Part 20 (1/2)

Chapter 17.

People think California is the land of suns.h.i.+ne, but it can get quite frosty here in February and March, especially if you're not wearing pants.

I drove home with the car heater on, vowing to never again get in a tiff with a pair of squirrels.

They may look cute, but trust me, they don't fight fair.

At last I arrived at my duplex and was heading up the front path to my apartment, practically naked from the waist down, my thighs on view for all the world to see, when I looked up and saw someone at my front door.

Oh, h.e.l.l. It was one of the homicide detectives. The skinny one with the Adam's apple.

”h.e.l.lo, Ms. Austen,” he said, making a valiant effort not to stare at my thighs, which by now were sprouting goose b.u.mps the size of popcorn.

”Excuse the way I look,” I managed to say. ”I ... um ... lost my pants.”

”So I see.”

”Yes, I gave them to a needy homeless person.”

”How generous of you,” he said, shooting me a dubious look. Then he cleared his throat, getting down to business. ”I need to talk to you.”

Uh-oh. I didn't like the sound of that.

At which point, his phone rang. He snapped it open, saying, ”Detective Willis here.”

So that's what his name was. I had to remember not to call him Detective Adam's Apple.

”Got it,” he was saying. ”I'll be right over.”

”Sorry,” he said to me, flipping his phone shut. ”I've got to go. Emergency. Why don't I stop by tomorrow for a little chat. Say, nine a.m.?”

”Of course,” I said, and I headed for my apartment with as much dignity as a woman without any pants can muster.

The minute I got inside, I headed straight for the bathtub.

Normally, soaking in a steamy hot bubble bath relaxes me, but not that day. I lay there up to my neck in strawberry-scented bubbles, a ma.s.s of raw nerve endings, haunted by the memory of Rocky and Bullwinkle charging after me with bloodl.u.s.t in their eyes.

I cringed to think what a sniveling weakling I'd been in front of a pair of fuzzy-tailed rodents. No doubt about it. I was a disgrace to part-time semiprofessional private eyes everywhere.

And then, as if being terrorized by a pair of squirrels weren't enough, I had to endure the humiliation of Detective Adam's Apple seeing me sashaying up my front path without any pants! If only I'd worked on toning my thighs more often. Or ever.

And why on earth did Detective Adam's Apple want to talk to me? What if the police had narrowed down their suspects and decided I was the killer? What if Detective Adam's Apple had shown up to arrest me for Joy's murder?

But that couldn't be. If they were going to arrest me, they would've sent a bunch of cops and hauled me away then and there.

I sank back in the tub, relief flooding my body. I was in the clear, after all.

But wait! I thought, jolting back up again. What if they wanted to arrest me but didn't have enough evidence, and Detective Adam's Apple had dropped by for a casual chat, hoping I'd say something that would nail me as the killer?

But I wasn't the killer, I reminded myself, sliding back down in the tub. I was perfectly safe. All I had to do was tell the truth-that although I happened to be in Joy's office that night, hacking into her computer and hiding under her desk with dust bunnies the size of Chihuahuas, I was as innocent as a babe in swaddling clothes. Surely they'd have to believe me.

But wait! I jolted back up. Even if they let me go on murder charges, what if they convicted me of computer hacking? How many years would I spend in jail for that?

By now I practically had whiplash from jerking up and down in the tub so much.

I was sitting there, picturing myself sharing a jail cell with a gal named Big Mike, looking back on my adventure with Rocky and Bullwinkle as a carefree romp in the wine country, when I heard a loud banging on my front door.

”Jaine!” I heard Lance calling out. ”It's me.”

I hauled myself out of the tub and into my chenille bathrobe, then hurried to let him in, leaving a trail of damp footprints in my wake.

”Guess what, Jaine?” he said, rus.h.i.+ng into my apartment, all spiffed up in his Neiman Marcus work togs. ”The Town Crier just called. She said she saw you talking with some guy in front of your apartment, half naked!”

The Town Crier to whom Lance referred was our neighbor across the street, Helen Hurlb.u.t.t, a woman who's never met a rumor she hasn't felt the urge to spread.

”So? What's it all about?” Lance asked, plopping down onto my sofa, wide-eyed with antic.i.p.ation.

With a weary sigh, I launched into my saga, telling him how I climbed a tree to spy on Greg Stanton only to be terrorized by a pair of pant-stealing squirrels and then came home to find Detective Adam's Apple who was coming back to talk to me tomorrow, the very thought of which had me terrified I was going to be arrested for Joy Amoroso's murder.

Lance sat there for a beat, slack jawed.