Killing Bridezilla Read online

  She led me to a round glass table adorned with place settings straight out of Elle Decor, replete with silver, cloth napkins, and cut glass water goblets. Two covered dishes sat on ivory linen place mats.

  What a change from my usual plastic forks and ketchup packets.

  “Hope you enjoy it,” she said as we took our seats.

  Having had nothing since my Altoid for breakfast, I was salivating at the thought of something rare and juicy and smothered in onion rings. So you can imagine my disappointment when I lifted the cover on my dish and saw a pile of depressingly healthy greens.

  “I ordered us ahi nicoise salads.”

  She ordered a salad from The Grill? With all those steaks and chops just begging to be broiled? The woman was nuts.

  “How nice,” I said, somehow managing to dredge up a smile.

  I poked around and saw a few chunks of potato hiding in the greens. At least they looked interesting.

  “So you wanted to talk about Patti’s death.” Denise speared a piece of near-raw tuna. “I still can’t get over it. That awful fall from the balcony.”

  “The cops think Normalynne tampered with the railing.”

  “So I heard.”

  “But I don’t believe it,” I said.

  “Really? After all, Patti did steal her husband. From what I heard, Dickie took one look at Patti at that reunion and fell for her like a ton of bricks. Normalynne must’ve loathed Patti.”

  “For a minute, let’s just say Normalynne didn’t do it. Can you remember seeing anybody else go up the stairs the night of the cocktail party?”

  “Not that I recall, but I really wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Well,” I said, having polished off all the potato chunks in my salad, “I’m convinced someone else sabotaged that railing.”

  Perhaps you, Denise.

  “I suppose you must really miss Patti,” I said. “Being best friends and all.”

  “To tell the truth,” she confessed, “we weren’t all that close in recent years. I’m afraid we didn’t have very much in common anymore. We got together every once in a while for old time’s sake, but that was it. Actually I felt sorry for her.”

  “Sorry for Patti?” I blinked in surprise.

  “She was one of those people who peaked in high school. After that everything was downhill. She went into business for herself a couple of times, but mostly she lived off the money she’d inherited from her father. I think at one point she was trying to sell a line of designer doggie clothes. But nothing ever seemed to click. It was all so pathetic. And then to have it end so tragically.”

  She shook her head and sighed. Why did I get the feeling there was something just a tad manufactured about her pity?

  “Oh, dear,” she said, looking down at my plate, “you’ve hardly touched your salad.”

  It’s true. Alert the media. Jaine Austen Leaves a Meal Unfinished! I’d polished off the potatoes but couldn’t bring myself to eat the raw tuna, and instead tried to bury it under the lettuce.

  “I’m afraid you didn’t enjoy it very much.”

  “Oh, no! It was delicious,” I lied, wondering how long it would take to drive over to the nearest McDonald’s for a Quarter Pounder.

  “Well, if that’s all you wanted to ask me, I really should get back to work.”

  “Of course. Thank you for your time. And if you remember seeing someone go up those stairs, give me a call.”

  I fished out a business card from my purse and handed it to her.

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “I just thought of someone. Dickie went upstairs that night.”

  “Dickie?”

  The killer couldn’t be Dickie. Julio was certain he saw a woman out on the balcony.

  “Patti sent him upstairs to get her sweater. But he came right down again. I’m sure he didn’t have time to tamper with the balcony.”

  “No, but he might remember seeing the person who did. Do you know where I can reach him?”

  “Sure. I’ve got his contact information here somewhere.” She went to her computer and clicked into her files. “Here it is. I’ll print it out for you.

  “You know, Jaine,” she said, as the printer began whirring, “I owe you an apology.”

  “An apology? For what?”

  “For being such a bitch in high school.”

  First Cheryl, and now Denise. It looked like Patti had been the only unrepentant member of the Terrible Trinity.

  “I look back on how badly I behaved and I’m ashamed of myself. But I was pretty miserable myself.”

  “You were miserable?”

  “My home life wasn’t exactly Ozzie and Harriet. I guess I took out my unhappiness on others. I certainly hope I’ve changed since then.”

  She shot me a warm smile. At least, it seemed warm on the surface.

  “Apology accepted?”

  “Apology accepted.”

  She handed me Dickie’s contact information. “By the way, do you want me to ask Brendan if he noticed anyone sneaking up the stairs during the cocktail party?”

  “Brendan?”

  “The fellow I was with at the cocktail party.”

  Ah, yes. Mr. Rolex.

  “Is he your significant other?”

  “Nope. Don’t have a significant other at the moment.”

  Grrrr. Here I’d gone through all that rigamarole to dredge up a bogus boyfriend, and it turned out that Cheryl and Denise were both just as single as I.

  “Brendan is my campaign manager.”

  “Campaign manager?”

  “I’m running for city council,” she said, undrap-ing a poster that had been propped up against the wall. A blow-up of Denise smiled out at me with the same warm smile she’d proffered with her mea culpa.

  “If you’re in my district, I hope I can count on your vote. Haha.”

  But she wasn’t kidding. She really did want my vote. So that explained her heartfelt apology. Had she really changed, or was she just another pol on the campaign trail?

  I thanked her again for her time and her salad, and headed for the elevator.

  As I waited for it to show up, I remembered what Cheryl said, about how she and Patti and Denise had cheated and shoplifted their way through high school. If news of that ever leaked out, Denise’s political career would be toast.

  And I suddenly wondered: What if Patti had been blackmailing her old buddy all those years, threatening to blab about her checkered past?

  Maybe Denise hadn’t stayed in touch with Patti because she felt sorry for her. Maybe she stayed in touch out of fear of exposure. And maybe she got tired of running scared.

  Sure seemed like a motive for murder to me.

  Ten minutes later, I was in my car scarfing down a Quarter Pounder and fries, licking ketchup off my fingers with a sigh of contentment.

  When I’d gobbled up my last fry and final pickle slice, I tooled over to Gelson’s supermarket for a take-out lasagna. Now don’t get your panties in an uproar. It wasn’t for me. I was about to pay a condolence call to Dickie Potter, and I didn’t want to show up empty handed.

  The enticing aroma of lasagna wafted through the Corolla as I drove over to Dickie’s house in Santa Monica. I came this close to plucking off a crusty corner of cheese and popping it in my mouth, but you’ll be happy to know I restrained myself.

  Dickie’s yellow VW was parked in his driveway when I got there. He came to the door, bleary eyed, his hair tangled in messy clumps. Judging from the growth of stubble on his face, it looked like he hadn’t shaved in days.

  “Jaine!” He blinked in surprise. “What are you doing here?”

  “Denise gave me your address, and I thought I’d drop by and check on how you were doing.”

  “Not so hot, as you can see,” he said with a wry smile.

  He stood there with the door half open, making no move to invite me in. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he wasn’t up for company, but I didn’t care. I had to find out if he’d seen anybo
dy going up those stairs.

  “I brought you a lasagna,” I said, holding it out, glad I’d taken the time to get it.

  “Gosh, Jaine. That’s awfully sweet of you.” I made no move to go.

  “Er ... want to come in?” he asked, clearly hoping I’d say no.

  “Maybe just for a minute.”

  And before he could change his mind, I scooted into his living room.

  The place was very Tasteful Metrosexual, with lots of clean lines and recessed lighting. A large plasma TV was mounted on the wall, along with some gallery-chic artwork.

  Afar cry from the Dickie I’d known at Hermosa High, whose idea of high style was wearing two socks that matched.

  “Have a seat,” he said, “while I put the lasagna in the kitchen.”

  I eased down into a sleek leather chair. Across from me on a matching sofa, I saw indentations in the cushions where Dickie had been stretched out.

  On an end table next to the sofa was a framed photo of Patti, taken in the gazebo I’d seen the day I first came to her house. The Secret Gazebo, Patti had called it when she pointed it out to me from the balcony. The scene of her many bof-fathons with Dickie. In the photo, Patti sat on the gazebo’s white wooden bench, smiling seductively into the camera, unaware of the grisly fate that awaited her.

  “I really should have offered you some of that lasagna,” Dickie said, coming back into the room. “It looks delicious.”

  “Oh, no. I just had lunch. I’m not hungry. But why don’t I cut a piece for you?”

  “Okay, sure.” He smiled wanly, sinking down onto the sofa. “I guess I forgot to eat today.”

  Unbelievable, huh? The last time I forgot to eat I was in my mother’s womb.

  I trotted off to the kitchen, where I found Dickie’s stainless steel refrigerator plastered with pictures of him and Patti in various poses of premarital bliss: on the beach, at a barbeque, on the ski slopes, kissing under the mistletoe. Lots of Kodak moments, all oozing romance.

  The lasagna was on the counter where Dickie had left it. Gad, it looked yummy, all tomato-ey and dripping with cheese. I cut him a big chunk and put the lid back on. Okay, so I didn’t put the lid back on. I cut myself a tiny sliver, too. Okay, so it wasn’t so tiny. Big deal. Like you’ve never had a Quarter Pounder with a lasagna chaser before.

  I headed back out to the living room and handed him his plate.

  “Here you go.”

  “On second thought,” he said, staring down at it, “I guess I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  Alas, mine was still very much alive and well, so I dug right into my slice.

  “I’m so sorry about Patti,” I said between bites.

  “It’s been horrible. Just horrible.” He buried his head in his hands and groaned. “It’s all my fault that Patti’s dead.”

  “Dickie, that’s crazy. How is Patti’s death your fault?”

  “If I hadn’t proposed to her,” he said, looking up at me with anguished eyes, “Normalynne would have never done what she did.”

  “You don’t really think Normalynne is capable of murder, do you?”

  “It’s true she doesn’t seem the type. But I never thought I’d be the type to leave my wife. And I did. I know it was a terrible thing to do to Normalynne, but I couldn’t help myself. That night I saw Patti at the reunion, it was like I’d been sleepwalking all my life, and I suddenly woke up.”

  I nodded in sympathy, but all I could think was that he’d have been better off asleep.

  “I know Patti could seem difficult, but when you got to know her, she was a totally different person. So loving, and full of life. So passionate.”

  You know what this was all about, don’t you? The “S” word. Sex. The Great Deceiver. Men are such idiots, n’est-ce pas? One frantic roll in the hay and they think Lucrezia Borgia is Florence Nightingale. Then two years later, they wake up and realize they’re in the marriage from Hell and wonder how it all went wrong.

  “I’ll never meet anyone like her again,” he sighed.

  For his sake, I sincerely hoped not.

  I polished off the last of my lasagna and got down to business.

  “I don’t believe Normalynne killed Patti, and I’m trying to find out who did.”

  “Who else would want to kill Patti?”

  Far be it from me to break it to him that people had probably been standing on line for the privilege.

  “That’s what I’m here to find out. Denise Gilbert happened to mention that you went upstairs the night of the cocktail party. Do you remember seeing anyone on the stairs? In the upstairs hallway? Anyone at all?”

  “Nope. Nobody.”

  “Did you see anything out on the balcony? Hear anything?”

  “Not a thing. I’ve already been over all this with the police. I got Patti’s sweater and went back down again. The only person I ran into was Veronica. She needed some help unloading champagne from her van. So after I gave Patti her sweater, I went outside and helped her. But that’s it.

  “Like I told the police, I wish I could be more help.”

  That made two of us.

  It wasn’t until later that night when I was curled in bed with a warm cat and a hot chocolate that I flashed on what Dickie said—that he’d bumped into Veronica on his way downstairs, and that she’d ask him to help her unload champagne from her van.

  Why, I wondered, did she ask Dickie, when she had a staff of waiters at her command?

  Maybe she hadn’t really been looking for help. Maybe she’d been headed upstairs to loosen the bolts on the balcony. After all, Patti had threatened to ruin her business. And with Patti’s A-list connections, surely she had the social chops to do it.

  Just something to think about between chapters.

  Chapter 16

  Normally I am not a morning person (think Lizzie Borden with PMS), but for some reason I was feeling particularly peppy when I woke up the next morning. Indeed, I leaped out of bed with a smile on my lips and a spring in my step.

  Then I remembered: today was my breakfast date with Walter Barnhardt.

  And just like that, my spring sprang and my pep pooped.

  It was with heavy heart indeed that I trudged to the kitchen and sloshed some Tasty Tuna Tidbits in a bowl for Prozac’s breakfast.

  Afterward I threw on my grungiest sweats, determined to be as unalluring as possible when I showed up for my date. I checked myself out in the mirror and was pleased to see that my sweatsuit bagged at the knees, sagged at the tush, and added inches to my waist. On the downside, though, my hair looked terrific. Just my luck, the weather was bone dry, so there was no sign of frizz anywhere, just a mass of soft, shiny curls. I corralled them into a sloppy ponytail and grabbed my car keys.

  “See you later, Love Bunny,” I called out to Prozac as I headed for the door. “Kiss kiss, hug hug.”

  She looked up from where she was clawing my sofa.

  Whatever. Bring back food.

  I drove over to Starbucks, giving myself a vigorous pep talk en route. How bad could it be? I’d have a cup of coffee with the guy, chat a bit, and then leave. I’d do penance for having set fire to his toupee and be a free woman again.

  By the time I pulled into the Starbucks lot, I was feeling a lot better. Inside, the place was crowded, bustling with people getting their morning jolt of caffeine. I looked around for Walter, but there was no sign of him. For a giddy moment, I thought maybe he’d stood me up.

  But no such luck. Because just then I heard:

  “Hey, Jaine!”

  I turned and saw him loping toward me with a supermarket shopping bag.

  He, too, was wearing sweats, and the same baseball cap he’d worn to the funeral, still unwilling to expose his bare scalp to the general public.

  After exchanging awkward hello’s—mine was awkward; he was grinning from ear to ear—we headed over to the counter to get our coffees.

  “My treat,” he said.

  “Absolutely not,” I insisted, refusing to
feel indebted to him in anyway. “It’s on me.”

  “Okey doke,” he agreed, with whiplash speed.

  We gave our coffee orders to the barista behind the counter, a stunning young man who no doubt was pouring lattes between auditions.

  I checked out the pastry case and saw a chocolate chip muffin the size of a hubcap. I debated about ordering it. After the shameful way I’d gobbled down that lasagna yesterday, I knew I should be ordering something sensible like a bran muffin. But as always, Sensible Me lost the debate to Irresponsible Me.

  “I’ll have a chocolate chip muffin.”

  “No, she won’t,” Walter piped up. “I brought us breakfast,” he said, pointing to his supermarket bag.

  “I don’t think they like you to bring your own food,” I whispered.

  “Oh, they don’t mind.”

  Yes, they did. Our barista handed us our coffees, along with an exceedingly dirty look, and we went over to the supply table to add our milk. Walter reached into his shopping bag and whipped out a large Tupperware container. He opened it, and I saw that it was filled with Cheerios.

  Then, to my utter mortification, he started pouring in Starbucks milk.

  I turned to see if anybody was watching. Indeed, he had quite an audience. Several people were gawking at him, their eyes bugging in disbelief.

  “You can’t use Starbucks milk for your cereal,” I hissed.

  “I’m not using their milk. I’m using their half and half. Really, they don’t mind. People do this all the time.”

  On what planet?

  He poured out the last of the half and half from the urn, then shouted to the barrista, “Hey, fella. You’re out of half and half.”

  Yikes. This guy had clearly been an honors student at Chutzpah U.

  By now, word had spread among the patrons, and all eyes were riveted on us as we took a seat at a table by the window. If only I hadn’t worn those butt-magnifying sweats.

  “I brought two spoons,” Walter said. “So we can share.”

  “No, thanks, Walter. I’m not hungry.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked, dumping three packets of Starbucks sugar onto the Cheerios. “It’s dee-lish.”