Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla (16 page)

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“Julio’s not speaking with reporters,” he said, waving me away like a pesky aphid. “Only the police.”

Then he turned back to his lilacs.

“Oh, but I am the police!” I fibbed.

What’s a little white lie in the pursuit of truth and justice?

I rummaged in my purse and fished out an old badge I’d bought at a flea market for occasions just such as this. The trick was to flash it fast, before anyone could read the words
USDA
Meat Inspector
.

Happily, Chuy was content with a quick flash.

He nodded curtly and led me across the lawn to one of his workers pushing a lawn mower.

“Julio!”

The gardener looked up, startled, and Chuy motioned for him to shut off the machine.

“
Esta mujer es policia,
” he said, gesturing to me.

Julio wiped the sweat from his brow and shot me a nervous smile. He was a frail man with darting eyes who seemed lost in the folds of his
Chuy’s Landscaping
work shirt.

“Thanks,” I said to Chuy, in my most authoritative voice. “I can take it from here.”

He shot me a dubious look and then headed back to whack at the lilacs.

“Hi, Julio.” I smiled encouragingly at the skinny gardener. “I have a few questions to ask about the woman you saw out on the balcony. I was hoping you could give me a better description of her.”

“Sorry,” he smiled apologetically. “My
Ingles
not so good.”

“That’s okay. I’ll talk real slow. The lady on the balcony.”

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I pointed to the balcony.

“The one with the drill.”

I pantomimed a power drill.

“
Sí,
” Julio nodded. “Lady on balcon.”

“What did she look like?”

“I not see so good.
No mas sol
,” he said. “No more sun. Was dark.
Oscuro.
”

“Did she have long hair?” I asked, pointing to my hair. “Or short?”

“I not see good,” he repeated. “
Oscuro.
”

“What was she wearing? A dress? Slacks?”

Once again, I got an apologetic
oscuro.

I tried to get a better description of the mystery woman, but all Julio was certain of was that he’d seen a woman and that he’d heard a drill.

Having finished with his lilac bush, Chuy now wandered over to rejoin us.

“Are you sure it wasn’t a man up on the balcony?” I asked Julio. “
Un hombre?
”

“No,” he shook his head. “No
hombre.
Was lady.

Mujer.
”

“Wait a minute,” Chuy asked me, his brow furrowed in suspicion. “Don’t you speak Spanish?”

“No, not exactly.”

“The police know Julio’s English stinks. They never send anybody who doesn’t speak Spanish.”

“Trust me,” I said, determined to bluff my way through this. “I do this stuff all the time.”

Experience has taught me that if you act confident enough, people believe whatever you say.

“Oh, yeah? Let me see that badge of yours again.”

So much for experience as a teacher.

Looked like it was time to vamoose.

“Well, that about wraps up my questions.

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161

Thanks so much, Julio. Or should I say
Gracias
?

Well,
buenas tardes, hasta la vista
, and all that.”

With that, I gave them a ridiculously inappropriate military salute and hustled my gringa fanny out of there, my mystery woman as
oscuro
as ever.

My next stop was Denise Gilbert. Cheryl had hated Patti’s guts; who’s to say Denise hadn’t been toting around her own hate-filled baggage all these years?

I got her business number from information and called her Century City law offices. I half expected her to turn down my call, but she came on the line with a friendly, “Hello, Jaine.

How can I help you?”

When I told her I wanted to talk to her about Patti’s death, she paused ever so slightly before saying, “Of course. I’m having lunch at my desk today, if you’d care to join me. I’ll order us something from The Grill.”

I have to confess I was surprised. The Grill is one of the premier expense account restaurants in L.A., famous for its hearty fare of steaks and chops. I’d pegged Denise as a dainty salad eater, the kind of gal who’s stuffed after a few forkfuls of radicchio.

“Great,” I said, and visions of T-bones danced in my head as I drove over to Century City.

Denise’s office was on the zillionth floor of a towering high rise, a sleekly furnished affair with floor-to-ceiling windows and an IMAX-quality view of the ocean. On a clear day, she probably saw Hawaii.

She stood up to greet me, tall, cool, and ele162

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gant. Once again, I asked myself why a sophisticated woman like Denise had been hanging around a dingbat like Patti.

“Perfect timing,” she said. “Lunch just came.”

She led me to a round glass table adorned with place settings straight out of
Elle Decor
, replete with silver, cloth napkins, and cut glass water goblets. Two covered dishes sat on ivory linen place mats.

What a change from my usual plastic forks and ketchup packets.

“Hope you enjoy it,” she said as we took our seats.

Having had nothing since my Altoid for breakfast, I was salivating at the thought of something rare and juicy and smothered in onion rings. So you can imagine my disappointment when I lifted the cover on my dish and saw a pile of depressingly healthy greens.

“I ordered us ahi nicoise salads.”

She ordered a
salad
from The Grill? With all those steaks and chops just begging to be broiled?

The woman was nuts.

“How nice,” I said, somehow managing to dredge up a smile.

I poked around and saw a few chunks of potato hiding in the greens. At least they looked interesting.

“So you wanted to talk about Patti’s death.”

Denise speared a piece of near-raw tuna. “I still can’t get over it. That awful fall from the balcony.”

“The cops think Normalynne tampered with the railing.”

“So I heard.”

“But I don’t believe it,” I said.

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“Really? After all, Patti did steal her husband.

From what I heard, Dickie took one look at Patti at that reunion and fell for her like a ton of bricks. Normalynne must’ve loathed Patti.”

“For a minute, let’s just say Normalynne didn’t do it. Can you remember seeing anybody else go up the stairs the night of the cocktail party?”

“Not that I recall, but I really wasn’t paying attention.”

“Well,” I said, having polished off all the potato chunks in my salad, “I’m convinced someone else sabotaged that railing.”

Perhaps you, Denise.

“I suppose you must really miss Patti,” I said.

“Being best friends and all.”

“To tell the truth,” she confessed, “we weren’t all that close in recent years. I’m afraid we didn’t have very much in common anymore. We got together every once in a while for old time’s sake, but that was it. Actually I felt sorry for her.”

“Sorry for Patti?” I blinked in surprise.

“She was one of those people who peaked in high school. After that everything was downhill.

She went into business for herself a couple of times, but mostly she lived off the money she’d inherited from her father. I think at one point she was trying to sell a line of designer doggie clothes. But nothing ever seemed to click. It was all so pathetic. And then to have it end so tragically.”

She shook her head and sighed. Why did I get the feeling there was something just a tad manufactured about her pity?

“Oh, dear,” she said, looking down at my plate,

“you’ve hardly touched your salad.”

It’s true. Alert the media.
Jaine Austen Leaves a
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Meal Unfinished!
I’d polished off the potatoes but couldn’t bring myself to eat the raw tuna, and instead tried to bury it under the lettuce.

“I’m afraid you didn’t enjoy it very much.”

“Oh, no! It was delicious,” I lied, wondering how long it would take to drive over to the nearest McDonald’s for a Quarter Pounder.

“Well, if that’s all you wanted to ask me, I really should get back to work.”

“Of course. Thank you for your time. And if you remember seeing someone go up those stairs, give me a call.”

I fished out a business card from my purse and handed it to her.

“Wait a minute,” she said. “I just thought of someone. Dickie went upstairs that night.”

“Dickie?”

The killer couldn’t be Dickie. Julio was certain he saw a woman out on the balcony.

“Patti sent him upstairs to get her sweater.

But he came right down again. I’m sure he didn’t have time to tamper with the balcony.”

“No, but he might remember seeing the person who did. Do you know where I can reach him?”

“Sure. I’ve got his contact information here somewhere.” She went to her computer and clicked into her files. “Here it is. I’ll print it out for you.

“You know, Jaine,” she said, as the printer began whirring, “I owe you an apology.”

“An apology? For what?”

“For being such a bitch in high school.”

First Cheryl, and now Denise. It looked like Patti had been the only unrepentant member of the Terrible Trinity.

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“I look back on how badly I behaved and I’m ashamed of myself. But I was pretty miserable myself.”

“
You
were miserable?”

“My home life wasn’t exactly
Ozzie and Harriet
.

I guess I took out my unhappiness on others. I certainly hope I’ve changed since then.”

She shot me a warm smile. At least, it seemed warm on the surface.

“Apology accepted?”

“Apology accepted.”

She handed me Dickie’s contact information.

“By the way, do you want me to ask Brendan if he noticed anyone sneaking up the stairs during the cocktail party?”

“Brendan?”

“The fellow I was with at the cocktail party.”

Ah, yes. Mr. Rolex.

“Is he your significant other?”

“Nope. Don’t have a significant other at the moment.”

Grrrr. Here I’d gone through all that rigamarole to dredge up a bogus boyfriend, and it turned out that Cheryl and Denise were both just as single as I.

“Brendan is my campaign manager.”

“Campaign manager?”

“I’m running for city council,” she said, undraping a poster that had been propped up against the wall. A blow-up of Denise smiled out at me with the same warm smile she’d proffered with her mea culpa.

“If you’re in my district, I hope I can count on your vote. Haha.”

But she wasn’t kidding. She really did want 166

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my vote. So that explained her heartfelt apology. Had she really changed, or was she just another pol on the campaign trail?

I thanked her again for her time and her salad, and headed for the elevator.

As I waited for it to show up, I remembered what Cheryl said, about how she and Patti and Denise had cheated and shoplifted their way through high school. If news of that ever leaked out, Denise’s political career would be toast.

And I suddenly wondered: What if Patti had been blackmailing her old buddy all those years, threatening to blab about her checkered past?

Maybe Denise hadn’t stayed in touch with Patti because she felt sorry for her. Maybe she stayed in touch out of fear of exposure. And maybe she got tired of running scared.

Sure seemed like a motive for murder to me.

Ten minutes later, I was in my car scarfing down a Quarter Pounder and fries, licking ketchup off my fingers with a sigh of contentment.

When I’d gobbled up my last fry and final pickle slice, I tooled over to Gelson’s supermarket for a take-out lasagna. Now don’t get your panties in an uproar. It wasn’t for me. I was about to pay a condolence call to Dickie Potter, and I didn’t want to show up empty handed.

The enticing aroma of lasagna wafted through the Corolla as I drove over to Dickie’s house in Santa Monica. I came
thisclose
to plucking off a crusty corner of cheese and popping it in my mouth, but you’ll be happy to know I restrained myself.

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Dickie’s yellow VW was parked in his driveway when I got there. He came to the door, bleary eyed, his hair tangled in messy clumps. Judging from the growth of stubble on his face, it looked like he hadn’t shaved in days.

“Jaine!” He blinked in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“Denise gave me your address, and I thought I’d drop by and check on how you were doing.”

“Not so hot, as you can see,” he said with a wry smile.

He stood there with the door half open, making no move to invite me in. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he wasn’t up for company, but I didn’t care. I had to find out if he’d seen anybody going up those stairs.

“I brought you a lasagna,” I said, holding it out, glad I’d taken the time to get it.

“Gosh, Jaine. That’s awfully sweet of you.” I made no move to go.

“Er . . . want to come in?” he asked, clearly hoping I’d say no.

“Maybe just for a minute.”

And before he could change his mind, I scooted into his living room.

The place was very Tasteful Metrosexual, with lots of clean lines and recessed lighting. A large plasma TV was mounted on the wall, along with some gallery-chic artwork.

A far cry from the Dickie I’d known at Hermosa High, whose idea of high style was wearing two socks that matched.

“Have a seat,” he said, “while I put the lasagna in the kitchen.”

I eased down into a sleek leather chair. Across from me on a matching sofa, I saw indentations 168

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in the cushions where Dickie had been stretched out.

On an end table next to the sofa was a framed photo of Patti, taken in the gazebo I’d seen the day I first came to her house. The Secret Gazebo, Patti had called it when she pointed it out to me from the balcony. The scene of her many boffathons with Dickie. In the photo, Patti sat on the gazebo’s white wooden bench, smiling seductively into the camera, unaware of the grisly fate that awaited her.