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Authors: Laura Levine

Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) (9 page)

BOOK: Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery)

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Chapter 13

M
uch to my surprise, Elite Matchmaking was actually in a fairly elite part of town—just off South Beverly Drive in the heart of Beverly Hills.

I drove there the next morning, and after circling around the popular shopping area for what seemed like hours, I finally nabbed a parking spot and made my way to Travis’s office.

I found it in a slightly run-down courtyard building, with loose bricks on the pathway and a fountain that had long since ceased to bubble. But with its vintage 1920s Spanish architecture, it had an undeniable charm.

After checking the directory, I made my way across the courtyard to Elite Matchmaking and knocked on the door.

“Come in!” Travis called out.

I turned the knob and stepped into his closet-sized office.

It was tiny to the max, but nicely decorated with a stylish area rug, sleek blond furniture, and three well-placed posters of happy couples holding hands and smiling adoringly at one another.

Travis sat behind his desk, dressed to the nines, with his spiky new hairdo and Brad Pitt aviators, his duct tape nerd glasses a relic of the past.

“Great to see you, Jaine! Have a seat.”

He pointed to the only visitor’s chair in the room, an Eames-ish number that picked up one of the colors in his area rug.

It took me all of two steps to reach it.

“So,” he beamed, as I plopped down. “What do you think of my office?”

“It’s great.”

“My girlfriend decorated it. She’s the one who picked out my new clothes, too.”

“
You
have a girlfriend?” I blurted out.

Despite his new look, I still couldn’t help thinking of him in geek mode.

“I mean, you have a
girlfriend!
How nice!”

“Actually I met her on Dates of Joy. She was one of Joy’s few genuine clients.”

“Joy fixed you up?”

“Are you kidding? Joy couldn’t make a match if she signed up a hooker at a frat house.”

He picked up a framed picture from his desk and showed it to me.

“Her name is Ellen. Isn’t she pretty?”

“She’s lovely,” I said, staring down at a sweet-looking redhead with freckles and a slight overbite.

“I saw her picture on Joy’s website and asked her out on the sly. Ellen was the one good thing I got from that rotten job.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say that, Travis.”

“What do you mean?”

“I checked out your clients online, and they looked awfully familiar.”

He had the good grace to blush.

“Okay, so I’m using Joy’s database. I paid for those profiles with two years of blood, sweat, and humiliation. Joy owed me.”

“But you can’t just take over her client list like that. Doesn’t it belong to her heirs?”

“Not really. Joy’s business wasn’t incorporated. So technically, there’s nothing to inherit. Besides, who’d even want it? Tonio needs a calculator to add two and two, and as far as I know all Joy’s relatives are dead.”

Clearly he’d never met Aunt Faith.

“And the fact is, I’m only using Joy’s database to get started. Once I’m up and running, I’m going to dump the phony models and actors. I’ve already signed up a whole bunch of new clients from an ad I took out on Craigslist. “Which brings me to you, Jaine.”

He whipped out a piece of paper and slid it across the desk. Glancing down, I saw that it was an Elite Matchmaking Membership Agreement.

“You know,” he said, with that same appealing grin he’d flashed in Neiman’s, “for only five hundred dollars I could set you up with a really nice guy. No Skip Holmeiers. I promise.”

“Thanks, Travis, but that’s about four hundred ninety-five more than I can afford right now.”

“In that case,” he said, snatching back the membership application, “why are you here?”

“Actually, I came to talk to you about Joy’s murder. The police think I might have done it, and I’m trying to clear my name.”

“You? A killer?” He threw back his head and laughed. “How ridiculous. You wouldn’t have the nerve.”

He was right, of course, but I was a tad insulted at his implication—hard to ignore—that I was about as fearless as a Teletubby.

“I happen to be a lot tougher than I look,” I said, squaring my shoulders in my I
MY CAT
hoodie.

“Yeah, right,” he smirked. “But you couldn’t have killed Joy. Because I’m pretty sure I know who did.”

“Who?”

“Greg Stanton.”

“The artist? Really?”

“Absolutely,” he nodded. “Joy had something on him. I’m sure of it. Something that kept him paying big bucks for her services year after year.”

“You mean she was blackmailing him?”

“Big time.”

Suddenly I remembered bumping into Greg outside Joy’s office the night of the murder. At the time I was so worried about him ratting on me to Joy, it never occurred to me to wonder what
he
was doing there.

Greg may well have been the killer, but I couldn’t ignore the hot suspect sitting right across from me. Joy had run roughshod over Travis for the past two years, and now after her death, he’d helped himself to her client list and a whole new life. He had more than enough motive for murder.

For all I knew, he’d been sneaking into her payroll and robbing her blind, saving up for the day when he could afford to open his spiffy new offices.

“By the way,” I said as casually as I could, “I stopped by the bar to talk to you on the night of the murder, but you weren’t there.”

Guess I wasn’t casual enough, because suddenly his face turned a most unsettling shade of red.

“What are you implying? That I had something to do with Joy’s death? That I ran out to put that poisoned chocolate in her Godiva box?”

“No, not at all,” I lied.

“Well, for your information, I left the bar for a few minutes to take a bathroom break. I may have been Joy’s slave, but I think I was entitled to one of those.”

“Of course,” I said, with a placating smile, all the while wondering if I was sitting across the desk from Joy’s killer.

Chapter 14

W
orking my magic charms (and doing a bit of groveling), I managed to smooth Travis’s ruffled feathers and convinced him to give me contact information for several people on Joy’s database I was eager to talk to.

First and foremost among them was Alyce Winters, the woman who’d threatened to “put a stop” to Joy less than an hour before she was murdered.

Soon I was tootling over to Alyce’s apartment in West Hollywood—a sad stucco box of a building in desperate need of a paint job.

Like Alyce herself, it had seen better days.

Taking no chances that Alyce would turn me away at the intercom, I pressed several of the other buttons until someone buzzed me in. Then I rode up to Alyce’s third-floor apartment in the building’s creaky elevator, hoping the cables wouldn’t snap en route.

Out in the hallway, I made my way along the threadbare carpeting to Alyce’s place and rang her doorbell.

Seconds later a shadow darkened the peephole.

“Who is it?” Alyce sounded irritated.

“It’s Jaine Austen. We met at Dates of Joy.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I need to talk to you. It’s really very important.”

I waited for what seemed like forever until at last I heard the sound of locks turning.

Finally the door swung open.

Alyce stood in the doorway, her skinny bod crammed into a leopard-skin jogging suit, jet black hair extensions hanging limply on her shoulders.

“I remember you,” she said, staring out at me from an ashen face. “You worked for that bitch.”

“Only temporarily,” I assured her. “Honestly, I disliked Joy as much as you did.”

“I hardly think that’s possible.”

She stood there, arms clamped tightly across her surgically enhanced chest, making no move whatsoever to invite me in.

“Well?” she said. “What’s so damn important?”

Something told me she was not about to open up to me if she knew I was there to question her about the murder.

Time for a tiny fib.

“The
L.A. Times
has hired me to write a story about Joy. Ever since her death, rumors have been circulating about how unscrupulous she was, and they want to run an exposé on her.”

At last, I saw a chink in Alyce’s armor.

“That horrible woman!” she cried. “It’s about time someone told the truth about her!”

Then a worried look crossed her brow.

“But I can’t have my name in the paper. I’d die if anyone found out I’d been using a dating service.”

“Not a problem,” I assured her. “I’ll quote you anonymously. Your name will never be published.”

Not unless she turned out to be the killer, of course.

“Come on in,” she said, her defenses finally down.

I followed her past a dimly lit foyer into a tiny living room crammed to the gills with large-scale pieces of furniture—expensive items made for the wide open spaces of a Bel Air estate—not a one-bedroom apartment with a view of the Taco Bell across the street.

Off to the left a small kitchen was separated from the living room by a Formica breakfast bar.

“Coffee?” Alyce asked, heading for the kitchen.

“Sounds great.”

She reached into her cupboard and pulled out a mug. After sloshing in some coffee, she turned to me and asked, “Milk? Sugar? Brandy?”

“Brandy?”

“Costco’s finest,” she assured me.

I watched as she added a generous slug to her own mug.

“Um, no thanks,” I said, opting to stay sober for the time being.

“Your loss,” she shrugged.

Then, with her coffee mug in one hand and the brandy bottle in the other, she led the way into the living room.

“God, what a nightmare it’s been,” she said, plopping down onto an oversized leather sectional. “I’ve been so stressed out, I haven’t had my nails done in weeks. I tried press-on nails this morning, but one of the pinkies fell in the carpet and now I can’t find it.”

She held out her fingers, all but one pinky adorned in cherry red press-ons.

“Would you mind taking a look for it, hon?” she asked, adding some more brandy to her mug. “I’m exhausted.”

And so the next few minutes found me on my knees, rooting around in her none-too-clean avocado shag carpeting. I unearthed a dime, a stale peanut, and an Extra-Strength Tylenol (which Alyce downed with her spiked coffee), but no pinky.

“Oh, there it is!” Alyce cried. “Under the coffee table.”

She scrambled to her knees to pick it up.

“Damn. It’s stuck to the carpet. Help me pull it out, would you? I don’t want to break a nail.”

I tried to pull out the damn pinky, but it was cemented there for life. Finally Alyce cut it out with manicure scissors, leaving a tiny bald spot in the carpet.

“There goes my security deposit,” she groaned, eyeing the hole.

Then she added some more brandy to her coffee and took a deep slug.

“If one more thing goes wrong,” she said, plopping back down on the sectional, “I may shoot myself. My life’s been such a mess ever since Sonny died.”

“Sonny?”

“My husband. A hedge fund manager. He lost his shirt in the market and was selling off all our assets to stay in the game. The stress of it all killed him. After I sold our house in Brentwood to pay off his debts, I barely had enough money to move into this dump.

“Then I took my last ten grand and signed up with Joy.”

Lacing her coffee with more brandy, she took another gulp.

“I know it was a stupid thing to do, but she promised she’d set me up with a rich guy. And like a dope, I believed her. She wound up sending me on one lousy date with an insurance salesman from Downey.”

“I remember. I was there when you confronted her that day in the parking lot.”

“Can you believe how horribly she treated me?”

“It was awful,” I agreed.

She added some more brandy to her coffee. By now it was probably all booze.

“And to make things worse, now the police suspect me of murder!”

At least I wasn’t their only suspect.

“They say they have witnesses who saw me threatening Joy the night of the murder.”

Through her alcoholic fog, she suddenly narrowed her eyes.

“Hey, wait a minute. You weren’t one of those witnesses, were you?”

“Gosh, no,” I managed to lie with a straight face.

The last thing I wanted was one of those press-on nails gouging my eyes out.

“When I said I was going to ‘put a stop’ to Joy, I didn’t mean I was going to kill her. Although God knows I wanted to. I was only going to report her to the Better Business Bureau. “You believe me, don’t you?”

She looked at me pleadingly with bloodshot eyes, and I have to admit I was swayed.

Either she was telling the truth or she was a damn good actress.

Then she looked down at her hands in dismay, remembering her press-on nail crisis. “Dammit! What am I going to do about this stupid pinky? Oh, well,” she sighed. “I guess I’ll just have to buy another set of nails.”

By this point I’d had more than my share of her press-on saga. I really had to get in some serious questioning.

“I can’t believe the police suspect you,” I said, trying valiantly to wrench the topic back to the murder. “Do you have any idea who might have really killed Joy?”

“Anyone who ever met her.”

A fat lot of help that was.

“Did you happen to see anyone go into her office on your way out of the party?”

“Hey, wait a minute.” Alyce shot me a wary look. “I thought you were doing an exposé on Joy. Why all the questions about the murder?”

“Just gathering background,” I said, channeling my inner Woodward and Bernstein. “Standard reportorial procedure.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Thank goodness, she bought it.

But before I had a chance to ply her with more questions, she jumped up from the sofa.

“Omigosh!” she cried. “With all the fuss over these damn nails, I forgot to give myself my insulin shot.”

“Your insulin shot?”

“Yes, I’m a diabetic. Excuse me, hon. Gotta shoot myself up.”

I watched in disbelief as she hurried down the hallway to her bathroom.

I’m no doctor, but I don’t think diabetics are supposed to be guzzling brandy for lunch.

I was sitting there, wondering if I had time to snoop around her place for clues, when suddenly it hit me.

If Alyce was going to give herself an insulin shot, that meant she had access to syringes—exactly what she’d need if she wanted to inject a dose of cyanide into Joy’s chocolate!

Sure enough, minutes later, she came back into the living room, tossing a used syringe into a wastepaper basket.

“There. That’s done. Now where was I?”

At the top of my suspect list, that’s where.

BOOK: Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery)

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