Death by Pantyhose (12 page)

Could Spiro possibly be the killer? He was the
ideal murder suspect. An oily character with a
face only a mug shot could love. But what on
earth was his motive?

"Anyhow," I said, "I was hoping that your security camera caught the culprit in action."

"Security camera? What security camera?"

"You don't have a security system?"

"Sweetheart," he said, reaching down behind
his desk, "the only security device at the Laff
Palace is this."

He lifted a huge baseball bat onto his desk.

"Somebody messes with me, and splat!"

He got up and swung the bat with ferocious
force.

I made a mental note to never, under any circumstances, mess with Spiro.

"Did you happen to see anybody near Dorcas's bag that night?" I asked, eager to change
the subject.

"Only Dorcas," he said.

"And you," he added, with an oily grin.

"Other than Dorcas and me, do you have any
idea who might have killed Vic?"

'Who knows?" He shrugged. "Lots of people
hated Vic. He was a ruthless guy. That's what it
takes to make it in this business. Personally I respected him. And I'm sorry he's dead."

Call me a gullible fool, but he seemed to
mean it.

"And just for the record," he added, "I didn't
knock him off."

He glared at me with beady brown eyes, defying me to challenge him. And I wasn't about
to-not with that bat sitting on his desk.

Instead, I thanked him for his time and got
the heck out of there.

"found the most wonderful actress to play
_me at traffic school!"

Kandi and I were sitting across from each
other, sipping margaritas at our favorite restaurant, Paco's Tacos, an unpretentious Mexican
joint with burritos the size of third world countries.

Kandi grinned, quite pleased with herself.

"Miranda's a fabulous actress, a graduate of
Yale Drama School. And really smart. She's bound
to ace the test."

She rummaged through the basket of chips
on our table, searching for one without any
flaws.

"Kandi, just take one," I said, grabbing a
handful. "It doesn't matter if it's broken. It still
tastes the same."

"I know, but I like to eat the perfect ones
first."

She does the same thing with french fries. Watching her eat is like watching an archaeologist dig for fossils.

"If I do say so myself," she said, finally choosing a chip that met with her approval, "hiring
Miranda was a fabulous idea. Like having a reallife stunt double. Someone to do all the disagreeable things in life I don't want to do."

She took a contemplative bite of her chip.

"Too bad I can't use her for teeth cleaning
and mammograms."

At that moment, the waiter showed up with
our dinners. I'd ordered my favorite, the Number 11, the chimichanga combo plate. Kandi had
opted for the far more sensible tostada.

One look at my food, and my salivary glands
sprang into action. Sitting on my enormous
plate were two crispy chicken chimichangas
topped with twin dollops of sour cream, surrounded by hearty portions of refried beans
and rice.

I grabbed my fork and stabbed a hunk of
chimichanga. But just as I was about to eat it,
Kandi grabbed my wrist and shouted, "Wait!"

"What's wrong?" I looked at her, alarmed.
Was there something wrong with the food? Had
she seen a cucaracha in my chimichanga? But
that couldn't be. Paco's always had an "A" rating
from the board of health.

"You can't eat yet. I've got something to show
you!"

She reached into her purse and whipped out
a round device about the size of an egg timer.

"It's called a Slo-Eater," she said, plopping it
on the table between us, "and it's the perfect
diet aid."

"Kandi, you don't need a diet aid."

And she didn't. She's a perfect size six on a
bloated day. Of course, that's the way it is with
size sixes. They're always on the hunt for new
ways to lose weight. While gals like me are always on the hunt for new toppings for our pizzas.

"It's supposed to slow down your eating," she
said, "so your brain has time to tell your stomach it's full before you overeat. See the little
light?" She pointed to a tiny light at the top of
the device. "It blinks every thirty seconds, and
every time it blinks, you're allowed to take another bite."

Great. Just what I needed. A Bite Nazi.

"Kandi," I sighed, "my brain and my stomach
haven't been on speaking terms for decades.
And they're not about to start talking now."

"You mean, you're not even going to try it?"

"Not with these chimichangas calling my
name.

I plowed into my combination plate with
gusto.

She shook her head in disapproval and took a
Barbie-sized bite of her tostada.

"So tell me what's going on in your life," she
said, killing time between bites. "Have they
found your car?"

"No, not yet."

"You're better off if they don't. Who knows
what kind of slobs have been riding around in
it. They'll probably leave it littered with fastfood wrappers and ketchup stains. My car once
got stolen and when I got it back I found dried
bubblegum stuck to the dashboard." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Some thieves are just
so damn inconsiderate."

Ah, yes. If only car thieves cleaned up after
themselves, the world would be a far more civilized place. But Kandi was right. If they ever
found my Corolla, I'd probably have to take antibiotics just to sit in it again.

"So what else is new?" she asked, still in limbo
between bites.

I decided not to tell her about the Pantyhose
Murder. Kandi tends to worry about me, and I
didn't want one of her scare-tactics lectures
about the dangerous side effects of private detective work, like getting injured and/or killed.

So I told her about Andrew instead.

"Andrew Ferguson called. He's back from
Germany."

Her eyes lit up. "The cutie from the bank?"

I nodded. "We had lunch the other day."

"What did you order? Nothing fattening, I
hope."

What is it about me that turns my friends into
nagging mother substitutes?

"Yes, as a matter of fact, I ordered a nice juicy
burger with fries. Andrew says he likes a girl
with a healthy appetite."

"That's what they all say. But when push
comes to shove, what they really like is a girl
who can bounce walnuts off her abs."

The light on the Slo-Eater flashed, and she
took another bite of her tostada.

"When are you seeing him again?"

"He said he'd call to set up a dinner date."

"And has he?"

"Well, no."

She smiled smugly.

"My point, exactly. Really, Jaine. I'm only saying this because I love you and I want you to be happy, but you could stand to lose a pound or
two. 11

It was true, of course. On both counts. I could
stand to lose some weight. And she was only saying it because she loved me.

"Won't you give the Slo-Eater a try?" she
pleaded.

By this time, I'd finished half my combo plate
and Kandi hadn't even made it to her third bite
of tostada.

"Okay," I sighed. "I'll try it."

Kandi was so happy, she forgot to take her
next bite when the light flashed.

"You're going to love it," she squealed. "Not
only do you lose weight, but you get to savor
each bite. Now put a piece of food on your
fork."

I cut off a healthy hunk of my remaining
chimichanga.

"A smaller piece."

I shot her a dirty look and cut off a smaller
piece.

"Now wait for the light to flash, and then you
can eat it."

I sat there holding my fork halfway to my face
waiting for the damn light to flash. I waited and
waited, but nothing happened. After a while, I
felt my fingers starting to cramp.

"This thing must be broken," I said. "Surely it
should've flashed by now."

'Jaine, it's only been six seconds."

"It has to be longer than that."

"Now it's seven seconds. Only twenty-three
more to go."

"Kandi, I'd like to finish this chimichanga before menopause."

"Surely you can wait twenty-three teeny little
seconds, can't you?"

"No, as a matter of fact, I can't," I said, picking up the chimichanga and biting off a mouthstuffing hunk.

Kandi exhaled a stream of disapproving tsktsks.

"Don't you want to look thin for Andrew?"

"He's probably not going to call anyway."

Twenty minutes later, I'd finished my combo
plate, a piece of flan, and after-dinner coffee.

Kandi was working on bite #7 of her tostada.

It's a good thing I love her so much; otherwise,
I'd shoot her.

I was wrong about Andrew. Just as I was settling into bed that night with a good book and a
warm cat, he called.

"Hope I'm not calling too late," he said. "Sam
and I just got through working."

"No, it's not too late," I said, not exactly
thrilled at the thought of Andrew and Sam
working thigh by thigh until 10:30 at night.

"I was wondering if you're free for dinner tomorrow night," he said.

For once in my life I decided to play it cool.

"Gee, I don't know. Let me check my calendar to see if I've got anything scheduled."

Yeah, right. The only date I had scheduled
was with the clown at the Jack in the Box. But I
kept up the charade. I waited a few seconds
(one-tenth of a bite in Kandi's new diet
regime), then got back on the line.

"Yes, I can make it. Dinner sounds great."

"Wonderful. I'll pick you up around 7:30.

I hung up and turned to Prozac, who was
curled up on my pillow.

"Guess what, Pro?" I said, scooping her up in
my arms. "I'm having dinner with Andrew to
morrow night!"

Him again?

She wriggled free from my grasp.

Haven't you learned your lesson? Men are nothing
but trouble.

Then she strutted to the edge of the bed.

"Where are you going?"

I'll be sleeping in the living room tonight.

"Don't be that way, Prozac."

This was the second time this week she was
walking out on me. Why did I get the feeling
that if she had opposable thumbs she'd be calling a divorce lawyer?

"If you stay, I'll bring you leftovers from the
restaurant. "

She shot me a baleful look.

Who do you think you're talking to? An alley cat? I
can't be bribed with leftovers. A T-bone steak, maybe. A
carton of moo shoo pork. A pepperoni pizza. But not
leftovers.

Of course, she didn't really say all that, but I
could tell by the angry swish of her tail that's
what she was thinking. Then, with said tail held
high, she headed out to the living room. I got
out of bed and followed her.

"Prozac, you can't seriously be mad at me for
going out on a date."

Let's put it this way. If I were you, I wouldn't put
your feet in your slippers without checking for wet
spots.

She jumped up on the sofa and began clawing my favorite throw pillow with a vengeance
normally reserved for my pantyhose.

I headed back to bed, feeling a lot like a guest
on a Jerry Springer show: "Single Women Who
Cheat on Their Cats-And Live to Regret it."

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: The Last Leaf

Oh, honey. It's been just awful. Daddy's been
moping around the house, convinced he's
cursed. (And he refuses to take the Vita-Mans;
he says they give him indigestion.)

It's just like that O. Henry story, The Last Leaf,
where a young girl is convinced she's going to
die when the last leaf on a wall outside her window has died. It's all in her mind, of course, and
her neighbor goes out and paints a leaf on a wall
and saves her life.

Well, I decided to do the same thing. Not paint a
leaf, of course. I'm such a terrible artist, and I
doubt that would do any good, anyway.

But I decided to scour the city until I found a shirt
just like Daddy's "lucky" Hawaiian shirt. I must've
gone to every thrift shop and vintage clothing
store in the greater Tampa area. I figured there
had to be a shirt like Daddy's in a store
somewhere.

I was wrong. I just about wore out my feet looking and came up empty-handed. Then, just when
I was about to give up hope, I saw a homeless
man wheeling a shopping cart, and he was
wearing a shirt just like Daddy's! For a minute I thought it actually was Daddy's, that the homeless man had bought it at the thrift shop, but
when I looked at it closely I saw it was in much
better condition than Daddy's.

Everett, the homeless man, was a very nice fellow, just a little down on his luck, poor dear. I
gave him twenty dollars for the shirt, and he was
so grateful, he offered me half of the Twinkie he
was eating, which was awfully nice of him. But
Dr. May has ordered Daddy and me to cut down
on sweets, so of course I said no.