Death by Tiara (26 page)

“Lucky for me,” Candace was saying as she bonked my spine with the butt of her gun, “my new assistant overheard you saying you knew who the killer was. And I was afraid you might have figured out the truth.”

By now my brain was spinning like a crazed hamster. If I could get Candace to confess to the murder, I’d have Heather as a witness. None of which would mean anything, of course, if she wound up using that gun on us. But it was worth a try. I had to keep her talking.

“You killed Amy to shut her up,” I said, hoping to egg her on.

She took the bait.

“Silly little thing. She was going to report me to pageant headquarters for taking bribes. Very foolish of her. I wasn’t about to give up the pageant. Not after all the work I put into it, not to mention all the money I siphoned out of it.”

“So you spilled your Coke on her blazer so she’d be forced to wear one of yours. Then you knocked her off with the clock-tiara, setting the time for when you’d be at the dance rehearsal. And you were careful to leave her face down, so everyone would think the killer had mistaken her for you.”

“Well, aren’t you the smarty pants,” Candace said, giving me a particularly sharp jab with her gun.

“Then you played the victim, pretending the killer was still out to get you, running around without makeup, looking your worst, very Woman in Jeopardy. You staged the phony stabbing, and claimed there was someone in a black van following you.”

We came to a stop at the elevators and Candace stepped in front of us, her gun once more pointed straight at my gut.

“Congratulations, Ms. Austen. You win first prize in the amateur detective contest: An all-expenses-paid trip for two down a nice long elevator shaft.”

Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a walkie-talkie device. “Eddie!” she barked into it. “Get over here now!

“When he gets here,” she informed us, “he’s going to pry those elevator doors open, and you two are going to take an express ride straight to the bottom. A tragic accident. Some careless Amada Inn employee will have left the doors open by mistake. That’s what Eddie and I will tell the police after we discover your bodies.”

Then, in a moment of bravery that surprises me to this day, I said, “Let’s get out of here, Heather.”

Heather looked at me like I was nuts.

“But she’s got a gun.”

“She won’t dare shoot it. Not without attracting a crowd. If she fires that gun, she’d be arrested on the spot.”

“Not if I use Fluffy here as a pillow to silence my shots.”

In a flash, Candace reached out and wrenched Elvis from Heather’s arms.

Heather’s eyes were wide with horror.

“You’d kill an innocent dog?”

“Whatever works.”

“Bite her, Elvis!” Heather shrieked. “Attack!”

But Elvis, a graduate of the Prozac School of Heroic Action, just sat nestled in Candace’s arms, sniffing her perfume.

“The party’s over, girls,” Candace said. “And if you want your sissy fleaball to be alive for your funeral, you’d better shut up and stay put.”

“Sissy fleaball? How dare you speak that way about my Elvis?” Overcome with the fury of an outraged pet owner, she hissed, “Drop dead, bitch!”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Candace said, waving her gun. “You first. In fact, I’m not even going to wait for Eddie. I like Plan B better. Where I use the fleaball to silence my shots.”

Oh, God. I couldn’t let this happen. Why the hell did Heather have to antagonize Candace? Did she always have to be getting into a fight? I had to do something to stop the bloodshed.

If only I had my purse! I could try whacking her over the head with it. Or at least enjoy a final Kit Kat bar before going to meet my maker.

But I was totally defenseless.

And then, like a saliva-soaked miracle from heaven, I felt it in my pocket. Elvis’s chew toy! Just where I’d shoved it before dashing out to call Brunhilde.

Now, as Candace put her gun up against poor Elvis’s tummy, I grabbed the chartreuse bone and hurled it at her. Due to my expert aim—and the fact that she was standing less than three feet away—I managed to hit her smack in the face.

Startled, she dropped her gun—and Elvis.

As soon as the gun hit the ground, I kicked it away from her and raced over to get it.

Meanwhile, Heather, furious, had tackled Candace like an NFL linebacker.

“How dare you call my Elvis a sissy fleaball? I’ll have you know he’s a purebred Bichon stud!”

I’d kicked the gun a lot farther than I thought, and just as I was bending down to grab it, someone else snatched it out from under me.

I looked up and saw Eddie glaring down at me from underneath his bad toupee.

Oh, hell.

“Get up off my wife!” he instructed Heather, iron in his voice.

“What took you so damn long?” Candace hissed. “They know everything. Now hurry up and open those elevator doors, so we can throw them down the shaft.”

Eddie stood there, pointing the gun back and forth between me and Heather.

I told myself what I’d told Heather earlier, that he wouldn’t dare fire, not without attracting a crowd. I ordered myself to run for help. But all I could see was Eddie squeezing the trigger and me being blown to smithereens.

So in a moment of cowardice that pretty much canceled out my earlier moment of bravery, I stayed put, frozen in fear.

“What are you waiting for?” Candace barked at Eddie. “Snap to it!”

But then something wonderful happened.

Eddie shook his head no.

“One murder was bad enough. I’m not going to stand by and let you get away with two more.”

Now he was aiming the gun—not at me or Heather—but at Candace.

“Somebody call the police,” he said with a weary sigh.

Not wasting a single second, that’s just what I did.

Soon the cops showed up, and Eddie, after years of being bossed around and cheated on, was only too happy to tell the truth about Amy’s murder.

Candace didn’t even flinch as he sold her down the river.

The cops led her away, her spine ramrod straight, not a hair out of place, utterly composed in her moment of crisis.

The perfect role model for Miss Teen Queen America.

(Except for her handcuffs, of course.)

Chapter 32

L
ater that night, Prozac and I were sprawled out in bed, watching TV, the remains of a sausage and pepperoni pizza in a box between us.

We were watching
Shadow of a Doubt
, my favorite Alfred Hitchcock movie, but I wasn’t really paying attention. All I could think about was my near brush with death.

“Oh, Prozac!” I moaned. “It was awful. I came
thisclose
to being hurled down an elevator shaft!”

Clearly moved by my plight, she scurried to my side.

Yeah, right, whatever. Scratch me behind my right ear, willya? Okay, now the left one. Now the right. Now the left—

I was in the middle of making her every wish come true when the phone rang.

My heart gave a little somersault when Scott’s voice came on the line. I thought for sure I’d heard the last of him.

“Hey, Jaine,” he said. “I was wondering if I could stop by to talk to you.”

“Sure,” I gulped.

“Great. I’m not far from your duplex. I should be there in about ten minutes.”

Yikes! Only ten minutes for an extreme makeover!

I leaped out of bed, threw on jeans and an Eileen Fisher jersey knit top (half-off at Nordstrom’s semi-annual sale), blew out my bangs, and slapped on some makeup.

At the last minute, I remembered my pizza breath, and dashed to the bathroom to brush my teeth vigorously, gargling twice with industrial-strength mouthwash.

Why the heck did I have to order a smelly pepperoni pizza?

I was just shoving an Altoid in my mouth when Scott showed up, looking yummy in slacks and a blazer.

“C’mon in,” I said with an awkward smile. “Can I get you something to drink? Some wine, maybe?”

“No, thanks. I’m on duty. I can’t stay long.”

Then he launched into what was clearly a rehearsed speech.

“I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for acting so standoffish the other day. I guess I was a bit overwhelmed. What with Mr. Muffin crashing the wedding, then seeing
Jaine Austen is Awful
in the sky . . .”

“It was supposed to say
Jaine Austen is Awfully Nice
, but the pilot ran out of smoke.”

“So you knew about it?”

“Yes, it was my neighbor Lance’s idea. He wanted to make you jealous by pretending I had another boyfriend.”

He smiled at that, a big beautiful smile that made my knees go mushy.

“You don’t have to make me jealous, Jaine. I already like you. A lot.”

Then he took my hand in his and led me to the sofa.

I liked where this was going.

“Look, Jaine,” he said, once we were seated thigh by thigh. “I don’t care if you don’t ride horses or play Frisbee or drink fancy wines. I think you’re terrific.”

My heart swelled with joy. He thought I was terrific!

I swear I could hear angels belting out the hallelujah chorus.

Then he leaned in to kiss me, a sweet tender kiss that quickly turned rather steamy.

“Besides,” he said, when we finally came up for air, “I can always teach you those things.”

Huh?

Suddenly the angels stopped singing.

“Teach me?”

“Yes, so you can fit in with my family. I talked to Mom, and she wants to enroll you in a wine appreciation class. And take you shopping for a new wardrobe.”

Whoa, Nelly.

“Let me get this straight,” I said, sitting up straight. “You think I’m terrific, but you want me to change. So I can fit in with your family.”

“It’ll be easier that way,” he said with a sheepish shrug. “For all of us.”

By now my blood was starting to simmer. We Austens have our pride, you know.

“Sorry, Scott. I want to be with someone who likes me the way I am. Not the way I could be if I took wine appreciation and horseback riding lessons.”

With that, I sashayed over to the front door and held it open, very Bette Davis in high dudgeon.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a box of wine to decant.”

A look of annoyance flashed in his eyes. “If that’s the way you want it . . .”

“That’s the way I want it.”

“We could’ve had fun, Jaine. You would’ve liked the Cotswolds.”

Hell House with scones? I didn’t think so.

Scott headed out the door, and as I watched him walk away, all I felt, strangely enough, was relief.

Thank heavens I’d never have to sit across a table from Ma Willis ever again!

And so it was with a bounce in my step and absolutely no regrets that I made my way back to my bedroom.

“Guess what?” I said, climbing into bed with Prozac. “I just broke up with Scott.”

She trotted over to me, and began licking my cheek.

Just her loving way of saying:

Don’t worry. I’ll always be here for you, Jan.

Epilogue

P
ageant fans will be happy to learn that Candace Burke is now directing the first ever beauty pageant at the Chow-chilla Prison for Women, where she is awaiting trial for the murder of Amy Leighton.

And guess who’s taking her place at Alta Loma’s Teen Queen America? None other than Bethenny Martinez, whose self-help book,
Bethenny’s Beauty Secrets
, has shot all the way up to 1,346,789 on Amazon’s bestseller list.

Heather Van Sant has finally accepted the fact that Taylor has no interest in pageants. Instead, she’s decided to enter Elvis in the Westminster Dog Show. She’s already ordered him a beaded Elvis cape to wear to the event, and has hired me to write his official bio.

Taylor continues to be an honors student at Alta Loco High and has received early acceptance to Princeton. This summer she plans to visit Calw, Germany, to tour Hermann Hesse’s birthplace.

And good news for all you Luanne fans. The feisty pageant mom and manicurist has found true love with a fireman who came to put out a blaze Gigi set while twirling her flaming batons.

Gigi, shaken by the Flaming Baton incident, has dropped out of the pageant world and is now studying to be a news anchor at the Kolumbia School of Broadcasting and Cosmetology.

Eddie Burke, out from under Candace’s shadow, has polished up his old comedy act, ditched his toupee, and is now doing stand-up on the Florida retirement community circuit. My parents saw him at the Tampa Vistas clubhouse and thought he was very funny. (Well, Mom saw him. Daddy’s been banned from the clubhouse ever since Nellybelle landed in the pool.)

With time off for good behavior, Dr. Fletcher wound up serving less than ninety days in prison for assaulting me. During which time, his secretary, the formidable Irma Comstock, visited him every weekend. They are now engaged to be married and are the proud owners of an online boutique called Peekaboo Lingerie
.

And anyone who ever bought a lemon from Tex Turner will be happy to know that Tex is no longer selling BMWs—or any other car for that matter.

It turns out Tex wasn’t the only one cheating in his marriage. Apparently Mrs. Tex had been having a hot and heavy affair with an opera aficionado she met on a trip to New York. She quickly divorced Tex, and without her funding, Turner BMW went belly-up. Saddled with debt and accusations of consumer fraud, Tex lost all his money and is now tending bar at the Strike It Rich Bowling Alley.

Lance’s boyfriend, Gary, sold his script to Twentieth Century Fox in a seven-figure deal and promptly dumped Lance for the cute waiter at Obika Mozzarella Bar. Lance moaned and groaned for a while, very Camille on her deathbed, but soon started dating Frank, the skywriter.

As for me, I finally broke down (as you knew I would) and let Prozac use my DVD armoire as a scratching post. She still refuses to go near her Kitty Condo. But that’s okay. I’m using it to store my DVDs. They fit very nicely on all the little platforms. I keep my remotes in the condo pool. It’s really quite handy.

Do I miss Scott? Sometimes on a lonely Saturday night. But then I think of going clothes shopping with Ma Willis, and I’m more than happy to be single.