Death of a Bachelorette Read online

  At the head of the table, Manny was digging into a filet mignon, drinking a fine Cabernet, and still looking pretty chipper for a guy whose show had just bitten the dust.

  I thought of that two-million-dollar insurance policy and wondered once again if he’d killed Hope to cash in on it. Polly said he’d been out at the airport this afternoon. What if he’d driven back just in time to see me heading off to the falls? What if he’d followed me? I’d been so involved trying to work the damn clutch, a troop of Marines could have been on my tail and I wouldn’t have noticed.

  Had Manny somehow discovered I knew about the insurance policy? What if he had a security camera in his office? What if he saw footage of me riffling through the papers on his desk and discovering the policy? What if he put two and two together and came after me with a slithering snake?

  And there was Justin, whose expertise with a Swiss Army knife made him a prime suspect in my book. I’d clearly angered him with my questions in the gazebo. Had he been angry enough to follow me to the waterfall to scare the stuffing out of me?

  Next to Justin sat Brianna, smiling and cooing, trying to score points with the up-and-coming director. She’d certainly benefited from Hope’s death with a windfall of publicity. What’s more, she’d seen me leave the pool that day and could have easily followed me over to Paratito Falls.

  But somehow, looking at her gabbing animatedly with Justin, I couldn’t picture her as my stalker. Frankly, I didn’t think she’d have the guts to pick up a snake.

  But who knew? I’d been wrong before. Maybe beneath that Double-D bra beat the heart of a raging sociopath.

  Spencer, the would-be prince, sat at the foot of the table, subdued and barely talking, unable to muster up a single “brilliant.”

  As with Brianna, I had a hard time picturing him as the killer—not unless his “mummy” was calling the shots from behind the scenes.

  Then my eyes slid over to where Kirk was sitting, aimlessly shoving the food around on his plate. Once again I wondered if that stricken look in his eyes wasn’t grief, but guilt from having cut the cords on Hope’s parachute.

  And as I sat there watching him, I suddenly noticed a leaf trapped in the tangle of his wild hair.

  I couldn’t swear to it, but it looked like the same kind of leaf I’d seen on the shade trees at Paratito Falls.

  Was it possible Kirk had been my swim stalker?

  It was at that moment that Manny took a swig of his Cabernet and said, “By the way, Jaine, Dallas called. She wants to see you down at the jail tomorrow. She says you’re doing some sort of private investigation for her.”

  Great. If the killer had any lingering doubts about my involvement in the case, they were gone now.

  Damn that Manny. He might just as well have painted a bull’s-eye on my back.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Heaven, Sheer Heaven!

  You know how much I love your daddy, darling, and I don’t want to sound disloyal, but I must confess that dancing with Alonzo has been heaven, sheer heaven—gliding around the room, light as air, our steps in perfect harmony!

  Meanwhile, poor Daddy seems to be having a bit of a problem with Lydia. They keep smashing into each other, like two bumper cars at an amusement park. Only neither one of them seems very amused.

  Oh, well. I’m sure with enough practice, they’ll be just fine.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Hell, Sheer Hell!

  I swear, Lambchop, it’s been hell, sheer hell, dancing with The Battleaxe. She insists on leading, and now my toes have been stepped on more often than a welcome mat at an open house. I swear, the woman has all the natural rhythm of a beheaded chicken!

  And what’s worse is watching your mom dance with that creep Alonzo. He calls himself a dancer? Hah! I’ve seen better dancing on “Stupid Pet Tricks.” I can’t believe I ever took him seriously. The man works as a clown, for crying out loud! We’re taking dancing lessons from Ronald McDonald!

  And I’ve been watching him very closely. I’ve seen the way he’s been holding your mom and staring into her eyes. Did you know he calls her his “Spanish butterfly”? If you ask me, I think he’s got a crush on her!

  Love ’n’ kisses

  From your

  Utterly miserable

  DaddyO

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Now I’ve Heard Everything!

  Now I’ve heard everything! Daddy actually thinks dear, sweet Alonzo has a crush on me! Of all the ridiculous notions. For one thing, Alonzo’s young enough to be my son. And for another, he’s got a fiancé named Gary!

  Time to hit the Oreos.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Guess What Showed Up?

  Guess what showed up just as I was finishing my Oreos? My gorgeous robin’s-egg-blue sequined evening gown from the Home Shopping Club! Now if only I could convince Daddy to rent a tux. But he’s bound and determined to wear the moth-eaten rag he wore to our wedding. Oh, dear. I just know a button will go flying and poke somebody’s eye out!

  Must run and start dinner. I was going to serve leftover meatloaf, but Daddy’s been so depressed about dancing with Lydia, I’m making him a rack of lamb. Hope that will cheer him up.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  PS. Needless to say, Daddy’s been ignoring any and all hints about the trip to Colonial Williamsburg. He’s clearly had his fill of Lydia for the foreseeable future.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Dearest Lambchop—Here I am, sitting in the den, soaking my feet in Epsom salts, my poor toes groaning in protest. Mom’s making rack of lamb for dinner. It smells wonderful. But even your mom’s fabulous cooking can’t make up for the horrors of dancing with The Battleaxe.

  I simply cannot let this travesty continue. Somehow, someway, I’m going to think of a plan to get your mom back in my arms!

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  Your determined

  DaddyO

  To: Jausten

  From: SirLancelot

  Subject: Nippy Weather

  While the upholsterer is busy sewing up your passenger seat, guess where I am? Skiing, in Mammoth! It was Brett’s day off, so we drove up for the day. You should see that man on the slopes. His form was impeccable. And his skiing wasn’t bad either. Après-ski we sat around the fire sipping hot toddies, followed by the most fabulous dinner—Chateaubriand and a bottle of the most divine Cabernet. Then we took a walk outside, with snowflakes falling and Jack Frost nipping at our noses. I just love nippy weather, don’t you?

  Chapter 24

  “I know what you did, Jaine!”

  I was in Manny’s office the next morning, summoned there after breakfast.

  Now I stood facing him as he sat behind his desk, chomping on a smelly cigar, glaring at me, fury in his eyes.

  Darn it. I was right. There was a hidden camera in the room, and he’d seen me reading his insurance policy. Now he knew that I knew he had a motive to kill Hope. Which gave him a brand new motive—to kill me.

  I looked around the room for signs of the camera but saw nothing. It must have been hidden somewhere. Maybe even in his fish tank.

  “I’m so sorry, Manny. I—”

  “You damn well should be sorry!” he shouted, grinding out his cigar with a vengeance. “You snuck into my office the other day and stole an Eskimo Pie!”

  Wait. What? Huh???

  “I keep track of these things, Jaine. There were five Eskimo Pies when I left the office and only four when I got back. Brianna told me she saw you eating one.”

  Why, that Double-D double crosser, ratting me out like that. And she was the one who ate most of it, anyway. Of all the nerve!

  And then a wave of relief was
hed over me when I realized Manny wasn’t talking about the insurance policy.

  “Plus I seem to be missing a couple of Dove Bars and an onion bagel.”

  “I’m really sorry, Manny. I was just so hungry, I couldn’t help myself.”

  “You know the rules, Jaine,” he replied, his unibrow furrowed in reproach. “Snacks are always available for a nominal fee from the basement vending machine.”

  “Yes, of course. Absolutely. Totally understood.”

  I started to sprint for the door, but I didn’t get far when I heard:

  “Don’t go. Not yet. I need you to take notes for a pilot idea I’ve come up with. It’s destined to be a ratings blockbuster.”

  The less said about Manny’s “blockbuster” pilot, the better.

  (For those of you masochists out there who insist on hearing the gruesome details: It was called The Real Mothers-in-Law of Miami Beach, about a bunch of backstabbing biddies in a Miami condo fighting over mah-jongg, bingo, and the three available men in the building.)

  I spent the rest of the morning taking notes on his idiotic show.

  Every once in a while, I looked up and caught Manny staring at me with a strange, contemplative look in his eyes. And I couldn’t help thinking that maybe he knew the truth about the insurance policy, after all. Maybe there really was a camera in the room. Maybe it was Manny spying on me at the waterfall yesterday. Maybe he was just stringing me along now, dictating notes on his silly show, all the while setting a trap, waiting for his chance to grind me out like a used cigar.

  * * *

  Eventually I escaped from Manny’s clutches and made my way over to visit Dallas in jail.

  She’d been stuck in that hellhole for three whole days. Poor kid. I just hoped she managed to survive seventy-two hours without a deep pore facial mask.

  On my way over to the garage to pick up the Jeep, I checked my emails. Never a wise move in times of stress. I shuddered to think of what plan Daddy might hatch to worm his way back into Mom’s arms on the dance floor. And needless to say, I quickly deleted that irritating note from Lance, who had the nerve to be frolicking in nippy weather while I was stuck here in Paratito, roasting like a human rotisserie chicken.

  After I’d dashed off a text, reminding Mr. Ski Bunny to water my Boston fern, I hopped in the Jeep and took off.

  When I pulled into town, I saw that once again Paratito’s main street was deserted—except for a lone native guy sitting outside Starbucks with a Frappuccino and a harpoon.

  I got out of the Jeep and headed for the jailhouse.

  When I walked inside, I blinked in disbelief.

  In just three days, Dallas’s jail cell had gone from hovel to haven.

  Dallas was stretched out in a hammock, basking in the cooling breezes of an oscillating fan.

  A small TV had been set up in the corner of her cell; stacks of magazines piled high on a table beside the hammock. The mattress on her cot, formerly a skinny slab of straw, was now pillowtop-thick, covered in gazillion-thread count sheets and a hibiscus print duvet. Bunches of pink and green throw pillows dotted the bed, one of which read THE PRINCESS SLEEPS HERE.

  The princess in question was sipping on a frothy coconut shell cocktail.

  And at her feet sat Ari, the assistant chief of police, giving her a foot massage.

  “Hi, Jaine!” Dallas called out as I walked in the door. “C’mon in!”

  She waved me into her open cell.

  “You remember Ari, don’t you?”

  “So nice to see you again,” he said, wiping foot cream from his hands before shaking mine.

  “Ari, sweetheart,” Dallas said, fluttering her lush brown lashes at him. “Be a darling and make Jaine and me some lunch. One of your yummy tuna niçoise salads?”

  “Of course,” he said, gazing at her like a lovestruck puppy.

  “And a coconut rum drink for Jaine, if you don’t mind.”

  “My pleasure,” he beamed.

  Any minute now, I expected him to salaam at her feet.

  Leaving the jail cell wide open, he trotted off to a tiny room at the other end of the jail—apparently the jailhouse kitchen.

  “Ari’s such an angel,” Dallas said when he’d gone. “Frankly, I think he has a bit of a crush on me.”

  A bit of a crush? Was she kidding? The guy made Romeo look like Homer Simpson.

  “I can’t get over the change in your cell,” I said, looking around at her new décor.

  “Ari had everything flown in from Tahiti. The poor dear used up his life savings. Naturally, I’ll have Daddy reimburse him.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting her coconut shell cocktail at me. “Have a taste. It’s divine.”

  I took a sip, and indeed it was.

  “Jail is ever so much nicer than I thought it would be,” Dallas said, wriggling her freshly massaged toes.

  Tell me about it. The only thing missing was a Jacuzzi and a wet bar.

  “So,” she asked eagerly, “what’s going on with your investigation? Have you found the killer yet?”

  “No,” I admitted, “not exactly. But I’ve got several suspects.”

  I proceeded to give her the dirt on everything I’d learned so far—about Manny’s insurance policy, Kirk’s affair with Hope, and the newly revived careers of Brianna and Justin.

  “Wow!” she said when I was through. “You’ve got to tell Tonga everything!”

  “Where is Tonga, anyway?” I asked.

  “He said he was going to investigate the murder scene, but frankly, I think he’s out fishing.”

  She rolled her eyes in disgust.

  “You know,” she said, “in between foot massages and Cosmo quizzes, I’ve had a lot of time to think these past few days, and my gut keeps coming back to Brianna.”

  “Brianna?”

  I was miffed at the Double-D bachelorette for ratting me out to Manny about my Eskimo Pie heist, but frankly, she seemed the least likely of my suspects.

  “I can’t stop thinking about something that happened early on in the show,” Dallas said, “back when all the bachelorettes were still on the island. Hope and Brianna were sharing a room. One day, we had to stop shooting because of rain, and I happened to walk by their room as they were playing a game of Monopoly.

  “I heard Hope say, ‘You’d better pay up.’

  “And then Brianna got real mad and said, ‘Like hell I will.’

  “At the time, I thought they were talking about the Monopoly game, but now I’m not so sure. They weren’t even looking at the board.”

  “You think Hope was blackmailing Brianna?”

  “It’s possible,” Dallas nodded. “After that day, I’d see Brianna staring at Hope in a funny way. Sort of cold and calculating. The same way my dog Fluffernut looks at his chew toy just before he’s about to pounce.”

  At which point, Ari returned with our salads and rum drinks.

  I’m not exactly what you’d call a salad fan (my idea of a salad is usually the pickle on my Quarter Pounder), but I must admit Ari’s tuna niçoise salad was dee-lish. Thick chunks of tuna and potatoes, with juicy tomatoes and skinny string beans, all tossed in a heavenly dressing.

  I swan-dived into mine with gusto.

  Dallas began to babble about Cosmo’s “Ten Biggest Mistakes a Gal Can Make in the Boudoir” (and trust me, I’d dated all ten of them), but I hardly heard a word she said.

  My mind was riveted on the idea of Brianna as the killer.

  In fact, I was so darn distracted, I barely managed to polish off seconds on my tuna niçoise salad.

  * * *

  I stepped outside into the blazing sun just in time to see Tonga pulling up in a dirty white pickup truck, his hair wet and slicked back, his truck reeking of fish.

  I had no doubt whatsoever that Dallas had been right; instead of tracking down Hope’s killer, Paratito’s chief law enforcement officer had been off somewhere harpoon fishing.

  In the trunk of his car I spotted a cooler, no doubt filled
with snotfish.

  “Ah, beloved future sister-in-law,” he said, beaming at the sight of me. “My brother told me of the miraculous turtle you gave him. Blessings are sure to follow in your path for years to come.”

  Yeah, right. The only blessing I wanted right then was to get away from that stinky truck of his.

  But, remembering my mission, I filled him in on everything I’d discovered about the murder—my damning theories about Manny, Kirk, Justin, and Brianna. Not to mention Hope’s possible attempts to blackmail Brianna.

  When I was through with my recitation, Tonga smiled at me benevolently.

  “Ah, dearly beloved future sister-in-law. You mustn’t fill your sweet head with such unpleasant thoughts.”

  With that, he actually had the nerve to pat me on the noggin like a toy poodle.

  “When you are Konga’s wife, you will learn to leave the thinking to the men. And you will fill your days with women’s work.

  “Which reminds me,” he said, reaching into his pocket of his khaki shirt, whose armhole sweat stains were the size of pu pu platters. “Here’s that recipe for fricasseed octopus glands! And another for sautéed chicken necks!”

  He handed me recipe cards written in what I hoped wasn’t the blood of some poor strangled chicken.

  “Yes, when you are Konga’s wife, you will learn to be a true woman. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

  With that, he grabbed the cooler from his truck and trotted off to jail, no doubt to spend the rest of his afternoon gutting snotfish.

  As for me, I stormed into my Jeep and sped off, a string of four-letter words flowing like coconut rum from my womanly lips.