Killer Blonde (8 page)

“Of course, you didn’t,” I said, taking her in my arms. If this kid was capable of murder, then I was capable of dieting. “Now how about a nice bowl of cereal?”

I’d long since given up on Sir Speedy, so I hustled Heidi into the kitchen, where I fixed us each a bowl of Cheerios. I was just glad I had milk in the refrigerator that hadn’t turned solid.

Once we were settled back on the sofa, slurping down our Cheerios from chipped Flintstones cereal bowls, I said, “Tell me about the blondes in SueEllen’s life.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe the cops don’t believe you saw a blonde in the hallway, but I do. Now let’s try and figure out who it could be.”

She shot me a grateful smile.

“Can you think of a blonde who might have had a key to the house? Or someone that SueEllen knew well enough to buzz in on her intercom?”

“Well, there’s Larkspur, of course. But she was out in Santa Monica.”

“So she says.”

“And there’s Ginny Pearson.”

“Who’s she?”

“SueEllen’s best friend. They met years ago, handing out prizes on a game show. But she couldn’t have done it. She and SueEllen were very close.”

“Any other blondes?”

She shook her head. “I can’t think of any.”

“What about your father? Any blondes in his life? Other than Larkspur?”

“There’s Denise, the nurse at his office. I think she and Daddy are fooling around.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Nothing, really. Just the way she looks at him. All gooey-eyed.”

Wow. Between SueEllen, Larkspur and Denise, Hal Kingsley had been a mighty busy man. I was surprised he still had enough energy to perform tummy tucks.

“Does your father know you’re here?” I asked.

She shook her head.

“I’d better call and let him know you’re okay.”

“Do you have to?”

“Yes, I have to. He’s probably worried sick.”

But Hal Kingsley didn’t sound worried sick at all. He was his usual undemonstrative self when I told him that Heidi was sitting on my sofa. I had a sneaky suspicion that he didn’t even know she’d been gone. I couldn’t bear the thought of sending Heidi back to such a cold fish, so I asked if she could spend the night.

“I’ll bring her back tomorrow,” I promised.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he said it was fine.

I hung up, wondering what it must be like having a father like Hal. My dad may have been running around with a used toupee on his head, but at least I knew he loved me enough not to toss me over to a virtual stranger in a time of crisis.

“Was Daddy worried?” Heidi asked.

“Very,” I lied. “But he said you could sleep over.”

Heidi sighed.

“Believe it or not,” she said, “this is my first sleepover. I don’t have many friends. Oh, who am I kidding? I don’t have
any
friends.”

“Well, you have one now,” I said. “Me.”

At which point, Prozac sat up and meowed.

“And Prozac, of course.”

Damn cat hates to give up the limelight for a second.

“How about we get in our pajamas and watch a movie on TV?”

Minutes later, Heidi and I were curled up in bed, Prozac snuggled on Heidi’s chest.

“You sure she’s not bothering you?” I asked.

“No, no,” she said, stroking Prozac lovingly. “She’s a wonderful cat.”

Prozac opened one eye and shot me a look that said,
Haha. Fooled another one.

We zapped around and were lucky enough to find one of my all time favorite movies,
Roman Holiday,
with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. Heidi had never seen it and got caught up in it, which was a good thing. She needed all the distraction she could get.

It was near the end of the movie, when Audrey gives up Gregory (foolish girl!) and goes back to being a princess, when the doorbell rang.

I threw on my robe and went to the door.

“Who is it?” I called out. For an awful minute, I was afraid it might be the cops coming to arrest Heidi.

“Sir Speedy.”

Oh, great. Only five hours late.

I opened the door, utterly disgusted. “It’s after midnight,” I said to the third world refugee who stood at my door.

“Sorry,” he said in halting English. “My car busted down on freeway.”

He handed me the pizza, which wasn’t even remotely warm.

“What are you, crazy? We’re not going to eat this. Who eats cold pizza at one in the morning?”

Okay, so we ate it. Standing over the kitchen sink in our bare feet. Tossing the anchovies to Prozac.

“This is fun,” Heidi said, slurping up a gooey strand of cheese.

At that moment, she reminded me of Audrey’s
Roman Holiday
princess, running away from a life that gave her little pleasure, and enjoying herself for a change.

I was glad she was having fun. I only hoped it would last.

I
drove Heidi home the next morning, after a nutritious breakfast of pizza crusts and Pepsi. Conchi greeted us at the door, clutching her ever-present bottle of Windex. I was beginning to think she owned stock in the company.

“Miss Heidi!” she said. “Are you all right? I was worried about you.”

I was glad to hear that somebody was.

“I’m fine, Conchi. Where’s Dad?”

“Mr. Hal went to the gym to play racquetball.”

He went to the gym? With his wife dead less than twenty-four hours and his daughter the prime suspect? What a prince. Meanwhile I could see Brad in the living room, sprawled out on a sofa, leafing through his Ferrari brochure, another grief-stricken mourner.

“I guess I’d better go unpack,” Heidi said, looking none too happy to be back in the arms of her dysfunctional family.

“Remember, Heidi, I’m here if you need me. And you mustn’t worry about the police. I can’t believe they really suspect you of anything.”

I reached over and gave her a hug.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” I said. “I promise.”

“I wish I could stay with you,” she sighed.

“I do, too,” I said. “But I’m sure your father wants you here with him.” I wasn’t sure of any such thing, but I knew he wasn’t about to let his daughter move in with a struggling freelance writer on the wrong side of the Beverly Hills tracks.

Heidi managed a weak smile and headed upstairs.

“Keep an eye on her,” I whispered to Conchi.

“
Sí
, Miss Jaine,” Conchi said. “I will try to protect her from the evil spirit.”

“Evil spirit?”

She nodded solemnly, her eyes filled with fear. “The ghost of Miss SueEllen. She is here. In this house.”

Oh, great. The one person in Casa Kingsley who seemed to care about Heidi was a few cards short of a full deck.

“If SueEllen’s ghost is here,” I said, “I know a great way to get rid of her. Just ask her to help with the housework.”

Conchi looked at me, puzzled. “Sorry, Miss Jaine. No comprende.”

“Forget it, Conchi. I was just kidding.”

She smiled a nervous smile, as if she thought I was the loony one, and started spritzing Windex at a huge gilt mirror. A fat lot of good she’d be comforting Heidi; the woman was scared of her own shadow.

I said goodbye to Conchi and headed out the front door, just in time to see Larkspur pulling up the driveway in a lemon yellow Beetle.

“Hey, Jaine,” she chirped, reaching in to the backseat of her car for her massage table.

Was it possible? Didn’t she know that SueEllen was dead?

“You’re here awfully early,” she said, crunching up the gravel walk.

“Larkspur, haven’t you heard the news?”

“What news?”

“SueEllen is dead.”

“Holy shit.”

She blinked her big blue baby doll eyes.

“She was murdered. Electrocuted in her bathtub.”

“Oh, my gosh.” Her baby blues grew even bigger. “I don’t believe it. Do they know who did it?”

“Not yet.”

“This is terrible,” she said, absently raking fingers through her hair. “Is Hal—I mean, Mr. Kingsley—home?”

“Nope. He’s playing racquetball.”

“Oh,” she said, standing there in a daze. “Well, then. I guess I’d better go.”

She got back in her car and sat behind the wheel for a minute or so until she finally remembered to put the key in the ignition.

Larkspur seemed genuinely shocked. If she was faking it, she was a hell of a good actress. Of course, this was L.A., where everyone and their uncle is a would-be actor. So for all I knew, her shock was something she’d been rehearsing all morning.

Maybe Larkspur was faking it; maybe she wasn’t. One thing was for sure:
I’d
been faking it when I assured Heidi that the cops didn’t suspect her of murder. I’d have bet my bottom dollar she was their Number One Suspect. Which is why I decided to pay a little visit to the Beverly Hills cops.

A sand-colored building dotted with pretty pastel mosaic tiles, the Beverly Hills police precinct looked like something featured in
Betters Homes and Gardens.
It was all so sparkle clean and upscale; I was surprised it didn’t have a gift shop.

I found the Clint Eastwood lookalike at his desk, barking orders into the phone.

“I want it right away,” he was saying, his jaw rigid with determination. “And I don’t want any mistakes.”

He was probably ordering lab tests. Or fingerprints. Or maybe even an autopsy of SueEllen’s body.

He motioned me to a seat in front of his desk.

“You sure you got it?” he snapped. “That’s a Chinese chicken salad, dressing on the side. And a mocha frappucino, hold the whipped cream.”

So much for my autopsy theory; the guy was ordering lunch. Chinese chicken salad. Only in Beverly Hills do cops order Chinese chicken salad for lunch.

His lunch order complete, Lt. Webb hung up and turned his attention to me.

“Ms. Austen,” he said, tapping the eraser end of a pencil into the cleft in his chin. “How can I help you?”

“Actually, I’m here on behalf of my client, Heidi Kingsley.”

“Your client? I thought you were a writer.”

“I am. But occasionally I work as a private investigator.”

And it’s true. I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I’ve actually helped solve two murders. (Which you can read all about in
This Pen for Hire
and
Last Writes,
now available in paperback at a book store near you.)

“You have a P.I. license?” Webb asked.

“No, not exactly,” I admitted. “But I really did help solve those murders. One in Hollywood last year, and one in Westwood.”

Okay, so I do like to toot my own horn.

“Two whole murders, huh?”

I decided to ignore that.

“Heidi’s afraid you think she killed SueEllen,” I said.

Webb sat back in his chair, still tapping the cleft in his chin with his pencil. Maybe that’s how it got so big, from constant pencil-tapping.

“Seeing as you’ve solved two whole murders,” he said, with a most annoying smirk, “I’ll tell you this much: We’re not ready to charge Heidi with SueEllen’s murder. Not yet, anyway.”

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

“What makes you think she could have possibly done it?”

“Two dozen people at her birthday party heard her say she wished SueEllen was dead. And the very next day, her wish came true. Plus, your client was the only one home on the day of the murder.”

He grabbed a pad from his desk, and consulted his notes.

“Hal Kingsley was in his office. His nurse has vouched for him.”

“Yeah, the same nurse who’s having an affair with him. Not exactly the most reliable witness.”

He looked up from his notes.

“Do you know for a fact they’re having an affair?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure they are.”

“We can’t bring charges against a man because you’re ‘pretty sure’ he’s boffing his nurse. And besides, the receptionist also backs up his alibi. You think he’s sleeping with her, too?”

“Quite possibly.”

“Like I was saying,” Webb continued, ignoring my valuable input, “your client was the only one home the day of the murder. Her father was in his office. Her brother was having lunch in the Beverly High football stadium with three of his buddies.”

“Friends have been known to lie for each other.”

“And the maid was away on her day off with her boyfriend.”

I blinked in surprise.

“Conchi has a boyfriend?”

“A gardener. Works down the street from the Kingsleys.”

Wow. Talk about inspirational. If a scared rabbit like Conchi could land a boyfriend, there was hope for all of us.

“What about the blonde Heidi saw in the hallway?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” he said, oozing skepticism. “The mysterious blonde.”

“SueEllen’s masseuse is blonde. Maybe it was her.”

“Afraid not. According to my records, Larkspur O’Leary was busy with clients.”

“Couldn’t she have sneaked over to the house between appointments?”

“Nope. She was out in Santa Monica all day. There was no way she could have driven to Beverly Hills and back between appointments.”

“What about the neighbors? Did any of them see a blonde entering or leaving the house?”

“Nobody saw this mysterious blonde except Heidi.”

Clearly, he thought Heidi’s blonde was bogus.

“I hate to break it to you, Ms. Austen, but your client is the one person who had both motive and opportunity to kill SueEllen Kingsley. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

I got up to leave.

“One more thing, Ms. Austen,” he said, looking particularly Clint Eastwoodish. “I think I can manage this case on my own. This isn’t Hollywood, or Westwood. This is Beverly Hills.”

“Right,” I muttered under my breath. “Chinese Chicken Salad Country.”

I left Lt. Webb’s office, more convinced than ever that Heidi needed my help. Webb clearly had Heidi pegged as a psychotic Cinderella who’d gone berserk and offed her evil stepmom. If he had his way, she’d soon be sharing His ‘n Hers prison jumpsuits with the Menendez brothers.

I made my way past the suntanned Dudley Do-Rights and down to the parking lot where I retrieved my Corolla.

Of course, now that my gig with SueEllen had come screeching to a halt, I should have been home thinking up new slogans for my biggest client, Toiletmasters Plumbers. They’d been using their old slogan
(In a rush to flush? Call Toiletmasters!)
for several years, and they were ready to try something new.

For a few desultory moments I forced myself to think up slogans.
(At Toiletmasters, we take the plunge for you! Let us bowl you over with our prompt courteous service.
And others too flushworthy to mention.) But my heart wasn’t in it. I couldn’t stop thinking about Heidi. Webb didn’t believe her story about the blonde in the hallway. If only someone else had seen the blonde, he’d have to take her seriously.

It wasn’t until I was halfway home that I remembered SueEllen’s Peeping Tom neighbor, the retired astronomy professor. The one with the all-seeing telescope.