Part 26 (2/2)
I want a divorce.
I was in the middle of trying to lure her down with some human tuna when the phone rang.
”Jaine? It's Barry Potter, returning your call.”
As if the poor guy didn't have enough troubles, he had to be saddled with a name like Barry Potter.
”I don't know if you remember me, Barry. I was there the day you signed up with Dates of Joy.”
”I remember you. You tried to warn me about Joy. I should have listened. She turned out to be a very evil lady. Anyhow, I'm sorry I didn't pick up when you called, but we've been busy taking inventory here at Shoe City. That's where I work, you know. We have some great deals on extra-wide orthotic insoles, if you're interested.”
”Sounds mighty tempting, Barry, but actually I was hoping you could answer a few questions about Joy Amoroso's murder.”
”Sorry, no can do. Phil said I'm not allowed to talk about the murder.”
”Phil?”
”My brother-in-law. He's an attorney. Well, technically he's a paralegal, but he knows practically as much as an attorney, and he told me to keep my mouth shut.”
Uh-oh. Time to haul out my L.A. Times ruse.
”But this isn't really about the murder. I'm writing an expose for the L.A. Times about Joy and her unscrupulous business practices.”
”You write for the L.A. Times?” he asked, clearly impressed. ”That's super!”
”Anyhow, I was hoping you'd be willing to talk about your experiences with Joy. Anonymously, of course,” I hastened to a.s.sure him. ”Your privacy would be totally protected.”
”And I'd get to tell the world what a lying, cheating witch of a woman she was?”
”Absolutely.”
”Then count me in!”
We agreed to meet at his Glendale apartment the next night and I hung up, wondering why on earth he felt the need to arm himself with an attorney.
Barry greeted me at the door of his modest one-bedroom apartment in slacks and a short-sleeved sport s.h.i.+rt, his pocket protector chock full of pens.
”Come on in,” he said, waving me into his spartan living room, which consisted of a sofa, coffee table, plastic lawn chair, and an old fas.h.i.+oned TV hulking in the corner.
In the center of the coffee table, next to a copy of Shoe Biz magazine, was a large goldfish bowl.
”Don't worry, Penelope,” he called out to the goldfish swimming frantically inside. ”It's only Ms. Austen. She's here to interview me for the Los Angeles Times.”
Then he turned to me and whispered, ”She gets anxious around strangers. Don't pay any attention to her and she'll calm down.”
A shoe salesman with a neurotic goldfish. No wonder the poor guy had trouble lining up dates.
I sat on the lawn chair, as far from the lap-swimming Penelope as I could get.
”Where's your recorder?” Barry asked, plopping down on the sofa. ”Don't all reporters tape their interviews?”
”Oh, no. That's only on TV and in the movies. I've got a fabulous memory!”
”Wow.” He gazed at me, awestruck. ”That's wonderful. I have a hard time at Shoe City remembering which shoes go in the right box.”
”So,” I said with a bright smile. ”Ready to get started on the expose?”
I was hoping once I got him warmed up, I could somehow segue into the murder.
”Am I ever!” he said.
And he was off to the races.
”Joy Amoroso was a liar and a cheat. The minute I signed over my CD to her, she wanted nothing to do with me. Put that in the paper,” he directed me. ”She took people's money and then forgot they were even alive. One day I called her to ask why she hadn't set me up with Albany the model. She thought she put me on hold, but I heard her yelling at her a.s.sistant for putting me through to her, and saying that n.o.body as pretty as Albany would ever go out with a loser like me. ”She called me a loser,” he said, an angry flush spreading across his face.
”It's not like I didn't already know it, but hearing it out loud was like a sock in my gut. It was then I realized Joy was never going to fix me up with my dream date. Or any date. She took my life savings. Every penny I had. For nothing. ”I was so d.a.m.n mad, I felt like killing her.”
I looked down and saw his fists clenched tight in his lap.
”I didn't, of course,” he hastened to add.
”So what happened when you went to the Valentine's party?” I asked, waiting to see if he'd admit he'd been there. ”Did you meet anyone?”
He shook his head.
”I took one look at all the middle-aged ladies inside, and I turned around and went home.”
So Alyce was right. He had been at the party.
But had he really taken one look at the partygoers and left?
Time for another fib.
”That's funny,” I said. ”I could've sworn I saw you heading into Joy's office.”
”So what if I did?” he said, beads of sweat popping up on his brow. ”That doesn't mean I did anything wrong.”
”No, of course not. But do you mind my asking what you were doing there?”
He squirmed uncomfortably, his face flushed a deep crimson. For a minute, I thought he was going to get up and make a run for it, but then he slumped down on the sofa and groaned: ”Okay, okay. I did it.”
Holy mackerel. Had Barry Potter just confessed to Joy's murder?
”You poisoned Joy's chocolate?”
<script>