Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(50)

You mean like getting me my own TV?

“I’m going to make a difference in the world!”

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I’d like flat screen, if possible.

Wasting no time, I called the offices of L.A. Girlfriends and made an appointment to see them that morning. I’d zip over there on my way to Hysteria Lane.

I hurried off to shower and dress, filled with a newfound sense of purpose. Not only would I get Seymour Fiedler off the hook for that pesky criminal charge, but I’d bring joy to the heart of a motherless child.

I wondered if Mother Teresa started like this.

I was hoping to meet Sister Mary Agnes when I showed up at the modest mid-Wilshire offices of L.A. Girlfriends, but the birdlike woman manning the reception desk explained that the good Sister was away on a fund-raising tour. I’d be meeting with one of her valued associates, she informed me, leading me down the hallway for my interview.

“Ms. Austen,” she said, opening the door into a small but sunny office, “meet Tyler Girard.”

I blinked in surprise. I hadn’t been expecting to see a guy, and certainly not one this cute. He had the kind of boyish good looks I’m particularly fond of. Big brown eyes, sandy hair that flopped onto his forehead, and a smile—as I was about to discover—sweeter than a Hershey’s Kiss.

“So nice to meet you, Ms. Austen,” he said, flashing me his sweet smile.

Usually I’m wary when it comes to members of the sloppier sex. You’d be wary, too, if you’d been married to The Blob. That’s what I call my exhusband, a charming fellow who wore flipflops to our wedding and clipped his toenails in the sink. But flying in the face of past experience, my heart was doing carefree little somersaults.

“Have a seat,” he said, “and I’ll tell you about L.A. Girlfriends.”

As he talked about how Sister Mary Agnes started L.A.

Girlfriends fifteen years ago in a church basement, I found 176

Laura Levine

myself staring at the laugh lines around his mouth and wondering if he liked old movies and Chinese food as much as I did.

This totally inappropriate reverie went on for some time until I came to my senses. I hadn’t come here to meet a guy, I reminded myself. I was here to do good in the world. I quickly banished all romantic thoughts from my mind and forced myself to focus.

“So,” Tyler said, after he’d finished giving me a rundown on the organization, “tell me a little about yourself.”

I told him about my life as a jack-of-all-trades wordsmith—writing ads, brochures, resumes, and industrial films— and how lately I’d been wanting to do something more meaningful with my time, to contribute something to society, as it were, and that L.A. Girlfriends seemed like the perfect venue for my charitable impulses.

I chattered on in this noble vein for a while, carefully omitting any references to the Jaine Austen who has been known to watch Oprah in the middle of the afternoon with a cat and a pint of Chunky Monkey in her lap.

He nodded thoughtfully throughout my spiel.

“Have you ever worked with young people before?”

“I used to babysit when I was a teenager. But I don’t know if that counts. Most of the time,” I admitted, “the kids were asleep.”

For what seemed like an eternity but was probably only seconds, he looked into my eyes, saying nothing. I could see he was trying to get a reading on me. Oh, dear Lord, I prayed.

Please don’t let him see my shallow, selfish side, the side that filches ketchup packets from McDonald’s and tears the Do Not Remove Under Penalty Of Law tags off pillows.

Finally he broke his silence with a smile.

“I have good vibes about you, Ms. Austen.”

He had good vibes about me! I was going to be an L.A.

Girlfriend!

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“Why don’t you fill out our application? We’ll do a background check on you, and get back to you in a few days.”

Phooey. It looked like I wasn’t a shoo-in, after all.

“Don’t worry,” he said, seeing the disappointment in my eyes. “I don’t anticipate any problems. I’m sure you’ll check out just fine.”

He flashed me another achingly sweet smile and I left his office on a high, ready to start my new altruistic life, thinking of how I’d soon be bringing joy to a motherless young girl.

Okay, so I was thinking about that smile of his, too. Heck, I’m only human.





Chapter


! Four #

This time, the Coxes were home when I rang their bell.

Willard’s wife, Ethel, came to the door, a short, rosy cheeked woman in an old-fashioned housedress and apron, her hair a cap of tightly permed gray curls.

“Can I help you?” she asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

I flashed her my trusty Century National card and told her I was an insurance investigator looking into Garth’s death. It had worked so well with Cathy Janken, I figured I’d try it again.

“Oh, my,” she said, shaking her curls in disbelief. “I still can’t believe that poor man is dead.”

“You didn’t happen to see anybody on the roof in the days before he died, did you?”

“Only those roofers,” she said. “The ones with the red baseball caps.”