway.”

Okay, so that’s not what she said. But I could tell that’s what she meant. For those of you who insist on accuracy, the actual words she uttered went something like this:

“Jaine, dear. Scott told me he’s invited you to our little birthday brunch tomorrow, and I couldn’t be more delighted. Dress casual. And please don’t bring a gift. Your presence is the only present we need. See you tomorrow!”

As much as I had the warmies for Scott, I’d totally forgotten about the brunch, banishing it to the dusty corner of my mind reserved for IRS audits and root canals, still shuddering at the thought of my other meals at Hell House.

Damn. In less than twenty-four hours I’d be back with the Willis gang. (And, no doubt, the impossibly perfect Chloe.) My stomach, still stuffed with doughnuts, sank.

Why the heck had I eaten the damn doughnuts, anyway? The last thing I needed were those extra calories clinging to my thighs at Scott’s party.

“Pro, honey,” I moaned to my pampered princess, now snoring on the sofa. “How am I ever going to lose fifteen pounds in twenty-four hours?”

Her big green eyes flew open.

Do you mind? I’m in the middle of a very important nap.

Determined to work off some of those doughnut calories, I decided to go for a nice long walk. I was just heading for the bedroom to change into my sweats when I heard a familiar knock at my front door.

It was Lance, who came sailing into my living room with a garment bag slung over his arm.

“Jaine, sweetie. Wait till you see what I’ve just bought!”

Inwardly, I groaned. I simply did not have time to deal with Lance and his fashion choices.

“Actually, I was just about to go for a walk and get some exercise.”

“You, exercise?” he chuckled. “That’s a good one! Hahahaha!”

“I fail to see what’s so amusing about me exercising.”

“Oh, please. You get winded brushing your teeth. Now seriously, you’ve simply got to see my new tweed jacket!”

With a flourish, he unzipped the garment bag and took out a thick tweed jacket, heather brown with tawny suede elbow patches.

“Isn’t it gorge? I bought it for my wedding trip to the Cotswolds.”

“Wedding trip? To the Cotswolds?”

“Yes, indeedie!” He plopped down next to Prozac on the sofa. “Gary and I had dinner at Obika Mozzarella Bar again last night—the best pumpkin ravioli ever, by the way—and guess what? Some hotshot producer at Fox is reading Gary’s screenplay! We celebrated with a bottle of the most yummy pinot noir and I swear, Gary came
thisclose
to popping the question.”

Unbelievable, n’est-ce pas? Lance is the only guy I know who can take pumpkin ravioli and turn it into a wedding proposal.

“Gosh, it’s going to be so much fun being married to a screenwriter. Just think of all the ‘A’ list parties I’ll be invited to! And don’t worry, sweetie. I’ll send you selfies from all of them!”

“How very thoughtful.”

“And speaking of the Cotswolds, how’s everything going with your hottie detective?”

“I’m going to another brunch at his parents’ house tomorrow. It’s Scott’s birthday.”

“A birthday brunch! How wonderful! What did you get him?”

“Nothing. His mother called and told me not to bring a gift.”

“But you’ve got to bring a gift! Everyone always says No Gifts. And nobody ever means it. Trust me. Everyone will be bringing something. And you can’t possibly be the only one at the party without a present.”

For once, Lance was making sense.

And besides, it would be just like Ma Willis to tell me not to bring a gift when she knew full well that everybody, and by everybody I mean Chloe, would be bringing one. Anything to make me look bad in Scott’s eyes.

Well, that wasn’t about to happen.

“What on earth am I going to get him? The party’s tomorrow and I haven’t even begun to shop.”

“Fear not! Uncle Lance to the rescue!”

With that, he grabbed his tweed jacket and raced out the door. Minutes later, he was back with a white oblong gift box.

“Voila!” he said, opening the lid. “A Christmas gift from my Aunt Celeste. A genuine Hugo Boss tie. I haven’t had a chance to wear it.”

I looked down at a lush black and gray diamond patterned silk tie.

“It’s beautiful!” I cried. “Thanks so much, Lance!”

“A small price to pay for a wedding in the Cotswolds. Now I’m counting on you to make a good impression tomorrow. What are you going to wear? I know! How about a flirty little sundress?”

“Lance, the closest thing I have to ‘flirty’ are my jeans with the moth holes in the tush.”

“Well, let’s go buy you something!”

“Forget it. I don’t have time to go shopping. I’ve got to walk off fifteen pounds by tomorrow morning. Don’t worry. I’ll think of something nice to wear. Now, please,” I said, shoving him out the door. “Go. I’ve got to exercise!”

He left, chuckling at the thought of me exercising, and the minute he was gone I headed to the bedroom to slip into my sweats. Normally I wear them to veg out with my good friends Ben and Jerry. But today they were going to get a vigorous workout.

Before I started out on my walk, I decided to limber up with some leg lifts. So I got down on my Flokati rug and began. Right leg, lift. Left leg, lift. Right leg—Gosh, my Flokati was soft. And fluffy, too. I’d never realized it was so comfy before. Like a cloud of wool. Maybe I’d just close my eyes for a minute to gather my energy.

You know where this is going, right?

Three hours later, I woke up with drool on my chin and Flokati fuzz up my nose.

Thoroughly disgusted, I hoisted myself up and took my long-delayed walk—all the way to the phone to order Chinese food for dinner.

Okay, so I didn’t go for a walk. And I ate Chinese food for dinner.

But don’t have a hissy fit. All I had was two egg rolls and a bowl of wonton soup. Honest!

And I practically skipped breakfast the next morning. Just half a cinnamon raisin bagel. No butter. No jam. Which I ate standing up at the kitchen sink. And, as anybody who’s ever studied physics in the
National Enquirer
knows, anything consumed while standing up has zero calories.

After breakfast, I spent a good hour showering, exfoliating, and wrestling my curls into an artfully tousled bed-head look.

Then I headed to my closet to choose an outfit. Deciding what to wear, however, was a bit tricky.

Ma Willis had told me to dress casually. But for all I knew, that was a trap. Maybe I’d show up in jeans only to find Chloe lounging about in a lavish designer dress. In the end I decided to compromise and go for the Elegant Casual look: My skinny jeans, a white silk blouse, and my one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks.

I was just about to get dressed when I heard Lance banging on my door.

“Jaine! Let me in!”

With a sigh, I shuffled into the living room and opened the door, prepared to hear another Ode to Gary.

“What is it?” I asked, a tad brusquely.

“The best news ever!”

“You got a riding crop to match your new tweed jacket?”

“No, but that’s an interesting idea. Must Google ‘riding crops’ when I get back to my apartment. Anyhow, hon, I just got off the phone with my pilot buddy Frank. Frank does skywriting, and he’s agreed to skywrite a love note from Cyril above Scott’s parents’ house today!”

“Cyril?”

“Cyril, your old boyfriend, the one who can’t forget you. The one who sent you those gorgeous silk flowers, which, by the way, I’d like back.”

Ah, yes. My mythical boyfriend, dreamed up by Lance to make Scott jealous.

“Here’s what the message is going to say.”

Lance whipped a piece of paper from his pocket and read:

Jaine Austen is Awfully Nice
Like Sugar and Spice
Love and kisses, Cyril

“Lance, that’s way too long for a skywriter. The most they ever do is a word or two.”

“That’s what I thought at first. But thanks to new skywriting technology, Frank assures me he can write out the entire message.”

“You really think it can work?”

“Absolutely! When Scott sees it, he’ll be positively oozing jealousy.”

I liked the sound of that.

“Now all I need is the Willises’ address.”

I gave it to him, and I have to admit I was feeling quite pumped. It was fun having a skywriting ex-boyfriend who worshipped the ground I walked on.

“Wish me luck at the party,” I said.

“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.” Then, eyeing my ratty chenille robe with the jelly stains on the lapel, he added, “On second thought, be someone else. Try Gwyneth Paltrow. That should make a good impression.”

“Thanks heaps,” I snarled.

“No need to thank me, hon! That’s what friends are for!”

And off he skipped, back to his apartment, to surf the Web for riding crops.

Chapter 28

I
set out for Malibu, full of confidence. When I’d checked myself out in the mirror before leaving my apartment, I liked what I saw. My skinny jeans/white silk blouse/Manolo Blahniks ensemble looked quite fetching, especially when I added a pair of dangly silver earrings. So what if my earlier visits to Hell House had been a tad disastrous? There was no reason today couldn’t be a perfectly lovely day.

After all, I reminded myself as I tooled along the Coast Highway, I was bright. Funny. Reasonably attractive. And I had a skywriting ex-boyfriend who worshipped the ground I walked on.—No, wait. I didn’t have Cyril. He was just a figment of Lance’s overactive imagination. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t attractive. Especially in my skinny jeans and white silk blouse ensemble.—Oh, no! Was that a big yellow mystery stain on the sleeve of my blouse? Why hadn’t I noticed it at home? And why were my skinny jeans pinching me at my not-so-skinny waist? I’d hardly eaten a thing for breakfast. I peeked in my rearview mirror to check out my hair. What had seemed cute and bedhead-y at home now looked like a messy mop of frizz. Oh, who was I kidding? I could never compete with the spectacular Chloe. Why on earth had I ever agreed to go back to Hell House?