Part 16 (2/2)

First and foremost among them was Alyce Winters, the woman who'd threatened to ”put a stop” to Joy less than an hour before she was murdered.

Soon I was tootling over to Alyce's apartment in West Hollywood-a sad stucco box of a building in desperate need of a paint job.

Like Alyce herself, it had seen better days.

Taking no chances that Alyce would turn me away at the intercom, I pressed several of the other b.u.t.tons until someone buzzed me in. Then I rode up to Alyce's third-floor apartment in the building's creaky elevator, hoping the cables wouldn't snap en route.

Out in the hallway, I made my way along the threadbare carpeting to Alyce's place and rang her doorbell.

Seconds later a shadow darkened the peephole.

”Who is it?” Alyce sounded irritated.

”It's Jaine Austen. We met at Dates of Joy.”

”What the h.e.l.l do you want?”

”I need to talk to you. It's really very important.”

I waited for what seemed like forever until at last I heard the sound of locks turning.

Finally the door swung open.

Alyce stood in the doorway, her skinny bod crammed into a leopard-skin jogging suit, jet black hair extensions hanging limply on her shoulders.

”I remember you,” she said, staring out at me from an ashen face. ”You worked for that b.i.t.c.h.”

”Only temporarily,” I a.s.sured her. ”Honestly, I disliked Joy as much as you did.”

”I hardly think that's possible.”

She stood there, arms clamped tightly across her surgically enhanced chest, making no move whatsoever to invite me in.

”Well?” she said. ”What's so d.a.m.n important?”

Something told me she was not about to open up to me if she knew I was there to question her about the murder.

Time for a tiny fib.

”The L.A. Times has hired me to write a story about Joy. Ever since her death, rumors have been circulating about how unscrupulous she was, and they want to run an expose on her.”

At last, I saw a c.h.i.n.k in Alyce's armor.

”That horrible woman!” she cried. ”It's about time someone told the truth about her!”

Then a worried look crossed her brow.

”But I can't have my name in the paper. I'd die if anyone found out I'd been using a dating service.”

”Not a problem,” I a.s.sured her. ”I'll quote you anonymously. Your name will never be published.”

Not unless she turned out to be the killer, of course.

”Come on in,” she said, her defenses finally down.

I followed her past a dimly lit foyer into a tiny living room crammed to the gills with large-scale pieces of furniture-expensive items made for the wide open s.p.a.ces of a Bel Air estate-not a one-bedroom apartment with a view of the Taco Bell across the street.

Off to the left a small kitchen was separated from the living room by a Formica breakfast bar.

”Coffee?” Alyce asked, heading for the kitchen.

”Sounds great.”

She reached into her cupboard and pulled out a mug. After slos.h.i.+ng in some coffee, she turned to me and asked, ”Milk? Sugar? Brandy?”

”Brandy?”

”Costco's finest,” she a.s.sured me.

I watched as she added a generous slug to her own mug.

”Um, no thanks,” I said, opting to stay sober for the time being.

”Your loss,” she shrugged.

Then, with her coffee mug in one hand and the brandy bottle in the other, she led the way into the living room.

”G.o.d, what a nightmare it's been,” she said, plopping down onto an oversized leather sectional. ”I've been so stressed out, I haven't had my nails done in weeks. I tried press-on nails this morning, but one of the pinkies fell in the carpet and now I can't find it.”

She held out her fingers, all but one pinky adorned in cherry red press-ons.

”Would you mind taking a look for it, hon?” she asked, adding some more brandy to her mug. ”I'm exhausted.”

And so the next few minutes found me on my knees, rooting around in her none-too-clean avocado s.h.a.g carpeting. I unearthed a dime, a stale peanut, and an Extra-Strength Tylenol (which Alyce downed with her spiked coffee), but no pinky.

”Oh, there it is!” Alyce cried. ”Under the coffee table.”

She scrambled to her knees to pick it up.

”d.a.m.n. It's stuck to the carpet. Help me pull it out, would you? I don't want to break a nail.”

I tried to pull out the d.a.m.n pinky, but it was cemented there for life. Finally Alyce cut it out with manicure scissors, leaving a tiny bald spot in the carpet.

”There goes my security deposit,” she groaned, eyeing the hole.

<script>