Murder Has Nine Lives (14 page)

Chapter 21

T
he next day Prozac was still so deep in her funk, she didn't even bother to wake me. Once again, I slept in, jolted to consciousness at 10:30 by the phone ringing at my bedside.

I picked it up to hear Kandi's excited voice.

“Guess what, hon? I've got the most fantastic news!”

“What is it?” I asked, shoving Prozac's tail from my nose.

“I'll tell you all about it at lunch. Meet me at the Westside Tavern at noon. Oops. Gotta run. The cockroach is having a hissy fit.”

I assumed that the cockroach to whom she referred was the lead insect on Kandi's show,
Beanie & the Cockroach
. Leaving Kandi to her cockroach wrangling, I hung up and turned to Prozac, who was staring listlessly at a pair of panty hose I'd left out on the bed for her.

“Good morning, honey,” I said, stroking her behind her ears. “How'd you like some nice human tuna for breakfast?”

Human tuna
—two words that normally sent her into a feeding frenzy. But today? Nada. Zippo. Zilch.

Hustling to the kitchen, I scooped some Bumble Bee into her bowl, praying she'd show some interest. But, alas, she did her Blanche DuBois bit, nibbling at it with faint disdain.

I cringed to think of the hundred bucks I'd spent on Emmy, the Reiki healer. Waving her hands over Prozac had done absolutely nothing except give Emmy's arm flab a workout. Not for a minute did I believe her guarantee that Prozac would soon be back to her old self.

After reading about Daddy's tragic loss in the Scrabble tournament (beaten by his beloved gherkins!), I settled down with some coffee and a generously buttered cinnamon raisin bagel and whiled away the next fifteen minutes with the crossword puzzle.

I'd just filled in the last clue and was heading to the bedroom to get dressed (okay, I was heading to the kitchen for another cinnamon raisin bagel) when Lance showed up, sailing into my living room with Mamie in tow, a shopping bag dangling from his arm.

“Today's the big day, Jaine!” he cried, all duded up in a designer suit, his blond curls moussed to perfection. “We're off to our audition!”

At this, Mamie gave an excited little yap.

“Doesn't she look adorable?” Lance gushed, the proud stage papa.

And, indeed, Mamie had been groomed to within an inch of her life, her white fur spotless and adorned with a polka dot bow.

“Look!” Lance said, pointing to his tie. “Our polka dots match.”

Sure enough, his mauve and white polka dot tie was the same fabric as Mamie's hair bow.

Prozac, who'd finished her breakfast and was now stretched out on my chintz armchair, belching tuna fumes, yawned in disgust.

“I'm so proud of my little star,” Lance gushed. “She's got her newspaper shtick down pat. And wait till you see the special new trick I've taught her. It's going to impress the heck out of the casting people!

“Voilà!” he said, taking a small purse out of his shopping bag. “An imitation Hermès handbag. The original cost twelve grand!”

My God, twelve thousand dollars for a purse? Something to hold used tissues and linty Life Savers? Had the world gone mad?

“I've taught Mamie how to pick it up and carry it.”

He put the purse down on my coffee table and called out to Mamie. “Look, Mamie! There's your Hermès purse!”

Mamie, who had been busy sniffing Prozac's tail, looked up, interested.

“Go get it, girl!”

Lance pointed to the bag, and sure enough, Mamie left the exotic scent of Prozac's rear quarters and trotted over to the coffee table, where she snatched the purse in her mouth.

Then she strutted around the room, dangling her faux Hermès, loving every minute of her fashion glory.

“Isn't that just the cutest thing you've ever seen?” Lance said, beaming. “Talk about your designer doggies!”

From her perch on the armchair, Prozac gazed at Mamie with world-weary eyes.

But Mamie was still prancing around, oblivious, prepping for the runway in Milan.

“I'm bringing my head shot, just in case,” Lance said, flashing the eight-by-ten glossy of himself sporting a stethoscope. “And I've had more pics taken, too,” he added, whipping a sheaf of photos from the shopping bag. “Here's my preppy look. My truck driver look. And my cowboy look. What do you think?”

“Lance, I can honestly say this is the first time I've ever seen a cowboy with a monogrammed pocket hankie.”

“I know. Super touch, isn't it?”

I could only nod weakly.

“And look at the business cards I've made up.”

He fished out a business card from his shopping bag, bordered in tiny paw prints, which read:

I stared at it, gobsmacked. Not at the Meryl Streep comparison, although heaven knows that was cheeky enough. I simply could not get over the 800 phone line.

“You had a special phone number set up?”

“Of course.”

“What if she doesn't get the part?”

“She will. No doubt about it. My Mamie is headed for doggie stardom. Nothing but the best for us from now on. Limos, fine wine, gourmet kibble. Top of the line all the time! Oh, by the way. Can you loan me six bucks for valet parking?”

Mamie might or might not come back as a star, but one thing I knew for sure: Lance would always come back as the most irritating man in the world.

Chapter 22

“A
present for you, sweetheart.”

I was sitting across from Kandi at the Westside Tavern, a clubby joint in the Westside Pavilion shopping mall, settled in a cushy booth under dim mood lighting.

“To thank you for all your help the other night,” Kandi said, holding out a lump of misshapen red wool.

“How lovely,” I lied. “My cell phone cover!”

“It's not a cell phone cover. It's a tea cozy.”

“Right.”

“That hole over there is where the spout goes.”

There were several gaping holes in the lumpy mass, but I nodded as if I knew which hole she was talking about.

Our actress/waitress, a willowy blonde with shampoo-commercial hair, came over then to take our order.

“What'll it be, ladies?” she asked, flashing us a blinding smile, just in case one of us was a casting director.

Kandi ordered the chicken Cobb salad, and I got what I always get at the Westside Tavern: cheeseburger with homemade potato chips.

“So,” I said once our actress/waitress had skipped off, “what's your exciting news?”

I just hoped it was that she'd decided to give up knitting.

“I went to my money management class last night and met the most fabulous man!” she grinned. “A Russian violinist. His name is Alexi and he has the biggest, brownest eyes to come down the pike since Bambi.”

Her own eyes were shining with the kind of fervor mine get when I see Ben & Jerry's on sale.

“And to think I almost didn't go! My car was in the shop, and I was planning to stay home, but at the last minute I took an Uber and was so glad I did. I took one look at Alexi, and I knew it was meant to be. Sure enough, the feeling was mutual. He asked me out to dinner tonight. Wait till I show you the adorable sweater I bought to wear on our date.”

With that, she reached down under the table and pulled out a Nordstrom shopping bag.

“Whoa. I thought you'd given up shopping.”

“I did. Back when I was shopping out of frustration over my crummy love life. But now that I've found Alexi, I'm shopping out of happiness. So it doesn't count.”

Talk about world-class rationalization.

“How did you get your credit cards back so fast?”

“Actually,” she said, blushing just a tad, “I never did cut them up. I put them in my safe deposit box. Needless to say, I was at the bank first thing this morning, and they got quite a workout. Look!” She held up a powder puff of a white cashmere sweater. “Isn't it gorge? And wait'll you see the lace bra and panties I bought. Not for tonight, of course. I want to save those for the honeymoon.”

I gave it three weeks, tops.

Oh, well. At least she'd be happy for three weeks. And with any luck, she'd be too busy dating Alexi to do any more knitting.

“So tell me all about Bambi Eyes,” I said, knowing I was about to unleash the floodgates. “Why was he taking the money management class?”

“Alexi wasn't at the class. He was my Uber driver. He works as a driver to pay the bills in between symphony gigs.”

I should've known. Instead of a class full of men eager to learn about stable financial practices, Kandi had fallen for a violin-playing Uber driver.

“Honestly, Jaine,” she gushed. “I think I've finally met Mr. Right.”

I could practically see the bubble of hope dancing above her head, just waiting to be burst.

“But, Kandi,” I said, unable to restrain myself any longer. “That's what you say about every guy you meet.”

“Can I help it if I'm a positive person?” she said, a tad miffed at me for raining on her parade. “Look, I know sometimes I may fool myself, but this time it's different. I could tell by the way Alexi offered me a complimentary mint when I got in his car that there was something special about him.”

Remember that, class.

Complimentary Mints = True Love.

But I didn't have the energy to launch into a lecture on unrealistic expectations, so I just sat back and listened as she babbled on, murmuring my approval at appropriate intervals.

Eventually our lunch showed up, and I dug into my cheeseburger with gusto.

Kandi was so busy yakking about Alexi, she barely touched her chicken Cobb salad.

But that's okay. It made a tasty dip for my homemade potato chips.

* * *

Frankly, I was appalled at Kandi's lack of willpower. The woman simply could not resist the lure of a shopping bag. Thank heavens we Austens are made of sterner stuff. Here, I was about to head off to Hawaii, but you didn't catch me running around shopping obsessively for flirty sundresses, cute capris, and strappy sandals. True, I'd been thinking about splurging on some sandals, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized what an unnecessary expense it would be—especially when my budget was so tight, it was practically in a tourniquet.

Yes, I, Jaine Austen, am a woman who walks on the sensible side of life, who trods on the path of industry, frugality, and—

Good heavens! What was I doing here at Nordstrom's semiannual shoe sale? With a strappy sandal in my hand?

Clearly some shopaholic demon had invaded my body and marched me over without my even realizing it.

I looked around at the racks and racks of shoes. All on sale!

No doubt about it. I'd died and gone to shoe heaven.

And before I knew what I was doing, I'd kicked off my Nikes and begun trying on sandals to take with me on vacation.

I tried on flat sandals, wedgie sandals, gladiator sandals, cork-soled sandals; sandals with flowers, sandals with butterflies, and fancy flip-flops.

Isn't shoe shopping the most marvelous fun? Where else can you try on something without having to look in the mirror at unsightly love handles or ghastly patches of cellulite? No hip bulges or tummy bumps. Just twinkly little toes popping out from some straps, your ankle looking practically as skinny as Gwyneth Paltrow's.

No wonder poor Kandi couldn't stay away from her credit cards. Why would anyone want to deprive herself of the pleasure of shoe shopping at Nordstrom?

I was standing there, admiring my tootsies in a pair of lace-up espadrilles—on sale for just thirty-nine dollars—when suddenly I realized I'd lost track of my hundred-dollar Nikes. (Yes, I'd paid full price for them, under the influence of a particularly hunkalicious shoe salesman.)

I raced back to the rack where I'd first kicked them off, but they weren't there.

Could I possibly be at the wrong rack? Frantically, I started weaving up and down the shoe racks, looking for my abandoned running shoes. But they were nowhere to be found.

Desperate, I grabbed a passing sales clerk, a harried guy whose arms were piled high with shoe boxes.

“You've got to help me!” I wailed. “I'm looking for a pair of white Nikes. Size seven and a half, with a small ketchup stain on the front right toe.”

The sales guy blinked, boggled.

“Sorry, ma'am. We don't sell stained shoes.”

“No, no. I don't want to buy them. I already own them. I put them down to try on some sandals, and now I can't find them.”

A look of disbelief crossed his face.

“What're you, nuts? You think I'm going to run around looking for a pair of shoes you already own?”

Okay, so what he really said was: “I'll keep an eye out for them, ma'am.”

And he was off like a shot to wait on his paying customers.

Just when I was getting panicky, wondering how I was going to walk back to my car barefoot, I looked over at a nearby clearance bin and spotted a familiar white running shoe poking out from the pile.

I raced over, and sure enough, it was my Nike with the ketchup stain on the toe. Practically swooning with relief, I grabbed it eagerly, then started rifling through the bin, searching for its mate.

Alas, I searched in vain.

But then I happened to glance over at the woman next to me—a hefty bruiser who bore an uncanny resemblance to the late, great Ernest Borgnine—only to see her jamming her foot into my size seven and a half Nike.

“I'm sorry,” I said, “but these Nikes aren't for sale. They're mine.”

“Like hell they are,” she growled. (And a most unpleasant growl it was, too.) “I saw them first.”

With that, she started tugging at the shoe in my hand. Her biceps, I noticed, were the size of rump roasts.

I had to do something to stop her. In a tug-of-war, she was bound to win.

“Honest,” I cried. “These shoes are mine. Look! There's a ketchup stain on the toe from a Quarter Pounder I ate the other week.”

Eyes scrunched, she peered at the stain.

“I don't care,” she proclaimed. “It's a small stain. And the price is right.”

I saw now that a stray $19.99 sticker had attached itself to the shoe. No wonder she wanted my Nikes so badly.

“Okay,” I said. “But I should warn you. I've got a terrible case of toe fungus. Highly contagious.”

“What?” Quickly, she kicked off the shoe she'd been wearing. “Why didn't you say so?”

“Don't worry,” I assured her. “It's hardly ever fatal.”

Her eyes wide with fear, she slipped on her own shoes and hurried off into the crowd.

Yes, I know it was a dirty trick, making her worry like that. But she'd been such a pill, I thought she sort of deserved it, don't you?

Thrilled at last to be reunited with my Nikes, I headed over to a nearby chair to put them on.

Slinging the espadrilles I'd been wearing over my wrist, I put on the shoe Ms. Borgnine had worn, and I was quite annoyed to realize that she'd stretched it out a tad. Then I picked up the other shoe, the one that was in the bin. But when I tried to slip it on, I felt something blocking my toes. I reached in and pulled out a piece of paper. It was a page torn from a magazine, folded up to fit in the shoe. I unfolded it to see an ad for Raid. The headline read
RAID KILLS BUGS.
But whoever had shoved the ad in my shoe had crossed out the word “bugs.” So now it read simply:

 

 

A chill ran down my spine when I saw that the words “You're Next” had been cut out from a newspaper and pasted underneath.

Oh, hell. Clearly I'd just received a billet-doux from the murderer.

I whirled around, looking to see who could have left it. But everyone looked so ordinary, so innocent. Just a mom with a toddler in a stroller, an old lady with a cane, and some teenyboppers giggling over something on their cell phones.

But then, over by cosmetics, I saw a large woman in a caftan, her arms loaded with bangles, hurrying out of the store.

Deedee! Emmy must have told her I'd been checking up on her. And now she'd come to scare me off.

By the time I'd finished tying my laces, she was gone. I raced out of Nordstrom and spotted her down at the other end of the mall.

For one of the few times in my life, I actually ran in my running shoes.

Deedee was walking fast, but not fast enough.

Pushing my way past surprised shoppers, I finally caught up with her, grabbing her by the elbow.

“I know you're the killer!” I shouted.

By now a small crowd had formed around us. Which made it all the more embarrassing when the woman in the caftan turned around to face me.

Of course, as all you “A” students have probably already guessed, it wasn't Deedee, but some innocent shopper with a penchant for loose fitting apparel.

I would have offered her my profuse apologies, but I never got the chance.

Because just then a security goon showed up and hauled me off to mall jail.

Not for assaulting an innocent shopper.

But for shoplifting a pair of lace-up espadrilles—which, I now realized, I still had dangling from my wrist.