Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For (19 page)

He handed me a pair of germ-ridden binoculars.

“Go ahead. Take a look. There’s lots of interesting stuff to see on shore.”

Praying I wouldn’t catch some deadly eye disease, I began looking through the binoculars. On the plus side, at least I didn’t have to look at the garbage.

“Look! Over there!” he said. “Behind the oil rigs. If you look really hard, you can see our sewage treatment plant.”

I pretended to be engrossed in the scenery, trying hard to shut out the sound of Darrell’s droning voice, when I saw a ship come into view—one of those dinner and dancing cruise ships that sail around the marina. I watched the lucky people on deck, laughing and sipping champagne, the sinking sun a glorious red ball behind them.

I was thinking about how life wasn’t fair, and how I’d like to kill Kandi for getting me into this mess, when I saw something that grabbed my attention. There on deck, clinking champagne glasses with his date, was a guy who looked an awful lot like Tyler. I sharpened the focus on the binoculars.

It was indeed Tyler.

But the woman he was with wasn’t Becky. It was a sweet-looking older woman with round apple cheeks and her hair caught up in a bun at the top of her head. It was hard to believe she was his date. Maybe it was his mother. How nice of Tyler, I thought, taking his mom on a dinner cruise.

But then, much to my amazement, Tyler put down his champagne glass and took the woman in his arms. He kissed her, a high-suction steamy lip lock. Whoever the woman was, it sure as hell wasn’t his mommy.

The rest of my adventure on the high seas passed by in a blur. All I could think of was Tyler and his mystery woman. Before I knew it, we were back in the marina and Darrell was hoisting me over the rail onto terra firma.

“Thanks for a lovely time,” I managed, with great effort, to say.

“My pleasure.” Darrell smiled a big goofy grin.

Dear God, I prayed, please don’t let him ask me out again.

“So, Jaine. How’d you like to get together sometime?”

“Well….” I began, wondering if he’d believe me if I told him I was moving to Tasmania.

“Maybe I’ll give you a call,” he said, “once I work my way through my list.”

“Your list?”

He nodded. “So far, I’ve lined up seventeen dates through speed dating. I want to see how the others go, and then maybe I’ll call you.”

It’s nauseating, isn’t it? Just think of all the wonderful women you know who can’t land a date to save their souls. And guys with barnacles on their Barbie dolls are running around with lists.

Then Darrell winked and said, “Here’s a little something to remember me by.”

For a frightening instant I thought he was going to leap over the railing and kiss me. Or worse, show me his tool. But no, he just tossed me another package of peanut butter crackers.

Then he and Bernie went sailing off into the sunset.

I didn’t envy the sunset.

The first thing I did when I got home was head for the shower, to wash off the stench of that damn garbage boat. As I stood under the spray, I couldn’t stop thinking about Tyler. Clearly he was cheating on Becky. But with who? Just who was that older woman I’d seen him kissing?

And then I remembered Tyler’s alibi. He said he was with his writing professor at the time of Frenchie’s death. He said her name was Ms. Garrett. Maybe Ms. Garrett was more than just a friendly advisor. Maybe she was also his lover, so much in love she’d be willing to give him an alibi for the night of the murder.

Chapter 20

T
he next morning, after a hearty breakfast of tap-water coffee and cold fried chicken, I drove over to the Westwood offices of UCLA Extension, home of hundreds of adult education courses.

Down in the lobby, I checked out the catalogue and found four courses in novel writing. One of them was taught by a Kate Garrett. Now all I had to do was find out if Kate was the same woman I’d seen smooching with Tyler.

I headed upstairs to the Writers’ Program and approached the receptionist, an earnest young man with horn-rimmed glasses and eyelashes to die for.

“May I help you?” he asked, looking up from his copy of
How to Write a Screenplay in 21 Days.

“I hope so,” I said. “A friend of mine told me about a novel-writing course she took here. She said it was just fabulous. Unfortunately, I can’t remember the name of the woman who taught it.”

“All of our instructors are wonderful. You can’t go wrong, no matter whom you choose.”

Note the correct use of the word “whom.” Obviously an ex–English major.

“I’m sure they are all wonderful,” I said. “But I’d like to take the course my friend told me about. She said the teacher was a sweet-looking woman, a little chubby, wears her hair in a bun.”

“Oh, that must be Kate Garrett.”

Bingo. So I was right. The woman on the boat
was
Tyler’s writing instructor. And it looked like Tyler was one hell of a teacher’s pet.

“Her course is terrific. I can sign you up right now if you give me your credit card.”

I pretended to check my wallet, then slapped my forehead in frustration. “Drat. I must have left it at home.”

He shot me a funny look. Maybe the forehead slapping was a bit over the top.

“If you’re
really
interested in the course,” he said, “you can register by phone. Or enroll on the Internet. All the information is on the back of the catalogue.”

Then he lowered his incredible eyelashes and went back to finding out how to write a script in less time than it takes some people to get over the flu.

I hurried home and looked up Kate’s name in the phone book, but there was practically a whole page of Garretts—no Kates—and I didn’t feel like getting carpal tunnel syndrome from making phone calls all day.

Then I had a brainstorm.

I called the UCLA payroll department.

The woman who answered sounded like she was counting the seconds till her coffee break.

“Payroll,” she said, her voice oozing boredom. “Wanda speaking.”

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Kate Garrett. I’m an instructor at UCLA Extension, and I haven’t received my last paycheck. It’s way overdue, and I’m calling to make sure that you have my correct address.”

“Social?” Wanda said.

“Huh?”

“What’s your social security number?” she asked, with an impatient sigh.

Damn. It hadn’t occurred to me that she might ask me that.

“Gee,” I said. “My card’s downstairs in the kitchen, and I’m up here in the bedroom. I sprained my ankle yesterday and it’s so difficult for me to get down the steps. Can’t you look me up by my name?”

“Oh, all right.” Wanda sighed again. In the background, I could hear her tapping on her computer. “Here it is. Kate Garrett. We got you down at 1724 Glendon Avenue in Westwood, 90024.”

“That’s right,” I said, frantically jotting down the address. “I don’t understand why I didn’t get the check. Probably some mistake at the post office.”

I thanked Wanda profusely for her time and grabbed my car keys.

I was off to Westwood again.

Kate Garrett lived in a modest yellow stucco house not far from the university. She came to the door in a flowing batik caftan and wood bead necklace. With her round face and matronly bun, she looked like a beatnik Aunt Bea.

“Kate Garrett?” I asked.

“That’s me,” she said, smiling a warm Mayberry smile.

“I’d like to talk to you about Frenchie Ambrose’s murder.”

Suddenly, the smile vanished.

“Are you with the police?”

“No, I’m a private investigator.”

“I’m afraid I can’t talk right now,” she said, fingering the beads around her neck. “I’m a writer, and I’m in the middle of a very difficult chapter.”

She was about to close the door when I said, “Tyler’s been cheating on you.”

“What?”

“Your boyfriend, Tyler. He’s been cheating on you.”

The color drained from her cheeks.

“Tyler is seeing someone else?”

I nodded.

“Come in,” she said.

I followed her into a small living room lined with bookshelves. I couldn’t help noticing that there was a lot of Kate under that caftan. A far cry from Becky and her elfin figure.

She waved me to a seat on the sofa and sat down opposite me in a large overstuffed armchair. Up close, she looked a lot younger than she had through Darrell’s binoculars, but still, she had to be somewhere in her forties, way older than Tyler.

“How do you know about me and Tyler?”

“That’s not important,” I said. “The important thing is that he’s been cheating on you with my client, Becky Kopek.”

“Becky? He told me Becky was his cousin.”

“And before Becky, he was having an affair with Frenchie Ambrose, the murder victim.”

She reached into her caftan pocket and took out a pack of cigarettes. Her fingers shook as she lit one.

“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“Ask anyone at Passions. Ask the cops, for that matter. They know.”

If I’d expected her to melt down into a puddle of scorned womanhood, I was in for a surprise.

“I knew all along Tyler was too good to be true,” she said, with a bitter laugh. “Why would a handsome young guy like him be interested in someone like me?”

She took a drag of her cigarette and let out the smoke with a sigh.

“He was using me, of course. Deep down, I knew it, but I couldn’t admit it to myself.”

“Using you?”

“It’s been more than five years since my last book was published.” She picked up a slim volume from the coffee table and handed it to me. “But I still have a lot of connections in publishing. Tyler was obviously willing to do anything to get his book published. Including sleeping with me.”

I looked down at the author’s picture on the back of the book and saw a younger version of Kate smiling that same sweet Mayberry smile.

“You can have it if you like,” she said.

“That’s awfully nice of you.”

“Not really,” she said. “I’ve got a hundred more out in the garage.”

I guess it was safe to assume Kate never made it onto the best-seller lists.

“Did Tyler really stay after class the night of the murder?” I asked.

“For about five minutes. Just long enough to kiss me and tell me he loved me.”

“So he could’ve been at Passions when Frenchie was killed?”

She nodded.

“The next day he called me, frantic. Told me Frenchie had been murdered. He told me how he’d threatened to kill her within earshot of a store full of customers. He was terrified the cops would arrest him. So I agreed to lie and say he was with me.”

“If you keep lying to protect him, you could wind up in jail.”

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t be lying for Tyler any more.”

She stubbed out her cigarette with a vengeance, her eyes cold as ice. Bye-bye, Aunt Bea. Hello, Lady MacBeth.

Back home, I found a message from Becky on my machine. It was her day off, and she wanted me to stop by her apartment and give her a progress report.

I’m dying to know what happened when you talked to Maxine,
her voice chirped from the machine.
For the first time, I’m beginning to feel like there’s a ray of hope at the end of the tunnel.

Oh, great. Just when she was hopeful, I was about to come along and stomp on her ray. What was I going to say to her?
Guess what, Becky? Your boyfriend doesn’t have an alibi. And not only that, he’s cheating on you
.

Reluctantly, I got in the Corolla and drove to Becky’s place. She answered the door in hot pink tights and a lime green sweatshirt. With her Day-Glo orange hair, she looked like a technicolor test pattern.

Nina was lounging on the sofa in pajamas, reading the
National Enquirer.

“Listen to this,” she said, reading a headline.
“I Was the Love Child of Madonna and Tony Blair.”

“Who’s Tony Blair?” Becky asked.

Nina shot her a reproving look. “Don’t you know anything? He’s the president of Canada.”

I made a mental note to myself to never, under any circumstances, wind up in a hospital with Nina as my nurse.

“I just made soy-carob-walnut brownies,” Becky said. “You’ve got to try one.”

She held out a plate of brownies. I say brownies advisedly. They looked more like bite-sized pieces of roofing tar. I smiled weakly and took one.

“Watch out for the walnuts,” Nina said. “They can get caught in your esophagus and you can choke to death.”

Becky bit into her brownie, ignoring the esophagus warning.

“So tell me about your visit with Maxine,” she said, chewing happily.

I told her how Maxine had cheated and lied for Frenchie, only to have Frenchie dump her in the end, and how she’d driven to Passions the night of the murder.

“So she had motive and opportunity,” Nina said, abandoning the bedroom antics of Madonna and Tony Blair.

“Yes, but she swears Frenchie was already dead when she got there.”

“Big deal,” Nina said. “She could be lying.”

“Actually, Maxine wasn’t the only one at the store that night. Grace and Amanda Tucker were there, too.”

I told them what I’d overheard outside Amanda’s living room window.

“Gosh, Jaine,” Becky said. “You’ve done such a good job! You’re just as good as any real detective.”

I smiled stiffly, wondering if she was ever going to promote me to “real” detective status.

“I’ve got to pay you for all your time,” she said, jumping up. “I’ll go get my checkbook.”

“Wait. There’s something else you should know.”

“What?” she asked, her blue eyes round and trusting, no idea of the ax that was about to fall.

“It’s about Tyler.”

“What about him?”

“For starters,” I said, “he doesn’t have an alibi.”

“Of course he does. He was with his writing instructor when Frenchie was killed.”

“I’m afraid not. I spoke with Tyler’s instructor today. She told me she lied to cover for him. She said he left class that night with plenty of time to drive over to Passions and kill Frenchie.”

“I don’t understand,” Becky said, scratching her orange spikes. “Why would she lie for him?”