Death by Pantyhose (21 page)

"But-"

"It'll be hilarious."

"But-"

"Look at Martha Stewart. She went to jail and
got two TV shows."

"But-"

"Getting arrested might be the best thing that
ever happened to me."

I just sat there, openmouthed, having run out
of "buts."

"Dorcas, aren't you forgetting something?" I
finally managed to say. "Before you can knock 'em
dead with your act, you've got to get out of jail."

"Oh, that," she said, brushing aside my objection with a wave of her hand. "I know you're
going to get me off the hook, Jaine. Ginnie Rae
said so."

"Ginnie Rae?"

"My cell mate. She's a psychic. The tarot
cards told her that her boyfriend was cheating
on her, which is why she shot him in his privates.
Anyhow, Ginnie Rae says I'm going to go free."

Great. If Ginnie Rae knew so much, let her
find the killer.

"What's happening with your attorney?" I
asked, trying to drag her back to reality. "Has he
come up with anything?"

Dorcas snorted in derision.

"Are you kidding? The only way he's going to
get me out of here is with a Colt .45 baked in a
cake.

"What about you, Jaine?" she asked, finally
taking an interest in her own welfare. "What've
you discovered so far?"

That you're a stark raving nutcase!

I told her about Manny, my leading contender in the Suspects Sweepstakes, and how
he'd been spotted near her tote bag.

"Manny? Gee, I never would've pictured him
as a killer. But you're the professional, Jaine.
I'm sure you know what you're doing."

That made one of us.

"The trouble is, Dorcas, you're the only one
anybody saw at the scene of the crime. I need
proof that somebody else was there. Think back
to the night of the murder. Do you remember
seeing anything unusual at Vic's bungalow? Anything at all?"

"No, the house was dark when I got there. I
couldn't see a thing. I fumbled around for a
light switch but couldn't find one. In fact, it was
so dark, on my way into the living room, I tripped
over Allison's violin case."

I sat up straighter.

"Allison's violin case?"

"Yeah. I almost busted my toe when I
rammed into it."

"What was Allison's violin doing at the bungalow the night of the murder?"

"What do you mean?"

"She had it with her at the club, and afterward she claimed she went straight to Hank's
place and spent the night. So what was it doing
at the scene of the crime?"

Dorcas's eyes grew wide.

"Omigosh. You don't think Allison's the
killer, do you?"

"That's exactly what I intend to find out."

I rang the bell to Allison's storybook cottage
and breathed in the heady aroma from her rosebushes.

"The door's open," Allison called out.

For a potential killer, she was awfully trusting.

I stepped inside and peeked in her living room,
where I was surprised to see cardboard moving
cartons scattered everywhere. The bookshelves
were empty, the pictures down from the walls.

"We're in the kitchen!" Her voice came from
the rear of the house. "C'mon back."

You'd think all those years living with a rat
like Vic would have taught her to be a bit more
suspicious. For all she knew, I was a door-to-door
ax murderer.

I made my way down the hall and opened the
swinging door into Allison's retro kitchen, complete with red vinyl banquette and a stove that
was grilling flapjacks back when Ozzie was dating Harriet.

Allison, in jeans and a chambray work shirt,
her Botticelli curls lassoed into a bandana, was
busy wrapping dishes in newspaper and loading
them into a carton. Hank was by her side, struggling to lift one of the cartons.

"Oh, hi, Jaine," Allison said, tucking a stray
curl into her bandana.

"I see you're moving," I said, taking in the
scene.

"Yes. Too many memories."

Totally understandable. I mean, it's hard to
call a place Home Sweet Home when there's
been a homicide on your living room rug.

Hank put down his carton with a grunt and
began loading another.

`Hank got me an apartment in his building," she said, shooting him a grateful smile. "He's
been so wonderful."

"Aw, it was nothing," he said, practically panting with devotion.

"It wasn't nothing, Hank," she said, touching
him lightly on the arm. "It meant the world to
me.

He was so flustered by her touch, he almost
dropped a plate.

"The movers are coming at the end of the
week," Allison said, going back to her dishes,
unaware of the effect she had on him. "There's
so much to do before then."

She loaded a final plate into her carton and
sealed it with tape.

"So how are things going with your investigation?" she asked.

"Actually, that's why I'm here. There's something I need to talk to you about."

"Oh?"

She reached for a Raggedy Ann cookie jar on
her kitchen counter and began wrapping it in
newspaper.

"Dorcas says she saw your violin when she
showed up here the night of the murder. I know
you had it with you at the club, so I have to ask:
If you went straight to Hank's and stayed there
all night, what was your violin doing at the scene
of the crime?"

"That's ridiculous," Hank snapped, his face
flushed with anger. "Dorcas is lying to save her
skin."

Allison sighed wearily and sank down onto
the banquette.

"She's not lying, Hank. I was here that night.
I slipped out while you were sleeping."

"You did?" He stood clutching a gravy boat,
staring at her in disbelief.

"I wanted to talk to Vic. I was foolishly hoping
I could save our relationship. But he was dead
when I got here, strangled with those awful
pantyhose. I was so upset, I dropped my violin in
a panic and ran. But I didn't kill him."

She looked up at us with wide beseeching
eyes.

"You do believe me, don't you?"

"Of course I do!" Hank said, hurrying to her
side, love oozing from his every pore.

And truth be told, so did I. I'd have to be
made of stone not to. I felt like a rat for even
suspecting her. It was like accusing the Pope of
shoplifting.

"I'm so sorry, Allison. I didn't mean to upset
you.

"It's okay," she said. "I understand. It's part of
your job."

"Well," I said, with a feeble wave, "I guess I'd
better be going."

I slunk out to the hallway and was heading for
the front door when suddenly I heard an earsplitting crash.

I raced back to the kitchen.

"Are you guys okay?"

"We're fine. Hank dropped my toolbox."

I looked down and saw a set of professional
workmen's tools scattered all over the linoleum.

I knelt down to give them a hand as they gathered them up.

"Are these yours?" I said, picking up a wrench
that weighed more than Prozac.

"Yes, Vic gave them to me on my birthday."

"What a birthday gift," Hank snorted. "Mr.
Romantic."

"I didn't mind," Allison said. "I like working
around the house."

Oh, really? Suddenly I wondered if she liked
working around cars, too. Maybe Allison wasn't
as innocent as she looked. I was no automotive
expert, but surely one of these tools was capable
of loosening the stick shift of a VW Beetle.

I headed back outside, utterly confused. On
the one hand, I simply couldn't picture Allison
as a killer. On the other hand, she had enough
tools in that toolbox to dismantle Crazy Dave's
entire fleet of Rent-A-Wrecks. She'd gone from
suspect to saint to suspect again in less than
twenty minutes.

I was just about to get in my rented Mercedes
when I looked across the street and saw the little
neighbor kid, the one who claimed to have seen
Batman and his Batmobile the night of the murder. My expert eyewitness, still wearing his Batman cape, was running around his front yard
screeching the Batman theme song at the top of
his lungs.

I stood there for a while watching him run
round and round in circles, going nowhere.

I knew the feeling only too well.

t the rate I was going, Dorcas would be tried
-and convicted and working on her appeal
before I discovered my first piece of evidence.

I really had to get a handle on the case.
Which is why I decided to write out a list of my
suspects. Putting everything in black and white
often helps me clarify my thoughts. So I settled
myself down on the sofa with a pad and pencil
and a snoring cat. I got as far as-

My Suspects, by, jaine Austen

-when the phone rang.

It was Kandi, who wanted to meet me for
lunch.

No way. Absolutely not. I couldn't spare the
time-or the calories. Not after those donuts I'd
had for breakfast and my date with Andrew just
hours away. I had to work on my suspect list,
and, if there was time, send out some resumes
for an actual paying job.

No siree, I had scads of work to do; I wasn't
going to loll around taking lunch breaks.

Yeah, right. A half hour later I was sitting
across from Kandi at a trendy bistro down the
street from her office eating something called a
Nicoise Baguette. (Which is trendy L.A. bistrospeak for "tuna fish sandwich.")

"Any news about the Corolla?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Not a word."

"So you're still driving that awful Beetle?"

"Not anymore."

I told her about the Gear-Stick-in-My-Hands
incident on the freeway.

"You poor thing! I assume you're going to sue
the pants off Crazy Dave."

"Actually, Kandi, it's not his fault. Somebody
tampered with the car."

"What do you mean? Who would want to tamper with your car?"

And before I could stop myself, I was telling
her about the murder. I hadn't meant to. I knew
she'd wind up lecturing me. And sure enough,
as soon as she heard I was trying to track down a
killer, she morphed into my mother right before my eyes. I swear, I could practically see an
umbilical cord growing from her tummy.

"Not another murder investigation!" she
moaned. "Are you nuts? One of these days you're
going to get killed! And when you do, don't
come crying to me."

"I just don't want to see an innocent woman
in jail!"

"And I don't want to see my best friend in the
morgue!" She took my hand and held it in hers.
"Promise me you'll be careful."

"I promise."

"You know how much I worry about you," she
clucked.

"Kandi, you're the best friend a girl could
ever have and I love you dearly, but could you
let go of my hand so I can finish my sandwich?"

With a sigh, she let go and I returned to my
lunch.

"That reminds me," she said, reaching into
her purse. "I almost forgot my Slo-Eater."

"You take that thing out, Kandi, and I swear,
I'll punch its silly light out."

All right, all right," she said, putting it away.
"No need to get testy. I've mastered the art of
slow eating anyway."

I'll say. She was still on Bite Two of her Chinese chicken salad.

"So what's up with the actress you hired to go
to traffic school for you?" I asked, determined
to change the subject.

She took the bait, eager to talk about her protege.

"Miranda's all set to go. She's memorized the
DMV handbook cover to cover. I can't get over
how clever I was to hire somebody to be me. I'm
actually thinking of having her call my parents
for me once a week. Won't that be heavenly?"

Kandi was rambling on about the benefits of
having a real-life stunt double when I glanced
up and saw a familiar black ponytail at a nearby
table.

It was Holly, AKA Pebbles, the barmaid. She
was sitting across from a muscle bound jock with
delts as big as ham hocks. I assumed he was her
new beau, the one she'd been getting ready to
go out with the day I'd stopped by.