Death by Pantyhose (22 page)

I watched as she slipped off her shoe and ran her foot up along his enormous calf. I wondered how high it would travel before lunch was
over.

Then she slipped her shoe back on and got
up from the table. She blew him a kiss, and he
patted her on the fanny as she walked off to the
ladies' room.

On an impulse, I decided to follow her.

"Be right back, Kandi. I'm going to the ladies'
room.

"Remember to use a paper seat protector!"

What did I tell you? There was definitely an
umbilical cord somewhere under her jeans.

I found Holly at the sink, putting on lipstick.

"Hi, Holly."

She whirled around and gave a little gasp.

The woman was clearly surprised to see me.
Maybe because she assumed I was lying dead in
the morgue with a stick shift clutched in my lifeless hand.

Then I glanced down at her lipstick case and
it was my turn to be surprised. It was Dorcas's cloisonne lipstick case, the same one she'd taken out
of her prop bag the night of the murder.

"Interesting lipstick case," I said. "It looks just
like the one Dorcas used to own."

"Oh?" Feigning nonchalance, she peered
into the mirror, fluffing her bangs.

"In fact, I think it is Dorcas's."

"Don't be silly. I bought it at Nordstrom."

"Nice try, Holly. But I don't believe you. Dorcas told me she had it custom-made by an artist
friend of hers in Topanga Canyon."

I've got to give myself credit. It's a real talent,
thinking up lies like that on the spur of the moment.

"Okay," she sighed. "So I lifted it from her
purse. Like you've never stolen anything."

"As a matter of fact, I haven't."

"Well, goody for you. Alert the Nobel Prize
people."

She dropped the lipstick case in her purse,
along with the restaurant's liquid soap. She
eyed their hand cream but decided against it.

It's a good thing the toilets were bolted down.

"Hold on a sec," I said, blocking her path as
she headed for the door. "If you stole Dorcas's
lipstick case, how do I know you didn't steal a
pair of her pantyhose and use them to strangle
Vic?"

And then, much to my amazement, that hard
little face of hers crumpled, and she started to
cry.

"Don't you get it?" she said, her voice practically a whisper. "I loved the guy. I could never
hurt him."

She looked up at me, tears streaming down
her face.

Were those tears real? I wondered. Was she
really incapable of killing Vic? Or was she a
kleptomaniacal killer who could summon tears
on demand?

Once again, your intrepid investigator didn't
have a clue.

Lucky for me, Kandi had only an hour for
lunch; otherwise she'd still be eating her Chinese chicken salad. After Bite Nine she had it
boxed to go, and we headed out to the parking
lot.

'What a monstrosity," she said when she saw my Mercedes. "Are you sure it isn't a hearse?
Sweetie, I wish you'd let me rent you a decent
car.

"There's nothing wrong with this car," I
protested.

She flicked a piece of loose paint from the
fender and sighed. "Just be careful with your
pantyhose murderer, okay?"

After promising her several times I'd be careful, I hugged her good-bye and watched as she
hurried off to her Miata.

"Remember," she called back to me, "if you
do something foolish and get yourself killed, I'll
never speak to you again."

I climbed into the Hitlermobile and chugged
out of the lot. Compared to Wheezy, the Mercedes was a virtual speed demon. Why, it could
go from zero all the way to forty in fifteen minutes-with a good tailwind.

I was determined to go straight home and
work on my Suspect List. If I hurried, I might
even have time to send out some resumes.

As if. The next thing I knew I was in a Bloomie's
dressing room trying on party dresses for my
date with Andrew. I finally settled on a little black
number with sequinned spaghetti straps, on sale
for $120. True, it was $120 I didn't have, but how
could I resist? It was short; it was sexy; and most
important, it shaved inches off the dreaded hiptush-thigh zone.

Flush with success, I paid for it with plastic and
headed straight home to get some work done.

Okay, so I didn't head straight home. I
stopped off at the MAC counter, where I picked
up a new lipstick and mascara.

And Victoria's Secret, where I bought a black lace bra and matching panties. (I couldn't possibly wear that sexy black dress with a jockey for
Her sports bra, could l?)

When I finally got home I had just enough
time to toss Prozac some Minced Mackerel Guts
and grab a quick shower. After slathering my
body with moisturizer, I got into my new black
lace underlovelies and pranced around for a few
shameful minutes, doing a very bad impression
of a Las Vegas showgirl. Then I blew my hair dry
and slipped on my new dress, along with my one
and only pair of Manolos.

Finally, I slapped on some makeup and
spritzed myself with some of my new perfume.
(Okay, I stopped off and bought perfume, too.
Sue me.)

I surveyed myself in the mirror. Good heavens. Who was that fetching creature in the mirror? Thanks to Suzy Q my hair looked terrific.
And my dress looked every bit as good at home
as it did in Bloomie's dressing room.

If Andrew liked me with my Halloween hair,
surely he'd like me even better now. I only
hoped my new image would erase the memory
of me showing up for lunch in an exterminator's van.

I headed out to the living room, where
Prozac was snoozing on the sofa.

"Bye, Pro," I called out from a safe distance. I
had no intention of getting cat hairs on my
dress at the last minute.

Her eyes sprang open.

You're leaving me alone? You can't be serious!
What if the apartment burns down? What if there's
an earthquake? What if I get hungry and I eat up all
my snacks?

She made her eyes go all wide and gooey and
gave me one of her orphan-in-the-storm looks.

"Skip it, Pro. No guilt trip tonight. It won't
work."

Okay, in that case, bring back leftovers.

Then she rolled over and went back to sleep.

In many ways, she was a lot like my ex-husband.

s I drove up to Sam's house, a stately white
mini-plantation dripping with magnolia
blossoms, I felt like Scarlett O'Hara showing up
for barbeque at Twelve Oaks.

I tossed my car keys to the valets at the foot of
the driveway and headed inside, brimming with
confidence. It's amazing what a little black dress
and sexy lace underwear can do for a woman's
self-image.

A uniformed maid greeted me at the door
and led me to Sam's massive living room. I took
one look around, and every ounce of confidence drained from my body.

Everywhere I looked I saw skinny women. It
was my worst nightmare come true: a roomful
of size twos. For a minute, I thought I spotted a
size eight near the fireplace. Nope. She was just
a pregnant two.

All at once I felt like a mutt at the Westminster
Kennel Club.

I spotted Andrew in a corner talking to a regal blonde with an Audrey Hepburn waist and
shoulder blades sharp enough to slice onions.

Every nerve in my body was screaming to get
the heck out of there, to turn around and run.
But before I could, Sam came floating up to me
in creamy silk palazzo pants and matching cashmere sweater, the most elegant size two of them
all.

"Hello, Jaine," she said, her eyes raking me
over. "I see you've managed to fix the mess Gustavo made of your hair."

Huh? How on earth did Sam know about
Gustavo and my Hairdo from Hell?

"You know Gustavo?" I asked.

"I'm a customer of his. A very good customer.
Remember that letter you got offering you a
free styling? It was a ruse, honey, to get you to
the salon."

"I don't understand."

A nasty smile flickered at the corners of her
mouth.

"Not very bright, are you, dear? I paid him to
wreck your hair."

"You paid him?" I blinked in disbelief.

"An absolute fortune. Money down the drain,
as it turns out," she said, eyeing my Susie Q cut.
"I was hoping it would stay ugly until Andrew
left town."

I stood there, stunned.

"You'd go that far to ruin my chances with
Andrew?"

She shot me a look that could freeze ice
cubes.

"I'd do that and a whole lot more."

Then she laughed.

"Not that I needed to bother. I can see that now. You're way out of your league, Jaine. Andy
may think he's interested in you, but in the end,
he'll come to his senses."

She plucked an hors d'oeuvre off a passing
tray and took a miniscule bite.

`Better give him up now, before you get your
heart broken. Oh, I almost forgot," she added
with a feral grin. "Welcome to my party!"

Then she drifted off to join a clot of beautiful
people with thin lips and tight jaws.

I felt physically ill, like I'd been slugged in
the stomach. More than ever, I wanted to leave.
But something in me wouldn't let me. That's
just what Sam wanted me to do. I wouldn't give
her the satisfaction. No, I'd stay and keep my
date with Andrew.

So I sucked in my gut and marched myself
over to where he was chatting it up with the
blonde with the Ginzu shoulder blades. He
looked cute as ever in his bizsuit, his hair still
doing its irresistible curling-at-the-collar trick.

`Jaine!" he grinned. "I'm so happy you could
make it. I'd like you to meet Gloria Otis."

"Hi," I said, forcing myself to smile.

"Hmm," she replied, irritated at the interruption.

Clearly Sam and I weren't the only ones who
had eyes for Andrew.

"Can I get you a glass of wine?" Andrew
asked.

Skip the glass, I felt like telling him. I'll drink it
straight from the bottle.

"Yes, some white, please."

Andrew headed over to the bar, leaving me
trapped with Ms. Uppity, who spent the next
few minutes grilling me about my credentials, asking me where I summered (the same place as I
wintered-my backyard), what club I belonged to
(the Macy's Panty Club-buy ten pair, get one pair
free), and what on earth a slob like me was
doing at Sam's party.

Okay, she didn't really ask me the last question, but I knew that's what she was wondering.

"Well, if you'll excuse me," she said, "I see
some people I'd much rather talk to than you."

Okay, she didn't say that either. She just murmured something about saying hello to Elspeth
and Skippy and scooted away from me as fast as
her skinny legs could carry her.

So there I stood, all alone in Major Wallflower Mode. If I closed my eyes, I was back in
high school.

Andrew came back with my glass of wine.

I practically yanked it from his hands.

"Look what I nabbed," he said, holding out a
plate full of hors d'oeuvres. "Munchies!"

I looked at the plate of piping hot yummies,
and the will to live slowly seeped back into my
body.

"C'mon," he said, taking me by the elbow and
guiding me outside onto a beautiful stone patio.

It was a mild night, and the air was rich with
the scent of night-blooming jasmine. We sat
down at a wrought-iron table that cost more
than my living room and dining room furniture
combined.

"I hope you won't be cold out here," Andrew
said.

"No, I'm fine," I said, taking a healthy slug of
wine.

"Here, have a baby lamb chop. They're won derful. I've already had three," he confessed,
with a most appealing grin.

I had one,' and it was indeed wonderful. So I
had another.

"I'm sorry we had to come to the party," Andrew said, "but Sam insisted and I couldn't get
out of it."

I just bet she did.

"Sam's friends are okay, I guess," he said,
looking at the guests milling around inside.
"But they're a bit too country clubbish for me."

"They are?"

"Yeah. They're a far cry from the folks I grew
up with in Minnesota."

"You're from Minnesota?"

He nodded. "Duluth."

Well, knock me down with a baby lamb chop.
He was an outsider, just like me.

And all along I thought he was born with a social register clutched in his tiny fist.

ere. Try a crab puff," he said.

"Don't mind if I do."

I bit into a delectable concoction of creamy
crab in a puff pastry shell. I thought I'd died
and gone to Hors d'Oeuvre Heaven.

"You sure you're not cold out here?"

"No, I'm fine," I said, draining the last of the
wine from my glass. And for the first time since I
walked in Sam's door, I did feel fine. More than
fine. Yes, sitting there under the stars with Andrew and a plateful of crab puffs, I was feeling
rather marvelous.