Death by Tiara (11 page)

I raced over to wipe off the stain, but the more I blotted it, the bigger it grew. And the bigger it grew, the louder Ma Willis screamed. Louder and louder until I woke up with a jolt and realized someone was actually screaming.

Jumping off the bike, I hurried outside into the hallway where I saw Candace, staring, horrified, into her office.

I followed her gaze and gasped.

There, lying in a pool of blood, face down, was mousy little Amy, her head bashed in with the prized “Tiphany” tiara.

Chapter 12

“I
t’s all my fault!” Candace moaned, sinking to her knees. Gone was the tough martinet who’d ruled the pageant with an iron fist. In her place sat a frail, frightened woman.

“I don’t understand,” I said, kneeling down to talk to her. “How is Amy’s death your fault?”

“The Coke,” she said woodenly.

“What Coke?” I asked, wondering if the stress of the murder had sent her to la-la land.

“I spilled some Coke on Amy’s red blazer at lunch,” she explained. “So I gave her one of my blue blazers to wear. Amy always wore a red blazer, and I wore blue. Then I finished my phone calls sooner than I expected. So I decided to go to the dance rehearsal and left Amy behind to unload the trophies.”

She pointed to a stack of cartons up against the back wall.

“We give out souvenir trophies to all the girls so they don’t feel bad about losing. Anyhow, poor Amy probably had her back to the door unloading the trophies, so whoever killed her saw her blond hair and blue blazer and thought she was me. Especially in the hotel’s crummy lighting.”

It was true; the lighting in the office, just as in the Broom Closet Suite, was awfully dim.

“Everyone thought I was going to be in the office,” Candace said. “I announced it over the mike. Whoever killed Amy was trying to kill me!” She put her face in her hands and moaned. “If only I hadn’t spilled that Coke on her blazer!”

Looking down at Amy—dressed in Candace’s blazer, her blond hair styled just like Candace’s, working in the office at a time when only Candace was supposed to be there—I couldn’t help but think that Candace was right, that Candace was the intended victim and that Amy had been murdered by mistake.

“What’s going on here?”

Eddie came rushing up to us, his face flushed under his toupee.

“Amy’s dead,” Candace said, pointing to the corpse.

Eddie looked inside the office, and his face froze in shock.

And suddenly I wondered if he knew about his wife’s affair with Tex. A short, stocky guy with a bad toupee, had Eddie flipped out at the thought of his wife making love with the hunky car dealer? Had he tried to kill her in a jealous rage?

Was that look of shock on his face because Amy was dead—or because he just realized he’d killed the wrong woman?

Eddie quickly recovered his composure and did what I should have done—called 911.

I stayed with them while Eddie tried to soothe Candace, patting her shoulder, assuring her everything would be okay. But Candace, swatting away his hand like a pesky gnat, was not about to be reassured. By the time the cops showed up, she was in an advanced state of panic, convinced someone was out to kill her.

“Call off the rest of the pageant, Eddie. We’ll reschedule the crowning for another date.”

“But the mothers will be furious.”

“Who cares? I’m not going to stick around and wait for someone to take potshots at me.”

Just then the detective on the case, a towering blond Brunhilde of a woman, came stomping over to join us. She stood before us, tall and big-boned, her blond hair scraped into a tight ponytail, muscles straining against the fabric of her uniform.

“Any of you have any idea who might have done this?” she asked, gesturing to Amy’s body.

“I think I know!” Candace piped up. “It was that dreadful Van Sant woman.”

“Who?”

“Heather Van Sant. One of the pageant moms. Just this morning she told me she was going to ‘get’ me! Isn’t that right?”

Candace turned to me for confirmation.

“Well, technically, yes, but—”

“See? Heather’s the one you want.”

Brunhilde dutifully wrote down Heather’s name in her notebook, then told us to go back to our rooms to await further questioning.

Just as I was about to head for the elevator, I heard one of the cops in the office say, “Looks like we have our time of death. The clock in the tiara stopped when the victim’s head was bashed in. At two-thirty-four p.m.”

My gosh. I’d shown up at the gym at a little after two. If only I hadn’t fallen asleep, I might have heard the murder, seen the killer, solved the crime, and saved myself from my own little brush with death.*

(*Coming soon to a chapter near you.)

Pacing the floor of the Broom Closet Suite (a whole three and a half steps in each direction), I thought about the time of the murder. If it had taken place at 2:34 like the cops said, then Candace and all the teens except Taylor were in the clear. Because from 2 to 3
PM
they were all at the dance rehearsal.

I just hoped Taylor wouldn’t join her mother on Brunhilde’s suspect list.

I continued to pace, wondering how long I’d be stuck in beautiful downtown Alta Loco, when there was a knock on my door.

It was Detective Brunhilde with her trusty notebook.

I ushered her inside and offered her the only seat in the room, a battered armchair slathered with a fine layer of cat fur.

“Sit down, won’t you?” I said, brushing off cat hairs as I spoke.

After eyeing the chair warily, she finally decided to risk it and sat down.

Meanwhile, Prozac looked up from where she’d been clawing the bedspread and sniffed in Brunhilde’s direction.

Then, like a shot, she leaped off the bed and into Brunhilde’s lap.

Brunhilde’s face turned an interesting shade of purple.

“Get this little monster off me!”

Okay, so what she really said was, “What a cute cat.”

But you didn’t have to be a detective to figure out what she was thinking.

By now, Prozac was sniffing her like a bloodhound.

Hey, blondie. Got any knockwurst?

“Let me take her from you,” I said, scooping Prozac in my arms.

A yowl of protest as I dumped her back on the bed.

Hey! I smelled knockwurst on her breath. Maybe she’s got leftovers.

“Shall we get started with some questions?” Brunhilde asked, pencil poised over her pad.

“Ask away.”

After getting my name and contact info, she got down to the nitty-gritty.

“You know anyone who might have wanted to kill Amy Leighton?

I honestly couldn’t think of a soul who’d want to kill Candace’s mouse of an assistant.

“Not really.”

“What about Candace? Can you think of anyone who might want to harm her?”

Take a number. There was Bethenny, who was furious with Candace for horning in on her affair with Tex. And Dr. Fletcher, Candace’s blackmail victim. And of course, there was always Eddie, the cuckolded husband.

I told Brunhilde everything I’d seen and heard.

“Well,” she said, foraging inside her ear with her pencil eraser, “you certainly are the observant little witness.”

“Actually,” I said, with a modest smile, “I’ve done some private investigating in the past.”

“Really? And have you done this private investigating with the benefit of a license?”

“Not exactly,” I admitted.

“Then I’d advise you to keep your nose out of this case.”

“Yes, of course.”

I barely refrained from clicking my heels together and shouting,
“Sieg Heil!”

“By the way,” she added, her eyes narrowed in suspicious slits, “I heard you and Ms. Burke had a bit of a run-in, something about your cat ruining the talent show.”

“It wasn’t a run-in. She told me to take Prozac back to my room, and I did. End of story.”

“No lingering resentment on your part? Some people get awfully sensitive when it comes to their pets.”

“I can assure you I didn’t try to kill Candace.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Ouch.

“Well, that’s about it,” she said, getting up and brushing cat hairs from her tush. “You’re free to go. We’ll contact you if we need you.”

“You mean I can check out of the hotel?”

“Yes. As far as I know, the rest of pageant has been canceled.”

Glory be. I’d be sleeping with a pillow tonight!

The minute Brunhilde left, I started packing. I was busy flinging my things into my suitcase when I heard another knock on my door.

This time I opened it to find Taylor, tears running down her cheeks.

“The police just questioned Mom,” she said, stumbling into the room. “They think she was trying to kill Candace but killed Amy by mistake.”

“Try not to panic, honey. They’re questioning everybody.”

“But they want Mom to come down to headquarters for further questioning.”

Yikes. That sure didn’t look good.

“You’ve got to help!” she cried, wide-eyed with fear.

“You need some emergency M&M’s?”

“No, you’ve got to prove Mom didn’t kill Amy! I Googled you when Mom hired you, and I saw that you solved a whole bunch of murders.”

At last—someone who appreciated my detecting skills.

“So will you help?” Taylor pleaded.

As overbearing as Heather was, I didn’t believe she was a killer.

“Of course, honey. I’d be happy to help.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said, throwing her arms around me.

And with tears of gratitude glimmering in her eyes, she added: “I’ll have some of those M&M’s now, if you don’t mind.”

Out in the parking lot, I rolled my suitcase over to where Heather and Taylor were loading their BMW, Elvis peeking out from Heather’s ginormous Gucci purse.

From her cat carrier, Prozac meowed.

How come Powder Puff gets toted around like a prince, while I’ve got to ride in this crummy cat carrier?

Ignoring her protests, I approached the BMW.

“Heather, I just wanted to thank you for picking up my hotel bill.”

And indeed, I owed her a big debt of thanks.

When I went to check out, I discovered Heather had paid my whole tab, including the nightly pet fee, and three hundred dollars in extra charges for Prozac-induced damages.

Apparently my tattletale maid had felt the need to itemize every last cat scratch she’d observed.

“Don’t worry about it, Jaine,” Heather said with a wan smile.

“Are you guys okay?” I asked.

“Of course we’re okay!” Heather said, trying valiantly to keep up her smile.

“But, Mom,” Taylor protested, “they’re taking you down to police headquarters!”

“Oh, honey. That kind of thing happens all the time. I’m not going to get arrested. Isn’t that right, Jaine?”

“Right,” I lied, picturing Heather being hauled off to jail, shielding her face with Elvis.

“Taylor tells me you’re a part-time private eye,” Heather said.

“It’s just a hobby.”

“But she’s really good, Mom,” Taylor piped up. “She’s actually tracked down some dangerous killers.”

Heather looked me up and down.

“Really?
You?
”

She shook her raven extensions in disbelief.

I wasn’t surprised by her reaction. I get it all the time. Just goes to show you can’t judge a detective by her elastic-waist pants.

“You think you can clear my name?” Heather asked.

“I’ll certainly try.”

“Thanks so much.” Were those tears of gratitude I saw welling behind her Pradas? “Naturally, I’ll pay you for your time.”

“We’ll work that out later,” I said, feeling guilty for taking more money from her after she’d coughed up that extra dough for Prozac’s room rampage.

I watched as they got in their BMW and drove off, then started over to my Corolla. I was trying to ignore Prozac’s whining when suddenly I heard a piercing, “Yoo hoo!”

I turned to see Luanne sprinting to my side, Gigi in tow.

“I heard on the grapevine that the police think Heather killed Amy,” Luanne said, breathless with excitement.

“Is that so?”

“It couldn’t have happened to a more deserving gal!” she beamed.

I turned on my heels to go, feeling more than a tad irritated. I’d grown fond of Heather and resented this ferret of a woman who couldn’t wait to see my client locked up behind bars.

“Wait!” Luanne cried, thrusting a scrap of paper in my hand. “Here’s my phone number. I really liked the lyrics you wrote for Taylor. And I thought you might want to write some for my Gigi.”

She turned to her gum-chewing prodigy.

“Wouldn’t that be nice, honey?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Gigi shrugged.

I shoved Luanne’s phone number in my pocket, murmuring something about having a lot on my plate.

No way was I going to write for this woman. No way. No how. Never.

Not unless, of course, she offered to pay me.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: No Willpower Whatsoever

Frankly, Lambchop, I don’t mind telling you that your mom has been driving me crazy. Ever since I changed the combination on the freezer lock, she’s been bugging me to open it so she can have a little “sweetie.”

Your mother is a wonderful woman, and you know I love her dearly, but she has no willpower whatsoever. She could learn a thing or two about self-control from your iron-willed DaddyO.

Well, time to work on Nellybelle. It’s been a bit tougher than I thought, but I’ve made great strides. I should have her up and running any day now.

Love ’n’ snuggles from
Daddy

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: The Most Infuriating Man

Your father is the most infuriating man. All I asked for was a teensy Oreo, and you’d think I’d asked him to break into Fort Knox. Yes, I know I told him not to let me have anything from the freezer, but I wasn’t talking about a single Oreo. I just needed a little sugar to get me through the morning. But would he give it to me? Nooo. He came on all Holier than Thou, blathering about willpower and self control, and all the while I could smell chocolate on his breath.