Killer Blonde Page 8

  I sat down on my sofa and sipped (okay, gulped) my wine, trying to erase the image of SueEllen’s perfect tush bobbing in the water next to the dryer. I couldn’t help thinking about the irony of it all—that a woman like SueEllen Kingsley, obsessed with looking beautiful, had been murdered with a deadly grooming aid.

  Prozac, sensing my distress and knowing how much I needed her comforting presence, began yowling for her dinner.

  As I trudged back to the kitchen to open a can of gourmet beef innards, I realized I was hungry, too. I hadn’t had a thing to eat all day except six Altoids and a Whopper I’d picked up on my way over to SueEllen’s. I rummaged through the kitchen drawer where I dump all the take-out restaurant menus that are left on my doorstep. I found one for Sir Speedy Pizza—“The Fastest Pizza in the West.”

  I called Sir Speedy, and ordered a medium pizza with mushroom and pepperoni. Prozac looked up from her beef innards and shot me a look.

  “And throw in a few anchovies.”

  Prozac purred in approval and went back to her dinner.

  The folks at Sir Speedy promised the pizza would be at my doorstep, piping hot, in thirty minutes or less. I hung up and poured myself some more wine to tide me over until it showed up. Then I headed for the bedroom. I figured I’d soothe my frazzled nerves with some TV. Of course, wouldn’t you know, the first thing I saw when I turned on the television was the bathtub scene from Fatal Attraction, where Glenn Close gets stabbed to death in the tub. I zapped around for a while, past Lucy and Larry King and a painful looking Pilates contraption on QVC. I was just getting comfortable watching Emeril Lagasse do obscene things to a catfish, when the doorbell rang.

  Wow. It was only fifteen minutes since I’d called Sir Speedy. That was fast. I’d have to give the delivery kid a big tip. I grabbed my wallet, and opened the door.

  But it wasn’t Sir Speedy.

  It was Lance.

  “I just heard the news on the radio. They said SueEllen Kingsley was murdered in her tub, and that a freelance writer discovered the body. Was that you?”

  I nodded wearily.

  “Tell me everything!”

  “There’s not much to tell. I showed up for work and found her dead in the tub.”

  “That must’ve been awful! You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”

  He was probably right.

  “Actually, I just ordered a pizza. Why don’t you stay and have dinner with me?”

  “Fine. Just let me call Jim and cancel.”

  “You have a date?”

  “It’s nothing. Jim won’t mind.”

  “No, no. Don’t cancel.”

  “Are you sure? It’s no problem. So what if I’m madly in love with the guy and can’t stand to be apart from him for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch?”

  Okay, so he didn’t say the part about being madly in love with Jim, but I knew that’s what he was thinking.

  “I’ll be fine,” I assured him.

  “Okay,” he said, trying to hide his relief. “We’ll talk later.” And then he dashed off.

  I shuffled back to the TV and was watching Emeril slosh some shrimp into a vat of bubbling fat, when the phone rang.

  “Omigod,” said Kandi. “I just heard the news. Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I lied. “Want to come over for pizza?”

  “Oh, gee, I wish I could, but we’re working late tonight. The actress who plays Maggie the Maggot just checked herself into Betty Ford, and we have to write her out of the script. Are you sure you’re going to be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine. The pizza will calm me down.”

  And it’s true. I happen to believe that pizza is one of nature’s most effective sedatives. Something in the cheese, I think.

  “Well, if you need anything, just call me at the studio.”

  I assured her I would, and went back to the TV. By now, Emeril had fished the shrimp out of the fryer. Gad, they looked good. Now I was hungrier than ever. Where the heck was that pizza? And at that very moment the doorbell rang. Exactly a half hour after I’d ordered it. My hero Sir Speedy had lived up to his word. I raced to the door, eager to sink my teeth in a wad of gooey cheese.

  But it wasn’t Sir Speedy.

  It was Heidi. Standing on my doorstep with a suitcase.

  “Oh, Jaine,” she wailed. “The cops think I killed SueEllen.”

  I took her suitcase and ushered her inside.

  “How on earth did you get here?”

  “I took a cab. I was so scared, I didn’t want to be alone.”

  “Alone? But what about your dad and your brother? Aren’t they home?”

  “Yes,” she said. “They’re home.”

  She looked up at me from under her fringe of bangs. Her eyes were red from crying, and at that moment, I realized how very much alone she was in that big house of hers.

  “Can I stay with you tonight?”

  “Of course you can, honey. Make yourself comfortable on the sofa. Are you hungry?”

  “A little,” she admitted.

  “I ordered a pizza for dinner. It should be here any minute. In the meanwhile, let me see what I can rustle up in the kitchen.”

  The only thing I managed to rustle up were some olives that had been sitting in my refrigerator for the past three years. Heidi had the good sense to turn them down. When I got back from the kitchen, I found Prozac curled up in Heidi’s lap, doing her best to look adorable. Prozac loves to turn on the charm for guests. I get treated like a motel chambermaid, but for perfect strangers, she’s Little Miss Affectionate.

  “What am I going to do?” Heidi said, wide-eyed with fear. “The police think they’ve got another Menendez case on their hands.”

  “Are they sure it’s murder?” I asked.

  Heidi nodded solemnly.

  “But why on earth would they think you did it?”

  “I was the only one home. Daddy was at work. Brad was at school. And Conchi was away on her day off. And besides,” she added miserably, “only about 90 million people at my birthday party heard me say I wished SueEllen was dead.”

  Oh, jeez. I’d forgotten all about that.

  “Couldn’t somebody else have gained access to the house?”

  “I told the police about the blonde in the hallway, but I could tell they didn’t believe me.”

  “What blonde in the hallway?”

  “When I got home from school, I saw a blonde in a sweat suit going down the hallway to SueEllen’s bathroom. She was walking away from me, so I couldn’t see her face. I just assumed it was Larkspur. But it turns out Larkspur was working all day out in Santa Monica. So it couldn’t have been her.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that.

  “The police think I’m making up the story about the blonde. I can tell by the way they look at me. Really, Jaine. I’m afraid they’re going to arrest me.”

  “Heidi, honey,” I said, trying to sound far more confident than I felt. “They’re not going to arrest you.”

  “I didn’t kill her. Honest, I didn’t.”

  “Of course, you didn’t,” I said, taking her in my arms. If this kid was capable of murder, then I was capable of dieting. “Now how about a nice bowl of cereal?”

  I’d long since given up on Sir Speedy, so I hustled Heidi into the kitchen, where I fixed us each a bowl of Cheerios. I was just glad I had milk in the refrigerator that hadn’t turned solid.

  Once we were settled back on the sofa, slurping down our Cheerios from chipped Flintstones cereal bowls, I said, “Tell me about the blondes in SueEllen’s life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe the cops don’t believe you saw a blonde in the hallway, but I do. Now let’s try and figure out who it could be.”

  She shot me a grateful smile.

  “Can you think of a blonde who might have had a key to the house? Or someone that SueEllen knew well enough to buzz in on her intercom?”

  “Well, there’s Larkspur, of course. But she was out i
n Santa Monica.”

  “So she says.”

  “And there’s Ginny Pearson.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “SueEllen’s best friend. They met years ago, handing out prizes on a game show. But she couldn’t have done it. She and SueEllen were very close.”

  “Any other blondes?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t think of any.”

  “What about your father? Any blondes in his life? Other than Larkspur?”

  “There’s Denise, the nurse at his office. I think she and Daddy are fooling around.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Nothing, really. Just the way she looks at him. All gooey-eyed.”

  Wow. Between SueEllen, Larkspur and Denise, Hal Kingsley had been a mighty busy man. I was surprised he still had enough energy to perform tummy tucks.

  “Does your father know you’re here?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “I’d better call and let him know you’re okay.”

  “Do you have to?”

  “Yes, I have to. He’s probably worried sick.”

  But Hal Kingsley didn’t sound worried sick at all. He was his usual undemonstrative self when I told him that Heidi was sitting on my sofa. I had a sneaky suspicion that he didn’t even know she’d been gone. I couldn’t bear the thought of sending Heidi back to such a cold fish, so I asked if she could spend the night.

  “I’ll bring her back tomorrow,” I promised.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he said it was fine.

  I hung up, wondering what it must be like having a father like Hal. My dad may have been running around with a used toupee on his head, but at least I knew he loved me enough not to toss me over to a virtual stranger in a time of crisis.

  “Was Daddy worried?” Heidi asked.

  “Very,” I lied. “But he said you could sleep over.”

  Heidi sighed.

  “Believe it or not,” she said, “this is my first sleepover. I don’t have many friends. Oh, who am I kidding? I don’t have any friends.”

  “Well, you have one now,” I said. “Me.”

  At which point, Prozac sat up and meowed.

  “And Prozac, of course.”

  Damn cat hates to give up the limelight for a second.

  “How about we get in our pajamas and watch a movie on TV?”

  Minutes later, Heidi and I were curled up in bed, Prozac snuggled on Heidi’s chest.

  “You sure she’s not bothering you?” I asked.

  “No, no,” she said, stroking Prozac lovingly. “She’s a wonderful cat.”

  Prozac opened one eye and shot me a look that said, Haha. Fooled another one.

  We zapped around and were lucky enough to find one of my all time favorite movies, Roman Holiday, with Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. Heidi had never seen it and got caught up in it, which was a good thing. She needed all the distraction she could get.

  It was near the end of the movie, when Audrey gives up Gregory (foolish girl!) and goes back to being a princess, when the doorbell rang.

  I threw on my robe and went to the door.

  “Who is it?” I called out. For an awful minute, I was afraid it might be the cops coming to arrest Heidi.

  “Sir Speedy.”

  Oh, great. Only five hours late.

  I opened the door, utterly disgusted. “It’s after midnight,” I said to the third world refugee who stood at my door.

  “Sorry,” he said in halting English. “My car busted down on freeway.”

  He handed me the pizza, which wasn’t even remotely warm.

  “What are you, crazy? We’re not going to eat this. Who eats cold pizza at one in the morning?”

  Okay, so we ate it. Standing over the kitchen sink in our bare feet. Tossing the anchovies to Prozac.

  “This is fun,” Heidi said, slurping up a gooey strand of cheese.

  At that moment, she reminded me of Audrey’s Roman Holiday princess, running away from a life that gave her little pleasure, and enjoying herself for a change.

  I was glad she was having fun. I only hoped it would last.

  Chapter Nine

  I drove Heidi home the next morning, after a nutritious breakfast of pizza crusts and Pepsi. Conchi greeted us at the door, clutching her ever-present bottle of Windex. I was beginning to think she owned stock in the company.

  “Miss Heidi!” she said. “Are you all right? I was worried about you.”

  I was glad to hear that somebody was.

  “I’m fine, Conchi. Where’s Dad?”

  “Mr. Hal went to the gym to play racquetball.”

  He went to the gym? With his wife dead less than twenty-four hours and his daughter the prime suspect? What a prince. Meanwhile I could see Brad in the living room, sprawled out on a sofa, leafing through his Ferrari brochure, another grief-stricken mourner.

  “I guess I’d better go unpack,” Heidi said, looking none too happy to be back in the arms of her dysfunctional family.

  “Remember, Heidi, I’m here if you need me. And you mustn’t worry about the police. I can’t believe they really suspect you of anything.”

  I reached over and gave her a hug.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” I said. “I promise.”

  “I wish I could stay with you,” she sighed.

  “I do, too,” I said. “But I’m sure your father wants you here with him.” I wasn’t sure of any such thing, but I knew he wasn’t about to let his daughter move in with a struggling freelance writer on the wrong side of the Beverly Hills tracks.

  Heidi managed a weak smile and headed upstairs.

  “Keep an eye on her,” I whispered to Conchi.

  “Sí, Miss Jaine,” Conchi said. “I will try to protect her from the evil spirit.”

  “Evil spirit?”

  She nodded solemnly, her eyes filled with fear. “The ghost of Miss SueEllen. She is here. In this house.”

  Oh, great. The one person in Casa Kingsley who seemed to care about Heidi was a few cards short of a full deck.

  “If SueEllen’s ghost is here,” I said, “I know a great way to get rid of her. Just ask her to help with the housework.”

  Conchi looked at me, puzzled. “Sorry, Miss Jaine. No comprende.”

  “Forget it, Conchi. I was just kidding.”

  She smiled a nervous smile, as if she thought I was the loony one, and started spritzing Windex at a huge gilt mirror. A fat lot of good she’d be comforting Heidi; the woman was scared of her own shadow.

  I said goodbye to Conchi and headed out the front door, just in time to see Larkspur pulling up the driveway in a lemon yellow Beetle.

  “Hey, Jaine,” she chirped, reaching in to the backseat of her car for her massage table.

  Was it possible? Didn’t she know that SueEllen was dead?

  “You’re here awfully early,” she said, crunching up the gravel walk.

  “Larkspur, haven’t you heard the news?”

  “What news?”

  “SueEllen is dead.”

  “Holy shit.”

  She blinked her big blue baby doll eyes.

  “She was murdered. Electrocuted in her bathtub.”

  “Oh, my gosh.” Her baby blues grew even bigger. “I don’t believe it. Do they know who did it?”

  “Not yet.”

  “This is terrible,” she said, absently raking fingers through her hair. “Is Hal—I mean, Mr. Kingsley—home?”

  “Nope. He’s playing racquetball.”

  “Oh,” she said, standing there in a daze. “Well, then. I guess I’d better go.”

  She got back in her car and sat behind the wheel for a minute or so until she finally remembered to put the key in the ignition.

  Larkspur seemed genuinely shocked. If she was faking it, she was a hell of a good actress. Of course, this was L.A., where everyone and their uncle is a would-be actor. So for all I knew, her shock was something she’d been rehearsing all morning.

  Maybe Lark
spur was faking it; maybe she wasn’t. One thing was for sure: I’d been faking it when I assured Heidi that the cops didn’t suspect her of murder. I’d have bet my bottom dollar she was their Number One Suspect. Which is why I decided to pay a little visit to the Beverly Hills cops.

  A sand-colored building dotted with pretty pastel mosaic tiles, the Beverly Hills police precinct looked like something featured in Betters Homes and Gardens. It was all so sparkle clean and upscale; I was surprised it didn’t have a gift shop.

  I found the Clint Eastwood lookalike at his desk, barking orders into the phone.

  “I want it right away,” he was saying, his jaw rigid with determination. “And I don’t want any mistakes.”

  He was probably ordering lab tests. Or fingerprints. Or maybe even an autopsy of SueEllen’s body.

  He motioned me to a seat in front of his desk.

  “You sure you got it?” he snapped. “That’s a Chinese chicken salad, dressing on the side. And a mocha frappucino, hold the whipped cream.”

  So much for my autopsy theory; the guy was ordering lunch. Chinese chicken salad. Only in Beverly Hills do cops order Chinese chicken salad for lunch.

  His lunch order complete, Lt. Webb hung up and turned his attention to me.

  “Ms. Austen,” he said, tapping the eraser end of a pencil into the cleft in his chin. “How can I help you?”

  “Actually, I’m here on behalf of my client, Heidi Kingsley.”

  “Your client? I thought you were a writer.”

  “I am. But occasionally I work as a private investigator.”

  And it’s true. I don’t like to toot my own horn, but I’ve actually helped solve two murders. (Which you can read all about in This Pen for Hire and Last Writes, now available in paperback at a book store near you.)

  “You have a P.I. license?” Webb asked.

  “No, not exactly,” I admitted. “But I really did help solve those murders. One in Hollywood last year, and one in Westwood.”

  Okay, so I do like to toot my own horn.