Killing Bridezilla Page 10

  It wasn’t until I started up the aisle that I saw a guy in a baseball cap glaring at me from the back row. At first I didn’t recognize him, but then I realized it was Walter.

  I nodded briefly and then hurried out to my Corolla before he could corner me.

  The last thing I wanted was a tête-à-tête with Walter. Not after the way he’d been glaring at me.

  No, sir. If looks could kill, I’d be sharing a crypt with Patti.

  I debated about whether to show up at the après-funeral reception. On one hand, I needed to dig up some more facts on the case. On the other hand, I risked bumping into Walter. He obviously hadn’t let bygones be bygones in the Flaming Toupee Affair. I had a hunch he’d be hanging on to that grudge for a good millennium or two.

  Maybe I should just head home. But that was ridiculous. I couldn’t let myself be intimidated by Walter Barnhardt, a guy whose claim to fame in high school had been blowing off his eyebrows in chem lab.

  No, I’d go to the reception and poke around. If I ran into Walter, so be it. I’d offer my heartfelt apologies for setting fire to his hairpiece and be on my merry way.

  My mind made up, I headed over to Casa Devane.

  The house was shrouded in silence when I got there, a black wreath hanging from the front door.

  What a difference from last week, when the grounds were festooned with perfume-enhanced roses, the air filled with strains of jaunty flute music.

  No valets were lined up to take my car so I parked it out on the street, a shabby orphan among the neighboring Mercedes and BMWs.

  As I headed up the driveway, the front door opened and Veronica stepped out. I have to confess I was surprised to see her, considering the big blowout she’d had with Patti over the missing frisee lettuce.

  But it turned out she wasn’t there to pay her respects; she was there to pick up a serving spoon she’d left behind.

  “I forgot to take it with me,” she explained after we’d exchanged hellos, “what with all the hoo-ha over Patti’s death.” She shook her head in wonder. “What a gruesomely ironic way to go. Impaled in the heart by Cupid’s arrow.”

  “I can’t believe the cops suspect Normalynne,” I said.

  “Really? I can. You saw the way she was carrying on at the wedding. She sure looked like she wanted to kill Patti. But then again,” she added, laughing, “so did I.

  “Oh, gosh.” She checked her watch. “I’ve got to run. I’m late for a client meeting.”

  Drat. I wanted to question her and find out if she’d seen anyone sneak upstairs during the cocktail party.

  “Any chance we can get together sometime?” I asked.

  “Sure,” she said, tossing me one of her business cards. “Call me.”

  And with that, she started off down the driveway.

  “By the way,” she called back over her shoulder, “they’re serving deli. The roast beef is to die for.”

  I watched Veronica’s retreating figure and wondered if she had been the one tampering with the balcony. It seemed hard to imagine she’d commit murder over a missing order of frisee lettuce, but one never knew, did one?

  Ever see one of those wildlife documentaries where an innocent gazelle is minding her own business, chowing down on a blade of grass, totally unaware that there’s a tiger crouched in a tree, eyeing her hungrily, poised to attack?

  Well, that’s sort of what happened when I stepped over the Devane threshold.

  Bam! Out of nowhere, Walter pounced on me.

  He claimed he was just leaving as I was coming in, that our bumping into each other was an accident, but it sure felt like an ambush to me.

  “Walter!” I plastered a phony smile on my face. “How nice to see you.”

  He grunted, saying nothing. That glowering look he’d given me at the chapel was still operating on high beam.

  “Well, it was sure nice running into you,” I said, taking off for the living room.

  “Wait a minute, Jaine.”

  Reluctantly I turned to face him.

  “Yes?”

  “I think you owe me an apology.”

  Okay. No biggie. I’d apologize, and that would be that. Over and done with. End of story.

  “I’m so sorry about setting fire to your hairpiece, Walter. It was an accident, I swear.”

  I put on my most penitent expression—the same expression I use when I step on the scale at my doctor’s office—and I was happy to see he seemed somewhat mollified.

  “But if you want to know the truth,” I added, “I think you looked better bald.”

  And just like that, he was glowering again.

  “I am not bald!” he snapped. “I happen to have an extremely wide part.”

  Oh, rats. Just when he was about to forgive me, I’d dug myself deeper.

  “You realize that you humiliated me in front of hundreds of people.”

  “I’m so sorry, Walter, really I am. I only wish there were some way I could make it up to you.”

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, with a sly smile, “there is.”

  Phooey. I didn’t like the sound of this.

  “Oh? How?”

  “You can go out with me.”

  “Go out with you?” I echoed, hoping I’d heard wrong. “Out as in on a date?”

  “Yes. Unless, of course, you have another fiancé up your sleeve.”

  He was never going to let me forget that one.

  “No, I’m not engaged. But I don’t think a date would be a wise idea.”

  “Why not?” He thrust out his lower lip in a most unattractive pout.

  “Because I’m not interested in you that way.”

  “Hey, I’m not asking you to marry me. It’s just a plain old date. We’ll keep it simple and meet for coffee. Get to know each other better. Is that so much to ask?”

  Put that way, it didn’t seem like much to ask. And besides, I could always use the time to pump him for information about the murder.

  “Okay.”

  “Really?” His face lit up. “Oh, Jaine. That’s great. Just great. It doesn’t have to be coffee, you know. We can do dinner. I know a great discount sashimi bar.”

  I didn’t even want to think what kind of glowin-the-dark fish they served at a discount sashimi bar.

  “Let’s stick with coffee. And it’ll be a platonic date. Just friends, okay?”

  “Sure.” Another sly smile. “If you want to start out as friends, that’s fine with me.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that, either.

  “Call me and we’ll set something up,” I said. “I’m in the book.”

  Then I scooted off to the living room, feeling very much like a gazelle who’d just agreed to become lunchmeat.

  I made a beeline for the roast beef which was, as advertised, to die for (as were the franks-in-a-blanket and potato puffs). After packing away enough cholesterol to clog the Alaska Pipeline, I got down to business and scoped out the room.

  Animated knots of mourners stood swilling Chardonnay and chatting gaily. If they hadn’t been dressed in black, I’d have sworn I was at a cocktail party.

  Daphna and Conrad sat on a sofa near a massive stone fireplace, surrounded by a few friends who had the good manners to look suitably mournful. Daphna nodded woodenly at their words of comfort, while Conrad held her hand and did the talking for both of them.

  As much as I would have liked to, there was no way I could question them about the murder, not now, so soon after the funeral.

  I looked around for Denise, hoping maybe she’d have some information to impart, but she was nowhere in sight. I’d just have to chat it up with strangers.

  Easier said than done. The Devanes’ A-list friends made it patently clear to me that the only people they were interested in chatting with were other A-listers.

  A typical conversation went something like this:

  ME: What a shame about Patti.

  GRIEFSTRICKEN MOURNER #1: Hmmm.

  ME: They say a witness saw someone susp
icious out on the balcony.

  GM #2: Unnnh.

  ME: Tampering with the railing.

  GM #1: So, Paige, are you and Skyler going skiing in Vail this year?

  Having struck out with the inner circle, I was about to call it quits when I spotted the Devanes’ maid scurrying about, gathering soiled napkins and empty wineglasses. Maybe I could question her. She seemed nice enough the few times we’d crossed paths, and at least I knew she wasn’t about to go skiing in Vail.

  I quickly gathered some dirty plates and followed her down the hallway to the Devanes’ extravagant kitchen—a culinary Taj Mahal complete with subzero refrigerators (yep, there were two of them), imported marble counters (no doubt mined from the same quarry as Michelangelo’s David), and (this had to have been Patti’s idea) a monogrammed doggie door for Mamie.

  “Hi,” I said, coming in with my dishes. “I thought you could use some help.”

  The maid, a sturdy woman with a copper complexion and cropped silver hair, looked up in surprise. I was happy to see she was alone.

  “You shouldn’t be here. Mr. and Mrs. D wouldn’t approve.”

  “I won’t breathe a word,” I promised.

  “You’re Ms. Patti’s writer, aren’t you?” she asked, her eyes lighting with recognition.

  “Yes,” I nodded. “Here, let me help you.”

  And before she could stop me, I was loading dishes in the washer.

  “You really shouldn’t,” she sighed. “But thank you. I could use the help. I told Ms. Daphna to get a caterer, but does she listen? Nooo. It’s always, Rosa can handle it.

  “Well, one of these days, Rosa won’t be around to handle things anymore. Me and my sister,” she said, arranging wineglasses on a tray, “we’re saving up for our dream house in Vegas, and then it’s hasta la vista, baby. Ms. Daphna can find somebody else to be her slave.”

  Whoa. I’d struck a conversational gold mine. This gal was a regular Chatty Cathy.

  We yakked for a bit about her Vegas dream house and then, as casually as I could, I said, “What a shame about Patti, huh?”

  “Ay. What a terrible way to go. May she rest in peace.” Then she crossed herself and added, “Although the good Lord knows she never gave me any.”

  “I heard there’s a witness who saw someone tampering with the balcony railing.”

  “Oh, yes. Julio,” she said, now busy pouring wine into the glasses.

  “Julio?”

  “The gardener. I just happened to have my ear to the door when he was being questioned by the police. He said he saw a woman out on the balcony loosening the railing with a power tool.”

  “Did he see who the woman was?”

  “No, it was getting dark and her face was in the shadows.”

  “I don’t suppose he’s around here now?” I asked, hoping I could sneak out and talk to him.

  “No, he comes Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

  The wineglasses filled, she picked up her tray. “I’d better get back in there now. These people don’t eat much, but they sure can drink.”

  “Here, let me get the door for you.”

  “Thank you, cara,” she said, as I held it open.

  “No, thank you,” I said, grateful for the dirt she’d so generously dished.

  It looked like the gardener’s mystery woman was the killer, all right.

  I made a mental note to come back when Julio was working and pump him for more information.

  Given my earlier chilly reception, I had no intention of returning to the reception. But, unable to resist the lure of the buffet table, I dashed back for one last frank-in-a-blanket. I had just popped it in my mouth when I overheard Eleanor talking to Dickie on a nearby settee.

  “You know, honey,” she was saying, patting his hand with tiny birdlike strokes, “sometimes things happen for the best.”

  He looked up at her sharply.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Sweetheart, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but anyone can see that Patti wasn’t right for you.”

  “Mom, don’t start—”

  There was an undeniable warning note in his voice, but Eleanor chose to ignore it.

  “I’m just speaking the truth, Dickie. The biggest mistake you ever made was leaving Normalynne.”

  “Please, Mom. Not now.”

  “I don’t know why you won’t listen to me. Normalynne’s such a sweet girl. So kind, so unpretentious, so—”

  And then, like a long-dormant land mine, Dickie exploded.

  “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”

  All party chatter came to a screeching halt as Dickie reamed into Eleanor.

  “You only liked Normalynne because you could walk all over her!”

  “Lower your voice, please,” Eleanor whispered. “People can hear you.”

  “I don’t care who hears. It’s over with me and Normalynne. I’m never going back to her.” His eyes welled with tears. “Can’t you understand? I loved Patti. I always will.”

  And then, as if waking from a dream, Daphna bolted up from where she’d been sitting on the sofa. She marched over to Eleanor, fire in her eyes. It was the first sign of life I’d seen in her all day.

  “You never liked Patti, did you?”

  Eleanor clamped her mouth into a grim line, saying nothing.

  “Did you?” Daphna shrieked.

  “No!” Eleanor snapped. “Of course I didn’t like her. You didn’t even like her. I saw how the two of you fought. My crazy son and your husband are the only two people on this planet who put up with Patti’s nonsense.

  “I don’t care if she’s dead, she was a dreadful girl. Rude. Insensitive. Nasty. Asking me to get rid of my mole for her wedding photos! The nerve!”

  “I didn’t blame her,” Daphna cried. “Your mole is ugly. You’re ugly. You’re a joke.”

  “Look who’s talking. Is there an inch of skin on your face that hasn’t been lifted?”

  Guests were following this exchange avidly, heads swiveling at whiplash speed. You can bet nobody was yapping about the ski slopes now. I myself was so engrossed, I could hardly finish my frank-in-a-blanket.

  “C’mon, Eleanor,” Kyle Potter said, hurrying to her side. “Time to go.”

  “Yes, go!” The veins in Daphna’s neck throbbed. “Get out of my house.”

  But Eleanor wasn’t about to leave.

  “Not until I tell you what I think of you and your ridiculous Renaissance wedding. Patti couldn’t get married to “Here Comes the Bride” like a normal human being. No, she had to have Romeo and Juliet and men in tights playing the flute! And those idiotic flaming punch drinks.

  “No wonder she”—this said pointing to me—“set fire to the best man’s hair!”

  Oh, great. Now I was the center of attention. But just for a millisecond before all eyeballs were riveted back on the main event.

  “You’re giving me entertainment advice?” Daphna sneered. “You? The woman who caters her parties from the 99-Cent Store?”

  “At least I didn’t show up at my daughter’s wedding dressed like a Vegas hooker!”

  “Better a Vegas hooker than a menopausal frump!”

  And so it went. A cat fight of the highest order.

  And as the fur flew, all I could think was that in death as in life, Patti was still causing trouble.

  Chapter 13

  After the little scene I’d just witnessed, I couldn’t help but wonder if Eleanor Potter was the killer. Clearly she’d hated Patti and was thrilled to be rid of her. But had she resorted to murder to spare her beloved son a ghastly marriage? I intended to find out.

  The first thing I did when I got home—after feeding Prozac some roast beef I’d nabbed from the buffet table—was call Normalynne and get the Potters’ address. I figured I’d drive down to Hermosa tomorrow and pay them a little visit. And while I was there, I’d stop in on another juicy suspect, Cheryl Hogan. She, too, had detested Patti. She’d told me as much in her drunken ramble at
the rehearsal cocktail party.

  I had no idea where Cheryl was living, so I spent the next hour phoning all the Hogans in the Hermosa area. I didn’t find Cheryl, but I did find her parents. I told them I was an old friend of Cheryl’s looking to get in touch. They seemed pathetically grateful to discover someone who actually wanted to talk to their daughter and eagerly gave me her number.

  Cheryl answered her phone when I called, her voice slurry with booze. After I’d explained who I was for the umpteenth time, she agreed to see me when she got off work the next day.

  I only hoped she was reasonably coherent when I got there.

  I tootled off to bed early. Tomorrow would be a busy day and I wanted to get a good night’s rest. I’d spend the morning trying to drum up some work and grab a quick lunch at my desk. Then I’d swing by The Cookerie to return that stupid $90 corkscrew and head on down to Hermosa.

  I was curled up in bed, with Prozac blasting deli fumes in my face, when the phone rang.

  “Hey, sweetie.” Kandi’s voice came on the line. “Want to grab an early lunch tomorrow at Century City?”

  It was a tempting offer. I loved the outdoor food court at the Century City Mall with its sun-dappled tables and live music playing in the background. Plus they had some of the best hot dogs west of Coney Island.

  But no. Absolutely not. I couldn’t afford to take time out for lunch. Not with all the things I had to do. And the last thing I needed was a hot dog clinging to my thighs. No way was I going to say yes.

  “Sure, Kandi. What time?”

  One of these days I really had to work on my willpower. And I would. Right after I finished that hot dog.

  “How can you eat that stuff?”

  Kandi watched in horror as I scarfed down a hot dog smothered in mustard and sauerkraut.

  “Don’t you know the most ghastly animal parts go into those things? And they’re positively packed with nitrates.”

  “Mmm, nitrates. Yummy,” I said, taking a big bite.

  “Really, Jaine. It’s poison on a bun. How can you eat it?”