Death by Tiara (12 page)

I just know he’s been into my fudge.

Off to a meeting of the library board. I only hope they serve cookies.

XOXO,
Mom

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Don’t Tell Mom

Good news, Lambchop! I’m almost done putting old Nellybelle’s engine back together. Just a few tweaks and she’ll be ready to roar! I can’t wait to take her out for a spin in my new plaid golf cap! (Did I tell you it’s got a pom-pom on top, just like they wear in Scotland?)

XOXO,
Daddy

P.S. Don’t tell Mom, but I think I’ll go have some fudge to celebrate.

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Don’t Tell Mom, Part II

You’ll never guess what just happened, Lambchop. I was walking by Mom’s closet when I accidentally brushed against her dress for the charity luncheon and knocked it to the floor. If you ask me, it was very foolish of her to leave it hanging from the closet door, where any innocent bystander could knock it down.

Nevertheless, it fell to the floor, and naturally I picked it up. And I guess I must have had a little grease on my fingers from the fudge, because suddenly I realized I’d left a stain on the back of the white top.

Now an ordinary man in my position would have panicked. But not your daddy. You’ll be proud to learn I kept my cool and came up with a brilliant plan in my hour of need. I raced to the garage and got some exterior white latex paint, and simply painted over the stain. Your mother will never even know it’s there.

Another crisis averted by
Your loving
Daddy

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Up to Something

Hi, sweetheart—I’m back from the library board meeting, where Lydia Pinkus (bless her!) served the most delicious butter cookies. And, keeping to my diet, I limited myself to just two. (Okay, three.) That’s the last dessert I’m eating until after the fashion show, I swear!

Meanwhile, here at home, Daddy has been skulking around with the guiltiest look on his face, like a cat who just ate the goldfish. Plus, he wants to take me to dinner at Le Chateaubriand—and we don’t even have a coupon for a free entrée.

He’s been up to something. I just know it.

XOXO,
Mom

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Inscrutable as a Sphinx

Mom’s back. At first I was scared she might discover what I’d done to her dress. But I’ve been cool as a cucumber, inscrutable as a sphinx.

She doesn’t suspect a thing.

Love ’n’ hugs from
Daddy

Chapter 13

H
ow wonderful it was to be back in my own bed, with a pillow all to myself. No teens tap dancing on the ceiling. Just the sweet sounds of Mrs. Hurlbutt hollering at Mr. Hurlbutt across the street.

Prozac and I slept in the next morning, Prozac no doubt still tuckered from her riveting stage debut at the Amada Inn. It wasn’t until close to nine that she finally clawed me awake for her breakfast.

Yes, the day started out pleasantly enough. That is, until I opened my emails and read the latest from Tampa Vistas.

Oh, well. I couldn’t worry about Mom’s fudge-stained dress, not when I had a killer to track down.

Settling down with my coffee and cinnamon raisin bagel, I checked the
L.A. Times
for news of the murder. Sure enough, there it was on page one of the city section. Under the headline D
EATH BY
T
IARA
were twin photos of Amy and Candace in their pageant blazers. As in life, Amy’s smile was tentative while Candace beamed boldly into the camera.

According to the story, the police were calling Amy’s death a probable case of mistaken identity, with the killer really gunning for Candace. Thank goodness there was no mention of Heather as a suspect.

When I called her a few minutes later to find out how things had gone at police headquarters, Heather told me they’d asked her “a million questions,” served her appalling coffee, and warned her not to leave town.

At least she wasn’t behind bars. And I planned to keep it that way.

I decided to start my investigation with Bethenny. I remembered the look of rage I’d seen on her face when she caught Candace in the elevator with Tex. She’d sure seemed homicidal to me.

Turning to my trusty pals at Google, I discovered that Bethenny had her own website, a colorful affair dotted with airbrushed photos of the former teen queen in various bikinis. I checked out what had to be a highly fictional bio (she claimed to have studied acting with Uta Hagen Dazs). Then, when I clicked on her A
PPEARANCES
page, I saw to my delight that she was scheduled to preside over the opening of a bowling alley in Burbank the next day.

I made up my mind to be there.

But for now I intended to stay home and recuperate from the stressed-filled adventures of the past two days. I spent the next several hours still in my jammies, reading the newspaper and vegging out with the
New York Times
crossword puzzle.

Heaven, sheer heaven.

After a lazy afternoon watching
Frasier
reruns, Prozac snoozing at my side, I finally managed to pry myself from my bed and headed for the bathroom. Soon I was soaking in a mountain of strawberry-scented bubbles, simultaneously pondering the nature of good and evil and whether to order Chinese or pizza for dinner.

Pizza won.

I ordered sausage and pepperoni (with extra anchovies for Prozac), and a half hour later the delivery guy was at my door, handing me a piping hot pizza, the sausage and pepperoni swimming in a sea of gooey cheese.

Oh, yum!

I’d just settled down on my sofa and was about to dig into my first slice, when I heard someone knocking at my door.

My keen powers of detection told me it was Lance, mainly because he was shouting, “Open up, Jaine. It’s me, Lance!”

Reluctantly abandoning my pizza, I trudged to the door and opened it. Lance came sailing in, clad in immaculate khakis and a pink rugby polo (his Palm Springs look).

“It’s official!” he cried. “I’ve met Mr. Right!”

I stifled a yawn.

Lance meets Mr. Right about as often as he gets his roots done.

“Gary’s such a fantastic guy. So smart and literate—he’s really a screenwriter, just does this UPS stuff to pay the bills. And he’s so ripped from lifting all those packages. I could watch him flex his calf muscles for hours!”

And he was off and running, singing Gary’s praises, yammering about his eyes, his abs, his calves of steel.

Throughout Lance’s paean to Gary, I nodded on autopilot, scarfing down pizza and tossing anchovy tidbits to Prozac. I was trying to decide whether to run out for Rocky Road or Chunky Monkey for dessert, when I heard him say: “So what do you think?”

Oh, hell. He’d just asked me a question. Usually he’s so caught up in the saga of his own life, he doesn’t stop for questions.

“Which is it?” he was asking. “The desert or the beach?”

“Um. The beach,” I said, figuring I had a fifty percent chance of getting it right.

“I agree. Palm Springs is great, but I’ve always wanted to have a beach wedding.”

Good lord. The guy had gone from calf muscles to wedding plans in the time it took me to scarf down a single slice of pizza. (Okay, three slices.)

I thought about telling him he was moving way too fast, but I knew I’d just be wasting my breath.

Finally he ran out of steam and helped himself to a slice of pizza, plucking the sausage and pepperoni from his slice. The guy sure knew how to take the fun out of pizza.

“So,” he asked. “How did your weekend go? How was the beauty pageant and your date with Scott?”

Now it was my turn to babble. In one long litany of woe, I told Lance all about my nightmare date at the Willises’, how they turned out to be filthy rich with houses in Malibu and the Cotswolds, and how Scott’s gorgeous ex-girlfriend had horned in on dinner; how I’d gotten a tad tootled and spilled wine on the Willises’ priceless tablecloth; and, as if that weren’t enough, how Prozac hijacked the talent show at the beauty pageant and got into a fight with Elvis, and how Amy wound up getting murdered and how I’d slept through the whole thing on my exercycle and how the cops suspected Heather who I knew couldn’t have done it in spite of her big mouth and flying fists.

When I was all through, Lance stared at me with wide blue eyes.

“Scott’s parents have a house in the Cotswolds? Maybe Gary and I could have our wedding there.”

“Lance, did you not hear a word I just said? Someone got killed at the beauty pageant!”

“Oh, I heard that part, hon. Very sad, I know. Tsk tsk and all that. But life is for the living. And that means us. We really can’t let Scott slip through your fingers, not if we want to have our double wedding in the Cotswolds.”

“We’re not getting married, Lance. At least, I’m not.”

“Not with that attitude, you’re not. You’ve got to think positive.”

Then he put his arm around me.

“Don’t worry, hon. I’m going to be by your side, guiding you every step of the way till you land Scott at the altar. I’ll be the wise and urbane Henry Higgins to your wretched Eliza Doolittle.”

“Thanks a bunch,” I snarled.

“Not a problem, sweetie. That’s what friends are for. Well, gotta run! I’m meeting Gary for drinks!”

And he sailed out the door, the most annoying man in the world.

The only thing that gave me the slightest bit of comfort was the piece of anchovy I’d stuck to the seat of his khakis.

Chapter 14

I
tootled out to Burbank the next afternoon for the grand opening of the Strike It Rich Bowling Alley, a low slung bunker of a building with a huge neon bowling ball blinking merrily on the roof.

After parking in a lot half full of cars, I headed over to join the motley group of bowling enthusiasts gathered for the festivities.

A ribbon had been strung across the bowling alley’s front doors. Bethenny stood in front of it, poured into a tight black tank dress, smiling at a sweaty guy who I assumed was the owner of the place. In her hands, she held a pair of giant scissors.

The sweaty guy, clad in a T-shirt that said B
OWLERS
D
O IT IN
A
LLEYS,
cleared his throat and spoke into a handheld mike.

“Welcome, everyone, to the grand opening of the Strike It Rich Bowling Alley, where we always have time to ‘spare’ for you!”

He and he alone chuckled at his lame gag.

“And now, to cut the ceremonial ribbon, let’s give a warm welcome to former Miss Alta Loco Teen Queen, Bethenny Martinez.”

Bethenny flashed her pageant smile at the crowd.

Nearby I heard a pimply-faced goon whisper to his pals, “She can bowl in my lane any time she wants.”

I figured that he and his buddies, all wearing identical puce-colored bowling shirts, were in some sort of bowling club.

“Ms. Martinez,” the owner was saying, “will you do the honors?”

Her pageant smile firmly in place, Bethenny leaned in to cut the ribbon, exposing a bit of her cleavage and prompting some heavy drooling from the bowling club.

Apparently someone had forgotten to sharpen the blades on the ceremonial scissors, because as much as Bethenny hacked away at the ribbon, she couldn’t seem to cut it.

Eventually a questionable looking fellow from the bowling club whipped out a hunting knife and offered it to Bethenny, who finally managed to hack the ribbon apart.

A Strike It Rich photographer snapped a picture amid tepid applause, and we all headed inside, where Bethenny was scheduled to bowl the first ball.

Although Early Army Barracks on the outside, Strike It Rich’s interior was quite elaborate. In addition to an armada of bowling lanes, polished to a high gloss, the place sported a plushly carpeted bar and spacious dining area.

Bethenny had swapped her stilettos for bowling shoes and was now standing in the center lane, ready to bowl.

I’d pegged Bethenny as the kind of girly girl who’d just plop the ball down and let it wobble into the gutter. But, no. She pulled the heavy ball way back, biceps bulging, then sent it barreling down the lane.

Wow. That was some powerful arm. Powerful enough, if you ask me, to have clobbered someone to death with a Tiphany tiara.

The bowling goons cheered wildly as Bethenny scored a strike, then rushed over to her side to have her sign their bowling balls.

I waited patiently while she chatted up the crowd, signing bowling balls with smiley faces. One of the guys from the bowling club unbuttoned his shirt and bared his chest for her to sign.

“I’ll never wash it again,” I heard him say.

The scary thing was, he probably meant it.

When the crowd had at last broken up, I made my move.

“Hi, Bethenny,” I said, trotting to her side.

She shot me a puzzled look. “Do I know you?”

“Yes, I’m Jaine Austen. We met at the pageant the other day.”

Still clueless.

“At the elevators,” I prompted.

At last, she remembered.

“Oh, yeah, right. Well, nice to see you.” She started to scoot off, and I scooted right after her.

“Hey, wait up! I never did get a chance to tell you I’m a big fan of yours.”

She whirled around, suddenly all ears. “You are?”

Time to trot out one of the fun facts I’d gleaned from Bethenny’s website.

“Gosh, yes! Why, I’ve been following your career ever since I first saw you on the soap opera,
The Rich & The Entitled.
”

“Where I played Diner #2 in the coffee shop?”

“Yes, you were so riveting in that scene eating your fries, I wasn’t even looking at the actors with the speaking parts.”