Part 26 (1/2)

It was Lance, who came sailing in, waving a copy of the Beverly Hills Social Pictorial.

”You'll never guess whose picture is in this week's Social Pictorial!”

”Desmond Tutu? Sren Kierkegaard? Jean-Paul Sartre?”

”No, silly. Mine!”

He held up the magazine, and indeed, there was Lance grinning into the camera with a handsome hottie I could only a.s.sume was his new squeeze, Donny Johnson.

”Donny and I were at the opening of an amazing new men's boutique on Rodeo Drive when a photographer came up and took our picture.” He gazed down at the photo with a sigh. ”Isn't Donny gorgeous?”

”I guess, if you're into tall guys with hot bods, great hair, and James Dean cheekbones.”

”And look what he bought me,” he said, whipping a wallet out of his pocket.

”Oh, dear. Something tells me some poor alligator has given up his life to hold your singles.”

”Isn't Donny the most generous guy ever?” he gushed.

I had to admit the guy was awfully loose with a buck.

”And doesn't he have the s.e.xiest smile? Just look at those teeth. Aren't they fabulous?”

I was not, however, looking at Donny's teeth. Something else in the Social Pictorial had caught my eye: A photo spread of Beverly Hills partygoers. There among them was Greg Stanton, arm in arm with the stunning brunet I'd seen him with at Simon's. The caption under the picture read, Famed artist Gregory Stanton with fiancee Lady Penelope Ashford, daughter of British billionaire philanthropist, Sir Wallace Ashford.

”I don't believe it!” I cried.

”I didn't, either. I thought for sure his teeth were veneers. But they're real! I asked.”

”Listen, Lance,” I said, wrenching the topic away from Donny's teeth, ”do you mind if I keep this Social Pictorial?”

”Not at all, hon. I just happened to pick up copies for seventy-five of my nearest and dearest friends.”

”Thanks,” I said, grabbing it from him eagerly.

”Hey, what's with Prozac?” he said, nodding at my pouting princess, who had been whining nonstop ever since he walked in the door.

”Oh, she's just ticked off because I took away her diamond collar.”

Prozac looked up at Lance imploringly.

Quick! Call the police! I'm prepared to press charges!

”Diamond collar?” Lance asked, eyes popping.

”You're not the only one with a generous suitor.”

”OmiG.o.d. Are you still dating the rich old coot Joy fixed you up with? I knew all along it would work out. We're going to have our double wedding, after all!”

”G.o.d forbid,” I moaned.

”I want to hear every detail of your romance, hon,” he said, oblivious to my glaring lack of enthusiasm. ”But not right now. I've got to dash and hand out copies of the Social Pictorial.”

And with that, he was off to share his new-found fame with seventy-four of his nearest and dearest.

The minute Lance left, I settled down on the sofa with the Social Pictorial, staring at the photo of Greg and his fiancee.

So that brunet he'd been playing kneesies with at Simon's was a British royal. A filthy rich royal, at that. He sure had won the matrimonial sweepstakes, hadn't he? And without Joy in his life, he was free to tie the knot.

As innocent as he'd seemed when last we spoke, I couldn't help thinking that maybe he'd slipped Joy a poisoned chocolate so he could hustle down the aisle with British royalty.

I was sitting there, counting the face-lifts in the Social Pictorial and wondering if Lady Penelope Ashford was engaged to a murderer, when the phone rang.

I answered it warily, afraid it might be Skip.

But, much to my relief, a woman's voice came on the line.

”Jaine, this is Alyce Winters, the woman you interviewed for the L.A. Times.”

Of course. The Press-On Nail Queen. With the handy dandy diabetes syringe.

”I called to apologize. I'm afraid I was a wee bit intoxicated when you came to see me. I'm so sorry I had you root around in my carpet for my press-on nail.”

”Oh, I didn't mind,” I lied.

”I'm so ashamed of my behavior. I just called to make sure you don't mention me by name in your article. I'd never be able to live it down.”

I a.s.sured her that her penchant for brandy at ten in the morning was safe with me, and was about to hang up when she said: ”Just one more thing, Jaine. You asked me the other day if I remembered seeing anyone go into Joy's office the night of the murder. At the time, I didn't remember anything-mainly because I was three sheets to the wind. But I've thought about it, and now I do remember seeing someone.”

”You do?”

I sat up with a jolt. Was Alyce about to give me an actual lead?

”Yes. It was a young man, an awkward looking fellow, with one of those pocket protectors on his s.h.i.+rt.”

Chapter 23.

Whaddaya know? It looked like Barry, aka Mr. Pocket Protector, had been at Joy's Valentine's party. Which meant I had a brand new suspect on my list.

Wasting no time, I put in a call to Travis and got Barry's contact info. When I called him there was no answer, so I left a message on his voice mail, urging him to get back to me ASAP.

By now Prozac had leaped to the top shelf of my bookcase next to her favorite author, P. G. Wodehouse, clearly furious at me for nabbing her diamond collar.

”Prozac, honey, won't you please come down!” I begged. ”I'll scratch your back for as long as you like.”

But she just glared down at me with slitted eyes.