Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(62)

But the most impressive feature was the view. Sweeping floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a breathtaking panorama of the city. On a clear day, which it was, you could see out to the ocean.

With an office practically in the clouds, one thing was certain: Prudence Bascomb was not afraid of heights.

I stood in the doorway, suitably awed.

“Come in,” she said, waving me inside. “Have a seat.”

She gestured to a sleek chrome and leather chair.

I sat down across from her, marveling at her sculpted cheekbones and startling green eyes.

“Can I have my secretary get you an Evian?”

“No, thanks.”

When it comes to no-calorie water, I’m always able to Just Say No.

“Then let’s get started, shall we? You wanted to talk about Garth Janken’s death?”

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“Yes, I’m afraid his fall from the roof may not have been an accident.”

“Oh?” she said, her face an impassive Chanel mask.

“I think someone tampered with the shingles. Someone who wanted to kill Garth.”

“Isn’t that a little far-fetched?” she asked with a dismissive smile.

“Not really. In fact, the police think so, too. They just arrested Willard Cox this morning.”

“Willard Cox?” Her brows lifted a fraction of an inch, her version of surprise. “I knew he and Garth had their differences, but murder? I find that hard to believe.”

“I agree with you. I think somebody else is trying to frame him for Garth’s death. The real killer.”

“And who might that be?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I came to see you. Do you know anybody who might’ve wanted to see Garth Janken dead?

Anybody he was at odds with?”

She smiled wryly.

“Garth Janken was ‘at odds’ with half the neighborhood.

The man made enemies like Pringles makes potato chips. But I can’t believe anybody on Hysteria Lane is a killer.”

Same old, same old, I thought, stifling a sigh.

“Wait a minute,” she said, tapping a perfectly manicured nail on her cheek in thought, “there was somebody else he was fighting with.”

I sat up, interested.

“Who?”

“Peter Roberts. Garth’s law partner. I heard through the grapevine that he and Garth were going through a particularly vicious split up.”

How foolish of me. All along I’d been limiting my suspects to people on Hysteria Lane. I should’ve known that a guy like Garth would make enemies wherever he went.

“Not that I’m saying Peter killed Garth, mind you,” Pru— THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

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dence quickly added. “I’m not about to implicate anybody in a murder.”

Spoken like a true attorney.

“Well,” she said, her cool smile still lodged firmly in place, “if those are all your questions … ?”

“Just one more,” I said, coming to the point of my visit.

“What was your relationship with Garth like?”

“Mine?” She laughed a laugh singularly devoid of mirth.

“I hardly knew him. Just to wave and say hello.”

“You judged his house every year in the Christmas decorating contest, didn’t you?”

For the first time since I walked in the door, a look of discomfort flitted across those gorgeous green eyes.

“Oh, yes. The contest. One of my chores as president of the homeowners association. I’ve really got to step down one of these days. It takes up way too much of my time.”

“He won first prize five years in a row, didn’t he?”

She reached for a crystal water glass at her elbow, and took a careful sip.

“Garth may not have been very popular, but he was amazing when it came to Christmas decorations. A true artist.”

“Willard Cox says he was bribing you.”

Bingo. I’d hit a nerve. Prudence’s eyebrows shot up a whole half inch.

“That’s absurd!” she said, an angry flush creeping up her cheeks. “Do I look like I need the money?”

I had to admit she didn’t. But something about that contest had her worried. I’d bet my bottom Pop Tart on it.

“Garth Janken won first prize every year because he deserved to,” she said, in a tone that brooked no further discussion. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve really got to get back to work.”

And before I knew it, I was in an elevator, zipping down forty-plus floors to the Peon Level of the garage.

I headed to my car, filled with a much-welcome sense of 216

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accomplishment. My ten minutes with Prudence Bascomb had yielded two important facts.

Fact Number One: There was something decidedly fishy about the Hysteria Lane Christmas decorating contest.

And Fact Number Two: Garth Janken had a law partner who hated his guts.

But both of those facts paled in comparison to Fact Number Three, one I was about to discover as I made my way toward the exit—that parking in Prudence’s Century City garage was a jaw-dropping fifteen bucks an hour.

I made a mental note to write a letter to the mayor about the exorbitant parking rates in Century City and headed back to my apartment for a bite of lunch.