Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla (19 page)

“In the backseat of my car.”

Chapter 18

Normalynne’s arrest was all over the TV that night. Every station I turned to had footage of her being escorted to jail, blinking into the cameras like a myopic deer in the headlights. Her wispy court-appointed attorney, obviously not used to trying high-profile cases, looked almost as scared as Normalynne.

“No comment,” he mumbled to the reporters, about as dynamic as a bowl of oatmeal.

Word of Patti’s bridal tantrums had spread, and some of the more scurrilous news outlets were calling Normalynne
The Bridezilla Killer
. Ah, yes.

That would go nicely on her resume.

I must confess that for a few minutes I wondered if Normalynne really
had
tampered with the balcony. After all, the police did find the drill bit in her car. But, no. My gut still told me she was innocent. Someone planted that drill bit there to incriminate her.

The question was—who?

I spent a restless night, hoping I’d wake up the next morning with some answers, but all I woke up with was a cat on my chest, clawing for her breakfast.

“This is so frustrating, Pro. Just when I’m con192

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vinced I’ve got a hot suspect, they start looking innocent.”

She peered at me through slitted eyes.

And this is important to me because?

With a weary sigh, I hauled myself out of bed and slopped some Hearty Halibut Innards into her bowl. Then I threw on my sweats and grabbed my keys.

“I need to clear my brain,” I told Prozac, who had finished inhaling her breakfast and was now stretched out on my computer keyboard. “I’m going for a jog.”

Oh, please. What jog? We both know you’re going
for jelly donuts.

Shows you how much she knew. I did not go for jelly donuts. I went for
chocolate glazed
donuts.

Which wasn’t as decadent as it sounds. Chocolate is a known stimulant, and I was hoping a healthy dose of the stuff would get my brain cells hopping. Unfortunately the only thing that got stimulated were the fat cells picnicking on my thighs.

Back home, I found Prozac napping on my keyboard where I’d left her.

“My, that jog was refreshing!” I exclaimed.

She opened one eye and shot me a piercing look.

Oh, please. I can smell the chocolate on your breath
from here.

By now, the mailman had come and an avalanche of envelopes were scattered across the floor. I gathered them up and saw to my dismay that most of them were bills. Big fat ones. Several accompanied by sweet notes informing me that if they weren’t paid soon, I’d be hearing from my friendly neighborhood collection agency.

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There was no getting around it. I simply had to stop by the Devanes and ask them for the three thousand dollars they owed me. I hadn’t heard a word from them since I left my invoice in their mail slot, and I couldn’t let it go any longer.

And while I was at it, I absolutely had to get my money back on that corkscrew. I’d be damned if I let ninety dollars sail down the drain.

I spent the next several hours scouring my apartment for the missing receipt. After searching through every possible receptacle (including Prozac’s litter basket), I finally found it where it was all along—in my purse! Stuck to an old Almond Joy. I could’ve kicked myself for not seeing it when I was at The Cookerie, but that snooty blond salesclerk had me flustered.

Oh, well. This time, I’d show her who was boss.

The Cookerie was having a sale when I showed up, having reduced their prices from obscenely expensive to merely ridiculously expensive. And the customers were out in droves, lined up in their Manolos, eager to part with their money.

There’s nothing rich Angelenos like better than status symbols on sale.

I was hoping maybe Blondie wouldn’t be there, but no such luck. There she was, glued behind the counter, as usual.

The good news was, she wasn’t alone. A sweet young thing with a friendly smile was at her side ringing up sales.

I took my place at the end of the line, praying that I’d get the Sweet Young Thing. And it looked like I was going to get my wish. When I 194

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got to the front of the line, Blondie was busy wrapping a bunch of glasses—and we all know how long
that
can take. The Sweet Young Thing, I was delighted to see, was just finishing up with a customer, a nipped and tucked brunette whose face was as tight as a snare drum.

“Here you go,” the SYT said, handing the brunette a Cookerie shopping bag. “I hope you enjoy your waffle iron.”

“Oh, I know I will,” the brunette replied, taking the bag.

Her sale complete, the SYT looked up at me.

“Next, please,” she said with a friendly smile And I was just about to step up to the counter, when the waffle iron lady sauntered back.

“On second thought,” she said, “I think I’ll take another one of these for my daughter.”

Wait a minute! Why didn’t she think of this twenty minutes ago, when she was shopping?

Why the heck did her daughter need a waffle iron, anyway, when she could just pop an Eggo in the toaster? And who was she kidding? The last time this bag of bones had eaten a waffle, she’d been in kindergarten.

Make her go to the back of the line!
I wanted to shout.

But the SYT just smiled and ran off to get another waffle iron. Which, to my mounting frustration, she had difficulty finding. But she finally tracked one down and started ringing up the sale.

By now, Blondie had just two glasses left to wrap.

Go, sweet young thing, go! Work that computer, baby!

And indeed, the SYT did work fast. She rang up the sale with impressive speed. But then, KILLING BRIDEZILLA

195

just as she was about to hand the customer her waffle iron, I heard Blondie call out:

“Next, please.”

I looked over and saw her glaring at me.

Rats. I was stuck. So be it. I refused to let her intimidate me. I took a deep breath and marched to the counter.

“I’d like to make a return,” I said in my steeliest voice.

“No refunds,” Blondie snapped, “without a—”

“Receipt?” I waved mine in triumph.

She took it from me with the tips of her fingers, eyeing my chocolate stain with disgust. Lord only knew what she was thinking.

“That’s chocolate,” I hastened to assure her.

“I’m sure it is,” she said, glancing none too discreetly over the counter and down at my hips.

Oh, how I wanted to bop her with a Cookerie sauté pan.

Instead I handed her the corkscrew, still in its box.

She looked at it and wrinkled her nose job.

“That doesn’t look like our gift wrap.”

“Of course it’s your gift wrap.”

“No,” Blondie said, with a taunting smile, “I don’t think so.”

And that’s when I lost it. The woman was beyond impossible. She knew I bought the gift there. She’d wrapped it herself.

“I’ve had it with you, Nicole!” I shouted, squinting at her name tag. “You’ve given me nothing but grief ever since I first walked in the store.

Just because I didn’t drive up here in a Mercedes dressed in Armani doesn’t mean I don’t deserve to be treated with respect.

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“I want my money back on this corkscrew,” I said, ripping off the ribbons on the box, “and I want it now.”

By now the store was hushed. Everyone was watching. I’d made a scene, but I didn’t care. It was about time somebody told off this dreadful woman.

Grudgingly Blondie opened the box.

And then, to my surprise, she broke out into a small sly smile.

“I’d be happy to give you a refund on your corkscrew,” she said. “But where is it?”

“What are you talking about? It’s right there!”

“I don’t think so,” she said, holding up what looked like a giant metal thermometer.

“This”—her voice dripped disdain—“is something called a Sexometer.”

Omigod. It was Walter’s wedding gift! I must’ve grabbed it from the gift table by mistake. All those white gift wrappings looked so darn alike!

“Take your partner’s sexual temperature,”

Blondie read aloud from a hang tag, “and work up a fever in bed.”

The crowd tittered. Blondie was loving every minute of this.

“Shall I put it back in the box,” she sneered,

“or will you be using it?”

And then, in words far too graphic for your delicate ears, I told her exactly where she could put it.

Chapter 19

After slinking out of The Cookerie in disgrace, I ran to the arms of my good buddies, Ben

& Jerry. Unlike most men, they know what to say to me when I’m hurting, those three little words that make my heart sing:
How many scoops?

One dish of Chunky Monkey later, my spirits somewhat revived, I set off to see Patti’s parents.

I only hoped I’d have better luck getting my money from them than I did from Blondie.

The Devanes were home when I got there, still in mourning. Rosa led me to them in their den, a plush wood-paneled room with more leather accessories than a Mercedes showroom.

Daphna was sitting on one of the leather sofas, leafing through the latest issue of
Vogue
, her face its usual frozen mask. Was it grief, or was it Botox? Only her plastic surgeon knew for sure.

Conrad sat next to her, staring lifelessly at a plasma TV as the latest stock market numbers crawled on the bottom of the CNBC screen.

“Yes, Jaine?” Daphna said, more than a hint of impatience in her voice. “What is it?”

I couldn’t just come right out and ask for my money. I had to ease into it.

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“I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about Patti.”

“Is that it?” she said, drumming her French tips on her magazine.

“Well, no. Actually, I was wondering if you’ve had a chance to look at the invoice I dropped in your mailbox.”

“Oh, right,” Conrad said, hauling himself up from the sofa. “I meant to write you a check but it slipped my mind. How much do we owe you?”

“Three thousand dollars.”

Daphna sat up with a jolt.

“Three thousand dollars?” she squawked.

“For a few measly lines of dialogue?”

Oh, for crying out loud, lady. You spend twice that
much in an hour at Saks.

“That’s the price Patti and I agreed on.”

“We only have your word for that, don’t we?”

“Now, Daphna.” Her husband shot her a warning look. “I’m sure Ms. Austen is telling the truth.

“I’ll go to my office and write that check,” he said, giving me a conciliatory smile. “Have a seat and I’ll be right back.”

I took a seat and faced Daphna in an exceedingly awkward silence. Which was soon broken by the arrival of a yapping white ball of fur.

“Mamie!” I cried.

The next thing I knew, Patti’s dog was in my lap and licking my face with wild abandon, no doubt remembering the carefree hours she’d spent romping in my garbage.

Daphna gritted her teeth in annoyance.

“Get lost, Mamie!”

The dog whimpered.

“Scram!” Daphna hissed. “I mean it.”

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Mamie reluctantly jumped off my lap and skittered out of the room.

“I can’t bear looking at her.” Daphna shook her head. “Too many memories of Patti.”

“I’m sure you won’t feel that way for long.”

“You bet I won’t. I’m shipping her off to the pound tomorrow.”

“The pound?” I asked, horrified. “But if she’s not adopted, she could be euthanized.”

“That’s not my problem,” she said, dismissing Mamie’s fate with a wave of her perfectly manicured hand. “All I know is I can’t be bothered with her anymore.”

And suddenly I was angry. Just because her daughter was dead didn’t give her the right to throw away another life.

“Surely you must know someone who’d take her. She’s such a cute little thing.”

“You think she’s so cute? You take her.”

“All right,” I found myself saying. “I will.”

I knew there’d be hell to pay with Prozac, but I couldn’t let Mamie go to the pound.

“Fine with me,” she said, then called out for Rosa.

“Go pack Mamie’s things,” she said when the maid showed up at the door. “Jaine’s going to take her. And Jaine, go help her,” she added, almost as eager to be rid of me as the dog.

Thrilled to make my escape, I followed Rosa upstairs.

Patti’s bubblegum pink room was just as I’d seen it on her wedding day. The only reminder of her gruesome death was police tape stretched across the French doors leading to the balcony.

“Here are Mamie’s things,” Rosa said, pulling 200

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out a large dresser drawer packed with doggie clothing.

Good heavens. The dog had more cashmere sweaters than I did.

“I’ll get her suitcase,” she said, reaching up to the top of the closet.

“Mamie has her own suitcase?”

“Monogrammed.” She showed me the initials
MD
embroidered on a Gucci suitcase. Holy mackerel, now I’d seen everything.

I started packing Mamie’s outfits, while Rosa gathered her bedding and toys.

“It’s so nice of you to take her,” she said. “I’m glad she’s going to a loving home.”

Needless to say, I didn’t tell Rosa about the furious furball who’d be greeting us at the front door.

We were almost through gathering Mamie’s things when the phone rang.

“I’d better get that,” Rosa sighed. “Her ladyship doesn’t like to wear herself out reaching for the telephone.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll finish up in here.”

“Gracias.” She smiled and hurried off.

Alone in the room, I figured I might as well take advantage of the opportunity to snoop around. It was a long shot, but I was hoping maybe I could unearth a clue that the police had somehow overlooked.

If only Patti’s bubblegum pink walls could talk.

“Who came up here and tampered with the balcony?” I asked them. But all they seemed to say was,
Paint me!

I peered out past the police tape onto the balcony. The railing hadn’t been replaced, so all KILLING BRIDEZILLA