Death of a Bachelorette Page 10
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Upsetting News!
It looks like our Evening in Paris waltz has hit a bit of a speed bump, sweetheart. Poor Ed Nivens’s back has gone out, and he’s had to drop out of the performance. Which leaves Lydia without a partner. We’ve posted a notice on the club bulletin board, trying to get a replacement, but so far no one has volunteered.
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Great News!
Great news, Lambchop. It seems The Battleaxe and her two left feet may not be dancing at the Evening in Paris gala, after all. Her partner, Ed Nivens, has dropped out of the performance. Not that I’m surprised. One dance with Lydia, and I’d go screaming into the night, too. Ed claims his back has “gone out.” Which is a patent lie, of course. I saw him on the golf course this morning, swinging like Jack Nicklaus. The guy just couldn’t stand to have his feet stomped on one more time by The Battleaxe.
Your mom and the rest of the gals are trying to rope in another man to take Ed’s place. All I can say is I pity the poor sucker who winds up dancing with Lydia.
Love ’n’ snuggles from
DaddyO
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Still No Volunteers
Still no volunteers to dance with Lydia. And I must admit I’m a bit surprised. I’d think it would be an honor to dance with such an accomplished woman. But no matter. Alonzo, our dance instructor, just called. He says he’s thought of a way for Lydia to dance in the show, after all!
We’re heading off to the clubhouse to meet with him right now.
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Outraged!
Lambchop, you will simply not believe what’s happened.
It’s turns out I’m the poor sucker who has to dance with Lydia!
Alonzo just announced that he’d fill in as the missing dancer. Only he’ll be dancing with your mom. And I’ll be stuck with The Battleaxe. He claims it’s because he’s too short to dance with Lydia. And while it’s true that The Battleaxe does sort of tower over him, I know that’s just an excuse. He’s seen what she’s like on the dance floor and doesn’t want to get caught in the web of her two left feet.
Well, if he thinks I’m going to dance with Lydia, he’s sadly mistaken. I’m quitting the show and absolutely nothing will get me to change my mind.
Love ’n’ hugs from your
Outraged
DaddyO
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: The End of the World
What drama! You’d think the world had just come to an end. All because Alonzo assigned Daddy to dance with Lydia at the Evening in Paris gala. Now Daddy’s threatening to quit the show. I told him if he did, he’d be making his own dinners from now on. And that he could certainly forget about the meat loaf I was planning to cook for dinner tonight.
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Base Extortion
Well, Lambchop, I must admit I’m very disappointed in your mom. This normally honorable woman has resorted to base extortion to keep me in the show.
She says if I don’t dance with Lydia, she’ll stop cooking for me. And tonight she was going to make meatloaf. I may have a will of iron, honey, but even Superman himself would not be able to resist the lure of your mom’s meatloaf.
No doubt about it. Your mom’s got me over a barrel. I’ll dance with The Battle-axe. But I won’t like it. Not one bit.
Love ’n’ hugs from
Your downtrodden
DaddyO
To: Jausten
From: SirLancelot
Subject: Another Tiny Glitch
Dinner with Brett was divine. He told me all about the new play he’s writing. I wish I could remember what it was about, but I was so busy staring at his biceps, I guess I wasn’t really paying much attention. Honestly, Jaine. I know it was only one dinner date, but I think Brett may be The One.
Ciao for now!
Lance
PS. Another tiny glitch with the Corolla. When they pulled out your windshield, the darn thing shattered, and a giant shard of glass ripped your passenger seat wide open. But worry not. They’re sewing it up at this very minute, and Senor Picasso promises me it’ll be as good as new. You’ll hardly even notice the seam.
Chapter 15
The cops decided to keep Dallas in jail.
According to Police Chief Tonga, she was their number one suspect, and they had no intention of letting her return to the mansion, lest she try to flee the island.
The next morning at breakfast, Manny got a frantic call from the prisoner, begging him to send over some vital supplies—her 100 percent down pillow, anti-frizz shampoo and conditioner, pore strips, and eyelash curler—items she simply could not live without.
I volunteered to take them to her. Still convinced Dallas was being framed, I wanted very much to talk to her.
Manny gave me the keys to one of the production company Jeeps, and after gathering Dallas’s prized possessions, I set off.
It had been years since I’d driven a stick shift, and following a dog-eared map, I made my way to downtown Paratito, merrily stripping gears—and pondering the latest news from back home.
Poor Daddy, forced to dance with his arch nemesis, Lydia Pinkus. And my precious Corolla! I cringed to think of that gaping hole in the passenger seat. Damn Lance and his stupid coupon from Senor Picasso!
I was in the midst of muttering a slew of transcontinental curses at Lance when I arrived in downtown Paratito.
At first, I thought I’d driven onto a movie set ghost town. The only thing missing were tumbleweeds drifting across the unpaved roads.
The whole shebang consisted of a general store and post office, the jail, and a Starbucks. Yes, Starbucks. I kid you not. It was directly across from the jail, for Paratitans in desperate need of a chai latte.
Heading inside the jail, I saw that it was little more than a shack with a rotary phone and a WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE poster of John Dillinger tacked up on the wall.
A lone jail cell sat at the far end of the room.
Nobody was there except for Dallas, stretched out on her cell cot, reading a copy of Cosmo. For a gal who’d just spent the night in jail, she looked pretty darn terrific, her long tanned legs stretched out on the cot, her face radiant without a smidge of makeup.
Remind me never again to hang around bachelorettes. It’s way too depressing.
Now she looked up eagerly at the sight of me.
“Thank heavens you’re here!” she said, eyeing her possessions heaped in my arms. “Let yourself in. The key’s in the lock.”
And, indeed, the keys to her cell were hanging right on the cell door. She could have let herself out any time she wanted.
“They’re not very big on security around here, are they?” I asked. “Aren’t they afraid you’re going to try to escape?”
“Where would I escape to? I have no idea how to make it back to the mansion on foot. Besides, that ratfink Manny would probably just turn me back in again. He’s very tight with the locals.”
Juggling Dallas’s goodies, most of which I’d thrown into a tote bag, I let myself into her cell.
“My down pillow!” Dallas grabbed it from me, burying her face in its feathery depths. “You can’t imagine what hell it was like sleeping on this rock,” she said, coming up for air and pointing to a bumpy lump of a pillow on her cot. “Like a boulder wrapped in sandpaper.”
Then, rummaging in the tote, she cried, “Super! You brought my anti-frizz shampoo. The humidity here is awful. Ari said he’d get me a fan.”
“Ari?”
“The assistant police chief.”
Oh, yeah. The skinny kid with the do
e eyes. Mr. Fingerprinting for Dummies.
“He already bought me this Cosmo from the general store, which was awfully sweet of him. Of course, it’s six months old, and I’d already taken the quiz on how to keep your man happy in bed with just a smile and a pair of edible panties, but at least this time around, I knew all the answers.”
“Where is he now?” I wondered.
“At Starbucks, getting me a Frappuccino.”
It looked like the Paratito jail came with five-star room service.
“And Tonga. The police chief. Where’s he?”
“He said he was going to the airport to check out the crime scene,” Dallas said, flopping down on her cot, “but if you ask me, I think he went harpoon fishing.
“Honestly, Jaine,” she said, gesturing for me to sit down next to her. “I’m afraid he won’t even conduct a proper investigation. He’s convinced I killed Hope.”
I took a deep breath and plunged ahead with the question I had to ask.
“Did you?”
“No, of course not!” she cried, her eyes wide with dismay.
“But what about what you said to Hope? That you’d see to it she’d never wind up marrying Spencer.”
“When I told Hope she wouldn’t wind up with Spencer, I only meant that I was planning to file a breach of promise lawsuit, hoping to throw a monkey wrench in their wedding plans. That’s all. I had no intention of killing her. And if I did, do you really think I’d announce my plans to the entire cast and crew of Some Day My Prince Will Come?”
No, I didn’t.
“What about the wire cutter they found in your closet?”
“I have absolutely no idea how it got there. I swear I never saw it before in my life.”
“Did they test it for fingerprints?”
“Yes, but there were none. Whoever used it must have wiped it clean.”
More and more, I was convinced she was being framed.
“Do you have any idea who the killer really is?”
“Who knows? Hope was such a nasty piece of work, I’m sure if Tonga dug deep enough, he’d find lots of people who wanted her out of the way. I heard rumors she and Kirk were an item and she tossed him aside for Spencer. Maybe Kirk did it.”
Indeed, I thought, maybe he did.
“I put in a call to my father, and he’s got his lawyers on the case. He and Mom are coming straight to Paratito just as soon as they finish their African safari. Daddy doesn’t want to miss the rhino hunt.”
Good heavens. The man was letting his daughter fester in jail while he hunted rhinos?
Right then and there, I decided that I did not like Dallas’s father.
“I’m sure Daddy will make this whole thing go away,” Dallas was saying with a brave smile. “At least I hope so.”
But then her smile crumbled at the edges, and she looked like a scared little kid, waiting for someone to pick her up at the lost and found.
My heart went out to her.
“Actually,” I said, “I’ve done some private investigating in the past.” (It’s true. Just check out the titles at the front of this book.) “And I’d be happy to poke around and see what I can dig up.”
“Would you?” Her face lit up. “Name your price. I’m sure Daddy will be happy to pay it.”
“Let’s see what I can find out first, and then we’ll talk about money.”
See? It’s idiotic words like those that keep my bank balance mired in the double digits.
Just when I was kicking myself for not asking for a hefty retainer, Ari, the doe-eyed prison guard, came hurrying into the jailhouse.
“I brought you your Frappuccino!” he said to Dallas. “Just the way you like it, with extra whipped cream! And a copy of Vogue, too.”
He handed her both with a worshipful look in those doe eyes of his.
Dallas may not have won over Spencer Dalworth, but she sure had conquered the heart of Paratito’s assistant police chief.
I only hoped she wouldn’t be spending the rest of her days stuck with him in this dusty jailhouse.
Chapter 16
Pulling into the courtyard outside Manny’s massive garage, I saw Polly sitting in one of the company Jeeps, leaning back with her eyes closed.
I got out of my Jeep and hurried to her side, alarmed at the sight of her flushed face and bangs plastered to her forehead, wet with sweat. It looked like the heat was really getting to her.
“Polly?” I said softly. “Are you okay?”
Her eyes fluttered open.
“I’m fine,” she said. “Taking a little break.” Then she reached for a can of Coke in the cup holder. “Just won this fabulous lukewarm Coke in vending machine roulette,” she said, popping it open.
“But why are you sitting out here in all this heat?”
“I’m hiding from Manny. Now that the show’s been shut down, he’s keeping me busier than ever. Doing his laundry. Ordering drapes for his Manhattan condo. Color-coding his boxer briefs.”
Oh, gaak.
“Trust me, folding Manny’s underpants may well be the low point in my already rock-bottom career.”
“You poor thing,” I said, trying not to picture Manny’s undies. A sight like that could give a gal recurring nightmares for months to come.
“So how was Dallas?” she asked.
“She insists she’s innocent and swears someone planted that wire cutter in her room.”
“Poor kid.” Polly shuddered. “I’d hate to be in her shoes. Thank God I’ve got you as my alibi.”
“And vice versa,” I assured her.
“Do you believe her? Do you really think she’s innocent?”
“Yeah, actually, I do. But unfortunately the local cops have her pegged as the killer. So I told her I’d nose around and ask some questions.”
“Ask questions? You mean, like a private detective?”
“Yes,” I nodded. “I’ve actually solved a few murders in my day.”
“You?” She blinked in disbelief.
I get that a lot. For some strange reason, people don’t have much faith in the crime-solving abilities of a woman in elastic-waist pants and an I ♥ MY CAT T-shirt.
“Isn’t that kind of work dangerous?” she asked.
“It can be.”
“Wow, how very Sherlock Holmesian of you.”
She beamed at me with newfound admiration.
“Well, I just want you to know that, seeing as how we’ve become buddies, if you should run into trouble or any dangerous situation, don’t even think of asking me for help. Seriously,” she said. “I’m a dyed-in-the-wool coward.”
“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “I’ll be fine. Just fine.”
How the gods must have been laughing at that one.
“Just fine” was the very last thing I was destined to be.
* * *
Inside the mansion, I stopped off at Manny’s office to return the keys to the Jeep and got the shock of my life.
There, bold as brass, was Prozac perched atop Manny’s fish tank! Somehow she’d managed to pry open the feeding flap and had plunged her paw into the water, whipping it back and forth, trying to skewer a tasty tidbit.
At this stage of our relationship, I was used to Prozac pulling crazy stunts like this.
But the real stumper was: How had she possibly managed to break out of our room again? The door was locked from the outside, and both windows were sealed shut.
And yet, there she was, scaring the poop out of Manny’s precious fish as they swam away, frantic, from her swishing paw.
Thank heavens Manny wasn’t around to see any of this.
“Prozac, how on earth did you get out of our room?” I wailed.
Looking up from her fishing expedition, she shot me a sphinx-like stare.
That’s for me to know and you to find out.
I raced over to the tank and was just about to grab her when the little devil slipped from my grasp and began leading me on a merry chase around Manny’s office. Round and round hi
s desk we ran, past a potted palm via his mini-fridge (where, if you must know, I stopped off and tossed an Eskimo Pie in my purse).
Finally, backed into a corner, Prozac darted behind Manny’s sofa. I pulled it away from the wall to get at her, and as I did, I noticed a wadded-up piece of paper on the floor, clearly meant for a nearby wastebasket. Looking down, I saw that it was a fax from the cable network airing Some Day My Prince Will Come. Momentarily forgetting about Prozac, I snatched it up and was just about to read it when I heard footsteps clomping toward the room—accompanied by the obnoxious smell of rotting garbage. I’d know that smell anywhere. It was one of Manny’s fifty-dollar cigars.
Quickly shoving the fax in my jeans pocket, I managed to grab Prozac just as Manny came waddling in.
He stopped in his tracks at the sight of me.
“What the hell are you doing behind my sofa?” he asked, shooting me a particularly aggravated glare.
“I was trying to catch Prozac,” I said, holding her up for Manny to see. “I’m afraid she broke loose from our room again.”
“For crying out loud,” he said, stomping for his desk, “can’t you keep that cat under control?”
Now his face blanched as he checked the remains of a sandwich on his desk. I’d noticed it on one of our several laps around his desk, and it had seemed awfully skimpy at the time.
Irritation seeping from every pore, he held up two slices of bread, with nothing in between.