Death of a Trophy Wife (9 page)

F
irst on my list of suspects was Sarah, the seething stepdaughter. Having watched Bunny slither her way into Marvin’s life and destroy her family, had Sarah decided to get rid of her with a deadly martini? And yet, why make such a scene at the party and draw attention to herself if she’d just dropped a dose of cyanide in Bunny’s drink? Maybe she was so full of rage, she just couldn’t stop herself.

I tracked down her phone number at the UCLA chemistry department and left a message on her voice mail, telling her I needed to see her about an urgent matter.

She returned my call the next morning and said she could squeeze me in between chem labs early that afternoon.

And Sarah wasn’t the only one who called. I’m happy to report I also heard from the gang at Toiletmasters, who gave me a much-appreciated assignment. I got started on it right away and spent the next few hours churning out a stirring opus called
You and Your Septic Tank
. Then, after a nutritious lunch of Cheerios and halibut guts (Cheerios for me, halibut guts for Prozac), I got ready to head over to UCLA.

I was just slapping on some lipstick when Lance shuffled over to my apartment in his bathrobe, blond stubble on his unshaven face, his hair a rat’s nest of tangled curls. Not a good sign. This was a guy who usually mousses to answer the phone.

“My gosh, Lance. What’s wrong?”

“Horrible news,” he sighed, sinking down onto my sofa.

“Not the cops again?”

“No. Neiman’s. They found out about my little visit to police headquarters and they’ve put me on a temporary leave of absence.”

He looked up at me, misery oozing from every pore.

“Got any of that peanut butter?”

“Of course! You want some gherkins with that? They’re really quite yummy together.”

“I’m depressed, Jaine. Not pregnant. Just the peanut butter.”

I went to the kitchen to get him the peanut butter, and when I got back I found Prozac curled in his lap, nuzzling her head in the crook of his arm.

“Oh, Pro, sweetie,” Lance crooned. “You’re such a comfort to your old Uncle Lance.”

Why the heck couldn’t she do this loving angel routine with me? When I’ve got a problem, she’s about as comforting as an ingrown toenail.

“Here you go,” I said, handing him the peanut butter.

I watched as he took a listless spoonful.

“Please don’t worry, Lance. Everything’s going to be fine. I’ve got my investigation under way. In fact, I’m about to go question Sarah Cooper.”

“You are?” Suddenly he perked up. “Hey, I’ve got a great idea! Why don’t I go with you?”

“Gee, I dunno—”

“We’ll be partners. Like Spade and Archer! Nick and Nora! Charlie Chan and his Number One Son!”

“But you’ve got to know how to question people.”

“Sweetie, I’m a people person. I deal with people all day long. Besides,” he said, flashing me a pitiful puppy dog look, “I’m going out of my mind with boredom.”

“Okay,” I relented. “Why not?”

“Great!” He jumped up. “I’ll go get dressed. What are you wearing?”

“This.”

He eyed my elastic-waist jeans and L.L. Bean blazer ensemble with undisguised disdain.

“You’re wearing
that
to an investigation? Nora Charles wouldn’t be caught dead in that.”

“What happened to never nagging me about my clothes again?”

“Oh, please, sweetheart, we both knew that was never going to happen. You really intend to wear that ghastly outfit?”

“Yes, I intend to wear this perfectly serviceable outfit. I’m the boss of this team and I’ll wear what I want. And if you expect to tag along as my humble assistant, you’d better keep your lips zipped. Got it?”

“Okay, okay. You needn’t be so snarky to your dear friend who might soon be going to jail.”

He sure knew how to play the prison card, didn’t he?

“Just go get ready,” I said. “We don’t want to be late.”

Fifteen minutes later, he showed up at my apartment impeccably groomed and moussed to perfection, and the detective team of Austen & Venable started out on their very first case.

Stanley had an easier time finding Dr. Livingstone than most people have finding a parking spot at UCLA.

A helpful student at the information kiosk directed us to a lot somewhere between Sunset Boulevard and Outer Mongolia. And after forking over a hefty fee that in some schools would qualify as tuition, we found a spot deep in the bowels of the earth. From there we made the endless trek across campus to Sarah’s lab and showed up just as Sarah’s students were filing out.

As I gazed around the fluorescent-lit room, taking in the beakers and burners and cornucopia of chemicals, I realized how easy it would have been for Sarah to get her hands on a batch of deadly cyanide. Heck, I bet she could whip some up on her lunch hour.

She stood at the front of the room in a lab coat, talking with a lanky, dark-skinned guy in his late twenties. Seeing us standing in the doorway, she motioned us inside.

“Hi, guys!”

And for the first time since I’d met her, I saw a smile on her face. A big, bright, perky one. What a far cry from the angry woman who’d reamed into Bunny the night of the murder.

“This is Zubin, my teaching assistant,” she said.

The guy in the lab coat nodded hello.

“Just give me a few minutes with these people, Zubin, and then we can set up for the next lab.”

How comfortable and self-assured she seemed in this academic setting, away from the glitz and glitter of the party circuit.

“So what was this urgent matter you wanted to talk to me about?” she asked when Zubin had gone.

“Bunny’s murder,” I said.

“Yes, ma’am.” Lance stepped forward, suddenly channeling Detective Perlmutter. “We have some questions we’d like to ask you.”

He clamped his arms across his chest, much like Perlmutter had done before carting him off to police headquarters.

But if he expected to intimidate Sarah, he was sadly mistaken. She looked up from the test tubes she’d been lining up on a tray.

“What do you mean, you have questions? Who died and made you two the police?”

It looked like Angry Sarah was alive and well, after all.

“Actually, Sarah,” I said, stepping in. “I do some private investigating on a part-time basis.”

“You? The woman who can’t even wash her hands without demolishing a bathroom?”

Okay, so she didn’t say that part about me demolishing a bathroom, but I could read the subtitles.

“And I’m her invaluable right hand man,” Lance preened.

Once more, she gawked in disbelief.

“But you’re the one they brought in for questioning.”

“That’s why we’re here,” I piped up, subtly shoving Lance aside. “We’re trying to clear Lance’s name. We’re wondering if you saw anyone loitering near Bunny’s drink the night of the party.”

“The only person I saw loitering near her drink was him,” she said, pointing to Lance. “Like I told the cops, he was out on the patio, all alone, while everyone else was gathered in the hallway.”

Lance’s eyes narrowed into angry slits.

“So
you’re
the one who ratted on me to the cops!”

“Yes, they asked me if I saw anyone out on the patio alone with Bunny’s drink, and I did. I saw you.”

“Well, how do we know
you
didn’t slip outside after I came in?” he huffed.

“Because I didn’t, that’s why.”

“Hearsay!” he cried, now channeling Perry Mason. “It’ll never hold up in court.”

“What are you talking about? That’s not hearsay.”

“She’s right, Lance,” I said. “It isn’t hearsay. So let’s just calm down and not make any rash accusations, shall we?”

But Lance was on a roll and was not about to stop.

“I submit that you saw me leave, and when the coast was clear, you crept outside and slipped the poison in Bunny’s drink.”

“I did not creep outside,” Sarah said with clenched jaw. “I followed everybody else to see what the commotion in the bathroom was all about.”

“I further submit that you’ve hated Bunny since the day she married your father, and that you took advantage of Jaine’s unfortunate plumbing mishap to get rid of Bunny once and for all!”

“Yeah, well, I submit that you’re a stark raving loony, and if you don’t get out of here this instant I’m calling security.”

Sarah slammed down her test tubes so hard, it’s a miracle they didn’t break.

“I’m so sorry, Sarah,” I said, shoving Lance aside, this time not so gently. “We didn’t mean to upset you. Lance just got a little carried away. He’s been under a lot of stress.”

“Yeah, well,” she sniffed, “I don’t like being accused of murder.”

“Nobody’s accusing you of murder, Sarah.”

“Yes, I am!” Lance cried, springing back into action. “I’m accusing her of the cold-blooded murder of Bunny Cooper. And I rest my case!”

“That’s it,” Sarah snapped. “I’m calling security.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Lance sneered.

His wish was granted.

It’s amazing how fast those security goons showed up.

The next thing we knew we were being forcibly escorted to our parking lot (at least this time we got to ride in a golf cart), with a warning to never darken the UCLA campus again.

Lance was puffed up with pride as we got in my Corolla.

“I sure put the fear of God in her, didn’t I?” he said, fluffing his hair in the passenger visor.

Grinding my teeth to a fine pulp, I shoved the key in the ignition.

“So? Whaddaya say, Jaine? It went pretty well, huh?”

“I’d say there was room for improvement, Lance.”

“I know. You were awfully quiet.”

“Not
me
, Lance.
You!
What on earth got into you? We’ll be lucky if she doesn’t sue us.”

I gunned the accelerator and took off in an angry burst of speed.

“From now on,” I informed him, “I work alone.”

“But what am I going to do all day?” He pouted.

“You’ll think of something.”

Oh, did he ever.

“I
still don’t see why we can’t work together,” Lance said when I dropped him off at our duplex.

“Because if we do, I will probably wind up killing you and that would be most inconvenient for both of us.”

Somehow I managed to convince him that our parting of the ways was for the best and set out to resume my investigation.

Next stop was Marvin Cooper. True, he’d seemed besotted with Bunny, but at this stage of the game, I couldn’t rule anybody out. For all I knew, he and Bunny fought like cats and dogs when they were alone on their Comfort Cloud. When I called Mattress King to set up an appointment, his receptionist told me he was home, still in mourning.

So I tooled over to Casa Extravaganza to pay a visit to the grieving widower.

Lupe answered the door.

Like Sarah, she was a lot chirpier than the last time I’d seen her.

“Ms. Jaine!” she beamed, with no trace of her usual deer-in-the-headlights look. “I’m so glad you came. Mr. Marvin had visitors all morning, but he’s alone now. It’s no good for him to be alone. Not at a time like this. Alone is no good.”

I’d never heard so many words come out of her mouth at once. Compared to her usual “Yes, Ms. Bunny” and “No, Ms. Bunny,” that was practically a Shakespearean soliloquy.

“Come in,” she said, ushering me inside. “Mr. Marvin’s outside on the patio. I just baked him some empanadas. Fresh from the oven.”

She picked up a platter from a table in the foyer. On it, as advertised, was a batch of golden brown empanadas, gooey cheese bursting from the crimped pastry seams.

“They look delicious,” I said, barely restraining myself from grabbing one.

“They are,” she said with a refreshing lack of modesty. “You’ll eat some with Mr. Marvin and keep him company.”

No problemo there.

“Mr. Marvin loves my empanadas,” she said, as we headed out to the patio. “But Ms. Bunny, she never let him eat them. I think they will cheer him up. Poor Mr. Marvin is so unhappy.

“I’m making him carne asada tonight,” she added with a conspiratorial wink. “He loves my carne asada.”

What a difference a death made. Without Bunny around to browbeat her, Lupe had morphed from a terrified mouse into a self-assured little dynamo. And suddenly I wondered if Lupe could be the killer after all. Bunny had threatened to have her deported. Had Lupe taken Bunny seriously? Seriously enough to shut her up forever with a cyanide martini?

Lupe was right about Marvin. He did look pretty miserable, slumped at one of the patio tables in Bermuda shorts and a rumpled T-shirt, his chubby cheeks sallow, his few remaining hairs uncombed.

“Mr. Marvin, I brought you empanadas!”

“Thanks, Lupe,” he said as she set them down on the table. “That’s very thoughtful.”

“And look who’s here to see you. Ms. Jaine!”

“Jaine.” He managed a wan smile. “How nice of you to come and keep me company.”

He thought I’d stopped by to pay my respects, and I didn’t correct him.

“Eat the empanadas while they’re nice and hot,” Lupe instructed, before trotting back to the house.

“Poor Lupe’s been worried about me,” Marvin said, as I took a seat across from him. “For the first time in my life, I seem to have lost my appetite. But please, Jaine. Help yourself.”

He gestured to the platter.

“Oh, I shouldn’t.” I felt a tad awkward about stuffing my face in his time of grief.

“Go ahead. They’re really delicious.”

“Well, maybe just one.”

I swooped down on that thing like Prozac on a minced mackerel.

“Have another,” Marvin offered, after I’d wolfed it down.

“I couldn’t possibly.”

Oh, yes I could. And I did. When I at last finished chomping, I remembered my manners.

“I’m so sorry about Bunny,” I said, wiping flaky pastry crumbs from my lap. If I’d been alone, of course, I’d have eaten them.

“Thank you.” His eyes misted over. “I was just looking at pictures from our honeymoon.”

Indeed, there was an ornately tooled leather photo album on the table, with a place for a photo in the center. Marvin gazed down at the cover picture: a snapshot of him and Bunny holding hands in some tropical paradise, wearing leis and grinning into the camera.

“Bunny and I sure had some good times together,” he sighed. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

“I wonder who possibly could have done it,” I said, casually launching the investigative portion of my visit.

“The police think it’s your friend Lance.”

“I can assure you, Mr. Cooper, Lance Venable did not kill your wife.”

“He seems like a nice enough guy,” Marvin conceded.

“I don’t suppose you saw anyone go out to the patio after Bunny left her drink there?”

“No, I’m afraid that’s when everyone was standing outside the guest bathroom, watching you.”

I cringed at the memory of that ghastly moment.

“I think whoever did it must’ve slipped away from the crowd,” I said, steering the conversation back where it belonged. “Do you remember anyone missing from the group?”

“No, all I remember is you, trying to staunch the flow of water with one of Bunny’s guest towels.”

“I’m so sorry about that, Mr. Cooper. As I told Bunny, I’d be happy to repay you for the damages. Naturally, it would have to be in installments.”

Which I’d be paying off some time into the next millennium.

“Don’t worry about it. Bunny would have redecorated it within the year anyway. She got such a kick out of doing things like that.”

Once again his eyes misted over.

“I’m feeling a bit tired now, Jaine. I think I’ll go stretch out on the chaise for a while.”

“Of course. I understand.”

It looked like my questions would have to wait.

“I almost forgot,” he said, as I started to get up. “You never did get to pitch me your mattress slogans.”

I stopped in my tracks. Was he actually still interested in hiring me?

“Why don’t you drop off your ideas, and I’ll look them over when I’m feeling better.”

“Absolutely, Mr. Cooper,” I said, thrilled to be getting this second chance. Not to mention a third empanada. Which he insisted I take.

“One for the road,” he said.

What a sweet guy. And his grief over Bunny’s death seemed pretty genuine. By now, I was having a tough time picturing him as a killer.

Then, just as I was mentally erasing him from my suspect list, I glanced down and saw a piece of paper poking out from under the photo album. A paper with some sort of grid on it.

As I headed for the house, I realized what it was: a business spreadsheet.

Very interesting. Marvin couldn’t have been all that grief-stricken if he was going over his mattress sales. Back inside, I waited a minute or two, then peeked out to the patio.

And guess what? Marvin was not stretched out on a chaise. Au contraire, folks. He was still at the patio table, chomping down on an empanada, making notes on the spreadsheet.

And just like that, he was back on my suspect list.

Was it possible Marvin had known about Bunny’s affair with Owen? After all, Bunny wasn’t exactly a rocket scientist. Maybe she’d left clues all over the place. Had Marvin discovered her cheating ways and poisoned her drink in a moment of crazed jealousy?

More than anyone, Marvin knew about that weed killer out on the patio. He probably walked past it every day. He said he’d seen me starring in The Great Guest Bathroom Fiasco. But maybe he hadn’t seen me at all. Maybe he’d just heard everybody talking about it. Maybe he’d been out on the patio the entire time.

I was trotting along the corridors of Casa Extravaganza, munching my empanada and trying to picture Marvin in handcuffs, when I passed the living room and saw Lupe gadding about with a feather duster. She hummed a jolly tune as she flicked the duster hither and yon. And once again, I was struck by what a happy camper she was.

Time for a little Q & A.

“Hey, Lupe,” I said, strolling into the room. “Your empanadas are fantastic.”

“
Gracias,
Ms. Jaine. I used Manchego cheese. Ms. Bunny never let me use Manchego. ‘Too fattening,’ she said. Made me use cheese from skim milk.”

She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“I bet she was pretty hard to work for, huh?”

“Ms. Bunny, she was a—” And then came a string of colorful Spanish words which I’m guessing did not mean “really swell gal.”

“You must’ve been scared when she died.”

A wary look crept into her eyes.

“
No comprende.
What do you mean?”

“After all, you were alone out on the patio with her drink. What if the police thought you poisoned it?”

Suddenly the frightened rabbit was back.

“The police don’t suspect me!” she cried. “They told me so! One of Ms. Bunny’s friends was watching me through the French doors the whole time I was outside and told the police I did nothing wrong.”

So one of the Barbies had given her an alibi. Frankly, I was relieved. I didn’t really want her to be the killer.

“I’m sorry, Lupe. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sure you didn’t do anything wrong. Actually, the police think Lance is the one who might have done it.”

“It’s so hard to believe,” she said, shaking her head. “Mr. Lance is such a nice man.”

“Yes, he’s a very nice man. And I know he didn’t kill Ms. Bunny. So I’m trying to find out who did. Did you see anyone, anyone at all, go out to the patio when Bunny’s drink was out there?”

“No, Ms. Jaine. I was watching you in the bathroom.”

Would I never live that down? Any minute now, I expected to see it on You Tube.

“Did you notice any of the guests missing from the crowd?”

And that’s when I hit pay dirt.

“Yes,” she nodded. “Mr. Lenny.”

“Lenny? How can you be so sure?”

“Mr. Lenny doesn’t like martinis. So he asked me to bring him a Coca-Cola from the kitchen. When I came back out to bring it to him, everyone was standing in the hallway outside the guest bathroom. But not Mr. Lenny. I couldn’t see him anywhere.”

So Lenny had been missing in action. Very interesting.

Clearly there’d been no love lost between him and Bunny.

I made a mental note to pay a little visit to the sad-eyed salesman first thing tomorrow.

Before tackling Lenny, however, I had the small matter of earning a living to attend to. So I hustled home to put the finishing touches on
You and Your Septic Tank
.

Heading up the path to my apartment, I spotted a box of chocolates on my doorstep.

Normally my heart would do handsprings at the sight of a box of chocolates. But not this time. That’s because I had a pretty good idea who they were from.

The accompanying note confirmed my suspicions:

TO MY BELOVED JAINE

These chocolates I do give to you

I hope you don’t mind,

I ate a few

Your devoted, Vladimir

You’re not going to believe this, but when I opened the box, there was exactly one chocolate left. Slightly stale.

Clearly my Uzbek Romeo was still hot on my trail.

Shoving all thoughts of Vladimir to the dusty corner of my brain reserved for toothaches and IRS audits, I spent the next couple of hours waxing euphoric about septic tanks.

When at last I finished, I faxed my opus to the gang at Toiletmasters. After which I grabbed my sunglasses and treated myself to a luxurious soak in the tub, up to my neck in strawberry-scented bubbles. Instead of using the time to mull over the murder like a good little detective, however, I whiled away the minutes trying to decide what color to paint my walls when and if I got the Mattress King account.

“What do you think, Pro?”

I gazed up at Prozac, who was stretched out on the toilet tank.

“How about a pale aqua for the bathroom, a whispery celadon for the bedroom, lemon yellow for the kitchen, and adobe beige for the living room and hallway? Or I could do adobe in the bedroom and celadon in the living room, with maybe an off-white kitchen with cherry red trim. Or I could go with off-white in the living room, lemon in the living room, and aqua in the bedroom.”

Prozac opened one eye and glared at me balefully.

Or you could quit yapping and let me get some sleep.

What can I say? Some cats just aren’t into decorating.

When I finally tired of flipping mental paint chips, I hauled myself from the tub and changed into my jammies. Then I poured myself a lovely glass of chardonnay and phoned for a pizza. Sausage and pepperoni.

Prozac swished her tail with great urgency as I placed the order.

Don’t forget the anchovies!

In no time the pizza delivery guy was at my door.

“Here you go, Jaine,” he said, handing me the steaming box.

“Thanks, Kiril.”

Yes, it’s true. I’m on a first name basis with my pizza guy. They send me a Christmas card every year. And Valentine’s Day. Frankly, I’m surprised they haven’t offered me stock options.

After I tipped Kiril, I headed for the bedroom and settled in bed with my gooey pepperoni treasure.

Prozac, who not an hour earlier had inhaled every speck of her minced mackerel dinner, was now practically burrowing a hole through the box with her nose.

I opened it and breathed in the heavenly aroma.

“Pepperoni pizza.” I sighed with pleasure. “Yum!”

“Can I have some, too?”

No, Prozac still hadn’t mastered the art of actual speech.

It was Lance and his X-ray hearing.

“Can I come over, Jaine?” he called out from his apartment. “I’m bored.”

Five minutes later, he was camped out on my bed. And he was not alone. He’d brought his adorable white fluffball, Mamie.

Prozac took one look at her canine neighbor and arched her back.

What the heck is Snow White doing here?

“Now, Prozac,” I chided. “Be nice.”

Not about to happen.

With a parting hiss, she stalked off to the living room, tail swishing every step of the way. Which left Mamie free to gallop across my bedspread and cover me with slobbery kisses.