Death by Tiara (16 page)

“How about it, Jaine?” he asked. “Want to play?”

Puh-leese. No way was I about to run around flashing my thighs in front of the Willis clan.

“I can’t, Scott.”

“Why on earth not?” Ma Willis wanted to know.

“Um, old water skiing injury,” I said, rubbing my knee.

“Pity,” she clucked in faux sympathy. “But you don’t mind sitting out a game, do you, hon?”

Daggers lurked behind her smile.

“No, of course not.”

“Are you sure?” Scott asked.

I could see he really wanted to play.

“Go ahead. I’ll be fine.”

“You can keep Grammy Willis company!” Chloe chirped.

“Just one quick game,” Scott promised, running out to the yard with the others, “and we’ll be on our way.”

Of course, the game wasn’t the least bit quick. It seemed to stretch out interminably as I sat on the patio with Grammy Willis, several chairs between us.

“Don’t get too near me,” she warned me cordially. “You stink.”

So there I sat, glugging down another mimosa, watching morosely as Chloe scampered in the grass in her bikini, flaunting her bod in front of Scott like a Vegas lap dancer.

“Aren’t they a handsome couple?” Grammy Willis bellowed. “Good breeders.” Then she lowered her voice to a boozy whisper. “I hear some ghastly girl with a big tush is trying to come between them.”

And so it went. Grammy Willis sucking down vodka as she trashed her nurses and the tramp with the big tush, Chloe flirting mercilessly with Scott, Ma Willis looking on happily, and Pa Willis gazing up at the clouds, no doubt trying to predict any oncoming precipitation.

By now I’d given up any hope of going to Santa Barbara.

I was sitting there, daydreaming about pushing Chloe over the cliff to the ocean below, when suddenly the Frisbee came sailing over to the patio and landed at my feet.

“Give it here, Jean!” Chloe waved at me, eagerly.

“All righty,” I said.

Oh, how I wanted to give it to her.

I picked it up and threw it at her with all my might, wishing it were a javelin. I was so darn steamed, I guess I must have hurled it with just a bit too much fervor.

Now I watched in horror as it sailed past Chloe straight to Pa Willis, who, unfortunately, was still gazing up at the sky. Which is why he didn’t even bother to duck when the Frisbee came whizzing at him and hit him smack dab in his eye.

On the plus side, at least the Frisbee game was over.

On the minus side, Pa Willis was rushed to the emergency room for stitches. Scott drove me home and then hurried off to the hospital to be with his dad. He told me not to blame myself, assuring me that it was just an unfortunate accident. But he sounded a tad distant, and I couldn’t help wondering if he meant it when he said he’d be in touch.

Chapter 18

W
ould you believe I had to wash my hair five times before I finally got rid of the Cat-Away smell? When the last of the stuff had finally gone down the drain and the air was safe to breathe again, I hunkered down at my computer to work on the Big John brochure, determined to forget about my ordeal at Hell House.

Easier said than done. As much as I tried to concentrate on Toiletmasters’ extra-large commode, images from my nightmarish brunch kept flashing through my brain: Ma Willis sneering down her patrician nose. Chloe flaunting her fabulous bod. Grammy Willis pointing her finger at me and telling everyone I stank. Worst of all, I kept seeing that damn Frisbee sailing through the air and bonking Pa Willis in his eye.

But with grit and determination (not to mention a few inspirational Oreos), I managed to finish the brochure updates and shipped them off to Phil at Toiletmasters.

After rewarding myself with a chicken burrito for dinner (tossing chicken bits to Prozac as I ate), I lolled away the rest of the night sprawled out in bed, mindlessly watching an
I Love Lucy
marathon on TV.

I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of the episode where Lucy sets fire to her nose while trying to impress William Holden. I was soon lost in a dream where I set fire to Chloe’s bikini (most satisfying). When I awoke, it was after eleven, and the evening news was on.

I was lying there, trying to dredge up the energy to get up and brush my teeth, when suddenly a picture of Candace flashed on the screen.

Sitting up with a jolt, I turned up the volume to hear a spray-tanned news anchor say:

“Candace Burke, the beauty pageant director whose assistant was killed just this past weekend in what the police are calling a mistaken attempt to murder Ms. Burke, was attacked tonight by an assailant in a jog suit and ski mask. Reporter Mario Prieto is live on the scene.”

The camera cut to Candace standing outside her front door, her arm bandaged, Eddie hovering protectively at her side.

Standing across from them with a microphone was a baby-faced reporter who looked like he’d just come straight from his Junior Prom.

“Can you tell us what happened, Ms. Burke?” he asked, eagerly.

“I was coming home from the market,” she said, clearly shaken at the memory, “when someone jumped out from behind the bushes and lunged at me with a knife.”

“Was it a man or a woman?” Baby Face wanted to know.

“It was hard to tell in the dark. Whoever it was stabbed me in the arm”—here the camera zoomed in on her bandaged arm—“but I fought them off with pepper spray.”

“She always carries it for protection,” Eddie piped up. “Some of those pageant moms can get a bit confrontational.”

“I ran into the house and called 911,” Candace said, “but by the time the police showed up, my attacker was gone.”

“Did you get a look at the assailant, Mr. Burke?”

“No,” Eddie said. “Unfortunately, I wasn’t home at the time of the attack.”

“Do you have any idea who was behind the ski mask?” Baby Face asked, turning back to Candace.

“I have a good idea who it was,” she said, “but upon the advice of my attorney, I can’t say anything further.”

It looked like she still believed the culprit was Heather but wasn’t about to risk a defamation lawsuit.

“All I can say is that I’m sick at the thought that someone out there wants to kill me.” At this, she began to blink back tears.

“That’s enough for now,” Eddie said. “My wife’s had quite a stressful evening.”

And indeed, a look of sheer panic shone in her eyes.

Candace was afraid, all right. And she had good reason to be.

Clearly whoever had tried to kill her at the pageant had just returned to finish the job.

Chapter 19

“P
lease don’t fire me, Mr. Turner!” Jolene was wailing. I’d driven out to Turner BMW the next morning and barged into Tex’s office, despite Jolene’s protests that he wasn’t there.

He was there, all right, feet propped up on his desk, avidly watching something on his laptop screen.

I figured it was porn.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t back up your alibi,” Jolene cried, “but Detective Austen said if I didn’t tell her the truth, I’d be arrested as an accessory to murder and spend the rest of my life in jail taking showers with a gal named Spike!”

“Detective Austen, huh?” Tex asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Yes, from the Alta Loco SVU! Isn’t that right, Detective?”

Jolene turned to me, and I nodded weakly.

“You mustn’t blame Jolene,” I said. “She really did try to protect you.”

“Don’t worry, Jolene,” Tex assured her. “You’re not fired. You’re way too valuable for me to let go.” This uttered with his eyes firmly riveted on her boobs. “Go back to your desk, and try to calm down.”

“Oh, thank you, sir!” she said, rushing out the door.

Somehow Tex managed to tear his eyes from her chest and turned to me.

“So you’re a police officer, huh?” he smirked. “Last time we spoke, you were a part-time, semi-professional private eye. That’s a mighty big career move in just two days. Mind if I see some ID?”

I was trapped, and I knew it. No way was Tex about to be fooled by my USDA meat inspector badge.

“Okay,” I confessed, “so I’m not a cop.”

“No?” He grinned triumphantly. “Well, I think I’ll just call the police and have you arrested for impersonating an officer.”

He reached across his desk for his phone.

“While you’re doing that,” I said, whipping out my cell phone, “I think I’ll call your wife and tell her about your affairs with Candace and Bethenny.”

Not surprisingly, he put down his phone.

“Where on earth did you get the idea I’ve been fooling around with Candace and Bethenny?”

“Oh, please, Tex. I saw you and Candace in the elevator at the Amada Inn. I could practically see the mattress burns on your back. And Bethenny told me all about your affair with her. I don’t know when you started boinking her, but if she was still a minor, you could be facing jail time.”

“So what do you want?” he asked, glaring at me.

Suddenly I was the one in the driver’s seat.

“I want to know where you were the afternoon of the murder.”

“I already told you. I was here in my office.”

“Nowhere near the Amada Inn?”

“Absolutely not. And even if I was having an affair with Candace, why would I want to kill her?”

“To shut her up. According to Bethenny, Candace was threatening to tell your wife about your affair.”

“Bethenny certainly is the little chatterbox, isn’t she? Now I’m sorry I gave her such a good deal on her Beemer.”

“Bethenny told me your wife’s money is what’s keeping Turner BMW afloat, and that you can’t afford to lose her. So I’m wondering if you stopped by Candace’s office to bludgeon her to death and killed the wrong pageant blonde by mistake.”

“Interesting theory, but it’s simply not true. I was here the entire afternoon, spying on my salesmen.”

“Spying on your salesmen?”

“I have hidden cameras in all the sales cubicles.”

With that, he swiveled his laptop so I could see the screen. Grainy images of Tex’s minions in their cubicles flashed in constant rotation.

“A bit voyeuristic,” Tex said, “but a very effective management tool.”

He snapped the lid of his laptop shut and looked me straight in the eye.

“I didn’t try to kill Candace,” he said. “I may not have any witnesses to back up my alibi, but that’s the truth.”

Call me crazy, but in that moment, it seemed as if he was on the level. But then again, he was a car salesman. So who knew?

“If you ask me,” he said, “you should be questioning Eddie. Talk about your long-suffering husbands. He’s always resented Candace. Living in her shadow. Working as her gofer.

“And let’s just say for a minute that Candace and I
had
been having an affair,” he added with a sly smile. “What if Eddie found about it? Maybe he was so angry at this final humiliation, he went berserk and tried to kill her. Makes sense to me.”

Me, too.

A whole lot of sense, indeed.

Eager to point the finger of suspicion at someone else, Tex gave me Candace and Eddie’s address and phone number. For a guy who claimed he wasn’t boffing Candace, he sure knew a lot about her.

Soon I was tootling over to Casa Burke, which I found on a leafy street not far from Turner BMW. Most convenient for an impromptu lovers’ tryst, n’est-ce pas?

After parking my car down the street from their house (no sense announcing my arrival), I called the number Tex had given me.

The phone rang for quite a while before Eddie finally picked up. Putting on my best
Law & Order
voice, I said, “This is Captain Roth from the sheriff’s department, calling for Candace Burke.”

Then I held my breath, hoping Eddie would buy my Officer of the Law impersonation.

Thank heavens he did.

“I’m afraid she’s not here right now. Can I ask what it’s regarding?”

“Just a follow-up on her attack the other night. I’ll call back later.”

Before he could ask any more questions, I hung up.

All systems were go. The coast was clear. Now that I knew Eddie was alone, it was time to move in for the kill.

Getting out of the Corolla, I made my way to the Burkes’ house—a pristine white Cape Cod surrounded by a velvety lawn, with lush hydrangea bushes lining the path to the front door.

Like Candace herself, the place was groomed to perfection.

I rang the bell, hoping Eddie hadn’t been lying and that Candace wouldn’t open the door and ask me what the hell I was doing there. I couldn’t very well tell her I suspected her hubby of trying to knock her off.

After a few seconds, Eddie came to the door, unshaven and haggard. Clearly the attempts on Candace’s life had taken their toll on him. Either because he loved Candace dearly, or because he’d tried to kill her twice and failed both times.

“Listen,” he said wearily, “if you’re from the press, I’ve said all I’ve got to say. Please leave me alone.”

With that, he started to slam the door in my face.

“No, wait! I’m not a reporter. I’m Jaine Austen. We met this weekend at the pageant.”

He squinted at me, trying to remember.

At last the dawn came.

“You’re the one with the crazy cat who pranced on stage in the middle of the Cleopatra act.”

I braced myself, waiting for him to start chewing me out. But instead he broke out in a wan smile.

“Most entertaining moment of the whole damn day, if you ask me.”

What a darling man! He couldn’t possibly be a killer, could he?

“So what are you doing here?” he asked.

“Actually, Heather Van Sant has hired me to investigate the murder at the pageant. I know Candace suspects Heather of trying to kill her, but I don’t believe Heather’s guilty. And I’m trying to clear her name.”

“
You’re
a private eye?” he asked, blinking in disbelief.

“Part-time, semi-professional,” I said briskly, eager to cut off any chatter about my credentials. “Mind if I come in?”

“Now’s not a great time,” he said. “I’m awfully tired.”

“Please,” I begged. “Just a few minutes. It could save an innocent woman from going to jail.”