Death by Pantyhose (13 page)

I brought the shirt home and added a few
ketchup stains, and now I'm going to tell Daddy
that the thrift shop ladies called and said that
they found his shirt, and then this whole horrible
ordeal will be over!

Lots of love and kisses from your very relieved,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Born Yesterday

Hi, lambchop-

Your mom tried to fool me by pretending she
found my lucky shirt. But I wasn't born yesterday.
I could tell right away it wasn't mine. It was missing my lucky gravy stain on the lapel. I'll never
forget that stain. I got it the night I whupped Ed
Peters' fanny at Pictionary.

Well, I guess I'll go fix myself a snack. Just keep
your fingers crossed I don't have an accident on
my way to the kitchen.

Your poor old,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: I'm So Mad, I Could Spit!

Argggh! I'm so mad, I could spit. After all the
trouble I went to, Daddy knew right away the
shirt wasn't his. All because of a stupid gravy
stain. Good Lord. Your father can spill a glass of
red wine on a white carpet and never notice it,
but when it comes to a tiny speck of gravy on a
hibiscus leaf, suddenly he's got X-ray vision.

When I think of that twenty dollars I spent for the
shirt! Not to mention the $39.99 (plus shipping
and handling!) I spent on those Vita-Mans. Oh,
well. At least I did a good deed for Everett, the
homeless fellow. Which is some small consolation.

As for Daddy, I give up. There's nothing else I
can do except hope that this foolishness will
pass. I can't wait till they let him back in the clubhouse. At least that will be a distraction.

Meanwhile, I've convinced him to go to the
movies this afternoon. Anything to get him out of
his darn recliner!

Hope you're a lot less stressed than I am, darling.

All my love-

Mom

.'m happy to report there were no wet spots in
-my slippers the next morning. There was,
however, a hairball the size of a cannoli on my
dining room table.

But I had to count my blessings. At least I wasn't
in Florida buying shirts from the homeless.

"Thanks loads," I said to Prozac, as I scooped
up the hairball with a paper towel.

Don't mention it. She swished her tail and
sashayed over to her food bowl.

"You're a spoiled brat; you know that, don't
you?"

Can we skip the chatter and go straight to the main
course?

I slopped some Luscious Lamb Guts into her
bowl. She arched her back for her breakfast
back rub, but she arched in vain. Two could
play at this cold shoulder game.

I'd just finished washing up the remains of
her hairball when I glanced down at yesterday's
mail, still on the dining room table where I'd tossed it. And there on the top of the pile was
the letter from Gustavo Mendes-according to
Lance, L.A.'s hottest new hairstylist.

I picked up the letter and read it again. The
stationery was impressively thick and creamy.
And there, printed in a tasteful calligraphic
typeface, was Gustavo's invitation to come in for
a free hair styling.

Normally I tend to shy away from fancy salons
where a cut and color costs more than a Kia. But
the operative word here was free. Wouldn't it be
nice to show up for my date with Andrew with
spectacular hair?

What the heck, I thought, picking up the
phone. I'd give them a call. Maybe they could
squeeze me in.

But then as I dialed, I remembered it was Saturday. It had to be their busiest day of the week.
They'd never be able to schedule me on such
short notice.

But to my surprise, when I gave my name to
the receptionist, she said, "Oh, Ms. Austen.
What a pleasure. Yes, Gustavo will take you himself. How's three o'clock?"

Gustavo obviously had me confused with
some other writer, someone vastly more important than the author of In a Rush to Flush? Call
loiletmasters! And I wasn't about to straighten
him out. The only thing I wanted straightened
were my unruly curls.

I quickly accepted the appointment before
they could figure out the truth, and-thrilled at
the prospect of a Fabulous Hair Day-ran to my
closet and started trying on outfits for my date
with Andrew.

I was standing there, trying to cram myself into a way-too-tight skirt I'd bought in a moment of optimistic madness, when I remembered Dorcas festering in jail.

Some private eye I was. (I bet Philip Marlowe
never wasted valuable crime-solving time trying
on outfits.) I promised Dorcas I'd find Vic's
killer. Andrew or no Andrew, I had to live up to
my promise and stay focused on the case.

Guiltily I wriggled out of the skirt and changed
into elastic-waist jeans and a T-shirt. Then I looked
up Vic's number in the phone book. His address was listed, just as Dorcas said it would be.

I grabbed my car keys and headed for the
door.

"Bye, Pro," I called out to Prozac. But she didn't
even bother to look up from the armchair she
was clawing.

Minutes later, I was strapped in Wheezy
lurching out to the Venice bungalow Vic had
shared with Allison.

In other words, the scene of the crime.

Allison's house was on a tree-lined street in
Venice, an unexpected haven of craftsman-style
cottages, all built as summer getaways back in
the early part of the last century.

Painted sky blue and surrounded by a white
picket fence thick with cabbage roses, the tiny
cottage was straight out of a storybook. I almost
expected to see Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm
come bounding out the front door. From the
minute I saw it, I thought of it as Allison's. I simply couldn't picture a slimeball like Vic living in
a place this wholesome.

I let myself in through the picket gate and headed up a brick path. I could hear strains of a
violin concerto coming from inside.

I rang the bell and seconds later I heard the
muffled sound of footsteps.

Allison opened the door in a pair of pale
pink pajamas, her Botticelli curls dishevelled,
her eyes red rimmed from crying.

"I'm not talking to reporters," she said, wiping a stray curl from her brow.

"I'm not a reporter. I'm a private investigator."

"Sorry, I'm not giving interviews of any kind."
She started to close the door and then stopped.
"Didn't I see you the other night with Dorcas?
Vic told me you were her writer."

I launched into my explanation of how I was
indeed Dorcas's writer but also her private investigator. I waited for the inevitable Funny, you
don't look like a private eye, but Allison scored
major points with me by saying nothing along
those lines.

"I promise I won't take long," I said, in my
most soothing voice. "It's really very important."

I was afraid she might turn me away now that
she knew I was working for the woman accused
of killing her boyfriend, but to my relief, she
sighed and said, "C'mon in."

I followed her through an arched doorway to
the living room, a cozy space with a brick fireplace and overstuffed furniture.

"Have a seat," she said, plopping down onto
her floral chintz sofa.

I sat across from her on a matching armchair,
her violin case on the coffee table between us.

The concerto I'd heard coming up the path
was playing on her stereo. She put her head
back against the sofa and closed her eyes, lost in the music. I was beginning to wonder if she'd
forgotten I was there, when she finally opened
her eyes again.

"Sorry," she said, "I'm just so tired."

And she did look exhausted.

"I'd offer you some tea, but I don't have the
energy to make it."

"Why don't I make some for us?"

"Would you mind?" She shot me a grateful
smile.

"Not at all."

It would give me a chance to do a little snooping.

She pointed me in the direction of her kitchen,
where, while waiting for the water to boil, I poked
around in cupboards and drawers. Don't ask me
what I expected to find. Fingerprints? DNA samples? A signed confession in the cookie jar? As it
turned out I found nothing more exciting than
a stash of Celestial Seasonings herbal tea.

"Here you go," I said, handing her a steaming
mug. "Do you take anything in it?"

"No." She sipped it contentedly. "This is perfect."

I usually take my tea with sugar and Oreos,
but having found neither, I settled for drinking
it an naturel.

"So," she said, "you're really investigating the
murder for Dorcas?"

I nodded. "The police are convinced she
killed Vic, but I think she's innocent."

"Poor Dorcas. Vic was so cruel to her."

She sighed deeply.

"I know you must be wondering what I saw in
him. Everybody did."

No surprise there.

"It's true Vic had a mean side, but he could
be wonderful when he wanted to be. When you
felt his love shining on you, you never wanted to
get out from under his warmth."

She wrapped her hands around her mug, as if
trying to recapture some of that warmth.

"I suspected all along that he was cheating on
me, but I wouldn't let myself believe it. After last
night, of course, I had to face the truth.

"Look what I found in Vic's suitcase. The one
he was packing when the murderer showed up."
She picked up a small black appointment book
from the coffee table and tossed it to me. "I
guess it must be some sort of sex journal."

I opened it and saw a roster of women, listed
only by their first names. Next to each name was
a one-to-ten ranking, and a brief description of
the woman's sexual specialty.

Regan was the most recent entry.

"I'm an eight and a half," Allison said, "and
Regan's only an eight. I guess Vic didn't mind,
not if she could get him a network deal. For a
network deal, he'd probably sleep with a five."

Was she kidding? For anetwork deal, he'd
sleep with his grandmother.

`But neither of us is as good as Holly. She's a
nine.

"Holly?"

"The barmaid at the Laff Palace. You remember her. Cute, but Psycho?"

Oh. So that's what Pebbles' name was.

I checked her out in the little black book. And
sure enough, Holly was a nine. With a star. I
blushed when I read her sexual specialty, a practice illegal in at least fourteen states.

Allison shook her curls, bewildered. "I can't believe it. He was cheating on me with Regan
and Holly. And all these other women."

Tears welled up in her eyes. "Oh, dear. I can't
start crying again. I just can't."

She wiped away the burgeoning tears and
turned to me.

"So how can I help you?"

"I think Dorcas was framed. I think somebody
stole a pair of pantyhose from her tote bag while
she was attacking Vic and used them to strangle
him later that night. Did you happen to see anyone go near the bag during the attack?"

"I don't think anybody was looking at the
bag. We were all looking at Dorcas."

"That's what the killer was counting on."

"You really think Dorcas is innocent?"

"Yes," I said. And then, on a hunch, I added:
"Don't you?"

She took a thoughtful sip of her tea.

"I do," she said finally. "I know she hated Vic,
but I doubt she's a killer. To be perfectly honest,
there was a part of me that wanted to jump on
Vic and attack him myself." She smiled wryly.
"Maybe she just beat me to the punch."

C couldn't picture Allison, with her cabbage
roses and pink pajamas, jumping anyone, let
alone strangling them. Nevertheless I had to
check her alibi. It's Lesson Number One in private
eye school. Not that I've ever been to private eye
school. But I'm sure it must be Lesson Number
One.

"This is awkward," I said, "but do you mind
my asking where you were the night of the murder?"

"No, I don't mind. I spent the night at Hank's
place."

"Oh?"

"It's not what you think," she hastened to assure me. "He gave me his bed and he slept on
the sofa. It was strictly platonic."

Maybe it was platonic on her part, but I remembered the longing in Hank's eyes when he
was comforting Allison at the club. I'd bet my
bottom Pop-Tart Hank's feelings for her were
far from platonic.

The violin concerto came to an end, and so
apparently had our interview.

"I'm sorry," Allison said. "I can't talk anymore. I need to rest."

"Of course," I said, getting up. "One last
thing, though. Do you mind giving me Hank's
address? I'd like to talk with him and see if he
remembers seeing anyone near Dorcas's bag."

She gave me the address, then walked me to
the door. When she opened it, the sun shone in,
glinting off her auburn curls.

"You know," she said, her eyes misting with
tears, "in spite of everything that's happened,
there's a part of me that still loves Vic."