The Practical Girl’s Guide to Murder

 

You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards.

—Steve Jobs

 

Day 7

In which the body is found, and I am brought in for questioning, along with several others, in the murder of Lucy Main, and in which I meet LAPD Detective Sabrina Sanchez.

Everybody has their moment in the spotlight. Now it was my turn. I was sharing the stage with four other women all decked out for the show and we’d all get our moment. Nervous with anticipation, butterflies flitting deep inside us. Stage fright. Break a leg and all that.

Let the fashion show begin. You’re on Paulette Aarons, wearing spinach green scrubs accented with polar bear white marabou by Max Mara, probably from Neiman’s, though you know she’s never set foot inside an operating room, unless you count her plastic surgeon’s office. Completing the ensemble, a Hermes purse, a weathered doctor’s satchel of the kind a physician might have made a house call with to your grandmother, no your great grandmother. The weathering may or may not have been real, but the Hermes label said ten grand easy—probably rented for the occasion. She stepped to the front of the stage, while the rest of us waited in the back line.

Which one of us would get picked? Anticipation mounted. Five anxious hopefuls: Paulette Aarons, Crystal Crawford, Katrina Jones, Sylvia Russell, Mary Shearer.

***

Lucy Main was dead. Someone had to pay for the crime. And the cops were trying to figure out the proverbial whodunit. Which is how I ended up in the Hollywood Division police station interrogation room.

Detective Sabrina Sanchez had come to my house, flashing her badge wallet, covered in rhinestones, I swear. Or maybe I was just so damn tired from being awake for three days that the bright sunlight blinging off of it looked like rhinestones. But this is L.A., so I’m thinking rhinestones. She made me an offer I couldn’t refuse, come down to the station for a chat, so here I am.

“You know, this room would look so much better with a picture or two on the walls. Maybe a Banksy image of a police riot from the guy who said on his website ‘I Can’t Believe You Morons Actually Buy This Shit.’ Anything to brighten up the place. Even some classic movie posters would help. Something like Escape from Alcatraz or The Great Escape. Or y’know, Escape from L.A.”

“Can you tell me where you were the night of the fifteenth?” Sanchez said.

“Who remembers?”

“It’s only three nights ago.”

“Three nights in L.A. is like a year in any other place.”

“Tell me about it,” Sanchez said, in a voice that can only be described as cop-asperation. I guess they get exasperated a lot.

“What’s this all about?”

“Lucy Main is dead.”

“No?” I tried to inflect my voice with just the right amount of pathos, something we learn hard and heavy about in acting class. Because you know, if you watch the murder shows on TV you can get in trouble for too much emotion, not enough emotion, dry tears, croc tears, too stoic, not stoic enough, fainting at the funeral, not fainting at the funeral, not waiting long enough to call the insurance company to cash out the life insurance policy. (What is the proper etiquette or protocol: how long is one supposed to wait? A day, a week, five minutes? I wonder if Emily Post dot com has an answer, but I digress…)

“We found her body in the Angeles National Forest.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” And I was, in more ways than one.

“Huh?”

“Well, sorry she’s, y’know, dead.”

“As if you didn’t know already.”

I put on my best ‘who me’ expression, hoping all those years of acting classes would finally pay off, since they sure as hell hadn’t paid off in terms of any major movie roles.

“You did it, didn’t you? And if you’re sorry it’s ’cause you’re caught.” Detective Sabrina Sanchez said to me almost seductively.

Okay, I admit it. I killed Lucy Main. Of course, that’s the thought train swirling in my head, not what I’m telling Detective Sanchez or ADA Hedda Dupuyster, as I sit in the small interrogation room of the police station on Wilcox under the watchful eyes of Barney Fife posters on every wall and mousepad in the joint, except for the bare and Barney-less walls of the interrogation room. Wondering if I’m being watched through the mirrored wall. They double team me and I’m waiting for them to bring out the Tiffany gooseneck lamp to shine in my eyes, hit me with the Third Degree—or because this is Hollywood and we have to do everything bigger and better, the Fourth Degree—using energy saving LED bulbs, of course. I thought I’d be uncomfortable, but their ergonomic chair fits me just fine. It still had the tag on: “Norman Bates Flexo Mesh Hyper Joust Tilt-Back Friendly Eco-Ergo Chair, with Reinforced Titanium D Rings for Attaching Handcuffs. Strong and Scratch Resistant”.

I hope I look good, hope my makeup isn’t running and that my nail art is aglow with its skull and crossbones designs, which I had done just for this special occasion. After all, this is Hollywood. There might be a casting director in the next interrogation room. More than that I want to look good for the instant replay on TMZ when Harvey Levin shows clips of the actual interrogation, and then with wanna-be actors or re-enactors on the Investigation Discovery channel. Most of them are non-professionals. But maybe for me they could get Rachel McAdams or Anne Hathaway. Or maybe I could even play myself.

They say it’s not easy to kill someone, they lie. It’s not hard either. Mostly it just takes some kind of determination, planning, a strong stomach and something to munch on while you’re plotting your nefarious deed. I prefer lime-flavored, gluten-free tofu chips with fresh mango salsa. And there’s a million ways to do it, guns, bottles, fists, knives, clubs, ice cube daggers that melt away, leaving no trace of the weapon, the proverbial blunt instrument, poison, or if you’re a writer the poison pen. Of course, if you really want to kill someone with the poison pen it helps if you stab them in the heart with the actual pen, otherwise they just die on the page.

“You did the Triple M. You killed Lucy Main,” Dupuyster said. “Means, Motive, Opportunity.”

“That’s only two Ms,” I said.

“Well then, the whole megillah,” she grinned. “And there’s your third M.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“Guilty people need lawyers, so you tell me, do you need a lawyer?”

There was just no good way to respond to that, was there? I ask you, can you think of a good response? “So do innocent people.” It was the best I could come up with on the spur of the moment. Luckily I had taken improv classes at the Groundlings. “I barely knew her.”

“But you did have an encounter.”

“A close encounter of the litigious kind.” I smiled up into the corner of the room at a small camera with a flashing red light. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” I muttered, vamping for the camera. Though I probably should have said Mr. Levin.

“What’s that?” Sanchez said.

“Oh nothing.”

“I heard you. And we hear that all the time. Everybody’s a star. See how big a star you’ll be when we send you to the California Institution for Women. Lotta stars there.”

“I’ve heard that too, isn’t that where Paris and Lindsay stayed? Though don’t you think it would have been more appropriate for Paris to have been in the Bastille?”

“You’re funny now, you won’t be. And you knew the victim,” she said, leaning in on me. I could smell the Starbucks After Coffee Mints on her breath. “You were seen in her vicinity a few hours before she went missing.”

“Me and about a million other people.”

“A million other people didn’t have access to the murder weapon.”

“She died of a peanut allergy, what’re you talking about?”

“How’d you know that—evidence of guilt.”

“Everybody knows. It was in the L.A. Times in about ten different articles. Besides, peanuts as a weapon?”

“Poison Peanut Pellets.” Sanchez leaned across the table, almost nose to nose.

“Peanut poisoning is so passé. And I like to be cutting edge.”

“You think this is funny. We found traces of peanut dust in your kitchen.”

“Send me to the electric chair then. No, the gas chamber. No, the lethal injection table. You guys need to get your act together, you know. And yes, I have peanut butter and peanuts, who doesn’t? They’re good for you. You need to eat nuts—”

“Peanuts aren’t actually nuts. They’re legumes.”

Only in L.A. would a cop say this with a straight face.

“Something here is nuts.” I wasn’t the only one here losing my mind.

***

Yeah, Lucy Main’s body was found today after she’d been missing three days, no getting around that. She’d had an allergic reaction to peanuts in her ziti. How on earth would they ever prove that I baked that ziti?

I’m not a bad person, at least I don’t think so. I recycle, I compost, I don’t use single-use plastic bags or drink bottled water. I even have a rain barrel. I grew up in Los Angeles, or La La Land as people on the East Coast like to think of us. Went to normal high schools, well normal for L.A., if you call metal detectors, bomb scares and lockdowns every Tuesday and Thursday normal.

Will I be arrested? Doubtful. Even though they brought me in for questioning, I’d been taking acting classes for years, so I was sure I could talk my way out of it. But I felt confident I wouldn’t be arrested. Or I’d be arrested and the lawyers would get me off. Or maybe I’d even be arrested, tried for murder and found guilty. But even if I couldn’t talk my way out of it, with all the jail overcrowding I figured I’d only be in a year or two anyway. Still, if you don’t hear from me for a while, maybe send a letter to the California Institution for Women.

And if I needed a defense lawyer, I needed the best defense lawyer on the planet. Ally McBeal. Perry Mason. Matlock. Or Vincent Laguardia Gambini. But Ally went away, marrying that Han Solo dude and then vanishing into that galaxy far, far away where actresses over forty go. Mason and Matlock were dead, but were probably still making more in residuals than Ally was. But Gambini is still looking for a sequel, and he was, indeed, the all-time best defense lawyer on the planet. After all, look what he did for the Karate Kid and his pal. And he didn’t even have to jiu-jitsu anyone.

My case would make the perfect sequel.

Jeez, did I know any real lawyers?

***

Day 6

In which I’m on the lam.

Paulette Aarons rejoined the back line and Crystal Crawford stepped forward. Wearing Jennifer Lopez’ latest design for Kohl’s, an enticing, enchanting ensemble of zebra sheath dress with matching handbag, hat and gloves, she strutted to the front of the stage.

“Left profile. Right profile,” the disembodied voice said.

Crystal turned this way and that.

“Step back.”

Two step.

Time step.

Heel tap.

Ball heel.

Shuffle-hop-step

Flap, Slap, Pickup, Pullback.

About face—rejoin the line.

Somebody’s watching us. Do I hear voices? “Is that the one?” someone unseen says. Or is it all in my head?

***

Sure, I was on the lam. And when you lam it you marinate in it, like a nice Ko Lan marinated chicken, the guilt, the fear. I thought about turning myself in. But you know, self-preservation and all. And how long can you afford to hide out at a place like the Al Capone Suite at Two Bunch Palms near Palm Springs, where the palms are easy, the drinks flow easier and the spa treatments were easiest of all. Because even if you’re on the lam you gotta fill your time with some interesting activities, don’t you?

And I wondered, did the punishment fit the crime? Well, Lucy Main didn’t seem to care about what she did to me. That helped assuage my guilt.

So really, how long can you hide out at an expensive resort like TBP when you’re on the on-the-lam budget? Note to self: write Fodor’s and tell them to do an On the Lam budget guide. Oh well, you can’t be lamming it forever, and I was running out of tip money, so I went home.

***

Day 5

In which, I am wracked by fear and guilt and almost spill the beans, er, baked ziti.

Now it was Katrina Jones’ time to shine. Channeling an 80s Go Go’s look—maybe not an original 80s look since she was too young, but an original 80s retro look, complete with Go Go’s style spiked hair, delineated by a retro 80s big bow hair band. Big jewelry. Big stiletto heels. Big sunglasses, which she had to take off for the show. And a big smile for the audience, just in case. No razor blade on a neck chain though, not for this show. But nicely put together. Ms. Jones sashayed to the front of the stage—yes, sashayed. Can you imagine? Did the usual left, right, about face, rejoined the line. It was fun, almost.

***

I’m drowning in guilt. Little Raskolnikovs of it trickle down my neck, sending shivers all the way down my spine, spreading out in blotches of tragic Dostoyevskyian proportions.

Every waking moment; every sleeping moment, I glance over my shoulder. My heart palpitates. I thought the sun would shine brighter after the deed—revenge best served cold and all of that. But whoever said that was wrong. I mean who really wants to eat cold ziti?

I want to tell someone what I did. But who do you tell? Anastasia, my best friend? She’d think I was crazy. Or she wouldn’t believe me. Besides, I learned on Wives with Knives that one of the biggest downfalls of murderers is that they want to blab to everyone. But the urge is there. I used to be able to tell my mom everything. But I don’t think this is the kind of thing you tell mom, even though mom always said “murder doesn’t solve everything.”

***

Day 4

In which Lucy Main is murdered.

Sylvia Russell stepped forward. Wearing the strategically torn dress-down couture of three hundred dollar True Religion jeans, with premeditated whale tail, Abercrombie and Fitch corset top and hot pink patent lamper Doc Martens laceup boots, a deliberate nod to the underclass. That ought to be good for a few points in this particular fashion show. She stepped to the front of the stage, did a three point turn, left, right. Front. Judging by her performance I’d say she wasn’t quite ready for prime time. Probably could use an acting lesson or two, and definitely a pointe class. First, look where you want to turn. Your neck and body will follow. Be aware of your center of gravity. Execute a nice hook turn. Cross one leg in front of the other, like, well, a hook. Plant that foot, then push and turn. Give it a little pizazz for the judges.

***

Lucy Main. Did she deserve to die? Did anyone? Well, I can think of a few. And Lucy’s one of them. Somewhere along the way I learned that she had a supermax craving for publicity, I mean, ziti, and ate it at least once a week, sometimes more. And I had a craving for peanuts.

The local farmer’s market ran on Larchmont on Sundays. Farmers, urban and otherwise, brought their wares and set up shop for a few hours. I walked the rows until I came to the stand I wanted: Mac Daddy’s Nuts, Bananas and Notions.

“Good morning. Do you have peanuts?”

“Certainly, fresh off the farm.”

“And where is the farm?” I wanted to make sure I was buying local.

“It’s out by Oxnard.”

Well, that was less than a hundred miles away, so it would do.

“They’re free range peanuts,” he said.

“Free range?”

“Yup, indeed.”

Well, that’s what he said.

I bought a pound of the little goobers; walked on through the market, but wasn’t much in the mood for buying. My heart raced, and sweat soaked my blouse. I got in Smartie, my Smart Car and drove the few miles to my house on Poinsettia, though there were no poinsettias visible as far as the eye could see.

I pulled tomato sauce, pasta and the rest of the ingredients from the cabinet, set about making the best ziti that I knew how, but who even knew about ziti before the Sopranos made it de rigueur? And who puts ground peanut dust in ziti—well, I do. Now. Because Lucy Main had a bad peanut allergy. But she loved ziti. Thank God for the net, you can find out anything about anyone.

Cooking was the easy part. Getting the ziti to the right place at the right time—that would be the hard part. There’s always a glitch, isn’t there—best laid plans gang aft agley and all that. Or was it auld lang syne, or both? I had a sip of chianti, the wine of killers (see Hannibal Lecter), while preparing the sauce. It just seemed right. As did listening to my grandmother’s favorite song, Mack the Knife, by Bobby Darin. Mood music. Topped with another of Granny’s faves, Psycho Killer, by her favorite group ever, The Talking Heads.

***

I made sure Smartie was gassed and ready. Stuffed all my supplies—what they call a murder kit, but that made it sound so feloniously homicidal—into the hatch-back, such as it was. Tight fit. I should have bought a Prius.

I found Lucy Main at the jogging trail she favored in the Hollywood Hills. It was perfect for her since it was secluded and few people jogged there, and it was perfect for me since it was secluded and few people jogged there.

“You?” she said, as if she should have been surprised.

“Let’s go for a ride.”

“Yeah, right.”

But I hit her with some mace—she went for the ride, wrists tied with those zip ties that every kidnapper seems to favor these days.

Took her to my place. Maybe it wasn’t the best choice, but where else was I going to take her that would be private? And as long as I cleaned up all the evidence, I’d be okay. Sat her in a chair and tied her hands behind the chair with more wrist ties, or tried to tie her hands with wrist ties, but they were too short to go around the chair, so I had to make a daisy chain of them. Then it was too loose, so I decided to use the silver duct tape—where had I put it? Oh well, had to ad lib and use the Hello Kitty duct tape instead. It looked kinda cute around her wrists—a sorta retro-punk fashionista statement.

“Why’re you doing this?” she said.

“Revenge.”

“What on earth did I do to you?”

“Think about it,” I said, spooning some ziti into her mouth. She tried to keep it closed, but I pinched her nose and she had to open it. “Open wide for the choo choo plane,” I said in the best mom voice I could muster, considering I never had children. But I did have acting lessons.

She spit the ziti out on the floor, missing the tarp I’d so meticulously laid down. Damn!

She butted her head into my hand, the dish of ziti went flying in all directions. That would be one hell of a cleaning job and not even Molly Maids could do the work this time. Double-damn!

The tomato sauce stained my beautiful child-labor-free rug from Parthenian Empire Rugs, with the tree of life pattern, only now it was more like the shrub of death. And it had a new Rorschach Moderne pattern…in tomato sauce.

Lucy Main’s breathing became labored, she gasped for breath. Her eyes bulged and her whole body convulsed. Damn, the peanuts must have been working.

“EpiPen,” she muttered. “Pocket, in pocket.”

I took the pen out, waved it in front of her face.

I also grabbed her iPhone from her pocket. I had an idea.

She finally succumbed. And I thought I might too. Murder isn’t easy. I mean, maybe if you’ve got a handful under your belt it gets easier, but I was a novice.

I needed a jolt to bring me back to the present. Made a cup of coffee, fair trade, of course.

I ticked off my list. What to do, what not to do, what not to leave behind. You know, things like dispose of body—duh—clean everything—double duh. Don’t let the neighbors see you dragging the body outside. Those kinds of things.

I rolled her in the tarp. Covered the whole thing in designer sheets, well that’s what I had on hand, and struggled to get the body into Smartie. Legs stuck out, arms stuck out, head stuck out. I had to stuff her into the back. And then the whole car reared up and tipped backwards on its hind legs, uh, wheels. Like cow tipping, only the whole car tipped and dipped and swayed on the bumper like a see-saw. I had to sit on the hood to get the car down, but as soon as I stepped off the car tipped again. So, I put six lululemon yoga blocks in the passenger seat to try to balance it. I mean, Jeez, they weigh three pounds each, so that’s eighteen pounds, but it wasn’t enough, even for the Smartie. Well, it was enough to make the car list to starboard. So I got three giant bags of kitty litter to balance it out and that made the difference, though I had to put a couple on the driver’s side to stop the listing. And that pulled down the front end.

Definitely should have bought that Prius.

Jeez, who knew murder could be so trying.

I got in the car, but wanted to make sure where I was going. It’s always best to have a plan.

“Siri?” I asked Lucy Main’s phone. I had planned to use mine, but this was better. She smiled at me, well, I thought so anyway. “Siri, where is the best place to dump a body?”

Chunk-chunk-chunk, Siri thought, then, “The Angeles National Forest. Everybody knows that.”

“Of course,” I said out loud. “Why didn’t I think of that, L.A.’s premier body dump.”

I think you’re supposed to make reservations for the forest plot you want, just like in a real cemetery. But I would have to wing it. My GPS guided me there with just a minor hitch where it kept telling me to make an illegal u-turn. I ignored it, after all I didn’t want to break the law. I parked off the main road. Checked to see that no one was around. I pushed the body—it didn’t seem like Lucy Main anymore—down a ravine. That is, I gave it a shove, but it had a mind of its own and didn’t seem to want to go gentle into the good night of that ravine. And it seemed to have a life of its own—well maybe life isn’t the right word, you know—raging against the dying of the light. So I had to give it a massive shove down the face of the cliff. Finally, down it went. I slapped the dust off my hands and headed back to the car.

“Oh shit!” I’d forgotten to take it out of the Charlotte Thomas designer sheets. Fifteen hundred thread count Egyptian cotton, I might add. Oh well, almost everyone I know has designer sheets. So they couldn’t pin that on me. At least I didn’t have the ones with the 22 carat gold thread woven in. Now that might have been a dead giveaway.

Okay now: stop at car wash to get rid of all evidence—too many choices for car wash packages—do I need the undercarriage wash to get that Angeles Forest dirt off the tires, the wheel glow package, where they Armor All the tires and polish the chrome hubcaps? Which scent air freshener? Pine, jasmine, new car or stale pepperoni pizza smell to mask the death odor?

Now I have to clean the house. Tomato stains on the rug. Will it be suspicious if the rug is cleaned or removed? Will luminol reveal the tomato stains? So I clean with bleach, but bleach leaves a big white spot on the carpet. I know, I’ll bleach the entire carpet, but then it doesn’t go with my décor any more. God, being a killer is hard work. Nobody tells you that ahead of time.

***

Day 3

In which I plot my devious plan, while watching the Investigation Discovery channel—the Murder Channel—for ideas and inspiration.

It’s getting old now. Mary Shearer was the last one who had to step forward, wearing a lovely sleeveless top inspired by Megyn Kelly on Fox News, with killer gladiator heels. Killer? Maybe. Downstage. Center stage. Put herself out there for the unseen mystery person behind the two-way mirror to see. To choose. To pick one of us as the one. The one who doesn’t get to go home. The one who gets three hots and a cot and hopefully a lawyer. The one for whom the lineup is no longer a fun and games fashion show, but life and death.

***

I hit the internet for hours. Searching and researching Lucy Main, up and comer defense attorney. Probably on her way to becoming City Attorney for Los Angeles, maybe even District Attorney, though it didn’t make sense to me that a defense attorney would switch over to the DA’s office, even to be Torquemada-in-Chief. And I’ve always wondered how lawyers can switch from defense attorney to prosecutor or vice versa. I mean, don’tcha think that what it takes to be one or the other would be mutually exclusive of being the other-other? Today I fry you because you’re scum, tomorrow I get you off, because you’re as innocent as the day is long. Oh, I forgot, you’re a lawyer. You have no scruples. Oh, and they’re paying you the big bucks.

You can find out just about anything on anyone today. I found out where Lucy Main lived, her SS number and, of course, that she had a peanut allergy that almost took her life once. And that she had much higher political ambitions. And she’d do just about anything, step over anyone’s dead body, as long as no bodily fluids got on her Jimmy Choos, while she marched higher up the political ladder.

Saturday morning, I went out for a cruise, down to the neighborhood where a little birdie had told me that a certain defense attorney liked to jog along the trails in the hills above Hollywood. Everybody in L.A. jogs. There was an old song my mom used to play, by a group called Missing Persons, Nobody Walks in L.A.—no, of course they don’t. They jog. They won’t park at the back of a parking lot and walk a little extra to get to a store, but they’re big on jogging in circles or on treadmills that go nowhere.

***

The Smart Car pulled up in front of a Home Depot in Victorville. I got out, tugging the wide-brimmed floppy hat down over my face. I walked to the front entrance with the practiced nonchalance of Cary Grant, who, like Constantinople and Istanbul, used to be Archie Leach. Keeping my face down, chin tucked all the way, I hoped it wasn’t too bad of a double chin because if and when the surveillance tape made it to TMZ, well you know…

Though Smartie got good mileage, I figured Victorville was about as far as I could go and return on one tank of gas—with a little cushion of extra miles in case of some detour or other problem—so there would be no receipts showing me getting gas out that way. Now if only the car wouldn’t break down, this part of my plan would be home free.

I was all guilt and butterflies about driving out to Victorville just to buy the supplies for my murder kit. But I had to weigh the environmental consequences against the possibility of getting caught and well, self-preservation won out. Maybe I could buy some carbon credits or make it up some other way, like taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

I sauntered up and down the aisles, yes sauntered, it’s a good word, picking out what I needed: bleach, shop vac, flex ties, gigantic plastic bags, tarp. What else? Paper towels, buckets, gloves, mask, extra-large Rubbermaid bin.

The clerk looked at me oddly. He knew. He knew I was going to kill someone. He knew that each item I was buying was for a murder kit.

“It’s for a school project,” I said. “I’m making a collage for my art class.” With bleach and flex ties, yeah.

“Oh yeah, there was a guy in here before buying the same stuff. In fact, we get people buying this stuff all together all the time. Must be the same art class every semester over at the junior college.”

Yeah, art class. Body art. Dead body art.

Being ecumenical, I drove from Home Depot to Lowe’s and picked up glass cleaner, granite cleaner, silver cleaner, copper cleaner, lemon-scented cleaner and a cute little pinwheel thingee for the garden that was on display at the checkout counter. Then over to Ace Hardware for some Gatorade and anti-freeze. One is for drinking, the other is for spiking the drink with. Anti-freeze is sweet and green and will rip your guts out. I figured I’d have it as a backup if the peanuts didn’t do the trick.

Damn! I forgot the most important thing. The one item no murder kit should ever be without, duct tape. But I wanted to spread the wealth around and “buy local,” so instead of going back to one of the big box stores, I shunted over to a little mom and pop hardware store. They had a huge variety of duct tape, the classic silver, of course, but also pink and yellow, and rainbow. Tiger striped and leopard spots. Even Hello Kitty. I liked them all. After all, wouldn’t you want to spice up your life with a little fancy duct tape on your pipes or soon to be deceased frenemy. I opted for the classic silver. Didn’t want to stand out, but I thought maybe I’d buy some Hello Kitty tape for around the house.

***

Day 2

In which we get to know the suspects and I tell you a little about the motivation and background of each.

So you’re wondering how I know all this since I’m a first person narrator and couldn’t possibly have seen everything. I read it on the net like everyone else, of course. Oh, and we fashion show models all took several acting classes together.

In this corner in the shiny white satin Prada shorts, we have Paulette Aarons. By day an esthetician, fancy word for skin care therapist. She works at the Cheveux Laid Salon doing facials, body treatments and waxings. By night she’s an actress—or should I say actor—though she’s never had a part on TV or in movies, at least not yet, and has two unsold TV pilots under her arm. Not bad, though her performance of Lady Macbeth was a little over the top. Oh, and Lucy Main stole her parking place. Lucy, who ran seven miles a day, but didn’t want to walk an extra few yards from a farther parking space. And, as we know, stealing a parking space in L.A. is definitely a capital offense.

In the opposite corner, wearing Juicy Couture warm ups, Crystal Crawford. Lightworker by day, well, actress by night. She really pulled out all the stops in her role of “woman at the cosmetic counter” in Spider Man About Town. A pretty good actress, with three spec scripts under her arm and sitting on various producers’ desks around town. And in case you’re wondering, a lightworker isn’t someone who lifts light things but is a being who treads lightly through the world, casting light instead of shadow, and lights up mother earth by, well, being well lit. Definitely not light work as far as I can see. And what did Lucy Main do to her? She cut in front of her in line at the Apple store for the new iPhone 6000sglespaulstratocaster. And you can be damn sure that cutting in line for a new Apple product is a capital offense in L.A., or anywhere else for that matter.

And in the third corner, wearing tangerine green (yes, tangerine green) American Eagle Outfitter yoga pants with a Sweaty Betty yoga vest, Katrina Jones. Barista by day, you-know-what by night. Seller of two sitcom episode scripts, with a bunch more under her arm. Not a bad actress either. You should have seen her in CSI Topeka. She knows her rights because she played a cop on TV in an under-five. Self-conscious of her name since she was named after a song, or at least the singer of a song, but hey this is L.A. The song was Walking on Sunshine by Katrina and the Waves, since that was what her mom was listening to in 1985 when she was conceived. But she wasn’t walking on sunshine now, or was she—as Dateline NBC’s Keith Morrison would say. And what did Lucy Main do to her, besides not leaving a tip in the tip jar, ’cause we all know that not leaving a tip is a capital offense in the Land of La. Or at least it should be.

And in the fourth corner, we have Mary Shearer, a bank loan officer by day, well, a girl’s gotta earn a living, doesn’t she? And an aerobics-spin-yoga-Kabbalist instructor by night, who drinks only Smart water because it’s wetter than wet and certainly wetter than regular water. Yeah, I had to think about that too. Leads a full life, while clandestinely reading Bill O’Reilly books in the dark, Killing Lincoln, Killing Kennedy and Killing Jesus, which she read three times, but still has time for acting classes one night a week and performing in a community theatre play here or there. Star of stage and screen. You should have seen her portrayal of a woman with spots on her drinking glasses in a dishwasher ad—awe-inspiring. With seven spec scripts under her arm and a new one on the way. She turns one out every nine months, no actually every three weeks, having read and re-read Viki King’s How to Write a Movie in 21 Days. And she never falls behind. So what did Lucy Main do to her? She didn’t wipe off the bike seat after spinning class, and you know, don’tcha, that that is a capital offense in La La Land.

Crap, I’m out of corners. So over there, hanging on the ropes, doing her suspended asana yoga we have Sylvia Russell, stone mason and part-time life coach. And what does a life coach do? Helps you attain self-awareness, achieve inner focus and vision and gives you permission to make yourself the center of your own universe—we need more people like that. And what qualifications do you need? Well it helps if you can breathe through your nose as well as your mouth. So what does she do when she’s not coaching lives, well, she’s an actress, of course, with an unsold novel under her arm as well. She’s also damn good at karaoke. Loves to sing Tubthumping by Chumbawamba. And what did Lucy Main do to her? She didn’t turn her cell phone off during meditation period. And you know that’s gotta be a capital offense in L.A.

Oh, and did I mention that one of them is a tea-totin’, tea-partying, gun-lovin’, NRA huggin’, Fox News fan? And it might not be the one you think it is.

Certainly enough motive to go around, don’tcha think?

So which one of us is it? Who is narrating this tale of intrigue and suspense? Me. But who am I?

***

Day 1

In which Lucy Main signs her own death warrant.

The room was small and getting smaller by the minute. At least that’s how it seemed to me, as I sweated on the witness stand, hoping my makeup was holding up and that the camera wasn’t adding five pounds of phantom weight. The courtroom should have been magisterial, like on TV, with tall mahogany walls and the scales of justice ever so perfectly balanced. Instead of high ceilings that reached for justice, it had a drop ceiling, with yellowed stains in several places. The walls were covered in some kind of cheap paneling, possibly wood, that looked like it might have been the original paneling from the Brady Bunch set. The defense attorney, Lucy Main, looked from her client—the defendant—Dolly Hopper, over to me on the witness stand.

“And I say,” Main said, “that my client couldn’t have committed the crime for which she’s on trial here. No, I think you, Ms. Jones,” —she pointed an accusing finger at me—”were there. You killed Cora Van Adams! You were seen leaving the scene of the crime. You had means: she was pushed off the Colorado Street bridge in Pasadena and you have been described by some to be pushy. You had motive: She got the part you were dying for in the new reality show The Real Unemployed Actors of Los Angeles. You had opportunity: you were both in the same acting class and you offered to drive her home that night. You had means, motive and opportunity.”

Defense attorneys were always pointing fingers at innocent parties to deflect blame from their mostly guilty clients. It’s called an alternate theory of the crime and most of the time it’s pure BS, like in the Laci Peterson case where supposedly mysterious Satanists in a brown van abducted her. Good one!

I didn’t want to be blamed. I didn’t kill Cora Van Adams. My whole body tensed. Blood rushed to my already perfectly blushed cheeks (NARS blush in Orgasm—on sale at Nordstrom’s, if you hurry). I saw red and it wasn’t just a metaphor, it was Lucy Main’s blood running down the gutter. She had no right to accuse me. I was just a witness, an innocent bystander. I watched all the different versions of Law & Order, even the one that only lasted three episodes—this was not the way it was supposed to go down. Judge Judy would never have let this happen in her courtroom. And Nancy Grace would go full on apoplectic.

What about the innocent parties whose names and reps they tarnish without a second thought?

Yeah, what about them?

***

I couldn’t sleep the whole night after Lucy Main accused me of murdering Cora Van Adams in front of a courtroom of judge, prosecutor, bailiffs and spectators. And the defendant, Dolly Hopper, who really murdered Cora Van Adams. For a moment I felt like the center of attention, the star of the show. But this wasn’t a show I wanted to be the star of. Besides, why would I do it? Lucy Main had said I had means, motive and opportunity. Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I did it. And I didn’t.

I’d spent the night and most of the day after my appearance on the stand watching the Investigation Discovery Channel, or the Murder Channel as my boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—and I endearingly called it. We’d snuggle up with some popcorn or Häagen-Dazs, maybe some Ellery Queen and Hitchcock magazines, if we really wanted to be decadent, for a nice evening of murder, pillage and debauchery. Until he started getting too many ideas from those shows and I started to worry that I’d wake up dead one day, though how one can be awake and dead at the same time is beyond me.

And I brooded about getting revenge on Lucy Main. But it wasn’t until I lost my job, my other best friend and my reputation because of the accusing finger Lucy Main pointed at me in the trial, that I started to devise my nefarious plan. That’s when I started making a list—two lists actually, and checking them both twice: List 1: Things to Buy and List 2: Things Not to Do. Both of which I learned from watching Murder Channel shows.

Buy: bleach, gloves, a gigantic Rubbermaid container—the full human body size—I think that’s an official size designation. Duct tape. Etc.

Not to Do: Well, don’t leave any clues behind. No DNA—so basically you have to wear a spacesuit or hazmat suit, which might be impractical, but cover up as best you can. Don’t search things like “how to commit the perfect murder” or “how long does it take to suffocate someone” from your home computer or cell phone—that’s what libraries are for, stupid. Don’t buy your whole murder kit in one place. Avoid video cameras. Don’t buy your murder kit close to home. Don’t bring the murder kit home with you so the police find it if they search your house, dummy! Don’t keep the receipt in your purse. Don’t call anyone from your cell phone right before, during or after the murder. And don’t tell anyone about it, much as you might want to brag about committing the perfect murder, not even your scumbag cellmate who will turn on you to lose three days off her sentence.

***

Day 8—Back to the beginning

In which I find that you can, indeed, go home again.

I walked out of the police station a free woman. All my careful lists and precautions had worked and of course those expensive acting classes had paid off. All they found when they luminoled my house was tomato sauce splatter—everywhere. They were so excited when they thought it was Lucy Main’s blood and so defeated when they learned it wasn’t. But they were so excited again when it was tested to be the same brand as the sauce in the ziti that killed her and so defeated again when they realized it was the most popular brand so they couldn’t pin it on me. Nope, they had nothing, no evidence, no DNA, PSA, TBA or DDT, nothing. But Paulette Aarons didn’t fare so well. They found a roll of Hello Kitty duct tape in the backseat of her car and the torn off edge matched the edge left wrapped around Lucy Main’s wrists. You see Lucy Main stole her parking space and that was her motive according to the cops. But did I forget to mention that Paulette also stole my parking space? You see she cut me off in the courthouse parking lot. So as I was disposing of the evidence, I just happened to track down her address through her license plate, found her gas-guzzling Land Rover parked in the driveway, with the windows open and voila—no more Hello Kitty duct tape.

And who was the gun totin’ tea partyin’ Fox News lovin’ one in the bunch? Well it wasn’t me, that’s all I can tell ya.

On the upside, now I’ve got some new audition footage for my reel. Yup, I’m walkin’ on sunshine, baby.

 

Author Bio

Paul D. Marks is the author of the Shamus Award-Winning noir mystery-thriller White Heat. Publishers Weekly calls White Heat a “taut crime yarn.” His story Howling at the Moon (EQMM 11/14) was short-listed for both the 2015 Anthony and Macavity Awards for Best Short Story, and came in #7 in Ellery Queen’s Reader’s Poll Award. Midwest Review calls Vortex, Paul’s noir novella, “…a nonstop staccato action noir.” His story Deserted Cities of the Heart appears in Akashic’s St. Louis Noir. And Ghosts of Bunker Hill is in the December, 2016 Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. www.PaulDMarks.com