Killing Bridezilla Page 12

  “Yes, I saw it. The cops think Normalynne did it.”

  “Well, I don’t, and I’m investigating the case on her behalf.”

  “Investigating? You mean, like a private eye?” Her blue eyes widened in surprise. “But I thought you were a writer.”

  “And a part-time private eye.”

  “Wow.” She looked at me with unabashed admiration. “You’ve got two gigs going, and I can barely hold on to my crummy telemarketing job. You wouldn’t believe how rude some people are. I’ve been cursed out in more languages than I knew existed. Oh, well. At least now I know how to say ‘drop dead’ in Hindustani.”

  Between the recently fired Normalynne and the minimum-wage Cheryl, I was beginning to feel like Hermosa High’s Girl Most Likely to Succeed.

  “So you really think Normalynne is innocent?” she asked. “I mean, you saw how crazy she was at the wedding.”

  “I also saw how crazy you were at the cocktail party.”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” she said, sitting up straight. “I hated Patti, but I didn’t kill her.”

  At that moment, I tended to believe her. I remembered how smashed she’d been at the cocktail party. It didn’t seem likely she could’ve operated a power drill without hacking off a finger or two. But who knew? Maybe she snuck upstairs and did the dirty deed while she was still relatively sober. Maybe that’s why she’d been drinking—to anesthetize herself to what she’d just done.

  “You didn’t by any chance happen to see anybody sneak upstairs that night?”

  “Nah. I was too blotto to see much of anything.”

  “So you have no idea who might have tampered with the balcony?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to see Patti dead?”

  “Take a number. To know Patti was to loathe her,” she said, slugging down some more beer. “Lord, she made my life miserable.”

  “Even back in high school?”

  “Especially in high school.”

  “But I don’t get it. I thought you two were best friends.”

  “Back in the beginning, yes. I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world when I first moved to Hermosa and Patti took me under her wing. I’d never been very popular before, but when she swept me into her inner circle, everything changed. Suddenly everyone was nice to me. But it didn’t take long to see how awful Patti could be. The same way she terrorized the rest of you, she terrorized me. Denise was strong and Patti respected that, but Patti sensed I was weak. And if Patti sensed weakness, she went for the jugular.”

  “Why did you stick around?”

  “Every time I’d think about breaking things off, she’d start acting nice and lure me back in again. And it was high school. There was a part of me that was willing to put up with anything, I guess, just to be popular.”

  She sucked her beer for another comforting guzzle.

  “So I hung in there. It was horrible. Patti got us to do things we would’ve never done on our own. We cheated on tests, drove without licenses—we even shoplifted at the mall. I was always terrified that someday we’d get caught. And then one day, it happened. A security guard caught us leaving the Gap with a sweater. Patti was the one who’d taken it, but she convinced me to put it in my purse. She told me her parents would never buy her the BMW they’d promised her for graduation if they thought she’d stolen the sweater, and she begged me to take the rap for her. She swore that her parents would take care of me, that they were good friends with the judge, and that the case against me would be dropped.

  “And like an idiot, I believed her. The case went to trial, and I wound up doing probation. I lost my scholarship to UCLA and my life has been in the toilet ever since.”

  So that’s what Cheryl meant at the cocktail party when she said Patti had ruined her life.

  “But I don’t understand. After all that, why did you still continue to be her friend?”

  “Why?” She laughed bitterly. “I’ll tell you why. She was sending me a check each month. Thanks to her daddy’s money, she could afford to keep me living in the lap of all this luxury.”

  With that, she put back her head and drained the last of her beer.

  “I need another. Want one?”

  I shook my head and watched as she disappeared into the gloom of the apartment.

  Was Cheryl the killer? She’d undoubtedly hated Patti’s guts—with a rage that had been festering ever since high school. And yet, if she’d been getting money from Patti each month, she’d be one of the few people with a motive to keep Patti alive.

  I really had to talk to the Devanes’ gardener and worm a description of the mystery woman from him.

  In the meanwhile, I grabbed a handful of pretzels and watched the sun set over the Golden Arches.

  Stuffed from all those pretzels, I went to bed that night without dinner. For a rash instant, I considered digging into a pint of Chunky Monkey I had sitting in the freezer, but I remained noble and had a cup of Orange Spice herbal tea instead. It was surprisingly delicious.

  I really had to get in the habit of having herbal tea at night instead of high-calorie snacks. I bet I’d lose a ton of weight. I got out my calculator and began running the numbers. If I gave up just 200 calories a day, that would be 1,400 a week, 6,000 a month, and 72,800 calories a year! Nearly 73,000 calories! My God, the pounds would practically melt away.

  I was lying there, lost in a reverie of the new size 4 me in a string bikini, bouncing walnuts off my rock-hard abs, my cellulite a distant memory, when the phone rang.

  “Hey, Jaine.”

  Oh, crud. Walter Barnhardt.

  “I was just calling to set up our date.”

  I cringed at the “D” word. I wished he’d stop calling it that.

  “Want to meet for breakfast Wednesday?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. Breakfast sounded harmless enough. And Wednesday was two whole days away. I’d meet the guy, slug down some java, expiate my guilt for having set fire to his toupee, and then bye-bye, Walter.

  We agreed to meet at one of the gazillion Starbucks in my neighborhood.

  “Sure you wouldn’t rather have a discount sashimi dinner?” he asked. “I’ve got a half-off coupon.”

  “No! No discount sashimi!”

  I hung up before he got any other nauseating ideas and then trotted off to the bathroom to brush and floss.

  Okay, so I didn’t trot off to the bathroom. I trotted off to the kitchen, where I made a beeline for that Chunky Monkey.

  Yes, I know I’d just made a vow to give up high-calorie snacks. But you didn’t really think I was going to let a pint of Ben & Jerry’s sit untouched in the freezer all night, did you?

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Driving Me Crazy!

  Jaine, honey, your daddy has been driving me crazy. Ever since he decided to act as his own attorney, he’s been running around the condo, shouting, “I object!” and “I rest my case!”

  When I asked him what happened to the package of Fig Newtons I bought yesterday, he refused to answer “on the grounds it might incriminate him.” The house is littered with legal pads and Law for Dummies handbooks. He even bought himself a T-shirt that says, If At First You Don’t Succeed, Sue, Sue Again.

  He says he can’t help me hang the new curtains in the guest bedroom because he’s busy preparing his case, but right now all he’s doing is watching old episodes of Perry Mason.

  Meanwhile, he’s the laughingstock of Tampa Vistas. Lydia Pinkus told her best friend Gloria DiNardo what happened, and of course telling Gloria anything is practically like broadcasting it on CNN. Now everyone is buzzing about how Daddy is holding a library book hostage over a silly 18-cent fine. I’ll never be able to hold my head up in the clubhouse again.

  Oh, dear. Someone’s ringing the doorbell. I’d better get it.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten
/>   From: DaddyO

  Subject: The Nerve of Some People!

  You’ll never guess who had the nerve to show up on our doorstep just now. Lydia Pinkus. The crazy battle-ax was raging and screaming at the top of her lungs, demanding that I return her stupid library book.

  I calmly informed her that hell would freeze over first, and that if she didn’t quit the premises I’d take out a restraining order against her. In my quiet but assertive way, I think I showed her just how formidable an opponent I can be.

  Love and kisses from,

  H. Austen, Esq.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: So Darn Mad!

  Oh, heavens. That was Lydia Pinkus at the door. She asked Daddy as nice as you please if she could have her library book back. He shouted at her to “quit the premises” immediately or he’d, and I’m quoting here, “ipso her facto!” And then he slammed the door in her face so hard I thought it would fall off the hinges.

  I ran out after her with some fresh-baked brownies and tried to apologize, but before I could catch up with her, she drove away.

  I’m so darn angry with Daddy right now, I feel like trading him in for a new Toyota.

  Your disgusted,

  Mom

  PS. I don’t know why Daddy keeps referring to Lydia as a battle-ax. The woman weighs 90 pounds soaking wet.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: In a Snit

  For some insane reason, your mother is in a snit, just because I asked that Pinkus woman to quit the premises. She practically threw my meatloaf at me at dinner.

  Of all times for her to be mad at me—just when I need her to be my character witness in court! I had to soften her up somehow. So after dinner, I gave her a foot rub and agreed to pick up her old boyfriend at the airport.

  What we lawyers have to do to win a case!

  Love ’n hugs from,

  H. Austen, Esq.

  PS. I bet Perry Mason never had to pick up Della Street’s old boyfriend at the airport.

  Chapter 15

  I woke up the next morning nursing a Chunky Monkey hangover.

  After wiping sleep from my eyes—and chocolate from my pillowcase—I staggered to the kitchen where I tossed Prozac some Hearty Halibut Entrails and fixed myself a spartan breakfast of instant coffee and an Altoid.

  With a much-need jolt of caffeine flowing through my veins, I hunkered down at my computer to check my e-mail. I groaned as I read about My Father, The Budding Attorney and his ongoing feud with Lydia Pinkus. Leave it to Daddy to get into a battle royale over an eighteen-cent library fine. Poor Mom—the woman deserved combat pay. I was just grateful I was three thousand miles out of their orbit.

  Not that things were so great at this end of the continent. Lest you forget, I still hadn’t been paid for Patti’s wedding gig, and my checkbook balance was teetering on life support.

  So without wasting any more time, I printed out an invoice for Services Rendered Mangling William Shakespeare and tooled over in my Corolla to deliver it to the Devanes.

  I was happy to hear the sweet sound of a lawn mower as I walked up their driveway. Which meant that Julio, the gardener, was out back somewhere. I fully intended to corner him and get the dirt on the mystery woman he’d seen on the balcony.

  But first I had to drop off that invoice.

  Part of me wanted to ring the bell and get a check in my hot little hands right then and there, but another part of me was embarrassed to be yakking about filthy lucre so soon after Patti’s death. So I took the coward’s way out and slipped the invoice in the Devanes’ mail slot. If I didn’t hear from them in a few days, I’d come back and talk to them in person.

  Having dispensed with that awkward but necessary task, I trotted around back in search of Julio.

  I should’ve known there’d be more than one gardener at a place as big as Casa Devane. At least four of them were hard at work, mowing, clipping, hedging, and pruning.

  The grounds looked just as I’d seen them the day I first came to visit Patti. All traces of the wedding had been cleared away, except for the statue of Cupid beneath the balcony, which was blocked off—in a sad reminder of Patti’s fatal plunge—by yellow police tape.

  I made my way to the nearest gardener, who was busy trimming a magnificent lilac bush.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I’d like to speak with Julio.”

  The gardener turned to face me. He was a tall, muscular guy in a baseball cap that said Chuy’s Landscaping. Given that his work shirt had the name “Chuy” embroidered on the pocket, I figured I was talking to the boss man, Chuy of Chuy’s Landscaping.

  “Julio’s not speaking with reporters,” he said, waving me away like a pesky aphid. “Only the police.”

  Then he turned back to his lilacs.

  “Oh, but I am the police!” I fibbed.

  What’s a little white lie in the pursuit of truth and justice?

  I rummaged in my purse and fished out an old badge I’d bought at a flea market for occasions just such as this. The trick was to flash it fast, before anyone could read the words USDA Meat Inspector.

  Happily, Chuy was content with a quick flash.

  He nodded curtly and led me across the lawn to one of his workers pushing a lawn mower.

  “Julio!”

  The gardener looked up, startled, and Chuy motioned for him to shut off the machine.

  “Esta mujer es policia,” he said, gesturing to me.

  Julio wiped the sweat from his brow and shot me a nervous smile. He was a frail man with darting eyes who seemed lost in the folds of his Chuy’s Landscaping work shirt.

  “Thanks,” I said to Chuy, in my most authoritative voice. “I can take it from here.”

  He shot me a dubious look and then headed back to whack at the lilacs.

  “Hi, Julio.” I smiled encouragingly at the skinny gardener. “I have a few questions to ask about the woman you saw out on the balcony. I was hoping you could give me a better description of her.”

  “Sorry,” he smiled apologetically. “My Ingles not so good.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll talk real slow. The lady on the balcony.”

  I pointed to the balcony.

  “The one with the drill.”

  I pantomimed a power drill.

  “Sí,” Julio nodded. “Lady on balcon.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “I not see so good. No mas sol,” he said. “No more sun. Was dark. Oscuro.”

  “Did she have long hair?” I asked, pointing to my hair. “Or short?”

  “I not see good,” he repeated. “Oscuro.”

  “What was she wearing? A dress? Slacks?”

  Once again, I got an apologetic oscuro.

  I tried to get a better description of the mystery woman, but all Julio was certain of was that he’d seen a woman and that he’d heard a drill.

  Having finished with his lilac bush, Chuy now wandered over to rejoin us.

  “Are you sure it wasn’t a man up on the balcony?” I asked Julio. “Un hombre?”

  “No,” he shook his head. “No hombre. Was lady. Mujer.”

  “Wait a minute,” Chuy asked me, his brow furrowed in suspicion. “Don’t you speak Spanish?”

  “No, not exactly.”

  “The police know Julio’s English stinks. They never send anybody who doesn’t speak Spanish.”

  “Trust me,” I said, determined to bluff my way through this. “I do this stuff all the time.”

  Experience has taught me that if you act confident enough, people believe whatever you say.

  “Oh, yeah? Let me see that badge of yours again.”

  So much for experience as a teacher.

  Looked like it was time to vamoose.

  “Well, that about wraps up my questions. Thanks so much, Julio. Or should I say Gracias? Well, buenas tardes, hasta la vista, and all that.”

  With that, I gave them a ridiculously inappropriate
military salute and hustled my gringa fanny out of there, my mystery woman as oscuro as ever.

  My next stop was Denise Gilbert. Cheryl had hated Patti’s guts; who’s to say Denise hadn’t been toting around her own hate-filled baggage all these years?

  I got her business number from information and called her Century City law offices. I half expected her to turn down my call, but she came on the line with a friendly, “Hello, Jaine. How can I help you?”

  When I told her I wanted to talk to her about Patti’s death, she paused ever so slightly before saying, “Of course. I’m having lunch at my desk today, if you’d care to join me. I’ll order us something from The Grill.”

  I have to confess I was surprised. The Grill is one of the premier expense account restaurants in L.A., famous for its hearty fare of steaks and chops. I’d pegged Denise as a dainty salad eater, the kind of gal who’s stuffed after a few forkfuls of radicchio.

  “Great,” I said, and visions of T-bones danced in my head as I drove over to Century City.

  Denise’s office was on the zillionth floor of a towering high rise, a sleekly furnished affair with floor-to-ceiling windows and an IMAX-quality view of the ocean. On a clear day, she probably saw Hawaii.

  She stood up to greet me, tall, cool, and elegant. Once again, I asked myself why a sophisticated woman like Denise had been hanging around a dingbat like Patti.

  “Perfect timing,” she said. “Lunch just came.”