Murder Has Nine Lives (11 page)

I opened it and began turning the pages. All of which were filled with newspaper and magazine clippings. There were a few movie reviews, and pictures of Ian as a young man. (I must admit, he'd been quite a looker.) But most of the book was filled with clippings about Gavin Hudson's murder.
Variety
.
The Los Angeles Times
.
The Hollywood Reporter
.
Newsweek
. Ian had collected them all.

And then, coming to the end of the collection, I turned the page to see the start of a whole new collection: clippings about Dean Oliver's murder. Ian had pasted in what looked like every newspaper and online story he could find.

In spite of the sweat soaking my clothes, a chill ran down my spine.

Was Ian keeping a scrapbook of the murders he'd committed?

I was sitting there, looking down at Dean's face smiling up at me from his obituary, when suddenly the scrapbook was jerked from my hands.

I looked up and saw Ian standing over me, breathing thunder.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” he said, the veins in his neck throbbing.

“I . . . I found this scrapbook under your laundry,” I said, scrambling to my feet, “and I was just dusting it off.”

I started backing out of the room, but with every step back I took, Ian took a step forward.

“Didn't anybody ever tell you it's not nice to go snooping in other people's belongings?” he said, his eyes shining with a manic gleam. “A girl could get hurt that way.”

By now my heart was pounding. I ordered myself to stay calm and keep backing away. One step after another. And another. And . . . damn! I'd just tripped over the dratted vacuum cleaner.

“I swear I wasn't snooping,” I lied, regaining my balance. “I didn't even notice what was in the book.”

“Like hell you didn't.”

I continued backing up, and Ian continued advancing.

Then something made me turn around. I don't know if it was luck, a guardian angel, or that manic gleam in Ian's eyes. But turn I did and realized with a gasp that I'd backed up to the top of the winding wrought iron staircase. One more step and I'd have gone hurtling down its steep tile stairs.

I reached for the rail and tore down the steps, grabbing my purse from the living room on my way out the door.

Ian didn't give chase, just stood at the top of the steps, his eyes boring into mine.

Outside, I scrambled into my Corolla and took off, grateful I hadn't wound up as another clipping in Ian's murder memory book.

Chapter 16

B
ack home, I made a beeline for the bathtub, where I spent the next hour soothing my frazzled nerves with a hot bath and a healing dose of Double Stuf Oreos.

Feeling somewhat revived, I slipped into my sweats and tried to work on the Touch-Me-Not brochure. But I simply couldn't stay focused. I kept thinking about how close I'd come to hurtling down Ian's wrought iron staircase.

Finally, I gave up and decided to do some mindless grunt work. It was about time I cleaned my desk, otherwise known as my dining room table, where papers tend to multiply like telemarketers at dinnertime.

I was tossing out an impressive pile of junk mail and long-expired coupons when I came across the contract I'd signed for the Skinny Kitty shoot.

I glanced through the pages, mourning the five thousand dollars I would never earn, when I stumbled on a clause that lit a ray of hope in my heart. Apparently, those generous folks at Skinny Kitty had promised to pay me one thousand dollars if, for any reason, the commercial didn't get made.

That clause, I knew from prior writing assignments, was known as a kill fee.

At the time I'd signed the contract, I'd been so focused on the five grand, I hadn't even noticed the one-thousand-dollar consolation prize.

Wasting no time, I called Deedee, who, wouldn't you know, didn't pick up.

I left her a message, telling her I wanted to collect my kill fee and asked her to please call me back as soon as possible.

I really wanted that thousand bucks.

I only hoped Deedee hadn't already spent it.

* * *

I fell into an uneasy sleep that night, still haunted by the memory of Ian staring down at me from the top of his staircase with that maniacal gleam in his eyes.

Soon I was dreaming that I was back in Ian's bedroom, his murder memory scrapbook in my hands. I was turning the pages, fingers trembling, when I heard footsteps down the hall. I dashed into the closet and pulled the door shut, shuddering as the footsteps grew nearer and nearer.

“I know you're in there, Jaine,” I heard Ian saying in a ghastly singsong whine, “and I'm coming to get you. There's going to be a whole chapter about your murder in my scrapbook!”

By now he was at the closet door. He tried to open it, but I held fast.

“Let me in!” he cried, pounding on the door, louder and louder, till the noise was roaring in my ears.

Then I felt a ferocious yank and lost my grip on the doorknob. The door was opening! Any second now he was going to kill me!

And that's when I woke up, sitting up in bed with a jolt, clammy with sweat.

Thank heavens it was only a dream.

I was just about to sink back down in my pillows when I saw someone standing in the shadows at the foot of my bed. Oh, hell! The knocking I'd heard in my dream had been real! It was probably Ian. Somehow he'd forced his way in. The crazed director was out to kill me, after all!

Adrenaline rushing through my veins, I reached for my cell phone on my night table and hurled it at him.

“Hey!” A woman's voice called out in protest. “Are you crazy? You could've hurt me with that thing.”

A wave of relief washed over me as I realized it wasn't Ian—but Kandi.

I switched on the light, and sure enough, Kandi was standing at the foot of my bed, her hair rumpled, a feverish look in her eyes.

“Kandi!” I cried, checking my clock radio. “It's two a.m. What the heck are you doing here? And how did you get in?”

“I knocked for ages, but there was no answer. So I let myself in with the spare key you gave me in case of an emergency.”

“Emergency? What emergency? Is something wrong?”

Once again, I noticed the feverish look in her eyes.

“Kandi, honey.” I leaped out of bed and rushed to her side. “What is it?”

“You've got to help me!” she said. “I need to borrow your credit card, just for a few minutes.”

“My credit card?”

“Yes, I saw the most fabulous boots online at Neiman Marcus, suede knee-highs on sale, fifty percent off, and I absolutely must have them! C'mon,” she said, grabbing me by the wrist. “Let's go to your computer and order them. I can pay you back right now. I brought cash.”

She reached into her jeans pocket with her free hand and waved a wad of bills in my face.

Prozac, who had been snoring on my pillow, was now fully awake and shooting us dagger glares.

“Kandi!” I cried as she dragged me out to the living room. “Get a hold of yourself! Remember the new leaf you turned over. You're a recovering shopaholic. You can't do this stuff anymore.”

“And I won't do it anymore. Not after tonight. Not ever again. Just this once. So hurry up. Give me your card. I'll take anything. Visa. MasterCard. Amex. Even Discover.”

By now, she'd hauled me to my computer at my dining room table.

“Kandi, sweetheart,” I said, tugging her back over to my sofa. “You've got to be strong and resist the urge. Hang in there, honey!”

“Just one more pair of boots!” she pleaded. “That's all I ask.”

I shook my head firmly.

“One is too many, and a hundred's not enough.”

She blinked in confusion.

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?”

“It's a classic line from
The Lost Weekend
. Remember? Ray Milland? The crazed alkie trying to give up booze?”

“For heaven's sakes, Jaine. Must you compare me to some actor who's been dead a million years? Couldn't I at least be Sandra Bullock in
28 Days
?”

“The point is, Kandi,” I said, pulling her down on the sofa, “you don't need another pair of boots, not when you've got a whole closetful sitting in your condo at home.”

I shot her my sternest no-nonsense look (a little something I'd picked up from Prozac).

“Okay, okay,” she said, abashed. “You're right. I won't order the boots.”

See? All it took was a firm hand and an iron will. I was really quite proud of myself.

“How about a pair of slippers? I saw a cute pair at Zappo's for under forty bucks.”

“You can't order anything, Kandi. That's what it means when you're a recovering shopaholic.”

“How about socks? Ones with little pom-poms on the ankle?”

“There'll be no boots. No slippers. No socks with pom-poms. What you need is a great big hug and a bowl of Chunky Monkey.”

As it turned out, I was the one who needed the Chunky Monkey. All Kandi needed was the hug and a nap.

She tumbled into bed alongside me (and a snoring Prozac). When I woke the next morning, I found a note from her on my night table.

Chapter 17

I
sprang out of bed that morning, ready to forget yesterday's angst and face the new day with a smile. Which is what I did. For a whole twenty-seven seconds, until I padded to the front door for my newspapers and discovered
The New York Times
was missing.

As far as I'm concerned, there are only three things that make life worthwhile: Chocolate, chocolate, and
The New York Times
crossword puzzle.

I simply can't start my day without it.

I searched under the jasmine bush next to my front door, thinking maybe the newspaper delivery guy tossed the paper there by mistake. But it was nowhere in sight.

Grumbling and cursing, I stomped off to the kitchen and fixed Prozac her morning Minced Mackerel Guts.

She nibbled at it listlessly, very Blanche DuBois dining at the Kowalskis.

After nuking myself a CRB and making do with the
L.A. Times
crossword, I turned my attention back to where it belonged: Dean Oliver's murder.

Given yesterday's harrowing encounter with Ian, I was ready to lock him up and throw away the key. But I couldn't ignore that pesky “innocent until proven guilty” thing our justice system is so fond of.

Which meant I'd have to keep on investigating.

I remembered what Nikki said about hearing Dean and the Pink Panther through the paper-thin walls that separated the kitchen from Dean's dressing room. Now I wondered if the Pink Panther had heard anything on the day of the murder that might lead me to the killer.

Checking in with my pals at Google, I discovered that the Pink Panther, aka Camille Townsend, had worked as a fashion model until she hooked up with a Silicon Valley honcho and walked away with a bundle in a divorce settlement.

Could I risk calling her and going with the truth, telling her that I was investigating Dean's murder? Did I really have to resort to a sneaky subterfuge to see her? After all, the Panther was one of the few people who actually liked Dean. Surely she'd want to help me find the killer.

For once, I decided to stick with the truth. And after waiting until a decent hour, I called the Pink Panther's phone number on Linda's contact sheet.

A soft-spoken woman with a Hispanic accent answered.

“Jaine Austen,” I said in my most professional voice, “calling for Ms. Townsend.”

“I'm sorry, but Miss Camille isn't taking any phone calls.”

Okay, time for the sneaky subterfuge.

(I'd had one warming on the back burner of my brain all along.)

“Can you tell her I'm a writer with
Cat Fancy
magazine, and we want to feature her cat Desiree in our first ever centerfold?”

After years of being a writer, I've found that most people simply can't resist the temptation of seeing themselves—or their significant others—in print.

A moment of silence while my soft-spoken friend thought over my offer. Then, finally, the words I longed to hear:

“Hold, please.”

And hold I did, drumming my fingers on the dining room table, trying to ignore Prozac hissing at the mention of Desiree's name.

Finally, the woman got back on the line.

“Can you be here at one o'clock?”

Sometimes it pays to be sneaky.

* * *

The Panther's magnificent Bel Air estate, Casa Rosa, lived up to its name, its impeccably landscaped grounds awash in pink roses and peonies. The house itself was a white sandstone wonder, with turreted roofs and a front portico so grand, I almost expected a doorman to come racing out and take my car.

Instead, I parked in front of one of the mansion's five (yes, five!) garages.

The soft-spoken woman I'd talked to on the phone came to the door in a spotless white maid's uniform and ushered me into a foyer fragrant with the heady aroma of Stargazer lilies, a huge bunch of which were on display on a table by the front door.

“Miss Camille is in her bedroom,” the maid said, leading me up a flight of marble stairs, which, I must admit, gave me the heebie jeebies, reminding me as they did of my recent brush with death at Ian's place.

Soon I was being ushered into a palace of a bedroom. I'd expected it to be done up in pink, but it was all pristine white—white plush carpeting, white satin bedding, white chaise longue, and white lacquered furniture—the perfect backdrop for the sprays of pink roses and peonies strategically dotted around the room.

Off to the side was a walk-in closet the size of a small airplane hangar. Good heavens. The woman had more clothes than my local Bloomie's.

The Panther was reclining on the chaise in a pink velvet jog suit, with Desiree in her lap, staring down at her hands.

Lying sprawled on her white satin bed were two German shepherds decked out in collars studded with pink bling.

I marveled at the two dogs, wondering how they made it across the snowy white carpeting and onto the satin bedding without leaving a single speck of dirt. Did the Panther have a special maid on tap just to dustbust after her dogs?

“Miss Austen to see you, ma'am,” the maid announced.

The Panther looked up from her reverie.

“Thank you, Sofia.”

It was easy to see that she had once been a model, with her fabulous cheekbones and flowing mane of glossy brown hair. Lithe and willowy in her jog suit, she'd not gained an ounce since the days she'd walked the runway. And any hint of a wrinkle on her face had been Botoxed to oblivion.

Over on the bed, the German shepherds, now roused from their nap, took one look at me and began snarling.

“Tristan! Isolde!” the Panther scolded. “Behave yourselves.”

And just like that, they put their heads back down and resumed their naps.

I gazed at them wistfully, thinking how nice it must be to have pets who actually do what you tell them to.

The Panther turned to me now and blinked in confusion.

“Aren't you the woman from the Skinny Kitty shoot? The one with the obstreperous cat?”

“She's not so much obstreperous as strong willed,” I said, leaping to Prozac's defense.

“But you told Sofia you were a writer.”

“It's true. I'm a freelance writer. The Skinny Kitty job was actually the first time I took my cat on a commercial shoot. And probably the last,” I added with a rueful smile.

“Anyhow,” I said, launching into the tiny fib I'd fabricated for the occasion, “I sometimes write for
Cat Fancy
magazine, and when I heard they were looking for a cat for their new centerfold feature, I immediately thought of your Desiree. I just knew she'd be perfect for the job.”

“Isn't that nice, Desiree?” the Panther cooed, stroking the beauty in her lap. “How'd you like to be a centerfold?”

The cat yawned in reply. I guess it was a bit of a comedown from national TV.

“All I have to do is take a few photos and send them on to my editor. Once she sees Desiree, I know she's going to love her. Do you mind?” I asked, taking out my cell phone.

“Go right ahead,” the Panther replied. “Desiree loves having her picture taken.”

And indeed the cat preened as I snapped her picture, posing like the pro her mistress had once been.

“Thanks so much for stopping by,” the Panther said when I was done playing Magazine Photographer. “Let me know if your editor likes the pictures.”

Clearly my cue to go. But I couldn't leave now. I hadn't even begun to question her about the murder.

“Um. I'm supposed to get a few facts for the centerfold. You know. Desiree's turn-ons. Turnoffs. Favorite scratching spots. Stuff like that.”

“Of course,” the Panther said. “Have a seat.” She gestured to the chair at her mammoth vanity.

I pretended to record our interview on my phone as the Panther told me all about Desiree's turn-ons (filet mignon, Perrier, Porthault pillowcases), turnoffs (canned cat food, tap water, domestic caviar), and favorite scratching spot (Mommy's antique armoire). Finally I'd run out of inane questions to ask.

“Well, thanks for stopping by,” the Panther said.

Once again, I ignored her cue to leave.

“It's such a shame we had to meet under such tragic circumstances,” I tsked. “I still can't get over what happened to poor Dean.”

“Such a wonderful man,” she said, shaking her head. “So amazing in bed.”

Okay, so she didn't say “in bed,” but trust me, I could read between the lines.

“Dean and I met at a charity gala and clicked right away. I knew the minute I met him we were destined to be lovers.”

Okay, she said “friends.”

“We grew incredibly close in a very short time. “Confidentially,” she said, stroking Desiree, “I think he was lonely. He told me he no longer loved his wife, that he'd outgrown her.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, Dean and Linda met when they were quite young. Dean became a man of the world. But poor Linda stayed the same provincial girl Dean dated in high school.”

“Do you think Linda knew she was losing him? Do you think she might have snapped under the emotional pressure and killed him?”

“I doubt it,” the Panther said. “She loved him too much to kill him. But I suppose anything's possible.”

“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

She shook her head, dazed at the very thought.

“God, no. Who'd want to kill a charismatic man like Dean?”

Yikes. Somebody sure had been drinking the Kool-Aid in that relationship.

“I ran into Nikki the other day,” I said, “and she told me that Dean's dressing room was right next to the kitchen at the Skinny Kitty shoot. I don't suppose you saw or heard anybody in the kitchen on the day of the murder? Someone who might have tampered with the cat food?”

“I didn't hear a thing. Dean and I were way too preoccupied working on our ad campaign.”

By which, of course, she meant going at it like bunny rabbits.

“But I did
see
something.”

At last. A lead!

“I took a break from our work session to go the ladies' room, and just as I got there, I thought I saw Zeke, the writer, slipping into the kitchen. Of course, it might not have been Zeke. I'm extremely nearsighted, and the ladies' room was way down at the other end of the hall. For all I know, the person I saw wasn't even going into the kitchen, but into another room down the hallway. I thought about telling the police, but I didn't want to get Zeke in trouble. He seems like a sweet young man, and I can't believe he'd kill his own cousin.”

I, on the other hand, had no trouble whatsoever picturing Zeke as a cold-blooded killer.

And I made up my mind to have a chat with him ASAP.

In the meanwhile, I thanked the Panther for her time and left her as I'd found her—reclining on her chaise longue, staring down at her hands.

I wondered what she was thinking about.

Her lost love? The fragility of life?

Or simply whether it was time for a manicure.