Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 16

It took me all of two steps to reach it.

"So," he beamed, as I plopped down. "What do you think of my office?"

"It's great."

"My girlfriend decorated it. She's the one who picked out my new clothes, too."

"You have a girlfriend?" I blurted out.

Despite his new look, I still couldn't help thinking of him in geek mode.

"I mean, you have a girlfriend! How nice!"

"Actually I met her on Dates of Joy. She was one of Joy's few genuine clients."

"Joy fixed you up?"

"Are you kidding? Joy couldn't make a match if she signed up a hooker at a frat house."

He picked up a framed picture from his desk and showed it to me.

"Her name is Ellen. Isn't she pretty?"

"She's lovely," I said, staring down at a sweet-looking redhead with freckles and a slight overbite.

"I saw her picture on Joy's website and asked her out on the sly. Ellen was the one good thing I got from that rotten job."

"I wouldn't exactly say that, Travis."

"What do you mean?"

"I checked out your clients online, and they looked awfully familiar."

He had the good grace to blush.

"Okay, so I'm using Joy's database. I paid for those profiles with two years of blood, sweat, and humiliation. Joy owed me."

"But you can't just take over her client list like that. Doesn't it belong to her heirs?"

"Not really. Joy's business wasn't incorporated. So technically, there's nothing to inherit. Besides, who'd even want it? Tonio needs a calculator to add two and two, and as far as I know all Joy's relatives are dead."

Clearly he'd never met Aunt Faith.

"And the fact is, I'm only using Joy's database to get started. Once I'm up and running, I'm going to dump the phony models and actors. I've already signed up a whole bunch of new clients from an ad I took out on Craigslist. "Which brings me to you, Jaine."

He whipped out a piece of paper and slid it across the desk. Glancing down, I saw that it was an Elite Matchmaking Members.h.i.+p Agreement.

"You know," he said, with that same appealing grin he'd flashed in Neiman's, "for only five hundred dollars I could set you up with a really nice guy. No Skip Holmeiers. I promise."

"Thanks, Travis, but that's about four hundred ninety-five more than I can afford right now."

"In that case," he said, s.n.a.t.c.hing back the members.h.i.+p application, "why are you here?"

"Actually, I came to talk to you about Joy's murder. The police think I might have done it, and I'm trying to clear my name."

"You? A killer?" He threw back his head and laughed. "How ridiculous. You wouldn't have the nerve."

He was right, of course, but I was a tad insulted at his implication-hard to ignore-that I was about as fearless as a Teletubby.

"I happen to be a lot tougher than I look," I said, squaring my shoulders in my I MY CAT hoodie.

"Yeah, right," he smirked. "But you couldn't have killed Joy. Because I'm pretty sure I know who did."

"Who?"

"Greg Stanton."

"The artist? Really?"

"Absolutely," he nodded. "Joy had something on him. I'm sure of it. Something that kept him paying big bucks for her services year after year."

"You mean she was blackmailing him?"

"Big time."

Suddenly I remembered b.u.mping into Greg outside Joy's office the night of the murder. At the time I was so worried about him ratting on me to Joy, it never occurred to me to wonder what he was doing there.

Greg may well have been the killer, but I couldn't ignore the hot suspect sitting right across from me. Joy had run roughshod over Travis for the past two years, and now after her death, he'd helped himself to her client list and a whole new life. He had more than enough motive for murder.

For all I knew, he'd been sneaking into her payroll and robbing her blind, saving up for the day when he could afford to open his spiffy new offices.

"By the way," I said as casually as I could, "I stopped by the bar to talk to you on the night of the murder, but you weren't there."

Guess I wasn't casual enough, because suddenly his face turned a most unsettling shade of red.

"What are you implying? That I had something to do with Joy's death? That I ran out to put that poisoned chocolate in her G.o.diva box?"

"No, not at all," I lied.

"Well, for your information, I left the bar for a few minutes to take a bathroom break. I may have been Joy's slave, but I think I was ent.i.tled to one of those."

"Of course," I said, with a placating smile, all the while wondering if I was sitting across the desk from Joy's killer.

Chapter 14.

Working my magic charms (and doing a bit of groveling), I managed to smooth Travis's ruffled feathers and convinced him to give me contact information for several people on Joy's database I was eager to talk to.

First and foremost among them was Alyce Winters, the woman who'd threatened to "put a stop" to Joy less than an hour before she was murdered.

Soon I was tootling over to Alyce's apartment in West Hollywood-a sad stucco box of a building in desperate need of a paint job.

Like Alyce herself, it had seen better days.

Taking no chances that Alyce would turn me away at the intercom, I pressed several of the other b.u.t.tons until someone buzzed me in. Then I rode up to Alyce's third-floor apartment in the building's creaky elevator, hoping the cables wouldn't snap en route.

Out in the hallway, I made my way along the threadbare carpeting to Alyce's place and rang her doorbell.

Seconds later a shadow darkened the peephole.

"Who is it?" Alyce sounded irritated.

"It's Jaine Austen. We met at Dates of Joy."

"What the h.e.l.l do you want?"

"I need to talk to you. It's really very important."

I waited for what seemed like forever until at last I heard the sound of locks turning.

Finally the door swung open.

Alyce stood in the doorway, her skinny bod crammed into a leopard-skin jogging suit, jet black hair extensions hanging limply on her shoulders.

"I remember you," she said, staring out at me from an ashen face. "You worked for that b.i.t.c.h."

"Only temporarily," I a.s.sured her. "Honestly, I disliked Joy as much as you did."

"I hardly think that's possible."

She stood there, arms clamped tightly across her surgically enhanced chest, making no move whatsoever to invite me in.

"Well?" she said. "What's so d.a.m.n important?"

Something told me she was not about to open up to me if she knew I was there to question her about the murder.

Time for a tiny fib.

"The L.A. Times has hired me to write a story about Joy. Ever since her death, rumors have been circulating about how unscrupulous she was, and they want to run an expose on her."

At last, I saw a c.h.i.n.k in Alyce's armor.

"That horrible woman!" she cried. "It's about time someone told the truth about her!"

Then a worried look crossed her brow.

"But I can't have my name in the paper. I'd die if anyone found out I'd been using a dating service."

"Not a problem," I a.s.sured her. "I'll quote you anonymously. Your name will never be published."

Not unless she turned out to be the killer, of course.

"Come on in," she said, her defenses finally down.

I followed her past a dimly lit foyer into a tiny living room crammed to the gills with large-scale pieces of furniture-expensive items made for the wide open s.p.a.ces of a Bel Air estate-not a one-bedroom apartment with a view of the Taco Bell across the street.

Off to the left a small kitchen was separated from the living room by a Formica breakfast bar.

"Coffee?" Alyce asked, heading for the kitchen.

"Sounds great."

She reached into her cupboard and pulled out a mug. After slos.h.i.+ng in some coffee, she turned to me and asked, "Milk? Sugar? Brandy?"

"Brandy?"

"Costco's finest," she a.s.sured me.

I watched as she added a generous slug to her own mug.

"Um, no thanks," I said, opting to stay sober for the time being.

"Your loss," she shrugged.

Then, with her coffee mug in one hand and the brandy bottle in the other, she led the way into the living room.

"G.o.d, what a nightmare it's been," she said, plopping down onto an oversized leather sectional. "I've been so stressed out, I haven't had my nails done in weeks. I tried press-on nails this morning, but one of the pinkies fell in the carpet and now I can't find it."

She held out her fingers, all but one pinky adorned in cherry red press-ons.

"Would you mind taking a look for it, hon?" she asked, adding some more brandy to her mug. "I'm exhausted."

And so the next few minutes found me on my knees, rooting around in her none-too-clean avocado s.h.a.g carpeting. I unearthed a dime, a stale peanut, and an Extra-Strength Tylenol (which Alyce downed with her spiked coffee), but no pinky.

"Oh, there it is!" Alyce cried. "Under the coffee table."

She scrambled to her knees to pick it up.

"d.a.m.n. It's stuck to the carpet. Help me pull it out, would you? I don't want to break a nail."

I tried to pull out the d.a.m.n pinky, but it was cemented there for life. Finally Alyce cut it out with manicure scissors, leaving a tiny bald spot in the carpet.

"There goes my security deposit," she groaned, eyeing the hole.