Killer Blonde (14 page)

Vowing to spend not a penny more, I headed straight for the hosiery department to see if Ginny had returned.

Okay, so I didn’t head straight for the hosiery department. I made a quick pit stop at the Eileen Fisher boutique, where I dropped another fifty bucks on a cotton pullover. But once again, I was saving money, since the pullover had been marked down from $135. If I kept this up, I’d be saving thousands of dollars in no time.

Thankfully, I didn’t keep it up. I tore myself away from Eileen Fisher and went downstairs to talk to Ginny. But she was still nowhere in sight. Once again, I was reminded of how easy it would have been for her to slip out of the store on her break and drive over to SueEllen’s. But if she’d been on her break, wouldn’t someone have remembered, and told the police? And wouldn’t she have to clock in and out?

These were the questions I mulled as I left the store and headed for the parking garage. But I stopped mulling in front of Tiffany’s. Because that’s where I saw Ginny coming out of the store, arm in arm with Hal Kingsley.

What the heck had they been doing in Tiffany’s? Buying a ring? After twentysomething years, was the engagement back on?

I ducked behind a popcorn kiosk and watched the lovebirds as they headed toward Bloomingdale’s. And here’s the interesting part. After Hal kissed her goodbye, Ginny walked straight past the employee’s entrance and headed back into the store through the customers’ door.

So that’s how she could’ve slipped away and murdered SueEllen without anyone knowing. No need to clock in and out. Just use the customers’ entrance. With the dearth of sales help in department stores nowadays, no one would even know she’d been gone.

A
n hour later, I was standing in my living room in my bra and panties, humiliated beyond belief as Larkspur O’Leary circled around me, examining my body from all angles. Prozac sat on the sofa, licking her privates and taking in the scene.

“I always like to get a good look at my client’s physiology,” Larkspur explained, opening the window so the sun could highlight every nook and cranny of my cellulite.

I squirmed uncomfortably, cursing myself for eating those damn bagels. The cream cheese had already taken up permanent residence in my thighs.

“I have a special massage technique that breaks down cellulite,” Larkspur said. “That’s why I’m so popular.”

She stared at my thighs appraisingly, her delicate brows furrowed in what I can only assume was disgust.

“I see we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

I could just hear her now, talking with her fellow masseuses.
I couldn’t believe my eyes. She had cellulite the size of large-curd cottage cheese!

Then she rummaged through her tote bag and took out a thermos.

“I’ve brewed you a special tea,” she said, pouring me a cup. “I make it for all my clients. It’s very relaxing. Drink it while I set up the massage table.”

I took a sip. It tasted like rancid tree bark. Not that I know what rancid tree bark tastes like. I’m guessing.

“Drink every drop,” she said, as she deftly opened the heavy massage table. For such a tiny thing, she was awfully strong. Strong enough, I wondered, to overpower SueEllen and force her into a deadly bathtub?

I smiled weakly and forced myself to drink the tree bark.

Larkspur spread a fresh sheet on top of the table, and plopped a cassette into a boom box she’d brought with her. Strains of tinkly sitar music filled the air. I don’t know about you, but I for one am not a tinkly sitar music fan.

“It’s a relaxation tape,” she said.

“Very soothing,” I lied.

“Now hop on board,” she said, patting the massage table.

Easier said than done. After a few futile attempts at hoisting myself up, I finally did it.

Prozac giggled from her perch on the sofa. Okay, so she didn’t exactly giggle, but I know she was enjoying this whole humiliating scene.

“You know,” Larskpur said, running her finger along my thigh, “you really should avoid dairy products. They’re regular cellulite magnets.”

Was it my imagination, or was there a vast anti-dairy conspiracy underfoot? First, there was the guy outside the latte shop, then Eduardo with that ghastly non-dairy glop in his blender, and now Larkspur. Was I the only person in Greater Los Angeles who still felt any allegiance to Elsie the cow?

“Now roll over on your tummy.”

After I rolled, she started slathering a lovely lavender-scented oil on my back. A delicious warmth seeped into my muscles. I was feeling very mellow. But this wasn’t the time to be mellow, I reminded myself. I had a suspect to question.

“Such a shame about SueEllen,” I threw out for my opening gambit.

Larkspur wasn’t having any of it. She put her finger to her rosebud lips, and shushed me.

“No negative thoughts. Otherwise, you won’t be totally relaxed.”

“Right,” I muttered.

“Close your eyes, and imagine yourself on a beach, somewhere in the Caribbean. I hear Jamaica’s awfully nice if you don’t mind the hostile townspeople. Imagine yourself lying in the sand, the palm trees swaying, cooling you with soft breezes.”

I tried imagining myself on the beach, but frankly, all I could think about was how crappy I’d look in a bathing suit with my large-curd cellulite. No doubt about it; one of these days, I was really going to have to lose a few pounds.

In the meanwhile, though, I had a suspect to question. And no idea how to do it. Larkspur clearly didn’t want to talk about the murder. How was I going to pump her for information? Why the heck hadn’t I worked out a game plan in advance? First I’d wasted time pretending to look at Eduardo’s paintings, and now I was throwing away $200 on a massage that was getting me nowhere. I obviously had a lot to learn about the detective biz.

I was feeling quite annoyed with myself when I happened to glance down at Larkspur’s open tote bag. And that’s when I saw it: a looseleaf binder with the word “appointments” embossed in gold on the cover.

At that moment I knew what I had to do. I had to steal that book.

According to Lt. Webb, Larkspur had been with clients out in Santa Monica the day SueEllen was murdered. He said she wouldn’t have had time to drive over to Beverly Hills and toss a hair dryer into SueEllen’s tub between appointments. But maybe Larkspur
could
have driven from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills in time to kill SueEllen. It would all depend on traffic, and exactly where in Santa Monica her clients lived. If I could find out where Larkspur’s appointments were on the day of the murder, I could do a test run, and drive the distance myself.

Yes, I’d have to steal the book. The question, of course, was how.

And then I thought of an absolutely brilliant idea. I’d pretend I was having a hypoglycemic attack and send Larkspur into the kitchen to get me some apple juice. Then, while she was in the kitchen, I’d hide the book under one of the sofa cushions. I’d seen a similar plan on an old episode of
Three’s Company,
the one where Jack is trying to get rid of Mr. Roper so he won’t discover the chimpanzee he’s got hidden in the hall closet. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t brilliant, but it was all I could think of at the time.

True, I didn’t have hypoglycemia—or apple juice, either. But it didn’t matter. By the time Larkspur got back to the living room, I’d pretend I was feeling better. Then, after she’d gone, I’d pore over her book and find out the names of her clients and do my test run. Maybe I’d even solve the murder, stunning the cops with my investigative acumen.

Now all I had to do was wait for the massage to be over. After all, it was costing me two hundred bucks; I might as well get my money’s worth. I closed my eyes, wondering if Larkspur really could get rid of my cellulite. Wouldn’t it be great if she could? I let my mind drift to that Caribbean beach she’d been talking about. I saw myself walking along the shoreline in a string bikini, my thighs as smooth and silky as hot fudge sauce. Then, just as I was making smoldering eye contact with a bronzed cabana boy, I heard Larkspur chirp:

“All done!”

“That’s impossible,” I said. “You just started.”

“No,” she said, “it’s been almost an hour.”

I checked my wristwatch. She was right. It
had
been almost an hour.

“You fell asleep.”

“I did?”

“It’s the tea,” she said, nodding. “It’s very relaxing. Lots of my clients fall asleep.”

And then I realized: I didn’t have to go through my phony hypoglycemic attack. I didn’t have to steal the appointment book, or question Larkspur’s clients, or do any test drives from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills.

Because I already knew how Larkspur could have killed SueEllen.

She could have drugged her client with her tree bark tea. Then she could have moseyed over to SueEllen’s and tossed the hair dryer in the tub, knowing she had all the time in the world—because her client was sound asleep on the massage table, dreaming of cellulite-free thighs.

I barely contained my impatience as Larkspur packed up her things.

“Remember,” she said. “Stay away from dairy products. And caffeine!”

Then she whipped out her appointment book and asked if I’d like to schedule another massage. I told her I’d get back to her. Yeah, right. I’d get back to her. When Oreos weren’t fattening, that’s when I’d get back to her.

The minute she was gone, I dashed to the phone, and called Lt. Webb.

“What is it now?” was his cordial opening line.

“I’ve got news for you,” I said. “Larkspur O’Leary’s alibi isn’t as ironclad as you think it is.”

“Hold on a sec,” he said, then shouted out to somebody else in the room. “I want the ahi nicoise salad and a Diet Coke. And make sure the ahi is rare.”

Our tax dollars at work.

“You were saying?” he said, grudgingly turning his attention back to me.

“I know how Larkspur could have killed SueEllen.”

“Is that so?”

And I told him about the tea.

“Well, I’ve got news for you, too,” he said when I was through.

My heart sank; something in his voice told me it wasn’t going to be good news.

“Apparently the Kingsleys had their carpets cleaned today.”

So far, not exactly earthshattering.

“And guess what the cleaning crew found stuffed away in the back of Heidi’s closet?”

“What?”

“A blond wig.”

Damn.

“Looks like we found our mysterious blonde,” he said.

“Oh, come on. You don’t really think Heidi’s the blonde in the bathroom.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“It doesn’t make sense. Why would she leave the wig in her closet for the cops to find? Why didn’t she just throw it away in a trash can?”

“Maybe she figured we had undercover cops following her round the clock. Which we did.”

Gulp.

“Better tell your client to hold off on her college applications. It looks like she’ll be spending the next four years making license plates.”

He hung up without bothering to say good-bye. I wanted to strangle the guy. He’d already tried and convicted Heidi without the benefit of a jury.

The receiver was still warm when the phone rang again. It was Heidi, her voice choked with tears.

“Oh, Jaine, the most awful thing has happened.”

“I know all about it. I’ll be right over.”

I grabbed my car keys, and hurried out to the Corolla.

By now, of course, you’re probably wondering if maybe Heidi
could
have done it. True confession: I wondered the same thing. For maybe three seconds. But I knew in my heart the kid was innocent. Anyone could have planted that wig in her closet on the day of SueEllen’s memorial service. All my suspects were there: Larkspur, Ginny, Denise, and Eduardo. Not to mention Hal and Brad. Any one of them could have slipped upstairs, just as I had, without being noticed. Any one of them could have wandered along the hallway till they found Heidi’s hot pink bedroom, and dropped off their incriminating package.

I slogged through rush hour traffic and finally made it to Casa Kingsley.

Conchi opened the door, clutching her Windex bottle to her chest, a security blanket with Ammonia-D. She had that scared rabbit look in her eyes, like maybe she thought the immigration guys had finally caught up with her.

When she saw it was me, she sighed with relief.

“Thank God, it’s you,” she said. “I thought you were the police. Those
diablos.
They won’t leave my poor Heidi alone.”

She led me to the den, the scene of my famous macadamia nut hunt. Heidi was sitting on the sofa, being comforted by Grandma Kosciusko.

“Hey, kiddo,” I said.

She looked up at me, her face red and blotchy from crying.

“It’s not my wig, Jaine. I swear.”

“I know, honey,” I said, hurrying to her side.

“I don’t know how it got there.”

“Somebody put it there,” I said, “and I’m going to find out who.”

Spoken as if I actually knew what I was doing.

Grandma K’s eyes widened with dismay. “You don’t really think somebody’s trying to frame Heidi for SueEllen’s murder?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“What sort of monster would do such a thing?”

I had a list of suspects two pages long. And one of them was her own son. But I wasn’t about to tell her that.

“You really think you can find the killer?”

“I’ll try my best.”

Who did I think I was kidding? I hadn’t had an ounce of success so far. What Heidi needed was a real detective. Where was Kinsey Millhone when you needed her?

Grandma K looked like she’d aged five years in the past two days.

“It’s all my fault,” she moaned. “If only I hadn’t called the carpet cleaners. The carpets weren’t even that dirty.”

At which point, Conchi scuttled in the room with a plate of fresh-baked cookies.

“Here, Miss Heidi,” she said. “Chocolate chip. Your favorite.”

“Thanks, Conchi.” Heidi wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. “But I’m not hungry.”

Conchi set the cookies down on the coffee table. “Maybe you’ll have one later.” Then she scuttled back out of the room, muttering
Ay, caramba! Dios Mio,
or words to that affect.

Maybe Heidi wasn’t hungry, but I’m ashamed to say I was. Those cookies looked fabulous. I barely restrained myself from reaching out and grabbing one. Okay, so I didn’t restrain myself. I took one.

Okay, I took two.

Heidi turned to me with red-rimmed eyes.

“What if they arrest me?”

“They’re not going to arrest you,” Hal said, striding into the room, tall and cool and confident. “I just got off the phone with my attorneys.”

Attorneys, plural. Hal wasn’t taking any chances. He sat down next to Heidi and took her in his arms. “Nothing’s going to happen to you, sweetheart. I promise.”

At last, he was showing her some affection.

I left Heidi in the arms of her father and headed out to my Corolla. It was a very touching scene I’d just witnessed. Maybe with Grandma K around, Hal was turning into a human being again.

But then again, maybe he wasn’t. There was a cynical voice inside my head scripting another scenario: Maybe Hal had indeed killed SueEllen. But he knew he couldn’t afford to be a suspect, not even for a minute. His whole medical practice was at stake. Maybe he figured it wouldn’t matter so much if the cops suspected Heidi. After all, she was a kid. She had no reputation to ruin. In two years, the whole thing would be forgotten.

Was it possible that Hal Kingsley had framed his own daughter for a crime he committed, confident that he could get her off the hook with a dream team of lawyers?