Too Pretty to Die (16 page)

Apparently Janet did likewise, as she sought to reclaim my attention, doing weird things with her eyebrows, pursing her newly engorged lips and waving the hand that held her pen so that I was a little afraid it might become a projectile.

“Excuse me if I’m more confused now than ever, Andy,” she said. “So we’ve got the police claiming there was gun powder residue on Miranda’s hand, and my sources indicate the weapon
was
indeed registered to Miranda DuBois. I know they haven’t done the autopsy yet and run all their forensic tests, but doesn’t that prove she pulled the trigger of her own .22?”

I squirmed, tempted to say,
I guess it could
, because it all sounded so neat and tidy when she put it that way. Still, all the pieces didn’t fit.

And there
was
an explanation for part of Janet’s—and the police department’s—initial theory anyway.

“You were at the Pretty Party when she shot the Picasso,” I reminded her. “So far as I’m aware, Miranda didn’t retire to the loo and wash her hands afterward, which would account for the residue, right?”

At least, Miranda hadn’t washed her hands in the time I’d been with her, which was considerable, including after the gunfire at Delaney’s, in my Jeep on the way to the duplex, and until she’d fallen asleep on her sofa. Though that didn’t mean she hadn’t fired a gun—or even
her
gun—again. Only I still had doubts that she’d smuggled the .22 back home without my ever catching sight of it.

“So that would point back to your idea that someone else returned the gun to her last night”—Janet picked up the thread I was weaving and took it home—“and either dropped it off or used it to . . . you know . . .” She hesitated.

“Yes, I know.”

To kill her.

“Andrea, darlin’, I have a feeling you’re going to want to see what I have to show you,” my mother tried again, waggling a finger in my direction. “Do you think we might have that moment to chat right about now? I have, um, a handbag I want you to take a look at.”

A handbag
?

We were discussing whether Miranda DuBois committed suicide and she wanted to show me a purse?

She had the oddest expression on her face, almost like the Christmas when I was nine and had asked for a boa. She’d wrapped up this awful rabbit fur thing that made me burst into tears when I opened the box (did I mention I’d joined PETA when I was a very computer literate six?). I’d wanted a boa
constrictor
, not a stole made from dead bunnies.

“Later, Mother,” I said, because Janet wasn’t done with her questions, and I had something to add as well. Janet cleared her throat loudly, and I whispered, “Later,” again to Cissy.

“So what about the note, Andy?” Janet asked, her silver pen poised above her notepad. “When I asked Anna Dean, she mentioned a letter they’d taken into evidence, but she wouldn’t clarify what it was about.”

If they’d found a suicide note, it was after I left the duplex.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said, because I wasn’t.

“The
letter
,” Janet verbally nudged at my blank look. “The one that purportedly gave Miranda the heave-ho from a club she belonged to. Anna Dean indicated it might’ve pushed Miranda over the edge.”

“Oh,
that
letter,” I said, realizing what exactly she was yammering about.

The missive from the Caviar Club.

“I saw it,” I told her, and she cocked her head attentively. “Deputy Dean showed me the stationery, to see if I’d heard of the group. It was from the Caviar Club,” I explained, and I saw Janet’s eyes go round as pennies. “It said something to the effect that she’d been dropped from membership because of her current unfortunate circumstances. It was all crumpled, like she’d wadded it into a ball.”

Janet scooched to the edge of her seat. “The Caviar Club, you said? Miranda DuBois was a member? Are you sure that’s what it was?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” I said, and noticed Janet’s cheeks turn all pink and shiny. “You’ve heard of it?”

Well, of course she had. Janet knew about every club in the city. That was part of her gig.

“I’ll say I’ve heard of it.” She put her pad and pen on the coffee table—well, dumped them with a clatter, really—and gave a jerk of her head toward Cissy. My mother kept glancing at her watch, like her handbag revelation couldn’t wait another minute.

“Do you mind if we talk alone?” Janet hissed in my direction, though my bat-eared mother obviously heard her, as she fairly jumped out of her chair.

“My goodness, but I should see how Stephen’s doing with Milton Fletcher in the kitchen. Janet, dear, do you need anything? Coffee, tea, or lip balm?” Mother offered, cocking her head to one side as she gazed at my friend.

“Uh-uh.” Janet shook her head, self-consciously touching her mouth.

“All right, then.” Cissy turned toward me. “Andrea, you come find me before you leave, you hear?”

“I will,” I promised.

“You’d better,” she threatened before disappearing faster than a quarter up the sleeve of a magician.

The private eye’s name was Milton Fletcher
?

I thought that sounded like a relative of Jessica’s from Cabot Cove. I imagined him a gray-haired and grizzled older man with patches at the elbows of his corduroy jacket.

“Andy, yo, are you listening to me?” Janet said, her impatience making her prickly. Or maybe it was the bee pollen and Restylane.

“I’m listening.”

Yeesh.

“Please, Andy,
focus
. This is important,” she said, and gestured toward the sofa, patting the cushion beside her.

I dutifully went over and plunked down. She made no move to scoop up notebook and pen, so I guess whatever we said henceforth was truly off the books.

“The Caviar Club,” she whispered, though there was no one else in the den. “Do you know for sure that Miranda DuBois had been admitted? Are you positive?”

“Yes, positive,” I said, because I’d seen with my own eyes the “Dear Miranda” letter telling her she’d been unadmitted. “Anna Dean bagged the letter telling Miranda she’d been booted. It’s as good as a suicide note as far as she’s concerned. She figures Miranda getting rejected was related to her death.”

“As in, she killed herself because the Caviar Club gave her the heave-ho?”

“Deputy Dean seemed to believe it was a contributing factor, yeah.”

Janet looked like someone had lit a fire under her, and it wasn’t just because her bright red hair had been spiked out in all directions, which seemed a little at odds with her magenta Joan Crawford suit, which fit her like a shoebox. She quivered like a rattlesnake’s tail, hardly able to sit still.

“What an interesting coincidence,” she murmured, drumming her chin with her fingertips. Then the drumming abruptly ceased. “Did the deputy chief know what the Caviar Club was, by any chance?” she asked.

“No, she didn’t have a clue, and neither do I,” I admitted, though it didn’t take a genius to realize Janet had one up on me. “I’m guessing it really doesn’t have to do with wine tasting, does it?”

Janet merely smiled; a quirky grin that assured me she knew better. “No, it’s not a wine-tasting club, although they do go for pricey champagne,” she said, and scooted closer, though there was less than a hairbreadth between us. “It’s about something more old-fashioned than apple pie.”

“I thought it wasn’t about food.”

“It’s not.” Red-tinged eyebrows went up. “It’s about good old-fashioned S-E-X.”

Oh,
that
kind of club.

Well, hello.

“R
emember when I told you I was working on a feature story for the paper?”

The one about superficiality and appearances and Dr. Sonja Madhavi that had inspired her to blow up her lips like an Angelina wannabe?

“Yep, I remember,” I said.

Janet opened her mouth, glanced at the open door, and reconsidered. She popped up from the sofa and crossed the room to shut us in. I heard a click and realized she’d locked the door.

Geez, Louise.

What was going on with her? She’d been acting odd all day.

She dropped back down beside me, leaned her knees toward mine, and said in a most hush-hush tone, “All right, here’s the Cliffs Notes version, so stick with me.”

I nodded.

“I was working on the piece about Pretty Parties and the Park Cities’ obsession with looking perfect, and I decided to do a sidebar on the Caviar Club, after I started hearing buzz about it on the social scene. The kind of buzz that’s whispered behind hands, if you get my drift.” She picked up her pen again and fiddled with it, her eyes on the Mont Blanc as she said: “If you weren’t so out of the loop, Andy, you’d probably have gotten wind of it, too.” She gave me a quick glance.

“Whatever.” I shrugged.

If she’d intended to hurt my feelings, she hadn’t. I
was
out of the loop with regard to where the moneyed set partied these days, and I didn’t mind a bit.

“So what is the Caviar Club?” I asked, seeing as how Deputy Chief Dean thought Miranda might have wanted to die after being ejected from it.

“It’s all about the pretty people, you see. The beautiful ones . . .” Janet paused. “. . . at least on paper.
Photo
paper,” she clarified. “They pick and choose their members based on looks, or looks that they find appealing. They don’t want any average folks at their secret parties messing up the ambience. And I guess that means me, because they wouldn’t let me in, not to any of the real parties. They just invited me, as the
PCP
society editor, to something specially arranged.” She gave her spiky red hair a toss, her fat lips pouting.

“Who’s doing the picking and choosing?” I asked.

It sounded awfully narrow-minded and snobbish. What intelligent, well-rounded person only wanted to meet others solely based on looks? It was like buying a gift wrapped in a Tiffany’s box and not having a clue what was inside. It could well be a multicarat diamond ring; but then again, perhaps it was a big fat CZ worth
nada
.

“I’m not exactly sure who’s playing judge and jury, deciding who the Caviar Club lets in,” Janet admitted. “That’s one part of the story I still need to find out. I can’t get the skinny from anyone I’ve interviewed. The members I’ve been able to track down say as little as possible. It’s like they’re bound to secrecy or something.”

“So who did you talk to?” I asked, convinced at this point that the Caviar Club mentality was what had started her obsession with meaty lips.

“They set up a special cocktail party so I could meet some of the club’s players and supposedly get what I needed for my story. But it was just a bunch of token nobodies.” She sniffed. “Okay, sure, they were good-looking enough, though the women more so than the men. Big surprise, huh? The guys could be bald, so long as they had power and money.”

“Power and money are the male equivalent of pretty faces and big breasts,” I said.

“Speaking of faces,” Janet kicked in, “I could tell Dr. Sonja had worked on quite a few of them.” She touched her chin. “All their lips were like fat strawberries. And their cheeks . . . they had that supertight, shiny look. You know what I mean?”

“The Sandra Bullock Apple Cheeks,” I said, because I’d heard several of the women at the Pretty Party request them specifically, as if it were a name brand.

Janet pursed her own fat strawberry lips, and I gawked.

If she’d been self-conscious of her mouth before, I figured she was doubly conscious now. I found myself wondering what would happen if she pricked those babies with a pin. Would they pop like balloons?

Janet ignored my staring and went on: “I didn’t meet anyone worth quoting, just your typical Park Cities wannabes who’d only spout the party line about the club.” She cleared her throat then mimicked an East Texas drawl that sounded a lot like my mother’s. “Oh, hon, it’s such a wonderful way to meet like-minded people who are successful in their fields and oh-so-philanthropic, always giving, giving, giving.”

I guffawed. “You have got to be kidding? Philanthropists who belong to a private club that caters to narcissists. What a bunch of hypocrites.”

“And that’s not the half of it, Andy,” Janet went on, this time in her own voice. “I spoke to a woman named Theresa Hurley, the mouthpiece for the owners, and she gave me a general password to get into the Caviar Club’s Web site. There’s not much there, mostly a submission form for interested parties. But there is a mission statement.” She laid a hand on her heart. “‘Our goal is bring together those of the same level of aesthetics so as to avoid intermingling with those of lesser aesthetics.’”

“Are you kidding me?” I snorted.

She laughed. “I swear. God, Andy, you’d die if you read it. It’s like the Pretty People’s Nazi Party credo. If you’re not deemed physically attractive enough to get in, go piss on yourself.”

“Lovely,” I remarked, once again happy to not be a joiner. I would’ve rather mixed with the apes at the zoo than with a bunch of jerks who judged each other on something as artificial as size and shape and placement of features.

Janet pursed her lips, making them appear almost normal for a moment. Until she opened her mouth again. “Of course, I decided, what better way to get the inside scoop than to join up, see how things really worked? They don’t give you the members-only password that grants access to where the secret parties will be held unless you’ve gotten your manicured toe in the door. But I couldn’t apply as myself, not after having met some of the anointed ones. So I lifted the photo of a model from a New York modeling agency. Slam-dunk, I figured.”

She sucked in a breath, only to slowly release it. “Boy, was I wrong. They sent an immediate e-mail rejection. ‘Not what we’re searching for,’ was the line they used. Good Lord”—Janet cackled—“if I couldn’t get in with a photo of a Tyra Banks look-alike, I give up. Now I’ll never really know what’s really going on.” Her eyes met mine, and they were hard as steel. “The whole thing smells fishier than the Gorton’s factory, Andy.”

“I’d say let it go,” I suggested. “I mean, what’s the big deal? It sounds like a club full of mirror-obsessed ninnies who pick and choose fresh meat that appeals to them. It’s not like being superficial in Dallas isn’t a citywide pastime. I’m not sure it’s even worth a story. Why don’t you let it drop, huh?”