Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 18

"Mom says h.e.l.lo."

"That's nice."

"Don't you want to say h.e.l.lo back?"

Oh, h.e.l.l. He expected me to talk to her!

"Er ... h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Holmeier," I said, forcing myself to talk to the headstone.

"Mom says no formalities around here. Her name is Miriam."

"h.e.l.lo, Miriam."

"But she likes to be called Mimsy."

I forced a smile and said, "h.e.l.lo, Mimsy."

"So what do you think, Mom?" Skip asked his dead mother. "Isn't she a peach?"

He c.o.c.ked an ear, listening to Mimsy from beyond the grave.

"She says you're very sweet."

"How nice."

He looked at me expectantly. Dammit. He was waiting for me to talk to her again.

"Er ... thank you, Mimsy," I said, shooting the headstone a dopey grin.

"Well," Skip said, "now that you've met Mom, it's time you said h.e.l.lo to Miss Marple."

"Miss Marple's here, too??"

"She sure is. Check out the headstone next to Mom's."

I looked at the neighboring headstone, and sure enough, it read:

JANE MARPLE HOLMEIER.

BELOVED COMPANION TO SKIP HOLMEIER.

"OUR LOVE IS HERE TO STAY"

I gawked at it in disbelief.

"But you're not allowed to bury pets in a human cemetery."

"You pay the right people enough money," he said with a wink, "and you can do anything. Anyhow, Miss Marple asks if you'd mind moving just a tad. You're sitting on her tail."

I jumped up, as if I really had been sitting on her tail.

The guy had me practically believing this nonsense.

"So what do you think of my Jaine, Miss Marple?" He c.o.c.ked his ear toward Miss Marple's grave. "Omigos.h.!.+" he said, turning to me. "Can you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"She's purring. That means she really likes you."

And on that good news, he grinned and said, "Let's eat!"

Smacking his lips, he opened the picnic basket and started taking out our lunch from culinary h.e.l.l: pieces of cardboard posing as crackers, slabs of rubber posing as nonfat cheese, and a viscous white glob of what turned out to be goat yogurt, topped with sunflower seeds.

To wash it all down, he broke out a bottle of vintage celery tonic.

Somewhere in my mouth, my taste buds were playing taps.

And then a miracle happened. Skip reached into the basket and took out a humungous sandwich on a plate, covered with saran wrap.

"What's that?" I asked, my taste buds suddenly jolted awake.

"Egg salad sandwich with bacon," Skip replied.

"Looks dee-lish," I said, reaching for the plate. "Don't mind if I have a bite."

"Oh, no!" he said, s.n.a.t.c.hing the plate away from me. "The sandwich is for Mom. It's her favorite. All this cholesterol is what put her in her grave. It can't hurt her now, though," he said, laying the plate at the base of the gravestone.

"You think she'd mind if I took a tiny bite?" I asked.

"No, not at all. But I would," he said, swatting away my hand. "I can't have you clogging your arteries with cholesterol."

I can't tell you what torture it was sitting there, gnawing at those cardboard crackers and rubber cheese, Mimsy's egg salad sandwich just inches from my grasp. It was all I could do not to leap over and nab it.

But somehow I refrained.

The meal flew by in a volley of questions from Mimsy and Miss Marple-as relayed by Skip-about my education, my hobbies, my background, as well as my favorite authors, movies, and cat foods.

Apparently I pa.s.sed the test.

"They both love you!" Skip exclaimed, toasting me with his celery tonic. "Which means our relations.h.i.+p can go on to the next phase."

That phase, as far as I was concerned, was called "Over."

No way was I going out with this guy again. I had to cut things off right here and now, and tell him I simply wasn't interested.

"Look, Skip, I have something to say."

"Me, first," he said like an eager puppy. "I just want to say thank you. This has been the happiest day I can remember in years."

His cataracts misted over with tears.

I looked down at his frail, liver-spotted hands, and suddenly I was overwhelmed with pity for this loony old coot. It was the happiest day he'd had in years, and I wasn't about to ruin it. Today would be my gift to him.

"So what did you want to say?" he asked.

"Um ... pa.s.s the yogurt?"

Skip was on such a high going home, he hit the pedal to the metal, sending the speedometer zooming all the way to thirty miles an hour. He chattered happily about how much fun we were going to have together, sailing his yacht to Majorca, getting season tickets for the ballet, and spending Christmas at his ski lodge in Aspen.

It was actually beginning to sound pretty good, until I remembered I'd be doing all this jet setting with Skip and his celery tonic glued to my side.

No, I'd definitely have to break up with him. As soon as I thought of a way to let him down gently.

Centuries later (okay, it was an hour and thirty-two and a half minutes), he dropped me off at my duplex, promising to call soon.

I waved good-bye and waited a small eternity until he'd driven off. Then, without any further ado, I dashed into my apartment, where I had my long-awaited tryst with my jumbo burrito.

I spent the rest of the day holed up with a Real Housewives of Beverly Hills marathon, recuperating from my coffee klatch with the dead.

When I'd finally had my fill of catfights in Louboutins, I looked up Skip's address on WhitePages.com and then sat down and wrote him a lovely note explaining that I could no longer see him, due to the fact that he was a certified loonybird.

Okay, so I didn't really call him a loonybird. Instead, I wrote something about irreconcilable differences and how it was best we not date for the next millennium or two. I signed it with a heartfelt frowny face, threw a raincoat over my chenille bathrobe and headed to my corner mailbox, where it was with the utmost sense of relief that I tossed the letter into the slot.

I walked back to my apartment with a spring in my step, a song in my heart, and a jumbo blueberry m.u.f.fin in my hands. (Compliments of a pit stop at my corner Starbucks.) At long last, I was Skip-free.

Chapter 16.

The next morning I decided to pay a little visit to Travis's number one suspect-Greg Stanton.

Travis had said he was sure Joy had blackmailed Greg into joining Dates of Joy.

It sure made sense to me. From the moment I saw him cuddled up with that brunet beauty at Simon's Steak House, I could not for the life of me figure out why a guy like Greg would need Joy's services.

I looked up his address on Travis's handy dandy contact list and, after slipping into some sweats and a hoodie, was soon zipping off to his house in the ultra-tony North of Montana section of Santa Monica, where una.s.suming little cottages sell for upwards of two mil.

Greg's house, however, was anything but una.s.suming. A ma.s.sive Mediterranean-style McMansion surrounded by lush foliage, it was dotted with so many balconies, I almost expected to see either Rapunzel or the Pope pop out on one of them.

A Lamborghini parked in the driveway allowed me to hope that Greg was home.

After parking my lowly Corolla at the curb, I trotted up the path to Greg's ma.s.sive front door and rang the bell.

Inside I could hear chimes reverberating, and seconds later, much to my delight, Greg answered the door himself-in jeans and a work s.h.i.+rt, his surfer blond hair glinting in the morning sun.

Thank heavens I wouldn't have to talk my way past a servant.

"Hi, Mr. Stanton!" I chirped in my cheeriest voice. "I don't know if you remember me. I was working for Joy Amoroso when she died."

"I remember you, all right. What the h.e.l.l do you want?"

Okay, so what he really said was, "How can I help you?"

But I could tell by the look on his face he was none too thrilled to see me.

Sensing I wouldn't make it past the front door if he knew I was there to grill him about the murder, I decided to stick with my L.A. Times expose ruse.

"Actually, I'm writing an expose on Joy for the L.A. Times. All about her unscrupulous business tactics."

"The L.A. Times wants you to write a story?" he asked, blinking in surprise. "Aren't you one of the murder suspects?"

"Me? A suspect?" I said, trying to keep my voice light and airy. "That's the first I've heard of it."

"According to the police, you were seen coming out of Joy's office the night of the murder."

Probably because you told them, blabbermouth.

"They seemed to believe me when I explained that I just popped in to look for my purse. And that's why I was there, Greg. Just looking for my purse."

He raised a skeptical brow.

"So how about it?" I persisted. "Can you spare a few minutes for an expose on Joy?"

If I'd expected him to jump at the chance to trash Joy, I was sadly mistaken.

"I doubt I can be any help to you," he said stiffly. "My dealings with Joy were always quite amicable."

Spoken with all the heartfelt sincerity of a press agent.