Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire (7 page)

“You have any movie ideas in that pretty head of yours?”

Good Lord. The guy was about as subtle as a Mack truck.

“Not really.”

“Why don’t you come to my office, and we’ll kick some around? Paramount’s looking for romantic comedies. I bet you’d be good at that.”

“Really, Mr. Bruckner, I know nothing about making movies.”

“That’s never stopped anyone before. So how about it. Tomorrow, at four?”

“Okay,” I said. “Fine.”

“Here’s my card.”

He handed me his card, with a wink. The same wink he gave to the receptionist at the Sports Club. Then he got in his BMW and drove off.

I realized, of course, that Andy Bruckner had just offered me a whopper of a bribe. If I kept him out of my “story,” he’d get me a movie deal. And those movie deals, I knew, could run well into six figures.

I have to admit, I was surprised. Not that he bribed me. After all, this was Hollywood.

No, the surprising thing was that I was actually wondering if I could come up with a movie idea by four o’clock tomorrow.

I
drove home, fantasizing all the way.

What if I took Andy up on his offer? What if I came up with a blockbuster movie? Of course, eventually Andy would figure out that I wasn’t really with
The New York Times
. But by then, maybe he’d be so in love with my idea that he’d let bygones be bygones and go ahead with the project anyway. Maybe he’d take it to a major studio, and they’d greenlight it at the first pitch meeting, and he’d get me hundreds of thousands of dollars. Maybe even millions.

By the time I pulled up in front of my duplex, I was mentally living at the beach in Malibu, best friends with Babs Streisand, driving a pale blue Jaguar, and married to Mel Gibson.

I was halfway up the path to my apartment, planning my wedding to Mel, when Lance Venable stuck his head out his front door.

“Your phone’s been ringing all morning,” he said, exasperated.

“That’s what telephones usually do,” I said, as calmly as I could.

“Can’t you turn off the ringer when you’re gone? You know how thin the walls are.”

The guy was impossible. I’m surprised he didn’t cry when I peeled an onion. “Okay,” I sighed. “I’ll try to remember.”

I let myself into my apartment and checked out my answering machine. Two itsy-bitsy messages. That’s Lance’s idea of ringing off the hook. One was a wrong number, and the other was from Cameron. I got a squishy feeling in the pit of my stomach when I heard his voice on the machine. I tried to tell myself it was just indigestion, but I knew better. I was falling for the guy.

“Hi, Jaine. It’s Cameron. You free for dinner tonight? Call me at work. 555-4849.”

My heart leapt. He wanted to have dinner. Unlike our trip to see Marian’s movie (where I’d paid for my own ticket), this sounded like a real date to me. True, Cameron was probably gay. But I didn’t know that for sure. Maybe he was ambivalent about his sexuality. Maybe all it would take to turn the tide was the love of a good woman with a kind heart and generous thighs.

I let myself slide into fantasyland again. Forget Malibu and Mel Gibson. This time, it was me and Cameron honeymooning in Bermuda. There we were on the balcony of our oceanfront hotel suite, the waves lapping gently on the shore beneath us, the balmy night air fragrant with hibiscus or gardenia or whatever it is that blooms in Bermuda. We’d been out all night, dining and dancing under the stars. Now we were back in our five-star suite, alone at last, our bodies aching with desire. And just as Cameron was about to tear off my nightie in a passionate frenzy, my telephone had the nerve to ring.

I whipped it from the receiver angrily. “Yes?” I snapped.

“Ms. Austen, this is Detective Rea, L.A. Police.”

There was an edge to his voice that I didn’t like.

“You don’t really work for
The New York Times,
do you, Ms. Austen?”

“Well, no.”

“Daryush Kolchev seems to be under the impression that you do.”

“Really?”

“Apparently you told him you were a reporter with that publication. What’s more, you told Wendy Northrop at the Sports Club that you were a lawyer. What next? A medical degree?”

“I was just trying to get some information that might lead to the arrest of the real murderer.”

“We’ve already got the real murderer. And his name is Howard Murdoch.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Did you know Andy Bruckner was having an affair with Stacy Lawrence? And she may have been blackmailing him? That sure sounds like a motive for murder to me.”

So there, Mr. Smarty Pants!

“Did
you
know,” he countered, “that Andy Bruckner has an ironclad alibi for the night of the murder?”

Ooops.

“He was working late in his office, and his assistant was with him the entire time.”

Phooey.

“What about a hit man? He could have hired a hit man, couldn’t he?”

“Look, Ms. Austen. I’ve been very patient with you. But my patience is running out. Leave the detective work to the police. Believe it or not, we know what we’re doing.”

“Yeah, right. That’s why O.J. Simpson is spending the rest of his life playing golf in Florida.”

And that’s when he hung up on me.

“It was lovely talking to you, too,” I said to the dead phone line.
What an unpleasant man
, I thought, as I headed to the kitchen to fix myself some lunch.

Much to my disappointment, a roast-beef sandwich on rye had not miraculously materialized in my refrigerator since the last time I’d looked. I rummaged around in my cupboards and managed to unearth a free sample of cereal that had been left at my front door weeks ago, along with my morning paper. I dug into my Honey Wheat Frosted Sugar Pops with gusto, trying to ignore the fact that I was out of milk and eating them dry.

I stretched out on the sofa, dropping Sugar Pops into my open mouth. Funny, what Detective Rea had said about Andy working late the night of the murder. Why wasn’t he home with his wife? After all, the murder had been committed on Valentine’s Day, the most romantic day of the year. Was there trouble in the Bruckner household? And did that trouble have anything to do with Stacy Lawrence?

I was just polishing off the last of the Sugar Pops when I remembered Cameron’s message.

“Can you believe it?” I said to Prozac, who was napping on top of the bookcase. “An attractive man actually wants to take me to dinner.”

Ever the empathetic companion, Prozac yawned and went back to sleep.

I called Cameron’s number at the antiques shop.
Now remember
, I told myself as the phone rang,
Play it cool. Don’t sound too eager. Men like a challenge.

Cameron answered the phone. “Cameron’s.”

“Hi, Cameron,” I yapped, like an eager puppy. “It’s Jaine. I got your message. I’d love to have dinner with you! What a wonderful idea.”

Am I hopeless or what?

“That’s great.”

Then I remembered: I had a class that night at the Shalom Retirement Center.

“But I can’t,” I sighed. “I’ve got to teach tonight.”

“I didn’t know you were a teacher.”

“Yes, I teach a memoir-writing class to senior citizens.”

“That sounds like a hoot. Can I come?”

“Of course you can come! What a fantastic idea!”

Obviously the concept of “playing it cool” was way beyond my grasp.

Cameron said he’d pick me up, and that we could stop off somewhere for a burger before class. I hung up and did a little happy dance, scaring the bejesus out of Prozac, who stared at me wide-eyed from her perch on top of the bookshelf. I kept it up, dancing on my toes, leaping like a crazed ballerina, until Lance started banging on our shared wall.

“Keep it down in there, willya?”

“No problem!” I sang out.

I had a date with Cameron, and nothing was going to bust my bubble.

Or so I thought.

Cameron picked me up at six. Once again, I’d gone through half my wardrobe trying to decide what to wear. This time, I’d chosen black crepe slacks from Ann Taylor and a luscious ecru silk blouse I’d bought on sale at Nordstrom.

Prozac, the little slut, threw herself at Cameron, rubbing her body against his ankles with such abandon, I was afraid that in three months she’d give birth to a litter of baby ankles. Finally, I lured her away with a can of Tasty Shrimp Entrails. While she was busy slurping up her dinner, I grabbed my class looseleaf binder, and Cameron and I made a break for it.

As we headed down the path to Cameron’s car, I could see Lance peeking at us through a slat in his blinds.

Hands off,
I thought.
He’s mine
.

Cameron’s Jeep was a mess. I’d noticed that the night we went out together to see Marian’s movie. The backseat was littered with empty water bottles, old invoices, and books of fabric swatches.

It was one of the things I liked about him. Not that I admire sloppiness in a man. I just have this aversion to clean cars after living with The Blob. The Blob had an old British Aston Martin that was the love of his life. He was fanatic about keeping it clean. He kept Windex in his glove compartment, a waste basket dangling from his dashboard, and—you won’t believe this—a portable vacuum under his seat. He had a special adapter that allowed him to plug it into the cigarette lighter. Heaven help the poor soul who dropped her gum wrapper on the floor.

So Cameron’s Jeep was definitely a welcome change of pace.

I tossed my looseleaf binder into the backseat and climbed in alongside Cameron. I only hoped he didn’t notice what a hard time I was having hauling my petite derriere up into the car. Show me a woman who looks graceful getting into a Jeep, and I’ll show you a figment of your imagination.

I strapped myself in, taking deep breaths of Cameron’s aftershave. It was a lovely citrusy scent, worlds apart from the
eau de sweat
The Blob used to wear.

“So,” Cameron said, as we rode over to a nearby In ’n Out Burger. “Anything new on your ‘case’?”

“As a matter of fact, I went to Stacy’s funeral today.”

“You did? What was it like?”

“Dramatic, to say the least.”

“Tell me everything!” he said, with the gusto of a dedicated gossip.

And I did. I told him about how Devon attacked Andy. And about the girl with the purple hair, and
King Lear
at the Lutheran potluck dinner, and about Andy trying to bribe me with a script deal.

“Wow,” he said when I was through. “I don’t believe it.”

“What? The part about Devon attacking Andy, or the part about Andy bribing me?”

“No. The part about
King Lear
at the Lutheran potluck dinner.”

Then he smiled one of his killer smiles, and I made a mental note, which I mentally underlined several times,
not
to order onions with my burger.

My students buzzed with excitement as I walked into the room with Cameron. The old ladies nudged each other, nodding and smiling. At last, their teacher-who-wasn’t-getting-any-younger had found herself a boyfriend. They all beamed like proud grandmas.

Only Mr. Goldman seemed pissed. He snatched up the apple he’d left for me at the head of the table and bit into it so vehemently, I thought he’d lose his dentures.

Good. Let him think I had a boyfriend. Now maybe he’d leave me alone.

I introduced Cameron as my “friend,” hoping they’d all think “friend” was a euphemism for “insatiable lover.”

He took a seat between Mrs. Pechter (“My son, the plastic surgeon”), and Mrs. Rubin (“My daughter, the psychotherapist”). He flashed them his crinkly-eyed smile, and they smiled back, instantly smitten. Mrs. Rubin, giggling like a schoolgirl, reached in her purse and offered him a mint. Later she’d probably offer him her daughter in matrimony.

I asked who wanted to read first, and Mr. Goldman’s hand shot up like a piston. I nodded wearily, and he launched into the latest chapter of his adventures as a carpet salesman. Tonight’s installment involved a trip to Las Vegas, where Mr. Goldman had been honored by his peers as Broadloom Salesman of the Year. It also involved his meeting Wayne Newton and Lola Falana, both of whom were performing at his hotel. According to Mr. Goldman, “Lola looked at me with bedroom eyes, and if I wasn’t a happily married man, I would’ve done something about it.”

Dream on, Mr. Goldman.

As he went off on a none-too-exciting tangent about the evils of area rugs, I glanced down at my blouse. True to my vow, I hadn’t ordered onions with my burger at dinner, but I had ordered ketchup, and now I could see a blotchy red stain on the sleeve. Damn. I couldn’t take myself anywhere.

When I looked up, I saw that Mr. Goldman had finally finished.

“Nice work, Mr Goldman,” I said, hoping it wasn’t obvious to everyone that I hadn’t been listening. “Okay, who wants to go next?”

Mrs. Vincenzo raised her hand. I could see Cameron looking at her with interest as she began to read, at her slim dancer’s body and her silken hair wrapped in a careless bun at the crown of her head. Mrs. Vincenzo’s essay was a wonderful piece about her first job, as a chorus girl at a nightclub in Weehawken, New Jersey.

Cameron sat there, riveted, as she read. I couldn’t help thinking about his friendship with Marian Hamilton. How much he seemed to care for her, how much he probably missed her. Maybe he came with me to my class, not for my stimulating company, but simply to find another older woman to take Marian’s place.

I barely heard a word anybody read after that; I was too busy thinking about Cameron—and that damn blob of ketchup on my blouse.

When the class finally ground to a halt, Mr. Goldman took me aside.

“Is he your boyfriend?” he asked, jerking his head toward Cameron, who was standing across the room talking to Mrs. Vincenzo.

I thought about lying, but I didn’t have the energy.

“No,” I said. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“I didn’t think so,” Mr. Goldman said smugly. “He looks like a fairy to me.”

“That Mrs. Vincenzo is quite a pistol,” Cameron said in the Jeep on the way back to my place.

“Yeah, she sure is,” I conceded grudgingly.

“She reminds me of Christine.”

“Christine?”

“My ex-fiancée.”

My heart lurched hopefully. Clearly Christine had to be someone of the female persuasion. Which meant Mr. Goldman was wrong. And all my suspicions were unfounded. Cameron wasn’t gay after all.

“We broke up two months ago.”

“How interesting!” I blurted out without thinking. “Not interesting that you broke up with your fiancée. Interesting that you were engaged. I mean, to a woman. I mean…” I trailed off feebly.

“You didn’t think I was gay, did you?”

“Maybe just a little.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he smiled. “It happens all the time. I guess it’s one of the occupational hazards of being an antiques dealer.”

How nice. A non-homophobic heterosexual. Most guys I know fly into a paranoid dither if you think they might be gay. And heaven help you if you dare to buy them a pink shirt for Christmas.

“No,” Cameron said, as we pulled up in front of my apartment. “Christine is definitely a woman. She’s a ballerina with the Los Angeles Ballet.”