This Pen for Hire Read online

  So I called the assessor’s office and after only about seven centuries on hold, a cheery woman came on the line. I gave her the address of Bentley Gardens, and she told me the name of the owner.

  By the time I got back to the kitchen, Cameron had assembled two gloriously thick tuna sandwiches, bursting with tomato and mayonnaise, sliced pickles on the side.

  “Well?” Cameron asked. “Is it Daryush?”

  “No,” I said. “Daryush doesn’t own Bentley Gardens.”

  “Oh.”

  “His wife does.”

  “What?” Cameron looked up in surprise from the tuna.

  “The owner is Yetta Vlasik Kolchev.”

  “Very interesting.”

  “Yep,” I said, “Yetta’s the one with the bucks in that marriage.”

  “Which makes Daryush a perfect blackmail victim. ‘Cough over some dough,’ says the lovely Stacy, ‘or I tell your rich wife about our adventures with Mr. Vibrator.’ ”

  Cameron set the two sandwiches down on the table.

  “Voila!” he said, with a flourish. “How do they look?”

  “Scrumptious. But what’re you having?”

  “Harty-har. You’re a regular little comedian, aren’t you?”

  (Oh, joy! He called me “little”!)

  We dug into our sandwiches with gusto, mayonnaise dribbling down our chins.

  “I guess Vlasik must be Yetta’s maiden name,” I said eventually, coming up for air.

  “Maybe she comes from a wealthy family,” Cameron suggested.

  “Wait a minute. Isn’t there a Vlasik auto dealership out in the valley?”

  Cameron nodded. “Vlasik BMW.”

  I was so excited, I almost choked on my pickle slice.

  “That means Daryush had access to a BMW! He could be our freeway stalker.”

  “But how do we know it’s the same Vlasik?”

  “Easy.”

  Cameron followed me as I went to the phone and called information. Two minutes later, I was talking to a bored receptionist at Vlasik BMW.

  “Welcome to Vlasik Motors,” she intoned, “where customers come first.”

  “Mr. Vlasik, please,” I said, in what I hoped was a passable British accent.

  “May I tell him who’s calling?” the receptionist asked warily.

  “Yes,” I said, revving up the accent a notch or two. “Tell him it’s Ms. Harrington from Cartier in Beverly Hills.”

  Cameron rolled his eyes at my theatrics, but it worked. The receptionist put the connection through so quickly, I barely had time to hear the canned spiel about the award-winning service specialists at Vlasik Motors.

  Mr. Vlasik came on the line. His thick Russian accent, unlike my British one, was undeniably authentic.

  “Ivan Vlasik speaking.” (Of course, the way he said it, it came out, “Ivan Vlasik spikking.”)

  “Mr. Vlasik, I’m calling about the diamond ring you ordered for your daughter Yetta.”

  “I didn’t order a ring for Yetta.”

  “But I’ve got the paperwork right here in front of me. I’m just checking on the inscription. ‘To Yetta with love from Papa.’ ”

  “You’re talking crazy. I never buy retail.”

  “You do have a daughter named Yetta?”

  “Yes. But I didn’t buy any ring, and I better not be billed for one.”

  “Of course not, sir. I’ll cancel the order posthaste.”

  I hung up and grinned triumphantly.

  “Yetta’s his daughter, all right!”

  Cameron shook his head, incredulous.

  “Posthaste? Where do you think you are? In a P.G. Wodehouse novel?”

  “Hey, it worked, didn’t it?”

  “It sure did,” he grinned. “Not that I approve, but you’re really pretty good at this detective stuff.”

  Then he grabbed his car keys and started for the door.

  “C’mon,” he said. “We’d better hurry if we don’t want to get stuck in traffic.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To do something you should have done a long time ago.”

  “What?”

  “Talk to the police.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Detective Rea looked up from his desk in annoyance as his assistant ushered us into his office.

  “Oh, it’s you,” he said, with all the charm of an angry rottweiler.

  I’d tried convincing Cameron it was a waste of time to go to the cops, but he insisted. He said I wasn’t giving Detective Rea a chance, that it was our civic duty to tell him what we knew about the case.

  So here we were, sitting across from Detective Timothy Rea, he of the red hair and know-it-all smirk. He sat back in his swivel chair, his hands clasped behind his neck, and gave Cameron the once-over. Probably wondering whose penis was bigger. Rea was that kind of guy.

  “I’m a friend of Ms. Austen’s,” Cameron said. “Cameron Bannick.”

  Cameron held out his hand. Rea hesitated a beat, then grudgingly reached forward to shake it.

  “How can I help you?” he grunted.

  “We’re here to fill you in on some facts we’ve discovered about Stacy Lawrence’s murder.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as this.”

  Cameron handed Rea the picture of Daryush and Stacy cavorting in bed.

  Rea snickered like a teenage kid with his first issue of Playboy.

  “There’s no accounting for tastes,” he said, tossing the picture back across his desk.

  “Detective Rea,” I said, trying to keep my annoyance at bay, “Daryush Kolchev was having an affair with Stacy Lawrence.”

  “Welcome to the club. From what I hear, he was one of many.”

  “We think she may have been blackmailing him.”

  Rea took out a rubber ball from his desk drawer and started squeezing it in the palm of his hand—no doubt to prove he had a grip of steel, and to let us know just how bored he was by this conversation.

  “Last week, you thought Stacy was blackmailing Andy Bruckner.”

  “She might have been blackmailing both of them. It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  He looked at me and sighed.

  “So what are you saying? That Kolchev killed Stacy? Or was it Bruckner?”

  “I don’t know. It could’ve been either of them. Or maybe it was Jasmine Manning. She was at Stacy’s apartment the night of the murder. Or Stacy’s neighbor Elaine Zimmer. I know it sounds nuts, but she might have killed Stacy to get her apartment. All I know is, there are plenty of suspects out there other than Howard Murdoch.”

  “Those are very colorful theories, Ms. Austen. I’ll have to look into them.”

  Yeah, right. He’d be looking into them about as fast as I’d be joining the LA Sports Club.

  “I think you should know,” Cameron said, “that two nights ago Ms. Austen and I were stalked on the freeway.”

  “Stalked?”

  “A black BMW chased us, then cut us off in the fast lane. We almost wound up crashing through the center divider.”

  “You sure it wasn’t just another freeway nutcase?”

  “We’re sure,” Cameron said, a hint of impatience in his voice.

  “Did you get the license plate number?”

  “No,” I said. “It all happened too fast.”

  “We think someone is trying to get Ms. Austen to stop her investigation of Stacy’s murder.”

  “Not only that, somebody left a warning note at my apartment.”

  “A warning note?”

  “It said M.Y.O.B. Mind Your Own Business. Only the ‘B’ was backwards. I think the killer may be dyslexic.”

  “The bottom line,” Cameron said, “is that someone is out to intimidate Jaine. Someone who doesn’t want her investigating this murder.”

  Rea thought this over, then sat up straight in his chair.

  “I agree with you.”

  “You do?”

  I have to admit I was surprised. Maybe Cameron was ri
ght. Maybe I hadn’t given Rea a fair chance.

  “Someone definitely wants you to stop your investigation, Ms. Austen.”

  He stopped squeezing his rubber ball and put it on his desk.

  “But did it ever occur to you that they’re trying to get you to quit nosing around—not because they killed Stacy—but simply because what you’re discovering could be embarrassing to them?”

  The rubber ball had rolled to the edge of his desk. Now it dropped off onto the floor. Rea ignored it. My guess was he didn’t want to bend down in front of us to pick it up. A definite no-no in the world of testosterone power plays.

  “Let’s say Daryush sent you that note. Let’s say he chased you on the freeway. Maybe he just wanted you to butt out so he wouldn’t get in trouble with his wife. Same for Andy Bruckner.”

  I got up from my chair. “Come on, Cameron. I told you this would be a waste of time.”

  “Look, Ms. Austen. I can’t arrest Daryush Kolchev just because he was sleeping with Stacy. If I arrested every guy who slept with Stacy Lawrence, we’d run out of jail cells in no time.”

  I started for the door.

  “Bring me the warning note,” he called out. “I’ll test it for fingerprints if that will make you happy.”

  I stopped in my tracks and turned back to him.

  “The only thing that would make me happy, Detective, is for you to take me seriously.”

  And with that I turned and stalked out the door. Which would have been very impressive if I hadn’t tripped over that damn rubber ball.

  “What a putz,” Cameron said, as we headed out to the parking lot. “I felt like taking that ball and bouncing it off his fat head.”

  “I can’t believe I tripped over the damn thing.”

  “If it’s any consolation,” Cameron grinned, “you looked very graceful going down.”

  I blushed at the memory of my humiliation. Landing splat on my tush in front of Cameron and Detective Rea, whom I’m quite certain I saw stifling a laugh.

  We’d driven over to police headquarters in Cameron’s Jeep. Now, as we headed home on the San Diego Freeway, I have to admit I was a tad paranoid. My heart lurched every time I saw a black BMW, certain it was going to plow right into us. But the trip back home was mercifully uneventful. Just your run-of-the-mill tailgaiters, lane switchers, and bimbos putting on makeup at seventy miles an hour.

  “Do you think it’s possible Rea was right?” I asked as we pulled up in front of Bentley Gardens. “That our freeway stalker had nothing to do with the murder?”

  Cameron thought it over. “I know Rea’s a putz, but his theory makes sense.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted grudgingly. “I guess it does.”

  “Then how come I don’t believe it?”

  “You don’t?”

  He shook his head.

  “Up to now, I thought Howard was probably the killer. But these past few days have changed my mind. I think there’s a killer out there, and it’s not Howard.”

  “Thank goodness,” I sighed. “I was beginning to think maybe everybody else was right and I was losing my marbles.”

  “Nope,” he said. “I’m just as nuts as you are.”

  Then he glanced over at the clock on the dashboard. “Oh, jeez. It’s after three.”

  “Who’s taking care of your shop?”

  “Actually, no one.”

  “You mean you shut down your shop just to help me out?”

  “Hey, it’s slow during the week. No big deal.”

  But of course it was a big deal. An exceedingly big deal. I felt like throwing my arms around him and giving him a sweet, innocent friendly kiss of gratitude. Oh, who am I kidding? I felt like kissing him for real, hot and sweaty. But I refrained from any lip action, just thanked him again for helping me out. Then I climbed down from the Jeep and walked over to my Corolla.

  I’m happy to report that I made it there without landing on my fanny.

  “Talk to you later.” Cameron waved, then took off down the street. I got in the Corolla, and just as I was buckling my seat belt, I looked down at my T-shirt and discovered a crusty blob of dried-up tuna. It must have landed there while I was eating lunch.

  Which meant I’d been walking around all afternoon with tuna on my T-shirt. Good Lord. I can’t take myself anywhere.

  I headed back home, marveling at the day’s events. My head was still reeling at the thought of Daryush and Stacy having sex. I had a hard enough time picturing them in the same species, let alone in the same bed.

  And Yetta, Daryush’s wife. Who would have thought the frumpy hausfrau buying cubic zirconia from Home Shopping was a wealthy woman?

  I pulled up in front of my duplex and made my way up the front path, hurrying past Lance’s apartment in case he was lurking, ready to pounce with a new complaint.

  I let myself into my apartment and found Prozac right where I left her, napping on my pillow, a trail of kitty litter on the comforter. She leapt off the bed at the sight of me and came bounding to my side like an eager puppy. (No, it wasn’t love. It was the tuna on my T-shirt.)

  After checking my mail for threatening notes (none) and bills (plenty), I stretched out on the sofa and thought about the case.

  Was Daryush the killer?

  It could easily have been him stalking us on the freeway. But that still didn’t explain the BMW that Elaine saw the night of the murder. Why would Daryush have driven a BMW to Bentley Gardens? He didn’t have to drive anything to Bentley Gardens; he already lived there. And if Daryush didn’t drive a BMW the night of the murder, who did?

  Was it Andy? Or Jasmine? Or had Elaine Zimmer made up the whole story about the BMW to throw suspicion away from herself?

  My mind swimming with possibilities, I picked up a pad and pencil and jotted down the following:

  My Suspects

  by Jaine Austen

  ANDY BRUCKNER. Blackmail victim? Killed Stacy to shut her up? Drives black BMW. Says he was at work the time of the murder, but the only one who can back him up is his slimy snake of an assistant, who I wouldn’t trust with a ten-foot deal memo.

  JASMINE MANNING. Killed Stacy to get her boyfriend back? Admits to being at the scene of the crime. Easy access to black BMW (Andy’s). No alibi. No corroborating witnesses. No fat on her inner thighs.

  ELAINE ZIMMER. Killed Stacy to get a bigger apartment?

  DARYUSH KOLCHEV. Motive same as Bruckner’s. Access to BMW. Alibi: Says he was home watching TV with his wife, but he could have slipped out and bonked Stacy to death while his Yetta was in the kitchen fixing him a bowl of borscht.

  DEVON MacRAE. Could have killed Stacy in a fit of passion. The old “If I can’t have her, no one can” motive. Easy access to BMW at the Palmetto parking lot.

  I studied my list. I wish I could say I was struck with a sudden bolt of insight. But sadly, the only conclusion I came to was this:

  Practically everybody in L.A. has access to a BMW.

  Chapter Twenty

  I was curled up in bed with Prozac and my list of suspects, drifting in and out of a delicious nap. It was that wonderful time of the day when the sun is going down and fog is rolling in and you know that at any minute it’ll be dark, and you can pour yourself a well-deserved glass of wine.

  I was lying there, trying to decide what to defrost for dinner, when the phone rang. It was Kandi.

  “You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

  “No, of course not. Absolutely not. Forgotten what?”

  “The auction. Our passport to eligible men. It starts at six.”

  I looked at my watch. It was twenty of.

  “Damn,” I said, leaping off the sofa.

  “I knew you’d forget. It’s all psychological. Deep down, you don’t really want to meet anyone.”

  “Okay, Dr. Freud. Save your insights for Fred the Cockroach. I’ll throw on some clothes and get there as soon as I can.”

  “Throw on something expensive. Rich men are attracted to women who dress well.”
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  “Really? And all along I thought they were attracted to big tits.”

  I got off the phone and headed to my closet, looking for something that wouldn’t get me thrown out of the tony premises of Christie’s auction house. I decided on a pair of black slacks, a beige silk blouse, and a houndstooth blazer I’d bought half price at Bloomingdale’s.

  I hoisted my mop of curls into a ponytail, put on some lipstick, and hurried to the kitchen, practically tripping over Prozac, who, like all cats, labors under the mistaken belief that darting in and around your ankles somehow makes you move faster. Finally, I made it to the kitchen and opened up a can of mystery animal parts optimistically dubbed Gourmet Mixed Grill.

  I left Prozac inhaling her dinner and headed off to the auction.

  It was rush hour, so traffic was a nightmare. I inched my way over to Christie’s, stuck behind an octogenarian going fifteen miles an hour in the left lane. Lewis and Clark made better time than I did.

  At last I pulled into one of Beverly Hills’ many municipal parking lots and spiraled my way up about a hundred and two levels until I finally found a spot. Too impatient to wait for the elevator, I clattered down a dirty metal staircase, emerging at last onto the pristine streets of Beverly Hills. I dashed down Camden Drive to Christie’s, a neo-ritzy ersatz townhouse nestled in the heart of a bunch of latte shoppes.

  I came bursting into the lobby, looking very attractive indeed with most of my hair drooping from my ponytail, gasping for air, and a fine mist of sweat on my upper lip. I started across the lobby toward the auction room but was stopped by a band of stunning blond Valkyries who, after looking me up and down with undisguised disapproval, asked me for bank references. They wanted to make sure I had enough money to actually pay for anything I might bid on. After I finished laughing, I explained to them that my bank and I were barely on speaking terms, that my checking account balance was a paltry two-digit affair, and that I was at the auction only as an observer. I promised I wouldn’t bid on anything, and reluctantly they let me in.

  Looking around the room, I saw that Kandi was right about the auction being filled with attractive wealthy guys. Trouble was, most of them were sitting thighs akimbo with other attractive wealthy guys.