Part 23 (1/2)

”Unfortunately Uncle George had enclosed a photo of himself with the painting, and Joy never threw it out. Then, when I made my big splash on the art scene, she saw a picture of me in the paper with one of 'my' paintings. Joy knew I didn't paint it, because she had a picture of Uncle George holding it-date stamped three years before I claimed to have finished it.”

Ouch.

”That was all the blackmail ammunition she needed. And so for the past five years I've been paying her a small fortune to keep her mouth shut. I didn't mind the money so much. It was having to constantly show up at her stupid parties, never able to form a relations.h.i.+p because I had to stay single for Joy.”

So I'd been right all along about Greg's dubious members.h.i.+p in Dates of Joy.

”Joy claimed she had Uncle George's photo stashed away in a safe deposit box. So I thought I was trapped. Until a few weeks ago when Tonio told me the truth. He and Joy had just had one of their many fights, and he was p.i.s.sed. He'd always felt sorry for me and confessed that Joy had made up the story about the safe deposit box. She was too cheap to rent one. Uncle George's photo was in a file cabinet in her office.

”I made up my mind to get it. When I b.u.mped into you outside of Joy's office the night of the murder, I was on my way to bust into her file cabinet. Which I did. I found the d.a.m.n picture. I was free at last.”

”So you didn't touch her chocolates?” I asked.

”No, I'm not the one who poisoned her chocolates. But after all Joy put me through, I'm very grateful to whoever did.” Then, with a weary sigh, he added: ”So how much is it going to cost me to keep you quiet?”

”Nothing.”

”Really?” He blinked in disbelief.

”Your uncle left you those paintings. As far as I'm concerned, they're yours to do with as you wish.”

And it was true. It was none of my business what Greg Stanton did with his uncle's paintings. All I cared about was whether or not he killed Joy. And at that moment, I have to confess, I believed him when he said he was innocent.

(Then again, I believed The Blob when he promised to cherish me forever, so I'm not exactly infallible.) ”I'm very grateful,” Greg said, at last making eye contact with me. ”I just hope you won't change your mind.”

”I won't change my mind,” I a.s.sured him. ”You don't owe me a thing. Except maybe one of those chocolates over there,” I said, nodding to the box of Valentine's chocolates still on his coffee table.

”Of course,” he said, hurrying over to get the box. ”Here. Keep the whole box.”

”Oh, no, one's enough,” I said, reaching for a candy.

”You're not really writing a story for the L.A. Times, are you?” Greg asked as I bit into a caramel creme.

”No,” I confessed with a sheepish smile.

”So what are you up to, anyway?”

”Just poking around, asking questions, trying to find the killer and clear my name. You were right about me being a suspect. The cops think I may have killed Joy.”

”If you want to find the real killer,” he said, ”I suggest you check in with Joy's aunt.”

”Aunt Faith?”

”Some old dame who sells wackadoodle jewelry.”

”That's Aunt Faith. I met her at Joy's memorial service.”

”Tonio tells me that Joy died without a will and that the old lady was her only living relative. Which means she inherits everything. And gives her plenty of reason to want Joy dead, don't you agree?”

I did, indeed.

Chapter 20.

I headed for my car with a spring in my step and a box of Valentine's candy under my arm.

(Okay, so I took the whole box.) It had been quite a productive meeting. I'd confirmed the truth about Greg's paintings and got a lead about Aunt Faith to boot.

It was definitely time to pay Joy's not-so-loving relative a visit.

She'd had nothing but nasty things to say about Joy in her ”eulogy,” and for all I knew, she'd knocked off her niece to get her hands on a juicy inheritance.

I rummaged around in my purse and fished out the business card she'd given me at the memorial service.

Printed in elegant calligraphy were the words:

FROM TRASH TO TREASURE.

RECYCLED JEWELRY FOR THE HIP AT HEART.

FAITH COOPERMAN, DESIGNER IN CHIEF.

I called the number on the card, and a cheery voice at the other end trilled, ”Faith Cooperman here!”

”Hi. I'm Jaine Austen. I don't know if you remember me. We met at Joy's memorial service.”

”How could I forget? It's not often I see someone in a CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS T-s.h.i.+rt at a memorial service.”

Oops. I'd been hoping no one had noticed it under my blazer.

”Anyhow,” I said, plowing past my fas.h.i.+on faux pas, ”I was hoping I could stop by and see your jewelry.”

Not true, of course. I had no interest whatsoever in her baubles, but it was a good excuse to get some face time with her.

”I just need the address for your shop.”

”I don't have a shop, honey. I do most of my sales on eBay. But come on over to my apartment, and I'll be happy to show you what I've got. I just finished a fabulous bracelet made out of lug nuts!”

”Can't wait to see it,” I lied.