Candy Cane Murder (16 page)

Wow, this guy was a fount of information, Wolf Blitzer with a mailbag.

But the fount was about to run dry.

“Hey,” he said, checking his watch, “I've really got to go now.”

“Just one more question.” I trotted after him as he started up the street. “You ever see anybody up on the roof in the days before Mr. Janken's death?”

“Nope. Nobody but the roofers.”

Sad to say, it was an answer I was to hear over and over again in the days to come.

I thanked him for his time, and headed back to Candyland to speak with the bereaved widow.

 

Cathy Janken was a real-life version of the sugarplum fairy on her roof—a delicate blonde with porcelain cheeks and enormous blue eyes. She came to the door in a pastel pink sweat suit the same color as the flocking on her roof, her platinum hair caught up in a wispy ponytail.

I gazed at her enviously. Sure, her husband had just died. But on the plus side, the woman actually managed to look skinny in a pink sweat suit. If I dared to wrap my body in pink velour, I'd bear an unsettling resemblance to the Michelin man.

“Mrs. Janken?” I asked, trying to figure out if her ashen pallor was a result of grief or sunblock.

“Yes,” she said, blinking out into the bright sunshine. “Can I help you?”

Something told me she might not want to talk to me if she knew I was a private eye, not when she was in the midst of suing my client for several million dollars. So I'd decided to try another tactic.

“I'd like to speak with you about your husband's unfortunate demise,” I said in my most professional voice. “I'm an insurance investigator with Century National.”

I flashed her my auto insurance card which I'd cleverly had laminated on my way to McDonald's. It's amazing how laminating things makes them look official.

“You representing Seymour Fiedler?” she asked.

“Yes, I am.”

Doubt clouded her baby blues. “I don't know if I should be talking with you. What with the lawsuit and all.”

“I'm afraid you have to, Mrs. Janken. California state law. Plaintiff in a wrongful death suit must give a deposition to the defendant's insurance representative.”

A law I'd just made up on the spot. But she didn't know that. At least I hoped she didn't.

“Okay,” she sighed. “C'mon in.”

Bingo. She bought it!

She ushered me into her living room, a fussy space done in peachy silks and velvets.

Above the fireplace was a framed portrait of Cathy and a fleshy man with dark, slicked-back hair, a feral grin, and a predatory gleam in his eyes that even the artist couldn't quite camouflage. Presumably, the late Garth Janken. I could easily picture this barracuda fighting tooth and nail to win the Christmas decorating contest.

Cathy perched her wee bottom on a silk moiré sofa, and I took a seat across from her on a dollhouse-sized armchair. I teetered on it cautiously, hoping I wouldn't break the darn thing, whose arms were as fragile as twigs.

Resting on a coffee table between us was a cut glass bowl of candy canes.

I happen to have a particular fondness for candy canes, along with just about anything else containing the ingredient sugar, but no way was I going to have one, not after that burger I'd just scarfed down.

“Help yourself,” Cathy said, gesturing to the bowl.

Somehow I managed to say no.

“Garth loved those things.” At the mention of her husband's name, her eyes misted over with tears. “I always told him they'd ruin his teeth, but he couldn't resist. ‘Just one,' he used to say. ‘It's not going to kill me.'

“Oh, God,” she moaned. “If only he hadn't gone up on that roof!”

Suddenly the mist in her eyes became a downpour, and she was crying her heart out.

Now I happen to be a world class cynic, but it was hard to believe the sobs racking her body were an act. For whatever reason, Cathy Janken seemed to have genuinely loved her husband.

“Can I get you something?” I asked. “Some water?”

“No, I'm okay.” She took a hankie from the pocket of her sweatpants and blotted her tears. “I've been like a faucet ever since the accident.

“So,” she said, forcing a smile, “how can I help you?”

I took a deep breath and began my spiel, choosing my words carefully. She seemed awfully fragile, and I didn't want to start her crying again.

“We at Century National are very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Janken, but we don't believe our client is responsible for your husband's death. Mr. Fiedler insists every shingle was firmly nailed down when he completed the job.”

“They certainly weren't nailed down when Garth fell.”

“Actually, there's a distinct possibility your husband's death was not an accident.”

“What?” Her eyes widened in surprise.

“Can you think of anyone on the block who might've wanted to see him dead?”

“No, of course not. True, Garth had his differences with some of the neighbors. He could seem tough on the outside, but he was a pussycat underneath. You just had to know how to handle him.”

Something told me “handling him” involved lots of fishnet stockings and peekaboo lingerie.

“But I can't believe anybody wanted him dead.”

“Not even Mr. Cox? I was talking to your mailman just now, and he said there was quite a bit of animosity between the two of them.”

“Willard Cox is certifiably insane!”

Her porcelain cheeks flushed pink with anger.

“Last year he accused my husband of beheading his Santa Claus! Did you ever hear of anything so ridiculous? The head probably fell off in the wind. The year before that, he said Garth stole the nose off his Rudolph. He was just jealous because Garth kept beating him in the decorating contest. He even accused Garth of bribing Prudence Bascomb.”

“Prudence Bascomb?”

“President of the homeowners association. She judges the contest each year. Garth didn't have to bribe her. Garth won because his decorations were the best!”

I wasn't about to say so out loud, but I wasn't convinced Garth's decorations were the best on the block. I'd seen the prancing reindeer on Willard Cox's lawn and they looked pretty darn impressive. I wondered if Garth had indeed been bribing the judge. I could easily imagine the barracuda in the portrait with payola up his French cuffs.

“I'm telling you,” Cathy said, as if sensing my doubts, “Willard Cox is crazy.”

“I heard he accused your husband of purposely running over his dog.”

“Can you believe it?” Once again, her cheeks were dotted with angry pink spots. “He ran around telling everybody that Garth was a dog killer! Garth threatened to sue him for defamation of character. That finally shut him up.”

“So do you think it's possible that Mr. Cox might have wanted your husband dead?” I asked.

She chewed on her pinky, and gave it some thought.

“I hadn't really considered it before, but I suppose so.”

“And are you certain nobody else on the block might have wanted him…um…gone?”

“No. Nobody on this street is as crazy as Willard. The man is nutty as a fruitcake.”

She was wrong about that. It turned out that Willard Cox had some stiff competition in the nutty-as-a-fruitcake department. As I would, much to my regret, soon discover.

“F
eliz Navidad, honeybun!”

Kandi Tobolowski, my best friend and constant dinner companion, raised her margarita in a toast. We were seated across from each other in our favorite Mexican restaurant, Paco's Tacos, a colorful joint famous for their yummy margaritas and burritos the size of silo missiles.

I took an eager gulp of my margarita. I'd spent a fairly frustrating afternoon questioning the neighbors on Hysteria Lane about Garth Janken's death. Willard Cox, my leading suspect, hadn't been home when I'd rung his bell. The few neighbors who were home on a weekday afternoon were no help whatsoever. They all agreed that Garth had been an unpopular guy, but nobody had any idea who might have hated him enough to kill him, nor had they seen anyone up on the roof in the days before his death—except for Seymour's roofers in their distinctive red
Fiedler on the Roof
baseball caps.

So it felt good to be here at Paco's, mellowing out with my good buddies, Kandi and Jose Cuervo.

“You'll never guess where Dennis and Kate and I are going for Christmas this year,” Kandi beamed excitedly.

Dennis and Kate were Kandi's parents, a pair of avant garde freethinkers who thought it “cool” to be on a first name basis with their only child. (My parents, on the other hand, would never dream of letting me call them by their first names. I was practically in college before I even knew their real names weren't “Mommy” and “Daddy.”)

“We're going skiing!” Kandi gushed. “In Aspen.”

“Do you even know how to ski?”

“Well, no,” she admitted, “but it doesn't matter. I can fake it.”

“Kandi, I don't think you can fake skiing.”

“We'll take lessons. It'll be fun!”

She grinned at me over her margarita, and suddenly I was flooded with envy.

Kandi
would
have fun. I could just picture her sipping hot toddies by a roaring fire, flirting with a cute ski instructor, while I was sipping Metamucil at the Tampa Vistas clubhouse, listening to my father and Uncle Ed fight over who won at shuffleboard.

By now our basket of chips was empty (final score: Jaine, 17; Kandi, 1½), and I was happy to see our waiter approaching with our main courses. I'd debated between the low-cal chicken tostada and a simple grilled mahi mahi. It was an interesting debate. But in the end I went with two deep-fried chimichangas smothered with sour cream.

Kandi, as always, ordered the chicken tostada. Which is why she's an enviable size six—on a fat day.

I speared a hunk of guacamole from the top of my chimichanga. Yum!

“So where are you off to for Christmas?” Kandi asked, ignoring her tostada, although how anyone can ignore their dinner—even something as boring as a tostada—is beyond me. “Florida again?”

I nodded wearily.

“What are you going to do with Prozac? You're not taking her with you, are you?”

Once again, I nodded.

“You've got to be crazy. Didn't the airline threaten some kind of lawsuit last year?”

“Yes, but they never went through with it.”

There's no doubt about it. Flying with Prozac is as close as you can get to hell without actually dying. Last year, she yowled nonstop for thirty minutes until the flight attendant broke down and brought her a first class meal.

She invariably manages to escape from her carrier and makes a beeline down the aisle for the one person on board violently allergic to cats. Last Christmas, Prozac's victim was not only allergic, but terrified of cats, and ran headlong into an oncoming beverage cart, knocking a carafe of very bad coffee into the lap of a nearby passenger. Hence the threatened lawsuit.

“I still don't see why you can't leave her home and have someone come in and feed her,” Kandi said.

“Last time I tried that, I came back to find kitty pee on every pillow in my apartment. I was lucky I still had an apartment.”

“Can't you leave her in a kennel?”

“I'm still paying off the medical bills from the last place she stayed. How she managed to bite her way through that kennel attendant's work gloves, I'll never know. But the poor guy had to be rushed to the emergency room for stitches. Anyhow, I can never go back there again. I'd be violating the restraining order.”

Kandi shook her head in disbelief.

“Someday I'm gonna see that cat on
America's Most Wanted
.”

We plowed through our meals (well, I plowed; Kandi plucked), and as Kandi chattered about her nifty new ski togs and the chalet she and her parents had rented, I couldn't help but feel sorry for myself. For once I'd like to spend Christmas with my parents, just the three of us. A nice quiet Christmas, sleeping in the guest room, free from invidious comparisons to my bikini-clad cousin Joanie.

Oh, well. I couldn't let myself wallow in self pity. So I did what I always do when I'm feeling sorry for myself: I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders, and ordered dessert.

 

I woke up the next morning still in a funk about my trip to Florida.

As I lay in bed, I thought of Kandi enjoying an elegant candlelit dinner with her parents while I sat watching Uncle Ed pick Christmas turkey from his teeth with a matchstick.

But there was nothing I could do about it. Like it or not, I was stuck at Tampa Vistas for the holidays. Hauling myself out of bed, I shoved all thoughts of Florida to that dusty corner of my mind reserved for unpaid bills and tax estimates.

After a nutritious breakfast of Paco's leftovers, I hunkered down on the living room sofa with the morning paper.

A headline in the
Calendar
section caught my eye.

GIRLFRIENDS CHANGE LIVES

I read the article with interest. It was about a volunteer organization called L.A. Girlfriends, founded by a nun named Sister Mary Agnes, where women volunteered to become mentors to motherless girls. It was a touching story, filled with heartwarming tales of women like me who'd managed to make a difference in the life of a young girl.

And suddenly I felt ashamed. Big time. I bet Sister Mary Agnes wasn't sitting around feeling sorry for herself. No, Sister Mary Agnes was out there, doing good in the world. It was high time I forgot my petty discontents, and did something noble with my life.

“I'm so ashamed of myself,” I said to Prozac, who was curled up next to me on the sofa.

You should be. You haven't scratched my back for a whole six minutes.

“But that's all going to change. I'm going to forget about my trivial cares, and do something worthwhile.”

You mean like getting me my own TV?

“I'm going to make a difference in the world!”

I'd like flat screen, if possible.

Wasting no time, I called the offices of L.A. Girlfriends and made an appointment to see them that morning. I'd zip over there on my way to Hysteria Lane.

I hurried off to shower and dress, filled with a newfound sense of purpose. Not only would I get Seymour Fiedler off the hook for that pesky criminal charge, but I'd bring joy to the heart of a motherless child.

I wondered if Mother Teresa started like this.

 

I was hoping to meet Sister Mary Agnes when I showed up at the modest mid-Wilshire offices of L.A. Girlfriends, but the birdlike woman manning the reception desk explained that the good Sister was away on a fund-raising tour. I'd be meeting with one of her valued associates, she informed me, leading me down the hallway for my interview.

“Ms. Austen,” she said, opening the door into a small but sunny office, “meet Tyler Girard.”

I blinked in surprise. I hadn't been expecting to see a guy, and certainly not one this cute. He had the kind of boyish good looks I'm particularly fond of. Big brown eyes, sandy hair that flopped onto his forehead, and a smile—as I was about to discover—sweeter than a Hershey's Kiss.

“So nice to meet you, Ms. Austen,” he said, flashing me his sweet smile.

Usually I'm wary when it comes to members of the sloppier sex. You'd be wary, too, if you'd been married to The Blob. That's what I call my ex-husband, a charming fellow who wore flip-flops to our wedding and clipped his toenails in the sink. But flying in the face of past experience, my heart was doing carefree little somersaults.

“Have a seat,” he said, “and I'll tell you about L.A. Girlfriends.”

As he talked about how Sister Mary Agnes started L.A. Girlfriends fifteen years ago in a church basement, I found myself staring at the laugh lines around his mouth and wondering if he liked old movies and Chinese food as much as I did.

This totally inappropriate reverie went on for some time until I came to my senses. I hadn't come here to meet a guy, I reminded myself. I was here to do good in the world. I quickly banished all romantic thoughts from my mind and forced myself to focus.

“So,” Tyler said, after he'd finished giving me a rundown on the organization, “tell me a little about yourself.”

I told him about my life as a jack-of-all-trades wordsmith—writing ads, brochures, resumes, and industrial films—and how lately I'd been wanting to do something more meaningful with my time, to contribute something to society, as it were, and that L.A. Girlfriends seemed like the perfect venue for my charitable impulses.

I chattered on in this noble vein for a while, carefully omitting any references to the Jaine Austen who has been known to watch
Oprah
in the middle of the afternoon with a cat and a pint of Chunky Monkey in her lap.

He nodded thoughtfully throughout my spiel.

“Have you ever worked with young people before?”

“I used to babysit when I was a teenager. But I don't know if that counts. Most of the time,” I admitted, “the kids were asleep.”

For what seemed like an eternity but was probably only seconds, he looked into my eyes, saying nothing. I could see he was trying to get a reading on me. Oh, dear Lord, I prayed. Please don't let him see my shallow, selfish side, the side that filches ketchup packets from McDonald's and tears the
Do Not Remove Under Penalty Of Law
tags off pillows.

Finally he broke his silence with a smile.

“I have good vibes about you, Ms. Austen.”

He had good vibes about me! I was going to be an L.A. Girlfriend!

“Why don't you fill out our application? We'll do a background check on you, and get back to you in a few days.”

Phooey. It looked like I wasn't a shoo-in, after all.

“Don't worry,” he said, seeing the disappointment in my eyes. “I don't anticipate any problems. I'm sure you'll check out just fine.”

He flashed me another achingly sweet smile and I left his office on a high, ready to start my new altruistic life, thinking of how I'd soon be bringing joy to a motherless young girl.

Okay, so I was thinking about that smile of his, too. Heck, I'm only human.