Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 22

"Remember how you said you wrote dating profiles for Joy?"

"Yes, I remember," I replied, not exactly thrilled at this conversational turn of events.

"Well, I've just joined one of those Internet dating services, and I was hoping I could hire you to write a profile for me."

So much for our future grandkids.

"I'm really good at writing up criminal cases," he was saying, "but when it comes to personal stuff, I stink."

"I'd be happy to help," I said, most annoyed at myself for having indulged in that absurd daydream.

We agreed on a small fee, and he filled me in on his personal info.

Like me, he was a native Angeleno, born in Manhattan Beach, right next to my home town of Hermosa. When he told me he was into movies, books, and crossword puzzles, I couldn't help but feel excited.

"Me, too!" I cried. "I love movies and books and crossword puzzles. I do the New York Times puzzle every day!"

"That's nice," he replied with a mild smile. "I'm also into ultimate Frisbee and beach volleyball."

Cancel that romance. No way was anyone ever going to get me and my thighs on a beach, playing volleyball. Or ultimate Frisbee, whatever the heck that was.

Now it was time for the Big Question.

"What about looks?"

I don't care what anybody says, in the end, that's all men are really interested in.

"I'm open to all kinds," he said.

"Really?"

"Absolutely!" A pause, and then he added, "Although frankly, if I'm going to be honest, I think I'd prefer a pet.i.te blonde."

"Of course you would," I said with a stiff smile.

What did I tell you? Just another shallow jerk in the dating pool.

And you wonder why I never remarried.

"How soon can you write this up?" he asked.

"It won't take me long at all."

He gave me his e-mail address, and I a.s.sured him he'd have his dating profile by the next day.

After thanking me for my time and giving Prozac a farewell love scratch, he headed out the door.

I should have been thrilled that I hadn't been arrested.

Instead, I just wanted to throw a Slurpee at the nearest pet.i.te blonde.

Chapter 19.

When last we saw Greg, those of you who were paying attention and not running to the fridge for a snack will no doubt remember that he'd been heading off to an art gallery with a "freshly painted" oil he'd just hauled out of a dusty closet.

I was pretty much convinced he was a fraud and that somehow Joy had found out about it and was blackmailing him. But I couldn't confront him, not without admitting I'd trespa.s.sed on his private property to spy on him.

I needed a way to get him to admit he was faking those paintings of his.

And with a great deal of thought (not to mention a few Double Stuf Oreos), I figured out how to do it.

After a pit stop at my local home supply store, I headed out to Greg's place in Santa Monica.

I was happy to see his Lamborghini in the driveway. Which meant he was home and my plan could proceed unimpeded.

Well, not exactly unimpeded. There were two furry obstacles standing in my way.

Namely, Rocky and Bullwinkle.

What if those rascal rodents were lurking in the front yard, just waiting for their chance to chomp into my elastic waist jeans?

But if you think a woman of my mental fort.i.tude was about to be intimidated by two pint-sized, pea-brained squirrels-you're absolutely right.

Which is why I'd picked up a can of something called Squirrel-B-Gone at the home supply store.

Clutching it now in my sweaty palm, I scooted up Greg's front path. If Rocky and Bullwinkle came anywhere near me, I intended to let them have it straight in their beady little eyes. But thank heavens all was quiet in Greg's front yard. No sign of my bushy-tailed a.s.sailants anywhere.

I made it to the front door without incident and rang the bell, stashing my Squirrel-B-Gone in my purse.

Greg came to the door in his jeans and work shirt, his hands once again immaculately clean.

He frowned at the sight of me.

"You again?" he snapped. "I've said all I have to say about Joy Amoroso."

"But that's not why I'm here," I said, plastering on my brightest smile. "I seem to have lost one of my earrings yesterday, and I'm pretty sure I dropped it in your living room. Mind if I come in for a sec and look around?"

He rolled his eyes, not even trying to hide his annoyance.

"If you must," he sighed, reluctantly letting me in.

Following him into the living room, I made a beeline for the sofa where I'd been sitting yesterday. Immediately I started running my hands between the cushions, eyeing the box of Valentine's candy still on his coffee table.

(Isn't it amazing how some people take days to finish a box of chocolates?) When I figured enough time had elapsed, I cried, "Here it is!"

I then held up an earring I'd been clutching in my hand all along.

"I'm so happy I found it. It's a family heirloom pa.s.sed down to me from my mom." (It was pa.s.sed down to me from my mom, all right-via the Home Shopping channel-for $29.68, plus shipping and handling.) "How touching," Greg said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to get back to my painting."

"Just one more thing," I said, not moving an inch. "I was hoping you could do me a tiny favor. You see, I'm painting my bedroom, and I can't decide which color I like. What with you being an artist, I was hoping you could help me make up my mind."

And before he had a chance to object, I whipped out some paint chips I'd picked up at the home supply store.

"What do you think? Azure? Or Robin's Egg Blue?"

He gave the chips a cursory glance and said, "Robin's Egg Blue."

"That's the blue you prefer?"

"Yes, that's the blue I prefer!" he said with an impatient tap of his work boots.

"Very interesting, I said. "Because both of these paint chips happen to be green."

An angry flush surged up under his tan.

"Get out of here!" he screamed. "Now!"

But I wasn't about to go anywhere.

"You're colorblind, aren't you, Greg? I noticed it yesterday. Your socks didn't match. They still don't."

He looked down at his socks, then up at me.

"So? I'm colorblind. What's the big deal?"

"It's no big deal, not unless you're an artist famed for his use of color."

His eyes darted around the room like he was looking for the nearest emergency exit.

Clearly I had him rattled.

"And if you're so busy painting, how come your hands are so clean? Not a spot of paint anywhere."

"Ever hear of turpentine?" he sneered.

"Sure have. It has quite a distinct smell. Your hands smell like Zest to me."

"Exactly what are you trying to say?"

This was it. The moment I'd been waiting for.

"You're a fraud, Greg. Someone else painted your paintings."

"That's preposterous!"

He tried to look outraged, but it wasn't working. Those darting eyes of his refused to meet mine.

"You can't prove a thing!" he said, a hint of desperation in his voice.

"Oh, yes, I can." I decided to throw caution to the winds and tell the truth. "I happened to be sitting in a tree outside your studio yesterday. I saw you take that dusty old painting out of a closet and tell someone at an art gallery that you'd just finished painting it."

"Okay, that does it!" he said, whipping out his cell phone from his jeans pocket. "I'm calling the cops and having you arrested for trespa.s.sing!"

"Great. And while we're waiting for them to show up, I'll call your art gallery and tell them you're a fake."

"It'll be your word against mine." He clamped his arms across his chest in a gesture of defiance. "They'll never believe you."

"I think they will when I tell them about that mysterious closet of yours. Something tells me there may be a whole lot more 'freshly painted' oils stacked up inside."

That was it. Game over. Score one for Jaine.

Shoulders slumped in defeat, Greg clicked his phone shut and sank down into a nearby armchair.

"Joy knew all about this, didn't she?" I asked.

He nodded mutely.

"And she was blackmailing you."

"For five miserable years," he groaned.

"So who really painted your stuff?"

"My uncle George. He died about six years ago. Left me everything in his will. Uncle George painted as a hobby. Never thought of himself as an artist, just kept piling his pictures in the garage. He thought they were worthless, and so did I.

"At first I planned to have them all hauled off to the Goodwill. Except for one painting that I'd hung in my living room. Then one night I brought home a woman I met in a bar. She took one look at the painting and fell in love with it. Saw it was signed G. Stanton and a.s.sumed I painted it. I didn't correct her. I was trying to score with her, and I thought that might help. Turns out she worked at an art gallery on Melrose. She brought it in, and the owner put it up on display. Two weeks later it sold for forty-five grand."

He smiled at the memory.

"Needless to say, I canceled that trip to the Goodwill. I realized I had a gold mine on my hands. If I parceled out Uncle George's paintings carefully, I could live on them for the rest of my life.

"Soon I was getting a lot of press, and Uncle George's paintings started selling for more and more money. Everything was going along fine. Until Joy came along."

He slumped even lower in his seat.

"She showed up at one of my gallery exhibits. I knew she was trouble the minute I saw her waddling over to me in one of her tent dresses. She had this smile on her face, like a cat who'd just caught a particularly juicy mouse.

"She said she knew all about my little secret and that unless I joined her crummy dating service and agreed to be photographed with her all over town, she'd tell the world what a fraud I was."

"How on earth did she know about your uncle George?"

"After my Aunt Min died, Uncle George was lonely. He wanted to join Dates of Joy but couldn't afford the initiation fee. So he wrote Joy a letter, asking if she'd accept one of his paintings instead of money. She turned him down flat, of course, money-grubbing b.i.t.c.h that she was.