Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(55)

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of town. I spent a good twenty minutes on a wooden bench exchanging pleasantries with a 6’4” transvestite named Cheyenne before the good lieutenant ushered me to his desk.

A laconic guy with droopy bloodhound eyes, DiMartelli nodded absently as I told him of my suspicions, all the while fiddling with a chocolate Santa on his desk. Occasionally he picked up a yellow legal pad and jotted down a note, but I had the sneaky suspicion he was working on his Christmas list.

“In other words,” he said when I was through, “you’re accusing Libby Brecker of murder because you saw a dustbunny on her baseboard.”

“It wasn’t a dustbunny. It was a piece of flocking.”

“Are you sure it was flocking?”

“Of course, I’m sure.”

He shot me a penetrating look from beneath his droopy lids.

“Pretty sure, anyway,” I hedged.

“We’ll check into it,” he said. “When hell freezes over.”

Okay, so he didn’t say the part about hell freezing over, but I knew that’s what he was thinking. Clearly he’d written me off as an interfering nutcase.

“Well, thanks for your time,” I said, not feeling the least bit grateful. “And bon appetit,” I added, with a nod to the chocolate Santa.

Then I got up and headed out the door.

I glanced back just in time to see him wad up the notes he’d just taken and toss them in the trash.

All in all, not a terribly satisfying meeting.

There was, however, some good news to report that week.

I’d just come home from my fruitless visit to Lt. DiMartelli, and was stretched out on my sofa, trying to dredge up the energy to tackle my Christmas cards. I’d abandoned my original plan to write heartfelt personal messages, settling for the 192

Laura Levine

slightly less imaginative “XOXOXO, Jaine.” But now even X’s and O’s seemed like a lot of work, and I was lying there staring at the ceiling, when the phone rang.

After fishing it out from between two sofa cushions, I heard a soft male voice come on the line.

“Jaine? It’s Tyler Girard.”

Omigosh, the sweetie from L.A. Girlfriends!

I bolted up, suddenly rejuvenated.

“Congratulations, Jaine. You’re now officially an L.A.

Girlfriend.”

“That’s wonderful!” I squealed.

“I told you there wouldn’t be any problems. We’ve already matched you with your Girlfriend.”

“When do I meet her?”

“I’ll fax you her background information and phone number, and you can set up a date.”

“I can’t wait!” I said, eager to start my life of selfless giving.

“I’ll also send along a copy of our Girlfriends Guidelines.

Some rules and regulations you need to follow. Nothing major.

Suggested venues for your dates, stuff like that.”

“How can I ever thank you for giving me this marvelous opportunity?”

“No need to thank us, Jaine. We’re happy to have you on board. Oh, and while I’ve got you on the phone, there’s something else I’d like to ask you.”

No, I’m not married, and yes, I’d love to go out with you.

But he was not, alas, about to ask me out on a date.

“You mentioned at our meeting that you’re a writer.”

“Yes, I am.”

“It so happens we’ve been looking for someone to write press releases for us. Have you ever done any PR?”

Okay, so it wasn’t a date, but it was the next best thing. A potential job, always a welcome prospect at Casa Austen.

“Oh, yes,” I assured him. “I’ve done lots of PR. Why, just THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

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last year I won an award for a promotional campaign I wrote.”

“Really? Who was your client?”

Drat. I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me this.

“Um. Toiletmasters Plumbers.”

Not exactly the Fortune 500 image I was hoping to impart.

“And what were you promoting?”

Phooey. I was hoping to avoid this one, too.

“A new product of theirs. Called Big John.”

“Big John?”

“A large-sized commode for large-sized people.”

“Really? And you won an award for that?”

“Yes,” I said, with as much dignity as I could muster. “The Golden Plunger Award from the Los Angeles Plumbers Association.”

Miraculously, he did not burst out into gales of derisive laughter. On the contrary, much to my amazement, the next words out of his mouth were: “Do you think you might be interested in doing some work for us?”

“Absolutely,” I assured him.

“Great! I’ll introduce you to Sister Mary Agnes at the Christmas party, and you can set up an interview with her.”

“The Christmas party?”

“Yes, every year L.A. Girlfriends has a big Christmas bash.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”

Was it my imagination, or was there a hint of romance in his voice? Was Tyler possibly angling for an L.A. Girlfriend of his own?