Candy Cane Murder (25 page)

“You're really investigating a murder?” Francis asked, his eyes bugging with excitement.

“Yes,” I nodded solemnly. “And I need to see those books.”

Lucky for me, Francis was a gullible soul, and minutes later I was sitting behind the counter poring through a thick looseleaf binder of Cap Shack back orders.

It wasn't long before I came across what I'd been hoping to find—a work sheet for a red
Fiedler on the Roof
cap.

All along I assumed someone had stolen one of Seymour's caps to sabotage Garth's roof. But I was wrong. Someone had the cap specially made to order. Someone who later planned to take advantage of Willard Cox's very public feud with Garth and frame him for the murder.

Eagerly, I checked out the customer's name.

Claudia Jamison.

It had to be a pseudonym. Oh, well. What did I expect? That the killer would use her real name?

But at least now I knew it was a woman.

The question was—which woman? Cathy, the cheating wife? Prudence, the ex-stripper? Or Libby, the Stepford homemaker?

Unfortunately, “Claudia” had paid for the cap in cash, so there was no way to track her down through a credit card.

“Do you remember this woman?” I asked Francis, showing him the work order. “Claudia Jamison?”

I had a feeling this guy had trouble remembering his own name, but it was worth a shot.

“Are you kidding?” he said. “You know how many customers we get in here?”

Not many from the looks of it, but I wasn't about to contradict him.

“Wait a minute. Here's my supervisor. Maybe he'll remember.”

I looked up to see Francis's “supervisor,” a beanpole of a kid who couldn't have been more than eighteen.

“Hey, Denzel,” Francis said to his boss. “This lady's an insurance investigator. She's investigating a murder.”

“Cool.” Denzel smiled, revealing a mouthful of braces.

“Do you remember this order, Denzel?” I asked, showing him the work sheet. “For a
Fiedler on the Roof
baseball cap?”

His eyes lit up with what looked like actual intelligence.

“As a matter of fact, I do. We made a mistake on it, and had to do it over again. The first time we wrote
Fiddler on the Roof
.

“Actually,” he said, pointing to the red cap in the window, “that's our mistake over there.”

I gave myself a mental pat on the back. That's what I'd thought had happened.

“Do you remember the lady who ordered it?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Really?” I felt like kissing him, braces and all. “What did she look like?”

“She was a tiny lady, wearing a pastel sweat suit.”

Ta-da. Puzzle solved. At last I knew who'd climbed up Garth's roof.

Not tall, statuesque Prudence. Or plump, stumpy Libby. Neither one of them was remotely tiny. But Cathy, a delicate doll of a woman, fit the description to a “T.” And she had a pastel sweat suit; she'd been wearing one the day I first came to visit.

What's more, her initials were C. J. As in Claudia Jamison.

Yes, folks. It looked like I'd just found myself a killer.

I
t had been ages since I'd scarfed down that corn dog at lunch, and by the time I got home, I was starving.

And I wasn't the only one. Prozac looked up from her perch on top of the TV and greeted me with a hostile stare.

Where the heck have you been? I'm fainting with hunger.

“Oh, don't be such a drama queen,” I said, dumping my Christmas gifts on the sofa. “There are cats in Asia who could live for a week on one of your snacks.”

Just move it, okay?

After feeding Prozac a gourmet dinner of Luscious Liver Tidbits and grabbing a fistful of pretzels for myself, I put in a call to Lt. DiMartelli, eager to tell him about Claudia Jamison aka Cathy Janken. But he wasn't there, so I left a message, begging him to pretty please get back to me as soon as possible.

I figured I'd wait for his call soaking in the tub with a glass of wine and a pepperoni pizza. But when I checked my phone messages, all plans for a catered bath went flying out the window.

Hey, Jaine
. Tyler Girard's voice came on the machine.
I'm calling to remind you tonight's the night of the L.A. Girlfriends Christmas party. Hope you haven't forgotten.

Acck! I sure had.

The fun starts at seven. See you there!

Seven? Holy mackerel. It was already 6:45.

Kissing my bath good-bye, I showered and dressed with Indianapolis 500 speed.

Then I grabbed Angel's gift and headed for the door.

“Bye, Pro!”

She didn't look up from where she was snoring on my computer keyboard. Now that she'd gotten what she wanted, she had no more use for me.

If I didn't know better, I'd swear she was my ex-husband.

 

I drove over to the party, humming an off-key version of “Frosty the Snowman,” not the least bit tired from my eight grueling hours at the mall.

On the contrary, I was feeling quite perky at the thought of seeing Tyler. How nice of him to call and remind me about the party. I couldn't help thinking that he was interested in me. And not just as a volunteer.

I pulled into the parking lot of St. Philomena's, a beautiful old church out in Santa Monica where the party was taking place, and checked my hair in the rearview mirror. Not a pretty picture. There'd been no time to blow it straight, and now I was stuck with the ever-popular Finger in the Light Socket Look.

Oh, well, I thought, getting out of the car, there was nothing I could do about it. At least I'd managed to throw together a decent outfit: jeans, a red cashmere turtleneck, and a yummy pair of high-heeled suede boots I'd bought on sale at Nordstrom.

Pulling my sweater down over the dreaded hip/tush zone, I sucked in my gut and headed inside.

 

The unmistakable aroma of Swedish meatballs greeted me like an old friend when I walked in the door. The party was in full swing, L.A. Girlfriends milling about, filling their plates from a buffet table groaning with goodies.

A Christmas tree was set up in a corner of the room. And in an ecumenical nod to the minorities, a Hanukah menorah and Kwanzaa candleholder were both aglow with candles.

I was relieved to see that most of the Girlfriend Volunteers were pleasant, average-looking gals, much like Yours Truly, hovering in the non-threatening Middle to Upper Middle of the 1-10 scale.

When it came to Tyler Girard, I didn't need any competition, thank you very much.

“Hey, Jaine. I was afraid you weren't going to make it.”

Speak of the darling devil, there he was at my side, smiling that endearing smile of his. I'd been so busy scoping the competition, I hadn't seen him come up behind me.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” I said, thinking how nice he looked in his chinos and crew neck sweater.

“Oh, I understand. Traffic's a bear. Sister Mary Agnes just called. She's going to be late, too.”

“How nice,” I murmured.

Uh-oh. That hadn't been the right thing to say, had it? I'd been staring at Tyler's eyes, trying to decide if they were brown or hazel, and hadn't really been paying attention.

“I meant, how nice that I'll finally get a chance to meet her.”

“She's really looking forward to meeting you, too.” Then he glanced down at my Hot Stuff package. “I see you brought a present for Angel.”

“Who?”

“Angel. Your Girlfriend.”

Drat. I really had to stop staring at him and concentrate.

“Oh, right.”

“It looks expensive. I hope you didn't go over the twenty dollar limit.”

“Actually, I did. I know I shouldn't have, but it's something Angel had her heart set on.”

“That's very kind of you.”

“Well, Angel and I really bonded on our date.”

At that moment I caught a glimpse of Angel at the buffet table, and the sight of her skinny arms reaching out to fill her plate brought on a fresh wave of sympathy for the kid. Maybe we hadn't bonded on our date. But I knew we would, eventually.

“I'm so glad it worked out,” Tyler said. “I was afraid she might be a handful.”

“Oh, no,” I fibbed. “Not at all.”

“Well, now that you're here, let's go get you some dinner. You hungry?”

“A little,” I said, trying not to look like the kind of person who can pack away a dozen Swedish meatballs in a single seating.

“We'd better grab your chow before the festivities begin.”

“Festivities?”

“Yes, after dinner, we open the presents and then Sister Mary Agnes gives a little speech. And then we wrap things up with dessert and coffee.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Oh, it will be.”

He beamed me another heart-melting smile which I beamed right back at him. And then, just as we were establishing meaningful eye contact, a willowy blonde came sashaying over to his side—one of the few 9's in the crowd—and grabbed him by the elbow.

“Tyler, honey,” she cooed. “I'm going to steal you away.”

I glared at her, fuming.

“Beat it, blondie.”

Okay, I didn't really say that. I just stood there, faking a stiff smile, fighting my impulse to strangle her.

“C'mon, sweetheart,” she said. “I want to introduce you to my husband!”

With that my smile turned genuine, and my homicidal urges subsided. This harmless woman was married.

Tyler shrugged helplessly.

“Catch you later,” he called out to me as she pulled him away.

I stood there for a dreamy minute wondering what it would be like to be caught by Tyler, preferably in the Honeymoon Suite of the Four Seasons Hotel.

Then I headed over to the Christmas tree. This whole L.A. Girlfriends thing had worked out wonderfully well. True, my initial date with Angel was a bit of a disaster, some might say of
Titanic
proportions, but that was bound to change. Gradually she'd open up to me, and we'd form a bond that would no doubt last all our lives.

I put Angel's gift under the tree, lost in a reverie of Angel all grown up and graduating from Berkeley, valedictorian of her class, thanking the woman who changed her life, Jaine Austen Girard, when I heard someone calling my name.

I turned and saw Kevin Cavanaugh, in a frayed sport coat that hung loosely on his thin frame.

“I'm so happy to see you here,” he said. “I thought maybe you'd given up on Angel, the way you raced off the other day.”

“Oh, that. I had an emergency with my cat. A dental problem. Abscessed tooth. Had to be pulled. You don't know what it's like trying to find a cat dentist on a weekend.”

What was wrong with me? Couldn't I just tell a fib without writing a novel about it?

“I'm just glad you're here. You don't know how much this means to Angel. I realize she can be difficult, but she's had a pretty rough time of things.”

“Oh, I know,” I nodded sympathetically. “What with her asthma and all.”

“Asthma?” Kevin blinked, puzzled. “Angel doesn't have asthma.”

“What?”

“Don't tell me that's what she told you.”

“Well, actually—”

“No, I mean it. Don't tell me. If I hear that kid has told one more lie, I don't know what I'll do.”

He shot me a pleading look, his pale eyes watery with despair. The guy was just a step away from jumping off a cliff into a mental breakdown. And I wasn't about to push him over the edge.

“Oh, no!” I assured him. “She never said that. I must've misunderstood. I'll go have a little talk with her now and straighten everything out.”

I gave him a cheerful wave good-bye, hoping he couldn't see the vein in my neck that was throbbing with fury, and marched over to Angel, who was still at the buffet table.

I thought of all the trouble I'd been through to get those jeans, the hours stuck in traffic, the horrible battle with Ms. Fireplug. All because I felt sorry for the poor little asthmatic waif. I was so mad, I was surprised steam wasn't coming out of my ears.

I found Angel in front of the Swedish meatballs, poking another little girl in the chest.

“But I can't afford to pay you protection money,” the other kid wailed.

Stepping between them, I took the other kid by the shoulders and knelt down so we were face to face.

“Don't pay Angel a dime, sweetheart,” I told her. “If she threatens you again, call me. I'll take care of it.”

I gave her one of my business cards, then got up and turned to Angel, breathing fire.

“Did you bring my present?” she had the nerve to ask.

“Yes,” I snarled, “I brought your present.”

“Good. I'm gonna get it right now and make tracks outta here. This party's nothing but a bunch of dorks.”

“Not so fast, kiddo,” I said, grabbing her by the elbow. “We need to talk. In private.”

My hand a vise around her wrist, I dragged her to a small pantry behind the buffet. Inside was a table laden with the desserts that were to be served after the gift-opening ceremonies. I was glad to see that nobody else was there.

“Whaddaya want?” she whined, as I yanked her inside and shut the door behind us.

“The truth. I know you don't really have asthma.”

She shot me a defiant stare.

“So?”

“So, you lied to me.”

“And you fell for it.”

And then she smirked. The little monster was actually proud of herself.

“What about that inhaler?”

“I found it in the garbage.”

Still smirking.

“I'm really angry, Angel.”

“Oh, wow. I'm shaking in my shoes.”

“Do you have any idea how much I paid for those jeans?”

“Yeah. $79.99. Plus tax.”

And then, with that smirk planted firmly on her face, she said one more word that pushed me over the edge:

“Sucker.”

“That's what you think, kiddo,” I hissed.

I turned and started for the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To get my gift back.”

“You can't do that!” she wailed.

“Oh, yeah? Watch me.”

I'd just made it to the door and was about to reach for the knob when I felt something soft and squishy hit me in the neck.

I scraped it off and looked down at the remains of a chocolate éclair on my fingers. And my cashmere sweater. And my beautiful suede boots. Which, needless to say, weren't so beautiful anymore.

Angel's smirk had now blossomed into a malicious grin.

I marched back to the dessert table, determined to wipe it off her face, and grabbed an éclair.

“You wouldn't dare hit a kid,” Angel sneered, as I held it aloft.

I hated to admit it, but she had a point. I was a grown woman. I wasn't actually going to demean myself by getting into a food fight with a twelve-year-old, was I?

Apparently, yes.

Because the next thing I knew I was smushing that éclair in Angel's face. And loving every minute of it.

“Hah!” I cried.

Actually, I only got as far as “H—” Because just then, she lobbed me in the mouth with a double fudge brownie. (Which, I might add, was quite delicious.)

But for once I did not take time to savor my chocolate. I lobbed her right back with a wedge of pumpkin pie, and she zapped me with a fistful of mocha mousse. I retaliated with a volley of Christmas trifle, and she let me have it with a hunk of marshmallow-studded Jell-O.