Death by Pantyhose (20 page)

And so it was with a spring in my step and a
dent in my checkbook (in the end, my conscience wouldn't allow me to let Lance pick up
the tab) that I got in Wheezy and headed home
on the freeway.

There I was, tooling along with a head of hair
Meg Ryan would envy. What's more, traffic was
light, a rare bonus in L.A. What a marvelous
fairy-tale ending to the Gustavo horror story.
Isn't life amazing? Just when you're ready to
shave off your hair and join a convent, you discover someone named Susie Q and the world
looks rosy again.

By now I'd gotten used to driving a stick shift.
I'd forgotten how much fun it could be. If I had
to buy a new car, maybe I'd buy myself a zippy
sports model. It was high time I jazzed up my
image; driving around town in my Corolla, I was
about as alluring as Ethel Mertz on laundry day.
Yes, it was definitely something to consider.

Filled with the confidence that only a good
haircut can bring, I decided to test Wheezy's limits and put her in fourth gear. What the
heck. I was on a roll. Feeling very Grand Prix-
ish, I pulled the stick toward fourth.

But the stick didn't make it. No, to my horror,
as I gave it a yank, the damn thing came off in
my hand! Oh, Lord! There I was, on the freeway, without a stick, stuck in third gear!

I told myself not to panic. I'd just slow down
and pull over to the shoulder. But did I listen to
myself? Of course not. Before I knew what I was
doing, I jammed on the brakes. Damn. Now the
car was stalled.

Do you know what it means to be stalled on a
Los Angeles freeway with cars barreling down
on you at 65 miles an hour, praying they'll notice you in time to avoid a bloody crash? Yes,
folks, it's one of those times when a six-pack of
Valium would come in mighty handy.

I put on the hazard lights, and with trembling
hands I tried to start up the engine again. But
Wheezy wouldn't cooperate. Cars aren't meant to
go directly from a standstill to third gear. That's
why they've got first and second gears. A lesson I
was about to learn, as Wheezy kept dying out on
me.

By now sweat was cascading from my every
pore. My palms were slick against the steering
wheel, and Susie Q's glorious hairdo was matted
to my scalp in damp clumps. Finally, after about
the fifth try, the car started, with much bucking
and snorting. It was barely creeping along, but
at least it was moving.

That's when I looked in my rearview mirror
and saw it. A giant SUV bearing down on me. I
tried to wave it over to the next lane, but the driver
was oblivious. He was going to rear-end me! Next to that monster, Wheezy and I didn't stand a
chance. No doubt about it. I was going to wind
up a tragic freeway fatality.

My knuckles white with terror, I clutched the
steering wheel and gunned the accelerator for
all it was worth. The SUV was so close I could
see the driver in my rearview mirror. And yes,
you guessed it, the idiot was talking on his cell
phone! The dope had no idea that he was seconds away from a collision.

Just when I was convinced he was going to
plow into my backseat, I finally gathered speed
and managed to swerve onto the shoulder, escaping by mere inches what would have been a
very messy demise.

It took 'a good ten minutes before my hands
stopped shaking enough to call Triple A. And
another twenty minutes before they showed up.

But I used the time productively, planning
my 3.2 million-dollar lawsuit against Crazy
Dave's Rent -A-Wreck.

Crazy Dave's eyes practically popped out of
his head when I showed him the broken gearshift. He was so upset he almost stopped eating
his meatball sub.

"It came off in your hand?" he said, his
mouth full of half-chewed meatball.

"Yes," I sighed, "it came off in my hand."

"Not Crazy Dave's fault," he said, picking his
teeth with his pinky.

"I'm not so sure a jury will agree with you on
that one."

Reluctantly abandoning his sandwich, he
grabbed a flashlight and headed over to where Wheezy was parked outside his office. He bent
over the front seat, shining the flashlight into
the gearbox, treating me to a bird's-eye view of
his meatball-packed caboose. It made mine look
positively waiflike.

"You have screw loose!"

"I know," I muttered. "For ever renting this
heap from you in the first place."

"Somebody loosened gear stick," he said,
emerging from the car.

"What are you talking about?"

"Somebody used ratchet to loosen the screws.
I see scratch marks in casing. This was no accident, lady."

Suddenly I felt a wave of nausea. Could Crazy
Dave be right? Maybe the stick didn't just happen
to fall off. Maybe somebody tampered with it.
After all, the door locks were broken. It would've
been easy for someone to gain access and loosen
a vital screw or two. No wonder the stick had
been shifting so easily.

A chill ran down my sweat-soaked spine. If
Crazy Dave was right, it looked like Vic's
killer was out to get me, too.

I'd fully intended to rent my next car from
Hertz or Avis, whatever the cost. But by now my
anger at Crazy Dave had fizzled away. I was convinced that Wheezy had been tampered with.
Crazy Dave's cars may have been wrecks, but I
doubted they were death traps.

He sat me down in his office, while his butterball wife bustled about, getting me tea and
baklava.

"Poor thing," she clucked. "You almost got
killed out there!"

"Tell you what," Crazy Dave said, no doubt trying to stave off a lawsuit. "How about I give you
an upgrade to a Mercedes? No extra charge."

He showed me an ancient Mercedes that was
built when Hitler was in kindergarten.

"A beauty, no?"

No. But I took it anyway, and a half hour later
I hauled myself home, exhausted.

"Oh, Prozac," I wailed as I shuffled in the
front door. "You won't believe what happened. I
was driving on the freeway and the stick shift
came off in my hand and I almost got squashed
like a bug by an SUV, and at first I thought it was
an accident but it turns out it was sabotage,
which means somebody out there is trying to
kill me!"

She looked up from where she was sprawled
out on the sofa and yawned.

So what's for dinner?

If that cat doesn't shape up soon, I'm getting
a poodle.

I gave her a can of Hearty Beef Guts and was
standing over the sink, eating peanut butter
with my finger straight from the jar, when the
phone rang.

I answered it warily, hoping it wasn't a telemarketer.

But it wasn't a telemarketer. It was Andrew.

"Hey, Jaine."

In spite of everything I'd just been through, I
felt a surge of excitement at the sound of his
voice.

"Oh, hi, Andrew," I said. Only it came out 0 Hni Nandrnew, thanks to the peanut butter clinging
to the roof of my mouth.

"You okay? You sound like you've got a cold."

Damn. Why couldn't I have been eating
something sensible like low-fat yogurt?

"It must be the phone," I said, swallowing
frantically. "Bad connection."

"I was wondering if you're free to get together tomorrow night."

He wanted to see me! That was the good
news. The bad news came next.

"Sam's having a party at her place. You think
you can make it?"

The last thing I wanted to do was party with
Sam Weinstock, but the lure of Andrew was too
great to resist.

"Sure," I said, trying to sound perky. "I'd love
to. 11

"Sorry to call at the last minute, but I didn't
know about the party myself till this afternoon.
I'm hoping we can cut out early and grab some
alone time."

If by "alone time" he meant some high-suction
kisses in the back of his BMW, I was definitely
available.

"That sounds great," I said.

Once again, Andrew was going to be working
late, so we agreed to meet at the party. He gave
me Sam's address, and I hung up in a happy
glow.

I polished off my peanut butter dinner, scraping the bottom of the jar with my finger, then
headed for the tub with a glass of chardonnay.

I eased my tired body into a tubful of steamy
strawberry-scented bubbles and sipped at my
wine. Before long I was lost in a daydream of me and Andrew at Sam's party, clinking martini
glasses and feeding each other olives, then racing off for our "alone time" in the back of his
BMW, Andrew looking hunkalicious in an unbuttoned button-down shirt, and me looking
ten pounds slimmer in a sexy black cocktail dress,
my hair a glossy cap of perfection.

By the time I got in my jammies and tumbled
into bed, my body as limp as a lo mein noodle, I
was twenty pounds thinner and moving to
Stuttgart with an engagement ring on my finger.

Such is the power of a chardonnay bubble
bath that I'd totally forgotten how just a few
hours earlier-I'd come thisclose to being human
roadkill.

the next morning, I had no trouble remembering my brush with death. Ghastly images
of my freeway ordeal came flooding back to me
the minute I opened my eyes.
1 •i r i r .i

Like scenes from a horror movie, 1 saw the
gearshift come off in my hand, the other cars
swerving to avoid me, and the final terror of the
moron in the SUV barreling down on me at 65plus miles an hour.

I got up with a shudder and staggered to the
kitchen to fix Prozac her breakfast, convinced
that whoever sabotaged my car was responsible
for Vic's death. The killer knew I was sniffing
around, asking questions. Turning my car into a
death trap was his or her quaint way of putting a
stop to my investigation.

Who, I wondered, could have done it?

It had to be someone who knew about cars.

The first person who sprang to mind was Pete
the bartender. His fingernails were certainly
filthy enough to be an auto mechanic's. Was that one of his many job skills, along with bartending, bouncing, and selling X-rated videos?
True, he seemed to have a most repulsive crush
on me. But maybe that was just an act to throw
me off his trail.

Then, just as I was nuking myself some coffee, it hit me. I remembered what Manny said
about all he'd done for Vic. How he'd fed him
meals and done his laundry and changed the oil
in his car when he was too broke to bring it to a service
station!

Could it be? Was Manny my saboteur? He obviously knew his way around cars. Maybe, after I
confronted him with Holly's accusation, he felt
threatened and decided to put a halt to my investigation. And my life.

It was a nifty theory. But that's all it was. I didn't
have a shred of evidence to prove he was anywhere near my car-or Vic's bungalow on the
night of the murder, for that matter.

I opened my freezer and peered inside. Drat.
I was all out of Pop-Tarts.

I slammed the freezer door shut in frustration. I was no closer to solving the case than I
was the day I took it on. I threw on some sweats
and was just heading out the door to revive my
spirits with a visit to my pals at Krispy Kreme
when the phone rang.

It was Dorcas. In the background, I could
hear the angry sounds of women shouting. The
words bitch and whup your sorry ass featured
prominently in their conversation.

Oh, Lord. How awful it must be for her in jail.

Any second now, she was going to ask me
about the case. What was I going to tell her? That I had scads of suspects, but no proof whatsoever? That, far from nailing the killer, I almost
got killed myself?

But, much to my surprise, she didn't ask me
for a progress report.

Jaine," she said, breathless with excitement,
"come down here right away. I've got something
important to tell you!"

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you over the phone. Just get here
as soon as you can."

I hung up, suddenly hopeful. It sounded like
Dorcas was on to something. Maybe she remembered seeing something at the scene of the crime,
a vital clue that would lead me to the killer.

I raced out the door and headed straight to
the county jail.

(Okay, I didn't go straight to the jail. I stopped
off at Krispy Kreme for a chocolate glazed donut.
Okay, two chocolate glazed donuts. Are you happy
now?)

"Well? What's your important news?"

I sat across from Dorcas talking to her on the
germ-ridden prison phone.

She looked a lot healthier than the last time I
saw her. Maybe prison food agreed with her. She
smiled broadly.

"I've got the most fabulous idea for a new
comedy act."

Huh? I tapped the phone, wondering if it
was on the fritz. Did I hear that right? The
woman had a murder charge hanging over her
head, and she was talking about a new act?!

"I can use this whole jail experience as material. My Life in the Pen."