This Pen for Hire Read online

  “Yeah.”

  “Is this what you smelled?”

  I handed him the bottle. He opened it and sniffed.

  “Yes, this is it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  “I’ll never forget the scent, not as long as I live. What’s it called?”

  “Jasmine.”

  I drove home from the Chinese restaurant feeling just like Sherlock Holmes (without the pipe and silly hat, of course). How clever of me, I thought, to remember Jasmine’s perfume from my visit to the LA Sports Club. Chances are she’d been in Stacy’s apartment the night of the murder. Of course, it could have been someone else smelling of jasmine, but it seemed highly unlikely.

  I was so busy congratulating myself on my brilliant powers of observation that at first I didn’t see the black BMW parked outside my duplex. By the time I did notice, it was lurching out from the curb in a cloud of carcinogens. Tires squealing and rubber burning, it disappeared down the street before I could get my brilliant powers of observation to observe the license-plate number.

  Once again, I remembered what Elaine had said about a black BMW outside Bentley Gardens the night of the murder. I tried to tell myself that it was just a coincidence. There were a quatrillion black BMWs in the city of Los Angeles, 99.999 percent of them having nothing to do with Stacy’s murder. But something in my gut told me that the car I’d just seen was not one of the 99.999 percent.

  I hurried up the path to my duplex, half expecting some thug to come leaping out of the azalea bushes. But there was no one in sight—not even Lance, whose apartment was dark.

  I let myself into my duplex, and looked around the living room. No bad guys lurking behind the sofa. I searched the apartment for signs of a forced entry, but all the windows were locked. Everything was just the way I’d left it, including Prozac, who was nestled comfortably on my favorite cashmere sweater.

  Feeling somewhat reassured, I went to the kitchen and poured myself an inch or five of chardonnay. I gulped it down, and was just beginning to relax, when I glanced down and saw a small white envelope on the living room floor. Someone had pushed it in under the front door. I stared at it for a while, hoping it would go away. Finally I walked over and picked it up, telling myself that it was probably a note from my landlord or Ed McMahon.

  The envelope was blank. I opened it gingerly and took out a single sheet of white paper. Cut out in newspaper letters was the warning, “M.Y.O.B.” Unless those letters stood for My Yak is Out on Bail, I assumed it meant Mind Your Own Business. A love note, no doubt, from the murderer.

  On second glance, I saw that the “B” was pasted onto the paper backwards.

  Great. Just what I needed. A dyslexic murderer.

  I decided to put the note in a Baggie, to preserve fingerprints, although I suspected that the only fingerprints I’d be preserving were my own. The murderer might have been dyslexic, but he or she was no dummy.

  I was scrounging in the cupboard, looking for Baggies, when a piercing scream filled the air. It took me a minute before I realized it was just the phone. I guess it’s safe to say my nerves were a tad on edge.

  I debated whether or not to let the machine get it, but at the last minute, I picked up.

  “Hello?” I said, lowering my voice a decibel, trying to sound like either a guy or a lady with hormone problems.

  “Jaine? Is that you?” It was Cameron. “Sounds like you have a cold.”

  “Oh, Cameron. I’m so glad it’s you.”

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m just overreacting.”

  “To what?”

  “It’s nothing. Honest.”

  “Not an acceptable answer. I want to hear about it over dinner.”

  Yes! He wanted to see me again!

  “Actually, I already ate.”

  “But it’s not even seven o’clock.”

  “I know. I had dinner with Howard Murdoch, a charter member of the Early Bird Dining Club.”

  “Maybe we can go out for a drink.”

  “To tell the truth, I’m starving. We ate at a ghastly Chinese restaurant where flies come to commit suicide. I hardly ate a thing.”

  “I’ll pick you up in a half hour.”

  I hung up, feeling a lot stronger. I found a Baggie and shoved the dyslexic warning note into the top drawer of my desk, along with a bunch of unpaid bills. I’d be damned if I was going to let it intimidate me.

  Cameron took me to a French restaurant on the outskirts of Santa Monica, a cozy place with lace curtains on the windows and wonderful aromas wafting from the kitchen. The owner, a reedy Frenchman with an accent as thick as his leek-and-potato soup, was our waiter. His wife was the chef. And their teenage son was the busboy. It was all so damn sweet.

  It was just like Cameron to find such a terrific place. Clearly, the man had great taste. I couldn’t help comparing him to my ex-husband, The Blob, whose favorite romantic restaurant had flocked velvet wallpaper and an autographed picture of Ernest Borgnine above the bar.

  “So what’s happening with your investigation?” Cameron asked, after the owner sat us at a table by the window.

  I told him about my trip to Andy’s office, my encounters with Devon and Elaine, and my discovery that Jasmine had been in Stacy’s apartment the night of the murder. Finally, I told him about the black BMW, and the warning note shoved under my door.

  “I don’t like it,” he said, shaking his head. “That note sounds scary. Maybe you should give this detective stuff a rest.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t let Howard down. Do you know the poor guy lost his job today?”

  “Why can’t you let the police handle it?”

  “Because they’re convinced Howard killed Stacy.”

  “How can you be so sure he didn’t?”

  “I just know, that’s all.”

  Cameron shook his head, disapproving. He didn’t actually say “tsk tsk,” but I know he was thinking it.

  “You want my honest opinion, Jaine? I think you’re taking a foolish chance. Risking your own safety for someone you don’t really know.”

  He was right, of course. Any sane person would have bowed out of this scenario long ago.

  “I know it’s weird, but I guess the danger is a turn-on.”

  “You want danger? Try bungee jumping.”

  “Honestly, Cameron. For the first time in a long time, I feel energized. And alive.”

  “Just so long as you stay alive. That’s all I’m worried about.” He took my hand in his. “This is a murder case. Which means you’re dealing with a murderer. In case you haven’t heard, those guys can be dangerous.”

  When he took my hand, I felt my legs go mushy and my G spot spring into action. Of course, I couldn’t tell him that a big part of my newfound joie de vivre was having him in my life. So I played it cool and tried not to look as aroused as I felt.

  We ate our yummy dinners (trout for me, lamb for him), washed down with a lovely burgundy. Eventually, the owners came out from the kitchen and started eating their meal at a table in the back of the restaurant. A Billie Holiday tape was playing softly in the background. If this had been a movie, I’d have been Gwyneth Paltrow and Cameron would have been Ben Affleck and by the time dessert rolled around, Ben would have been madly in love with me.

  But it wasn’t a movie. It was real life. And by the time dessert rolled around, I was feeling the waistband of my jeans digging into my gut.

  Cameron insisted on paying for the meal. What with my checkbook balance hovering somewhere in the two-digit neighborhood, I didn’t put up much of a protest.

  We headed out into the damp night air. I could feel my hair frizzing at the speed of light, but I didn’t care. I was très mellow from our bottle of burgundy. I hoisted myself up into Cameron’s Jeep, giggling, totally unconcerned about how big my fanny looked.

  As Cameron made his way onto the freeway, I leaned
my head back against the headrest, staring up at the stars through the open moon roof. I was enjoying my lovely wine buzz, humming the theme song to The Brady Bunch, when suddenly Cameron cried out, “Shit!”

  I sat up with a jolt.

  “Some idiot’s following us awfully close.”

  I turned around and saw a car coming at us from behind. It looked for sure like it was going to ram into us.

  “Damn it.” I could see Cameron’s knuckles, white against his skin, as he gripped the steering wheel.

  Cameron tried to switch lanes, but the other car swerved out from behind us, cutting us off and trapping us in the left lane. I looked over to see if I could identify the face of the driver. My stomach sank. Whoever was behind the wheel was wearing a ski mask.

  I knew then that this wasn’t just any ordinary freeway nutcase. I knew then that this was personal.

  Cameron kept trying to get out of our lane, but every time he sped up, the masked driver sped up, too, blocking him.

  “Jesus,” Cameron muttered. “This guy’s crazy.”

  Then suddenly, the other car lurched in front of us and slammed to a stop. I squeezed my eyes shut, certain we were going to plow right into him. But Cameron’s reflexes were quick. He jammed on the brakes and swerved onto the shoulder of the freeway, just missing the center divider.

  Our attacker took off in a burst of burning rubber.

  Extra credit for those of you who guessed:

  The car was a black BMW.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cameron and I sat in the Jeep, waiting for our hearts to stop pounding.

  “The guy was a maniac,” Cameron said, his hands still welded to the steering wheel.

  “Or woman. It could have been a woman.”

  “Whoever it was, that was no random act of violence.”

  I watched the traffic whizzing past us on the freeway, a steady stream of carefree people who had no idea we’d come this close to a ghastly pileup.

  “Wait a minute,” Cameron said, remembering. “Didn’t you say the car parked outside your house tonight was a black BMW?”

  I nodded solemnly.

  “I bet it was the same person. Jaine, I think someone is trying to scare the living daylights out of you.”

  “Well, it’s working.”

  “I told you this detective stuff was dangerous,” he said, gathering his strength and merging the Jeep back into traffic. “I don’t suppose you got the license plate number?”

  “No, I was too busy begging God to let us live. Did you?”

  He shook his head ruefully. “Do you think we should call the police?”

  “What for? They can’t do anything without the license plate number.”

  “I guess you’re right. But one thing’s for sure. I don’t think you should be alone tonight.”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “No, really. Why don’t you spend the night at my place?”

  Needless to say, I didn’t need much convincing. Being chased at high speeds by an evil BMW had left me feeling pretty vulnerable. Besides, I didn’t feel like going home alone to my apartment for the 4,756th night in a row. For once, I wanted to spend the night with a man, even if it was only platonic.

  “If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

  “Of course not.”

  We stopped at my place to pick up my toothbrush and pajamas, and to check on Prozac. I found her just where I’d left her, napping on my cashmere sweater. Her little pink mouth was open, exposing a gap where some teeth were missing. Lying there like that, mouth open and drooling, she brought back fond memories of The Blob.

  I headed for the bedroom, where I grabbed my pajamas and splashed some cologne behind my ears. (Okay, if you must know, in my cleavage, too.)

  As Cameron drove us over to his place, I half expected a return visit from the evil BMW. But fortunately, we made it to Bentley Gardens without incident.

  Cameron insisted that I take his bedroom.

  “I hate putting you out like this,” I said.

  “Don’t worry about it. The couch is really comfortable. Half the time I fall asleep there anyway.”

  He ushered me into his bedroom, and the first thing I saw was a king-sized bed, swathed in a plush down comforter. I couldn’t help wondering if Cameron had been sharing it with anyone lately.

  “The bathroom’s down the hall. I’ll put out some extra towels for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “There’s some Excedrin PM in the medicine cabinet if you have trouble sleeping.”

  “Okay.”

  “Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “Just you, naked on a plush down comforter.”

  Of course, I didn’t say that. I said I was fine, thank you very much, and he said well, good night then, and the next thing I knew I was alone in his bedroom, staring at his king-sized bed. I fought back images of Cameron and his ex-girlfriend writhing around on it, having frantic sex in a tangle of long limbs and flat bellies.

  Really, I told myself, I had to stop obsessing about Cameron and his old girlfriend. Instead, I decided to obsess about Cameron and any possible new girlfriends. I scooted over to his closet and checked to see if there were any women’s clothes hanging there. Thank goodness there weren’t.

  I scouted the room for telltale photos of possible lovers, but all I found was a picture of a handsome older couple who I assumed were Cameron’s parents.

  Having spent at least fifteen minutes snooping, I decided to give it a rest and get into my pajamas. I was halfway undressed when I caught a glimpse of myself in an antique gilt mirror hanging over Cameron’s dresser.

  Maybe it was the lighting. Maybe it was the wine I’d had at dinner. Or maybe it was being one thin wall away from Cameron. Whatever the reason, I looked sexy. True, my thighs and tush were a tad on the large size, but my waist was small and my boobs still relatively perky. Really, I wasn’t bad. I just had to remember to spend the rest of my life lit by a forty-watt bulb.

  I suddenly remembered an old movie I’d seen with Robert Montgomery and Carole Lombard. Robert and Carole are staying in a quaint old inn, in separate bedrooms. They’re madly attracted to each other. They’re both lying in bed, thinking about each other, wishing they were in each other’s arms, until finally at the end of the movie, unable to control his raging hormones, Robert throws open the door to Carole’s room and climbs in bed with her. Of course, you don’t actually see him getting into bed with her because the movie was made back in the forties when that sort of stuff was verboten, at least on camera. But you know they’re definitely going to be boinking each other that night.

  As I put on my pajamas I thought of that movie, wishing that Cameron would be like Robert Montgomery and come bursting through the bedroom door. Just in case, I left the top button of my pajamas unbuttoned.

  Then, just as I was climbing into bed, I heard a soft knock on the door.

  “Can I come in?”

  Who says life isn’t like the movies?

  “Sure.”

  I unbuttoned another button on my pajamas.

  The door opened, and Cameron popped his head in.

  “You want to watch Leno together?”

  “Great.”

  “I’m afraid I’ve only got one TV, and it’s here in the bedroom.”

  Thank God for single-television households. “No problem,” I said. “I love Leno.”

  “How about I go make us some cocoa?”

  “I love cocoa, too.”

  I wasn’t too eager, was I?

  He went off to make the cocoa, and I settled down in bed, convinced that this whole cocoa-Leno thing was a prelude to whoopee. We’d be lying together, side by side, bodies practically touching, sensing each other’s warmth. We’d both pretend to listen to Jay’s monologue, but we wouldn’t hear a word he was saying. Then Cameron would make the first move. Gently, he’d pull me toward him, stroking my hair, pulling me closer and closer until finally his lips met mine, and—Good Lord! Where t
he heck did I think I was, anyway? In some cheesy romance novel?

  Suddenly I was scared. Was I crazy, leaping into bed with someone I barely knew?

  But that wasn’t true, I reminded myself. Technically, this was our third date. Plenty of people go to bed on the third date.

  But if we had sex, would he think I was too easy? If we didn’t have sex, would he think I was a pill? And most important, if we had sex, would I remember how?

  “Jaine? Are you okay?”

  Cameron was standing over me, with two mugs of cocoa.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look sort of funny.”

  “No, no,” I said, buttoning my pajamas clear up to my neck, “I’m fine.”

  “Well, here’s your cocoa.”

  He climbed onto the bed next to me and switched on the TV. We spent the next hour actually watching Jay Leno. (Well, Cameron was watching; I was too busy wondering when and if Cameron was going to reach over gently, and pull me toward him, closer and closer, etc.) When the show was over, Cameron ruffled my hair, gave me his crinkly-eyed grin, and told me to get a good night’s sleep.

  Then he walked out into the living room, shutting the door firmly behind him. So much for whoopee.

  I lay back on Cameron’s bed, smelling the faint scent of his aftershave in the pillows. I couldn’t figure out whether I was relieved or disappointed that he hadn’t tried anything. A little of both, I decided.

  Then I burrowed my head in his pillow and drifted off to sleep.

  It was nice waking up the next morning in Cameron’s bed. Even if he wasn’t in it. I was just happy to be in an apartment with another human being for a change.

  I got out of bed and checked myself out in the mirror. The good news: no unsightly sheet wrinkles on my face. The bad news: Somehow in the harsh glare of the morning sun, I’d metamorphosed back into Cinderella’s chunky stepsister. Like I said, lighting is everything.

  I considered snooping in Cameron’s drawers, looking for more clues to his love life, but decided it wasn’t worth the risk. Just my luck, he’d come barging in and find me fondling his jock strap. So I curbed my snooping instincts and padded out to the living room, where I found Cameron reading the morning paper, looking rather delicious in shorts and an undershirt.