Death of a Trophy Wife (10 page)

Eventually I distracted her with a piece of sausage, which she thoughtfully began smearing across my pillow sham.

Meanwhile, Lance had curled up beside me and was busy eating the pepperonis off my pizza, leaving a trail of unsightly craters in his wake.

“Lance can’t you just eat a piece of pizza like a normal person?”

“I don’t want a whole slice. I just want the pepperonis,” he said, plucking one off with surgical precision.

I watched with gritted teeth as he popped it into his mouth.

“So how did it go today?” he asked. “Did you find the killer yet?”

“No, I didn’t find the killer yet. I’ve been on the case less than a day.”

“Oh,” he said, crestfallen.

“Hang in there, Lance. I’m detecting as fast as I can.”

With a sigh, I turned on the TV. I’d been planning to watch one of my all-time favorite movies,
Rosemary’s Baby
. It’s hardly ever on, and I’d been thrilled to discover it on the Turner Classic Movies schedule.

Now I zapped to it eagerly.

“You don’t really want to watch
this,
do you?” Lance said, grabbing the remote during the opening credits.

“Yes, Lance, I do. I love this movie.”

“But there’s a
Dynasty
marathon on TV Land!”

Absolutely not. I was not about to give up an all-time classic movie for endless hours of Joan Collins in shoulder pads.

“Forget it, Lance. We’re watching
Rosemary’s Baby
.”

“They’ll probably never let me watch
Dynasty
in prison.”

This uttered with huge sad eyes.

Dammit. He was playing the prison card again. And like a fool, I fell for it.

“Okay,” I grunted. “We’ll watch
Dynasty.
”

I spent the next several hours watching Joan Collins and Linda Evans engage in a vicious power struggle over men, money, and close-ups.

Not even a pint of Chunky Monkey managed to cheer me up. Mainly because Lance kept plucking out all the chocolate bits.

When I finally fell asleep around midnight, he was busy color coding my socks.

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Pork Chops and Cheese Doodles

Well, sweetheart, today’s the big day! My turn to host the bridge club! The gals are coming over at noon, and I want everything to be just right.

I set the table with my Queen Elizabeth/Latifah plates, and if I do say so myself they look exquisite. Especially with my Duchess of Windsor silver (only $79.99 plus shipping and handling). And I finished it all off with a lovely centerpiece of roses from our garden.

The only fly in the ointment is Daddy. He wanted to “cater” the affair with
Pork Chops and Cheese Doodles à la Hank.
Of course I laid down the law, and banished him from the house for the afternoon. No way is he getting near my kitchen. I’m making salad and quiche and I’m cooking the quiche in an old-fashioned oven, thank you very much!

Frankly, I can’t wait to get rid of him. You should see the mess he’s been making in the kitchen, perfecting his
Popalicious Chicken à la Hank
for that darn cookathon. I’ve eaten so much chicken, I’m surprised I haven’t sprouted feathers.

If Daddy thinks he has a snowball’s chance in hell of beating Lydia Pinkus, who’s won the cookathon with her Salmon Wellington for the past five years, he’s sadly mistaken.

On the plus side, though, at least he’s using up that popcorn!

Well, honey, must run and start my quiche.

Looking forward to a heavenly Daddy-free afternoon….

XXX

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Banished!

You’re not going to believe this, lambchop, but I’ve been banished from my own house!

Your mother says she wants me out of her hair while she entertains her bridge club ladies. And she actually turned down my generous offer to wow her guests with my
Pork Chops and Cheese Doodles à la Hank.
Oh, well. It’s all for the best. I didn’t really want to do it anyway, not with that battleaxe Lydia Pinkus coming to the house.

You remember Lydia, don’t you? The librarian who made such a fuss just because I was a wee bit late returning a library book? Apparently she’s a member of the bridge club.

Your mother tells me Old Pruneface is entering the cookathon with her Salmon Wellington. Oh, please. Anyone can toss some salmon in a pastry crust, but only a true culinary genius can stuff a chicken with popcorn! Trust me, sweetheart. With Chef Hank in the race, Lydia’s “Salmon Smellington” is headed straight for the losers’ circle.

Well, I’m off to the cooking supply store to buy a chef’s hat for the cookathon. I’m going to have
Popalicious Chicken à la Hank
embroidered on the headband. Pretty snazzy, huh? Just another creative culinary touch from—

Your loving daddy,

Chef Hank

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Smash Success

Hi, sweetheart—

I’m happy to report that my bridge luncheon was a smash success. The ladies loved my quiche. When I think how Daddy wanted to serve them pork chops and cheese doodles, I could just die! Now he’s back in the kitchen, fixing dinner, yet another “popalicious” roast chicken.

Oh, dear. He’s hollering about something. I’d better go see what the ruckus is all about.

XOXO,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Spice Thief!

Tragic news, lambchop! My Secret Spice is missing. And I know who took it. Old Pruneface herself, Lydia Pinkus. Clearly, she’s heard about my prowess in the kitchen, and stole it to keep me from winning the cookathon. That cheating battleaxe would stoop at nothing to destroy me!

Your outraged,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: False Accusations

You’re not going to believe this, darling, but for some insane reason Daddy thinks Lydia Pinkus stole his Secret Spice. He’s always resented her ever since she very justifiably asked him to return an overdue library book. Which is a crying shame, because Lydia is such a lovely woman.

True, she did happen to go to the kitchen for a glass of water this afternoon, so I suppose it’s possible she could have taken Daddy’s Secret Spice, but why would she want to? Daddy insists she did it to damage his chances in the cookathon, but she doesn’t need to steal spices to beat Daddy. Lydia Pinkus can cook rings around your father with one hand tied behind her apron.

He probably just misplaced it. The man can’t find his own glasses when he’s wearing them, for heaven’s sake!

Love from,

Mom

PS. I’m just glad you’re three thousand miles away from all this madness, and living such a carefree life in sunny Los Angeles.

I
was thrilled to find Lance gone when I woke up the next morning. What a joy to have my bed—and my remote—back to myself again.

Prozac was still in a bit of a snit about Mamie, but she cheered up enormously when I slopped some Hearty Lamb Innards in her breakfast bowl.

Yes, the two of us were happy indeed to be the sole inhabitants of our humble hovel. Some might even say ecstatic. But our happiness was short-lived. I’d not even finished nuking my Folgers Crystals when I heard Lance banging on my door.

For a minute I considered pretending I was still asleep.

“Hey, Jaine,” he shouted. “I know you’re up. I heard your toilet flushing.”

With a sigh, I trudged to the front door and let him in.

“I come bearing breakfast,” he said, holding out a bakery bag. “Muffins, fresh from the oven!”

I took one whiff of those beauties, and all thoughts of last night faded into the ether. So what if Lance had been a little overbearing? The poor guy was under a lot of stress. What sort of friend was I to get all pissy just because he hogged the remote and ate a few pepperonis?

“Lance, sweetie! Come in!”

Okay, so I’m a muffin whore.

Minutes later we were sitting at my dining room table, freshly nuked instant coffee and muffins before us.

“Aren’t you going to have any?” I asked, eyeing his empty plate.

“Nah, I ate earlier. I’ve been up for hours. I’m feeling so much better today.”

And indeed, he did look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, his blond curls moussed, his eyes shining with enthusiasm.

“I found a terrific stress management site online, with all sorts of wonderful ways to handle crisis situations!”

“That’s great, Lance,” I said, cutting into one of the still-warm beauties.

“The main thing I learned is: It’s not about what happens to you, but how you react to what happens that counts.”

“Absolutely,” I said, only half-listening.

It’s hard to pay attention when faced with a plump, blueberry-studded muffin. I was just about to slather it with butter when Lance reached over to my plate.

“You touch one blueberry on this muffin,” I said, whipping it away, “and you’re a dead man.”

“Okay, okay. Somebody sure got up on the wrong side of the muffin tin this morning.”

He let me attend to my muffin in peace while he rattled on about the power of positive thinking and the importance of keeping busy.

I have to confess I missed most of it while trying to decide between grape jelly and strawberry jam. (Strawberry won.)

“Well, I’d better get going,” he said when I’d scarfed down my blueberry beauty. “I’ve already intruded enough in your life.”

“Don’t be silly, Lance,” I said, feeling like a world-class creep for having been annoyed with him. “That’s what friends are for.”

After he left, I spent the next hour or so paying bills and vacuuming. (Okay, so I read my horoscope and did the crossword puzzle. And had another muffin, if you must know.) Then I headed to the bedroom to get dressed for my meeting with Lenny at Mattress King. Not that Lenny knew I was coming. I wanted to catch him by surprise.

Normally I would’ve used the drive time to plot out what questions to ask Lenny. But right before leaving the house, I’d been foolish enough to check my parents’ e-mails. One of these days, I’ve got to put a sign up on my computer that says,
Just Say No to DaddyO
. Now I couldn’t stop thinking about Daddy and his missing Secret Spice. I didn’t believe for one minute that Lydia Pinkus took it. But that’s Daddy for you. For years he was convinced the mailman was stealing his prize money from Publishers Clearing House. Oh, well. I couldn’t think about Daddy. Not now. Not when I had a hot murder suspect on my hands.

And as suspects went, Lenny was sizzling.

According to Lupe, he was missing from the crowd gathered around the guest bathroom the night of the murder. Perhaps because he was out on the patio slipping some weed killer into Bunny’s martini.

Marvin said he and Lenny were best friends. But Bunny had clearly been doing her best to drive a wedge between them. Had Lenny poisoned her drink in a desperate attempt to save their friendship?

He was on the phone when I walked into the showroom, a half-eaten danish at his side. How spiffy he looked, clad in what appeared to be a brand new sport coat, his comb-over plastered at a rakish angle across his bald spot. Gone was the mopey look in his eyes. On the contrary, they sparkled with anticipation as he yakked on the phone.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at noon,” he was saying. “We’ll hit the links, play a few holes, then head for the clubhouse. It’ll be like old times, Marv.”

Aha. A golf date with Marvin. It looked like their friendship was back on the front burner.

“Hey, Jaine,” he said when he hung up. “Great to see you, sweetheart!”

He beamed me a broad smile. Which would’ve been a lot more impressive if there hadn’t been a bit of danish stuck between his teeth.

“Good seeing you, too, Lenny.”

“If you came to see Marv, he isn’t here right now. In fact, I was just talking to him on the phone. We’re playing golf together tomorrow.”

He grinned like a kid about to go to the circus.

“Actually, Lenny, I’m here to see you.”

“In the market for a mattress?” He jumped up in full-tilt salesman mode. “We got a sleep-tacular deal on a Comfort Cloud. C’mere, lemme show ya!”

He put his arm around me, steering me over to the mile-high mattress.

Then, with a wink, he added, “But I’d better keep an eye on my mattress sample, huh? Hahaha! Carlton told me how you lifted his.”

Damn that blabbermouth Carlton.

“I’m not here to buy a mattress, Lenny,” I said, wiggling free from his grasp. “I want to talk to you about Bunny’s murder.”

And at that, his grin went bye-bye.

“What about it?”

“The police think my friend Lance did it, and I’m trying to help him clear his name.”

“Good luck with that,” he said, flicking a piece of imaginary lint from the Comfort Cloud.

“Lupe told me she was looking for you at the party, but couldn’t find you.”

“I see.” Now he was busy fluffing a Mattress King Neck Support Pillow. “And you think I was out on the patio poisoning Bunny’s drink?”

“Something along those lines.”

At last he turned to face me.

“As much as I hated the bitch, I can assure you I didn’t kill her.”

“Then where were you when Lupe tried to find you?”

“In the media room, watching TV. I’d had it up to here with Bunny. I walked into that party, and from clear across the room I heard her trashing me. Like I was something the cat dragged in.”

I remembered that feeling well.

He slumped down on the mattress, that sorrowful look back in his eyes.

“I faked a smile and tried to pretend it didn’t matter, but it did. I didn’t care about her stupid party, but I cared about Marvin. I always have. We were best friends for decades. When my wife died, he and Ellen saved my life. But then Bunny came along and ruined everything. She led poor Marvin around by the nose. He never complained, but it made me sick to see the way she treated him. That night at the party, I put up with it for as long as I could, and then when I couldn’t take any more, I slipped away and watched the Lakers.

“But from what I hear,” he added, getting up from the mattress, “I missed a much better show in the guest bathroom.”

Touché, Lenny.

“Any other questions?” he asked.

“I don’t suppose you know who really killed her?”

“Nope. Not a clue. But if you find out who it was, let me know. I want to buy ’em a drink.”

Our tête à tête concluded, I made my way to the back offices. I figured while I was there, I might as well question Owen, the cheating son-in-law. And Ellen, the bitter ex-wife.

For once Marvin’s receptionist did not have her fingers glued to the keyboard. In his absence, she was gazing down at a bunch of travel brochures splayed out in front of her.

“Hey, Amy!” I chirped. “Planning a trip?”

She looked up at me from under her limp bangs and smiled shyly.

“My boyfriend’s taking me away for a romantic getaway weekend!”

“How nice.”

I tried to contain my surprise that Little Miss Mousy not only had a boyfriend, but that she was actually headed off for a weekend of whoopsy doodle.

“Doesn’t this one look nice?” she asked, handing me a glossy brochure for a B&B down in Laguna Beach. “It has a fireplace in the bedroom, and a view of the ocean. It’s called the Romeo and Juliet Suite.”

I made appropriate cooing noises at a photo of a chintz and ruffle-studded room with a canopy bed and a flotilla of heart-shaped throw pillows.

“Isn’t that just the sweetest thing you ever saw?”

Any sweeter and I’d need an insulin shot.

I continued to ooh and aah through a series of B&B brochures—all of whose rooms had been highly influenced by the Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm School of Decorating. All the while, I was trying to figure out how to steer the subject to Bunny’s murder. Not that I expected Amy to be the source of any vital clues. But one never knows, does one? Out of the mouths of babes and receptionists, and all that.

“
Ye Olde Inn by the Sea
,” I said, picking up one of the brochures. “Isn’t that where Marvin took Bunny on their honeymoon?”

“Bunny?” she sniffed. “Are you kidding? She made him take her to Tahiti for a month.”

“What a tragedy about her getting killed, huh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” she said, tearing her eyes away from a brochure. “To be perfectly honest, she was never very nice to me. But poor Mr. Cooper was crazy about her. Frankly, I could never see why. She wore hair extensions, you know.”

She lowered her voice to a whisper, as if about to impart a deep, dark secret.

“And I don’t think her breasts were real, either.”

I did my best to look shocked.

“Some men like that kind of woman, I guess. But thank heavens they aren’t all like that. There are still some men who appreciate a woman for who she really is.”

“How true,” I said, neglecting to mention that 99 percent of those men are usually married to a guy named Duane.

Time to lob her a question or two.

“I wonder who could have done it.”

“It’s that shoe salesman from Neiman Marcus. That’s what they said on the news.”

“They only brought him in for questioning,” I said, eager to nip this guilty-until-proven-innocent thing in the bud. “Doesn’t mean he did it.”

“So who did?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“I have no idea,” I admitted, the truth of those words weighing heavily on me. “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to?”

“Not really. Bunny once had Mr. Cooper fire the cleaning crew because she didn’t like the way they were dusting the antiques in his office. But I don’t think they cared. They’ve got clients all over town.

“Anyhow,” she said, her eyes drifting back to her brochures, “Mr. Cooper isn’t here, if you came to see him. He’s still home, in mourning.”

“I know. Actually I came to see Owen. And the first Mrs. Cooper.”

“Ellen’s not in today, and Owen’s out in the stockroom.”

“The stockroom?” I asked, looking around.

“Out the back door, across the alley from the parking lot.”

“Thanks,” I said, and left her gazing moonily at her brochures, no doubt dreaming of torrid nights in the Romeo & Juliet Suite.