Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 28

There was Daddy, wearing boxing gloves and a pair of Lester's Everlast boxing shorts! No doubt a memento from his amateur boxing days.

"Look, Claudia!" he cried. "A punching bag!"

Indeed, there in the corner of the guest bedroom, Lester had set up a boxer's punching bag.

"And genuine boxing shorts!" Daddy pointed with pride at his pilfered shorts. "I always wanted to wear a pair of these. And try my hand at a punching bag. You know. Float like a b.u.t.terfly, sting like a bee!"

He danced around, punching the air, his knees sticking out like doork.n.o.bs, Muhammad Ali on Metamucil.

"The screws on the punching bag need a little tightening, but my handy dandy Belgian Army Knife will take care of that." Taking off his boxing gloves, he grabbed his Belgian Army Knife and began tinkering with the screws attaching the punching bag to the pole.

"Hank Austen!" I hissed. "Leave that punching bag alone!"

"Don't be silly, Claudia. I know what I'm doing."

Ignoring me like he always does, he kept fiddling with the screws. Then he put on the gloves and started punching the bag. He missed the bag on the first two punches. With the third punch-I still shudder at the memory-he made contact.

Before my horrified eyes, the punching bag came loose from the pole and went sailing across the room and cras.h.i.+ng through Lester's window, making the most awful racket and sending shards of gla.s.s everywhere!

Within seconds, all the party guests had rushed over to see what had happened.

"Good heavens, Hank!" Lydia cried. "What have you done?"

By now I was burning with shame, but Daddy just stood there in Lester's Everlast shorts, not looking the least bit embarra.s.sed.

"I think your punching bag is broken," he had the nerve to say to Lester.

"You're the one who broke it, Hank!" I cried. "You and your silly Belgian Army Knife. I think you owe the Pinkuses an apology."

Your father looked at me as if I'd just asked him to go skinny-dipping in a sewer.

"Me? Apologize to them? Why, they're the ones who owe us an apology."

"Why on earth do we owe you an apology?" Lydia asked.

"For stealing my wife's diamond ring!" Daddy cried, stomping over to Lester's night table.

And then, to my utter amazement, he opened the drawer and took out my Valentine's ring!

"See?" he said to me. "I told you Lydia took it. And Lester's been hiding it for her. I found it right before you came in. I'm just happy I got here before they pa.s.sed it off to their fence."

"My good fellow," Lester said, putting his arm around Daddy's shoulder, "I'm afraid you've got this all wrong. I didn't steal your wife's ring. I bought this ring from a man in the parking lot at Costco."

"And just when were you planning on wearing it?" Daddy asked, oozing skepticism. "On your next trip to Nepal?"

"I bought it for a lady friend."

"What lady friend?" Daddy asked, Mr. District Attorney.

"Edna Lindstrom," Lester replied, blus.h.i.+ng.

"Me?" Edna squeaked.

"I know it's rus.h.i.+ng things a bit since we haven't even gone out yet," Lester said, "but those pink stones made me think of your pink cheeks. Speaking of which, did you ever get my Valentine's gift? Two dozen pink roses? I signed the card 'From Your Secret Admirer' and left them at your front door."

"So that's who those flowers were for!" I said. "You left them on our doorstep by mistake, and Hank thought you had a crush on me."

"So you see," Lester said to Daddy, "it's all a big misunderstanding. Let's agree to let bygones be bygones, shall we?"

"We'll pay for a new window, of course," I a.s.sured him.

"We'll do no such thing!" Daddy sputtered. "You're not really falling for his story about buying a diamond ring for a woman he's never even gone out with? Puh-leese. What a bunch of dog doo. This is your ring, Claudia, the one Lydia stole from you at Le Chateaubriand, and we're not forking over a dime for that window. Not unless The Evil Axis wants us to press charges for grand theft!"

And with that, he grabbed me and the ring and marched me out of Lydia's town house. It wasn't until we got home that I realized Daddy was still wearing Lester's Everlast shorts.

Oh, dear. I'm afraid Lydia may never speak to me again.

Your heartsick,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Victory!

Well, Lambchop, I'm happy to report that, after a practically flawless reconnaissance expedition, I've retrieved your mom's stolen ring from The Evil Axis. I knew all along that Devious Duo were up to no good.

Love 'n' cuddles from

Your crime-fighting,

Daddy

Chapter 24.

I almost choked on a cinnamon raisin bagel the next morning when I read about Daddy's mortifying encounter with Lester Pinkus's punching bag. It's at times like this that I'm very grateful for the three thousand miles separating L.A. and Tampa Vistas.

My heart went out to Mom, but I simply couldn't spend time worrying about the Great Punching Bag Fiasco. Not while I still had that pesky murder to solve.

I had scads of suspects but not a shred of evidence linking any of them to the crime.

Then I flashed on Ca.s.sie, Joy's beleaguered personal a.s.sistant. It was hard to picture her as a killer, but maybe she'd seen something the night of the murder that would help me solve the crime.

I found her number on Travis's contact list and rang her up.

"Hi, Jaine," she said when she came on the line. "I've been expecting your call."

"You have?"

"Travis told me you've been snooping around, asking questions about the murder."

"Guilty as charged. I was hoping you and I could have a little talk."

"Honestly, Jaine, I don't think I'm going to be much help."

"Can I stop by to see you anyway? It won't take long. I promise."

Who knew? Maybe with a little prompting, I could get her to remember a vital clue.

"Well, okay," she said, "but you're wasting your time."

She agreed to meet me at her bungalow in Venice later that afternoon.

I was just heading to the bathroom for a quick shower when there was a knock on my door.

I opened it to find Detective Adam's Apple.

Oh, groan. I'd e-mailed him his dating profile days ago. What did he want me to write now? His grocery list?

"Oh, hi," I said with a faint smile. "Can I help you?"

"Yes, you can," he replied rather sternly. "You can stop pretending to be a reporter for the L.A. Times."

Oopsie.

"Apparently you've been running around telling people you're writing an expose on Joy Amoroso."

"Just trying to get information to clear my name. When last I checked, I was one of your suspects."

"Leave the detecting to the professionals, okay? I may be clueless about dating, but I'm fairly competent at tracking down killers."

"Just as long as you don't wind up arresting me. Ha ha."

I waited for a laugh. Or a smile. A flash of that dimple in his left cheek. But he remained stony-faced. Which did not boost my confidence. Not one iota.

"So how's the search coming along for Ms. Right?" I asked in a desperate attempt to change the subject.

"Actually I met a woman I really like."

So he found his pet.i.te blonde.

Life isn't fair, is it? Women wait for years to meet their Prince Charming. Or even a decent frog. And men go online and get hooked up practically minutes after they click the SEARCH b.u.t.ton.

"We've chatted a few times," he was saying. "And she's got some special qualities that really appeal to me."

Whaddaya bet they both fit into a 34C?

"I want to ask her out, but I don't have the nerve to do it on the phone, so I wrote her a note."

He took a small piece of paper from his pocket.

"I was wondering if you'd mind looking it over just to make sure it's okay," he said, handing it to me.

His missive was short and to the point:

Hi, there!