Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For (17 page)

“So tell me all about your investigation,” Lance said. “Do you have any idea who did it?”

“Not really. But I’ve got plenty of promising suspects.”

I ran down my list of suspects, filling him in on the jacaranda blossoms on Grace’s car; the mutilated head in Maxine’s photo album; Frenchie’s cuckolded husband, Owen; and Grace’s good buddy and possible partner in crime, Mrs. Amanda Tucker.

“I didn’t know Amanda Tucker was a friend of Grace’s,” Lance said, reaching for another croissant. I’d long since finished my second and was working on my third.

“Do you know her?” I asked.

“Not personally, but I see her picture in the society pages all the time. The woman has had her face tightened so many times, I’m surprised she can still close her eyes.”

“Know anything about her?”

“Just that she’s got money up her kazoo. Her husband was a billionaire oil baron.”

“Was? As in past tense?”

“Yes, he died sometime last year. Huge funeral. I sold a lot of black Manolos that week. And speaking of Manolos,” he said, checking his watch, “I’ve got to run or I’ll be late for work.”

“Aren’t you going to finish your croissant?” I said, eyeing half a croissant on his plate.

“Nah, I’m full.”

Leave it to a skinny person to be full after one and a half measly croissants.

Lance tootled off for work, and—after polishing off his croissant—I headed for the computer. I caught up on my parents’ e-mails and groaned. Daddy was up to something, all right. One of these days, I swear, I’m going to see his mug shot on a post office wall. But I couldn’t worry about Daddy. Not now, not with this murder hanging over my head. So I deleted all thoughts of my parents and logged on to the
L.A. Times
archives to do a search on Amanda Tucker.

Like Lance said, her name showed up in a bunch of society stories. One of the articles mentioned that she was the widow of the late billionaire Andre Tucker. Then I did a search on Andre, and guess what, folks? According to the
Times,
Andre died of food poisoning, leaving his wife his entire billion-dollar fortune. It was officially ruled an accidental death, but I wasn’t so sure. After all, poison was poison. For all I knew, it was premeditated murder.

And just like that, I had a new Number-One Suspect.

Amanda Tucker lived in the toniest part of Brentwood, where fixer-uppers sell for millions. And Amanda’s place was far from a fixer-upper. Separated from the street by a six-foot hedge, it had a front lawn as big as a football field. I parked my Corolla in the street, the only economy car for miles around, and began the trek up the path to the front door.

The house was an English country extravaganza, with leaded-glass windows and wood beams galore. I almost expected to see the Duke and Duchess of Windsor stroll out onto the front lawn for a game of croquet.

I’d decided to drop by unannounced and catch Mrs. Tucker by surprise. I figured she was less likely to turn me down if I showed up in person.

I rang the doorbell and sniffed the heady aroma of lilacs in bloom. The door was quickly opened by a stocky woman in a maid’s uniform.

“Yes,” she said, squinting at me. “What is it?”

I smiled my most engaging smile.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Tucker.”

“If you’re here about the Passions murder,” she said, her arms crossed firmly in front of her formidable bosoms, “Mrs. Tucker has nothing to say except that Grace Lynbrook is one of the finest, most honorable women she’s had the privilege to know.”

She started to close the door.

“Wait,” I said. “I’m not here about the murder.”

“Oh? Then what do you want?”

I put on my tap shoes and started lying like a congressman up for reelection.

“Didn’t they call you from the magazine?”

“No,” she said. “What magazine?”

“
Vanity Fair.
We’re doing a piece on Los Angeles fashion trendsetters, and we want to interview Mrs. Tucker.”

“Nobody called from
Vanity Fair
.”

In the bright light of day, I could see a healthy mustache on her pursed lips.

“Damn those idiots at the office.” I whipped out my cell phone and called my own answering machine.

“Kimberly,” I barked into the phone, “I’m here at Amanda Tucker’s and they say you never called to set up the appointment…I don’t want to hear any excuses. You’ve got a job to do, so do it!”

I snapped the phone shut.

“Unbelievable!” I said. “These kids want to become writers, and they can’t make a simple phone call.”

The maid stared at me impassively. Was she buying any of this?

“Wait outside,” she said finally. “I’ll tell Mrs. Tucker you’re here.”

Whoopee! She bought it.

As I stood there cooling my heels, I realized I was taking a chance. After all, Mrs. Tucker had seen me at Passions. It was very possible she might recognize me. But I had the distinct impression that Amanda Tucker’s main focus in life was Amanda Tucker. Somehow I didn’t think she paid a lot of attention to the people around her. At least I hoped not.

Minutes later, the maid came back and nodded curtly.

“Follow me,” she instructed.

And I did, to an English country living room, full of chintz and fresh-cut flowers. Amanda Tucker was waiting for me in tight white capri’s and an even tighter pink angora sweater. I couldn’t help noticing her boobs, two perfect globes, popping out from the angora. Man-made, no doubt.

“Pleased to meet you, Ms.—?”

“Russell,” I said, improvising wildly. “Rosalind Russell.”

Was I insane? Giving her the name of a dead movie star?

“You mean, like the movie star?”

“Yes,” I smiled feebly. “My mom was a big fan.”

“Have we met somewhere before? Your face looks familiar.”

Damn. She was more observant than I’d thought.

“Possibly,” I said. “Were you at the
Women’s Wear Daily
cocktail thing last month?”

“No, that’s not where I saw you.”

“I have a very familiar face,” I said. “This happens to me all the time.”

“Oh, well. No matter,” she said. “I’ll think of it eventually. Won’t you sit down, Ms. Russell? Can I have Gerta bring you something to drink?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Some apple strudel, perhaps? Fresh from the oven?”

“No, thanks.”

Okay, so I didn’t really say that. The words that popped out of my mouth, as you’ve probably already guessed, were:

“Sure. I’d love some.”

Amanda momentarily abandoned her Lady of the Manor pose and hollered, “Gerta! Bring us some strudel.”

Then she plopped her flat tush on the sofa opposite me and sat back against a small mountain of throw pillows.

“I’m just so thrilled,” she gushed. “Imagine, being interviewed by
Vanity Fair
!”

Then she looked around.

“Where’s the photographer? You are taking pictures, aren’t you?”

“Of course. The photographer’s coming later. That’s how we work; I do the interview first, and then he comes to take pictures.”

“Good,” she said. “That will give me plenty of time to put on some makeup.”

Yeah, right. As if she wasn’t already wearing enough makeup to stock a Clinique counter.

“So,” she said, plastering a smile on her taut face. “Fire away. Ask me anything.”

What the heck was I going to ask her? I knew as much about high fashion as she did about Kmart specials.

“Um…” I finally managed, “who are your favorite designers?”

She started rattling off names and then suddenly stopped.

“Wait a minute. Aren’t you going to take notes? Don’t you have a tape recorder?”

“Right. My tape recorder.”

I reached into my purse and took out my cell phone.

“Isn’t that a cell phone?”

“It’s also a tape recorder. Terrific little invention. The microphone is embedded right here.” I pointed to one of the input holes at the end of the phone.

“What won’t they think of next?” she said.

I put the phone on the coffee table.

“Try to talk into the little hole, okay?”

And she was off and running, rambling on about her favorite designers. It was then that I noticed the throw pillow she was cradling in her lap. It was moss green silk, embroidered with the motto
Don’t Get Mad. Get Even.

I remembered that day in Passions when Mrs. Tucker overheard Frenchie making fun of her and vowed she’d get revenge. I wondered if she’d made good on her threat with the help of a Jimmy Choo knockoff.

My musings came to a halt when Mrs. Tucker suddenly interrupted herself.

“Now I know where I saw you!” she cried. “Passions!”

Rats.

“Didn’t I see you there, in a Prada suit?”

“That’s right. I was there to interview Grace Lynbrook for my
Vanity Fair
story.”

“That’s funny,” she said. “Grace never mentioned that you were interviewing her.”

“That’s because she signed our confidentiality agreement.”

“Confidentiality agreement?”

“We make all our interview subjects sign a pledge to keep their interviews a secret until the story is actually published.”

If I told one more lie, my nose would start growing.

“Besides,” I said, “what with the murder at Ms. Lynbrook’s store, I imagine our interview was the last thing on her mind.”

Extra credit for me for steering the conversation to the murder.

“Terrible tragedy, wasn’t it?” I said.

“Terrible,” she echoed.

“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

But I wasn’t about to hear any of Amanda Tucker’s ideas, because just then I looked out the window and saw Grace’s Jaguar coming up the driveway.

I had to get the hell out of there, and fast.

“May I use your rest room?” I asked.

“Of course. It’s down the hall to your right.”

I tossed my cell phone in my purse and started for the door.

“Wait,” Amanda said. “Why are you taking your tape recorder?”

“Battery’s low. Gotta recharge.”

I dashed down the hallway, bumping into Gerta, who was carrying a plate of warm apple strudel. Somehow I managed to restrain myself from grabbing a piece and continued down the hallway.

At last I found the bathroom, another floral fiesta with hand-rolled linen guest towels and enough potpourri to fumigate the city dump. But its most important feature, as far as I was concerned, was a window. I quickly opened it and leaped out, landing in a lilac bush below.

(A word of advice: Try never to land in a lilac bush. They’re not nearly as comfy as you might think.)

After extricating myself from the lilac branches, I crept along the side of the house until I heard Grace’s voice coming from an open window. I stopped in my tracks and listened.

“Bad news,” she was saying. “Some private eye knows that we were back at the store the night of the murder.”

So I was right! They
were
at the store that night. Whatever they were up to, they were in it together.

“Not so loud,” Amanda said. “The reporter might hear you.”

“What reporter?”

“The one from
Vanity Fair
. She said she interviewed you for her story. On Los Angeles trendsetters.”

“I didn’t talk to any reporter from
Vanity Fair
.”

“You didn’t?” Amanda said, a most suspicious note in her voice.

I thought it was an opportune moment to make my getaway, which I did, plucking lilac twigs from my tush as I ran.

Chapter 18

I
was back home in my bathroom rubbing aloe vera on my fanny when Becky called. She sounded excited.

“I just thought of something that could be really important,” she said.

“What is it?”

“Well, this morning I went to the supermarket to get some carob powder to make brownies, and I accidentally locked myself out of my VW.”

“And?”

“And when I looked in my wallet where I usually keep my spare key, the key wasn’t there!”

So far, this sounded like a case for a locksmith.

“And then I remembered. A couple of months ago, Maxine’s car was in the shop, and I loaned her my VW. I gave her my spare key. I forgot all about it, but today I realized she never gave it back.”

“So, on the night of the murder, Maxine had a key to your car.”

“That’s right.”

Very interesting.

“Do you park your car in a garage?” I asked.

“No, out on the street.”

“Where Maxine would have had easy access to it. Which means she could’ve driven it to Passions.”

Maybe R.D. Butler really did see an orange VW at the time of the murder. With Maxine the mousy accountant behind the wheel.

“It’s so hard to picture Maxine as a killer,” Becky said. “Besides, why would she want to implicate me? I never did anything to hurt her.”

“To save her own hide.”

“That’s pretty rotten,” Becky said.

“Killers usually are.”

I hung up, promising Becky I’d have another chat with Maxine. Then I dusted my tush with baby powder and headed out to the valley. Putting my pants on first, of course.

I found Maxine and Sparkles watching
Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

“Jaine! How nice to see you,” Maxine said, ushering me into her oatmeal living room. “It’s the end of the movie, Sparkles’ favorite part, where Holly Golightly rescues her cat.”

Sparkles was curled up on Maxine’s recliner, dead to the world, her tiny pink tongue hanging out from her mouth.

Maxine scooped her up in her arms.

“Wake up, Sparkles! This is the part where we always cry, remember?”

The three of us watched as Audrey Hepburn, George Peppard, and Audrey’s orange cat embraced in the rain, and the credits rolled. Well, Maxine and I watched. Sparkles had conked out again.

“What a wonderful movie,” Maxine said, with a sigh.

Then she clicked off the TV and turned to me, beaming.

“Guess what?” she said. “Grace has hired me back at Passions!”

“That’s wonderful, Maxine.”

“Why don’t you stay for dinner and help me and Sparkles celebrate?” she said, shooting me a shy smile. “We’re having Kentucky Fried Chicken. Extra crispy.”