Death by Tiara (24 page)

“I feel terrible about this!” I said, shrinking into my seat.

“Don’t,” Scott said. “Accidents happen.”

“Especially to Jaine!” Ma Willis chirped. “They seem to happen to her all the time, don’t they?”

Why the hell couldn’t Mr. Muffin have rammed into
her
instead of the bride?

No doubt about it. This had to be the absolute nadir of my life.

No, not quite.

The absolute nadir of my life came two second later when Chloe pointed out the window.

“Look, everybody!” she cried. “Up in the sky! Skywriting!”

Omigosh, in the all the sturm und drang of the Runaway Mr. Muffin Affair, I’d forgotten all about Cyril and his skywriting love note. What was it supposed to say?
Jaine Austen is Awfully Nice. Like Sugar and Spice. Love, Cyril.

Sure enough, I looked out the window and there in the sky were the words

Jaine Austen is Awful . . .

Where the hell was the rest of it? Damn it all. I knew Lance’s friend would run out of smoke. And I was right.

“Jaine Austen is awful!” Ma Willis read aloud.

Things couldn’t have worked out better if she’d paid for it herself.

It was less than a mile back to Hell House, but it felt like an eternity.

Everyone sat with their necks craned out the window of the Mercedes, watching
Jaine Austen is Awful
grow puffy in the sky.

“Do you have any idea who could have done this?” Scott asked me.

No way was I about to own up to Lance’s plan to make Scott jealous with Cyril and his love note in the sky.

“None whatsoever,” I said, doing my best to look perplexed. “It must be about some other Jaine Austen.”

“Another Jaine Austen?” Chloe squeaked in disbelief.

“It’s a very common name,” I said.

“Where?” Ma Willis snorted. “In Northanger Abbey?”

Scott shot me the kind of look I give to people I see walking down the street shouting into nonexistent cell phones.

Clearly he was reassessing me as Significant Other material.

With nothing left to say, I tried my best to fade into the Mercedes leather, my heart and butt both sore from the wild rides they had just been on.

Chapter 29

B
ack home, I found Prozac napping on my computer keyboard, ignoring the comforts of her deluxe Kitty Condo less than five feet away.

Is that cat maddening, or what?

I stomped past the abandoned condo, now gathering dust at an alarming rate—a perfect candidate for Miss Havisham’s rec room—and headed for the tub to strip off my sandy clothes and soak my blues away in a strawberry-scented bubble bath.

Soon I was up to my neck in bubbles, my muscles growing limp in the soothing heat of the water. With some deep breathing exercises (and the help of my good friend Mr. Chardonnay), I was able to forget the humiliations of the day and focus on a far more important priority: What to order for dinner.

I opted for Thai, and an hour later I was swan diving into a plate of pad Thai and spring rolls, with just a teensy bit more chardonnay to wash it all down.

Then I flopped into bed and lay there in a zombie state, Prozac snoring on my chest as I watched endless episodes of
House Hunters
.

Eventually, however, the effects of the chardonnay began to wear off, and once more my brain was flooded with images from my latest trip to Hell House.

No matter how hard I tried to concentrate on HGTV’s endless procession of photogenic home buyers, all I could see was Mr. Muffin charging down that beach, the Goodwill price tag dangling from Scott’s tie, and
Jaine Austen is Awful
blazing across the Malibu sky.

Worst of all was the expression on Scott’s face in the Mercedes. No doubt about it. I’d lost him for good.

I needed something to make me forget. And chardonnay wouldn’t cut it. This time I needed to go for the hard stuff.

And so fifteen minutes later, I was in the freezer aisle of my supermarket, loading up on Chunky Monkey.

Yes, there’s nothing like a dose of pure butterfat coursing through your veins to make life seem worth living again.

I was heading up the front path to my apartment with a pint of Chunky Monkey in my grocery bag (okay, three pints), eagerly anticipating that first soothing spoonful sliding down my throat, when I heard a rustling noise from my neighbor’s azalea bush.

Suddenly a lithe figure in a jog suit and ski mask came lunging out from behind the azaleas. Just like the assailant who’d gone after Candace. Only this time the assailant had long black hair extensions.

Good heavens! It was Heather. She was the killer after all. A pageant mom who’d stop at nothing to see her daughter crowned Miss Teen Queen America!

My heart pounding, I raced off down the path.

But I hadn’t gone three steps before Heather overtook me and clamped her arm around my neck in a suffocating chokehold.

As I stood there, pressed up against her body, her forearm squeezing my trachea, I suddenly became aware of a sweet citrusy scent in the air. I’d know that scent anywhere. It was the same cologne I’d smelled on Taylor’s Vera Wang gown and in Dr. Fletcher’s office.

And then I realized my attacker wasn’t Heather—but Dr. Fletcher in drag!

Clearly he didn’t trust me to keep my mouth shut about his penchant for ladies’ underlovelies, and was here to silence me forever!

I gasped for air as his arm squeezed tighter around my neck. Was I going to die here in my flip-flops and
Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs
T-shirt, never to see another sunset, never to smell another rose, never to eat another pint of Chunky Monkey—

Omigosh! The Chunky Monkey!

I remembered the frozen pints in the grocery bag still clutched in my hand.

Summoning my every last ounce of strength, I swung my bag of frozen ammo, hoping to make contact with Dr. Fletcher’s head.

Bingo.

The next thing I knew, his arm slid from my neck and he’d dropped to his knees, clutching his forehead and moaning in pain.

“Hey, what’s going on?”

I looked up and saw Lance skipping up the front path with that goofy look in his eyes he always gets when he’s coming home from a hot date

“Quick, Lance!” I cried. “Call 911! This man is Amy Leighton’s killer, and he just tried to kill me, too.”

Lance looked down at Dr. Fletcher, gaping in disbelief.

“Are you sure it’s a man? Isn’t his hair awfully long for a guy?”

“Just call the cops!”

“Okay, okay,” he said, whipping out his cell.

At which point, Dr. Fletcher staggered to his feet and began to make a run for it. I gave chase and, thanks to my amazing agility—and the fact that Dr. Fletcher had tripped over a loose brick in the pathway—I was able to catch him and shove him flat on his back.

Straddling his chest, I pulled off his ski mask, and sure enough, it was Dr. Fletcher, in a long black wig, hot pink lipstick, and turquoise eye shadow.

“We’ve caught a killer!” Lance cried, thrilled to the gills. “A heartless psycho murdering machine!” Then he turned to Dr. Fletcher and said, “I’d lose the eye shadow if I were you.”

Lance helped me hold him down until the police showed up.

As soon as they did, I told them the whole story: how Candace had been blackmailing Dr. Fletcher about his cross-dressing and how he tried to kill us both to keep his secret safe.

“He tried to kill Candace at the pageant, but when that didn’t work and he wound up killing Amy by mistake, he went after Candace with a knife outside her house. Dressed in a ski mask and jog suit. Just like tonight.”

Dr. Fletcher insisted that he never tried to kill Candace, and that he was only trying to scare me. In fact, he even had the nerve to try to press charges against me for assault and battery! But the cops took one look at the bruises on my neck and hauled him off to jail.

After they left, I hugged Lance good night and headed into my apartment with my precious cargo—my three pints of Chunky Monkey. Without them, I might have been strangled to death.

So don’t anybody ever tell me that ice cream is bad for my health. As far as I was concerned, Ben & Jerry had just saved my life.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Glorious Day!

Jaine, darling—

What a glorious day! Perfect weather for the poolside fashion show. I was afraid it might rain, but there’s not a cloud in the sky. And best news of all: I just got off the scale and, in spite of the occasional Oreo I’ve been eating, I’ve managed to lose three pounds!

I can’t wait to try on my dress!

XOXO,
Mom

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Argggh!

I just took down my dress from where it was hanging on my closet door, and discovered the most godawful stain on the back. Daddy confessed he picked up the dress with greasy fingers (from eating fudge, no less!) and then painted over the stain with exterior latex house paint!

I may never speak to him again!

XOXO,
Mom

P.S. Off to the dry cleaners. I only hope they can get the stain out before the luncheon.

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Back in the Doghouse

Dearest Lambchop—Looks like I’m back in the doghouse with your mom. Remember that fudge stain I got on her dress? I thought the house paint had covered it up quite nicely, but unfortunately it dried stiff as a board.

I’m afraid your mom’s in a bit of a snit. Something tells me I’ll be sleeping with Nellybelle tonight.

Love ’n’ snuggles from
Daddy

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Thank Heavens!

Thank heavens for Tampa Vistas Dry Cleaners. Those angels promised to have the dress ready by noon. I’ll be at the luncheon then, but the fashion show doesn’t start until 1
PM
, so if Daddy picks up the dress, he can bring it over to the clubhouse and I’ll have it in time for the show.

I’m almost tempted to show up late for the luncheon and pick up the dress myself, but surely I can trust your father to pick up a dress and bring it to the clubhouse, can’t I? I mean, how on earth can he possibly screw that up?

TAMPA TRIBUNE

GOLF CART RUNS AMOK, SINKS IN COMMUNITY SWIMMING POOL

In a freak accident, Tampa Vistas resident Hank Austen lost control of his golf cart and went plummeting down a hill of the Tampa Vistas Golf Course into the community swimming pool, interrupting a fashion show fundraiser for the local library.

Fortunately Mr. Austen sustained no injuries.

When asked to comment on the incident, Tampa Vistas Homeowners Association President Lydia Pinkus would only say: “Why am I not surprised? This is a man who chases raccoons in the middle of the night in his underwear.”

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: So Much for Trusting Daddy

So much for trusting Daddy. I should have known something was wrong when one o’clock rolled around and there was no sign of him. The fashion show was well under way, and there I was, sitting at my table, wondering if I’d ever get a chance to model my gorgeous Pink Flamingo dress, when I looked up and saw a golf cart coming down the hill that faces the clubhouse pool. Then I noticed that the driver was wearing a hideous plaid cap with a pom-pom on top.

My heart sank when I realized it was Daddy! On Nellybelle!

By now his cart had picked up speed—and it wasn’t stopping. Then, just as the fashion show announcer was saying, “Here’s an outfit that’s sure to make a splash on the social scene,” Daddy came trampling over a bed of begonias, onto the pool deck, and into the pool!

Honestly, honey. I thought I’d die.

Apparently, after he picked up my dress from the cleaners, Daddy made the idiotic decision to drive Nellybelle to the clubhouse, taking a “shortcut” through the golf course. He wasted twenty minutes caught in a sand trap, and was pushing Nellybelle as fast as he could to make up for lost time, when he got to the top of the hill.

He started going downhill when he suddenly realized his brakes weren’t working. Remember that leftover piece of metal from Nellybelle’s engine that Daddy said couldn’t be very important? Well, it was part of the emergency brake. Which meant he couldn’t stop! Thank heavens there wasn’t a wall separating the golf course from the pool, or he could have been seriously injured. As it was, the water kept him buoyant, and all he suffered were a few scrapes.

Nellybelle, I’m happy to report, wasn’t nearly so lucky.

The mechanics who came and towed her away said she’d broken an axle when she made contact with the bottom of the pool.

I know I should be angry with Daddy, but I’m not. I’m just happy he wasn’t hurt. I shudder to think what could have happened if he’d rammed into a wall. Plus, he had the presence of mind to toss my Pink Flamingo dress from the golf cart before he plunged into the pool.

For all his flaws, he really does mean well.

What can I say? I love him to pieces. As I do you, honey—

XOXO,
Mom

To: Jausten
From DaddyO
Subject: Little Mishap

I suppose Mom told you about the little mishap at the fashion show. Poor Nellybelle. She was a fine old girl, and I’m going to miss her.