Part 15 (1/2)
”So that's it. That was her big threat. She was a crazy lady, but I loved her. And I would never dream of hurting her.”
And the tears welling in his eyes sure made it seem like he was telling the truth.
I was heading for my Corolla when a bright yellow VW Beetle came zooming into the parking lot and screeched to a halt in the spot next to mine.
Ca.s.sie sprang from the car, dressed head to toe in black leather, carrying a huge bouquet of dahlias.
”Did I miss the service?” she asked breathlessly.
”I'm afraid so.”
”d.a.m.n. I had to drive to three different flower shops before I finally found these dahlias.”
”How sweet of you, Ca.s.sie. They're beautiful.”
”Joy hated dahlias,” she said with a sly grin. ”I think I'll go put them on her grave.”
And off she went, skipping along toward the graveyard.
Melts your heart, doesn't it?
Chapter 12.
”Seventeen dollars for a hamburger?!” I gasped, ogling the nosebleed expensive menu at Neiman Marcus's fanciest restaurant.
Lance had taken me there for lunch to cheer me up, knowing that I was a tad down in the dumps over my status as an Official Murder Suspect.
All around us were stick-thin fas.h.i.+onistas pus.h.i.+ng food around their plates, resting their Manolos, and garnering the energy for another round of kamikaze shopping.
I feared the fas.h.i.+on police were standing by in the kitchen, just waiting to arrest me for showing up in my L.L. Bean turtleneck.
”Don't worry about the prices, hon,” Lance said with an expansive wave. ”I'm using my employee discount. Order whatever you want. As long as it's less than twenty bucks.”
That wiped out about two-thirds of the menu, but luckily, my burger still qualified.
”Okay, I'll have the burger.”
A look of horror crossed his face.
”At nine hundred ninety calories?”
”How do you know how many calories it has?”
”It says so right on the menu.”
I looked down and saw that he was right. Underneath each item was a calorie count.
Talk about your guilt trips.
Well, it wasn't going to work on me. When it comes to calories, my motto has always been, ”The more, the merrier.” So when the waiter came to our table, I proudly ordered my burger, with extra ketchup.
Lance, after some severe tsk-tsking in my direction, ordered a sensible Mediterranean chopped salad (470 calories).
”I'm sorry I had to rush off the other day,” he said when our waiter was gone. ”But I'm here for you now, sweetie. You have to fill me in on what happened with the police. Don't leave out a single detail. Uncle Lance will hold your hand through this whole sordid ordeal.”
He reached across the table and took my hand in his.
”Well-” I began.
But before I could make it to Syllable Two, he gushed, ”Aren't they gorgeous?”
”Aren't what gorgeous?”
”My cuff links.”
He flicked his wrists, flas.h.i.+ng a pair of diamond-studded links on the French cuffs of his s.h.i.+rt.
”Donny gave them to me! On Valentine's night. He cooked me dinner at his place in the Hollywood Hills. Chateaubriand for two, a divine bottle of pinot noir, and chocolate mousse for dessert. He hid the cuff links in the mousse,” he said, beaming like a lovesick puppy. ”Isn't that the most romantic thing ever?”
”Not really. You could've broken a tooth.”
”Go ahead,” he said, patting my hand in a most patronizing manner. ”Rain on my parade. I understand. You're frustrated and unhappy because I wound up with the heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune and your significant other is a grumpy cat.”
”Who says Donny's the heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune?” I sniffed. ”Did he tell you that?”
”No,” Lance admitted, ”but you should see his bathroom cupboard. It's stocked to the gills with Johnson & Johnson Baby Shampoo. It makes his hair silky soft,” he added with a goofy grin.
”So the guy buys in bulk. That doesn't make him an heir.”
”All I know is he's been showering me with gifts. First the Rolex. Then the cuff links.”
”He does seem to have a lot of money,” I conceded.
”It's not just about the money,” Lance said, trying his best to look like he meant it. ”Donny has all sorts of sterling qualities.”
And he was off and running, singing the praises of his beloved Donny, how he was kind and caring and smart and funny, with impeccable taste in wine and clothing-and men, of course.
Eventually our food showed up, but that didn't stop Lance. He barely touched his Mediterranean salad as he blathered on about Donny.