Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) (14 page)

Okay, so maybe she didn’t exactly curl up on my sofa. Maybe she ran around my apartment, attacking my plants, chewing on my electrical cords and clawing my coffee table, looking up at me as if to say,
So when do we eat?

But still, the little furball had wormed her way into my heart, and I wasn’t about to let her go.

“Forget it,” I told Skip.

“I’ll throw in another pie,” he said, a hopeful look in his eyes.

Resisting the impulse to ask what kind, I shook my head, my answer still an unequivocal no.

 

We drove home in silence, Skip staring mournfully ahead.

I made a few stabs at small talk, but he wasn’t having any.

When we finally turned up the street to my duplex, I put Prozac back in her carrier. “I’ll get that collar back to you as soon as I can.”

A yelp of protest from the carrier.

“And thanks for the pie.”

“About that pie ...” Skip hesitated a sheepish beat. “It’s not exactly chocolate cream.”

“What is it? Banana cream? Apple? Cherry?”

“Soy-carob, with a wheat germ crust.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

“Some day you’ll thank me, Jaine,” he said with the self-righteous nod of a health food fanatic.

“And what day would that be?” I muttered. “When hell freezes over?”

Swallowing my irritation, I flounced out of the Bentley and headed up the path to my apartment.

Was he the most infuriating man ever, or what?

Of course, that was just one gal’s opinion.

From her carrier, I could hear Prozac meowing.

Chapter 22

S
kip’s soy-carob pie was inedible, of course. (Think Elmer’s Glue in a wheat germ crust.)

After just one bite, it went sailing into the trash.

Even Prozac, who has been known to nosh on old gym socks, would not go near it.

Of course, after her caviar binge, Prozac was turning her nose up at anything and everything I put in her bowl. It would take weeks of hissing, scratching and yowling at the moon (by me) to get her to eat cat food again. But that’s a whole other story, one I’m saving for a licensed psychotherapist.

In the meanwhile, I had to get that damn collar off her neck.

I tried several times to undo the clasp while she was napping, but all I had to show for it was an arm crisscrossed with cat scratches.

I tried diverting her with Hearty Halibut Guts, always a sure fire distraction in the BC (Before Caviar) days.

But she just sniffed at her bowl in disdain.

Well, if she thought I was going to run out and buy ridiculously expensive caviar, she was crazy.

I stuck to my guns and bought ridiculously expensive shrimp instead.

After cutting the shrimp into tidbits (scarfing down a few morsels for myself), I set them down before her with bated breath.

Would she fall for it? Would she dive right in and not look up till every morsel had disappeared down her gullet?

I’m happy to report the answer was yes!

Before I knew it, she had her little pink nose buried in the bowl, oblivious to everything around her.

Wasting no time, I reached over and sprang open the clasp on that damn collar.

At last I held the sparkly diamonds in my sweaty hands.

For a minute, I was tempted to try it on as a bracelet. But I quickly came to my senses and realized I hadn’t a second to spare. I had to hide the damn thing before she inhaled the last of her shrimp and came up for air.

I raced to my bedroom where I tucked the collar back in its Tiffany box. I’d just finished shoving it into the far reaches of the top shelf of my closet when there was a knock on my front door.

I hurried to the living room to get it.

By now Prozac had finished her snack and was scratching her neck in outraged disbelief.

Ignoring her indignant yowls, I answered the door.

It was Lance, who came sailing in, waving a copy of the
Beverly Hills Social Pictorial.

“You’ll never guess whose picture is in this week’s
Social Pictorial!
”

“Desmond Tutu? Søren Kierkegaard? Jean-Paul Sartre?”

“No, silly. Mine!”

He held up the magazine, and indeed, there was Lance grinning into the camera with a handsome hottie I could only assume was his new squeeze, Donny Johnson.

“Donny and I were at the opening of an amazing new men’s boutique on Rodeo Drive when a photographer came up and took our picture.” He gazed down at the photo with a sigh. “Isn’t Donny gorgeous?”

“I guess, if you’re into tall guys with hot bods, great hair, and James Dean cheekbones.”

“And look what he bought me,” he said, whipping a wallet out of his pocket.

“Oh, dear. Something tells me some poor alligator has given up his life to hold your singles.”

“Isn’t Donny the most generous guy ever?” he gushed.

I had to admit the guy was awfully loose with a buck.

“And doesn’t he have the sexiest smile? Just look at those teeth. Aren’t they fabulous?”

I was not, however, looking at Donny’s teeth. Something else in the
Social Pictorial
had caught my eye: A photo spread of Beverly Hills partygoers. There among them was Greg Stanton, arm in arm with the stunning brunet I’d seen him with at Simon’s. The caption under the picture read,
Famed artist Gregory Stanton with fiancée Lady Penelope Ashford, daughter of British billionaire philanthropist, Sir Wallace Ashford
.

“I don’t believe it!” I cried.

“I didn’t, either. I thought for sure his teeth were veneers. But they’re real! I asked.”

“Listen, Lance,” I said, wrenching the topic away from Donny’s teeth, “do you mind if I keep this
Social Pictorial?
”

“Not at all, hon. I just happened to pick up copies for seventy-five of my nearest and dearest friends.”

“Thanks,” I said, grabbing it from him eagerly.

“Hey, what’s with Prozac?” he said, nodding at my pouting princess, who had been whining nonstop ever since he walked in the door.

“Oh, she’s just ticked off because I took away her diamond collar.”

Prozac looked up at Lance imploringly.

“Diamond collar?” Lance asked, eyes popping.

“You’re not the only one with a generous suitor.”

“Omigod. Are you still dating the rich old coot Joy fixed you up with? I knew all along it would work out. We’re going to have our double wedding, after all!”

“God forbid,” I moaned.

“I want to hear every detail of your romance, hon,” he said, oblivious to my glaring lack of enthusiasm. “But not right now. I’ve got to dash and hand out copies of the
Social Pictorial.
”

And with that, he was off to share his new-found fame with seventy-four of his nearest and dearest.

 

The minute Lance left, I settled down on the sofa with the
Social Pictorial,
staring at the photo of Greg and his fiancée.

So that brunet he’d been playing kneesies with at Simon’s was a British royal. A filthy rich royal, at that. He sure had won the matrimonial sweepstakes, hadn’t he? And without Joy in his life, he was free to tie the knot.

As innocent as he’d seemed when last we spoke, I couldn’t help thinking that maybe he’d slipped Joy a poisoned chocolate so he could hustle down the aisle with British royalty.

I was sitting there, counting the face-lifts in the
Social Pictorial
and wondering if Lady Penelope Ashford was engaged to a murderer, when the phone rang.

I answered it warily, afraid it might be Skip.

But, much to my relief, a woman’s voice came on the line.

“Jaine, this is Alyce Winters, the woman you interviewed for the
L.A. Times.
”

Of course. The Press-On Nail Queen. With the handy dandy diabetes syringe.

“I called to apologize. I’m afraid I was a wee bit intoxicated when you came to see me. I’m so sorry I had you root around in my carpet for my press-on nail.”

“Oh, I didn’t mind,” I lied.

“I’m so ashamed of my behavior. I just called to make sure you don’t mention me by name in your article. I’d never be able to live it down.”

I assured her that her penchant for brandy at ten in the morning was safe with me, and was about to hang up when she said: “Just one more thing, Jaine. You asked me the other day if I remembered seeing anyone go into Joy’s office the night of the murder. At the time, I didn’t remember anything—mainly because I was three sheets to the wind. But I’ve thought about it, and now I do remember seeing someone.”

“You do?”

I sat up with a jolt. Was Alyce about to give me an actual lead?

“Yes. It was a young man, an awkward looking fellow, with one of those pocket protectors on his shirt.”

Chapter 23

W
haddaya know? It looked like Barry, aka Mr. Pocket Protector, had been at Joy’s Valentine’s party. Which meant I had a brand new suspect on my list.

Wasting no time, I put in a call to Travis and got Barry’s contact info. When I called him there was no answer, so I left a message on his voice mail, urging him to get back to me ASAP.

By now Prozac had leaped to the top shelf of my bookcase next to her favorite author, P. G. Wodehouse, clearly furious at me for nabbing her diamond collar.

“Prozac, honey, won’t you please come down!” I begged. “I’ll scratch your back for as long as you like.”

But she just glared down at me with slitted eyes.

I was in the middle of trying to lure her down with some human tuna when the phone rang.

“Jaine? It’s Barry Potter, returning your call.”

As if the poor guy didn’t have enough troubles, he had to be saddled with a name like Barry Potter.

“I don’t know if you remember me, Barry. I was there the day you signed up with Dates of Joy.”

“I remember you. You tried to warn me about Joy. I should have listened. She turned out to be a very evil lady. Anyhow, I’m sorry I didn’t pick up when you called, but we’ve been busy taking inventory here at Shoe City. That’s where I work, you know. We have some great deals on extra-wide orthotic insoles, if you’re interested.”

“Sounds mighty tempting, Barry, but actually I was hoping you could answer a few questions about Joy Amoroso’s murder.”

“Sorry, no can do. Phil said I’m not allowed to talk about the murder.”

“Phil?”

“My brother-in-law. He’s an attorney. Well, technically he’s a paralegal, but he knows practically as much as an attorney, and he told me to keep my mouth shut.”

Uh-oh. Time to haul out my
L.A. Times
ruse.

“But this isn’t really about the murder. I’m writing an exposé for the
L.A. Times
about Joy and her unscrupulous business practices.”

“You write for the
L.A. Times?
” he asked, clearly impressed. “That’s super!”

“Anyhow, I was hoping you’d be willing to talk about your experiences with Joy. Anonymously, of course,” I hastened to assure him. “Your privacy would be totally protected.”

“And I’d get to tell the world what a lying, cheating witch of a woman she was?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then count me in!”

We agreed to meet at his Glendale apartment the next night and I hung up, wondering why on earth he felt the need to arm himself with an attorney.

 

Barry greeted me at the door of his modest one-bedroom apartment in slacks and a short-sleeved sport shirt, his pocket protector chock full of pens.

“Come on in,” he said, waving me into his spartan living room, which consisted of a sofa, coffee table, plastic lawn chair, and an old fashioned TV hulking in the corner.

In the center of the coffee table, next to a copy of
Shoe Biz
magazine, was a large goldfish bowl.

“Don’t worry, Penelope,” he called out to the goldfish swimming frantically inside. “It’s only Ms. Austen. She’s here to interview me for the
Los Angeles Times.
”

Then he turned to me and whispered, “She gets anxious around strangers. Don’t pay any attention to her and she’ll calm down.”

A shoe salesman with a neurotic goldfish. No wonder the poor guy had trouble lining up dates.

I sat on the lawn chair, as far from the lap-swimming Penelope as I could get.

“Where’s your recorder?” Barry asked, plopping down on the sofa. “Don’t all reporters tape their interviews?”

“Oh, no. That’s only on TV and in the movies. I’ve got a fabulous memory!”

“Wow.” He gazed at me, awestruck. “That’s wonderful. I have a hard time at Shoe City remembering which shoes go in the right box.”

“So,” I said with a bright smile. “Ready to get started on the exposé?”

I was hoping once I got him warmed up, I could somehow segue into the murder.

“Am I ever!” he said.

And he was off to the races.

“Joy Amoroso was a liar and a cheat. The minute I signed over my CD to her, she wanted nothing to do with me. Put that in the paper,” he directed me. “She took people’s money and then forgot they were even alive. One day I called her to ask why she hadn’t set me up with Albany the model. She thought she put me on hold, but I heard her yelling at her assistant for putting me through to her, and saying that nobody as pretty as Albany would ever go out with a loser like me. “She called me a loser,” he said, an angry flush spreading across his face.

“It’s not like I didn’t already know it, but hearing it out loud was like a sock in my gut. It was then I realized Joy was never going to fix me up with my dream date. Or any date. She took my life savings. Every penny I had. For nothing. “I was so damn mad, I felt like killing her.”

I looked down and saw his fists clenched tight in his lap.

“I didn’t, of course,” he hastened to add.

“So what happened when you went to the Valentine’s party?” I asked, waiting to see if he’d admit he’d been there. “Did you meet anyone?”

He shook his head.

“I took one look at all the middle-aged ladies inside, and I turned around and went home.”

So Alyce was right. He had been at the party.

But had he really taken one look at the partygoers and left?

Time for another fib.

“That’s funny,” I said. “I could’ve sworn I saw you heading into Joy’s office.”

“So what if I did?” he said, beads of sweat popping up on his brow. “That doesn’t mean I did anything wrong.”

“No, of course not. But do you mind my asking what you were doing there?”

He squirmed uncomfortably, his face flushed a deep crimson. For a minute, I thought he was going to get up and make a run for it, but then he slumped down on the sofa and groaned: “Okay, okay. I did it.”

Holy mackerel. Had Barry Potter just confessed to Joy’s murder?

“You poisoned Joy’s chocolate?”

“No, of course not! I stole Albany’s headshot.”

So much for a murder confession.

“I took Joy’s date book from the reception area and brought it into her office. At first I just wanted to look at Albany’s picture. I don’t know what came over me, but then I took the picture out of the book. I figured Joy owed me that much. I even had it framed.”

With that, he reached under the sofa cushion and pulled out a framed photo of the gorgeous redhead he’d fallen for on his first visit to Joy.

“But I’m afraid to hang it up. After all, it’s stolen property.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you, Barry.”

“You’re not going to tell?”

“My lips are sealed,” I said, getting up to leave.

“No!” he shouted, jumping up and blocking my path. “You can’t leave.”

All traces of the scared rabbit he’d been just a few seconds ago were gone, his fists once again clenched tight, a strange manic gleam in his eyes.

And a wave of fear shot through me.

Was it possible this namby-pamby goldfish lover was a killer? Had he poisoned Joy’s chocolate, after all, and taken Albany’s headshot as a souvenir?

Had he known all along I wasn’t really a reporter? Had he heard that I was investigating Joy’s murder? Afraid I’d stumble onto the truth, had he lured me here to the wilds of Glendale to put a permanent end to me and my investigation?

Suddenly those upper arms of his which just two seconds ago had seemed sort of flabby now looked taut and muscular.

“I’ve got something to show you,” he said.

I just prayed it wasn’t a machete.

I surreptitiously reached into my purse for my travel-sized can of Aqua Net. I’ve always found hair spray an effective substitute for Mace. All it takes is one good spritz in the eye to put your attacker out of commission.

With my finger on the nozzle, I watched as Barry pulled out a drawer in the coffee table and took out a black oblong box.

The perfect size for a revolver.

By now my palms were gushing sweat.

He lifted the lid on the box, and I practically swooned with relief. Not a gun in sight. Instead the box was lined with pens!

“My vintage fountain pen collection,” he said, beaming with pride.

Before my grateful eyes, his upper arms turn to flab again.

How foolish I’d been to think of him as a killer.

“I have one of the best collections in the San Fernando Valley. I thought you might be interested in doing a story about them for the
L.A. Times.
”

The poor guy just collected pens as a hobby.

“Look,” he was saying. “Here’s a 1920 Esterbrook. Extra-fine nib.”

He took out one of the pens, a lovely tortoiseshell affair, and unscrewed the top. The nip was indeed fine as a needle.

He then unscrewed the base of the pen, revealing the rubber sack that held the ink.

“It’s a real beauty isn’t it?”

“Absolutely,” I said. I wanted to kiss the darn thing, so grateful that it wasn’t a lethal weapon.

And then it hit me. Maybe it
was
a lethal weapon. How easy it would have been for Barry to take one of his pens and fill it with cyanide, and use a superfine nib to inject the poison in a bonbon.

Was I looking at an innocent pen—or a murder weapon?

“So how about it, Jaine?” Barry was asking. “Do you think you can write about my pens?”

“I’ll have to check with my editor,” I fumphered, surreptitiously clutching my Aqua Net. “In the meanwhile, I’d better be running along.”

“I hope you got everything you came for,” Barry said.

“And then some,” I assured him.