Death by Pantyhose (11 page)

"But I swear I didn't kill him. I couldn't. I think there was even a part of me that still loved
him." She shook her head in wonder. "Talk
about sick, huh?"

But I didn't have time to comment on her
neuroses. Because just then the Hummer guard
came over and tapped her on the shoulder. Visiting hours were over.

I drove home, stunned. So Dorcas was Vic's
ex-wife. His angry ex-wife. No wonder the cops
arrested her. And yet, my gut told me she was innocent. Of course, my gut has been known to
mislead me on occasion. (It still insists that
cheesecake isn't fattening.)

I let myself into my apartment and tossed my
mail on the dining room table. Prozac, who'd
been napping on my computer keyboard, woke
up and began wailing for food. Poor darling
hadn't eaten in two whole hours. I stumbled
into the kitchen, trying to not step on her as she
darted in and out between my ankles, the way
she does when she's helping me prepare a
snack.

I gave her some Krunchy Karp Treats and
grabbed a handful of Cocoa Puffs for myself.

I was just about to settle down and plot out my
investigation when the doorbell rang. I opened
the door and found Lance on my doorstep.

"Hi, Jaine. I heard you come home."

Which is no surprise. With his borderline X-ray
hearing, Lance hears just about everything that
goes on in my apartment. (And your apartment,
too, if you live anywhere near us.)

He strolled inside, as he always does, without
waiting for an invitation.

"The UPS man came while you were gone,"
he said, handing me a package from the Shopping Channel. "Another outfit from your mom?"

I nodded wearily. "A sequined palm tree
shorts set."

He winced in pain.

"You realize, of course, that wearing it is out
of the question."

"Don't worry," I said. "I'll give it to charity.
Know any needy drag queens?"

"Afraid not."

He picked up my mail and began shuffling
through it.

"So how'd things go on your lunch date?"

"I'm not sure. Andrew said he'd call me for
dinner but I haven't heard from him."

"You didn't unbutton your waistband, did
you?"

"Of course not," I lied.

"It's only been a few days. Give him a chance.
Hey, what's this?" he asked, holding up a piece
of mail. "You've got a letter from Gustavo
Mendes."

"Who's Gustavo Mendes?"

He shot me a look of disbelief.

Jaine, don't you know anything? He's only
the hottest new hairstylist in L.A."

"Well, excuse me. I guess I must've been filling my head with unimportant stuff like suicide
bombings in the Middle East and famine in Somalia."

He ripped it open and began reading.

"No," I said, "I don't mind if you read my personal mail. Go right ahead."

"Listen to this," he said, ignoring my feeble
attempt at sarcasm. "They're giving you a free styling." He read aloud from the letter: "Because you're an influential contributor to the
local media, we're hoping you'll let us treat you
to a complimentary cut and color at our new
Santa Monica salon."

He looked up from the letter, puzzled.

"Since when are you an influential contributor to the media?"

"I guess they must've seen my story in the
Times on 24-hour Botox centers and assumed I
have some actual influence in this town. If they
only knew I write toilet bowl ads for a living."

"What they don't know won't hurt them," he
said, grabbing my phone. "You've got to call this
minute and make an appointment."

"No, I don't. Fancy salons intimidate me. And
besides, I don't have time to get my hair done.
I've got a murder to investigate."

"Again?"

"Yeah. A comic I was supposed to be writing
jokes for just got arrested for murder."

"You mean the Pantyhose Murderer? It's all
over the news."

I nodded.

He shook his blond curls in disapproval.

`Jaine, if you spent more time at hair salons
and less time around demented killers, you'd
have a Significant Other by now."

Look who's talking, I thought. A guy whose
flus last longer than his relationships.

"I'd better get going," he said, "or I'll be late
for work. Big sale on designer running shoes.
It's going to be a madhouse. Want me to pick up
something for you?"

"A shoelace, maybe. That's all I can afford
right now."

Lance tootled off, and I settled down on the
sofa to figure out where to start my investigation.
After a bit more thought, and a lot more Cocoa
Puffs, I decided to pay a visit to Dorcas's frecklefaced attorney, Dickie Partridge, to find out what
he knew about the case. I assumed that by now
he'd had a chance to talk with the cops. I would've
gone to the cops myself, but past experience has
shown they're not always willing to share information with lady P.I.s in elastic-waist pants.

I looked up Dickie's address in the Yellow
Pages. His phone number, I noted, was 1-800-
UR-NOCNT.

I hoped he litigated better than he spelled.

Dickie's office was in a rundown "professional" building not far from the jail, filled with
bail bondsmen and discount dentists, as well as
a few professionals in hot pants plying their
trade on the sidewalk out front.

I took a rickety elevator up to the third floor,
then made my way to the end of a dank corridor
till I came to a door that said: Dickie Partridge, Esquire.

You have to wonder about an attorney who
calls himself "Dickie." It's like a neurosurgeon
calling himself Skippy. Doesn't exactly inspire
confidence, does it?

I knocked on the door and heard a muffled,
"Come in."

Inside, Dickie sat at his desk, looking very
much as I'd seen him on TV: Same Opie of Mayberry freckled face. Same unruly cowlicks. If
anything, he looked younger and more inexperienced in person.

His lunch was spread out in front of him: a
plastic tub of Spaghetti-O's, carrot sticks, and a
carton of milk with a straw.

I was surprised he didn't have a lunch box.

"I was just having my lunch," he said, gulping
down some Spaghetti-O's. "Care for a carrot stick?"

"No, thanks."

Somehow I can always just Say No to carrot
sticks.

"Please, sit down," he said, gesturing to the
only chair in the room.

I took a seat, and as I did, the phone rang.
Dickie picked it up eagerly.

"Dickie Partridge, Esquire," he said, his voice
ripe with expectation.

"Oh." His face fell. "Hi, Mom.... Yes, I am.
Right now, in fact ... No, I won't forget to eat
the carrot strips.... Yes, I promise I'll call if I'm
going to be late."

He hung up and rolled his eyes.

"I'm living with my folks until I can find a place
of my own. You don't happen to know of a onebedroom apartment for about $250 a month,
do you?"

Was he kidding? For two-fifty a month, he was
going to have to move out of the city. Way out of
the city. Say, to the Philippines.

"Sorry, I'm afraid not."

"So how can I be of service?" he asked, clasping his hands on his desk and trying to look like
an actual attorney. A look he didn't quite achieve
due to a not very lawyerly dab of Spaghetti-O
sauce on his chin.

Before I could tell him how he could help me,
the phone rang again. Once again, he reached
for it eagerly only to be disappointed.

"What is it now, Mom?"

He spent the next few minutes on the phone,
writing a list of grocery items he was supposed
to pick up on his way home from work. While
Dickie took dictation, I got up and checked out
the framed law degree on his wall.

I blinked in surprise when I saw that it was
from Harvard.

Maybe Dickie wasn't such a doofus after all.

"I see you went to Harvard Law School," I
said when he finally got off the phone. "That's
very impressive."

"Um, actually, it's not Harvard."

"It isn't?"

"No, it's Harvad."

I took another look. Indeed, there was a pivotal "r" missing in Harvad.

"Harvad? I've never heard of that school."

"It's on the Internet."

I gulped.

"Fully accredited, though."

Oh, dear. Dorcas was in deep doo doo, all
right.

"So how can I be of service?" He smiled eagerly, visions of legal fees dancing in his
cowlicked head.

Now it was my turn to confess.

"Actually," I said, "I'm not a client."

"Oh." His smile faded.

"I'm a part-time private eye, a friend of Dorcas's. I wanted to see how her case is coming
along."

He instantly cheered up at the mention of
Dorcas.

"Great!" he beamed. `Just great. With any luck, she should be out of jail in ten years! I'm
going to have her plead temporary insanity."

"You can't let her do that. She didn't do it."

"But they found her standing over the body
with the murder weapon."

"I don't care how they found her. She's innocent. And I intend to prove it. That's why I'm
here. I'm hoping you can share some insider information with me. Like, for instance, what
have the cops told you so far?"

"Nothing." He sighed. "They won't return my
calls."

"How about the DA's office?"

"Nope. Haven't heard from them, either."
Rats. This guy was about as helpful as a migraine.

"Sure you wouldn't like a carrot strip?" he offered, as a consolation prize.

I passed on the carrot strip and headed back
outside.

It looked like I'd be flying solo on this case, I
thought, wending my way past the hookers out
front.

I got in Wheezy and sat there for a while, watching the hookers tug at their hot pants, and trying
to figure out what to do next.

Filially I made up my mind.

I'd go back to where all the trouble beganat the Laff Palace.

The Laff Palace looked even scuzzier in broad
daylight than it had at night. Which pretty damn
near broke the needle on the scuzzy-o-meter. As
I drove into the nearly deserted parking lot, I saw paint peeling from the "palace" walls and
shingles missing from the roof.

I'd forgotten that the club would be closed
during the day. But luckily I saw Spiro's sports
car in the parking lot. At least I assumed it was
Spiro's car from the license plate, which read
MR LAFF.

I rang the bell and Spiro came to the door in
his electric-blue jumpsuit, a boatload of gold
chains nestled in his chest hair. Like the Laff
Palace, he looked a lot worse in the light of day.

"Yeah?" He squinted into the sun. "What do
you want?"

"I'm investigating Vic Cleveland's murder," I
said, trying to sound as Law & Orderish as possible.

His eyes narrowed.

"You a cop?"

I got the distinct impression he wasn't fond of
cops.

"No," I hastened to assure him. "I'm a private
eye.

"Is that so?" He looked me up and down.
"You sure don't look like one."

'Well, I am," I said, wishing I'd remembered to
change out of my Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs T-shirt.

"Wait a minute," he said, scratching a patch
of scalp between his hair plugs. "Didn't I see you
here the other night with Dorcas?"

"Yes, I'm her writer. That is, I was her writer.
Now I'm investigating on her behalf."

"Aren't you the busy little bee? Well, lotsa
luck, sweetheart. You're gonna need it."

With that, he started to shut the door in my
face.

"Wait!" I shoved my bag in the crack before
he could close it completely. "I can prove Dorcas didn't kill Vic, but I need your help."

That piqued his interest.

"You can prove Dorcas didn't kill Vic? How?"

"Let me in and I'll tell you."

Curiosity got the better of him and he
opened the door.

I followed him past the deserted stage down
the corridor to his office. With the houselights
on, I could see the place was just a cockroach
away from being condemned by the board of
health. I thanked my lucky stars I hadn't ordered those Laff Palace fries.

Spiro ushered me to his office, a cheesy box
of a room with fake wood-paneled walls and orange shag carpeting so moldy, it was probably
sprouting mushrooms.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out
that Spiro-with his gold chains, Rolex, and a
humungous diamond pinkie ring-was spending all his profits on himself, not on his business.

"Have a seat," he said, pointing to a hard
metal chair stolen, no doubt, from a Knights of
Columbus banquet hall.

I sat down and looked around. The walls were
lined with photos of Spiro posing with every
comic known to man. There was Spiro with
Leno, Spiro with Letterman, Spiro with Joan
Rivers, Ray Romano, Jerry Seinfeld, George
Carlin, and Margaret Cho. The scary thing was
that he seemed to be wearing the same godaw-
fu1 jumpsuit in every picture. I wondered, with a
shudder, if it had ever been laundered.

On his desk was a framed photo of a frumpy
woman with a faint mustache smiling stiffly at
the camera. Mrs. Spiro, I presumed.

"So," he said, propping his Gucci loafers on
his particle board desk, "how can you prove
Dorcas didn't kill Vic?"

"I can't prove it beyond a shadow of a doubt,"
I admitted, "but I think the killer stole a pair of
Dorcas's pantyhose and used them to strangle
Vic and frame Dorcas for the murder."

"That's quite a theory," he said, buffing his
pinky ring on his chest.

"All eyes were riveted on Dorcas when she was
attacking Vic. Anyone could've sneaked over
and lifted a pair of hose from her tote bag."

Including Spiro.

I remembered how he came racing over to
Dorcas after she attacked Vic, shouting for someone to call the police. But it had taken him a
while to get there. Where had he been at the beginning of her attack? At the bar, pilfering a pair
of pantyhose?