Killer Blonde (12 page)

I
t was déjà vu all over again.

As I drove up the Kingsleys’ circular driveway for SueEllen’s memorial service, the same valet who’d taken my car at Heidi’s birthday party came up to my window.

“You with the catering staff?”

How many times was I going to have to tell this idiot I wasn’t a waitress?

“Nope,” I snapped, tossing him my keys.

I headed inside where the same people from Heidi’s party were milling around, now dressed in black.

Nothing had changed much since the night of Heidi’s party: the people, the valets, the bar set up in the corner. The only difference was this time, everybody was happy.

Brad, whose brand new Ferrari I’d seen parked in the driveway, was out on the terrace, playing kissy face with Amber.

Hal was mingling genially among his guests. Every once in a while he’d remember to look solemn, but mostly he was smiling.

And SueEllen’s lover, Eduardo. Last week when I saw him coming out of the Kingsleys’ pool house, he couldn’t have looked more miserable. Now he was leaning against the fireplace, making sexy small talk with a stunning redhead.

And of course, there was Heidi. What a difference from the night of her birthday party. Looking slimmer already in a simple black dress, she was sitting on one of the sofas having an animated discussion with Ginny Pearson.

I was glad to see Ginny out of her catering uniform and accorded guest status. Of all the people I’d seen so far, only Ginny wore the subdued expression of someone at a memorial service.

Heidi caught sight of me and came hurrying to my side.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m so glad you came. Daddy ordered deli. The pastrami’s really good.”

She led me over to a buffet table heaped with cold cuts. Pastrami, turkey, ham, and cheese, with huge bowls of cole slaw and potato salad. A far cry from SueEllen’s baby lamb chops and mushrooms en croute.

I helped myself to some pastrami and potato salad. Heidi was right. It was really good.

“Some wine, Miss Jaine?”

Conchi was at my side with a tray of drinks, skittish as ever, as if the ghost of SueEllen was about to show up and make her polish the silver.

“Thank you, Conchi,” I said, taking a glass.

Then she scurried off to serve the other guests.

“How was the funeral service?” I asked Heidi.

Heidi shrugged. “The minister kept calling her SueAnn by mistake. Brad and Amber were practically necking in the back pew. And the only person who cried was Ginny.”

“Didn’t anybody from SueEllen’s family show up?”

“No. Nobody.”

That was odd. I wondered what happened to that rich old aunt of hers. Aunt Melanie. Probably dead and buried long ago. But what about her parents? Where were they? Had SueEllen alienated everyone in her old family, just as she’d done in her new one?

“Heidi, honey, don’t you look nice!”

One of SueEllen’s social string beans was at our side.

“Come say hello to my nephew. I’ve been wanting to introduce you two for ages.”

She dragged Heidi over to a chubby kid in horn rimmed glasses. I felt like telling her that this was a memorial service, not a prom.

My glass of chardonnay in hand, I wandered around, watching the guests laugh and chat gaily, as if SueEllen hadn’t just been lowered into the ground a few hours ago. When I go, I hope somebody remembers me at my own funeral.

I wandered around some more, past lively groups of people scarfing down cold cuts. And then, without quite realizing what I was doing, I found myself drifting up the stairs and heading towards SueEllen’s bathroom. I don’t know why I did it; I guess I hoped I’d find something there, something the cops overlooked, some clue that would lead me to her killer.

Just as I reached the bathroom, I felt a frisson of fear. Suddenly, returning to the scene of the crime didn’t seem like such a hot idea. I told myself to stop being ridiculous. Nothing was going to happen. I was as bad as Conchi. I took a deep breath, and forced myself to open the door.

The room was dark, lit only by a few votive candles.

And that’s when I saw SueEllen, lying naked in the empty tub. Oh, God. Either she was back from the dead, or somebody had put hallucinogens in the pastrami!

“Hey, babe,” she said. “What took you so long?”

Wait a minute. That wasn’t SueEllen’s voice. It was someone a lot younger. If I wasn’t mistaken, it was the voice of Beverly High’s head cheerleader. I peered through the darkness, and sure enough, I saw that it was Amber stretched out in the tub like a Playboy centerfold, her eyes shut in ecstasy.

“Come here, babe,” she cooed. “I can’t wait to get my hands on you.”

“Really?” I said, flipping on the light. “I didn’t think I was your type.”

Her eyes shot open.

“Jesus! What the hell are you doing here?”

“I came to take a tinkle,” I lied. “How about you? Playing
Let’s Boink in Dead Stepmommie’s Bathtub
?

Then I turned and made a dignified exit, just missing the loofa sponge Amber threw at me.

Back downstairs, I hurried to the bar for a refill on my chardonnay. After a few calming gulps, I looked around and saw that Nurse Denise had shown up. She was standing awkwardly in a corner, clutching a cocktail. With her bushy hair and too-tight dress, she was way out of place among the sleek Beverly Hills fashionistas.

I followed her gaze to where Hal was standing, talking to Larkspur. Larkspur looked particularly lovely that day, her blond hair cascading onto the shoulders of her slim black suit. She and Hal were chatting casually, but you could tell by the way they were looking at each other that there was something going on between them. I saw it. And so did Denise, who glugged down her drink with alarming speed.

Poor Denise. If she’d killed SueEllen hoping to be the next Mrs. Hal Kingsley, she was in for a big disappointment.

“Those two aren’t wasting any time, are they?”

I turned to see Eduardo at my side.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he said, flashing me a devastating smile. “I’m Eduardo Jensen.”

He held out his hand and I shook it. In spite of myself, I felt my knees go weak. This was one stunning guy. That slicked back hair, those incredible cheekbones, and those amazing blue eyes that looked even bluer against his deep tan. Let me tell you, my G spot was jumping. But one of my major principles in life is to never fall for guys whose waistlines are smaller than mine, so I reined in my lust. Just barely.

“I’m Jaine Austen,” I managed to say.

“Love your books.”

I smiled weakly. If I had a dime for every time I’ve heard that line, I’d be independently wealthy and living in the south of France.

“So, how do you know the deceased?” he asked.

“I was helping SueEllen write a book.”

“Ah, yes. The book.
Entertaining for Dummies,
or whatever she was calling it. She could have called it
Famous Recipes I Have Stolen
.”

Another devastating smile.

“And you?” I asked. “How did you know SueEllen?”

I wanted to hear how he’d answer that one.

“I’m a friend of the family,” he said, smooth as silk. “Both Hal and SueEllen have been kind enough to buy some of my paintings.”

“Oh. So you’re an artist.”

“I try to be,” he said, shrugging his shoulders with false modesty.

“I’d love to see your work,” I said.

Not really. But I figured it was a good way to talk to him without raising his suspicions. I remembered how SueEllen had threatened Eduardo the night of Heidi’s party. How she swore she’d tell everyone his dirty secret. But SueEllen had been killed before she had a chance to open her mouth. Was Eduardo the one who’d silenced her? I intended to find out.

“Maybe I could stop by your studio,” I suggested.

“I’d like nothing better,” he said, oozing sexual innuendo.

He gave me his card, and I made a date to drop by his studio the following day.

He took my hand, and kissed it. “Always a pleasure to meet an art lover.”

And then he headed off to turn somebody else’s knees to Jell-O.

It took me a minute or two to recover from Hurricane Eduardo but when I did I saw that Hal had left Larkspur and was now talking to Denise, who looked none too happy. She gestured angrily at the lovely Larkspur, who was heading toward the door.

I left the two of them to duke it out, and quickly intercepted Larkspur before she could leave.

“Hey, Larkspur.”

“Oh, hello, Jaine. Sorry I didn’t return your call; I’ve been really busy. Heidi tells me you’re investigating SueEllen’s murder.”

“As a matter of fact, I am.”

“I don’t know anything whatsoever that could help you,” she said, her lips sealed tighter than a Hal Kingsley facelift.

No way was I going to get any information from her. Not unless I was sneaky.

“Actually, I wasn’t calling about the murder.”

“You weren’t?”

“No, I wanted to set up an appointment for a massage. SueEllen told me how terrific you are.”

Her face relaxed into a smile.

“Oh, how nice.”

Then a tiny worry line marred her perfect brow.

“I’m pretty expensive,” she warned.

“That’s okay,” I said. How bad could it be?

“Two hundred an hour.”

Yikes. It’s a good thing I had Hal’s check in my purse.

“No problem,” I said. “I don’t suppose you have any available slots tomorrow.”

“As a matter fact, what with SueEllen’s passing, I do have some free time tomorrow.”

I gave her my address and she said she’d be there the next afternoon at three.

Then I headed back to the buffet table for an eeny weeny snack. Maybe a pickle, or some cole slaw. I was determined not to eat one more bite of that fattening pastrami. And you’ll be pleased to learn I didn’t.

I ate the fattening corned beef instead.

I was standing at the buffet table, loading it onto my plate, when Heidi showed up at my side.

“Can you believe that woman?” she said, eyeing the social string bean who’d dragged her away from me. “Just because her nephew and I are both chubby, she thought we’d like each other.”

“And did you?”

She blushed.

“He was okay, I guess.”

Welcome to the wonderful world of teenage hormones.

“Oh, look,” she said, eager to change the subject. “There’s Grandma!” She waved to a stocky gray haired woman, coming down the stairs. “She just flew in from back East.”

Heidi’s grandmother clomped over to us in sensible support shoes. Her spiky salt and pepper hair hadn’t seen a stylist in years. Like Nurse Denise, she was definitely out of place in this crowd.

“Grandma, I’d like you to meet my friend Jaine Austen.”

“Nice to meet you, hon.”

Right away I gave her points for not saying “Love your books.”

“You must be Heidi’s maternal grandmother,” I said, working on the assumption that this stocky peasant woman couldn’t possibly have given birth to the aristocratic Hal Kingsley.

“No,” she said. “I’m Hal’s mother.”

“Really?” I said, blinking in surprise. “Well, nice to meet you, Mrs. Kingsley.”

“It’s not Kingsley,” she snorted. “It’s Kosciusko. Hal changed it when he moved out here and became a big shot plastic surgeon.”

Why was I not surprised? This was Los Angeles, where everybody writes—and rewrites—their own life scripts.

“Heidi told me what a good friend you’ve been.” She put her arm around her granddaughter and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “She could use a good friend. Frankly, I hate to speak ill of the dead, but that SueEllen was a stinker.”

She wasn’t going to get any argument from me.

“I knew she was trouble the minute she came on the scene. Now
that’s
the girl Hal should have married.”

I followed her gaze to one of the sofas, where Ginny was chatting with Hal.

“Yes, if only he’d married Ginny like he was supposed to, this poor child would’ve been a lot better off.”

Hello. This was news to me.

“Hal was supposed to marry Ginny?”

“Oh, yes. He gave her a ring and set the date. Everything was fine until SueEllen decided she wanted him.”

Okay, folks. Let’s rewind the tape. What was all that malarky Ginny told me about only dating musicians? She never mentioned having a fling with Hal. If SueEllen had stolen Hal away from her, then Ginny might’ve hated her all these years. I could easily picture Ginny in her crappy apartment, thinking about SueEllen living in splendor, and saying to herself,
That should’ve been me!
Yes, Ginny could’ve been harboring a giant resentment, all right. One that might have exploded in murder.

Rats. The one person I thought couldn’t possibly have done it was back in the running.

I
drove home on Suspect Overload, my mind reeling with murder scenarios. It seemed like anybody could have killed SueEllen. Hal, Brad, Eduardo, Larkspur, Nurse Denise, or—much to my dismay—the likeable Ginny. Who knows? Maybe Grandma Kosciusko flew in a few days early and bumped off her annoying daughter-in-law.

It was time to take out my trusty legal pad and write out a list of suspects. Writing things out, I’ve discovered, helps me clarify my thoughts. And at this point, my thoughts needed all the clarifying they could get.

“Hi, honey. I’m home,” I called out as I let myself into my apartment.

Prozac looked up from where she was napping on my pantyhose and yawned.

“Just once,” I said, sweeping her up in my arms, “can’t you be excited to see me?”

As if in answer to my request, she started licking my face, like a puppy in a Hallmark commercial.

“Prozac, honey, I didn’t know you cared.”

And then, of course, I realized why she was playing kissy face. It was the deli. She smelled pastrami and corned beef on my breath. She leapt out of my arms and started running around my ankles in crazed circles, which is cat talk for
When do we eat?

“Prozac, sweetie, I didn’t bring home any leftovers.”

She continued her ankle dance.

“Seriously,” I said. “No pastrami. No corned beef.”

I headed to the kitchen, Prozac at my heels, meowing loudly.
I prefer my pastrami as lean as possible,
is what I think she was trying to tell me.

I took out a can of cat food from the cupboard.

“Look, Prozac, your favorite. Fancy salmon guts.”

Suddenly the dancing stopped. She shot me an injured look.

“Prozac, I’m sorry. There were no doggie bags. What did you expect me to do? Stuff my purse with cold cuts?”

I don’t see why not,
she meowed.

I opened the salmon guts and put it in her bowl. She sniffed at it, and walked away.

“Okay, don’t eat it,” I called after her. “Starving cats in Asia would be thrilled to eat fancy salmon guts! Starving cats in Asia would be happy to
have
dinner, and not
be
dinner!”

I let her sulk on the sofa; sooner or later she’d get around to eating. In the meanwhile, I had work to do. I sat down at my dining table with a legal pad, and started writing.

My Suspects

By Jaine Austen

Hal Kingsley: Unfaithful husband. Indifferent father. Was he tired of paying the upkeep on a trophy wife? Did he bump off SueEllen to save himself the trauma and expense of a messy divorce? He could have easily slipped away from his office and done the dirty deed. Or did he get someone else to do it for him? Someone like…

Nurse Denise: Could’ve been the blonde Heidi saw in the hallway. Did she kill SueEllen, hoping Hal would marry her once he was a free man? She was obviously crazy about the guy. But was she crazy enough to kill for him?

Larkspur O’Leary: Hal’s New Age nymphette. Maybe she bumped off SueEllen to clear the decks for matrimony. But the cops say she was with clients all morning. Was she, really? Could she have somehow slipped away? Was she as ditsy as she seemed? Or was she a smart cookie just waiting to trade in the name Larkspur O’Leary for Mrs. Hal Kingsley?

Ginny Pearson: In spite of her generosity doling out baby lamb chops, could she possibly be a killer? Had she been seething with resentment because SueEllen had stolen her man and robbed her of a life of luxury? Did she sneak off from her job selling Bloomie’s pantyhose and fry SueEllen with a hair dryer?

Eduardo Jensen: SueEllen’s lover. Maybe SueEllen gave him a key to the house, so he could let himself in for secret sexfests. Maybe he used that key on the day of the murder and killed SueEllen to keep her from telling the world his dirty secret. Note to self: Find out dirty secret. Heidi Kingsley: Had the motive. Had the opportunity. Still can’t believe she did it.

Unlike her brother…

Brad Kingsley: Says he was with his friends at the time of SueEllen’s death. But the friends could be lying. Easy to picture a skunk like Brad sneaking home from school and killing SueEllen for a new HAIRBALL—

No, I didn’t think Brad had killed SueEllen for a hairball. I was going to write the word “Ferrari,” but that’s when Prozac, still miffed over the pastrami affair, decided to sit on my list and cough up a hairball.

I was just about to give her a stern lecture when I looked at the kitchen clock and saw that it was six-thirty. My memoir writing class at the Shalom Retirement Home started in a half hour. I grabbed my car keys and ran.

If there was one thing I didn’t feel like doing that night, it was teaching my class. What if Mrs. Pechter told my students about my humiliating date at the restaurant? What if they thought I was the kind of person who dropped cockroaches into crème brulees to get a free meal?

Reluctantly I strapped myself into the Corolla and headed over to Shalom, hoping to catch all the red lights. Anything to delay the inevitable. But wouldn’t you know, for one of the few times in my life as a Los Angeles driver, I positively whizzed along. Never have I seen so many green lights. Traffic was so snarl-free, I could’ve sworn I was in Omaha.

Before I knew it, I was pulling into the parking lot at Shalom. Oh, well. There was no getting out of it. I gathered my courage and my Altoids (I’m afraid I still had pastrami on my breath), and headed inside to face my students.

As it turned out, the last thing on my students’ minds was my social life. All they wanted to talk about was SueEllen’s murder.

“Jaine, honey,” Mrs. Pechter said. “We saw in the paper that you found the body.”

“That must’ve been horrible,” Mrs. Rubin said, clucking sympathetically.

“What did she look like?” Mr. Goldman asked. “Were her eyes all buggy? Was her body blue? Did she have big bazooms?”

“Oh, Abe. Stuff a sock in it.”

“Hey, inquiring minds want to know.”

“Actually, class,” I said, “I think we should get to our essays—”

“Yes, let’s leave poor Jaine alone,” Mrs. Zahler piped up.

“Poor Jaine?” Mr. Goldman sniffed. “If you ask me, we’re the ones who should be scared. Every time she shows up, somebody drops dead. Remember that actor she worked with on the TV show? He dropped dead. Then she works for this socialite dame, and she drops dead, too.”

Then he turned to me.

“With your track record, cookie, did you ever think maybe it’s not such a hot idea to be working at an old folks home?”

Mrs. Pechter gave an aggravated humph.

“Just take your blood pressure medication, Abe, and you’ll be safe.”

“So,” I said, determined to get the class back on track, “who wants to read their essay?”

Mrs. Zahler’s hand shot up. Thank heavens.

“Mrs. Zahler?”

“It says in the paper that Mrs. Kingsley’s husband is a plastic surgeon. You think she had a nose job?”

“I really don’t know.”

“Of course it was a nose job,” Mr. Goldman shouted.

“How do you know, Mr. Smartie?” Mrs. Pechter challenged.

“Yeah,” echoed Mrs. Rubin. “How do you know?”

“I saw her picture. I know a nose job when I see one.” And then he threw out an intriguing challenge to the rest of the class. “You name a person, and I’ll tell you if they’ve had a nose job.”

“Sounds like a fun game, Mr. Goldman,” I said. “Maybe you should play it after class. Right now, we’re going to read essays.”

I was quite pleased with my authoritative tone.

“Steve McQueen,” Mr. Goldman said, ignoring me. “He had a nose job.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Abe,” Mrs. Zahler groaned.

“And Elizabeth Taylor.”

“That’s absurd,” said Mrs. Pechter. “She’s had the same nose since she was a little girl in
National Velvet.”

Mr. Goldman glared at her over his bifocals. “Elizabeth Taylor. Sissy Spacek. And Ernie Borgnine.”

“That’s crazy. Ernest Borgnine has a big nose.”

“You should’ve seen it before his nose job.” Mr. Goldman nodded smugly.

“Okay, class,” I said firmly. “No more nose jobs. I want to hear an essay. Who’s got one for me?”

They could tell I meant business. Either that, or they were sick of listening to Mr. Goldman. Mrs. Rubin raised her hand.

“Okay, Mrs. Rubin. Let’s hear it.”

She cleared her throat and started reading.

“My Trip to Great Britain, England.”

And so began the story of Mrs. Rubin’s trip to “Great Britain, England.” It was a stirring saga, the highlights of which included a tour of Big Ben, the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace (where Mrs. Rubin swore she saw Queen Elizabeth waving from the palace window) and finally, a trip to a genuine British pub for shepherd’s pie and fish and chips, followed by a trip to a genuine British drug store for emergency supplies of Kaopectate.

So what if it wasn’t Frank McCourt? At least, we were back to reading essays.

“Any comments?” I asked when Mrs. Rubin was through.

Mr. Goldman’s hand shot up.

“Yes, Mr. Goldman?”

“Queen Elizabeth,” he said, nodding cryptically.

“What about her?”

“She had a nose job.”

Somehow I managed to restrain myself from choking him.

After slogging through a few more essays, it was finally time to call it a night. My students got up from their seats and started gathering their purses and back support cushions.

“Mrs. Pechter,” I called out, “would you mind staying after class a minute?”

The others exchanged curious glances and reluctantly filed out of the room as Mrs. Pechter waddled over to me.

“Yes, darling? What is it?”

I’d simply tell her that Tommy the Termite was not my boyfriend, and that I was open and available for dating her adorable grandson.

“Actually,” I said, “I wanted to explain about the man you saw me with the other night in the restaurant.”

“Oh. Your boyfriend.”

“No, that’s what I want to tell you—”

“Listen, honey. You don’t owe me any explanations. To each his own, that’s what I always say. You want to go out with a guy who keeps a cockroach in his coat pocket, that’s your decision. I’m just glad I’m not your mother.”

“You don’t understand. That awful man isn’t my boyfriend. It was a blind date. A one-time mistake of horrendous proportions.”

“A blind date? But when I asked if you’d like to meet my grandson Morris, you said you had a boyfriend.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I lied, because at the time I thought I wasn’t ready to date.”

Mrs. Pechter blinked, puzzled.

“If you weren’t ready to date, why did you go out on a blind date?”

This wasn’t going to be quite as easy as I’d thought.

“My girlfriend pressured me into it. I didn’t want to. Honest.”

“Well, I certainly can see why you’re not ready to date, if that’s the kind of dates you go out on.”

“Actually, Mrs. Pechter, I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and I’ve decided that maybe I am ready to date. In fact, I would’ve never turned down a date with your grandson if I’d realized what a studmuf-fin he was.”

Okay, so I didn’t really say that. What I said was: “In fact, your grandson seemed so nice, maybe I could give dating another try.”

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “If you’re not ready to date, you’re not ready.”

“But I am ready. Really.”

“No, darling. Rose Pechter is not a pushy person. I know how things are. I watch Dr. Phil. You need your space.”

“I’ve got plenty of space. I’m not feeling the least bit hemmed in emotionally. It might be the perfect time to start dating.”

“You’re just saying that to be nice. You’re afraid I’m hurt because you turned down my Morris.”

“I’m not just saying it to be nice. I swear. I’d be happy to go out with your Morris.”

“He’s not a big time actor with insects in his coat pocket.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “Here’s my number.” I thrust my business card into her hand. “Just give it to him. Please?”

By now I was practically on my knees.

“Okay, darling,” she shrugged. “Whatever you say.” Then she dropped my business card in her cavernous purse, and waddled out the room.

I wiped the sweat from my brow, exhausted from all that grovelling. That had to have been one of the more humiliating experiences of my life. But, on the plus side, the adorable Morris might give me a call. I sincerely doubted it, but who knew? And even more important, at least Mrs. Pechter hadn’t told the class about my disastrous date with Tommy the Termite.

Or so I thought.

Because just then, Mr. Goldman popped his head in the door.

“Hey, cookie,” he said with a wink. “Ate any good cockroaches lately?”