Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla (12 page)

Oh, what does it matter? I’m probably going to jail anyway.”

“Normalynne, just because the police brought you in for questioning doesn’t mean they’re going to arrest you.”

“I know they think I did it,” she said, hugging her knees to her chest in a fetal position.

“What makes you so sure?”

“You saw the scene I made at the wedding. I still can’t believe I got so drunk. I never drink.

But I was so upset that day. All I could think about was that awful Hermosa High reunion when Patti first sunk her claws into Dickie.

“The funny thing is,” she said, not sounding the least bit amused, “Dickie didn’t even want to go. I had to drag him there. What a fool I was.

We were having a good time, drinking punch and chatting with Veronica, when Patti showed 114

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up in a tight dress cut practically to her navel.

She and Dickie locked eyeballs and that was the beginning of the end.”

There was a catch in her voice, and for a minute I thought she might cry, but she held back her tears and went on with her story.

“I thought I’d gotten used to the idea of Dickie being with Patti, but come the day of the wedding, I went to pieces. I found a dusty bottle of whiskey in my kitchen cabinet and decided to add some to my coffee. Right away I felt better.

So I had another cup. Then I skipped the coffee and started pouring myself straight shots. The next thing I knew I was barging down the aisle screaming at Patti.”

“But I don’t understand why the cops think you’re the one who sabotaged the railing. Anyone could’ve done it.”

“Apparently they’ve got a witness who swears he saw a woman out on the balcony the day before the wedding, tampering with the bolts.”

“The day before the wedding?”

She nodded. “During the cocktail party.”

“But you weren’t even at the house that day.”

“Yes,” she sighed, “I was.”

Ouch.

“I drove over to tell Patti off, only I didn’t have the nerve. I sat in my car for more than an hour, trying to get up the courage to confront her. Finally, I turned around and drove home.

Trouble is, one of the neighbors spotted my car parked out front. And now the police think I killed her.”

I took a deep breath and asked, “Did you?”

“Of course not.” Her eyes grew wide with dismay. “You believe me, don’t you?”

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“Yes.”

And I did. I didn’t care where her car was spotted; I simply didn’t think she was capable of plotting a murder.

She sat back, relieved. “You know, I still can’t get over you being a detective.”

It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that. Most people have a hard time buying a P.I. in a scrunchy and elastic waist jeans.

“I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay you much.”

She shot me an apologetic smile. “In fact, I can’t afford to pay you anything right now. Not without a job.”

“Don’t worry about it, Normalynne. If you get your job back, we can work out something then.”

What can I say? I’m a sucker for a needy murder suspect. No wonder my bank balance is always so anemic.

After thanking me profusely for my help, Normalynne walked me to the door.

“Do you remember that day in gym class,” she asked, a faraway look in her eyes, “the day I picked Linda Ruckle for my volleyball team?”

“Yes,” I nodded, not telling her that was the reason I’d shown up at her apartment.

“That was a good day, wasn’t it?”

“It sure was.”

“I had a lot of good days back then,” she sighed. “Oh, Jaine. How did it all go so bad?”

I left her with hollow assurances that there’d be lots more good days ahead, then headed out into the threadbare corridor outside her apartment.

Over the roar of a passing jet, I thought I heard her crying.

Chapter 12

Patti was laid to rest at the Westwood Mortuary, the crème de la crème of L.A. cemeteries, known around town as the final resting place of the stars. Rumor had it she was tucked away somewhere between Marilyn Monroe and Natalie Wood.

I’d read about the funeral in the paper and, suitably garbed in a black elastic waist pantsuit, showed up to check out the scene.

The same handsome minister who’d been set to officiate at Patti’s wedding now conducted her memorial service in the mortuary chapel.

Attendance was sparse, mostly acquaintances of Patti’s parents. Interesting, I thought, after being so popular in high school, how few friends Patti had as an adult. The only one I recognized was Denise, decked out in designer black. I bet my bottom Pop-Tart there was no elastic waist under her suit jacket.

Not surprisingly, Cheryl Hogan was nowhere in sight.

With a blithe disregard for the truth, the minister blathered on about what a sweetheart Patti had been.

When he was through with his fairy tale, Dickie 118

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and Conrad took their turns at the mike and continued singing Patti’s praises.

“I know Patti could seem a little demanding,”

Dickie began.

Yeah. Like Simon Legree at cotton-picking time.

“But underneath it all, she was a warm, caring person. A person I was privileged to know and love.” His eyes filled with tears. “I cherished her with all my heart and will miss her always.”

Conrad talked about how Patti was like a biological daughter to him, and how they’d forged a special relationship over the years.

Like Dickie, he seemed to speak from the heart.

Was it possible? I wondered. Had there been a likeable side to Patti I’d somehow missed? Or had she simply saved all her charm for the male half of the species?

When Conrad finished his tribute, Denise got up and took the mike. As she talked about how close she and Patti had been in high school, I couldn’t help noticing that all her fond memories seemed to stop at graduation day. She spoke nothing of their friendship in recent years. Her words were loving, but her delivery was bloodless, like she was presenting a brief in court.

Once more, it occurred to me that Denise had grown estranged from her once-best friend.

The hunky minister returned to the podium.

“Would anyone else like to say something?”

He looked around hopefully, but nobody else was willing to put in a good word for the not-sodearly departed.

Seeing he had no takers, the minister closed with a soulful reading of the 23rd psalm and KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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then invited everyone to a funeral reception at the Devanes’ estate.

Organ music swelled and the mourners began filing out of the chapel. Conrad and Daphna led the procession, Conrad holding Daphna by the elbow. But Daphna didn’t seem to need any support. Her spine ramrod stiff, she stared straight ahead, as if daring anyone to feel sorry for her.

I sure hoped there were some actual emotions rattling around behind those glassy eyes.

Eleanor Potter trotted by, dry eyed and rosy cheeked. Was it my imagination or was there a spring in her step? Her husband walked at her side, his expression somber, eyes to the ground.

It wasn’t until I started up the aisle that I saw a guy in a baseball cap glaring at me from the back row. At first I didn’t recognize him, but then I realized it was Walter.

I nodded briefly and then hurried out to my Corolla before he could corner me.

The last thing I wanted was a tête-à-tête with Walter. Not after the way he’d been glaring at me.

No, sir. If looks could kill, I’d be sharing a crypt with Patti.

I debated about whether to show up at the après-funeral reception. On one hand, I needed to dig up some more facts on the case. On the other hand, I risked bumping into Walter. He obviously hadn’t let bygones be bygones in the Flaming Toupee Affair. I had a hunch he’d be hanging on to that grudge for a good millennium or two.

Maybe I should just head home. But that was ridiculous. I couldn’t let myself be intimidated 120

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by Walter Barnhardt, a guy whose claim to fame in high school had been blowing off his eyebrows in chem lab.

No, I’d go to the reception and poke around.

If I ran into Walter, so be it. I’d offer my heartfelt apologies for setting fire to his hairpiece and be on my merry way.

My mind made up, I headed over to Casa Devane.

The house was shrouded in silence when I got there, a black wreath hanging from the front door.

What a difference from last week, when the grounds were festooned with perfume-enhanced roses, the air filled with strains of jaunty flute music.

No valets were lined up to take my car so I parked it out on the street, a shabby orphan among the neighboring Mercedes and BMWs.

As I headed up the driveway, the front door opened and Veronica stepped out. I have to confess I was surprised to see her, considering the big blowout she’d had with Patti over the missing frisee lettuce.

But it turned out she wasn’t there to pay her respects; she was there to pick up a serving spoon she’d left behind.

“I forgot to take it with me,” she explained after we’d exchanged hellos, “what with all the hoo-ha over Patti’s death.” She shook her head in wonder. “What a gruesomely ironic way to go.

Impaled in the heart by Cupid’s arrow.”

“I can’t believe the cops suspect Normalynne,”

I said.

“Really? I can. You saw the way she was carrying on at the wedding. She sure looked like she KILLING BRIDEZILLA

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wanted to kill Patti. But then again,” she added, laughing, “so did I.

“Oh, gosh.” She checked her watch. “I’ve got to run. I’m late for a client meeting.”

Drat. I wanted to question her and find out if she’d seen anyone sneak upstairs during the cocktail party.

“Any chance we can get together sometime?”

I asked.

“Sure,” she said, tossing me one of her business cards. “Call me.”

And with that, she started off down the driveway.

“By the way,” she called back over her shoulder,

“they’re serving deli. The roast beef is to die for.”

I watched Veronica’s retreating figure and wondered if she had been the one tampering with the balcony. It seemed hard to imagine she’d commit murder over a missing order of frisee lettuce, but one never knew, did one?

Ever see one of those wildlife documentaries where an innocent gazelle is minding her own business, chowing down on a blade of grass, totally unaware that there’s a tiger crouched in a tree, eyeing her hungrily, poised to attack?

Well, that’s sort of what happened when I stepped over the Devane threshold.

Bam! Out of nowhere, Walter pounced on me.

He claimed he was just leaving as I was coming in, that our bumping into each other was an accident, but it sure felt like an ambush to me.

“Walter!” I plastered a phony smile on my face. “How nice to see you.”

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He grunted, saying nothing. That glowering look he’d given me at the chapel was still operating on high beam.

“Well, it was sure nice running into you,” I said, taking off for the living room.

“Wait a minute, Jaine.”

Reluctantly I turned to face him.

“Yes?”

“I think you owe me an apology.”

Okay. No biggie. I’d apologize, and that would be that. Over and done with. End of story.

“I’m so sorry about setting fire to your hairpiece, Walter. It was an accident, I swear.”

I put on my most penitent expression—the same expression I use when I step on the scale at my doctor’s office—and I was happy to see he seemed somewhat mollified.

“But if you want to know the truth,” I added,

“I think you looked better bald.”

And just like that, he was glowering again.

“I am not bald!” he snapped. “I happen to have an extremely wide part.”

Oh, rats. Just when he was about to forgive me, I’d dug myself deeper.

“You realize that you humiliated me in front of hundreds of people.”

“I’m so sorry, Walter, really I am. I only wish there were some way I could make it up to you.”

“As a matter of fact,” he said, with a sly smile,

“there is.”

Phooey. I didn’t like the sound of this.

“Oh? How?”

“You can go out with me.”

“Go out with you?” I echoed, hoping I’d heard wrong. “
Out
as in
on a date
?”

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“Yes. Unless, of course, you have another fiancé up your sleeve.”

He was never going to let me forget that one.

“No, I’m not engaged. But I don’t think a date would be a wise idea.”

“Why not?” He thrust out his lower lip in a most unattractive pout.

“Because I’m not interested in you that way.”

“Hey, I’m not asking you to marry me. It’s just a plain old date. We’ll keep it simple and meet for coffee. Get to know each other better. Is that so much to ask?”

Put that way, it didn’t seem like much to ask.

And besides, I could always use the time to pump him for information about the murder.

“Okay.”

“Really?” His face lit up. “Oh, Jaine. That’s great.

Just great. It doesn’t have to be coffee, you know.

We can do dinner. I know a great discount sashimi bar.”

I didn’t even want to think what kind of glow-in-the-dark fish they served at a discount sashimi bar.

“Let’s stick with coffee. And it’ll be a platonic date. Just friends, okay?”

“Sure.” Another sly smile. “If you want to start out as friends, that’s fine with me.”

I didn’t like the sound of that, either.

“Call me and we’ll set something up,” I said.

“I’m in the book.”

Then I scooted off to the living room, feeling very much like a gazelle who’d just agreed to become lunchmeat.

*

*

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I made a beeline for the roast beef which was, as advertised, to die for (as were the franks-in-ablanket and potato puffs). After packing away enough cholesterol to clog the Alaska Pipeline, I got down to business and scoped out the room.

Animated knots of mourners stood swilling Chardonnay and chatting gaily. If they hadn’t been dressed in black, I’d have sworn I was at a cocktail party.