who liked bedsheet-ripping sex and Slim Jims was the generous sort.
The desk had only one drawer. I slid it open. Then I closed it with my elbow. I was out of my mind. I needed gloves. The last thing I needed to do was leave fingerprints.
Back in the kitchen, I opened the cabinet under the sink and found a dozen pairs of rubber gloves, all white. Anita must’ve liked a clean kitchen. I slid a pair on. They were too big, but I wasn’t complaining.
The last time I’d worn white gloves was junior prom. They were silk, full-length, and crushed slightly at the wrist. My gown was red chiffon, with a matching shawl. I’d wanted to wear lavender, but my mother talked me out of it, claiming that psychologists had proven that the majority of men do not like the purple family.
I took a seat at the desk and resumed the search.
Inside the drawer was a stack of take-out menus: Thai, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Indian, Brazilian.
Then there were catalogs: Bliss Spa, Harry & David, Robert Redford’s Sundance catalog, where you could buy ahigh mountain earflap hat, a vintage Tyrolean sled, or a set of peace-sign coffee mugs.
A huge pile of credit-card solicitations. Anita must’ve been a pack rat.
Some change-of-address forms. Maybe she was planning to move.
At last. Her Filofax.
I flipped it open to the week of October 22.
And there it was.
Wednesday, October 26th, 5:00 p.m.
It was marked with the letter B.
That was no help.
B for Beachwood Canyon?
Or B for the bastard who killed her?
Shit.
I looked up.
Someone was at the front door.
Diving into the Bloomingdale’s pile was an option, but I worried about suffocation.
There were footsteps in the hallway now.
I dashed into the closet, pulled the accordion doors shut, and squeezed my eyes shut.
This was the scary part of the movie.
Like when the heroine decides to get out of the car along the deserted highway even though everybody knows the psycho killer is waiting for her behind a bush with a hatchet.
Or when the beautiful lady detectives who are supposed to be upstairs drinking coffee come wandering down the hallway to catch the falsely accused killer as she tries to abscond withclues as to the real killer’s identity, while wearing the dead woman’s rubber gloves.
Or worse yet, when the guy being blackmailed breaks into the person’s apartment to destroy the evidence against him but winds up killing an innocent, barefoot bystander with big brown hair and a pageant-worthy smile.
The footsteps were in the bedroom now.
Something was clawing at the doors to the closet.
I held my breath. It was only a matter of time. I looked around wildly. Could you impale someone with a hanger?
“Charley?”
I heard meowing.
“Come here, you bad boy. Let’s go back upstairs. I can’t have you wandering around the dead lady’s apartment.”
His nails scratched against the wooden floor as she swooped him up.
“But first, let’s grab that bottle of Chardonnay out of her fridge. She can’t drink it anymore, can she? No reason it should go to waste.”
That made two times Charley had crossed my path in one day. Like I needed more bad luck.
I waited until I heard them close the front door, then I made a run for it.
Back at home, I had another message from Bachelor Number One.
Who happened to be named Ben.
Which starts with a B.
Ben had been at the theater that night. He could’ve easily dropped the phone in my purse. He could’ve set this whole thing up.
But B could just as easily stand for bald.
Or blonde in a robin’s-egg blue dress, for that matter.
Before I drove myself completely crazy, I returned Ben’s call and suggested we meet for dinner the following night at Musso’s. The idea was to kill two birds with one stone. Plus I remembered how delicious their pork chops were.
What I forgot, however, was that multitasking is not for the faint of heart.
Chapter 12
N either is babysitting for two children under the age of four.
“Higher!” Alexander
The desk had only one drawer. I slid it open. Then I closed it with my elbow. I was out of my mind. I needed gloves. The last thing I needed to do was leave fingerprints.
Back in the kitchen, I opened the cabinet under the sink and found a dozen pairs of rubber gloves, all white. Anita must’ve liked a clean kitchen. I slid a pair on. They were too big, but I wasn’t complaining.
The last time I’d worn white gloves was junior prom. They were silk, full-length, and crushed slightly at the wrist. My gown was red chiffon, with a matching shawl. I’d wanted to wear lavender, but my mother talked me out of it, claiming that psychologists had proven that the majority of men do not like the purple family.
I took a seat at the desk and resumed the search.
Inside the drawer was a stack of take-out menus: Thai, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Indian, Brazilian.
Then there were catalogs: Bliss Spa, Harry & David, Robert Redford’s Sundance catalog, where you could buy ahigh mountain earflap hat, a vintage Tyrolean sled, or a set of peace-sign coffee mugs.
A huge pile of credit-card solicitations. Anita must’ve been a pack rat.
Some change-of-address forms. Maybe she was planning to move.
At last. Her Filofax.
I flipped it open to the week of October 22.
And there it was.
Wednesday, October 26th, 5:00 p.m.
It was marked with the letter B.
That was no help.
B for Beachwood Canyon?
Or B for the bastard who killed her?
Shit.
I looked up.
Someone was at the front door.
Diving into the Bloomingdale’s pile was an option, but I worried about suffocation.
There were footsteps in the hallway now.
I dashed into the closet, pulled the accordion doors shut, and squeezed my eyes shut.
This was the scary part of the movie.
Like when the heroine decides to get out of the car along the deserted highway even though everybody knows the psycho killer is waiting for her behind a bush with a hatchet.
Or when the beautiful lady detectives who are supposed to be upstairs drinking coffee come wandering down the hallway to catch the falsely accused killer as she tries to abscond withclues as to the real killer’s identity, while wearing the dead woman’s rubber gloves.
Or worse yet, when the guy being blackmailed breaks into the person’s apartment to destroy the evidence against him but winds up killing an innocent, barefoot bystander with big brown hair and a pageant-worthy smile.
The footsteps were in the bedroom now.
Something was clawing at the doors to the closet.
I held my breath. It was only a matter of time. I looked around wildly. Could you impale someone with a hanger?
“Charley?”
I heard meowing.
“Come here, you bad boy. Let’s go back upstairs. I can’t have you wandering around the dead lady’s apartment.”
His nails scratched against the wooden floor as she swooped him up.
“But first, let’s grab that bottle of Chardonnay out of her fridge. She can’t drink it anymore, can she? No reason it should go to waste.”
That made two times Charley had crossed my path in one day. Like I needed more bad luck.
I waited until I heard them close the front door, then I made a run for it.
Back at home, I had another message from Bachelor Number One.
Who happened to be named Ben.
Which starts with a B.
Ben had been at the theater that night. He could’ve easily dropped the phone in my purse. He could’ve set this whole thing up.
But B could just as easily stand for bald.
Or blonde in a robin’s-egg blue dress, for that matter.
Before I drove myself completely crazy, I returned Ben’s call and suggested we meet for dinner the following night at Musso’s. The idea was to kill two birds with one stone. Plus I remembered how delicious their pork chops were.
What I forgot, however, was that multitasking is not for the faint of heart.
Chapter 12
N either is babysitting for two children under the age of four.
“Higher!” Alexander
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