Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 29

I've really enjoyed chatting with you. I think

you're cute and funny. Would you like to go out

with me Sat.u.r.day night?

He was no Shakespeare, but the note was sweet in its simplicity.

"So what do you think?" he asked.

"I think it's just fine."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Thanks so much, "he grinned, his dimple at last making an appearance. "Wish me luck."

I wished him luck, and as I watched him walk away, I secretly hoped his pet.i.te blonde showed up for their date with a zit on her nose.

Ca.s.sie lived in a dollhouse of a bungalow several blocks from the ocean in Venice.

I made my way past her white picket fence, choked with roses and geranium vines, up the short path to her bright red front door. Forest-green shutters bracketed the two windows on either side of the entrance, and a squat chimney jutted out from a deeply slanted roof.

It was like a kid's drawing of a house come to life.

How funny to think of goth Ca.s.sie with her tattoos and nose ring living in this storybook cottage.

She came to the door in black sweats and oversized T-s.h.i.+rt, her purple hair gelled into fearsome spikes. A tattoo of the words Ultio Dulcis Est was visible on her shoulder. What the heck was that? A new rock group? A family motto? A Kama Sutra position?

"C'mon in," she said, leading me into a tiny living room furnished in a wild combo of white wicker and black velvet. Her walls had been painted a deep purple (to match her hair?) and on her scrubbed pine coffee table, next to a vase of peonies, was a human skull filled with Tootsie Rolls.

It was all very Laura Ashley meets Sid Vicious.

"What a charming place," I said. "It's so ... eclectic."

"Schizophrenic is more like it, but it works for me."

At which point a piercing scream filled the air. For a frightening instant I thought it was the skull on her coffee table come to life. But it was only her teakettle.

"I was just making myself a cup of tea," Ca.s.sie said. "Want some?"

"No, thanks," I replied, surprised she wasn't brewing eye of newt. "I'm fine."

As she headed off to her kitchen, I wandered over to look at some photos on her tiny fireplace mantel.

I blinked in disbelief at a picture of a wide-eyed little girl in a pink pinafore with matching pink shoes, a bow in her blond ringlets. In spite of all the changes the years had brought, I recognized that little face. It was pre-tattoo Ca.s.sie. Who would've thought the goth G.o.ddess had once worn pink Mary Janes?

"Can you believe what a dorky kid I was?" she said, joining me at the mantel, a mug of tea in her hands.

"You were adorable. You still are."

"My mom was the pretty one in my family."

She handed me a framed photo of a stunning young woman, pale and blond, smiling into the camera with a far-off look in her eyes.

Something about her looked familiar.

"What a beautiful woman," I said, gazing down at the picture. "Was she in the movies?"

"No," she laughed, "not at all. She worked in the perfume department at Saks."

"I bet she's still a beauty."

"Not really." Her eyes clouded over. "She's dead."

"I'm so sorry."

"Me, too."

She curled up in an armchair, cradling her mug of tea in her hands.

"Grab a seat," she said, forcing a smile.

I plunked myself down on the wicker sofa.

"Tootsie Roll?" she offered, gesturing to the skull on the coffee table.

For one of the few times in my life, I said no to chocolate.

"It's lucky you called today," Ca.s.sie said. "You caught me on my day off."

"You got another job?"

"I'm cutting hair at Benjamin's, a beauty salon in Brentwood."

"That's terrific."

"It's what I trained to do. I've got my cosmetology degree and everything."

"Then why were you working for Joy?"

"When I first started out in the salon biz, it seemed too cutthroat. So I took a job at Dates of Joy. Of course," she added with a bitter laugh, "I didn't know the true meaning of 'cutthroat' until I started working for Joy."

"I don't suppose you have any idea who might have killed her?"

"As a matter of fact," she said, taking a sip of her tea, "I do."

Holy Moses. It looked like I'd struck gold.

"Who is it?"

"Not telling," she said, with an emphatic shake of her purple spikes.

"Why on earth not?"

"Because whoever killed Joy did the world a favor. She was a vicious b.i.t.c.h and didn't deserve to live."

She spat that last bit out with such loathing, I suddenly wondered if the "killer" she was talking about was Ca.s.sie herself.

I remembered those dahlias she'd brought to Joy's memorial service, the ones she knew Joy would have detested. Had Ca.s.sie finally snapped under the pressure of working for Joy and killed her boss from h.e.l.l?

But that didn't make sense. If everybody ran around killing their difficult bosses, half of corporate America would be dead by sunset. Sure, Joy was a b.i.t.c.h on wheels, screaming at Ca.s.sie for bringing her Sweet'n Low instead of Splenda, but that didn't seem like motive enough for murder.

"Really, Ca.s.sie. If you know who killed Joy, you owe it to the police to speak up."

"The only thing I owe anybody is a decent haircut. Speaking of which, how'd you like me to trim your bangs? They're getting a little ragged."

And just like that she was back to her old self, smiling the same innocent smile she'd beamed in her pink pinafore.

Ca.s.sie may have hated Joy, but I simply couldn't see her as a killer.

I begged her to tell me who the culprit was, but she refused to part with her secret.

I left her bungalow as confused as when I'd shown up, not a millimeter closer to the truth.

But on the plus side, my bangs looked great.

Chapter 25.

Back home, Prozac was still in a Pout Royale over her diamond collar, holed up with P. G. Wodehouse, coming down only for her meals and then hurling herself back up the bookcase, as far away from me as she could get.

"I miss you, Pro, honey!" I called up to her after supper that night.

(To prove my love, I'd given her all the anchovies on my pepperoni pizza.) "Will you come down if I give you a nice long belly rub with extra scratching on your neck?"

She glared at me through narrowed eyes.

Not unless there's a diamond collar on it.

It was beginning to look like she'd never forgive me for taking away that dratted collar. Somehow I had to melt her deep freeze. Maybe a new collar would do the trick, something loaded with bling. I checked my watch. Eight o'clock. I still had time to dash over to my local pet shop before they closed.

Minutes later I was on my way to Pet Palace ("Where Your Pets Always Get the Royal Treatment"). As I drove along, my thoughts drifted back to my meeting with Ca.s.sie. How aggravating to think that she actually knew who the murderer was, but wasn't talking.

What a strange girl she was-living in that gothic dollhouse with purple walls and a skull for a candy dish. And Ultio Dulcis Est, whatever the heck that meant, tattooed on her shoulder.

And what about that photo of her mother, the ethereal beauty? I couldn't shake the feeling that I'd seen her somewhere before.

By now I'd reached Pet Palace and drove down the steep slope into their underground parking lot. It was fairly deserted at that time of night. Just two other cars and a lot of empty shopping carts. I got out of my Corolla and scooted over to the elevator. Although I saw no one, I had the uneasy sensation I was not alone.

I told myself I was being foolish, that Joy's murder had made me a tad paranoid. Nevertheless I was grateful when the elevator finally showed up. I practically leaped inside, pressing the CLOSE DOOR b.u.t.ton, holding my breath until the door finally slid shut.

I rode up the single flight to the main floor, still on edge. But once inside Pet Palace, my heebie jeebies vanished. The place was brightly lit, with lots of colorful displays of adorable dogs and cats. I headed for the collar aisle, and right away I saw what I wanted: a hot pink number studded with rhinestones.

Very Vegas Showgirl.

I just prayed Prozac wouldn't be able to tell the difference between Tiffany and a Kitty Katz Kollar.

Pleased with my purchase, I headed for the cas.h.i.+er to pay for it.

There was no line at the checkout counter, and the clerk on duty, a matronly gal whose name tag read MURIEL, seemed happy to take a break from reading Soap Opera Digest to ring up my sale.

"I just love this collar," she said, eyeing my Kitty Katz special. "I got one for my cat Bubbles, and she just adores it!"

That was encouraging news. If Bubbles-surely a kitty of discriminating tastes-loved it, chances were Prozac would, too.

I headed down to the garage a lot chirpier than I'd been on my ride up.

Stepping out from the elevator, I noticed that all the empty carts were gone. One of the employees must have rounded them up and brought them back upstairs.

I got in my Corolla, hoping Prozac would be curled up under my neck that night, her Kitty Katz rhinestones scratching my chin. Then I started up the steep slope to the street, picturing our purr-filled reunion, when suddenly from out of nowhere a shadowy figure appeared at the top of the driveway, in sweats and a hoodie, pus.h.i.+ng a stack of the store's shopping carts.

At first I thought it was a store employee. But then, much to my horror, I saw the shadowy figure give the long line of carts a shove-aiming them straight at my Corolla! Frantically I swerved, trying to avoid the coming onslaught, but I wasn't quite fast enough. The heavy metal carts came smas.h.i.+ng into my rear fender with a sickening thud, then careened the rest of the way down the driveway, cras.h.i.+ng to a halt at a pole in the garage.

With trembling hands I steered my Corolla back up to the street. Luckily it was still running. I looked around, but the street was empty. My hooded a.s.sailant was long gone.

By now a few of the store employees, having heard the crash, came running to my car.

I recognized Muriel, my matronly checkout clerk.