Killer Blonde (15 page)

I
t was dark when I stepped outside onto the Kingsleys’ circular driveway. The fog was rolling in, and so was Brad. He came roaring up the driveway in his Ferrari, leaving a fine spray of gravel in his wake. His car stereo was blaring a delightful rap tune. Something about a guy getting it on with his fat-assed bitch.

Eat your heart out, Irving Berlin.

Brad mercifully turned off the ignition and hopped out of the car, whistling a happy tune, not a care in the world. Until he saw me standing there, arms folded across my chest. Then he didn’t look so happy.

“Hey, Judy.”

“It’s Jaine.”

“Right,” he smirked. “Jane Eyre. Like the author.”

Why did I get the feeling that he knew exactly what my name was?

“Mind if I ask you a question?” I forced myself to smile.

“Shoot,” he said.

“Doesn’t it bother you that the cops suspect your sister of murder? Aren’t you worried that she might wind up in jail?”

“Nah,” he said, dismissing my fears with a wave of his hand. “Dad’ll take care of everything.”

Spoken with the confidence of a kid who knew he could break the law and get away with it.

“Lt. Webb tells me you were on your lunch break at the time of SueEllen’s murder.”

“That’s right,” he said. “And I’ve got three friends who’ll back me up.”

“I’m sure they will. That’s what friends are for, right?”

That wiped the smirk off his face.

“Screw you,” he muttered cordially, then turned on his heels and headed back to the house.

What a rotten kid. I felt like keying his Ferrari.

Instead I got in my Corolla and started home.

I could easily picture Brad Kingsley killing SueEllen for a Ferrari, and then framing his sister for the murder. So what if his friends swore he was with them at the time Sue-Ellen was killed? They could be lying to cover for him. If they were anything like Brad, they had the ethics of a gerbil.

Between Brad, Hal, and my bevy of blondes, my mind was reeling with suspects. What I needed was a relaxing soak in the tub, where I could lie back and sort things out. I’d been avoiding the tub, after seeing SueEllen electrocuted in hers. But I had to get over that silly fear. Tonight, I was definitely going to make a return appearance in my bathtub.

In the meanwhile, I stopped off to pick up something nutritious for dinner. I remembered Larkspur’s advice about staying away from dairy products. So I told the clown I wouldn’t be having a milkshake with my Jumbo Jack and fries.

My answering machine was blinking when I got home. One whole message. It’s a good thing I had that five thousand dollars from Hal. I sure as heck wasn’t getting any writing jobs.

It was Kandi.

Well, sweetie. I think this could be the night. Matt’s taking me to dinner at the beach. He said he had an important question he wanted to ask me. I smell an engagement ring! I know what you’re thinking, that we’ve only been out on three dates, but I’m telling you, Jaine, this guy is Mr. Right. Did I mention that he can bench press four hundred pounds? And he cracks walnuts with his bare hands. Not that I eat walnuts; they’re so damn fattening. The point is, Matt’s the strong, silent type of guy I should have been dating all along. So wish me luck tonight. Oh, and before I forget. Major news flash about Tommy the Termite. Apparently he got caught by a health inspector dropping a cockroach into a barbeque chicken pizza. It’ll be in the trades tomorrow. “Toon Termite Caught Bugging.” We’re going to have to write him out of the series. It’ll be a very special episode. Tommy the Termite Meets the Orkin Man. Okay, honey. Gotta run. Love you.

I shook my head, amused and amazed. I didn’t know which was more impressive: Kandi’s eternal optimism or her ability to leave the world’s longest phone messages.

But I did wish her luck. “Who knows?” I said to Prozac. “Maybe this bench-pressing, walnut-cracking guy really is Mr. Right.”

Prozac meowed angrily, as if to say,
Who cares about Kandi? Can’t you get your priorities straight? It’s time for my dinner.

So I padded into the kitchen and opened her a can of yummy chicken innards. I was just unwrapping my Jumbo Jack when the phone rang in the living room. I hurried to get it.

It was Morris Pechter, Mrs. Pechter’s adorable grandson. His voice was soft, and a little shy. I’m a sucker for shy.

“Grandma Rose gave me your phone number.”

I just loved the way he called Mrs. Pechter
Grandma Rose.

“Anyhow, I was hoping we could have dinner. Maybe Friday night?”

I told him that Friday night sounded just marvelous, and we agreed that he’d pick me up around eight.

I hung up, smiling. I remembered what Mrs. Pechter wrote in her essay, about how Morris took her to dinner once a week. Such a sweet thing to do. That made me like him all the more. And the fact that he looked a bit like Hugh Grant didn’t hurt either.

I hurried back to the kitchen for my Jumbo Jack. It had been ages since I’d wolfed down my bagels and cream cheese and I was starving.

I know, a fast food burger is loaded with fat, and I really shouldn’t have been eating one. And as it turns out, I didn’t. Because by the time I got back to the kitchen, Prozac was up on the counter, her little pink nose burrowing into my Jumbo Jack, practically inhaling it.

“Prozac!” I shrieked. “How could you?”

She looked up at me briefly, then went back to burrowing.

Frankly, I couldn’t blame her. I’m sure it was a lot tastier than her chicken innards. So I poured myself a glass of chardonnay, and sat down to a hearty dinner of ketchup and fries. For dessert, I had a pickle slice Prozac was kind enough to leave untouched.

Then I went into my bedroom and got undressed. It was time for my bath. I swept aside my uneasy feelings about venturing back into the tub. I really needed some serious soaking time to think about my suspects. I slipped on my robe and headed for the bathroom to run the water for my bath.

When I opened the door, I froze in my tracks.

There was no need for me to run the water. Somebody had already done it for me. The tub was filled to the brim.

And floating on the surface of the water was my hair dryer. Plugged in, and ready to electrocute.

C
learly I’d just received a love note from the killer:
Lay off, or you’re next.
The important thing, I told myself, was not to panic. Absolutely, do not panic. And so, naturally, I proceeded to panic. Big time.

I ran screaming into the bedroom and banged on the wall.

“Lance! Are you there?”

No answer.

Damn. He was probably on a date with Jim. He had some nerve going out and enjoying himself in my moment of crisis.

And then I remembered Prozac. Poor darling Prozac! What if, while I was in the bedroom, banging on the wall, she’d decided to abandon thousands of years of genetic programming and leaped in the tub? I dashed back into the bathroom, half expecting to see her furry little body floating lifeless next to the hair dryer. But of course, she wasn’t there; she was back in the living room, belching Jumbo Jack fumes.

Thank goodness she was safe. I raced back to the bathroom, and shut the door so she couldn’t get in.

Meanwhile, what on earth was I going to do about the hair dryer? Did I have to turn off the circuit breaker for the whole apartment, or could I just unplug it? I was sure there were emergency directions on the electrical cord of the dryer, but I couldn’t read them because the dryer was in the tub. So I did what any rational person would do:

I called 911.

The dispatcher wasn’t exactly thrilled to hear from me.

“Somebody filled your tub with water? That’s not exactly an emergency, ma’am.”

She told me that 911 was for medical emergencies and crimes in progress, and advised me to hang up and call my local police station.

They weren’t all that thrilled to hear from me either.

“Someone broke in to my apartment!”

“Did they take anything, ma’am?”

“No, but they put a hair dryer in my tub.”

“A hair dryer in your tub?” I heard him stifle a yawn. “You want us to send someone out there?”

“Of course, I want you to send someone.”

“I only ask because there was no actual burglary.”

“Don’t you understand? Someone put a hair dryer into a tub full of water.”

“Are you sure it didn’t fall in by accident? That happens all the time, you know.”

“No,” I said, with forced calm, “it didn’t fall in by accident.”

I gave him my address and slammed down the phone. Then I called Lt. Webb, who was gone for the day. Probably out somewhere making sure his sashimi was fresh. I left him a message, telling him about my death-threat hair dryer, and asked him to get in touch with me as soon as possible.

Then I did what I should have done in the first place. I drank my glass of chardonnay.

Forty-five minutes and another glass of chardonnay later, two bored cops rang my doorbell. Unlike the Marlboro men who showed up at the Kingsleys, these two were from the low rent division of the Beverly Hills Police Department. One was a tall, skinny, freckle-faced kid, whose name was Officer Mason. The other was big and beefy with muscles the size of hamhocks. Her name was Officer Schmitt. Prozac took one look at her and dove under the sofa.

I ushered the cops to the bathroom, and showed them the tub.

“Somebody broke into my apartment and did this.”

The cops looked at the empty wine glass in my hand, and exchanged glances.

“Are you sure you didn’t fill the tub yourself, and then forgot about it?” the beefy one asked.

Oh, God. They thought I was drunk.

“No, I didn’t fill the tub myself. And I didn’t drop the hair dryer in there, either.”

“Maybe it fell in by accident,” the skinny one said, pulling the plug from the socket.

“Don’t you understand? This is a death threat. Whoever did this wants me to call off my investigation into SueEllen Kingsley’s murder.”

The cops exchanged another glance.

“Whatever you say, ma’am.”

Clearly these two had me pegged as a drunken kookoo so desperate for attention, I reported make-believe death threats.

“I swear, I did not do this myself. For the upteenth time, somebody broke into my apartment.”

“There are no signs of forced entry, ma’am. We checked before we rang your bell.”

“But look. The living room window is open.”

“Are you sure you didn’t leave it open yourself?”

And then I remembered that Larkspur had opened it to let the sun shine on my cellulite. In my haste to get over to Heidi’s today, I’d forgotten to close it.

“Okay, so maybe I did leave it open, but I want you to dust for fingerprints. It’s my unalienable right as a Beverly Hills citizen!”

The beefy one looked at me, and sighed.

“You want my advice, honey? Lay off the sauce.”

They opened the front door to leave, but they didn’t get very far, because standing there in the doorway was Lt. Webb. Very tall, very imposing, very Clint Eastwood.

Prozac, the little slut, crept out from under the sofa and trotted over to him, rubbing his ankles with wild abandon. She has a thing for hunky authority figures.

“I got your message,” he said, sidestepping Prozac’s shameless advances. Then he flashed his badge at the two cops. They snapped to attention.

“Good evening, sir,” the beefy one said.

“Show me the crime scene,” he commanded.

Good heavens. He said
crime scene.
Did that mean he was actually taking me seriously?

We trooped back to the bathroom, and watched the hair dryer floating in the tub.

“It was plugged in when I found it,” I said.

“I unplugged it,” the skinny one piped up, eager to claim credit.

“Bully for you,” Webb said. “Now talk to the neighbors and find out if they saw anybody entering the building.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, practically saluting.

“And you,” Webb said to the beefy one. “You dust for prints.”

I shot her a
ha ha, so there!
look as she left the room.

“This was obviously a warning,” Lt. Webb said when we were alone. “Somebody wants you to mind your own business.”

“It wasn’t you, was it?” I joked.

But he didn’t crack a smile; he was still doing Eastwood.

“You can’t possibly think it’s Heidi, can you?” I asked. “She’s been begging me to stay on the case, not off.”

“Nope. It’s not the kid. Like I told you, we’ve had a tail on her for days. She didn’t come anywhere near here today. And we tested the wig in her closet. Didn’t match any of the hairs we found in SueEllen’s bathroom.”

Thank heavens. For the first time since we met, it looked like he thought Heidi might be innocent.

“I’m going to question some of the neighbors myself,” he said. “You sit tight.”

Which is exactly what I did. Me, and my third glass of chardonnay.

An hour later, the prints were dusted and the neighbors were questioned. Nobody saw anyone breaking into my building.

But one old man walking his dog did see a woman heading up the front path to my apartment. He didn’t pay much attention to her. All he could remember was that she was a blonde.

Officers Mason and Schmitt packed up their dusting kit, and headed back to the police station. I could tell they thought the whole thing had been a waste of time. But that didn’t stop them from bowing and scraping to Lt. Webb on their way out.

Webb stowed the hair dryer in one of those plastic evidence bags. Maybe some day it would be Exhibit “A” in the SueEllen Kingsley murder trial.

He looked at me with steely gray eyes.

“Take my advice, Jaine. Lay off the case. Whoever killed SueEllen won’t have any qualms about killing you.”

Maybe he was right. Maybe it was time for me to mind my own business, and let the cops handle things. Finding that dryer in the tub had put the fear of God in me. But what if it was too late? What if I’d gone too far?

“What if the killer comes back tonight?” I asked.

“Don’t worry,” Webb assured me. “That probably won’t happen.”

I didn’t like the way he said “probably.”

I spent the rest of the night barricaded in my bedroom with Prozac, who, as she always does in my times of need, demanded a belly rub. After which, she jumped off the bed and curled up on my dresser. I’d serviced her, and now she had no further use for me.

“One of these days,” I threatened, “I’m going to get a loveable poodle who’ll steal my heart and eat your cat food.”

She just yawned and licked her privates. Sometimes I think that cat has the cleanest genitalia in feline history.

Sleep was impossible. I tried watching TV, but that was a bust.

Have you ever noticed how every time you’re worried about something and you try and watch TV to escape, the thing you’re worried about inevitably shows up on the screen? Like if you’ve just had a pap smear, and you’re worried about the results, and then you turn on the TV, and there on the news is a story about a pap smear lab that got all the test results mixed up.

That night, I turned on the TV, hoping to find a nice escapist movie. Instead I found a Women in Jeopardy film festival. It seemed like everywhere I looked some beautiful but helpless woman was being stalked by a crazed killer. I gave up on the movies, and tried the shopping channel, but they were doing one of their Lethal Knives shows. Next, I switched to CSPAN, normally the epitome of bland, only to find a sociology professor talking about famous serial killers in history. With glorious technicolor pictures of their bloodied victims.

At last I found an infomercial for an acne medication. It wasn’t exactly riveting television, but at least nobody died a violent death.

Eventually—somewhere in the middle of an infomercial for a pot that cooked entire meals while its owners were out frolicking on the beach—Prozac crawled back in bed, and curled up against the crook of my neck. Only then was I able to drift off into a fitful sleep.