Part 17 (1/2)

Then she added some more brandy to her coffee and took a deep slug.

”If one more thing goes wrong,” she said, plopping back down on the sectional, ”I may shoot myself. My life's been such a mess ever since Sonny died.”

”Sonny?”

”My husband. A hedge fund manager. He lost his s.h.i.+rt in the market and was selling off all our a.s.sets to stay in the game. The stress of it all killed him. After I sold our house in Brentwood to pay off his debts, I barely had enough money to move into this dump.

”Then I took my last ten grand and signed up with Joy.”

Lacing her coffee with more brandy, she took another gulp.

”I know it was a stupid thing to do, but she promised she'd set me up with a rich guy. And like a dope, I believed her. She wound up sending me on one lousy date with an insurance salesman from Downey.”

”I remember. I was there when you confronted her that day in the parking lot.”

”Can you believe how horribly she treated me?”

”It was awful,” I agreed.

She added some more brandy to her coffee. By now it was probably all booze.

”And to make things worse, now the police suspect me of murder!”

At least I wasn't their only suspect.

”They say they have witnesses who saw me threatening Joy the night of the murder.”

Through her alcoholic fog, she suddenly narrowed her eyes.

”Hey, wait a minute. You weren't one of those witnesses, were you?”

”Gosh, no,” I managed to lie with a straight face.

The last thing I wanted was one of those press-on nails gouging my eyes out.

”When I said I was going to 'put a stop' to Joy, I didn't mean I was going to kill her. Although G.o.d knows I wanted to. I was only going to report her to the Better Business Bureau. ”You believe me, don't you?”

She looked at me pleadingly with bloodshot eyes, and I have to admit I was swayed.

Either she was telling the truth or she was a d.a.m.n good actress.

Then she looked down at her hands in dismay, remembering her press-on nail crisis. ”Dammit! What am I going to do about this stupid pinky? Oh, well,” she sighed. ”I guess I'll just have to buy another set of nails.”

By this point I'd had more than my share of her press-on saga. I really had to get in some serious questioning.

”I can't believe the police suspect you,” I said, trying valiantly to wrench the topic back to the murder. ”Do you have any idea who might have really killed Joy?”

”Anyone who ever met her.”

A fat lot of help that was.

”Did you happen to see anyone go into her office on your way out of the party?”

”Hey, wait a minute.” Alyce shot me a wary look. ”I thought you were doing an expose on Joy. Why all the questions about the murder?”

”Just gathering background,” I said, channeling my inner Woodward and Bernstein. ”Standard reportorial procedure.”

”Oh. Okay.”

Thank goodness, she bought it.

But before I had a chance to ply her with more questions, she jumped up from the sofa.

”Omigos.h.!.+” she cried. ”With all the fuss over these d.a.m.n nails, I forgot to give myself my insulin shot.”

”Your insulin shot?”

”Yes, I'm a diabetic. Excuse me, hon. Gotta shoot myself up.”

I watched in disbelief as she hurried down the hallway to her bathroom.

I'm no doctor, but I don't think diabetics are supposed to be guzzling brandy for lunch.

I was sitting there, wondering if I had time to snoop around her place for clues, when suddenly it hit me.

If Alyce was going to give herself an insulin shot, that meant she had access to syringes-exactly what she'd need if she wanted to inject a dose of cyanide into Joy's chocolate!

Sure enough, minutes later, she came back into the living room, tossing a used syringe into a wastepaper basket.

”There. That's done. Now where was I?”

At the top of my suspect list, that's where.

Chapter 15.

The rest of my visit with Alyce was a total bust.

I tried to get in a few questions about the murder, but all she cared about was tras.h.i.+ng Joy and the shoddy quality of press-on nails. Finally, I gave her my card and urged her to call me if she remembered seeing anyone go into Joy's office the night of the murder.

By the time I got out of there, I was ready for a shot or two of that brandy myself.

Instead I drove home and nuked myself a jumbo cheese burrito I had sitting in my freezer. By now I was pretty darn hungry and stood hovering over the microwave as the plump burrito spun around, cheese oozing from its seams.

At last the countdown was over. The microwave dinged.

But just as I was reaching in to retrieve my cheesy treasure, there was a knock on my door.