Death by Tiara (21 page)

Luanne had clearly been drinking the pageant Kool-Aid.

Meanwhile, Gigi, the future actress/model in question, was in the middle of the living room in shorts and a tank top, awkwardly twirling a baton.

“Hi, Ms. Austen,” she said, when she saw me.

“Be careful you don’t break that lamp!” Luanne shouted, as the baton came perilously close to a ceramic-based table lamp.

“Gigi’s learning a new talent,” Luanne explained. “We want to make more of an impression at the next pageant. Not that she wasn’t wonderful as Cleopatra, right?”

“Absolutely,” I lied.

Frankly I thought the table lamp could have given a better performance.

“These batons have wicks at the end, so you can set them on fire,” Gigi gushed, with all the glee of a budding pyromaniac.

“Yep, my little girl is learning how to juggle flaming batons!” Luanne beamed with pride.

Instantly my mind was flooded with images of the Amada Inn going up in smoke.

“I’m sure to win next time!” Gigi said, her big blue eyes shining with determination.

“You bet you will, honey!” Luanne assured her. “Now keep on practicing while Ms. Austen and I have a little chat about your novelty lyrics.”

I followed Luanne to a cramped dining alcove and took a seat at a scarred wooden table littered with mail and assorted pageant brochures.

Up against the wall was a clothing rack stuffed with glittery gowns and costumes. Gigi’s pageant wardrobe, no doubt.

“I want something fun and bouncy that Gigi can sing while she’s twirling the batons,” Luanne said, settling down onto a rickety chair across from me. “Work ‘fire’ in the lyrics, of course, and Gigi’s many talents. So what do you think? Can you do it?”

Not without the help of my good friend Jose Cuervo.

“Well, I—”

“Good! I knew you’d say yes!”

Then, somewhat uneasily, she added, “So how much was Heather paying you?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

She gulped in dismay.

“That’s a little steep. I don’t make much at my job at the nail salon.”

For the first time I noticed a rhinestone embedded in the pinky of her lime green nails. No doubt her own handiwork.

“By the way,” she said, pulling out a slip of paper from the pile of junk on her table and sliding it across to me, “here’s a coupon for ten percent off your first visit to the salon. Which, if you don’t mind my saying, you could really use. What do you cut your nails with? A chainsaw?”

Of all the nerve! I happen to use a pair of vintage manicure scissors I picked up at the same flea market where I got my USDA inspector badge and Phi Beta Kappa pin.

“Anyhow,” Luanne was saying, “I don’t make much, but I’ve got a savings bond left over from the divorce settlement. Maybe I could cash that in.”

“No!” I shouted. “I couldn’t possibly let you do that.”

I thought of all the money she was pouring into these pageants. Heaven knows how much that Cleopatra barge had set her back. And the rack of costumes. That had to be a few thou right there. The woman was living on the edge to support her crazy pageant dreams. I wasn’t about to let her dip into her savings. No way.

Then I had an idea.

“I’ll write the lyrics for free,” I said, “if you’ll answer some questions about the murder at the Amada Inn.”

“The murder? Why do you need to know about the murder?”

I wasn’t about to tell her I was helping Heather. I wanted her to cooperate, not stab me with a flaming baton.

“I’m afraid I’m a suspect.”

“You?” She blinked in surprise.

“The detective in charge of the case thinks I’m some sort of animal nut who may have tried to kill Candace because she insulted my cat.”

All of which was true.

“But I thought Heather was their prime suspect,” Luanne said, not bothering to hide her disappointment.

“Not anymore.”

“Damn. If anyone deserved to be dragged off to prison, it’s that godawful woman.”

“So can you answer a few questions?” I asked.

“If I do, you’ll write Gigi’s lyrics for free?”

“Absolutely.”

“Go ahead,” she shrugged. “Ask away.”

“First off, can you think of anyone who’d want to kill either Amy or Candace?”

“I can’t think of a soul who’d want to kill Amy. Poor little thing,” she clucked. “Talk about being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’m sure the killer was out to get Candace.”

“Do you have any idea who that could be?”

“I still say Heather did it. You saw how furious she was with Candace at the talent show.”

“Anybody
other
than Heather come to mind?”

“Nope.”

Luanne had clearly tried and convicted Heather of the crime, so I decided to switch to another line of questioning.

“I don’t suppose you saw anyone near the pageant offices at the time of the murder?”

Was it my imagination, or did Luanne squirm in her seat ever so slightly?

“I’m afraid not. Gigi and I went to our hotel room right after the talent competition and stayed there until we heard about Amy’s death.”

“So you were in your hotel room the entire time?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “The entire time.”

But there was a look in her eyes, something sly and cagey, that made me wonder if she was telling the truth.

“Isn’t that right, Gigi?” she called out to her daughter. “I was with you in our hotel room at the time of the murder. Wasn’t I, honey?”

Gigi, who’d been twirling her baton with carefree abandon, now jumped as if hit by a blow dart, sending her baton flying across the room into the table lamp, which toppled to the floor with a crash.

“I told you to watch out for the lamp!” Luanne cried, racing over to assess the damage. “Damn. The base is cracked.”

“I’m sorry, Mom.” Gigi watched Luanne put the lamp back on the table, avoiding my eyes, about as skittish as Prozac on her way to the vet.

“So, Gigi,” I said, joining them in the living room. “Your mom was in your hotel room with you at the time of the murder?”

“Um. Yes. absolutely.”

Gigi lied about as well as I cook.

Not for one minute did I believe her. And so I decided to tell a little fib of my own.

“Funny you should say that. Because I was just talking with someone who swears they saw your mom in the hallway outside Candace’s office.”

My ruse worked.

“What do you mean?” Luanne squeaked.

“Just what I said. I have a witness who saw you at the scene of the crime.”

And suddenly all the starch went out of her.

“Okay,” she said, crumpling down on the sofa, “so I left our hotel room. I went to see Candace. I paid her three hundred bucks to make sure Gigi won the talent contest. But then she gave the prize to some klutz who tap-danced to
America the Beautiful
.”

So Candace had been accepting bribes, and reneging on them. Yet another motive to mow her down.

“I went to her office to have it out with her and get my money back. But when I got there, she was already dead. At least I thought it was her, lying there in that blue blazer. I didn’t realize it was Amy until later.”

“But my mom didn’t kill her!” Gigi piped up. “I swear. She’d never do that.”

“I bet I know who the killer is,” Luanne said.

“Who?” I asked eagerly.

“Bethenny Martinez. I ran into her in the hallway outside Candace’s office. She’s the one who ratted me out, isn’t she? If you ask me, she’s the killer.”

Yikes. First Heather. Then Luanne. And now Bethenny. All of them at the scene of the crime. That hallway was beginning to look like the 405 at rush hour.

“Well, thanks for all your help,” I said.

“You do believe I’m innocent, don’t you?” Luanne asked, gnawing at her pinky with the embedded rhinestone.

“Um, sure,” I lied.

“And you’re still going to write the lyrics for Gigi?”

Oh, foo. Why on earth had I suggested that idiotic idea?

“Of course,” I said.

“Don’t forget to make them fun and peppy, throw in ‘fire,’ and try to rhyme something with Gigi. So far all I’ve got is Fiji.”

I promised I’d do my best and left her trying to seal the crack in the table lamp with clear nail polish.

Heading out into the bright afternoon sun, I felt a wave of pity for Luanne, with her DayGlo nails and cheesy furniture, trying so hard to make a go of things.

But then, just as I was walking past the carport, I noticed a beat-up black van with the vanity plates: GGs MOM. It had to be Luanne’s car. And I suddenly remembered: Hadn’t Candace said she’d been tailed by someone in a black van?

Had Luanne been the one following Candace?

Was my struggling manicurist with the rhinestone in her pinky the killer, after all?

Chapter 26

I
t was time to pay another visit to the former Teen Queen. I needed to find out if Bethenny had really been at the scene of the crime, as Luanne claimed—or if Luanne had merely made a wild accusation to cast suspicion away from herself.

Back home, I got on Bethenny’s website and was delighted to see that she was going to be signing copies of her new book,
Bethenny’s Beauty Secrets
, at a Krispy Kreme doughnut joint out in Burbank the very next day.

A book signing at a doughnut shop? How odd. But I wasn’t complaining. Any event involving doughnuts is always high on my To Do list.

So the next day, after a light lunch of Cheerios and a banana, I headed out to Burbank.

I must confess that on the drive over, I didn’t even think about the murder. I was too busy debating about whether to get a chocolate glazed or strawberry jelly doughnut for dessert. Chocoholic that I am, at first I leaned toward the chocolate. But then I kept thinking of the strawberry jam oozing from a plump jelly doughnut. True, I’d get chocolate with the chocolate doughnut, but I’d get more to eat with the jelly.

What a quandary, huh?

I debated the issue with all the intensity of a Supreme Court justice, and still hadn’t made up my mind when I pulled into the Krispy Kreme parking lot in Burbank.

Walking into the brightly lit shop, I was greeted by the sweet smell of cinnamon and sugar and chocolate.

I’m hoping that’s the way it smells in heaven.

I expected to find Bethenny seated at a table, surrounded by a crowd of fans waiting to buy her book. But when I looked around, all I saw were two customers at the counter: an old man, and a young mom with a toddler.

For a minute I wondered if I’d come to the wrong Krispy Kreme.

Then I heard someone call my name.

“Hi, Jaine!”

I turned to see a pretty Latina behind the counter in a Krispy Kreme polo and visor, her hair in a thick ponytail.

Good heavens. It was Bethenny! Did she actually work here?

Apparently so, because the next thing I knew she was handing a bag of doughnuts to the old guy and asking, “Would you care to buy a book with that?
Bethenny’s Beauty Secrets
. I wrote it. I used to be Miss Alta Loco Teen Queen.”

She pointed to a stack of books by the napkin dispenser.

There on the cover was Bethenny in her teen queen tiara, holding a hair dryer in one hand and a mascara wand in the other.

The old man blinked at her, puzzled.

“I came here for donuts. Why would I want to buy a book?”

“It has some great beauty tips.”

“Does it tell how to get rid of toe fungus?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Then what good is it?” he said, grabbing his doughnuts and shuffling out the door.

Bethenny sighed and turned to her next customer, the mom with the toddler, who bought a chocolate glazed doughnut, and—after thumbing through the pages of Bethenny’s book—declined to buy it.

Now it was my turn. This was it. My moment of truth. What would it be? The joy of chocolate? Or the mounds of jam inside that hunk of dough?

“I’ll have a chocolate glazed doughnut.”

Of course, you knew chocolate would win.

“And a jelly doughnut.”

I don’t know what happened. The words just sprung out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

“And throw in a cinnamon apple, too,” I said, spotting a last-minute inspiration.

It’s official. I can’t take me anywhere.

“And would you care to buy a copy of my book?” Bethenny asked, with a pitifully hopeful look in her eyes.

Was she kidding? I’d rather buy diet rice cakes. But there was no way I could turn her down, not with her staring at me like Bambi tied to the railroad tracks.

“Of course,” I said.

“That’s great!” Bethenny beamed. “Thanks so much! It’s twenty dollars.”

Twenty bucks to get beauty tips from a Krispy Kreme pusher? Oh, well. There was no backing out of it now.

I paid for the book, which Bethenny autographed with a smiley face.

“Do you suppose you could take a break for a few minutes?” I asked, looking around the now empty store.

“Sure, just let me ask my manager.”

“Hey, Brandon,” she called out. “Okay if I take a break?”

A pimply kid who couldn’t have been more than seventeen poked his head out from the kitchen door. “Okay, but just for a few minutes.”

“Want some coffee?” Bethenny asked when he’d retreated. “It’s on the house,” she whispered confidentially.

“Sure. Thanks.”

She poured us both coffee, and grabbed a plain doughnut hole for herself.

Can you believe there are people out there who eat a single doughnut hole at Krispy Kreme?

Me, neither.

Of course, that’s why Bethenny was a size two and I’m a size none-of-your-business. Perhaps there was a lesson to be learned here. So as we settled down at a table, I made a solemn vow to eat just one of my doughnuts (chocolate glazed, of course) and save the rest for later.

“Thanks again,” Bethenny said, “for buying the book. You’re the first person to buy one all day. And probably the last,” she sighed.

“I’m sure sales will pick up,” I offered lamely.

“Oh, please. I couldn’t even get my own mother to buy a copy.”

She stared down at the book on the table between us and shook her head in disgust. “Why on earth did I ever think people would be interested in anything Miss Alta Loco Teen Queen had to say?”