Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For (22 page)

Arrrgh! Was Mr. Goldman impossible, or what? Here he had me blowing him kisses and cutting his boiled chicken when that damn heart attack had been his fault all along.

I felt like marching back into his room and poking holes in his IV tube. At the very least, I’d tell Mr. Perez the truth about our so-called relationship. But what good would that do? Besides, I might wind up giving Mr. Goldman another heart attack. And this time, it
would
be my fault.

No, I’d let him get away with his silly lie, but from now on, I wasn’t going to tolerate any more of his nonsense in class. No more interruptions. No more outbursts. No more insensitive critiques of his fellow classmates.

I was stomping toward the elevator, lost in thoughts of my new regime at Shalom, when I passed a petite redhead who bore a vague resemblance to Debbie Reynolds.

That was another thing, I told myself. No longer would I allow Mr. Goldman to tell those insane stories about having love affairs with movie stars.

I was pressing the button for the elevator when I heard the redhead say to one of the nurses, “Hi, hon. Can you help me?”

That was odd. Not only did she look like Debbie Reynolds, but she sounded like her, too.

“Of course, Ms. Reynolds,” the nurse replied. “What can we do for you?”

I darted back to the nurses’ station for a better look. Yikes, it really
was
Debbie Reynolds. Could it be? Had Mr. Goldman been telling the truth about his affair with the star of
Singin’ in the Rain
? Nah. No way. Just because she was here at Cedars didn’t mean she was going to visit Mr. Goldman.

“Which way to Abe Goldman’s room?” she asked.

Okay, so maybe he knew her somehow. Maybe he once sold her wall-to-wall carpeting. That didn’t mean they’d been lovers.

But then I heard her say, as she walked into his room:

“Abe, loverboy. How’re they hanging?”

You could’ve knocked me over with a boiled chicken.

Chapter 23

I
headed up the path to my apartment, my mind still reeling at the thought of Mr. Goldman and Debbie Reynolds as lovers. Had all his tales of romantic conquests been true? Had he actually, as he’d proudly claimed, danced the cha-cha with Ann-Margret, spent the night at the Disneyland Hotel with Joan Collins, and given Angie Dickinson a hickey?

Lost in thoughts of Mr. Goldman’s love life, I opened the front door and almost tripped over something on my doorstep. A frisson of fear ran down my spine as I looked down and saw what it was: A shoe. A high-heeled, high-fashion number. Exactly like the one I’d found impaled in Frenchie’s neck.

With trembling hands, I picked it up. The label said Jimmy Choo. Maybe it was real. Maybe it was a knockoff. But at that moment, I didn’t much care about its authenticity. My attention was riveted to a Post-it stuck to the dagger-like heel. Written on it was a message, two little words that turned my frisson of fear into a full-blown panic attack:

You’re Next

It had to be from the murderer. And yet, they’d arrested Owen this morning. So he couldn’t have sent it. Was it possible the cops had arrested the wrong man?

True, Owen’s two-million-dollar life insurance policy looked bad, but maybe Frenchie had a policy out on his life, too. Lots of husbands and wives took out mutually beneficial life insurance policies.

But if Owen was innocent, why were his fingerprints on the murder weapon? Maybe after Frenchie had been gone several hours, he drove over to Passions to check up on her. Maybe she was already dead when he got there. Perhaps he’d been foolish enough to touch the shoe and get blood on his clothing. And then he panicked and ran out of the store, leaving a trail of incriminating evidence behind him.

The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that the real killer was still at large. And that killer, I was certain, was Tyler. He had to be the one who left Jimmy Choo on my doorstep.

My hands still shaking, I put the shoe and the Post-it in a plastic grocery bag. I wanted to preserve as many fingerprints as possible. Then I got back in my Corolla and drove to Lt. Mula’s precinct. Mula was gone when I got there, so I left my package with the desk sergeant along with an urgent message for Mula to get back to me as soon as possible.

I decided to swing by Becky’s apartment on my way home. I had to get Becky to see how dangerous Tyler was. Somehow I’d force her to listen to me. I’d tell her how he’d ambushed me at my apartment last night, and get her to accept the fact that he didn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder.

I found a parking spot across from Becky’s building and was just about to get out of my car, when I looked up and saw Becky’s roommate, Nina, leaving for work in her nurse’s uniform, her cute little pageboy bouncing as she walked.

I started to wave to her, then stopped. There was something about her that wasn’t quite right. And then I realized what it was. Nina was wearing a nurse’s dress. Hardly any nurses wore dresses any more. Hadn’t I just seen those nurses at Cedars all wearing scrubs? What’s more, Nina’s dress was awfully short—halfway up her thighs—and tight, too. Way too tight to change a bedpan.

By now, she’d crossed the street to her car, a beat-up old Camaro. And then she did something very strange. She opened the trunk of her car and took out a pair of stiletto heels. I flinched at the sight of them. If I never saw another pair of high heels in my life, I’d be a happy woman. I watched as she slipped them on and tossed her thick-soled nurse’s shoes into the trunk.

What the heck was that about?

Up to then, I’d never connected Nina with the murder. But something in my gut told me I’d stumbled onto something important. So I decided to follow her.

Now I don’t know if you’ve ever tailed someone, but trust me, it’s not easy. Especially if the person you’re following drives like a stunt driver on uppers. Somehow I managed to keep up with Nina as she zoomed across town to a seedy street on the fringes of Hollywood. I’m just glad there were no traffic cops around; otherwise I’d be doing five to ten in traffic school.

Eventually she turned into the parking lot of a strip club.

I could tell it was a strip club by the subtle neon sign flashing: NUDE GIRLS! NUDE GIRLS! NUDE GIRLS!

I pulled into a spot across the street and waited till I saw her go into the club.

Could it be? Was Nina actually a stripper? I got out of my car and crossed the street to The Frolic Room, as the club was called. There out front in a glass display case were eight-by-ten glossies of the club’s “NUDE GIRLS!”

I scanned the photos of Lacy Garter, Patty Melt, and Fatima, the Islamabadgirl. But the photo I was most interested in was that of “Nurse Nina,” wearing nothing but a G-string and a stethoscope.

Nina was a stripper, all right. But that didn’t mean she had anything to do with the murder. She didn’t even know Frenchie. Or did she? Was it possible that Frenchie had once worked here? I could easily picture Frenchie whipping it all off for a bunch of leering men. Maybe Nina had known Frenchie. And as we all know by now, to know Frenchie was to loathe her. So maybe Nina had a reason to kill her, after all.

I needed to find out. I put on my sunglasses and an old baseball cap I kept in the trunk of my car for emergency bad hair days and headed in to The Frolic Room.

I was happy to see that it was dark inside and that Nina was nowhere in sight. I sat down at a table way in back. Nina would never be able to see me past the bright stage lights.

The place was fairly empty, just a few glassy-eyed guys staring at Lacy Garter, who was up on stage doing obscene things with a black lace garter. One or two of the men shot me covert glances, but most of them were too busy frolicking with themselves under the table to pay much attention to me.

A weary waitress in hot pants and what looked like a black leather bra came sidling up to the table. Under her thick makeup I could see she had bad skin.

“What’ll it be?” she asked, tossing a wilted cocktail napkin on the table.

Frankly, I was hungry. That boiled chicken extravaganza at Cedars wasn’t exactly filling.

“Got any pretzels? Or peanuts?”

She looked at me as if I’d just stepped off Planet Idiot.

“You want pretzels,” she snapped, “there’s a 7-11 down the street. Now what’ll you have
to drink
?”

“A Coke.”

“It’s ten dollars.”

“Ten dollars for a Coke?”

“Plus a two-drink minimum.”

Geez. What some horny men won’t pay to see a woman take off her garters. I was tempted to leave, but I needed to find out if Frenchie had ever worked there.

“Great,” I said. “Bring me two ten-dollar Cokes.”

She nodded curtly and walked off.

By now, Lacy had both garters dangling from her boobs and was twirling them around like miniature hula hoops. I have to admit, it was really quite impressive.

My friend the waitress came back and plopped two large Cokes on the table.

“You sure you’re in the right place?” she asked. “There’s a lesbo club a few blocks away, right next to the 7-11.”

A real fount of information, wasn’t she?

“Actually,” I said, “I’m looking for a friend of mine who used to work here. Name of Giselle Ambrose. Everybody called her Frenchie. You ever hear of her?”

“Sure.”

Bingo. My hunch was right.

“She’s the one who got iced with a shoe,” she said. “I saw it on the news.”

“Did she ever work here?”

“Nope. At least I’ve never seen her, and I’ve been here fifteen years.”

So much for my hunches.

She sashayed back to the bar and I eyed my Cokes unhappily. Twenty bucks down the drain, and for nothing. Nina hadn’t known Frenchie. The most she was guilty of was lying to her roommate about being a stripper.

Oh, well. I’d finish these damn Cokes if it killed me.

So, as Lacy wound up her act and Fatima the Islamabadgirl slinked onstage with a sequinned veil over her crotch, I started sucking my Cokes. By the time I’d worked my way through both of them, I had to pee. Big time.

Great. Now I’d have to use The Frolic Room’s john. I could just imagine how filthy it would be. Why hadn’t I just paid the twenty dollars and taken a loss on the Cokes?

I asked the waitress where the ladies’ room was, and she pointed down a dank hallway.

True to my expectations, the bathroom was a nightmare. It had fungus on the walls left over from the Eisenhower administration. Think Black Hole of Calcutta, with Tampax machines.

I pulled down my jeans and crouched over the toilet, trying desperately not to come into contact with any disease-ridden surface. I used a paper towel to turn on the hot water to wash my hands, and another one to open the door back out to the hallway. I swear, you practically needed a vaccination to take a tinkle in that joint.

When I got back to my table, I waved to the waitress to get my check. She came over with a martini and a basket of fries that smelled pretty darn delicious. I eyed them hungrily.

“I thought you said you didn’t have food.”

“I said we didn’t have
pretzels.
I didn’t say nothing about fries.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I didn’t order this stuff.”

“I know. It’s from that guy over there.”

She nodded in the direction of a boozy old guy with a big gut and wet lips who shot me a sloppy grin.

Now if I’d had any sense I would’ve cleared out right then and there. The last thing I needed was an order of fries. But I was hungry. And those fries looked great. I’d just have one or two, and then I’d go.

Before I knew it, I was chomping through the whole basket of fries, washing them down with the martini. I tried to avoid making eye contact with the leering old fart who’d sent them to me. The guy was easily in his sixties. He should’ve been home taking his Metamucil, not hanging out in a dive like this. What was it with me and old farts, anyway? First Mr. Goldman. And then Mr. Perez, hitting on me with his girlfriend in the next room. I remembered what Mr. Perez said about pulling the plug on Mr. Goldman so I’d be free to date him.

And that’s when it hit me. That’s when I knew that Nina was the killer.

True, Nina didn’t know Frenchie. But maybe she didn’t care about Frenchie. Maybe the person she wanted to get rid of was Becky.

Maybe Nina had fallen for Tyler, and fallen for him hard. I remembered how her eyes shone when she first told me what a great guy he was. Maybe she came on to him, but he was too wrapped up with Becky to give her a tumble. So she decided to get rid of her competition. Maybe, like Mr. Perez, she simply wanted her rival out of the way.

And so when Becky came home one night and told her about her fight with Frenchie, and how she said—in front of a store full of customers—that she’d like to see Frenchie’s corpse on the sales floor, Nina got an idea. She spotted Becky’s earring, which Becky had dropped—not at Passions—but somewhere in the apartment. She pocketed the earring and pretended she couldn’t find it when she and Becky searched for it. She didn’t go to work that night. Instead, she lured Frenchie to the shop with a phony call about a burglary. Then she bumped her off, carefully planting Becky’s earring at the scene of the crime.

What better way to get rid of her rival than getting her arrested for murder?

Of course, it was all just a theory. I had no proof. None whatsoever.

By now Fatima had removed her last veil and was undulating offstage. I wanted to be gone when Nina showed up for her act. So I plunked down some cash and got up to leave. The old coot who’d sent me the drink was motioning me to his table, but I hurried past him and made my way outside.

God, I was loaded. That was one hell of a stiff martini. I headed across the street to my Corolla, sucking in the cool night air, trying to sober up. But by the time I reached my car, my head was spinning and my legs were as wobbly as Jell-O. There was no way I was driving home like this. I’d simply have to call a taxi.

I opened my purse to get my cell phone, and then everything went black as the fungus on The Frolic Room’s toilet.