Death of a Trophy Wife (11 page)

A
t first I thought Amy was wrong about Owen being in the stockroom.

When I stepped inside the squat, windowless building, the place was shrouded in darkness, the only illumination filtering in from the half-open garage door in front.

Stacks of mattresses were propped up against the walls, casting eerie shadows in the gloom.

“Owen?” I called out.

No answer.

“Owen?” I tried again.

Still no answer.

I was just about to leave when I heard a strange rattling noise coming from somewhere in back.

Following the sound, I made my way down the aisle between the stacked mattresses until I came to an alcove where a mattress had been laid out on the floor. I blinked in surprise to see Owen’s lanky body sprawled on it, his baseball cap pulled down over his eyes, his mouth wide open, snoring to beat the band.

So, the number one son-in-law was asleep on the job. I thought for sure I’d find him clipboard in hand, taking inventory or some such industrious pursuit.

“Ahem,” I said, clearing my throat.

As much as I hated to interrupt his beauty sleep, I had some questions to ask.

But he kept on snoring.

“Owen,” I crooned. “Wake up.”

No dice. The snoring just grew louder.

The sound of those rattlers reminded me of the hours I’d spent lying in bed listening to my ex-husband, The Blob, whose snores have been known to register on the Richter scale. (And those were just the snores.)

“Owen!” I said, shaking him vigorously by the shoulder. “Wake up!”

That did the trick.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he growled, bolting up.

“Nice to see you, too.” I smiled genially. “Sorry to interrupt you when you’re so hard at work.”

“So I took a nap,” he said, scrambling up from the mattress. “Big deal. Not that it’s any business of yours, but I haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

Guilty conscience, perhaps?

He strode to the front of the room and flipped on the lights, flooding the place in a harsh fluorescent glare.

“I know why you’re here,” he said, marching back to me and grabbing his clipboard from where it lay on the mattress. “Sarah told me you’re some kind of half-baked private eye. I know all about how you and your nutcase friend harassed her.”

“I’m afraid Lance got a bit carried away,” I admitted, “and I’m sorry about that. We just wanted to ask Sarah a few questions about Bunny’s murder.”

“If you expect me to answer your questions, forget it. You’re not a cop. I don’t have to talk to you.”

With that, he started making notes on his clipboard, his charming way of telling me to get lost.

Time to play rough. Well, as rough as a P.I. with an
I
My Cat
T-shirt can get.

“I think you do have to talk to me,” I said, lobbing him my sternest look. “That is, if you don’t want me telling Sarah about your affair with Bunny.”

A brief flicker of panic shone in his eyes.

“What do you mean?” he asked, doing a very bad impersonation of someone who wasn’t scared out of his wits. “What affair with Bunny?”

“Oh, please. We both know what was going on that day I ran into you outside the Coopers’ house. You were reeking of Bunny’s perfume. And if that wasn’t a dead giveaway, the lipstick on your pocket protector was.”

Tossing aside his clipboard, he crumpled down at the edge of the mattress.

“Okay,” he sighed, “what do you want to know?”

“First of all,” I said, squatting down next to him, “I want to know where you were when Bunny left her drink out on the patio.”

“I was standing outside the guest bathroom watching you make a fool of yourself.”

That said with a most irritating smirk.

“That’s funny. Because I don’t remember seeing you there.”

Of course, I was in such a fog of humiliation at the time, I didn’t remember seeing anyone, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

“I was there. I swear. And besides, why would I kill Bunny?”

“Who knows? From what I hear, she was a mighty fickle gal. She was cheating on Marvin with you. Maybe she was cheating on you with the pool man. Maybe you found out about it, and killed her in a fit of passion.”

“I could never kill Bunny! I was crazy about her. Oh, God,” he said, burying his face in his hands, “I never meant to fall in love with her, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d never met anybody like Bunny before.”

He looked up at me with earnest blue eyes.

“You can’t imagine how exciting she was to a skinny science nerd from Downey.”

Oh, I could imagine, all right. I’d seen her in action on the Comfort Cloud.

“She was my whole life. I begged her to leave Marvin and run off with me. I told her that we didn’t need his money, that we could make it on our own. I almost had her convinced.”

“Yeah, right. I can just picture Bunny shopping at Kmart.”

“You don’t understand. Bunny had faith in me. She knew someday I’d make it big. Why kill her when I was so close to having her forever?”

A lone tear trickled down his cheek. Embarrassed, he quickly wiped it away.

I had to admit, that tear was awfully convincing.

“You’re not going to tell Sarah, are you?” he asked. “It’d break her heart.”

“No, I won’t tell Sarah. Not unless I find out you’re lying.”

Which, of course, was entirely possible.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years as a part-time, semi-professional private eye, it’s to never trust a guy who snores like my ex-husband.

Next stop—Sarah.

Clearly she was steamed about our little visit yesterday, and I had to make amends. The last thing I needed was for her to go bad-mouthing me to Marvin.

Yes, I know I was warned never to darken the UCLA campus again, but I wasn’t about to let a pesky little warning stop me.

After forking over a small ransom to park, I made the endless trek to Sarah’s lab. Unfortunately, a class was in progress when I got there, so I sat down in the hallway to wait for it to end. About five minutes into my vigil, the door opened and a student in a lab coat came out, a diminutive brunette smelling faintly of sulfur.

When I asked what time the class would be over, she said one o’clock. It was now a little after noon. Which meant I had almost an hour to kill. And it had been a while since I’d scarfed down those muffins, so I was hungry. I remembered passing a university café on my way to the lab, a charming little cafeteria with an outdoor patio. If I scooted over right now, I’d have more than enough time to grab some lunch and be back by one.

So I proceeded to scoot. Unfortunately, when I showed up, the charming little cafeteria had a line snaking out the door.

I took my place at the end of the line and spent the next fifteen minutes tormented by the smells of the hot lunches cooking inside. When at last I reached the steam table, my eyes zeroed in on a fragrant vat of beef stew. My salivary glands sprang into action. As I ladled some into a bowl, I saw it was gloppy enough to caulk a bathtub. Just the way I like it.

Then I grabbed a roll and butter to sop up the glop, plus a Diet Coke and giant chocolate chip cookie, and settled my tab.

Now before you get your panties in an uproar about that cookie, let me assure you it was not for me, but rather a peace offering for Sarah. I figured I’d melt her heart with chocolate chips.

Quite a clever ploy, if I do say so myself.

I’d just settled down at a shady table out on the patio and was about to dig into my beef stew when I glanced up and gulped in dismay. There, waddling up the path to the cafeteria, were the two security goons who’d given me the boot yesterday. The two of them, side by side, practically took up the whole path.

Oh, for crying out loud. Of all places on campus for them to show up!

Desperate for camouflage, I looked around and spotted an abandoned newspaper at a nearby table. I quickly snatched it up and held it in front of my face, praying that the goons would walk on by and leave me in peace.

But my rotten luck was still hanging in there.

I groaned to see them heading into the cafeteria. There was no longer a line (there never is, after I’ve been served), which meant they’d be out with their food in no time. I couldn’t risk having them see me.

So I shoveled a hurried forkful of beef stew in my mouth, grabbed my Diet Coke and my cookie, and ran.

Back in the chemistry building, I resumed my vigil outside Sarah’s lab, sucking down my Diet Coke and yearning for my lost beef stew.

Finally the bell rang, and students began filing out of the lab.

When the last one had gone, I took a deep breath and stepped inside.

As expected, I was not exactly greeted with open arms.

“You again?” Sarah said, taking out her cell phone. “I’m calling security.”

“Please don’t, Sarah. I came to apologize. I’m so sorry we upset you yesterday. Lance’s behavior was inexcusable. I know you didn’t kill Bunny.”

I knew no such thing, but I had to appease her somehow.

“Of course I didn’t kill Bunny!” she huffed.

But I could see she was somewhat mollified.

“Apology accepted?” I put on my most repentant look.

She thought it over for a beat, then flipped her phone closed.

“Apology accepted.”

“I brought you a peace offering,” I said, holding up the chocolate chip cookie. “But unfortunately I ate half of it.”

Okay, so I ate half the darn cookie while I was waiting in the hallway. After all, I never did get to eat my beef stew, and I was hungry.

“That’s all right,” she said, taking the cookie with a smile. “I’m not fussy.”

Now that we were back on speaking terms, I figured I might as well ask for her help.

“Look,” I said, “Lance may be impossible, but he’s not a killer. So if you remember seeing anything the night of the murder that might help him out, please give me a call.”

“Okay,” she said, as I handed her my card, “but honestly, the only one I saw on the patio was Lance.”

“Well, if something else should occur to you, please call me.”

“Will do.” She smiled wryly. “Anything for a chocolate chip cookie.”

I bid her and my cookie a fond adieu and headed down the hallway to the ladies’ room. That Diet Coke had raced through my system and I needed to make a pit stop.

A middle-aged woman in a lab coat came in at the same time as I did. Probably one of the professors. She was finished before me and was at the sink washing her hands when the ladies’ room door opened and someone else walked in.

“Hi, Sarah.”

My ears perked up. Was this
my
Sarah?

“Oh, hi, Belinda.”

It sure sounded like her.

I peeked through that embarrassing space that always seems to exist between a stall door and its adjoining wall.

It was Sarah, all right. What a perfect opportunity to eavesdrop.

I watched through the crack as she headed for a stall just two doors down from mine. I only hoped she wouldn’t look over and recognize my shoes.

“So how are your labs going this semester?” the other woman asked.

“Same old same old. No major explosions so far.”

They proceeded to engage in a little Chemistry Department chat, involving recalcitrant students and back orders of Bunsen burners, all quite boring. It wasn’t until Sarah left her stall and went over to the sinks that things got interesting.

After washing her hands, she took some sort of tube from her purse. At first I couldn’t tell what it was. But then she lifted up one of the legs of her slacks and started applying ointment to her shin.

“Wow, that’s a nasty cut,” the other woman said. “What happened?”

“Oh, it’s nothing. I just tripped over a rake.”

I didn’t hear what they said after that. My mind was too busy buzzing with speculation. All you A+ students out there will no doubt remember that the night of the murder I’d trotted out to the patio and seen a jar of weed killer. But that wasn’t all I’d seen. Extra credit to those of you who remember I’d also seen a rake.

What if the rake Sarah had tripped over had been the one on the Coopers’ patio? That would mean she’d been lying when she said she hadn’t been out there. It would also mean she might very well be the killer.

And with that, Sarah aced her dad off the Number One spot on my suspect list.

G
etting a lead on a juicy suspect is all very well and good, but there are more important things in life than solving murders, you know. Things like world peace and classic literature and beef stew thick enough to caulk a bathtub.

Still lusting over my lost culinary treasure, I stopped off at the outdoor café on my way back to the parking lot and gazed wistfully at my former table, hoping against hope that my beef stew would still be there. But it was long gone. All that remained on the table was a plastic fork and balled-up paper napkin.

I thought about dashing inside for another bowl, but I couldn’t risk it. Just my luck those damn security goons would come strolling by again.

So I swung over to McDonald’s, where I consoled myself with a Quarter Pounder and fries. Which, I have to confess, was a very tasty consolation prize. I was just popping the last fry into my mouth when my cell phone rang.

“Hey, Jaine. Nick here.”

It was Nick Angelides, the proud owner of Toiletmasters Plumbers, serving the greater Los Angeles area since 1989.

“Great job on
You and Your Septic Tank
,” he grunted in his raspy voice.

“Glad you liked it, Nick.”

“Except one thing needs a little tweaking.”

Uh-oh. In writer-speak that means:
Batten down the hatches. It’s rewrite time
.

“That section on
The Dangers of Flushing Non-Biodegradables Down the Toilet
. Somehow it lacks drama.”

The guy spent his days snaking glop out of drains, and suddenly he was a drama critic. But he spelled my name right on my paychecks and that’s all that counted.

“Think you can punch it up?” he asked.

“Sure, Nick. No problem.”

I promised I’d fax him the changes by the end of the day, and clicked my phone shut with a sigh. How nice it would be to write about mattresses for a change, instead of the dangers of flushing Q-tips down the toilet.

Then I headed back to my apartment to get the job started.

“Hi, sweetie, I’m back!” I called out to Prozac when I let myself in.

I looked around, but she wasn’t in the living room. I figured she was probably in the bedroom, hard at work clawing my pantyhose to shreds. But when I went there to change into some sweats, she wasn’t there either.

Nor was she was in the kitchen, where I’d hoped to find her grabbing her umpteenth snack of the day.

Now I was beginning to get concerned.

“Prozac, honey!” I called out, hurrying down the hallway to the bathroom. “Where are you?”

Not in the bathroom.

I searched her favorite hiding places: under my bed, on top of my closet, and behind the P. G. Wodehouse paperbacks on my bookshelf.

Still no sign of her.

And then a horrible thought occurred to me. What if, after countless years of trying, Prozac finally managed to claw open the refrigerator door—and then somehow locked herself in?

My poor, poor kitty!
I thought, racing to the fridge.
What an awful way to go!

I flung open the door, certain I would find her cold, dead body sprawled out on my crisper. But thank heavens, all I saw was the same moldy cheese and martini olives that were there the last time I looked.

I was leaning against the refrigerator, limp with relief, when I heard a key turning in my front door. Oh, God. Someone was breaking in! What if it was the killer? Maybe Sarah recognized my shoes in the ladies’ room stall, after all. Maybe she knew I’d put two and two together about that rake and was here to shut me up forever. She probably discovered the emergency key I kept outside under my potted impatiens and let herself in earlier. Poor Prozac, sensing danger, had undoubtedly dashed out the front door.

And now Sarah had come back to kill me!

Well, I wasn’t about to go down without a fight. I yanked open a drawer and grabbed my pizza cutter. I’d slash her face to ribbons if I had to.

My weapon clutched in my hot little hands, I was just about to launch my attack when I heard, “Honey, I’m home!”

Oh, for heaven’s sakes. It was only Lance.

I hurried to the living room to find him with Mamie in one arm and my precious Prozac in the other.

“Sweetie!” I cried. “You’re okay!”

“Well, actually,” Lance yawned, “I’m a little tired.”

“Not you,” I said, snatching Prozac into my arms. “I was worried senseless when I came home and Prozac wasn’t here. Where on earth have you been?”

“Sorry, hon. I should’ve left you a note. I let myself in with your emergency key and took the girls to The Pampered Pet.”

“The Pampered Pet?”

“A pet spa and clothing boutique on Melrose.”

Oh, lord. Only in L.A.

“We had so much fun, didn’t we, girls? They had massages and perfumed bubble baths and hair styling, too. And how do you like their outfits?”

I’d been so consumed with worry, I hadn’t even noticed that Mamie and Prozac were wearing matching pink angora sweaters. With fur trim at the legs. Mamie sported a pink bow in her hair, while Prozac was adorned with a pink rhinestone collar.

“Doesn’t Pro look adorable?” Lance beamed with pride.

Prozac, however, did not share his enthusiasm.

If somebody doesn’t get me out of this outfit soon, blood will flow.

“And look what else I bought her! It’s called ‘The Cat’s Pajamas.’”

He held up what looked like a red and white striped baby layette.

“And it comes with a matching nightcap!” he said, waving a pointy cap with a tassel at the tip. “Let me put it on her!”

Prozac greeted this announcement with a rather frightening hiss.

Try it, buster, and you’ll be singing soprano the rest of your life.

“Maybe later, Lance,” I said, unsnapping her sweater. “In the meanwhile, I’ll just get her out of this outfit.”

I unloosened her rhinestone collar and she sprinted off to the top of the bookcase, where she proceeded to lick away the remains of her perfumed bubble bath.

“We’ll put on her pajamas after dinner,” Lance said. “Which reminds me. I almost forgot about the groceries. They’re out in the car.”

“What groceries?”

“Didn’t I tell you? I’m cooking us dinner tonight.”

“You are? That’s very sweet of you, Lance.”

My heart always melts at the thought of a hot meal that doesn’t come on a plastic tray.

“I’ll be right back and get started.”

“Here? Why can’t you cook at your place?”

“Aw, Jaine.” He looked at me with big, sad eyes. “I don’t want to be alone. I’ll just start feeling depressed again. You’ll keep me company while I cook.”

“I can’t keep you company. I’ve got work to do.”

“You mean, like on the case?” His eyes lit up. “You’re zeroing in on the killer, aren’t you? Oh, Jaine! I knew you’d come through for me.”

“Actually, I’ve got to wrap up a Toiletmasters brochure.”

“Oh,” he said, coming down off his bubble of hope.

“But I’m making lots of progress, really.”

Okay, so technically that was a bit of a whopper, but I couldn’t bear to tell him I didn’t have anything even resembling a shred of evidence.

“You just have to give me a little more time. In the meanwhile, though, I’ve got to concentrate on my brochure. So maybe cooking dinner here isn’t the best idea.”

“I promise I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

Yeah, right. I spent the next several hours trapped at my dining room table desk listening to Lance banging what seemed to be every pot I owned, whistling while he worked. I desperately tried to tune him out, but it was impossible.

And as it turned out, he didn’t need me to talk to. He had Mamie, with whom he kept up a steady stream of nauseating baby talk.

Would oo like a taste of cawwot, sweetcakes? Isn’t it yummy? Yes, it is! Yummy yum yumsters!

You think
you
want to upchuck? I had to listen to that glop all afternoon.

At first I told myself it was all going to be worthwhile, imagining something scrumptious like roast beef and Yorkshire pudding at the end of my culinary rainbow. Or perhaps a juicy T-bone with baked potato. Or maybe even—dare I hope?—homemade beef stew!

But, alas, I soon discovered that Lance was cooking a most appallingly healthy meal of poached fish and steamed veggies.

Plus a foul-smelling cauliflower soup, and lo-carb gluten-free dinner rolls.

And Mom thought
she
had it rough with Daddy’s popalicious roast chicken.

Finally, I got so disgusted listening to the sound of vegetables chopping, I abandoned my computer and trotted off to the bedroom, making my changes in longhand. I’d just have to transcribe them onto my computer later that night.

I could still hear Lance banging around and cooing sweet nothings to Mamie, but at least it was somewhat muted, and I managed to finish the assignment just in time to hear him announce:

“Dinner is served!”

I had to admit, the dining room looked beautiful.

Lance had cleared my office paraphernalia from my dining room table and set it with some beautiful placemats and napkins from his own apartment.

He’d dimmed the lights, lit some candles, and poured us some chardonnay.

All of which helped deaden the blow of the meal to come.

Nothing like poached fish and cauliflower soup to send your taste buds into a coma.

“Isn’t this dee-lish?” Lance asked, spearing one of the many veggies littering our plates.

“Dee-lish,” I echoed with a wooden smile.

“Sorry about the fishy cauliflower smell. It should go away in three or four days.”

Somehow I managed to plow through the main course, occasionally casting envious glances at Mamie’s dog food.

Then came time for dessert.

“Tada!” Lance said, unveiling his surprise finale—a watery, gray rice pudding, with all the allure of Elmer’s glue.

“It’s got no dairy whatsoever,” he boasted. “Made from nonfat soy milk.”

By now my taste buds were on their knees, begging for mercy. And that’s when he dropped his bombshell on me.

“I’ve really got to start cooking you dinner more often.”

“No!” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “I mean, it’s way too much trouble.”

“Don’t be silly. In fact, why don’t I come back tomorrow and cook something else? It’s about time you started eating right.” His eyes lit up with messianic fervor. “I’m going to put you on a whole new diet regime. Nothing but health foods! By the time I’m through with you, the pounds will be positively melting away!”

At that moment, the only thing I wanted to see melting was some mozzarella on a pizza.

“So,” he asked, digging into his rice pudding with gusto, “what do you want to watch on TV tonight?”

Oh, lord. He wanted to stay and watch TV again. It was all I could do not to impale myself on my fork.

And then, just in my darkest hour, a miracle happened. Lance’s cell phone rang. A friend, calling to see if he wanted to go to the movies.

“I’d love to, Ben,” he said, “but I just promised my neighbor I’d watch TV with her tonight.”

“No!” I shrieked. “Go! I insist!”

“But I’d have to leave right now if I want to catch the show. And I wanted to do the dishes.”

“That’s okay, Lance, I’ll do them. I don’t mind. Really. You’ve done enough for one night.”

To my enormous relief he told his buddy he’d meet him at the movies and got up to go.

“You really don’t mind?” he asked, scooping Mamie into his arms.

“Not at all,” I said, practically shoving them out the door.

The minute they were gone, Prozac jumped down from where she’d been hiding behind P. G. Wodehouse.

“Hey, Pro,” I said, holding out the fish I’d buried beneath some vegetables on my plate. “Look at the special treat I’ve got for you!”

One sniff and she recoiled in disgust.

I’ve upchucked hairballs that smelled better than that.

This from a cat who considers the garbage can a gourmet dining spot.

And without any further ado, she began howling for something else to eat.

Screwing up my courage, I took a deep breath and headed into the disaster area otherwise known as my kitchen. Every drawer was open, every pot dirty. It was
Apocalypse Now
with spatulas.

I couldn’t possibly face cleaning it tonight. I’d wait till tomorrow, when I was fresh and perky and had regained the will to live.

Instead I tossed some Chunky Lamb Innards to Prozac and hunkered down at my computer to type in the changes to
You and Your Septic Tank
.

After faxing them to Toiletmasters, I treated myself to a nice long soak in the tub, tossing in an extra handful of strawberry-scented bath salts. Unfortunately, they did not begin to mask the toxic cloud of cauliflower hanging over my apartment. But I didn’t care. I was just happy to be in a Lance-free zone. I laid there, letting the hot water soothe my weary muscles, giving thanks to the humanitarian genius who invented the bathtub. And the Double Stuf Oreo, a package of which I’d brought along to keep me company.

Eventually I pried myself from my sudsy paradise and collapsed into bed.

I was in a deep sleep when the phone rang and woke me. In a fog, I picked it up. Too late, I realized it might be Lance.

But it wasn’t.

“Jaine, my beloved!”

Vladimir’s voice came humming across the line.

“I call to beg you to give me one more chance and have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

Without missing a beat, I replied, “Sure, Vladimir.”

Now don’t go packing me off to the loony bin. I hadn’t taken leave of my senses. There was a perfectly logical reason why I agreed to go.

True, our last date had been a bit of a disaster. But at least no cauliflower had been involved. I had no idea what cavalcade of vegetables and bad TV Lance had planned for me tomorrow night.

All I knew was that I didn’t want to be around to find out.