Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For (23 page)

Chapter 24

I
woke up in Grace’s office at Passions, my head pounding with a killer headache. It felt like Desi Arnaz was playing “Babaloo” on my cranium.

The first thing I saw when I opened my eyes was Nina standing over me. The second thing I saw was a gun in her hand, aimed straight at my heart.

Then I glanced to my side and saw a disembodied arm on the floor beside me. I flashed on Nina’s fondness for medical horror stories. Oh, God. She was probably one of those wackos who got their jollies out of cutting people up into bite-sized pieces. The demented psychopath had amputated my arm!

“What have you done to my arm?” I shrieked.

“What’re you talking about? I haven’t touched your arm.”

Then I looked over and saw Bessie the mannequin propped up against the wall. It was Bessie’s arm lying next to me, not mine. What a relief. At least now I’d have all my limbs when Nina killed me.

“How did you know I was at the club?” I asked.

“I saw you following me in your car. You were so close I could see your face in my rearview mirror. The next time you tail someone, keep your distance.

“Not that there’s going to be a next time,” she said, waving the gun.

She stood straddled over me, giving me an X-rated view up her short nurse’s dress.

“It didn’t have to come to this,” she said. “I tried to warn you.”

“By leaving that Jimmy Choo on my doorstep?”

“I went to a lot of trouble to steal that shoe,” she said, looking rather miffed, “but did you pay attention? Noooo. And now look at you. You should’ve minded your own business.”

Truer words were never spoken, I thought, gazing up her crotch.

“Hey,” she said, brightening, “it’s too bad you didn’t get a chance to see my act.”

And with that, she whipped off her uniform. It was one of those breakaway costumes designed to come off at the slightest tug.

“What do you think?” She smiled down at me, naked except for a sequinned G-string and pasties.

Good Lord. In addition to being a crazed psychopath, she was also a world-class narcissist.

“I’ve got a great body, don’t I?” she said, stroking her hips.

I’d always thought of Nina as a delicate little thing. But now I was surprised to see that her body was roped with well-defined muscles. She sure looked a lot tougher without her clothes on.

“Not an ounce of fat anywhere,” she preened. “Not like you, Jaine. You gotta do something about those thighs, honey.”

Just what I wanted. A pre-execution diet lecture.

“I read somewhere that the cellulite from your thighs can travel to your brain and cause cancer.”

Where did she get this stuff? The Abbott & Costello School of Medicine?

“It’s a proven fact. The more you weigh, the younger you die. And that’s certainly going to be true in your case,” she said, once again waving that damn gun in my face.

By now I was getting mighty tired of looking up her crotch.

“Is it okay if I sit up?”

“Sure, why not?”

I sat up, setting off a fresh wave of bongos in my brain.

“What did you do?” I asked. “Slip something in my drink?”

“While you were in the bathroom,” she nodded. “Knockout drops. I use ’em to roll my tricks.”

“Your tricks? You’re a hooker, too?”

“Hey,” she shrugged. “A gal’s gotta make a living.”

“Does Becky know about any of this?”

“Are you kidding?” she sneered. “She’s the original clueless wonder. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how men fall for stupid women? Becky just smiles that dopey smile of hers, and they’re in love. I don’t get it. I’m smarter than her. And prettier, too. And they never choose me.”

Perhaps because they sense you’re a raving nutcase,
were the words I wish I could have uttered.

“Up till now, I didn’t mind,” she said. “Because all the guys Becky dated were losers. But Tyler, he was something else. The first time I laid eyes on him, I knew I had to have him. But all he could see was Becky. Life sure isn’t fair, is it?”

I had to agree with her on that one.

“So you figured out a way to get rid of her,” I said. “You decided to get her arrested for murder.”

“Clever of me, wasn’t it? Killing somebody I didn’t even know. That way, the cops would never suspect me.”

She was so damn proud of herself, she was practically strutting.

“I bought a gun, then lured Frenchie to the store, pretending to be from the alarm company. I told her it was nothing personal but I had to blow her brains out. But when I pulled the trigger, nothing happened. Can you believe it? The crack dealer who sold me the gun didn’t tell me there weren’t any bullets in it. What a bummer, huh?”

Yep, those darn crack dealers. They’re so unreliable.

“The minute Frenchie realized the gun wasn’t loaded, she made a break for it. She almost got away but she tripped and went splat on the floor. I tackled her from behind. Then I saw her Jimmy Choo and decided it would make a dandy murder weapon. And guess what? I was right.”

Another smug smile.

“And after you killed her,” I said, “you planted Becky’s earring in her hand.”

“Becky was always losing that stupid earring. She’d dropped it at the apartment that night, and I picked it up when she wasn’t looking. Then after she went to sleep, I took her car and met Frenchie at the shop.”

So the musician next door really did see Becky’s car in the parking lot at the time of the murder.

“I watched as Frenchie disarmed the alarm system, and I memorized the code. That’s how I was able to get us in here tonight. Pretty smart, huh? When they find your body, they’ll think it was an inside job. Only someone who works here would know how to disarm the alarm.

“And when they find these all over you,” she added, taking a plastic baggie from her purse, “they’ll be convinced Becky did it.”

She tossed me the baggie. Inside were some bright orange hairs.

“I got ’em off Becky’s hairbrush. Rub them on your clothes, will ya?”

Reluctantly, I obeyed instructions.

“If this doesn’t get the little idiot arrested, I’ll have to shoot her myself. Which reminds me. It’s time to say bye-bye, Jaine. And this time, the gun is loaded.”

She raised the gun and took aim.

Oh, God. This was it. My final moment on earth. And my last sight was a nutcase in a G-string and pasties. I had to think of something—anything—to get her to put down the gun.

“You realize you’re being taped, don’t you?”

“What?”

For the first time since this little scenario began, she looked unsure of herself.

“After Frenchie got killed,” I said, “Grace installed a security camera. It’s right over there.”

I pointed to the far wall. Of course, there was no security camera. But Nina didn’t know that. She whirled around, and when she did, I grabbed Bessie’s mannequin arm and whacked her in the legs as hard as I could. As she stumbled forward, I whacked her again, this time in the arm. Her gun went flying across the room. We both raced for it.

And in a gratifying moment of poetic justice, I watched as Nina tripped on her stilettos and went sprawling onto the floor, just as Frenchie had done right before Nina stabbed her in the jugular.

I grabbed the gun, and now it was Nina’s turn to lie on the floor, staring up into the barrel of a lethal weapon.

“I’m sure the police will be very interested in our little chat,” I said.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Tell the cops. It’s your word against mine. You have no proof that I killed Frenchie.”

“Oh, yes, she does.”

We turned and saw Maxine standing in the doorway.

“Hi, Jaine,” she said, with a shy smile. “I stayed late to work on the books.”

Thank God for workaholics.

“I heard everything,” she said.

“Great,” I said. “Now please call the cops.”

“I already did.”

As if on cue, we heard the faint wail of a police siren.

I looked down at Nina, whose eyes were blazing with fury.

“Fat people may die young,” I said, “but people on death row die even younger.”

Then I picked up one of her pasties, which had fallen off during our scuffle.

“Better put this back on,” I said, tossing it to her. “You don’t want to catch cold.”

Epilogue

Y
ou’ll be happy to know that Becky came to her senses and broke up with Tyler. She quit her job at Passions and moved down to Hermosa Beach, where she’s now designing swimsuits for a local surf shop. They’re in wild Day-Glo colors with daisies sewn in strategic places. She calls them Beckinis.

Needless to say, she’s sworn off roommates forever.

What with all the publicity from Frenchie’s murder, Passions has practically become a tourist attraction. Grace is still defying the laws of gravity and looking amazingly young. Maxine is still doing the books and going home at night to Sparkles—and her new kitty, Sparkles, Jr. And Amanda Tucker is still running around with enough botox in her face to paralyze the population of Peru.

(Not long ago, I bumped into Grace and Amanda at Amanda’s alma mater—the Chanel counter at Bloomingdale’s—and they finally confessed that they were indeed at Passions the night of the murder. Like Maxine, they went there to get the account books. And like Maxine, they panicked and ran at the sight of Frenchie with a Jimmy Choo in her neck.)

Wonderful news about Kate Garrett, the UCLA writing instructor. She sold another novel. About a middle-aged woman who has an affair with her scheming, amoral writing student. Something tells me this one won’t wind up gathering dust in her garage.

And speaking of scheming, amoral writing students, last I heard, Tyler was writing spec scripts and dating an agent at ICM.

Believe it or not, Kandi’s still dating Anton, the performance artist. I guess you can never underestimate the allure of a guy with hot fudge sauce in his ears.

As for me, I’m back in the land of T-shirts and elastic-waist pants. And wouldn’t have it any other way. Although I really must drop a few pounds. Which is why I’ve started a strict new diet. Absolutely no carbs, low fat, and high protein. Aren’t you proud of me?

The guys at Tip Top Dry Cleaners fired their ad agency and came groveling back to me, begging me to take their account again. Okay, so I did the groveling, but at least they’re back, and I’m busy writing block-buster slogans like
Free Pick-Up and Delivery,
and
We Specialize in Leather and Suede.

And you’ll never guess who I heard from the other day. Darrell, the speed-dating yachtsman. He worked his way through his list of seventeen women and was ready to give me a chance. I fibbed a bit and told him I was dating someone else and moving to another state and had recently discovered I had latent lesbian tendencies. He seemed turned on by the lesbian stuff, so I managed to get off the phone by telling him I felt a seizure coming on.

Oh, and I’ve got good news and bad news about my Prada suit. The good news is: The cleaners got out the wine stains. The bad news: They lost the buttons.

Which is why I’ve got to get back to work and earn some money right now. And I will. Right after I feed Prozac and finish my donut.

Okay, so I lied about the diet.

Sometimes-sleuth Jaine Austen struggles to make ends—and zippers—meet while living on a freelance writer’s salary in Los Angeles. When she’s not hunting down the latest flavor of her favorite ice cream, she’s tracking down criminals on her own Walk of Infamy…

On the frontlines of the battle of the bulge, otherwise known as trying on bathing suits in the communal dressing room at Loehmann’s, Jaine makes a new friend—a wanna-be actress named Pam—and gets a new job: sprucing up Pam’s bare-bones résumé. Their feeling of connection is mutual, so Pam invites Jaine to join The PMS Club—a women’s support group that meets once a week over guacamole and margaritas to commiserate about love and life.

But joining the club proves to be more of a curse than a blessing for Jaine. Though she is warned that Rochelle, the hostess, makes a guacamole to die for, Jaine never takes the warning literally. Until another PMS member—Marybeth, a relentlessly perky interior decorator—drops dead over a mouthful of the green stuff after confessing she is having an affair with Rochelle’s husband. Turns out that someone knew about Marybeth’s nut allergy and added a fatal dose of peanut oil to the dip.

While Rochelle and her husband are the obvious suspects, everyone at that night’s meeting is under suspicion, including Jaine, putting a new job opportunity at a conservative downtown bank in jeopardy. So, instead of dishing dirt with The PMS Club, Jaine has to dig up dirt on the surviving members—an alcoholic widow, a sassy sixty-something, a too-fabulous honorary male PMS-er, and Pam. As Jaine delves deeper, she tunes into some truly sinister vibes, and it soon becomes clear: someone in this club thinks getting away with murder should be a privilege of membership…

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek at
The PMS Murder
coming next month!

Chapter 1

W
hat’s more painful than a mammogram? More excruciating than a bikini wax? More humiliating than spinach stuck to your front tooth?

Shopping for a bathing suit, of course.

There’s nothing worse. Not even a root canal. (Unless it’s a root canal in a bathing suit with spinach stuck to your front tooth.)

That’s what I was doing the day I first became involved in what eventually became known as the PMS Murder: trying on a bathing suit. For some ridiculous reason I’d decided to take up water aerobics. Actually, for two ridiculous reasons: my thighs. Before my horrified eyes, they were rapidly turning into Ramada Inns for cellulite.

So I figured I’d join a gym, and after a few weeks of sloshing around in the pool, I’d have the toned and silky thighs of my dreams. But before I could get toned and silky, there was just one tiny obstacle in my way: I needed to buy the aforementioned bathing suit.