Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) (8 page)

Chapter 11

J
oy’s memorial service was held at Westwood Mortuary, final resting place of mega-stars like Marilyn Monroe and Natalie Wood, who I’m sure were rolling over in their crypts at the thought of being saddled for all eternity with the Godiva Godzilla.

I wish I could say I showed up at the chapel to pay my respects and honor the dead, but the truth is I was hoping to run into someone who’d help me collect the money Joy owed me.

Lest you forget (I sure hadn’t), I still hadn’t been paid for all my hard work.

I was running late, and the rent-a-reverend conducting the service—a roly-poly man with round, rimless glasses—was in the middle of his eulogy when I showed up.

As I slid into a pew, I saw the place was practically empty. Just three mourners: Tonio, a blond woman a few rows in front of me, and a pungent guy in tattered clothing across the aisle.

The rent-a-rev had clearly never met Joy, because he was rambling on about what a swell gal she’d been. That he knew nothing about her was cemented by the fact that he kept calling her Joyce.

After winding down his highly fictional words of praise, he peered out at us through his glasses and asked: “Is there anyone who’d like to say something?”

Across the aisle from me, the pungent fellow’s hand shot up.

“I just wanna know,” he asked. “Are there gonna be refreshments later?”

“No,” replied the rent-a-rev. “I’m afraid not.”

“Okay, then,” he said. “I’m outta here.” Sliding out from his pew, he confided to me, “Sometimes these memorial services put out a spread, you know? Oh, well. Off to the Church of the Good Shepherd. Maybe I’ll have better luck there.”

And with that, he ambled off to greener pastures.

“Er ... is there anyone else who’d like to say something?” the minister asked when our hungry visitor had gone. “About the
deceased?
” he quickly added.

At which point the blond woman in front of me got up and headed for the podium.

There was something about her that looked awfully familiar. That thick blond pageboy. That chubby bod. Those tottering high heels.

When she turned to face us, I almost bust a gasket.

Holy mackerel! It was Joy! Back from Hell!

Even the devil didn’t want her!

“Hello,” the woman said. “I’m Joy’s Aunt Faith.”

I now saw that the woman was quite a bit older than Joy. But the resemblance was still uncanny.

She cleared her throat, a lacy white hankie balled up in her fist.

“I’ll never forget the first time I saw little Joy,” she said, her eyes glazed over at the memory. “She was only three years old, and her mother, my sister Eunice, had dressed her in her prettiest pink dress, with matching pink bows in her hair. They’d just moved out from Chicago, and my sister said to Joy, ‘Say hello to your Aunt Faith, darling.’ And little Joy, in a gesture that would become all too familiar, hauled off and kicked me in the shin.

“Yes,” she said with a grim smile, “Joy always was a rotten little kid, and she grew up to be an even more rotten adult.”

“Excuse me, ma’am!” cried the rent-a-rev, jumping up from his seat behind the podium. “I’m not sure this is entirely appropriate.”

“Hey!” She held out a warning hand. “You asked if anyone had anything to say about the deceased. I do, and I intend to say it.”

“But, ma’am—”

“Forget it, buster. I’m not going to sit here and listen while you pretend my niece was anything but a miserable excuse for a human being.”

Cowed by her no-nonsense attitude—not to mention her rather muscular upper arms—the rent-a-rev sank back down in his seat, and Aunt Faith continued her “eulogy.”

“Joy took the matchmaking business her mother and I had built up over twenty years, and stole it right out from under our feet.”

So Joy hadn’t been lying when she said that matchmaking ran in her family.

“She drove my poor sister to her grave. But not me. I refused to let Joy’s treachery ruin my life. Nope. I picked myself up and started my own jewelry business.
From Trash to Treasure
. One-of-a-kind baubles made from recycled bottle caps and typewriter parts.”

She held out a bracelet made of typewriter keys and dangled it for our approval.

“In conclusion, I just want to say that wherever you are, Joy, I’m sure your chocolates are melting. Big time.”

Her typewriter keys clanging, Aunt Faith stepped away from the podium and headed up the aisle, stopping at my pew.

“I’ve got some earrings that would look darling on you, hon,” she said, handing me her business card. And with that, she tottered off.

So stunned was I by her performance, I barely listened as Tonio got up to the podium and talked about Joy. I caught a few phrases here and there ... “a heart of gold” ... “the love of my life” ... “the world will be an empty place without her ...”

Clearly he’d gotten his speech from the Hallmark School of Eulogies. And yet, if I wasn’t mistaken, those were genuine tears I saw shimmering in his eyes.

Tonio returned to his chair, and the rent-a-rev, still reeling from Aunt Faith’s “eulogy,” stumbled back to the podium.

“Anyone else have something to say about the deceased?” he asked, looking at me. “Something
positive?
”

“Not a thing,” I assured him.

“Well, then. I guess we’re done here.”

He wrapped up the service with the Twenty-Third Psalm and headed for Tonio with a mournful smile, assuring him that his beloved Joyce was safe in the sheltering arms of the Lord.

Tonio nodded blankly and then made his way up the aisle.

Today there was no trace of his usual lounge lizard good looks. His hair, normally slicked back to gelled perfection, had fallen into messy clumps. His spray tan had faded to a sickly orange. And his big brown bedroom eyes were puffy and red-rimmed.

Either he’d been up all night crying.

Or boozing.

I couldn’t tell which.

I wasted no time following him out to the parking lot.

“Wait up, Tonio!” I called as he hurried to his car, a splashy silver BMW convertible.

“Oh, hello, Jaine,” he said, catching sight of me. “Thanks so much for coming to pay your respects. I really appreciate it.”

Geez. How was I going to tell him I was only there to see about my paycheck?

“Actually, Tonio, I said, a blush creeping up my face, “I came to ask you a favor. I never did get paid for the work I did for Joy, and I was wondering if you could help me get my money.”

“How much did she owe you?”

“Three thousand dollars,” I said, too embarrassed to mention the extra five hundred dollars she’d bribed me with to date Skip.

“Three grand?” Tonio snorted in disbelief. “Joy never paid writers that much. I’m sure she would’ve weaseled out of paying you the full amount.”

Suddenly he realized he’d strayed quite a bit from eulogy mode.

“Not that she wasn’t a wonderful person,” he hastened to add. “Just sort of tight with a buck.”

“Of course.”

“But don’t worry,” he said, seeing the stricken look on my face. “I’ll talk to her attorney and have him cut you a check for the full amount she promised you.”

“Thanks so much, Tonio.”

He was being so nice to me, I suddenly felt guilty about suspecting him of killing Joy. And yet I hadn’t forgotten about that scene in her office. Sure as I’d been snorting dust bunnies, Joy had been threatening to turn Tonio over to the authorities.

“By the way, Tonio,” I said, “I happened to overhear you and Joy talking the night of the murder.”

“Oh?” His eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“Yes, Joy said something about turning you over to the authorities.”

Those puffy eyes of his suddenly narrowed in suspicion.

“And just where did you hear all this?”

Oh, hell. I couldn’t tell him I was hiding under Joy’s desk, having just hacked into her e-mail account.

“I was out in the reception area,” I fibbed, “and I heard you two talking in Joy’s office. Joy, if I recall, was sort of angry.”

“So she yelled at me. Big deal. What’s it to you?”

Damn. Whatever goodwill I’d built had just gone sailing out the window.

“It’s just that the police stopped by to question me,” I said, putting on my tap shoes, “and I don’t know what to tell them if they ask me about you. I mean, I can’t lie and pretend I didn’t hear anything. So I was hoping you could explain what Joy meant when she said she was going to turn you in to the authorities.”

“Wait a minute. You don’t think I killed her to shut her up, do you?”

“No, of course not,” I lied. “But I’m afraid the cops might.”

“That’s crazy. For your information, Joy was threatening to report me to the DMV for driving without a license.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all. I failed the written test a couple of years ago. I kept getting a blinking red light confused with a yellow light. Anyhow, I never went back to take the test again.”

“So you’ve been driving without a license all this time?”

“Yeah, and it drove Joy batty. I lied and told her I’d taken the test, and when she found out I hadn’t, she went ballistic. You know how she could get.”

Did I ever.

“So that’s it. That was her big threat. She was a crazy lady, but I loved her. And I would never dream of hurting her.”

And the tears welling in his eyes sure made it seem like he was telling the truth.

 

I was heading for my Corolla when a bright yellow VW Beetle came zooming into the parking lot and screeched to a halt in the spot next to mine.

Cassie sprang from the car, dressed head to toe in black leather, carrying a huge bouquet of dahlias.

“Did I miss the service?” she asked breathlessly.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Damn. I had to drive to three different flower shops before I finally found these dahlias.”

“How sweet of you, Cassie. They’re beautiful.”

“Joy hated dahlias,” she said with a sly grin. “I think I’ll go put them on her grave.”

And off she went, skipping along toward the graveyard.

Melts your heart, doesn’t it?

Chapter 12

“S
eventeen dollars for a hamburger?!” I gasped, ogling the nosebleed expensive menu at Neiman Marcus’s fanciest restaurant.

Lance had taken me there for lunch to cheer me up, knowing that I was a tad down in the dumps over my status as an Official Murder Suspect.

All around us were stick-thin fashionistas pushing food around their plates, resting their Manolos, and garnering the energy for another round of kamikaze shopping.

I feared the fashion police were standing by in the kitchen, just waiting to arrest me for showing up in my L.L. Bean turtleneck.

“Don’t worry about the prices, hon,” Lance said with an expansive wave. “I’m using my employee discount. Order whatever you want. As long as it’s less than twenty bucks.”

That wiped out about two-thirds of the menu, but luckily, my burger still qualified.

“Okay, I’ll have the burger.”

A look of horror crossed his face.

“At nine hundred ninety calories?”

“How do you know how many calories it has?”

“It says so right on the menu.”

I looked down and saw that he was right. Underneath each item was a calorie count.

Talk about your guilt trips.

Well, it wasn’t going to work on me. When it comes to calories, my motto has always been, “The more, the merrier.” So when the waiter came to our table, I proudly ordered my burger, with
extra
ketchup.

Lance, after some severe tsk-tsking in my direction, ordered a sensible Mediterranean chopped salad (470 calories).

“I’m sorry I had to rush off the other day,” he said when our waiter was gone. “But I’m here for you now, sweetie. You have to fill me in on what happened with the police. Don’t leave out a single detail. Uncle Lance will hold your hand through this whole sordid ordeal.”

He reached across the table and took my hand in his.

“Well—” I began.

But before I could make it to Syllable Two, he gushed, “Aren’t they gorgeous?”

“Aren’t what gorgeous?”

“My cuff links.”

He flicked his wrists, flashing a pair of diamond-studded links on the French cuffs of his shirt.

“Donny gave them to me! On Valentine’s night. He cooked me dinner at his place in the Hollywood Hills. Chateaubriand for two, a divine bottle of pinot noir, and chocolate mousse for dessert. He hid the cuff links in the mousse,” he said, beaming like a lovesick puppy. “Isn’t that the most romantic thing ever?”

“Not really. You could’ve broken a tooth.”

“Go ahead,” he said, patting my hand in a most patronizing manner. “Rain on my parade. I understand. You’re frustrated and unhappy because I wound up with the heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune and your significant other is a grumpy cat.”

“Who says Donny’s the heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune?” I sniffed. “Did he tell you that?”

“No,” Lance admitted, “but you should see his bathroom cupboard. It’s stocked to the gills with Johnson & Johnson Baby Shampoo. It makes his hair silky soft,” he added with a goofy grin.

“So the guy buys in bulk. That doesn’t make him an heir.”

“All I know is he’s been showering me with gifts. First the Rolex. Then the cuff links.”

“He does seem to have a lot of money,” I conceded.

“It’s not just about the money,” Lance said, trying his best to look like he meant it. “Donny has all sorts of sterling qualities.”

And he was off and running, singing the praises of his beloved Donny, how he was kind and caring and smart and funny, with impeccable taste in wine and clothing—and men, of course.

Eventually our food showed up, but that didn’t stop Lance. He barely touched his Mediterranean salad as he blathered on about Donny.

I was sitting there, valiantly trying to keep my eyelids propped open, when I looked up and saw a slim, trendy guy with Brad Pitt aviator glasses walk into the restaurant. Wait a minute. I knew that guy. It was Travis, Joy’s nerdy computer tech. Only he wasn’t the least bit nerdy anymore. The former IT geek was duded up in an Italian suit, his floppy locks now artfully arranged in hip spikes.

Yikes. Talk about your makeovers. The guy had done a complete fashion U-ey.

“Excuse me just a minute.” Somehow I managed to interrupt Lance, who was in the middle of describing Donny’s eyes (cerulean blue with just a hint of aquamarine, for those of you taking notes). “I see someone I know.”

“You actually know someone in this restaurant?” asked Lance, blinking in surprise.

“Yes, in fact, I do, and I’m going to say hello.”

“Okay, but don’t take too long. I still haven’t told you about Donny’s dimple.”

I just prayed it was on his face.

I made my way to Travis’s table, my L.L. Bean turtleneck and elastic waist pants attracting quite a few disapproving stares en route.

“Oh, hi, Jaine,” Travis said when he saw me coming.

Up close, I could see he’d had his teeth whitened.

“Hey, Travis. How’s it going?”

“Great. I just opened my new office. Here, have a card.”

He took out a fancy silver card case and handed me an embossed business card, which read:

“You’ve opened your own matchmaking service?” I asked.

“Yes. In fact, I’m meeting a client here for lunch.”

Then he flashed me what I’d never seen at Dates of Joy: an appealing grin.

“You should drop by and see me.”

“Sure,” I nodded, still blown away by his transformation from geekster to sleekster.

After some rather wooden chat about what a shock Joy’s death had been, I made my way back to Lance, who took up where he’d left off in his paean to Donny, rambling on until the check came.

“Thanks so much, Lance,” I said as he paid the bill. “This was really very sweet of you.”

“Oh, honey, what are friends for if not to be there for you in your time of need? Which reminds me, I never did hear about your horrible ordeal with the police. Where did all the time go?”

“Most of it, on Donny’s dimple.”

As we made our way out of the restaurant, we passed a tall blonde in a cashmere slacks set that probably cost more than my Corolla. She headed for Travis’s table, undoubtedly the client he’d been talking about.

Looked like his new business was off to a booming start.

Picking up a mint from a bowl on the hostess stand (okay, three mints), I couldn’t help but wonder if Travis’s sudden change of fortune had anything to do with Joy’s murder.

 

Back home, after an obligatory belly rub for Pro, I hurried to my computer and logged on to Travis’s Web site. I checked out the dating profiles of the “typical clients” he’d used to lure in new members.

Holy mackerel. I recognized every one of them. Mainly because Travis had filched them all from Joy’s database.

No wonder he was able to get his business off to such a fast start.

And just like that, Travis Richardson leapt on board my suspect list.

Was it possible the former geek had poisoned his boss from hell to get his hands on her client list?