Claire Fontaine Crime Fighter: A novel of life and death....and shoes

by Tracey Enright

Overview

A Novel of Life and Death...and Shoes

Claire Fontaine is sassy, sexy, sophisticated, and rich. Henry Bennett is fat, sloppy, slow, and a bad dresser. He's a private eye, and as far as he's concerned, she's his assistant. As far as she's concerned, he's her partner. Their entire relationship, in fact, is one big difference of opinion, and the results are hilarious.

Now Henry has been hired to investigate the murder of a young woman who liked to party. Claire helps (or hinders, depending on your point of view) when she can drag herself away from her Brentwood mansion and the James Bond-like hunk who lives next door. As Claire and Henry try to trace the victim's last known companions, they stumble across streets that the rich and famous desperately try to hide.

If you like sleuths who are stylish, seductive, and full of great fun, then Claire Fontaine is the crime fighter for you.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781429903950
Publisher:	St. Martin's Publishing Group
Publication date:	04/01/2007
Sold by:	Macmillan
Format:	eBook
Pages:	240
File size:	414 KB

About the Author

Tracey Enright was born in Dallas, Texas, and educated at Southern Methodist University. She lives in New York City.

Read an Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

On a rather balmy October day, I had an interview that changed my life.

My father had the right connections and scored me a brief meeting with a notorious homicide detective named Henry Bennett. When I arrived at his office, situated in the Miracle Mile district along Wilshire Boulevard, I was faced with the worst possible working environment. The lobby of the building smelled like dirty dishes and sweaty bodies, and the floor was stained with dark fluids and a lifetime of heel marks. The air felt thick and moist. My pores were already getting clogged and I hadn't even gotten the job yet.

The second fioor offered even less decor and smelled more of neglect and mildew than the foyer. It was a poorly lit, narrow corridor surrounded by walls of gray (not the new Ralph Lauren gray, but lifeless, peeling, and antiquated gray). I walked down the hallway in dismay, absorbing the dull environment. Four of the offices belonged to various medical associations, three were law offices, and two were film-production companies. Henry Bennett's office was the last one on the right, at the end of the corridor. The door facing me was dark wood with simple, gold lettering that read: HENRY BENNETT, PRIVATE DETECTIVE.

I adjusted my silk Armani suit and touched up my lip gloss.

The waiting area was small and dank. Absolutely no decor. Not even a faux Monet. An empty, baby-shit yellow desk was strangely aligned with the east wall, and there was a single foldout metal chair against the opposite wall.

And the obligatory neglected dead plant in the corner.

I heard heavy footsteps approaching, reminded me of a dinosaur clumping across old wood. And then a large shapeless man stepped out of his office. He was in his late forties, about six-foot-two, with brownish-gray hair and weary green eyes, and badly dressed. And I mean badly dressed. Beige shirt that fit his girth like a stretched glove. Pants that had seen better days in 1980. Shoes that no longer had a definite shape.

He stopped abruptly in the doorway of his office, looking me up and down rudely. "Who are you?"

"I'm Claire Fontaine," I said cheerfully. "I'm here about the job."

"Oh," he said, looking me over again. "Really?"

"Yes."

A cruel smirk danced across his face as he snorted the words, "This is a joke, right?"

"No."

"My friend Bud from Vice sent you, right? You're the stripper for my birthday?"

"I know no one called Bud, and the only way you'd ever see me naked is by witnessing my autopsy."

When it finally hit him who I was, his face collapsed into a frown. "Oh, yeah. Your daddy knows the mayor." He exhaled like an asthmatic. "Come on in. I forgot all about this. I'm not exactly a team player. But, you know, when the mayor calls, I like to, uh, pacify him. It's important to stay in good graces with the city officials. Makes my job easier."

Sighing and moaning and cursing beneath his breath, he took me into his office and offered me a chair. "So," he grunted. "Why on earth would you want to work for me? In this business of death?"

He really put me on the spot. It was one of those deep, introspective questions, and I felt paralyzed by him, the office, the fluorescent lighting. I wanted to speak, but nothing came out. He waved an impatient hand in front of my face.

"Hello. Anybody awake in there? You a deaf-mute?" I shook my head, squeezed my Cartier.

"This is what's called an interview," he said sarcastically. "It's part of the hiring process. I ask you a bunch of silly questions, and then I pretend like I'm listening to you when you answer them."

"I have an interest in police work." I finally breathed. "Ever since I was a kid, I've been a bit of a sleuth. But nobody in your line of work is interested in giving someone like me a chance. They take one look at me and think I'm silly and ridiculous and stupid. And that all I know how to do is shop. But really, Detective, I'd put half these bureaucrats to shame. It's difficult for a girl like me to get one foot in the door."

He snorted. "Hardly, babe. Remember I'm the one doing this 'cause the mayor asked nicely. And that's the only reason. I don't like much company, much fuss. I'm not exactly a thrill to be around, got my moods. My bowel issues. My language is pretty tough and I'm hesitant about clouding your pink mind with such filth. All of this makes me nervous."

I had to say something. "I'm clever. Intelligent. Loyal. Punctual. Diligent."

He started laughing. "Those are just adjectives." His hands were in the air. "Do you have any experience? Anything?"

The dreaded question. "Experience?"

"Yes. Experience is the collective knowledge gained from past training that would aid in your ability to bring something to this job."

"I know what experience is," I said, flushed with anger.

"I need proof that you have a brain."

Henry Bennett reached his fleshy hand into a McDonald's bag and started devouring greasy hash browns. I could see tiny bits of white potato in his mouth.

"I have a college education," I said.

"I don't." He belched. "This job isn't about being educated, in the scholarly sense. It's about instinct, which is what I got going for me. I can read people, pick out the liars from the loonies. Don't mind getting my hands dirty with someone else's blood. Spend most of my time alone, which is the way I like it. I'm a solitary person and never really enjoyed having a partner when I was on the force."

"How do you feel about having one now?"

"A partner?" His head tilted, confused.

"Yeah."

"You can't be talking about yourself."

"Yes, I am."

He tumbled forward with laughter. "Listen, honey, you're here to answer phones, do some filing, and stay out of my way. I'm not even sure you could handle the pictures that come across my desk. We're not exactly talking about the spring layout in Vogue."

"Listen, Detective, I know you're bitter about this, some absolute stranger sitting across from you, wearing the best outfit you've probably ever seen — but could you just lighten up for one week?" "That's a long time to put up with bullshit and Burberry."

"You might be surprised," I said.

"Shocked would be more like it." He looked at my suit, shook his head. "You might want to consider dressing a bit more casual for the job. This isn't the cleanest place on earth."

"I noticed."

"Feel free to wear jeans or sweatpants, if you want. I applaud comfort. My clients might be put off by all your ... sparkles."

"If they can handle death," I said, "they can handle a woman who knows how to accessorize."

"Whatever." He tossed the McDonald's bag into an already overfiowing trashcan. "You'll be on call, by the way. Hope that won't interfere with manicures and pedicures and the annual Barneys sale."

"I'll manage."

"We'll see. And always keep your phone turned on."

"You mean in case there's an emergency and you need me right away?"

"No, in case I'm hungry and want you to stop by Fromin's and pick up my breakfast. And lunch. And dinner. I love food, it's the American way. So don't be bringing me any hoity-toity crap. If it's raw, I ain't eating it. If it's green, I won't like it. If it's fat-free, I'm allergic."

"Morbidly obese looks good on you," I said. "So be it, I won't try to change that."

"Good." He pulled himself from the chair with a sigh. "How 'bout we start with you running an errand for me."

"Okay." My first official duty.

He removed a small plastic bag from the top drawer of his desk. A smile grew across his face when he said, "Take this ?nger to the Anatomical Pound at the Los Angeles County Morgue."

"What?"

"You heard me." He shook the plastic in my face. "This finger. To the Anatomical Pound. The assistant coroner, Ralph Manning, is expecting it."

I took the bag, glanced down at the bone, slender and charred. "Who did it belong to?"

"Buck Cooper."

"Where's the rest of him?"

"Scattered across the Angeles National Forest. Hikers and outdoorsy types are still finding parts of his body. 'Course, everything was burned up in the fire. It was your basic dismember-and-torch routine. But what people don't understand is that human bone is incredibly fire-resistant. So now we're putting the bastard back together. And it's a real bitch."

"That's so lovely."

"You can start tomorrow, nine o'clock sharp. I hate tardiness, gives me gas. So be on time and be dressed for work, in fabric that will actually allow you to move. To file. To clean."

"Yes, sir. I look forward to the challenge."

He started to close the door in my face. "Yeah, bet you do."

The plastic could not prevent the odor from seeping into my nostrils like overcooked pork that had been left in a frying pan for three days. I knew that it was bound to stink up my Mercedes, and no amount of Chanel No. 5 would be able to eradicate the stench.

CHAPTER 2

The building seemed too small and angular to house the army of dead bodies that must have passed through on a daily basis. The LAC-USC General Hospital loomed in the distance, multileveled and impressive, casting a shadow over the coroner's office. I was hoping for a drive-thru lane, something quick and easy, where I could just toss the bag out the window and get on with my day. No such luck. And parking was a total nightmare because of too many boxy sedans with government plates. I finally found a spot close to the door, parked, and passed a couple of wide-eyed medical types on my way inside.

The receptionist didn't even budge when I shook the bag in her face. "I've got a delivery for Ralph Manning."

"Is he expecting you?"

"I certainly hope so. Because I'm not leaving here until I find a home for" — eyeing the finger — "him."

"Down the hall to the left. I'll buzz Manning."

As I pushed my way into the corridor, a gurney rolled passed me, wheels clattering along the fioor. I couldn't help noticing the enormous black body bag bouncing around on top, the blue arm that fell to the side, and the inescapable odor of putrefaction. The morgue attendant nodded and I thought about passing out. Acidic mist hung in the air. It was an icebox, this house of death, air-conditioning working overtime, whispering behind old vents that had grown accustomed to the sights and smells that had rolled passed them.

Ralph Manning was a wiry man, small-boned, fair-haired, early thirties. "Detective Bennett said you had a nice rack!" His voice echoed down the hall. The nightmare played out before me, but I pretended not to hear him.

"I've got Buck Cooper's finger."

"Yeah. I know. We're tryin' to put the son of a bitch back together. Like Humpty Dumpty with all the body parts."

"How lovely."

He snatched the bag carelessly, the bone bouncing within the plastic. "How long you been workin' for Henry?"

"About forty-five minutes."

"You just started today?"

"Correct."

"How's it going so far?"

"Have no complaints."

"You will."

"Excuse me?"

"You'll have complaints," he grunted. "Just give it time. He's a tough one, real set in his ways."

"Yeah, I got that part."

"But be patient because you could learn a lot. I mean, if that's your thing. You don't really seem like the law-enforcement type. Too fancy for street work."

"He talked to me about the outfit."

Manning studied me, his eyes rolled along my hips, down my legs, squaring off at my feet. "You wear the threads well, babe, but in this business it's about keeping a low profile. Hard to imagine the likes of you hanging out with all the bottom feeders."

He shook the bag and turned on his heel. "Thanks again. Mr. Owen was looking for this." Manning disappeared behind a metal door. A meat-locker chill crawled into the corridor, colder than the vents from above. Something sinister lurked behind all the linoleum and polished silver. I hated the smell of it all, death and decay, and knew it would forever haunt me.

From the morgue, I drove straight to Ethan Allen and purchased a Chippendale-style cherry-wood office desk. Very elegant with a nice vintage finish. I also bought a Harvard desk chair in brown leather. Feeling compelled to renovate the entire lobby of my new office, I picked out a forged-iron end table from the Collector's Classics line. And I ordered it all for next-day delivery.

After Ethan Allen, I dropped by the Montblanc store and purchased ten Mozart platinum-trim pens and two Legrand pens for my new office. Then I went to Pottery Barn and selected an old-fashioned swing-arm lamp in satin nickel.

CHAPTER 3

For me a corpse has a beauty and dignity which a living body could never hold. There is a peace about death that soothes me.

— John Christie

The next morning, dressed in black Escada slacks, a pearl-white Donna Karan oxford shirt, and Sergio Rossi boots, I arrived for my first official day on the job.

The door to Henry Bennett's office was closed, but I could hear the thick deep growl of the man behind it. Probably talking shop on the phone. I stood alone, twisting the strap of my Chanel pocketbook in the waiting area. Glancing around at the out-of-date, dust-covered furniture, I wasn't sure where to begin.

Thankfully within seconds of my arrival, the Ethan Allen delivery-men knocked on the door. Both men were wearing wrinkled uniforms, liberally saturated with their own personal scent — and it wasn't Lagerfeld Photo, if you get my drift.

The larger one approached me, looked down at the clipboard in his hand, and then glanced back up at me. "Claire Fontaine?"

"That's me. Welcome to my nightmare," I said.

They pushed the metal dolly into the waiting area and began to unload. I retracted a stainless-steel pocketknife from my purse and cut into the first box. My new desk. Flushed with excitement, I politely asked the men to remove the piece of crap currently occupying the east wall of the room. "It would be lovely if you guys could throw it away on your way back to the warehouse," I said, pointing to the old desk.

"Okay." The larger one shrugged. "Where do yuz want it?"

"I'z want it gone," I sighed, greasing their palms with crisp hundred-dollar bills. They eyed each other, quite thrilled with the tips.

"No problem, lady. We'll dump it for ya."

They pushed my new Chippendale cherrywood desk into place, and I neatly lined up my Montblanc pens on top. The Harvard desk chair looked beautiful and regal behind the desk. The forged iron end table was placed up against the wall next to the old, foldout chair that Bennett probably got at a garage sale, along with the desk that would soon be on its way to the closest Dumpster.

There is a God.

With the deliverymen gone, I paced the room, studying every lackluster inch of gray paint that draped the walls. The color reminded me of spoiled milk, aged, dull. Vomit-inducing. I shook my head in disgust, realizing the 1970s paint job would kill any hope of an authentic stylish transformation. Just as I was picking up the phone to call my "connection" in the paint department at Home Depot, Detective Bennett emerged from his office.

Dressed slightly better than yesterday, in pants that actually fit, he stepped into the waiting area and looked around the room. His eyes narrowed sharply. Lips tight with anger, he said, "What the fuck is all this?" "It's new furniture. It's called renovation."

"It's called fucked-up," he groaned.

"It's braaaaand new," I said defensively. "Gives the office a more sophisticated look. Elegant. Polished."

"This ain't a law firm, lady! I don't give a fuck about aesthetics. People don't come here for the ambience. They come here because a loved one has been hacked to death with a band saw, or has gone missing. Not one person that stands in this room is thinking about their surroundings; they're too encumbered with their own pain and horror. Last thing I need is to look fiashy and expensive."

"I'm sorry. I was just trying to help."

"Don't redecorate," he moaned.

"I can send it all back," I offered.

His eyes locked on the Chippendale desk, and then they circled the room. "Where's my metal desk?"

"I had it removed," I said softly.

"You did whaaat?"

"I had it thrown out. It was inoperable and very, very, very ugly."

Bennett gripped his head with his hands. "My partner gave me that desk twenty years ago, right before he was shot in the head by a drug dealer."

"Egad," I sighed. My chest felt heavy, and it wasn't because of the huge strand of Cartier pearls resting on it.

"I can't believe this," he cried.

He paced the room, his face burning purple and his hands knotted into fists, the knuckles going white. "This is my worst fucking nightmare. Barbie redecorates."

(Continues…)

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Excerpted from "Claire Fontaine Crime Fighter"
by .
Copyright © 2006 Tracey Enright.
Excerpted by permission of St. Martin's Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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