Death of a Bachelorette Read online

  Instead of being swept away to oblivion, Godzilla scuttled to safety, disappearing into a crack in the grout.

  Now what to do?

  I absolutely had to wash the stink of snotfish off my body, but I was terrified that once I stepped in the shower, Godzilla would pop back out from the grout to join me.

  Taking one good whiff of myself, I realized I had no choice.

  I simply had to get clean.

  Ready to bolt at the first sign of Godzilla, I stepped into the shower and began scrubbing myself. It wasn’t easy under the tepid trickle of water, but eventually, my eyes glued to the tiles for signs of Godzilla, I managed to clean myself off and scoot out of the shower to safety.

  Although stink-free, I felt about as refreshed as a lettuce leaf on a hibachi.

  How nice it would be, I thought, to go for a swim in the pool. But going for a swim would mean me and my thighs being seen in public in a bathing suit.

  Never a happy scenario in the screenplay of my life.

  But within minutes I was sweating like a dockworker, so I figured what the heck. I’d go for it. After foraging around in my suitcase, I wiggled into my Day-Glo orange tankini with industrial-strength tummy tuck panels, a Home Shopping Club gift from my mom—from their Golda Meir swimsuit collection.

  With any luck, the pool would be deserted when I got there, and I’d be able to go for a lovely dip.

  Throwing on clean capris and a T-shirt as a cover-up, I grabbed the key to Sauna Central, along with the key to the Jeep, which—in all the excitement of finding Manny’s two-million-dollar insurance policy—I’d forgotten to return.

  Leaving Prozac snoring under the fan, I headed out into the hallway, where I bolted the door shut.

  Then I made my way down to the pool, praying I wouldn’t get there only to find Prozac stretched out on a chaise, sipping a piña colada.

  * * *

  The good news was that the pool was 100 percent Prozac-free when I showed up. The bad news was that it was jammed with crew members—mostly burly guys with big guts, glugging down beers at an alarming rate.

  Isn’t it amazing how men can strut around with their bellies hanging out and not give it a second thought, while women obsess over the tiniest speck of cellulite on their thighs?

  In spite of Gloria Steinem whispering in my ear, urging me to cast off my insecurities and take pride in my female body in all its glorious imperfections, I wimped out and kept my imperfect bod hidden under my capris and tee. Of course, I had more than a tiny speck of cellulite frolicking on my thighs, especially compared to the other gals at the pool—among them, the babe-alicious Brianna and Polly, who was stretched out on a chaise next to Kirk, looking Audrey Hepburn adorable in a tiny wisp of a bikini.

  “Hi, guys,” I said, wandering over to where Polly and Kirk were sitting. “How’s it going?”

  “Super!” Polly grinned, while Kirk gazed up at me with the same glazed look in his eyes he’d had ever since the murder. “Manny went off to the airport to check on his pastrami, so I’m finally getting some time off!”

  She rolled her eyes over at Kirk and shot me a conspiratorial smile. At last Polly was getting a chance to cozy up to her heartthrob. Who, in his current condition, certainly didn’t look like much of a heartthrob to me.

  I took in his bloodshot eyes, ashen complexion, and greasy clumps of surfer blond hair and remembered what Spencer said, about how Kirk might have cut the cords on Hope’s chute in a moment of passion.

  Did that glazed look in his eyes mean he’d simply had too much to drink—or was it the look of a man filled with remorse over a murder he’d just committed?

  I definitely wanted to question him, but now was not the time, not with Polly at his side, in seventh heaven, eager to win him over.

  I just hoped she wasn’t flirting with a killer.

  “I think I’ll go sit at the pool for a while,” I said, “and leave you two alone.”

  Polly shot me a grateful smile as I wandered off to the pool.

  Kicking off my flip-flops, I sat on the edge of the pool and dipped my feet in the water.

  Nearby two guys I recognized as cameramen were leaning up against the edge of the pool, water up to their hairy chests, glugging down beers.

  They both looked like mountain men, the kind of guys you’d expect to see building log cabins in Alaska or playing banjos in Deliverance.

  One had a bushy red beard; the other, a bushy black beard.

  I figured it was time to play PI again and ask some questions about the murder.

  “Hello, there,” I said to them, smiling brightly. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Jaine Austen.”

  “Yeah, we know,” said Redbeard. “You’re Spencer’s writer.”

  “Brilliant!” guffawed Blackbeard.

  “What a shame about Hope,” I said, easing into my interrogation.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Redbeard replied.

  Blackbeard just shrugged, not exactly overcome with grief.

  “I don’t suppose either of you saw anyone heading over to the prop shed the morning of the murder.”

  “Nah,” said Blackbeard. “All of us in the crew were hanging around, waiting for Dallas’s hissy fit to be over and for shooting to start. Most of the guys were playing poker. Nobody went anywhere, except maybe to use the Porta-Potties.”

  “I still can’t believe Manny won’t let us use the bathrooms in the mansion,” Redbeard grumbled. “What a jerk.”

  “Do you know he charges us ten bucks a beer?” Blackbeard said, waving his can of beer in my face. “Docks it from our pay.”

  “We have to go down to the general store in town to buy it on our own,” Redbeard explained.

  “And what about the factory-reject food he serves?” Blackbeard snorted, indignant.

  “Yeah,” said Redbeard. “Close your eyes and you’re eating in Calcutta.”

  “Do you know anyone in the crew who might have had a motive to kill Hope?” I asked, wrenching the topic back to Hope’s murder.

  They shook their heads.

  “Aside from Kirk, none of us even knew her,” said Blackbeard. “She was real standoffish. Never gave any of us the time of day. She only had eyes for Prince Charming.”

  After bidding my bearded buddies good-bye, I circulated around for a bit, chatting with as many people as I could. I got the same story from everyone:

  Nobody saw anyone going to the prop shed. Nobody much liked Hope, but nobody seemed to have a motive to kill her.

  Everyone had been hanging around the pool the morning of the murder except for Frederico and Maria, the hair and makeup people, who were in their cabin most of the morning, having tantric sex.

  The one thing everyone agreed on: Manny’s food was the pits.

  I looked around at the beer-swilling crew. It was possible one of them was the killer. But highly unlikely.

  The only one they really wanted to kill was Manny.

  * * *

  By now the pool was a bit of a zoo, with frisbees (and beer cans) flying.

  Polly was still valiantly trying to chat it up with Kirk, who was stretched out in his chaise in a glazed stupor, but all she seemed to be getting for her efforts were a few half-hearted nods.

  I decided to wander over to the gazebo where Dallas and Spencer shot their picnic scene. Maybe I’d find a little privacy there, enough to take off my capris and tee and feel some breezes waft over my body.

  I headed over to the thatched wooden structure, but as I got closer I saw that someone was already there, sitting in one of two wicker chairs inside the gazebo.

  It was Justin, the wunderkind director, furiously tapping notes on his iPad.

  He looked up at the sound of my approaching footsteps.

  “What the hell do you want?”

  Okay, so what he really said was, “Hello, Jaine,” but I could tell he didn’t appreciate being interrupted.

  “Hi, Justin,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Just going over my movie
script,” he replied, his eyes lighting up. “It’s going to be fantastic! A remake of All About Eve. I’m thinking Bradley Cooper and Helen Mirren for the leads. Or Jane Fonda and Ryan Gosling. Or JLo and Regis Philbin. I’m known for my unorthodox casting choices.”

  Known for his unorthodox casting choices? Was he kidding? Three months ago, he was eating pita wraps in the USC film school cafeteria.

  “Want some mango?” he asked, grabbing a plump, golden red mango from an end table beside him. “I pick ’em off Manny’s tree. Only fresh food around this stinking joint.”

  He took out his Swiss Army knife—the same knife, I now remembered, that he used to whack away an offending palm frond in the picnic scene—and began to cut the mango into wedges.

  “Here,” he said, handing me a slice. “Have some.”

  I bit into it, and it was dee-lish. But I couldn’t think about the joys of fresh fruit now. I had a murder to solve.

  Taking advantage of the momentary distraction from his movie project, I asked Justin if he’d seen anyone near the prop shed the morning of the murder.

  “Nope. I was too busy talking Dallas out of her temper tantrum to pay attention to the rest of the crew.”

  “Any idea who the killer is?” I asked.

  “Dallas, of course,” he said without a second thought. “Why else would she be in jail?”

  “A tragedy, isn’t it?” I sighed.

  “It sure is. Dallas would make the perfect conniving roommate for Eve Harrington in the rooming house scene.”

  “Not about Dallas. About Hope. Plummeting to her death the way she did.”

  “Right. Of course. Absolute tragedy.”

  But he was barely looking at me, back to making notes on his iPad.

  He wasn’t about to get off that easy.

  “Hope’s death sure was a break for you, huh?” I said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, looking up from his notes, suddenly on guard.

  “Nothing,” I said airily. “Just that with Some Day My Prince Will Come canceled, you’re free to direct your major motion picture.”

  His boyish cheeks flushed red as his mango.

  “What are you trying to say? That I’m the one who tampered with Hope’s chute?”

  “Oh, no!” I lied. “I’m just making a casual observation.”

  “Is that so?” he said, his eyes narrowed into angry slits. “Well, here’s a casual observation for you: Mind your own business, bitch—if you know what’s good for you.”

  With that, he picked up his Swiss Army knife and slashed into his mango.

  And I couldn’t help but wonder if, in a desperate effort to get out of his contract, he’d used that same Swiss Army knife to cut the cords on Hope’s parachute.

  Chapter 22

  I walked away from Justin, feeling his eyes boring into my back, no love lost between us.

  Our little encounter had left me hotter and sweatier than ever, my orange tankini a Spandex furnace under my clothes. I’d hoped the crowd at the pool would have thinned out by now, but it was still clogged with crew members. I simply could not bring myself to unveil my thighs in front of all these people.

  And although late in the afternoon, the day showed no signs of cooling off, still beastly hot and humid. I’d never really recovered from that ghastly harpoon fishing expedition, and I was aching for a refreshing dip in the water.

  But all I’d be dipping into here at the mansion pool would be floating beer cans.

  Then suddenly I remembered the beautiful waterfall where Spencer and Brianna had shot their scene the other day. The pool of water at its base had been deep and crystal clear, surrounded by a thicket of tall shade trees.

  How lovely it would be to dive into its cooling depths.

  I felt around in my pocket for the key to the Jeep, grateful I hadn’t returned it to Manny. Then, waving good-bye to Polly, who was still yakking at Kirk, I left the gang at the pool and made my way over to the garage.

  Minutes later, I was grinding gears in the Jeep, trying to remember the way to Paratito Falls.

  It wasn’t easy, but after a few frustrating detours, I finally found it.

  Stepping out onto the lush grass, I gazed up at the water rushing down the craggy falls and into the sparkling pool below.

  Best of all, there wasn’t a soul in sight. Just me and a few birds cawing in the trees.

  Making my way over to the crystal clear basin, I saw that the water was surrounded by a border of sharp-edged, jagged rocks. I walked around the circumference, looking for a place to get into the water, one that wouldn’t tear the soles of my feet to shreds. At last, I found a large smooth rock. This was the spot, I now remembered, where Spencer and Brianna had taken off their robes and jumped in.

  Like a stripper in heat, I tore off my tee and capris, leaving them in a sloppy pile at the shore. Then I made my way into the water.

  Oh, joy! For the first time since I’d stepped off the plane at Paratito Island, I felt cool.

  What bliss it was to dive under the water and get my head wet. Suddenly all the stress of Hope’s murder ebbed from my body.

  I was a kid at the beach again, having the time of my life. Splashing and kicking, floating on my back and swimming over to the falls, relishing the spray of the water on my face.

  Thank heavens for my swim lessons at the Hermosa Beach YMCA. I did the crawl, the breast stroke, the side stroke, and even the back stroke (always tricky for me). I dove underwater, where the water was even cooler than on the surface.

  (Note to Jan Wallis, my swim teacher at the Hermosa Y: If you’re reading this, you would have been very proud of me.)

  And then I did the unthinkable. The water felt so good against my body, I couldn’t resist. I wriggled out of my ghastly tankini and tossed it over by my other clothing.

  How marvelous it felt to swim free and unfettered by that miserable lump of orange spandex.

  I don’t know how long I was frolicking in the water; I soon lost all track of time. But then a strange thing happened. As I was doing the back stroke, I got the feeling I was being watched. I looked around, but saw no one.

  I told myself I was being foolish, that I was still stressed out by Hope’s murder, that the whole affair had affected my nerves. I tried to shake off the feeling of being spied on, but it wouldn’t leave me. And then, when I was coming up from one of my underwater dives, I could swear I saw something flitting off into the thicket of trees.

  Was it a living creature? A shadow? Or just my imagination?

  By now, it was almost dark. I really needed to get back to the mansion. I didn’t want to be driving on Paratito’s pitted roads in the pitch dark.

  I scrambled over to where I’d left my clothes.

  But when I tried to climb out of the water, there was no sign of the smooth rock I’d used to get in the pool. The rocks near my clothes were jagged and slick with algae. I tried to grab hold of them, but my hands kept sliding, algae slime clinging under my fingernails. As much as I tried, I couldn’t even begin to get a grip.

  Panic setting in, I began to thrash around, frantically looking for the flat rock, but couldn’t find it anywhere.

  By now the sun was almost gone. Oh, God. What if I was trapped here overnight?

  The water was no longer refreshingly cool, but chillingly cold; goosebumps were spronging up all over my body.

  How ironic. What if I died of hypothermia in the hottest, muggiest place on earth?

  And then finally, just when I was verging on advanced hysteria, I saw it: the smooth rock I’d used to get in the pool.

  I swam to it as fast as I could and scurried out of the water to safety.

  I looked over at my clothing several yards away and realized that my imagination had not been playing tricks on me. Someone had been at the waterfall, watching me. That person had moved my clothes, making my exit from the pool a daunting feat.

  I hurried over to where my clothes were piled, wondering if my saboteur was still in
the woods spying on me.

  I cringed at the thought of my secret stalker seeing me naked right now.

  Frantic to cover myself, I reached for my T-shirt. Then I screamed in terror. For there, slithering out from the sleeve, was a distressingly long snake, its scales glistening in the dusk.

  I watched, trembling, as its slid onto the ground.

  If I thought I was scared before, I was terrified now. What if it was a rattlesnake? Or some other venomous critter, just waiting to pounce and take a bite out of my ankle?

  I remembered an article I once read about what to do when confronted with a rattlesnake.

  Whatever you do, they’d said, don’t run. Just stand still.

  Very sensible advice. Which I promptly proceeded to ignore.

  I grabbed my T-shirt and capris, leaving my tankini for the snake, and raced back to the Jeep, my heart pounding.

  Someone had been out to scare me, all right.

  And that someone, I was certain, was Hope’s killer.

  Chapter 23

  That night at dinner, I was still so spooked by the scene at the waterfall, my food tasted like cardboard. Of course, here at the mansion, the food always tasted like cardboard, but that night, it was particularly choke-worthy.

  Fear sat like a leaden weight in the pit of my stomach.

  Meanwhile, next to me, Polly was moping over Kirk.

  “I spent all afternoon turning on the charm,” she was saying, “and got nothing in return. The guy just sat there like a lump.

  “Oh, well,” she said, trying to saw her way into her hockey puck of a pork chop, “I guess I’ll just have to throw in the towel and wait for the next Mr. Wrong to come along. I don’t know what it is about me,” she sighed. “Somehow I keep picking the unavailable ones.”

  Frankly, I was only half listening to her, wondering who the heck had been stalking me at the waterfall. Word had clearly gotten out that I’d been poking around asking questions about the murder, and the killer had decided to put the fear of God in me.

  I looked around the table, certain I’d been breaking bread (or what passed for it here at the mansion) with a cold-blooded killer.