Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) (15 page)

Chapter 24

I
almost choked on a cinnamon raisin bagel the next morning when I read about Daddy’s mortifying encounter with Lester Pinkus’s punching bag. It’s at times like this that I’m very grateful for the three thousand miles separating L.A. and Tampa Vistas.

My heart went out to Mom, but I simply couldn’t spend time worrying about the Great Punching Bag Fiasco. Not while I still had that pesky murder to solve.

I had scads of suspects but not a shred of evidence linking any of them to the crime.

Then I flashed on Cassie, Joy’s beleaguered personal assistant. It was hard to picture her as a killer, but maybe she’d seen something the night of the murder that would help me solve the crime.

I found her number on Travis’s contact list and rang her up.

“Hi, Jaine,” she said when she came on the line. “I’ve been expecting your call.”

“You have?”

“Travis told me you’ve been snooping around, asking questions about the murder.”

“Guilty as charged. I was hoping you and I could have a little talk.”

“Honestly, Jaine, I don’t think I’m going to be much help.”

“Can I stop by to see you anyway? It won’t take long. I promise.”

Who knew? Maybe with a little prompting, I could get her to remember a vital clue.

“Well, okay,” she said, “but you’re wasting your time.”

She agreed to meet me at her bungalow in Venice later that afternoon.

I was just heading to the bathroom for a quick shower when there was a knock on my door.

I opened it to find Detective Adam’s Apple.

Oh, groan. I’d e-mailed him his dating profile days ago. What did he want me to write now? His grocery list?

“Oh, hi,” I said with a faint smile. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, you can,” he replied rather sternly. “You can stop pretending to be a reporter for the
L.A. Times.
”

Oopsie.

“Apparently you’ve been running around telling people you’re writing an exposé on Joy Amoroso.”

“Just trying to get information to clear my name. When last I checked, I was one of your suspects.”

“Leave the detecting to the professionals, okay? I may be clueless about dating, but I’m fairly competent at tracking down killers.”

“Just as long as you don’t wind up arresting me. Ha ha.”

I waited for a laugh. Or a smile. A flash of that dimple in his left cheek. But he remained stony-faced. Which did not boost my confidence. Not one iota.

“So how’s the search coming along for Ms. Right?” I asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

“Actually I met a woman I really like.”

So he found his petite blonde.

Life isn’t fair, is it? Women wait for years to meet their Prince Charming. Or even a decent frog. And men go online and get hooked up practically minutes after they click the
SEARCH
button.

“We’ve chatted a few times,” he was saying. “And she’s got some special qualities that really appeal to me.”

Whaddaya bet they both fit into a 34C?

“I want to ask her out, but I don’t have the nerve to do it on the phone, so I wrote her a note.”

He took a small piece of paper from his pocket.

“I was wondering if you’d mind looking it over just to make sure it’s okay,” he said, handing it to me.

His missive was short and to the point:

He was no Shakespeare, but the note was sweet in its simplicity.

“So what do you think?” he asked.

“I think it’s just fine.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Thanks so much, “he grinned, his dimple at last making an appearance. “Wish me luck.”

I wished him luck, and as I watched him walk away, I secretly hoped his petite blonde showed up for their date with a zit on her nose.

 

Cassie lived in a dollhouse of a bungalow several blocks from the ocean in Venice.

I made my way past her white picket fence, choked with roses and geranium vines, up the short path to her bright red front door. Forest-green shutters bracketed the two windows on either side of the entrance, and a squat chimney jutted out from a deeply slanted roof.

It was like a kid’s drawing of a house come to life.

How funny to think of goth Cassie with her tattoos and nose ring living in this storybook cottage.

She came to the door in black sweats and oversized T-shirt, her purple hair gelled into fearsome spikes. A tattoo of the words
Ultio Dulcis Est
was visible on her shoulder. What the heck was that? A new rock group? A family motto? A Kama Sutra position?

“C’mon in,” she said, leading me into a tiny living room furnished in a wild combo of white wicker and black velvet. Her walls had been painted a deep purple (to match her hair?) and on her scrubbed pine coffee table, next to a vase of peonies, was a human skull filled with Tootsie Rolls.

It was all very Laura Ashley meets Sid Vicious.

“What a charming place,” I said. “It’s so ... eclectic.”

“Schizophrenic is more like it, but it works for me.”

At which point a piercing scream filled the air. For a frightening instant I thought it was the skull on her coffee table come to life. But it was only her teakettle.

“I was just making myself a cup of tea,” Cassie said. “Want some?”

“No, thanks,” I replied, surprised she wasn’t brewing eye of newt. “I’m fine.”

As she headed off to her kitchen, I wandered over to look at some photos on her tiny fireplace mantel.

I blinked in disbelief at a picture of a wide-eyed little girl in a pink pinafore with matching pink shoes, a bow in her blond ringlets. In spite of all the changes the years had brought, I recognized that little face. It was pre-tattoo Cassie. Who would’ve thought the goth goddess had once worn pink Mary Janes?

“Can you believe what a dorky kid I was?” she said, joining me at the mantel, a mug of tea in her hands.

“You were adorable. You still are.”

“My mom was the pretty one in my family.”

She handed me a framed photo of a stunning young woman, pale and blond, smiling into the camera with a far-off look in her eyes.

Something about her looked familiar.

“What a beautiful woman,” I said, gazing down at the picture. “Was she in the movies?”

“No,” she laughed, “not at all. She worked in the perfume department at Saks.”

“I bet she’s still a beauty.”

“Not really.” Her eyes clouded over. “She’s dead.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too.”

She curled up in an armchair, cradling her mug of tea in her hands.

“Grab a seat,” she said, forcing a smile.

I plunked myself down on the wicker sofa.

“Tootsie Roll?” she offered, gesturing to the skull on the coffee table.

For one of the few times in my life, I said no to chocolate.

“It’s lucky you called today,” Cassie said. “You caught me on my day off.”

“You got another job?”

“I’m cutting hair at Benjamin’s, a beauty salon in Brentwood.”

“That’s terrific.”

“It’s what I trained to do. I’ve got my cosmetology degree and everything.”

“Then why were you working for Joy?”

“When I first started out in the salon biz, it seemed too cutthroat. So I took a job at Dates of Joy. Of course,” she added with a bitter laugh, “I didn’t know the true meaning of ‘cutthroat’ until I started working for Joy.”

“I don’t suppose you have any idea who might have killed her?”

“As a matter of fact,” she said, taking a sip of her tea, “I do.”

Holy Moses. It looked like I’d struck gold.

“Who is it?”

“Not telling,” she said, with an emphatic shake of her purple spikes.

“Why on earth not?”

“Because whoever killed Joy did the world a favor. She was a vicious bitch and didn’t deserve to live.”

She spat that last bit out with such loathing, I suddenly wondered if the “killer” she was talking about was Cassie herself.

I remembered those dahlias she’d brought to Joy’s memorial service, the ones she knew Joy would have detested. Had Cassie finally snapped under the pressure of working for Joy and killed her boss from hell?

But that didn’t make sense. If everybody ran around killing their difficult bosses, half of corporate America would be dead by sunset. Sure, Joy was a bitch on wheels, screaming at Cassie for bringing her Sweet’n Low instead of Splenda, but that didn’t seem like motive enough for murder.

“Really, Cassie. If you know who killed Joy, you owe it to the police to speak up.”

“The only thing I owe anybody is a decent haircut. Speaking of which, how’d you like me to trim your bangs? They’re getting a little ragged.”

And just like that she was back to her old self, smiling the same innocent smile she’d beamed in her pink pinafore.

Cassie may have hated Joy, but I simply couldn’t see her as a killer.

I begged her to tell me who the culprit was, but she refused to part with her secret.

I left her bungalow as confused as when I’d shown up, not a millimeter closer to the truth.

But on the plus side, my bangs looked great.

Chapter 25

B
ack home, Prozac was still in a Pout Royale over her diamond collar, holed up with P. G. Wodehouse, coming down only for her meals and then hurling herself back up the bookcase, as far away from me as she could get.

“I miss you, Pro, honey!” I called up to her after supper that night.

(To prove my love, I’d given her all the anchovies on my pepperoni pizza.)

“Will you come down if I give you a nice long belly rub with extra scratching on your neck?”

She glared at me through narrowed eyes.

It was beginning to look like she’d never forgive me for taking away that dratted collar. Somehow I had to melt her deep freeze. Maybe a new collar would do the trick, something loaded with bling. I checked my watch. Eight o’clock. I still had time to dash over to my local pet shop before they closed.

Minutes later I was on my way to Pet Palace (“Where Your Pets Always Get the Royal Treatment”). As I drove along, my thoughts drifted back to my meeting with Cassie. How aggravating to think that she actually knew who the murderer was, but wasn’t talking.

What a strange girl she was—living in that gothic dollhouse with purple walls and a skull for a candy dish. And
Ultio Dulcis Est,
whatever the heck that meant, tattooed on her shoulder.

And what about that photo of her mother, the ethereal beauty? I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d seen her somewhere before.

By now I’d reached Pet Palace and drove down the steep slope into their underground parking lot. It was fairly deserted at that time of night. Just two other cars and a lot of empty shopping carts. I got out of my Corolla and scooted over to the elevator. Although I saw no one, I had the uneasy sensation I was not alone.

I told myself I was being foolish, that Joy’s murder had made me a tad paranoid. Nevertheless I was grateful when the elevator finally showed up. I practically leaped inside, pressing the
CLOSE DOOR
button, holding my breath until the door finally slid shut.

I rode up the single flight to the main floor, still on edge. But once inside Pet Palace, my heebie jeebies vanished. The place was brightly lit, with lots of colorful displays of adorable dogs and cats. I headed for the collar aisle, and right away I saw what I wanted: a hot pink number studded with rhinestones.

Very Vegas Showgirl.

I just prayed Prozac wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between Tiffany and a Kitty Katz Kollar.

Pleased with my purchase, I headed for the cashier to pay for it.

There was no line at the checkout counter, and the clerk on duty, a matronly gal whose name tag read MURIEL, seemed happy to take a break from reading
Soap Opera Digest
to ring up my sale.

“I just love this collar,” she said, eyeing my Kitty Katz special. “I got one for my cat Bubbles, and she just adores it!”

That was encouraging news. If Bubbles—surely a kitty of discriminating tastes—loved it, chances were Prozac would, too.

I headed down to the garage a lot chirpier than I’d been on my ride up.

Stepping out from the elevator, I noticed that all the empty carts were gone. One of the employees must have rounded them up and brought them back upstairs.

I got in my Corolla, hoping Prozac would be curled up under my neck that night, her Kitty Katz rhinestones scratching my chin. Then I started up the steep slope to the street, picturing our purr-filled reunion, when suddenly from out of nowhere a shadowy figure appeared at the top of the driveway, in sweats and a hoodie, pushing a stack of the store’s shopping carts.

At first I thought it was a store employee. But then, much to my horror, I saw the shadowy figure give the long line of carts a shove—aiming them straight at my Corolla! Frantically I swerved, trying to avoid the coming onslaught, but I wasn’t quite fast enough. The heavy metal carts came smashing into my rear fender with a sickening thud, then careened the rest of the way down the driveway, crashing to a halt at a pole in the garage.

With trembling hands I steered my Corolla back up to the street. Luckily it was still running. I looked around, but the street was empty. My hooded assailant was long gone.

By now a few of the store employees, having heard the crash, came running to my car.

I recognized Muriel, my matronly checkout clerk.

“Are you okay?” she asked, her brow furrowed in concern.

“I’m fine.” Aside from the small matter of my heart almost bursting through my chest.

“Great!” she said. “Then you can sign this release form.”

I now realized she was carrying a clipboard, which she thrust through my car window.

“Pet Palace is not responsible for any accidents in the parking lot,” she informed me. “It says so on all the signs in the garage.”

What a touching tableau, n’est-ce pas? Clearly the royal treatment at Pet Palace was not extended to humans.

I signed the release form and pulled out into the street.

“I hope your kitty likes her collar!” Muriel called out to me as I drove off.

Oh, well. At least she had some shred of empathy.

“Because it’s not returnable!” she added with a jaunty wave.

 

I was sure that whoever hurled those carts at me was the killer, trying to put the fear of God in me.

And it worked.

I drove home, blood pressure soaring, knuckles white on the steering wheel, checking the rearview mirror every few seconds.

Before long I noticed a black Jeep on my tail. I tried to see the driver’s face, but the Jeep was just far enough away to keep everything a blur. I was certain it was the killer, out to finish me off for good.

In a panic, I reached for my cell phone to call 911. But just then, the Jeep turned off onto a side street.

Thank heavens. A false alarm.

My blood pressure returned from its trip to the stratosphere, and I continued on my way home.

At last I arrived at my street. But as bad luck would have it, there were no parking spaces near my duplex, so I had to park at the other end of the block.

When I got out of my car, I saw something that sent my blood pressure soaring again. I took a look at the car in front of mine and realized I was parked right behind a big black Jeep! For all I knew the killer had taken a shortcut and was lying in wait for me at this very minute.

My heart pounding, I sprinted as fast as could (which isn’t saying much) back to my apartment, fully expecting someone to jump out from every passing bush.

I puffed my way up to my front door and, with shaking hands, managed to let myself in.

Quickly flipping the deadbolt, I leaned against the door to catch my breath and then collapsed onto the sofa.

“Oh, Pro!” I moaned. “I just got attacked by a caravan of supermarket carts!”

She gazed down at me from her perch on the bookshelf.

Oh, foo. In all the Sturm und Drang of my cart attack, I’d forgotten about Prozac’s Kitty Katz Kollar and had left it in my car. No way was I about to go back outside and get it. What if the killer was lurking in my neighbor’s azalea bush, just waiting to pounce?

“I bought you a new collar, Pro. Much nicer than that old Tiffany thing. And I’ll give it to you first thing in the morning, I promise. But in the meanwhile, won’t you please come down? I’ll rub your belly for as long as you like. And I’ve got pepperoni on my breath,” I added pleadingly. “You always like that.”

But she just rolled over and showed me her tush.

With a weary sigh, I headed for my bedroom and got undressed. Then I brushed my teeth and climbed into bed, but not before checking to make sure all my windows were locked.

I tried watching TV, but even an ancient rerun of
Ozzie and Harriet
, usually a sure fire sleep aid, failed to quell my racing brain.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the Attack of the Shopping Carts and wondering who was in that hoodie. It all happened so fast, I hardly even saw my attacker. As far as I knew, it could have been a man or a woman.

Was it Travis, Joy’s database thief? Alyce or Barry, her disgruntled clients? Was it wacky Aunt Faith? Or Greg Stanton? Now that I knew about his true credentials as an “artist,” had he made up his mind to scare me into silence so he could marry Lady Penelope Ashford?

And what about Cassie? She’d been wearing sweatpants when I stopped by to see her earlier that day. Had she shoved on a matching hoodie and been following me ever since?

But why? As far as I could see, Cassie simply didn’t have a motive to kill Joy.

I turned out my bedside lamp and tried to go to sleep, but my cavalcade of suspects kept buzzing in my brain.

Just when I was convinced I was going to be tossing and turning all night, I looked down and saw a lithe little shadow creeping into the room.

Prozac!

My heart flooded with relief as she jumped up on the bed and nuzzled me under my chin.

“Oh, Prozac, honey, I knew you’d come through for me! Underneath your prickly exterior you’ve got a heart of gold, after all!”

She rolled over on her back to get her belly rub, but she couldn’t fool me.

The little monster really did care about me.

Her belly rubbed to her satisfaction, she licked my cheek with her sandpaper tongue (no doubt hoping for a wayward scrap of pepperoni), then curled up in a ball under my chin. Her soft fur was like Valium to my frenzied psyche.

At last I was able to relax.

As I lay there on the brink of sleep, I thought back to how it all began—my first day working at Dates of Joy. Random images flashed before my eyes: Joy on her Missing Godiva rant. All those models and actors waiting to interview for a nonexistent part. And Travis in his duct-tape glasses, showing me Joy’s Web site—

Omigosh. The Web site!

I sat up with a jolt.

Now I remembered where I’d seen that photo of Cassie’s mother—on Joy’s client database, when Travis was showing me the Web site.

I’d stopped to admire the photo of an ethereal blonde, a Grace Kelly look-alike, the same blonde I’d seen today in Cassie’s bungalow.

Travis told me she’d been a client of Joy’s. Had Joy treated her badly, like she’d done with Alyce and Barry? Had Cassie taken the job at Dates of Joy—not to escape the world of hairdressing—but to avenge whatever wrong Joy had done to her mom?

I remembered the tattoo I’d seen earlier on Cassie’s shoulder.
Ultio Dulcis Est.

At the time I’d thought it was a family motto.

Now I got out of bed and fired up my computer.

Seconds later I was typing
Ultio Dulcis Est
into a Google search.

The translation came up instantly: