Death of a Trophy Wife (17 page)

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Gruesome Details

Dearest Jaine—

Thanks to your father, I can never show my face in public again. I may as well hang my picture in the Most Wanted section at the post office and be done with it.

As you can see from the item in the
Tampa Tribune
, Daddy’s chicken exploded and ruined the whole cookathon. The
Tribune
didn’t go into all the gruesome details (thank heavens!), but I don’t see why I should be the only one who has to be haunted by them for the rest of my life. So I’m sharing them with you, sweetheart.

Here’s what happened: Right after breakfast (
Cheerios à la Hank
), Daddy snuck over to Lydia Pinkus’s town house to search for his Secret Spice (which I
still
say is nothing more than paprika). He hid in the bushes until he saw Lydia and her Aunt Ida leave for the cookathon. Then he shimmied up her palm tree and let himself in through the sliding glass balcony door, which Lydia hadn’t bothered to lock. I shudder to think what would have happened if she had locked it. I wouldn’t put it past that crazy father of yours to have busted the glass.

Once he was inside he searched Lydia’s town house high and low for the Secret Spice, which of course he couldn’t find, because, as anyone with a grain of sense could have figured out, it wasn’t there! In fact, right after he left for Lydia’s, I found the dratted bottle where Daddy had dropped it behind the oven.

Anyhow, what with all the time he wasted at Lydia’s, he was almost two hours late for the cookathon. With only twenty minutes left before the final bell, he stuffed his chicken without popping the popcorn first. He just tossed handfuls of unpopped corn into the bird and doused it with that Secret Spice. Then he threw it into the Turbomaster and ramped up the temperature to inferno proportions.

Needless to say, in the intense heat of the Turbomaster, the popcorn started popping like crazy, and the poor bird just couldn’t contain it. The Turbomaster began rattling and making a godawful racket. I told Daddy to shut the darn thing off, but would he listen? Of course not! When does that man ever listen to reason?

The next thing you know the Turbomaster was exploding like a rocket. Glass shattered everywhere. All I can say is it’s a good thing nobody was injured, except for Daddy, who got a tiny cut on his arm.

It serves him right.

Your furious,

Mom

PS. I may never speak to him again!

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: In the Doghouse

I suppose Mom wrote you about my little mishap at the cookathon. I’m afraid she’s in a bit of a tiff.

And apparently she found my Secret Spice behind the oven. She claims I dropped it there, but we both know better, don’t we? That’s obviously where Old Pruneface hid it to sabotage my chances at the cookathon. I tell you, lambchop, the woman is the devil in support hose.

But I’m keeping mum about my sabotage theory. I’m in the doghouse with your mom, and I can’t risk getting her even angrier than she already is.

I’m hoping to get back in her good graces with a dozen roses, and dinner reservations at Le Chateaubriand, Tampa Vistas’ finest steak house.

Keep your fingers crossed, lambchop, that she forgives me.

XOXO,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Daddy’s Peace Offering

If Daddy thinks he can win me over with a couple of roses and a steak dinner, all I can say is…he may be right. After all those popalicious chickens, I could go for a nice juicy steak.

Besides, I can tell he feels terrible about what happened. And he’s agreed to never again go anywhere near the kitchen except for a glass of water.

Well, must run and get ready for our dinner date. I’m going to wear a fabulous new Georgie O. Armany beaded top I got from the shopping channel, only $49.95, plus shipping and handling!

Love and kisses,

Mom

PS. Now that I think about it, maybe it’s a good thing Daddy’s chicken exploded. I mean, thanks to this whole cookathon disaster, I’ll never have to look at that dratted Turbomaster again!

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Good News, Lambchop!

Good news, lambchop! I’m back in your mom’s good graces! She’s upstairs right now getting all gussied up for our dinner at Le Chateaubriand.

She’s a very wise woman, your mom. She said from the get-go the Turbomaster 3000 was nothing but a piece of junk. And I have to confess, she was right. It
was
very shoddily built.

So I’ve ordered the new improved Turbomaster 5000! I paid extra for overnight delivery. It’s coming tomorrow!

Love ’n’ hugs,

Daddy

PS. I’m not allowed in the kitchen anymore, so I’ll set it up in the garage. Mom’ll never even know it’s there.

N
ow that he was no longer the cops’ number one suspect, Lance was in seventh heaven. Brimming over with gratitude and affection for yours truly, he insisted on taking me out to dinner to celebrate his freedom.

“It’s not going to be a health food restaurant, is it?” I asked as we tooled out to Santa Monica in his Mini Cooper.

“No, it’s not a health food place. There’ll be plenty of high-cholesterol goodies to clog your arteries.”

It was one of those rare nights in Los Angeles—balmy and fog free. The perfect night for a drive to the beach. I, however, was not paying much attention to the passing scenery. All I could think about was Daddy and his exploding chicken! Honestly, one of these days I just know he’s going to get his own chapter in
Ripley’s Believe It or Not
.

The restaurant turned out to be a swellegant converted cottage with beamed ceilings and rustic hardwood floors. A stunning would-be actress ushered us to a table out on a patio dotted with twinkly fairy lights and trendy people picking at their food. The only thing more breathtaking than the setting, I was about to discover, were the prices.

I ordered the Caesar salad and pork chop, which—fasten your seat belts—was thirty-two dollars. For one measly pork chop! And that was one of the cheaper items on the menu. I intended to eat every last sliver of the thing. And possibly have the bone bronzed.

“Fabulous news, Jaine,” Lance said, as I slathered a marvelously crusty dinner roll with artisan herb butter. “Neiman’s called and I’m getting my job back.”

“That’s wonderful!” I replied, feeling a lot less guilty about ordering that pork chop.

“Not only that, the cops said I was free to leave town. So Barbados, here I come!”

He was so happy, he barely touched the tiny sliver of arugula on his plate masquerading as an appetizer.

I, on the other hand, dug into my Caesar salad with gusto.

“I can’t get over how terrific everything worked out,” he gushed.

“Mmmf,” I said, reaching for a sesame-studded cracker from the breadbasket.

“Just last week, I was an unemployed murder suspect, and now I’m dating the man of my dreams. Isn’t life fabulous?”

“Yeah. And these crackers aren’t bad, either. You should give them a try.”

“And I owe it all to you! Not meeting Peter, of course. I suppose I should thank the cops for that. But if it weren’t for you, I’d still be their number one suspect. How can I ever thank you, Jaine?”

“You can never go wrong with chocolate.”

“No, seriously.”

“I was being serious.”

“How
else
can I ever thank you?”

“By never cooking me a diet dinner ever again.”

“Oh, all right,” he conceded with a sigh. “No more diets. But I’ve got to come up with a better gift than that.”

“Surprise me. And in the meanwhile, if you’re not going to eat your croutons, fork ’em over.”

I smell pork!

I’d just walked in the door, and Prozac was sniffing at me with all the intensity of a bloodhound on a convict hunt.

Where the heck are my leftovers?

“I’m sorry, Pro, but there aren’t any leftovers.”

Her big green eyes widened with indignation.

Surely you jest!

“There was one measly pork chop. It was barely bigger than an Oreo.”

After several more sniffs failed to uncover any pork, she looked up at me again.

Let me get this straight. You’re saying there are no leftovers?

“I swear, the only thing left over from that meal was my napkin.”

And just like that, she switched into Drama Queen mode, channeling Sarah Bernhardt in one of her hammier roles, tail thumping, green eyes luminous with grief.

If you really loved me, you would’ve saved me something!

Then she leaped up on the sofa and curled into a furry ball of hostility.

“C’mon, Pro,” I said sitting down next to her. “How about a nice long back scratch, with extra scratching behind the ears?”

She swatted me away with her paw.

Not tonight. I’ve got a headache.

Something told me I’d be sleeping solo that night.

I left her to sulk and was heading for the bedroom to get undressed when the phone rang. My caller ID said “Kendall,” and for a frightening instant I thought it was Owen. So I let the machine get it.

I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard Sarah’s voice, and picked up the phone.

“Hey, Sarah. How’s it going?”

“If you mean, how does it feel to be rid of a lying, cheating slimebag of a husband, the answer is: quite liberating. In fact, as we speak I am eating cookies in bed, dropping all the crumbs I darn well please.”

A girl after my own heart.

“Anyhow, I hope I’m not calling too late, but Dad wanted me to invite you and Lance to Bunny’s memorial service.”

“Marvin wants
me
there? I mean, Bunny wasn’t exactly fond of me.”

“But Dad is. He’s very grateful for all you’ve done. And so am I. Do you think you can make it? It’s the day after tomorrow.”

“Of course. Where’s it going to be?”

“The rooftop at Neiman Marcus.”

“You’re having a memorial service at a department store?”

“Bunny always said when she died she wanted her ashes scattered over Neiman Marcus. It was in her will. And Dad is honoring her request.”

Which was pretty darn nice of him, I thought, after the way Bunny had treated him and his family.

“Actually, it should be a lot of fun,” Sarah said. “There’s going to be a full bar, strolling mariachis, and fireworks at the end.”

“Was that in Bunny’s will, too?”

“No. That was my idea. And considering the occasion, it was worth every penny.”

N
o expense had been spared for Bunny’s farewell bash. Neiman’s rooftop had been transformed into a tropical paradise, with potted palm trees, lush gardenias, and flaming tiki torches lighting up the starry night. And, as promised, a trio of mariachis serenaded the guests.

But the most festive sight of all, as far as I was concerned, were a bunch of waiters trotting around with heaping platters of hors d’oeuvres.

Sarah greeted us when Lance and I showed up, a lei around her neck and a wide grin on her face.

Never had I seen her look so happy.

“Hey, you guys!” she beamed. “Great to see you.”

Lance had the good grace to blush. As well he should have, after his abominable behavior that day in Sarah’s lab.

“Please accept my apologies, Sarah,” he said. “I guess I was a tad out of line accusing you of Bunny’s murder.”

“No biggie.” She shrugged magnanimously. “All’s well that ends well, that’s what I always say.”

And for Sarah, Bunny’s death had clearly been the happiest of all possible endings.

“Quite a crowd,” I said, surveying the scene.

Indeed, the joint was jumping. Marvin and Ellen, in matching Hawaiian shirts, were arm in arm, chatting with Lenny, who glowed with pleasure, happy to have his old buddy back. Statuesque Fiona, dressed to the nines in a startling Marlene Dietrich tuxedo outfit, was working the room, passing out her business cards to the Barbies. Everywhere I looked, happy partygoers were chatting and laughing as they slugged down their cocktails and hors d’oeuvres.

Some of the Barbies were actually eating.

“Well, grab yourself a drink at the bar and enjoy!”

As Sarah flitted off to chat with other guests, Lance and I made our way to the bar. Unlike the one at Bunny’s Dirty Martini party, it was stocked to the gills with all kinds of alcohol.

Lance ordered a mai tai, while I opted for a frosty margarita.

“To Bunny,” Lance said, raising his glass in a toast.

“For her sake, I hope they sell Manolo Blahniks in hell.”

“Oh, Jaine,” Lance gushed, gazing up at the stars. “Isn’t life marvelous? To be young and tan and free to go to Barbados whenever you want!”

Still on cloud nine over having received his Get Out of Jail card, he’d been waxing euphoric like this for days.

“We’re going to have so much fun at this party,” he said, hooking his arm in mine. “Just you and me, the two musketeers, best buddies through thick and thin—

“Oh, Marci! Yoo hoo!”

He waved to a Botoxed blonde.

“One of my best customers,” he explained. “I’ll just go say a quick hi, and be back in a flash.”

Yeah, right. That was the last I spoke to my best bud and fellow musketeer all night.

Without wasting another precious second, I tackled a passing waiter and snagged myself a rumaki. (Okay, two rumakis.) I’d just finished scarfing them down and was about to reach for a mini chicken kabob when Fiona came gliding up to me, radiant in her tuxedo outfit. Only a statuesque woman like Fiona could carry off that look so well.

“Jaine, sweetheart!” she cried, giving me an air kiss. “So lovely to see you.”

“You, too. You’re looking wonderful.”

“Quite a difference from the last time we met,” she winked.

I’ll say. Gone were her bloodshot eyes, her sleep-matted hair. Today she was bright-eyed and b-tailed, her make-up impeccable, her spiky hair moussed to perfection.

“I’m simply mortified over the way I behaved when you showed up at my apartment that day. As you may have noticed, I was a bit under the influence.”

A bit? Her breath had been strong enough to start a bonfire.

“When Bunny died, I guess I went a little nuts. So I hit the bottle. But I finally came to my senses. After all, life goes on and all that. I’m working the perfume counter at Saks now.

“It’s not so bad.” She shrugged. “I get an employee discount and all the shopping bags I can carry. And with any luck, I can build up my business again. Which reminds me, sweetie,” she said, handing me a bunch of her business cards, “if you know anyone who needs a stylist, spread the word!”

Then, plastering an upbeat smile on her face, she headed off to work the room.

Which left me free to track down that waiter with the mini chicken kabobs. I spotted him in the crowd and hurried to his side, and as I did I bumped into Lenny.

“Hey, Jaine!” He grinned.

Phooey! He’d just nabbed the last kabob.

I guess he could see the look of disappointment in my eyes. Or maybe I was drooling. It’s hard to remember. Whatever the reason, he took pity on me.

“You take it,” he said, handing me the kabob.

“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” I said, whipping it from his hand before he could change his mind.

“What a turnout, huh?” he said, looking around.

“Mmmph,” I nodded, my mouth full.

“Give the people what they want, and they’ll come out in droves.”

Oh, man. Wasn’t anybody going to even pretend to be in mourning mode?

“I heard you were the one who fingered Owen. Nice job. Funny, though. I would’ve never figured him for the killer. Guess that’s why I’m a mattress salesman and not a cop. And speaking of mattresses, remember—the next time you’re in the market for a Comfort Cloud, you know who to call!”

Leaving me with a jaunty wave, he started for the bar.

With Lenny gone, I’d run out of people to talk to. Feeling a tad awkward standing there alone, I looked around for Lance. But he was still yakking with Ms. Botox.

I spent the next half hour doing a very poor imitation of someone having fun. I wandered around sniffing the gardenias and grabbing the occasional hors d’oeuvre or three, the waitstaff’s leading contender for Guest Most Likely to Get Heartburn. I drifted over to the isolated table where Bunny’s urn was on display, thinking how she would have hated not being the center of attention. Then, curious, I peeked behind the row of potted palms lined up in the center of the roof and saw they were screening off the party area from the store’s unsightly air-conditioning units. I considered hiding out there for a while, but I didn’t want to give up the hors d’oeuvres.

At one point, the mariachis stopped to serenade me, and I had to stand there, smiling stiffly through the endless lyrics of “Besame Mucho.”

Finally, when I had circumnavigated the party at least five times, Marvin and Ellen rescued me from my wallflower status.

“Jaine!” they cried, still firmly welded together arm in arm, radiating happy vibes.

“We’re so glad you could make it!” Ellen’s apple cheeks glowed in the light from the tiki torches. “I can’t tell you how much we appreciate all you did to bring Owen to justice.”

“We’re both very grateful,” Marvin chimed in.

“Grateful enough to give me a job?”

Of course I didn’t say that, but you can bet your bottom tiki torch I was thinking it. I’d dropped off my mattress slogans at the showroom days ago but had not heard a peep from Marvin.

My employment was the last thing on the lovebirds’ minds, however, as they launched into a detailed description of a cruise they were about to take to the Fiji Islands.

When they finally wound down and abandoned me to circulate, I gave up all pretense of being a party person. I did the unthinkable and sat down alone at a table for six near the potted palms. Someone had left what looked like a martini and a chicken kabob behind.

I picked up the chicken and examined it for bite marks. There didn’t seem to be any so I started chomping it down.

Oh, don’t go all Emily Post on me. I had to do something to while away the time.

Once more I surveyed the room, taking in the happy partygoers, still laughing and chatting and slugging down the booze.

Yes, everyone was in excellent spirits. Except me. And it wasn’t just because I was sitting alone at a table for six.

Actually, I was still worried about the murder. I know I should have been happy the cops had set their sights on Owen. But something was bothering me, a nagging question lingering in the back of my mind like a pesky piece of corn stuck between my teeth. If Owen had really killed Bunny, why would he have left such an incriminating e-mail on his computer? Wouldn’t he have at least deleted it, or sent it to his recycle bin? Why leave it there for a snoop such as myself to discover with just a click of the mouse? It didn’t make sense.

Was it possible Owen
wasn’t
the killer? It may have been my imagination, but I could have sworn I’d seen that boxy black car following me the past few days. Surely it couldn’t have been Owen. He drove a BMW. Besides, if anything happened to me, he’d be the first person the cops would suspect.

“Gather round, everybody!” Marvin called out from a microphone near Bunny’s urn. “It’s time for the scattering of the ashes.”

Eager for this dramatic climax of the evening to begin, the guests quickly scooted over to where Marvin was standing.

Absentmindedly I reached for my glass and took a final slug of my margarita before joining them.

Wait a minute! What was an olive doing in my mouth? This wasn’t my margarita. I looked down and realized I was holding my predecessor’s abandoned martini. I’d picked up the wrong drink.

And just like that, it came to me—a whole new way of looking at the case.

What if Bunny drank the wrong drink the night of the murder?
There were two glasses out on the patio that night. Lance’s and Bunny’s. What if someone poisoned Lance’s drink, and Bunny drank it by mistake?

Over at the other end of the roof, Marvin was inventing nice things to say about Bunny as he tossed her ashes to the wind. But his words were a distant buzz as I thought back to the night of the murder.

A scenario began to take shape in my mind. Lupe was a clumsy creature, always dropping things when she was nervous. What if, in her haste to bring Bunny her dirty martini, she’d spilled it? And then, terrified of Bunny’s angry reaction, she’d hastily poured Lance’s drink into the Marilyn Monroe glass.

Omigosh. That would mean that all along,
Lance
was the intended victim—not Bunny!

But who on earth would want Lance dead?

The answer came to me in a flash:
Fiona!

Bunny was Fiona’s last remaining client, the one person in the world keeping her afloat financially. But then Bunny met Lance and
he
became her fashion advisor. Hadn’t Bunny raved about what a fashion genius he was? Hadn’t they gone on all those shopping excursions together?

I remembered how dismissive Bunny had been that first day at the pool when Fiona stopped off with some clothes for her to try on. She’d waved them aside and gone right back to chatting with Lance. Lance was rapidly becoming her “pet du jour,” cutting off Fiona’s financial lifeline. So Fiona had to get rid of him. She dosed his dirty martini with weed killer, only to have Bunny drink it by mistake!

I thought back to what Fiona had said the night of the murder, as Bunny lay writhing on the carpet:

This can’t be happening. Not to Bunny!

That’s because it was
supposed
to have been happening to
Lance
.

“Oh, wow!” I gasped, as a few of Bunny’s ashes floated my way. “It was Fiona all along!”

“So you figured it out, huh?”

I whirled around as Fiona stepped out from behind the potted palms. In her hand she held the same stun gun she’d been toting that day in her apartment.

I got up to make a break for it, but I wasn’t fast enough. I cringed as a painful jolt of electricity shot up my arm.

Dammit. I’d been zapped.

Suddenly I felt my muscles turn to Jell-O and my knees buckle beneath me.

Before I hit the ground, Fiona grabbed me by my underarms and began dragging me past the screen of palm trees to the far side of the roof.

I screamed for help, but no one could hear me over those damn mariachis. Not to mention the fireworks, which had just begun to explode in the sky.

“Why the hell can’t anything ever go my way?” Fiona muttered as she lugged me past the massive air-conditioning unit. “First that idiot Lupe gives Bunny the wrong drink. Then she doesn’t die when I bash her head in with a tire iron. And now you have to go butting in.”

It wasn’t easy dragging my inert body, and she struggled with the load. For once I was glad to be toting around a few extra pounds.

“I’ve had nothing but bad luck ever since your buddy Lance waltzed into Bunny’s life,” she continued ranting. “The minute he showed up, I was toast. Everything he liked was gold; everything I chose was crap. That two-bit shoe salesman was stealing my only source of income.”

“So you decided to get rid of him with a dose of weed killer.”

“It all would have worked out so beautifully, but then Lupe had to go and give Bunny Lance’s drink. Can you believe my rotten luck?”

Somehow I was unable to dredge up any sympathy for her plight.

“I figured out what had happened right away,” she boasted, proud of her mental prowess. “I convinced Lupe that if she told the cops what really happened, they’d deport her. That scared the stuffing out of her. So she kept her mouth shut. But I couldn’t let her live. She knew too much. Just like you know too much.”

Ouch. I didn’t like the sound of that.

By now some sensation was returning to my limbs. Not enough to fight her off, but at least I could feel something. I had to keep her talking till I got my strength back.

“So you lured Lupe to the mall,” I prompted. “And—just in case anyone saw the two of you together—you came to meet her disguised as a man.”

With Fiona’s short, spiky hair and lanky, androgynous build, I could easily see why the busboy mistook her for a guy.

“Pretty clever, if I do say so myself,” she preened. “I called her, pretending to be an A-list bimbo offering her a job. Needless to say, her future employer never showed up for their appointment. But I did, and after faking surprise at running into her, I very kindly offered her a ride home. I explained my jeans and baseball cap by telling her I’d just come from a softball game. The sap bought it. Then, once she got in my car, I shot her with my stun gun and drove her to an alley in Skid Row.”