Death of a Trophy Wife (15 page)

Looking down at her on the yoga mat, so slim and delicate, her veins showing beneath her translucent skin, I was beginning to wonder if she was even capable of murder.

But I pushed aside my doubts and plowed ahead, going straight for the jugular.

“I have a witness who overheard you call Bunny a sadistic bitch who’d ruined your life.”

“Who told you that?” she gasped.

“It doesn’t matter, Marla. All that matters is that I have a witness.”

“I didn’t call her a sadistic bitch,” she said softly, staring down at her stress ball. “I called her an
evil
bitch.”

“So you already knew Bunny before you showed up at the party?”

“We worked together at the same modeling agency. It’s no secret that I didn’t like her. Nobody did. She was always bad-mouthing the other models, trying to steal our bookings.”

“Sounds like Bunny,” I conceded. “But how did that ruin your life?”

“Bookings weren’t all she tried to steal. Bunny liked to steal men, too,” she said, giving her stress ball an anxious squeeze. “One day we were sent out to the same catalog shoot. My car was in the shop, so my boyfriend, Charlie, took me to work. When he came to pick me up, I wasn’t quite ready. And Bunny moved in for the kill. The next thing I knew Charlie broke up with me. He told me he couldn’t help himself, he’d fallen head over heels for Bunny.”

So Marvin hadn’t been the first man Bunny had stolen from another woman. And something told me there’d been plenty of others, too.

“Two months later, she dumped Charlie for someone else. She never wanted him in the first place. It was all a game to her. She just wanted to take him away from me. Charlie was so devastated, he got crazy drunk one night and lost control of his car on the coast highway. Drove it straight through a guardrail over a cliff. He was dead before the paramedics even showed up.”

She blinked back the tears welling in her eyes.

“I’ve never loved anybody like I loved Charlie, and she took him away from me. Forever.”

Sure sounded like a motive for murder to me. But I still couldn’t picture her getting up the gumption to pull it off.

“When I showed up at the party that night, I had no idea it was Bunny’s house. I just knew I was going to see a Mrs. Cooper. I wanted to throw up when I saw her in that palace of hers, strutting around in her designer shoes, bragging about her Maserati and her swimming pool and her stupid Marilyn Monroe glasses. She stuck me in that tiny room, lording it over me like I was some kind of peasant. My god, I wanted to kill her.

“But I didn’t, of course,” she added hastily.

She looked up at me with wide gray eyes, and for the life of me I couldn’t see her as a killer. I figured the worst she was capable of was sending out bad vibes.

But she had an undeniably strong motive to want Bunny dead. I had to play hardball.

“Oh?” I said. “So then what were you doing out on the patio that night?”

“What are you talking about?”

Time for a little fib.

“I have another witness who saw you out on the patio alone with Bunny’s drink.”

“That’s a lie!” she said, jumping up from her yoga mat, her face flushed red.

“I’m sick and tired of being accused of things I didn’t do!” she shrieked. “I was nowhere near that patio! I didn’t poison Bunny’s stupid martini. And I didn’t steal that sweater, either. I don’t care what the security guard at Bloomingdale’s says. I didn’t even know it fell into my purse!”

It was then that I glanced down and saw a stream of gel oozing out of her stress ball. My god, she’d squeezed that thing so hard, she’d broken the casing.

Far from being a delicate little flower, Marla Mitchell was one angry lady. And apparently a bit of a kleptomaniac, too.

Maybe she was capable of murder, after all.

After adding Fortuna to my growing list of suspects, I hightailed it to the nearest KFC for a much needed spot of lunch and was now chomping on an Extra Crispy chicken breast, musing on how frustrating this case was turning out to be.

I had suspects coming out of the woodwork, but no proof whatsoever. If only I could dig up a witness who’d seen somebody slip out onto the patio.

But as you well know, all the party guests had been too engrossed watching me make a fool of myself in Bunny’s guest bathroom. Once more, I wracked my brain trying to remember if there’d been a face missing from the crowd gawking at me. I shut my eyes to visualize the scene, but all I could see was that water gushing from the broken faucet.

That and the KFC fudge brownie parfait I’d been eyeing for dessert. It looked mighty tasty.

Oh, for crying out loud. What was wrong with me, thinking about dessert at a time like this? I’ll bet S. Holmes never sat around thinking about fudge brownie parfaits when he had a murder to solve.

I needed to question the other guests at the party. Maybe one of the Barbies saw or heard something incriminating. Maybe one of them was even the killer.

I made up my mind to scoot home the minute I finished my chicken and get that guest list Marvin had given me. But as luck would have it, the minute I finished my chicken, Kandi called me on my cell.

“You’ll never guess what happened!” she shrieked, in high panic mode. “It’s a miracle I’m still alive!”

“What’s wrong?”

“We just had a bomb scare at the studio.”

“No!”

“Maggie the Maggot found an unmarked sealed box in the ladies’ room.”

Maggie the Maggot, for those of you who’ve never seen Kandi’s show, was one of the many talented thespian insects on
Beanie & the Cockroach
.

“She swears her ex-husband sent it. They went through the divorce from hell, and when Maggie got custody of their dog, her ex vowed to get revenge…. Wait a minute—greatnews!”

“They defused the bomb?”

“No, even better. We get the rest of the day off. Let’s meet at Century City and go to the movies.”

I couldn’t possibly go to the movies. I had to get cracking and question those Barbies.

“Absolutely not, Kandi. I’m way too busy.”

“Don’t be silly. Meet you at the cineplex in a half hour.”

“Make it an hour. I’m out in the valley.”

Yes, I know I shouldn’t have caved. But the thought of spending the next few hours with someone who neither knew nor loathed Bunny Cooper was really quite appealing.

Polishing off the last of my chicken, I wiped my hands with a moist towelette and headed back over the hill to Century City.

Okay, so I headed back to the counter, where I ordered that fudge brownie parfait.

But right after that, I headed over to Century City.

T
he west side of Los Angeles is the rich side of Los Angeles. And nothing says money quite like the parking lot at the Century City mall.

I parked my humble Corolla amid the BMWs, Mercedes, and Lexus SUVs jamming the lot, and took the escalator up to the land of Tiffany key rings and seventy-five dollar T-shirts.

I was trotting along, checking out the shoppers and marveling at the wonders of plastic surgery, when I spotted a petite, dark-haired woman heading my way. Something about her looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her face.

And then I realized it was Lupe, clacking along in heels, tailored slacks, and a blazer. I hadn’t recognized her out of her uniform.

“Lupe!” I waved.

Lost in thought, she looked over at me, startled.

“Oh, hello, Ms. Jaine.”

Up close, I could see she was wearing make-up. With her shiny hair set free from its usual bun, and a hint of blush on her cheeks, she was really quite attractive.

“What’re you doing here?” I asked. Somehow, I couldn’t picture her forking over seventy-five bucks for a T-shirt.

She looked around furtively.

“Can you keep a secret?”

I happen to be extremely reliable at keeping secrets. (If you don’t count the fact that I’m blabbing everything that ever happens in my life to you.)

“Absolutely,” I assured her.

“I’m here for a job interview.”

With that, she broke out in an excited grin.

“I got a call from a friend of Ms. Bunny who said she heard what a good cook I am. And now she wants to meet me. If she hires me, she’s going to pay me three times what Mr. Marvin is paying me!”

Which, according to my lightning calculations, would put her in a tax bracket three times greater than mine.

“Not only that, she promised to get me a green card!”

“That’s wonderful!”

“Of course, I hate to leave Mr. Marvin,” she sighed, a frown furrowing her brow. “He’s been so good to me. But I need the extra money. And the green card.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand.”

I doubted it would be too much of a blow to him, not with Ellen back in his life.

“I’d better hurry,” she said, checking her watch. “We’re supposed to meet at the food court, and if I get the job, we’re going supermarket shopping so she can show me what foods she likes.”

“Well, good luck!”

After all the crappola she’d put up with from Bunny, she deserved some.

“Thank you, Ms. Jaine. I only hope she likes me.”

“Don’t worry. I’m sure everything will work out fine.”

Which just goes to show how little I knew.

Kandi was waiting for me in the lobby of the cineplex with two tickets to one of those romantic comedies she’s so fond of. You know the kind, where a size 0 heroine who in real life could have her pick of any guy in the world sits home alone Saturday nights in impossibly adorable pajamas, eating ice cream straight from the carton and never gains an ounce. Then she meets Mr. Cutie Pie, and after a few funny misunderstandings the two of them wind up in a liplock with Nat King Cole crooning in the background.

“So how’s my little bomb threat survivor?” I asked as we rode the escalator up to our theater.

“Actually, the whole thing was a blessing in disguise. That pompous idiot who plays the cockroach is driving me nuts. The guy spends two weeks playing Hamlet in summer stock and suddenly he thinks he’s Sir John Gielgud. If he asks me one more time what his motivation is, I’m going to spritz him with Raid.

“Hey, want anything to eat?” she asked, catching sight of the concession stand. “My treat.”

“Oh, no, thanks, honey. I just had lunch.”

I was not about to let a single morsel past my lips. Not after the cholesterol festival I’d just packed away. So, while Kandi ordered a vat of buttered popcorn, I settled for an anemic Diet Coke.

“Sure you don’t want anything?” Kandi asked, as the kid behind the counter rang up our sale.

“Not a thing,” I said, vowing not to touch a single kernel of her popcorn.

We found our theater and climbed the steps to one of the upper rows. Thank heavens Century City has stadium seating. Which, if you ask me, is the best thing to happen to movies since Raisinets. The way the seats are raked, you’re practically guaranteed an unobstructed view, even if, as so often happens, an inconsiderately tall lunkhead plops down in front of you at the last minute.

Comfortably ensconced in our seats, with about fifteen minutes till the movie started, we settled in to gab.

“So how’s your true love?” I asked.

“What true love?”

“The doctor you met on line at Starbucks. The Scrabble lover. The one you were going to marry.”

“Oh, him,” she said, dismissing him with an airy wave of her hand. “What a jerk.”

The woman is amazing. She can go from Wedding Bells to What a Jerk in the time it takes Dale Earnhardt to start his engine.

“You won’t believe what happened.”

If it happened to Kandi, I’d believe it.

“He was all set to come to my apartment for dinner the other night. It was his first meal at my place and I worked my fingers to the bone ordering takeout from La Scala Presto. I had the table set, the candles lit, and Brazilian jazz playing in the background when I got a phone call from him.”

She paused dramatically. Kandi is fond of milking her stories for all they’re worth. Which is one of the reasons why
Beanie & the Cockroach
happens to be one of the highest rated cartoons in its time slot.

“He said he was at Starbucks, buying me some ground espresso for after dinner.”

“How sweet.”

“That’s what I thought. Until he told me he’d fallen madly in love with the gal on line in front of him.”

“But that’s how he met you!”

“Yes. The man is a Starbucks Stalker.”

“Aw, honey,” I commiserated, “that’s too bad.”

“No biggie,” she shrugged. “I’m well rid of him. It turns out he’s not even a real doctor. He’s a chiropractor in a minimall. And he probably cheats at Scrabble, too.”

She reached into her tub of popcorn and popped a kernel in her mouth. She’s got to be the only woman on the planet who eats popcorn one kernel at a time.

“So what’s up with you?” she asked, munching on her kernel.

I decided not to tell her about my latest freelance detecting gig. Kandi always raises a stink when she knows I’m involved in a murder, nagging me about things I’d rather not be thinking about, like winding up in the morgue with an ID tag dangling from my big toe.

“Nothing much,” I replied, playing it safe.

“What about that guy from Mongolia?”

“Uzbekistan.”

“Did you ever go out with him?”

“Did I ever.”

Cringing at the memory, I gave her a brief recap of The House of Plov fiasco.

“Men,” she grunted. “They’re all impossible.”

Yeah, right. Until she met her next Mr. Wonderful.

“Why on earth did you go out with him in the first place?”

“Kandi! You were the one who insisted I give him a chance.”

“Did I?” She blinked, puzzled.

“Yes! You said he sounded charmingly ethnic.”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“Well, you did!”

“Shhhh!” someone behind us whispered.

I looked up at the screen and saw the movie was about to start. A healthy smattering of gray-haired ladies and unemployed writers had filled the seats while Kandi and I had been chatting.

Shoving our failed love lives aside, Kandi and I sat back and started watching the trials and tribs of the size 0 actress on the screen. In spite of my cynical self, I actually wound up enjoying it. When the heroine finally ended up in a tender embrace with her sweet-but-sexy studmuffin, I looked down and was amazed to discover Kandi’s tub of popcorn in my lap. With just a few unpopped kernels rolling around at the bottom.

“What’s this doing here?” I asked Kandi, who was gazing at the credits, glassy-eyed.

“I offered you some at the beginning of the movie, and you never gave it back.”

Oh, lord. I’d just polished off a vat of buttered popcorn. Had I no self-control? Next thing I knew I’d be eating in my sleep.

We made our way along our row of seats to the steps leading to the exit.

“Wasn’t that just the sweetest movie ever?” Kandi sighed, as we started down.

But I did not get a chance to answer her. Because just then I felt someone shove me in my back. Not a jostle. Not a pat. But a major shove.

Which sent me stumbling down what seemed like an endless chasm of steps. Frantically I reached out for the handrail and managed to grab it. Just in the nick of time. One millisecond later, and I’d have been catapulting headfirst to some pretty serious, if not fatal, injuries.

Kandi hurried to my side.

“My gosh, Jaine, did you trip?”

No, I most definitely did not trip. Somebody had pushed me down those steps on purpose.

And I had a sinking feeling that somebody was Bunny’s killer.

I looked around for my assailant, but aside from a few elderly ladies in orthopedic shoes, the theater was pretty much empty.

Whoever’d pushed me was long gone.

“Are you okay?” Kandi asked as I made my way down the rest of the steps.

“I’m fine,” I lied.

Taking no chances, I checked behind me before I got on the escalator down to the theater’s lobby. I wasn’t about to take a tumble on that baby.

“You don’t look fine,” Kandi said, peering at me through narrowed eyes.

“I don’t suppose you noticed anyone standing behind me on those stairs, did you?” I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

“Why? You don’t think somebody pushed you?”

“No, no. Of course not.”

“Yes, you do!”

Darn that Kandi. She can read me like a Chinese take-out menu.

“You’re chasing after another killer, aren’t you? I can always tell!”

By now we were outside in the hazy afternoon sunshine, and Kandi pulled me over to one of the many wooden benches scattered around the mall.

“C’mon,” she said, shoving me down onto the bench. “Tell Kandi everything.”

And the next thing I knew I was blabbing all about the murder.

“Jaine, Jaine, Jaine,” she sighed when I was through. “How many times do I have to tell you? Tracking down killers is dangerous.”

“I know. But it adds a jolt of excitement to my life.”

“You want excitement? Try the 15-Hour Sale at Macy’s.”

She would’ve gone on reading me the riot act, but fortunately I was saved by her cell phone, which started ringing in her purse.

“Damn!” she said, checking her caller ID. “I’ve got to take it. It’s the office.”

The good news was I didn’t have to sit through her lecture. The bad news was she had to go back to work. The “bomb” in the ladies’ room turned out to be a bunch of old scripts one of the cleaning crew forgot to throw out.

“Sorry, hon. I hate to leave you like this. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” I said, faking a confident smile.

But I couldn’t help it. I was spooked.

“Promise me you’ll stop your investigation this instant, and leave everything to the police.”

“I promise,” I lied.

“If I find out you’re lying and you wind up getting killed, I swear, I’ll never speak to you again.”

After a farewell hug, we parted ways and I headed down to where I’d parked my car.

As I walked along the dimly lit underground lot, I had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was following me. At first I told myself it was just my imagination, but then I heard the squeak of rubber-soled shoes padding behind me.

Someone was out to get me.

But I wasn’t about to go down without a fight. Reaching into my purse, I grabbed my travel-sized can of hair spray. One spritz in the eye, I’ve found, can discombobulate an attacker almost as well as mace.

Then I whirled around and spritzed my heart out.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

I found myself standing face to face with an irate trophy wife in tennis whites and sneakers, whose perfectly coiffed blond hair had all the hair spray it needed, thank you very much.

“Oh, gosh,” I sputtered, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to spritz you. I thought you were the killer who pushed me down the stairs in the movies.”

She looked at me like I’d just wandered in from the nearest psycho ward and without any further ado, made a mad dash for her Lexus.

Can’t say that I blamed her.

The Los Angeles evening rush hour, which starts about ten minutes after the morning rush hour, was in full swing when I left the mall. By the time I slogged my way home, it was after five.

Prozac greeted me at the door with her patented “Feed Me” yowl.

“How’s my little Bunnyface?” I asked, swooping her up in my arms.

Hungry! And don’t call me Bunnyface.

“Mommy almost got killed today,” I told her as I opened a can of Luscious Lamb Innards in Savory Sauce.

Yeah, right. Whatever. Don’t be stingy with that savory sauce.

Once her little pink nose was buried in the stuff, I poured myself a wee glass of chardonnay and ran the water for a nice long soak in the tub.

Leaving my clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor, I sank into the steamy bubbles. As I lay there, waiting for the hot water to work its magic, my mind kept replaying that scene at the movies. That awful sensation as I lost my balance, the frightening sight of those steep steps looming below. I knew that shove was no accident. Someone had purposely pushed me. But who? The first person who sprang to mind was Fortuna. After all, I’d just been to her apartment and practically accused her of the murder. You saw how she went bonkers. It would have been easy for her to slip out of her apartment and follow me to the movies.

Yes, Fortuna seemed like a likely candidate. But it could have been any one of my suspects. For all I knew, Bunny’s killer had been tailing me for days and waiting for the opportunity to pounce.

Whoever it was wanted to scare the stuffing out of me.

And I must confess, they’d done a darn good job.

Forty-five minutes later, when the hot water had loosened the Boy Scout knots in my muscles, I emerged from the tub and slipped into my bathrobe. Then, grabbing my clothes from where I’d tossed them, I went to my bedroom to hang them up.