Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla (13 page)

Daphna and Conrad sat on a sofa near a massive stone fireplace, surrounded by a few friends who had the good manners to look suitably mournful. Daphna nodded woodenly at their words of comfort, while Conrad held her hand and did the talking for both of them.

As much as I would have liked to, there was no way I could question them about the murder, not now, so soon after the funeral.

I looked around for Denise, hoping maybe she’d have some information to impart, but she was nowhere in sight. I’d just have to chat it up with strangers.

Easier said than done. The Devanes’ A-list friends made it patently clear to me that the only people they were interested in chatting with were other A-listers.

A typical conversation went something like this:

ME: What a shame about Patti.

GRIEFSTRICKEN MOURNER #1: Hmmm.

ME: They say a witness saw someone suspicious
out on the balcony.

GM #2: Unnnh.

ME: Tampering with the railing.

GM #1: So, Paige, are you and Skyler going skiing
in Vail this year?

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Having struck out with the inner circle, I was about to call it quits when I spotted the Devanes’

maid scurrying about, gathering soiled napkins and empty wineglasses. Maybe I could question her. She seemed nice enough the few times we’d crossed paths, and at least I knew she wasn’t about to go skiing in Vail.

I quickly gathered some dirty plates and followed her down the hallway to the Devanes’ extravagant kitchen—a culinary Taj Mahal complete with subzero refrigerators (yep, there were two of them), imported marble counters (no doubt mined from the same quarry as Michelangelo’s
David
), and (this had to have been Patti’s idea) a monogrammed doggie door for Mamie.

“Hi,” I said, coming in with my dishes. “I thought you could use some help.”

The maid, a sturdy woman with a copper complexion and cropped silver hair, looked up in surprise. I was happy to see she was alone.

“You shouldn’t be here. Mr. and Mrs. D

wouldn’t approve.”

“I won’t breathe a word,” I promised.

“You’re Ms. Patti’s writer, aren’t you?” she asked, her eyes lighting with recognition.

“Yes,” I nodded. “Here, let me help you.”

And before she could stop me, I was loading dishes in the washer.

“You really shouldn’t,” she sighed. “But thank you. I could use the help. I told Ms. Daphna to get a caterer, but does she listen? Nooo. It’s always,
Rosa can handle it
.

“Well, one of these days, Rosa won’t be around to handle things anymore. Me and my sister,”

she said, arranging wineglasses on a tray, “we’re saving up for our dream house in Vegas, and then 126

Laura Levine

it’s hasta la vista, baby. Ms. Daphna can find somebody else to be her slave.”

Whoa. I’d struck a conversational gold mine.

This gal was a regular Chatty Cathy.

We yakked for a bit about her Vegas dream house and then, as casually as I could, I said,

“What a shame about Patti, huh?”

“Ay. What a terrible way to go. May she rest in peace.” Then she crossed herself and added, “Although the good Lord knows she never gave me any.”

“I heard there’s a witness who saw someone tampering with the balcony railing.”

“Oh, yes. Julio,” she said, now busy pouring wine into the glasses.

“Julio?”

“The gardener. I just happened to have my ear to the door when he was being questioned by the police. He said he saw a woman out on the balcony loosening the railing with a power tool.”

“Did he see who the woman was?”

“No, it was getting dark and her face was in the shadows.”

“I don’t suppose he’s around here now?” I asked, hoping I could sneak out and talk to him.

“No, he comes Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.”

The wineglasses filled, she picked up her tray.

“I’d better get back in there now. These people don’t eat much, but they sure can drink.”

“Here, let me get the door for you.”

“Thank you,
cara,
” she said, as I held it open.

“No, thank
you
,” I said, grateful for the dirt she’d so generously dished.

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It looked like the gardener’s mystery woman was the killer, all right.

I made a mental note to come back when Julio was working and pump him for more information.

Given my earlier chilly reception, I had no intention of returning to the reception. But, unable to resist the lure of the buffet table, I dashed back for one last frank-in-a-blanket. I had just popped it in my mouth when I overheard Eleanor talking to Dickie on a nearby settee.

“You know, honey,” she was saying, patting his hand with tiny birdlike strokes, “sometimes things happen for the best.”

He looked up at her sharply.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sweetheart, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead, but anyone can see that Patti wasn’t right for you.”

“Mom, don’t start—”

There was an undeniable warning note in his voice, but Eleanor chose to ignore it.

“I’m just speaking the truth, Dickie. The biggest mistake you ever made was leaving Normalynne.”

“Please, Mom. Not now.”

“I don’t know why you won’t listen to me.

Normalynne’s such a sweet girl. So kind, so unpretentious, so—”

And then, like a long-dormant land mine, Dickie exploded.

“Shut up! Shut up!
Shut up!”

All party chatter came to a screeching halt as Dickie reamed into Eleanor.

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“You only liked Normalynne because you could walk all over her!”

“Lower your voice, please,” Eleanor whispered.

“People can hear you.”

“I don’t care who hears. It’s over with me and Normalynne. I’m never going back to her.” His eyes welled with tears. “Can’t you understand? I loved Patti. I always will.”

And then, as if waking from a dream, Daphna bolted up from where she’d been sitting on the sofa. She marched over to Eleanor, fire in her eyes. It was the first sign of life I’d seen in her all day.

“You never liked Patti, did you?”

Eleanor clamped her mouth into a grim line, saying nothing.

“Did you?” Daphna shrieked.

“No!” Eleanor snapped. “Of course I didn’t like her.
You
didn’t even like her. I saw how the two of you fought. My crazy son and your husband are the only two people on this planet who put up with Patti’s nonsense.

“I don’t care if she’s dead, she was a dreadful girl. Rude. Insensitive. Nasty. Asking me to get rid of my mole for her wedding photos! The nerve!”

“I didn’t blame her,” Daphna cried. “Your mole is ugly. You’re ugly. You’re a joke.”

“Look who’s talking. Is there an inch of skin on your face that hasn’t been lifted?”

Guests were following this exchange avidly, heads swiveling at whiplash speed. You can bet nobody was yapping about the ski slopes now. I myself was so engrossed, I could hardly finish my frank-in-a-blanket.

“C’mon, Eleanor,” Kyle Potter said, hurrying to her side. “Time to go.”

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“Yes, go!” The veins in Daphna’s neck throbbed.

“Get out of my house.”

But Eleanor wasn’t about to leave.

“Not until I tell you what I think of you and your ridiculous Renaissance wedding. Patti couldn’t get married to “Here Comes the Bride”

like a normal human being. No, she had to have Romeo and Juliet and men in tights playing the flute! And those idiotic flaming punch drinks.

“No wonder she”—this said pointing to me—

“set fire to the best man’s hair!”

Oh, great. Now I was the center of attention.

But just for a millisecond before all eyeballs were riveted back on the main event.

“You’re giving me entertainment advice?”

Daphna sneered. “You? The woman who caters her parties from the 99-Cent Store?”

“At least I didn’t show up at my daughter’s wedding dressed like a Vegas hooker!”

“Better a Vegas hooker than a menopausal frump!”

And so it went. A cat fight of the highest order.

And as the fur flew, all I could think was that in death as in life, Patti was still causing trouble.

Chapter 13

After the little scene I’d just witnessed, I couldn’t help but wonder if Eleanor Potter was the killer. Clearly she’d hated Patti and was thrilled to be rid of her. But had she resorted to murder to spare her beloved son a ghastly marriage? I intended to find out.

The first thing I did when I got home—after feeding Prozac some roast beef I’d nabbed from the buffet table—was call Normalynne and get the Potters’ address. I figured I’d drive down to Hermosa tomorrow and pay them a little visit.

And while I was there, I’d stop in on another juicy suspect, Cheryl Hogan. She, too, had detested Patti. She’d told me as much in her drunken ramble at the rehearsal cocktail party.

I had no idea where Cheryl was living, so I spent the next hour phoning all the Hogans in the Hermosa area. I didn’t find Cheryl, but I did find her parents. I told them I was an old friend of Cheryl’s looking to get in touch. They seemed pathetically grateful to discover someone who actually wanted to talk to their daughter and eagerly gave me her number.

Cheryl answered her phone when I called, her voice slurry with booze. After I’d explained 132

Laura Levine

who I was for the umpteenth time, she agreed to see me when she got off work the next day.

I only hoped she was reasonably coherent when I got there.

I tootled off to bed early. Tomorrow would be a busy day and I wanted to get a good night’s rest. I’d spend the morning trying to drum up some work and grab a quick lunch at my desk.

Then I’d swing by The Cookerie to return that stupid $90 corkscrew and head on down to Hermosa.

I was curled up in bed, with Prozac blasting deli fumes in my face, when the phone rang.

“Hey, sweetie.” Kandi’s voice came on the line. “Want to grab an early lunch tomorrow at Century City?”

It was a tempting offer. I loved the outdoor food court at the Century City Mall with its sun-dappled tables and live music playing in the background. Plus they had some of the best hot dogs west of Coney Island.

But no. Absolutely not. I couldn’t afford to take time out for lunch. Not with all the things I had to do. And the last thing I needed was a hot dog clinging to my thighs. No way was I going to say yes.

“Sure, Kandi. What time?”

One of these days I really had to work on my willpower. And I would. Right after I finished that hot dog.

“How can you eat that stuff?”

Kandi watched in horror as I scarfed down a hot dog smothered in mustard and sauerkraut.

“Don’t you know the most ghastly animal parts KILLING BRIDEZILLA

133

go into those things? And they’re positively packed with nitrates.”

“Mmm, nitrates. Yummy,” I said, taking a big bite.

“Really, Jaine. It’s poison on a bun. How can you eat it?”

“Like this.” I chomped down again.

“Oh, you’re impossible!” she said, spearing a shard of broccoli from her chopped veggie salad.

We’d nabbed ourselves a prime table in the mall’s outdoor food court. Kamikaze shoppers in their Nikes and Juicy Coutures rubbed elbows with office workers on their lunch breaks, and the warmth of the hazy L.A. sun felt good on my back.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Kandi said.

“Did you ever find a guy to be your fiancé at that wedding?”

“Yeah, I got a guy from an escort service.”

“How’d it work out?”

“Terrific—until one of the bridesmaids remembered seeing him at a male strip club.”

“I told you you shouldn’t have lied about having a fiancé,” she said, with a smug smile. “You know my motto.”

“
You’re Never Too Young to Moisturize
?”

“No, silly. Honesty Is the Best Policy.”

“Oh, puh-leese. This from the woman who’s been lying about her age since kindergarten.”

“Lying about your age doesn’t count,” she said with a dismissive wave. “Everyone does that.”

And then, deftly changing the subject: “So what about the rest of the wedding? How did that work out?”

“Not so hot for the bride. She got killed.”

“Omigod!” Kandi sputtered. “What happened?”

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“She fell from a balcony. Impaled in the heart by a statue of Cupid.”

Her eyes widened.

“Wow. I read all about that in the paper. That was
your
wedding?”

“Mmmff.” I nodded, my mouth full of nitrates.

“How come you didn’t call me right away?”

I’ll tell you why I didn’t call her. Because I knew I’d be in for a bossy lecture (see hot dog lecture above) about minding my own business and staying out of danger.

“Don’t even think about getting involved in this, Jaine.”

What did I tell you?

“It’s too late, isn’t it?” she cried. “I can tell from that shifty look in your eye. You’re already involved, aren’t you?”

“Maybe just a little.”

“Jaine, Jaine, Jaine. What am I going to do with you?”

“For starters, you can pass me the mustard.”

“You can’t keep running around chasing killers! Don’t you realize how dangerous it is?

One of these days I’m going to be reading your name from a toe tag at the city morgue.”

“Until then, can I please have the mustard?”

She shoved the mustard across the table with an angry grunt.

“At least promise me you’ll be careful.”

I swore on her BlackBerry, which is practically her Bible, that I’d be careful, and we polished off our chow without any further lectures.

(Well, I polished off mine; Kandi, as she always did, left a ladylike portion of salad on her plate.)

“Want to swing by Bloomie’s with me,” she KILLING BRIDEZILLA

135

asked, as we chucked our garbage in the trash,

“while I pick up something to wear to Minnesota?”

“Minnesota? Why are you going to Minnesota?”