Candy Cane Murder (19 page)

I
had a date with an angel.

Really. That was my L.A. Girlfriend's name: Angel Cavanaugh, a twelve-year-old only child living with her dad, whose interests were listed on her profile as “outdoor activities” and “the arts.”

When I phoned to set up the date, she was in the shower, and her father took the call.

“We're so grateful you're doing this,” he said. “It means the world to us.”

How wonderful to feel so appreciated. Why hadn't I discovered this volunteer stuff years ago?

I asked him what Angel wanted to do on our date, and he said anything I planned would be okay with her.

Then I hung up and went into a planning frenzy, making and discarding a dozen ideas. I finally decided that, since Angel liked outdoor activities, it might be fun to drive out to the Santa Monica Pier and toss a frisbee on the beach. One of the rules in the
Girlfriends Guidebook
was to stay away from expensive venues. The girls, they warned, mustn't see their mentors as a source of financial support. Which was lucky for me, since I was having trouble enough supporting myself.

The day of my “Girlfriends” date dawned clear and bright, with a hint of winter chill in the air. A Los Angeles winter, that is—the temperature had dipped all the way down to the low seventies. A perfect day for a trip to the beach.

And so it was with an air of eager anticipation that I fed Prozac her Savory Salmon Entrails and nuked myself a bagel. I couldn't wait to get started on the first chapter of my new altruistic life. After a quick shower, I threw on a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and grabbed a hoodie in case it got chilly out on the pier.

“Bye, Pro,” I called out, when I was ready to leave on my great adventure. “Wish me luck.”

She looked up from where she was napping on my keyboard.

I still don't see why you have to spend the day with some needy kid when you could stay home and scratch my back.

But she couldn't work a guilt trip on me. Not today. I headed out to my Corolla, brimming with good intentions, Mother Teresa in elastic-waist jeans.

 

I drove over to the address Angel's dad had given me, which turned out to be a low-rent apartment building a fender's throw from the 405 freeway. It was one of those two-story affairs with an outdoor stairway that looked like it had been a motel in a former life. As I climbed the metal steps to the Cavanaughs's apartment on the second floor, I could hear the dull roar of the freeway in the background.

Kevin Cavanaugh answered the door, a skinny guy in his late thirties. With hollow cheeks and dark circles under his eyes, he had the look of a guy in desperate need of a vacation. Or, barring that, a nap.

“So happy to meet you,” he said, pumping my hand. “C'mon in.” He ushered me into his living room, and once again I was reminded of a motel. All the essentials were there—sofa and TV and coffee table, but none of the frills. No sign of a woman's touch anywhere.

“Angel, honey.” he called out. “Jaine is here.”

We stood there smiling awkwardly at each other, waiting for Angel to come out. When some time had passed and there was still no sign of her, he shouted, “You ready, or what?”

“I'm commmmming!”

And then, to my amazement, a twelve-year-old hooker walked into the room.

Her skinny body was jammed into spandex capris and a midriff-exposing T-shirt, the words
JAIL BAIT
emblazoned in sequins across her flat chest. Completing the outfit were a pair of kitten-heel flip-flops and a faux leopard skin minipurse.

Good heavens. She looked like she was auditioning for a remake of
Taxi Driver
.

“For Pete's sake, Angel,” her dad sighed. “You're not going to wear that, are you?”

“Yessss.” She rolled her eyes. “I am.”

“Well, come and say hello to Jaine,” he said, shrugging helplessly.

Angel clomped over on her kitten heels and gave me the once-over.

Up close I could see that underneath her cloud of heavily teased dishwater blond hair, she was actually quite pretty. Clear gray eyes, nice little nose. Slightly protruding teeth, but all in all, a cute kid.

“She's my girlfriend?” she whined, eyeing my elastic-waist jeans and baggy T-shirt. “I told them I wanted someone who looked like Jennifer Anniston. Somebody who dresses nice.”

Uh-oh. Maybe my new life of selflessness wasn't going to be so rewarding, after all.

“Angel, that's no way to talk,” her dad chided. “Apologize this minute.”

“Okaaaaay,” she said, with another roll of her eyes. “I'm sorry.”

“Kids,” he said, shooting me an apologetic smile. “What're you gonna do?”

“A little discipline might help.”

Of course, I didn't really say that. Lord only knew what it was like trying to rein in this kid.

“Don't worry about it,” I said, with a confidence I didn't feel. “I'm sure we're going to get along just fine.”

I shot her a hopeful smile. “Right, Angel?”

“Let's go already,” was her cheerful reply.

“Do you have to go to the bathroom before you leave?” Kevin asked her.

“No, I don't have to go to the bathroom.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yesss. I'm sure.”

“What about a sweater? You're gonna need one in that top.”

“Your father's right, Angel,” I said. “We're going to the beach. It might get chilly out there.”

“I don't need a sweater,” she snapped. “Now are we going, or what?”

Kevin Cavanaugh shot me one last apologetic smile as we headed out the door. I was beginning to understand his hollow cheeks and baggy eyes.

“Good luck.” With a feeble wave good-bye, he shut the door behind us. How I envied him being on the other side of that door.

Angel and I started down the metal steps, Angel clomping along in her rickety heels.

“Are you sure you're going to be okay in those shoes?”

“Yes,” she hissed. “I'm going to be okay.”

“Here's my car!” I said, trying to sound chirpy as I led her over to my Corolla.

“This is it?” She eyed my geriatric Corolla with unalloyed disdain. “Ugh. If I wanted to ride around in a crummy car, I could hang out with my dad. And even our car is nicer than this.”

“Just get in,” I said, resisting a sudden impulse to leap in and drive off without her.

She settled down on the passenger seat with a petulant plop.

“Buckle your seat belt,” I instructed.

“I don't want to buckle my seat belt. It'll wrinkle my top.”

“Buckle your belt!” I said through gritted teeth.

With an exasperated sigh, she buckled the belt and we took off.

“I don't want to go to the beach,” she whined as I swung onto Santa Monica Boulevard and headed out to the ocean. “I want to go to the mall.”

“We're not going to the mall.”

“But I hate the beach. I want to go shopping.”

“It said on your profile you liked outdoor activities.”

“I do. I like shopping at outdoor malls.”

“Forget it, Angel. We're not going shopping.”

“But you're my Girlfriend. Aren't you supposed to buy me gifts?”

“No, I'm not supposed to buy you gifts. It specifically says so in the
Girlfriends Guidebook
.”

“Oh, fudge.” Only that's not the
F
word she used. “I woulda never signed up for this stupid Girlfriends thing if I knew there weren't gonna be any presents.”

“You're not getting any gifts. And watch your language.”

We rode the next few minutes in a tense silence, broken finally by Angel announcing:

“I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“For crying out loud, Angel, your dad told you to go back in the apartment.”

“Well, I didn't.”

“It's too late now,” I snarled. “Hold it in.”

“Okay, okay. Don't have a snit fit.”

By now my knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The enormity of my mistake was beginning to hit me.

I no longer felt the least bit like Mother Teresa. No, as I piloted our way those final blocks out to the pier, I felt like a lion tamer in a cage without a whip and a chair.

 

The Santa Monica Pier juts out into the Pacific, a rustic boardwalk dotted with restaurants and souvenir shops, right next to a small amusement park.

The minute I parked the car, Angel sprinted out to use the bathroom at one of the restaurants. I followed her inside and found myself in a tacky seafood joint with fishermen's netting draped on the walls and a giant stuffed swordfish hanging over the bar. As Angel hustled off to the ladies' room, I took a seat on a bar stool and eyed a bottle of Jose Cuervo. You'll be ashamed of me, I know, but I seriously contemplated ordering a margarita. At eleven in the morning. But sanity prevailed. Instead I asked for a glass of water, and gulped down a few Tylenol to quell the headache that was now throbbing in my skull.

I sat there for a while, waiting for the pills to take effect and ruing the day I ever saw that story in the paper about L.A. Girlfriends.

Then I checked my watch and realized that ten minutes had passed since Angel had gone down the corridor to the ladies' room. That's an awfully long time for a trip to the bathroom. And suddenly I panicked. Dire scenarios began flashing in my brain. What if she'd run away? What if she slipped out a back door? Or wriggled out a bathroom window? For all I knew, she was turning tricks in the men's room. Oh, Lord. Her father would never forgive me.

I jumped off the barstool and raced down the corridor to the ladies' room, or as it was known in this particular establishment, The Little Mermaids' Room.

“Angel?” I shouted, pounding on the door. “Are you in there?”

“Yeah, I'm here.”

My knees buckled with relief.

“What's taking you so long?”

“I'm coming. I'm coming.”

A few seconds later, she sauntered out with enough makeup on her face to stock a Cover Girl display.

“What on earth have you done to your face?”

“My dad doesn't like me to wear makeup, so I wait till I'm out of the apartment to put it on.”

I considered making her take it right off again, but I knew it would be a battle royale and frankly, I didn't have the energy.

“Let's go.” I took her by the hand and hustled her outside.

“So what're we supposed to do now?” she asked, squinting into the sun.

My first choice, going back inside for a round of margaritas, was clearly out of the question.

“How about a ride on the merry-go-round?” I suggested.

“Are you kidding?” she sneered. “That's for kids.”

“What about the roller coaster?”

“Nah. I don't want to mess my hair.”

“Then let's just walk around the pier.”

“Okay, but if we run into any kids from my school, pretend you don't know me.”

I ground my teeth in annoyance, wondering if anybody would notice if I tossed her over the pier.

And right away I felt ashamed. I really had to stop this negative thinking, and give the kid a chance. So Angel was a little difficult. That was all part of being a mentor. I bet Sister Mary Agnes dealt with lots of difficult kids over the years. I had to try to establish an emotional rapport, like they said in the
Girlfriends Guidebook
, and get her to open up to me.

“So tell me about yourself,” I said. “What's your favorite subject in school?”

“Puh-leeese. I hate that place. It's like a prison. They won't even let you wear bustiers.”

“You have any idea what you want to do when you grow up?”

“Marry a rich guy and move to Bel Air.”

Why was I not surprised?

I asked her a few more questions, most of which were greeted with monosyllabic grunts. It was like talking to a fire hydrant.

“Look,” she said, when I'd finally run out of steam. “There's a souvenir shop.”

“Forget it, Angel. I'm not buying you a present.”

“Well, you have to buy me lunch,” she pouted. “I'm hungry.”

For once, we were on the same page. I was a little peckish myself.

“How about a burger?” I said, pointing to a nearby burger stand.

“I don't want a burger,” she whined. “I want nachos.”