Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla (22 page)

“You the one who buzzed me?”

I nodded mutely.

“Why the hell do you want to rent a place here? It’s all Mexicans.”

“That’s okay with me. I think Hispanic people are just fine.”

“Well bully for you,” she sneered. “Somebody get this girl a humanitarian award.”

Mexicans, I liked. Her, I didn’t.

Her beady eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“You’re not a reporter, are you?”

“No,” I blinked, all innocence. “I’m not a reporter.”

“You a hooker?”

“Only on my lunch hour.”

Of course I didn’t say that. I assured her I was an upright citizen who paid my rent with clockwork regularity.

“I still don’t understand why you want to live here,” she said. “You’d be the only white person here except for me.”

“Well, I work nearby and I thought the rent would be reasonable.”

“It’s three hundred a month. That reasonable enough?”

“Sounds great!”

“No pets, no loud noise, no smoking.” This KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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uttered with an inch of ash dangling from her cigarette.

“Fine with me,” I chirped.

“You sure you’re not a reporter?”

“No, I’m not a reporter.”

She peered out behind me and, convinced that there were no cameramen lurking in the bushes, she motioned me inside.

I followed her down a dank hallway that smelled of onion and mildew.

“It sure would be nice to have another white person living here,” she said, as she waddled along with her broom. “I’m tired of habla-ing espanol all the time. We could hang out together. Knock back a few beers and watch
Friday Night Smack-down
on my plasma TV.”

What an appalling prospect.

“Well, here it is,” she said, opening one of the doors.

We stepped into a barren cell of a room. Floral wallpaper that had been picked out sometime in the Truman administration was peeling from the walls. One tiny barred window looked out onto a scenic view of the neighbor’s trash cans.

“Comes completely furnished,” she said, gesturing to a sagging twin bed and a scarred wooden dresser. “Here’s your kitchen.” She waved to a hot plate sitting atop a mini-fridge. And here’s the bathroom.”

I peeked into a closet-sized room so moldy, I was surprised moss wasn’t growing on the faucets.

“So what do you think?” she asked, giving me her impersonation of a smile. “Wanna take it?

First and last months’ rent due in advance. In cash.”

226

Laura Levine

Whoa. This was going way too fast. I had to change the subject or I’d wind up with a five-year lease on my hands.

“Hey, wait a minute,” I said, as if recognizing her for the first time. “Didn’t I see you on the news last night? In the story about the gardener who was killed?”

“That was me all right,” she muttered. “Damn reporters, ringing my bell in the middle of
Judge
Judy
. Made me miss the verdict.”

“Gee,” I gushed. “You’re so much more attractive in person!”

Why I wasn’t struck down by lightning for that whopper I’ll never know.

“Oh?” she preened, flashing me a tobacco-stained grin. “So you know about Julio, the guy who got mowed down?”

“Yes, I heard all about it. Was this his room?”

“Yeah,” she nodded ruefully.

I casually opened one of his dresser drawers, hoping maybe they hadn’t yet been cleaned out.

But no luck. Totally empty.

“You don’t mind renting a place whose previous tenant took a round of bullets in the gut, do you?” she asked. “Some people are queasy that way.”

“As long as it didn’t happen in the room.”

“No, it didn’t happen here,” she assured me.

“Those bloodstains on the wall are from a previous tenant. Julio was shot in a ravine miles from here.”

“Poor guy,” I tsked. “I heard on the news it was a drug deal gone bad.”

“Who knows? He sure didn’t seem like a druggie to me. Sober as a judge every time I saw him.

Paid his rent on time. That’s all I cared about.”

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“Did any women ever come to visit him at his apartment?”

“Why the hell do you need to know that?” she barked, her suspicions aroused.

I put on my tap shoes and did some fast dancing.

“Well,” I vamped, “the last place I rented, the former tenant had a bunch of ex-girlfriends who were always banging on my door in the middle of the night. And I don’t want to live through that again.”

Thank heavens, she bought it.

“Nah. No women ever showed up here. Julio had a wife and family back in Mexico. Sent them money every month. No women, no music, no nothing. Guy was quiet as a mouse. Hardly ever talked to him. Except the day he gave his thirty days’ notice. Then he was real chatty.”

“He was planning to move?”

“Yeah, he must’ve come into some money.

Said he was going to be on easy street.”

“He came into some money?” Very interesting indeed. “Do you know from who?”

Now her eyes got all beady again.

“Why are you asking so many questions? You sure you’re not a reporter?”

“No, I swear I’m not a reporter. I’m just inquisitive, I guess.”

“Yeah, well. I’m inquisitive, too. I wanna know if you want the damn apartment or not.”

“Um. Sure. You don’t mind pets, do you? My cat is very quiet, and the vet says her incontinence should clear up any day now.”

“You got a cat?” Her double chin quivered in irritation.

“Yes, didn’t I mention that? That’s why I’m 228

Laura Levine

moving. My current landlord is so heartless. Just because of a few ‘accidents’ on the carpeting.

You’d think nobody ever had a cat with diarrhea before.”

“What are you wasting my time for? I already told you—no pets.”

“Did you? Gosh, I was so excited about seeing the room, I guess I didn’t hear.”

“Beat it, girlie. I’m missing
The Price Is Right.
”

And before she could reach for her broom, I was gone.

“So what do you think, Prozac? Where was Julio getting that money?”

I was stretched out in my bathtub, up to my neck in strawberry-scented bubbles, mulling over my meeting with Julio’s Godzilla apartment manager.

Prozac gazed down at me from her perch atop the toilet tank.

“Julio told Ms. Muumuu that he was going to be on easy street, that he was coming into a lot of money. So where was it coming from?”

Prozac thought this over and then, as she so often does when faced with a thorny problem, began licking her privates.

It looked like I was flying solo on this one.

Where, I asked myself, would a guy like Julio get a lot of dough?

The first answer that sprang to mind was blackmail.

Maybe, contrary to what he told the cops, Julio got a good look at the woman who was out on the balcony. Maybe he knew exactly who she was KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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and had been blackmailing her, threatening to expose her unless she coughed up some dough.

And maybe, instead, she coughed up a round of bullets.

I’d always thought it was odd that Julio wasn’t able to give a clearer description of the killer.

Surely he would’ve been able to identify something about her.

But who was he blackmailing?

It had to be someone with money. Which let Normalynne and Cheryl off the hook. Neither of them could finance a life on welfare, let alone easy street.

My leading suspect was Denise. From the looks of her office, she was rolling in big bucks. If indeed she’d knocked off Patti to keep her from blabbing about her topless cheerleader past, surely she’d have no compunctions about blowing poor Julio away. Denise was a tough cookie; quite capable, I thought, of firing off a round of bullets between court cases.

And of course there was Eleanor Potter. Although not megarich, the Potters certainly had money. Maybe Eleanor didn’t go to Patti’s room to look for sex tapes, but to sabotage the balcony with her husband’s power drill. And then, when Julio threatened to expose her, she’d packed a pistol in her sweatsuit and used him for target practice.

And what about Veronica? I’d bet she was making a pretty penny from her catering biz.

True, I had a hard time believing that someone who could cook such heavenly empanadas was capable of murder, but I had to leave my taste buds out of this equation and look at things ob230

Laura Levine

jectively. It was possible she knocked off both Patti and Julio to keep things cooking at Hubbard’s Cupboard.

I was lying there in the tub, thinking about my suspects—and not incidentally about Veronica’s empanadas—when the phone rang. I groaned as I heard Walter Barnhardt’s nasal whine on my answering machine, reminding me that tonight was the night of the Hermosa High reunion and that I was to meet him at 8 o’clock in front of the buffet table, in case I’d forgotten.

No I hadn’t forgotten. Mainly because this was his seventh message in three days. I didn’t tell you about the others because I wanted to spare you the aggravation. (Not many authors are this considerate; just remember that the next time you’re in the bookstore wondering what to get.)

With a weary sigh, I hauled myself from the tub and trudged to the bedroom to get dressed.

I reached into my closet for the black cocktail dress I’d worn to Patti’s wedding. I’d been meaning to take it to the cleaners but had never gotten around to it. It still smelled faintly of the flaming rum punch that sloshed on it when I’d set fire to Walter’s toupee.

Oh, well. It would have to do.

As I proceeded to rummage in my dresser drawer for a pair of unclawed panty hose, my mind drifted to thoughts of the night ahead.

I’d always harbored a secret fantasy of showing up at a reunion one day, cool and sophisticated and fifteen pounds thinner, my hair miraculously straight, my thighs miraculously toned, a hunky yet sensitive escort at my side. My fellow classmates would gaze at me, awed, as I sailed KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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into the room, laughing gaily, a far cry from the goofy gal they’d last seen crash landing on Principal Seawright’s lap.

And now, here I was—about to show up with Walter Barnhardt and his mail order toupee.

But I had to remind myself why I’d agreed to go to the reunion with Walter in the first place.

It was the least I could do after all the pain I’d caused him in high school. Was I so shallow that I cared what a bunch of people I hadn’t seen in nearly two decades thought of me? Was I still stuck in that adolescent need to impress my peers?

Well, actually, yes.

But it was high time I got over it. I’d go to the reunion and show Walter a good time. I owed him that much.

It was a new, nobler me that fished out a pair of only marginally clawed panty hose from my dresser drawer and finished dressing. I’d just spritzed my final spritz of cologne and was checking myself out in the mirror when I heard a knock at my front door.

I opened it to find Lance standing on my doorstep with Mamie in his arms. Along with her suitcase, toys, and doggie bed at his feet.

“Oh, Jaine,” he wailed. “I feel terrible.”

“What’s wrong? Is Mamie sick?”

“No, but Kevin is. I didn’t know it, but he’s allergic to dogs. He’s in my apartment now and just broke out in hives. I feel awful about this,”

he said, thrusting Mamie into my arms, “but I can’t keep her.”

“But you were so crazy about her.”

“I am crazy about her. But how can I keep Mamie if Kevin’s going to get hives every time 232

Laura Levine

he sees her? Sooner or later, we’re going to move in together, and what would happen then? I’d rather give her up now, before I fall any more in love with her than I already am.”

Tears welled in his eyes. I could tell this was breaking his heart.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I understand.”

“Good-bye, sweetheart.” He leaned over and kissed Mamie on her nose, then headed back to his place.

“Don’t worry,” I told Mamie as I took her into my apartment. “We’ll find you a good home yet.”

Mamie, not the least bit worried, was lapping at my face, happy to be back with the lady with the smelly garbage pail. And even happier to be back with Prozac. She took one look at her long lost friend, sprawled out on the sofa, and began barking excitedly.

The feeling, I regret to say, was not mutual.

Prozac glared at me through slitted eyes.

Her again? I thought we’d established this was a
one-pet household.

With that, she stood up and arched her back.

Never a good sign. Nor was the hiss that followed.

What the heck was I going to do now? I couldn’t possibly go off to the reunion and leave them alone together lest I come home and find poor Mamie’s bloodied body embedded with cat claws.

There was no doubt about it. I’d have to keep them separated. I settled Mamie in my bedroom with her toys and doggie bed and turned on the TV.

“Look, sweetie. A
Lassie
marathon on TV Land.

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233

Won’t that be fun? Now you have a good time and I’ll be back before you know it.”

I gave her a kiss good-bye and closed the bedroom door firmly behind me.

She let out a sad little whimper, but I had to hang tough.

“It’s for your own good,” I called out to her.

“Trust me. You don’t want to mess with Prozac.

She’s like a pit bull with hairballs.”

I headed to the living room where Prozac was now sprawled out on my computer keyboard.

How come she gets to watch TV and all I get is this
crummy screensaver?

“Just behave yourself,” I said.

Then I grabbed my car keys and took off for my second and absolutely final date with Walter Barnhardt.

Chapter 22

The Hermosa High gym still smelled the same.

They could drape it with crepe paper and string it with balloons, but it still smelled like varnish and sweat socks to me.

A tuxedo-clad combo was stationed under one of the basketball hoops, playing dance music.

But it was too early in the evening for alcohol to have loosened inhibitions, so only a few couples were dancing.