Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla (11 page)

Did you ever hear of anything so unjust? My civil rights have been sorely violated, and I intend to sue! Lydia Pinkus will live to rue the day she ever crossed swords with Hank Austen.

I’m calling an attorney right now!

Your gravely wronged,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Crisis Averted

Daddy’s been on the phone all afternoon trying to get a lawyer to sue the Tampa Vistas library. He even called the immigration lawyer who advertises in Spanish on the back of the bus.

Needless to say, nobody wanted to take the case, not over an 18-cent fine. Like they all told him, the Tampa Vistas library is privately owned. They can rip up anybody’s card whenever they want.

They all advised him to return the book and pay the silly fine.

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Which is what he’s going to have to do.

To think that he was going to sue Lydia Pinkus, an absolutely lovely woman and just about the smartest gal in the Tampa Vistas Book Club.

Well, at least that crisis is averted.

Much love from your frazzled, Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Change of Plan

Hi, honey—

Minor setback in my lawsuit. None of the attorneys I called met my specifications, so I’ve decided to take the case myself. I’ve always wanted to be an attorney, and now’s my chance.

I can’t wait to sock it to Lydia Pinkus—right in her Dewey Decimal System.

Lots of love from,

Your daddy,

Hank Austen, Esq.

Chapter 11

Remind me never to read my e-mail on an empty stomach. I tootled over to my computer first thing the next morning and instantly regretted it when I saw the latest missives from my parents.

I shuddered at the thought of the Tequila Sunrise comforter set winging its way to me. My mom’s heart is in the right place, and I’m touched that she cares so much about me. But we don’t exactly have the same taste in, well, anything. Mom’s idea of “a tad loud” is my idea of a raging inferno. I was certain the comforter’s “orangey-magenta”

color would be the soothing hue of neon traffic cones.

But the comforter set was a mere blip on my anxiety radar screen. It was Daddy who really had me worried. The thought of him running amok as an attorney—it was only a matter of time before some judge locked him up for contempt of court—was enough to ruin my appetite.

It stayed ruined for all of maybe thirteen seconds and then, as it so often does, came roaring back to life. I’m funny that way.

Minutes later, I was in the kitchen, slathering 106

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butter and strawberry jam on a freshly toasted cinnamon raisin bagel.

Prozac was at my feet inhaling her morning Mackerel Guts. I was still angry at her for masterminding Mamie’s romp in the garbage. Now don’t go shaking your head like that. She planned it, all right. I know she’s only a cat, but you have no idea what she’s capable of. Honestly, that cat could give lessons to Machiavelli.

I’d been giving her the cold shoulder ever since I got up, but it obviously hadn’t affected her appetite. I guess she gets that from me.

Armed with my bagel and a steaming cup of coffee, I settled down at my dining room table and opened the morning paper.

Holy Toledo. Just when I thought I’d seen the last of Patti, there she was—plastered all over the front page of the
Los Angeles Times
. Above her Hermosa High yearbook photo, a headline screamed:
Socialite Bride Plunges to Her Death;
Groom’s Ex-Wife Brought in for Questioning.

I read the story eagerly.

As I’d suspected, Patti’s death was no accident. According to the police, it was murder.

Someone had tampered with the balcony, loosening the bolts on the railing.

I gulped in dismay when I read that the cops had brought in Normalynne Butler for questioning. I could understand why they suspected her. Hadn’t she urged Patti in front of scores of witnesses to break her neck?

But as you and I both know, Normalynne wasn’t the only one who had it in for Patti. There was Eleanor Potter, Patti’s future mother-in-law. And Cheryl Hogan, her ex–best friend. Both of them KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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hated Patti’s guts. And I was certain they were just the tip of the anti-Patti iceberg.

Besides, if Normalynne had been planning to kill Patti, why would she create a scene at the wedding, putting herself in the spotlight?

I thought back to the Normalynne I’d known in high school—a gawky kid, loping down the hall to her classes, smiling shyly when we passed each other. She never stood out—not until one fateful day in gym class. I remember that day—

along with the day they started selling Dove Bars in the cafeteria—as one of the highlights of my high school years.

I’d always hated gym. I hated our thigh-baring uniforms and our frizz-inducing locker room. I especially hated our gym teacher, Mrs. Krautter, who, I was certain, had been a gestapo commando in a former life. Or perhaps even in this one.

Her routine never varied. After leading us in a sadistic session of calisthenics, she’d divide us into teams to play the sport du jour. She’d pick two team “captains” who’d then get to choose their teams. One by one, names would be called, the good athletes getting chosen up front, the klutzy ones at the end.

But no matter who the captains were, one person always got picked first. Patti. Not because she was such a good athlete. She wasn’t.

But the toadies wanted to curry favor with her.

And the rest of us were simply afraid to cross her.

Just as Patti was always called first, there was one poor soul who was always chosen last: Linda Ruckle. Stocky and bow-legged, her round moon 108

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face dotted with acne, poor Linda was the object of Patti’s merciless scorn.

Whenever she wound up on Patti’s team, Patti would groan,
Oh, no! Not Ruckle!
, setting off a round a giggles from the Terrible Trinity. Linda would stare down at the floor, her face crimson with shame. And Mrs. Krautter never said a word.

I don’t know who I hated more at those moments: Patti or the teacher who should’ve known better.

Then one day, Mrs. Krautter picked Normalynne as one of the team captains. It was the first time I could remember her ever being chosen.

Normalynne loped out into the center of the gym. She and the other captain flipped a coin, and Normalynne won. She got to choose first.

She pushed her glasses up on the bridge of her nose and peered around at the assembled cluster of girls.

“For my first player, I’d like to choose—”

With a toss of her ponytail, Patti got up from where she was sitting, assuming she would be top pick as usual.

But that day, Normalynne was about to make history.

“I’d like to choose Linda Ruckle,” she finished in a loud clear voice.

Patti froze in her tracks.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

She stared at Normalynne through slitted eyes, the same look that had terrified all of us at one time or another.

A tense silence filled the air. Then Normalynne broke it.

“I choose Linda,” she repeated, defiantly.

She knew there’d be hell to pay, that somehow Patti would get even—and damned if all KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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these years later, she hadn’t—but she went ahead and chose Linda anyway.

Now I’ve read about lots of courageous women in history. Joan of Arc, Mother Teresa, Donald Trump’s ex-wives, to name just a few.

But in my book, they all pale in comparison to Normalynne, the girl who dared defy Patti Marshall.

Even more than her bravery, though, I was touched by her kindness. I’ll never forget Linda’s look of gratitude as she headed to the center of the room to stand with Normalynne.

Now, remembering Normalynne’s kindness, I thought about calling her and offering to do some investigating on her behalf. Solving murders happens to be a hobby of mine—a dangerous hobby, I know, but one that sets my corpuscles racing. It’s all very exhilarating, and—if you ask me—not nearly as terrifying as a bikini wax.

But for all I knew, Normalynne had a perfectly competent attorney who’d already hired a P.I. And for all I knew, Part 2, Normalynne really did sabotage that balcony. No, best not to get involved.

Instead, I started work on an assignment that had been phoned in the other day, a resume for a slacker whose biggest skill seemed to be napping on the job. It was a low-bucks gig, but low bucks were better than no bucks, so I set to work drumming up euphemisms for “college dropout.”

But my thoughts kept drifting back to Normalynne. What if she needed me? What if she couldn’t afford proper legal representation? Judging from the frayed cutoffs and drugstore flip-flops she’d worn to the wedding, I had a hunch she wasn’t exactly rolling in dough. What if her 110

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attorney was some court-appointed dufus who didn’t know a tort from a tart?

After a dozen false starts, I finally abandoned the resume and called information for Normalynne’s number. All the operator had was an N. Butler in El Segundo. When I tried the number, a machine picked up, and a robotic voice instructed me to leave a message after the beep.

I left my name and phone number and offered my investigative services, then hung up, feeling a lot better.

Who knew if I’d reached the right N. Butler?

And if I did, if I’d ever hear from her? But at least I’d offered to help.

My conscience clear, I breezed through the resume and faxed it off to my client, then spent the rest of the afternoon industriously vacuuming and paying bills.

Okay, so I spent the rest of the afternoon doing the crossword puzzle and soaking in the tub. I deserved it after putting up with Patti for so long.

Prozac, meanwhile, had been following me around all day, weaving in and out of my ankles, begging for love, as she so often does when she senses I’m miffed.

“Forget it, Pro,” I finally told her. “I’m mad at you.”

Moi?
Enormous green eyes.
What did I do?

“You know what you did. I don’t know how exactly, but you instigated that whole garbage romp with Mamie.”

More big eyes.

“Quit it, Pro. I’m not buying the Little Orphan Annie act.”

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I extricated her from my ankles and plopped down on the sofa, where I started leafing through a pile of the catalogues that seem to grow like mushrooms in my mailbox.

Prozac came trotting after me.

Okay, okay. So I did it. We’re better off without her,
aren’t we?

Then she leaped in my lap and offered me her belly.

Now that that’s settled, how about you scratch my
belly for the next four or five hours?

“There’ll be no belly rubs for you, young lady.

No way. No how. It’s never gonna happen. So just forget it.”

Okay, so I caved and gave her the belly rub.

Pathetic, aren’t I?

It wasn’t until later that night when we were in bed together watching
All About Eve
that the phone rang and a timid voice came on the line.

“Is this Jaine Austen?”

“Yes.”

“The same Jaine Austen who fell in Principal Seawright’s lap at the prom?”

Would I never live that down?

“Yes,” I sighed.

“It’s me. Normalynne. Oh, Jaine,” she wailed.

“I’m in trouble.”

Tell me something I didn’t already know.

I drove down to Normalynne’s apartment in El Segundo, a working-class town near the L.A.

airport.

Her building was a sad stucco affair called the Casa Segundo. Although it was two in the after112

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noon when I got there, Normalynne came to the door in a pair of faded flannel pajamas, her eyes still crusted with sleep.

“Jaine, it’s so nice of you to offer to help,” she said, ushering me inside. Her hair hung in a limp ponytail, bangs flopping in her eyes. “Forgive the way I look; I haven’t had the energy to get dressed.”

She led me to a living room nicely furnished in beachy rattans, clearly put together in more energetic times. A jelly donut sat abandoned on a nearby end table. Amazing, isn’t it, how some people can walk away from a jelly donut?

“Have a seat,” Normalynne said, gesturing to one of two matching rattan armchairs.

She flung herself into the other, her long legs draped over one of the arms.

“Can I get you something? Coffee? Tea?”

“No, thanks,” I said, wishing I could trot over and grab the donut. “I’m good.”

And then out of nowhere an earsplitting roar filled the air. The furniture shook; the windows rattled. I was ready to dive for cover, convinced that El Segundo was under enemy attack, wondering if I had time to scarf down one last jelly donut before I was blown to smithereens.

“Don’t mind the noise,” Normalynne said.

“It’s just a plane taking off from LAX.”

Omigod. If I had to live with that racket I’d be on round-the-clock tranquilizers.

“It used to bother me at first, but I’m used to it now. This was the only place I could afford after Dickie and I split up. Besides, I didn’t want to stay in Hermosa. Too many memories.

“So,” she said, forcing a weak smile, “how have you been?”

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“Fine. And you?”

Talk about your inane questions. How the heck did I think she was? Surely her life wasn’t an episode of
Happy Days
. She was a murder suspect, for crying out loud.

“Actually, I got laid off from work today.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too,” she said with a hollow laugh.

“What sort of work do you do?”

“I teach biology at Crestwood.”

I’d heard of Crestwood, a private school in Santa Monica, catering to the offspring of obscenely wealthy westsiders.

“Correction,” she sighed. “I
taught
biology. I guess they didn’t want a murder suspect mingling with the students. They pretended it was just a temporary leave of absence, but I doubt I’ll ever be dissecting a frog at Crestwood again.