Death of a Trophy Wife (12 page)

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Out of Stock!

Tragic news, lambchop! I called the Turbomaster people to order some more Secret Spice, and they’re out of stock! And they won’t be getting in a new shipment for another month! I’ve been trying to cook without it, but my food just doesn’t taste the same. Especially my
Popalicious Chicken à la Hank
. Without the Secret Spice, it’s not nearly as Popalicious. Every time I think of Lydia Pinkus and her evil plot to keep me from winning the cookathon, I see red.

But fear not. Your old daddy’s ever-nimble brain has come through again. I’ve thought of a surefire way to get my Secret Spice back from Old Pruneface.

More later…

XOXO,

Chef Hank

(aka Daddy)

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Of All the Nerve!

Of all the nerve! Your father actually expects
me
to sneak into Lydia’s kitchen during our next bridge game and look for his silly Secret Spice. Well, I absolutely refuse.

He can pout all he wants, but I am not about to take part in any of his ridiculous schemes!

Your thoroughly disgusted,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Justice Will Prevail!

All I can say, lambchop, is that I’m very disappointed in your mom. I asked her to do a simple favor and snoop in Old Pruneface’s spice rack, and she refused. To think, after all these years of marriage, I can’t count on my own wife in my time of need.

It looks like I’m just going to have to take things into my own hands. Somehow, some way, Lydia Pinkus’s evil plot to destroy me will be thwarted!

Justice will prevail!

Love ’n’ hugs from,

Chef Hank

(aka Daddy)

“S
hhh!” I hissed at Prozac, who was clawing my chest bright and early the next morning, yowling to be fed.

What if Lance heard us stirring and came racing over with some ghastly whole-grain breakfast? That would never do. So I hustled my little noisemaker off to the kitchen to silence her with Hearty Halibut Guts.

My heart stopped when I saw the mess awaiting me.

No miracle had occurred in the night. Every drawer was still open, every pot still out on the counter. Perhaps they’d even multiplied. If only I’d put the dishes in the sink to soak. Now the remains of last night’s dinner were practically welded to the plates.

After tossing some halibut guts in a bowl for Prozac, I began the hellish task of cleaning up. I doubted Lance would hear me all the way in the kitchen, but if he did, so be it. There was no way I could live with this mess.

Arming myself for battle, I put on my rubber gloves and dug in. I washed dishes and glasses, pots and pans, and knives I never even knew I owned. Half a bottle of Palmolive, two S.O.S pads, and three broken nails later, I was finally through.

By now I was starving, so I nuked myself some coffee and an ancient cinnamon raisin bagel I uncovered in my freezer. I slathered the bagel with butter and strawberry jam. Heavy on the jam. I deserved it after what I’d just been through.

Carting my breakfast to the living room, I eyed the front door warily. Dared I risk opening it for the newspaper? What if Lance was lying in ambush, waiting to pounce with a pitcher of carrot juice?

Unable to resist the lure of the crossword puzzle, I took a chance and cracked the door open. Thank heavens all I saw was my neighbor’s azalea bush. So I snatched up the paper and scurried back inside.

Normally there’s nothing I like better than doing a crossword puzzle with my morning coffee. I relish the challenge of coming up with seven-letter answers for obscure vice presidents. But that morning, I jumped every time I heard a noise, certain it was Lance about to barge in.

This was no way to live. If I didn’t find the killer soon and get Lance his job back, I’d have to sign up for a witness protection program.

It was time to get my fanny in gear and pay a visit to the next person on my suspect list: Ellen Cooper. I’d gotten a glimpse of the fury lurking beneath her sunny smile and was eager to lob a few questions her way.

I called Owen at Mattress King. He was happy to give me her address and phone number. Well, not exactly happy. But given what I knew about his torrid affair with Bunny, he was in no position to turn down my request.

Ellen was home when I phoned and agreed to see me later that morning.

I whiled away the next half hour or so catching up on my e-mails and trying not to think about Daddy on the hunt for his Secret Spice. Then I got dressed as quietly as possible and poked my head out the front door.

Once again, I breathed a sigh of relief to see a Lance-less horizon.

Slinking past his apartment, I got in my Corolla and set out to question the jilted ex-wife.

Ellen Cooper lived in a condo on the Wilshire Corridor, a strip of astronomically priced high-rises in Westwood—mini-cities complete with 24-hour valets, tennis courts, and state of the art gyms.

I drove up the circular driveway of Ellen’s mammoth art deco building, where a doorman dressed as a five-star general gave my Corolla the once-over. Clearly he was not impressed with what he saw.

“Deliveries around back,” he said, motioning with his thumb to the rear of the building.

“I’m not making a delivery,” I informed him frostily. “I’m here to see Ellen Cooper.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, not looking the least bit sorry. “My mistake.”

Grudgingly he opened my car door for me. As I walked off I could hear him say to a valet:

“Park this thing where nobody can see it.”

Well, he could just kiss
his
fifty cent tip good-bye.

I pushed my way through a set of spotless revolving doors and entered a lobby straight out of a sultan’s palace: travertine marble floors, humongous floral arrangements, and chandeliers I wouldn’t want to be standing under during an earthquake.

Having scaled the doorman hurdle, I now had to pass muster with a gimlet-eyed concierge who practically demanded my social security number before he let me past his desk.

At last I was on a brass-railed elevator zooming up to Ellen’s thirtieth-floor penthouse. I had no trouble finding the place since there were only two condos on the floor.

I rang what looked like a 14-karat gold doorbell, and seconds later Ellen came to the door in a baby blue sweatsuit, a smudge of chocolate on her cheek. She was as out of place in that joint as a Kmart shopper on Rodeo Drive.

“C’mon in, honey,” she said, waving me inside.

My feet sinking in the plush carpeting, I followed her past her vestibule and into her living room, where I gazed in awe at her panoramic view of Wilshire Boulevard to the south and—in the distance, but visible nonetheless—the mighty Pacific Ocean to the west.

“What a view!”

“Just one of the many perks of the Waldorf Hysterical. That’s what I call this place. A little over the top, don’t you think?” she said, gesturing to her football field-sized living room. “You should see the other tenants. Some of these women get a facelift just to pick up their mail. Frankly, I miss my old house in Encino. But after the divorce, I wanted a change of scene. And it is fun being right here in town. Ellen Cooper, Jet Setter, that’s me.”

She graced me with one of her apple-cheeked grins.

“Say, I was just about to dig into a box of Krispy Kremes. Want one? Oh, of course you do. I know a fellow donut-holic when I see one. Make yourself comfy and I’ll be right back.”

I sank down into one of two chenille sofas facing each other in front of her massive fireplace. Ellen’s furniture, like Ellen herself, looked out of place in the grand expanse of the room. Her stuff had to be at least twenty years old, well-worn, no-nonsense pieces that she probably bought at the beginning of her marriage and never bothered to update. Shabby chic, without the chic.

In no time, Ellen was back with a box of donuts, which she set down on a large pine coffee table between the two sofas.

“Help yourself, hon.”

Needless to say, I did.

It was a toss up between jelly and chocolate glazed, but as always, chocolate triumphed.

Ellen grabbed one, too, and plopped down opposite me, tucking her legs beneath her generous tush.

“Sarah tells me that, despite your totally inept appearance, you’re some sort of private eye.”

Okay, so she didn’t say the part about my inept appearance, but I could read between the lines.

I assured her that I was indeed a part-time unlicensed private eye and proceeded to ask her the usual questions about the night of the murder. Unfortunately, I got the usual disappointing answers. She saw no one out on the patio because she was too busy staring at me single-handedly destroying Bunny’s guest bathroom.

When I asked her if she could think of anyone angry enough to have wanted to see Bunny dead, she responded with a hearty chuckle.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, “take a number. Everybody hated her.”

At which point we were interrupted by an ear-shattering whining noise.

I looked up, alarmed.

“Don’t worry,” she said when the noise had stopped. “It’s only the plumber. He’s snaking the drain in the master bath.”

“Ms. Cooper!” A man’s voice drifted down the hallway. “Can you come here a minute? I got a problem.”

“Why is there
always
a problem?” Ellen sighed, hoisting herself up from her sofa. “I’ll be right back.

“Help yourself to another donut!” she called out as she started down the hall.

I did not waste valuable minutes stuffing my face with a donut. Nope, I wasted only seconds scarfing one down. Then, wiping chocolate from my fingers, I started casing the room. With any luck, I’d run into a desk drawer jammed with incriminating evidence.

I scooted around, opening drawers and rooting under seat cushions. But all I found were a colorful collection of cocktail napkins, coasters, and playing cards. Plus fifty-six cents in change under the sofa cushions.

Across the hall I could see what looked like a small den. I was tempted to dash over and check it out. But just as I was screwing up the courage for this daring move, I heard footsteps approaching.

I quickly sat down and assumed a casual pose, leafing through a photo album from the coffee table.

The album I grabbed was white and frilly, the words
Our Wedding
etched in gold on the front. I just assumed the happy couple inside would be Sarah and Owen. Imagine my surprise when I saw that it was filled with pictures of Ellen and Marvin. Or, I should say, what used to be Marvin before his head had been gouged out from each and every photo.

I turned the pages, wide-eyed.

“Crisis averted!” Ellen breezed back into the room. “The guy’s such a prima donna. You’d think he’d never snaked through a hairball before.”

Then she looked down and saw the album on my lap.

“Ah. You’ve discovered my wedding album.”

I nodded mutely.

“I guess you could say I was a little bitter when Marvin left me.”

She wasn’t going to get an argument from me there.

“But I’m all over it now,” she assured me. “I keep it out for chuckles. It’s hilarious, isn’t it?”

Au contraire, lady. Laurel and Hardy were hilarious. Decapitated ex-husbands, not so much.

“It’s funny how everything worked out for the best. If it hadn’t been for the divorce, I would’ve never met my boyfriend.” She flushed with pleasure. “You must’ve seen him at the party. What a doll, huh?”

“Indeed,” I said, remembering her foxy silver-haired date.

“Well, I hate to cut this meeting short,” she said, “but I’m meeting my honey for lunch and I’ve got to start getting ready. Let me show you to the door.”

I thanked her for her time and headed out to the elevator, boggled by what I’d just seen.

Not the mutilated Marvins. They were creepy, of course, but not all that surprising. I’d known all along there was a lot of anger lurking beneath that apple-cheeked grin.

No, what knocked me for a loop was what I’d seen when I walked past her vestibule closet on my way out.

The door had been open slightly and I’d glanced inside. There, propped up next to a pair of boots, was a bottle of weed killer.

Now I ask you: What the heck was a woman who lived on the thirtieth floor of a high-rise doing with weed killer?

Just something to think about between chapters.

B
idding a tipless adieu to the Waldorf Hysterical doorman, I took off down Wilshire Boulevard. Now that I’d questioned all of the Cooper clan, it was time to hit some of the other party guests.

First on my list was Fiona, Bunny’s celebrity stylist.

Was it possible that underneath her apparently genial working relationship with Bunny, she’d harbored a secret grudge? Some bitter quarrel over a Versace evening gown, perhaps?

I dug in my purse and fished out the business card she’d given me the day I met her at Bunny’s pool party.

“Sure, I’d be happy to answer a coupla questions,” she said when I gave her a buzz on my cell phone.

Was it my imagination, or was she slurring her words? Could she possibly be tootled at 11:30 in the morning?

She gave me directions to her apartment in a scuzzy part of town, not far from the panhandlers on Hollywood Boulevard.

Her building, The Royale, was anything but. A dingy five-story stucco affair, festooned with graffiti and security bars, its swellegant days had vanished along with silent movies.

I gazed up at a man’s undershirt drying on a window ledge.
This
was where a celebrity stylist lived? No wonder Fiona always brought her clothes to Bunny; she surely wouldn’t want any clients coming here.

I pressed a button on an intercom heavily etched with the F word, and Fiona buzzed me in. Not that she needed to. The lock on the lobby door was missing. I gaped in disbelief at the hole in the wood where the lock had once been. Was it possible someone had actually stolen the dead bolt off the door?

“I’m in 5J,” Fiona said, her voice a distant scratch. “And the elevator’s busted. You’ll have to walk.”

Indeed I did, trudging up five endless flights. That explained why Fiona was so thin and wiry. I’d be thin and wiry, too, if I had to face this obstacle course every time I came home.

I made my way up the dank stairwell, stepping over empty wine bottles, grateful there were no accompanying winos. By the first landing, I was gasping for air. I cursed myself for not working out more—or ever, for that matter—and prayed I’d make it to the top without collapsing or getting mugged.

By the time I reached the fifth floor I was ready for an oxygen tent. At last I managed to catch my breath and began trekking down an all too long hallway, dimly lit and grimy with age. Somewhere I heard a baby crying.

When I arrived at apartment 5J, Fiona was standing in the doorway in a faded silk robe, a drink in one hand, and—I was most disconcerted to see—a gun in the other.

“Don’t mind the stun gun,” she said, waving me inside with the stubby weapon. “I need it for protection in this hellhole.”

I followed her into her apartment, a large studio dwarfed by all the furniture jammed inside.

A huge canopy bed was lined up against one wall, dominating the room. Fighting for space were an ornate settee, two matching armchairs, a mahogany dining set, and at least three racks full of clothing.

The furniture looked like quality stuff, but like Fiona, it had seen better days.

“Excuse the mess,” she said. “Maid’s day off. Haha.”

I forced a weak smile.

“Can I get you a scotch?” She took an impressive gulp of hers. “It’s Rite Aid’s finest.”

“No, thanks, but I’d love some water.”

“Help yourself. Kitchen’s right behind those racks.”

She pointed to two clothing racks that screened the kitchen from view.

Squeezing between them, I found myself in a space not much larger than a shower stall.

I turned on the tap, setting off a painful squeal of pipes, and a gush of rusty water spurted from the faucet. I waited till it was running reasonably clean, then poured myself a glassful, hoping it wasn’t swimming with carcinogens.

“Check the fridge if you’re hungry,” Fiona called out.

I was a tad peckish after climbing all those stairs, so I opened her mini-fridge, but all it contained were the same darn martini olives that graced my own abode.

I made a mental note to throw mine out.

Sucking in my gut, I once again squeezed between the two clothing racks and rejoined Fiona, who was now sprawled out on her settee.

“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to one of the two armchairs jammed between the bed and the settee.

I lowered my fanny and felt a spring poking against my tush.

“So whadja wanna know?” she asked, her eyes droopy with booze.

But before I could ask her anything, my eardrums were suddenly assaulted by the godawful crash of wood splintering. Holy Moses! Someone was busting down Fiona’s door!

My heart lurched in my chest as an earsplitting gunshot rang in the air.

Oh, Lord, no! Some hoodlum had just broken in! I was going to be shot in broad daylight! I could see the headline now:

FORMER CELEBRITY STYLIST SHOT DOWN IN SENSELESS TRAGEDY WOMAN IN “CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS” T-SHIRT ALSO FOUND POLICE SUSPECT DRUG DEAL GONE WRONG

I’d die with everyone thinking I was a druggie!

Instinctively I ducked for cover.

Fiona, however, did not blink an eye. Cool as a cucumber, she just banged on the wall with her fist.

“Turn down your goddamn TV, Thelma!”

She rolled her eyes, disgusted.

“Damn old lady next door is deaf as a doornail. Loves to watch
The Rockford Files
.”

Feeling quite foolish, I now heard the strains of
The Rockford Files
theme song filter in from the next apartment. I poked my head out from behind the armchair and checked the front door. No signs of forced entry.

With an idiotic smile on my face, I got up from my cowardly crouch and resumed my seat on the broken spring.

Fiona banged on the wall again, and at last the sound was lowered.

“I can’t believe I’m reduced to living in such a dump,” she said, staring morosely into her scotch, “but my business is in the toilet. Has been for years.”

“But I thought you were a celebrity stylist.”

“I
was
, honey. Past tense. Most of those celebs are dead or retired now. The only client I had left was Bunny. Now she’s gone, and I can’t even afford this hellhole.”

She consoled herself with another big gulp of booze.

“Without Bunny,” she sighed, “it’s all over. Next stop: Working the perfume counter at Neiman’s.”

“But, Fiona, you’ve got great taste. Surely there must be plenty of people out there who’d hire you.”

“Have you forgotten where you’re living, hon? This is L.A. Where it’s practically illegal to be over forty. All the hot stylists are tootsies straight out of diapers.”

I tsk tsked in sympathy.

“What about you, doll? You sure you couldn’t use a stylist?”

Unhappily I informed her that the only thing I could afford on her racks were the hangers.

“Too bad,” she sighed, and polished off her drink in a single gulp.

“Mind getting me a refill, hon?”

Actually, I did mind. The last thing her liver needed was any more alcohol.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like some water instead?”

“Never have I been surer of anything in my life,” she said, holding out her glass. “Scotch is over there. Under the bed.” And then she added with a wink, “I’ve been keeping it handy lately in case I need a little nip in the middle of the night.”

I looked under the bed and blinked at the sight of a ginormous jug of scotch. I’m talking huge, the Alkie Special,
Lost Weekend
size.

“Life sucks,” I heard Fiona muttering, as I struggled to pull it out. “And to think, that stupid fortune-teller at Bunny’s party told me wonderful things were headed my way. What a dufus.”

I remembered Fortuna, the gypsy-clad actress stashed away in Bunny’s den the night of the party.

“Yes, she did seem pretty crummy at reading the future.”

“Read the future? The woman couldn’t read the first line on an eye chart. I’m surprised Bunny didn’t fire her on the spot. Especially after what she said.”

“Really?” My ears perked up. “What did she say?”

“I was standing out in the hallway, waiting for my session, when I heard her call Bunny a sadistic bitch. She said she hoped Bunny’d rot in hell for ruining her life.”

Hello. All along I’d assumed Fortuna was just another hired hand, but clearly she had some sort of history with Bunny.

I flashed back to the night of the Dirty Martini Party. Fortuna had begged me not to tell Bunny how she was screwing up.
If I know that bitch
, she’d said,
she’ll have me fired
. At the time I thought it was just a figure of speech. But now I realized it was because
she really did know her
. Lord knows what simmering resentment she’d been harboring.

It looked like my clueless fortune-teller had just become a juicy murder suspect.

“Jaine, hon, what’s taking you so long?”

Reluctantly I poured Fiona her drink, but you’ll be happy to know I did no further damage to her liver. By the time I shoved the vat of scotch back under the bed and returned to the settee, she was passed out cold.

As I watched her lying there, her spiky hair matted and unwashed, one arm dangling limply to the floor, I could not for the life of me picture her as a killer. She had everything to lose from Bunny’s death. Of course, there could always be a hidden motive, but I sure couldn’t see it.

I let myself out of her apartment and made my way back down the hallway, filled with pity for Fiona, but grateful for the lead she’d given me.

I needed to talk with Fortuna. And pronto.

After a quick but satisfying rendezvous with a Big Mac, I zipped over to Casa Extravaganza, hoping Marvin would be able to put me in touch with Fortuna.

A gardener’s truck was parked in the driveway when I showed up, and as I got out of my Corolla I could hear the drone of lawn mowers out back.

I hurried to the front door and rang the bell, setting off a volley of chimes inside. Tapping my feet impatiently, I waited for somebody to answer it, but no one did. Oh, drat. What if nobody was home? Or what if they couldn’t hear me over the sound of the lawn mowers?

So I rang it again. And again.

I was just about to give up and leave when the door opened a crack and Marvin poked his head out.

“Marvin! Thank goodness you’re home! I’m so sorry to disturb you, but I really need your help.”

“What is it?” he asked, making no move to invite me in.

“Do you know how I can reach the fortune-teller Bunny hired for her dirty martini party?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Fiona told me she was an acquaintance of Bunny’s.”

“Really?” he said, still peering at me through the crack in the door. “Bunny told me she hired her from an agency.”

“Do you remember the name of the agency?”

“Sorry, no.”

And with that, he started to close the door.

“Wait!” I cried. “Maybe she wrote the name down somewhere. Or kept a business card. Would you mind awfully taking a look?”

I did not tell him that if I didn’t find the killer soon, I might wind up committing Lance-o-cide, but I guess he sensed the urgency in my voice.

“Well, okay,” he relented, and finally opened the door to let me in.

No wonder he didn’t want me to see him. He was still in his bathrobe, one of those belted white terry affairs guaranteed to turn a tubby guy like Marvin into the Pillsbury Doughboy. It was all I could do not to give him a poke in the tummy.

The last time I saw him, scarfing down an empanada and poring over his spreadsheets, I’d wondered if his grief over Bunny’s death had been just an act. But if the guy was still in his bathrobe at this time of day, maybe he really was depressed.

“Wait here,” he said. “I’ll take a look in Bunny’s office.”

“One more thing,” I begged, “if you could find a guest list for the party, that would be great, too.”

I put on my most winning smile.

He nodded curtly and rushed off, clutching his robe so it wouldn’t flap open in the breeze.

As I waited in the foyer, I couldn’t help but think how peaceful the place seemed without Bunny. Instead of the elaborate floral arrangement that used to stand on the foyer table, there was a pitcher of fresh-cut daisies. The air no longer reeked of Bunny’s expensive perfume, but the heavenly scent of garlic and onions. Lupe’s latest culinary triumph, no doubt.

It took a while, but Marvin finally came puffing back with some papers in his hand.

“I found the name of the agency. And the guest list, too.”

He handed me my booty and was just about to open the front door to let me out when a woman’s voice called down from the top of the stairs.

“Marvin, darling, what’s keeping you so long?”

Marvin blushed furiously, right up to the roots of his few remaining hairs.

So that soulful mourning shtick of his was just an act, after all. He’d already moved on to another bimbette.

But the woman who came down the stairs just then was no bimbette.
Au contraire.
She was a middle-aged gal in a Lanz granny nightgown and pink fleece scuffs.

She was, much to my surprise, Ellen Cooper.

Wait a minute! What happened to their bitter breakup? Hadn’t I just that very morning seen Marvin decapitated in her wedding album? What the heck was she doing calling him “darling” in her Lanz nightie?

“I guess we’ve got some explaining to do,” Marvin said with a sheepish smile.

I was sitting in the living room across from the ex-Mr. and Mrs. Cooper, still staring in disbelief as they sat thigh to thigh on Bunny’s designer sectional.

“How long have you two been an item?” I managed to ask.

“Pretty much since I got back from my honeymoon with Bunny,” Marvin confessed.

“You had, what, a whole two weeks of wedded bliss?”

“Not even that long. Three days into the honeymoon, Bunny was showing her true colors. Screaming at our hotel maid, making a scene if she didn’t like our table at dinner. I soon realized what a fool I’d been to leave Ellen.”

He looked over at his ex-wife with such love in his eyes, I expected to hear violins playing in the background.