Murder Has Nine Lives (19 page)

With that, they shoved me in the closet and slammed the door shut.

Instantly, the tiny room went black. Not a sliver of light crept in from under the door. I was sealed in tight.

And suddenly, from a vent above me, I felt a blast of cold air. Very cold air.

Oh, Lord. I really was going to freeze to death!

I began screaming at the top of my lungs. But just as the Panther had predicted, nobody came to my rescue.

I started doing jumping jacks, trying to keep warm. But then I realized the more I exercised, the more oxygen I was using up.

If only I had something to eat, some calories to stoke my body heat.

I reached into my jeans pocket, hoping to find an abandoned sour ball, when I felt something cold and metallic. What the heck was it? I couldn't see a thing in this black hole. Fingering it, I finally realized it was the lipstick holder Artie had given me yesterday.

Great. Just what I needed. Lipstick, so I could look good in my freshly dug grave. But then I remembered it was a combination lipstick holder and
dog whistle
!

Maybe if I blew the whistle, Tristan and Isolde would start barking, summoning Sofia from downstairs.

I felt around for the whistle part of the contraption and was just about to put it to my lips when I hesitated. What if Linda and the Panther were still in the house? What if they heard the whistle and came running in to pistol-whip me into silence?

I wanted to wait a few more minutes to make sure they were gone. But by now, the freezing air was blasting through the vents like snow in the Artic. I was so damn cold, my fingers were beginning to feel numb. I couldn't afford to waste any more time.

I had to risk it. Gathering my courage, I put the whistle to my lips and blew.

Dead silence.

I slumped down to the floor, defeated.

The darn thing didn't work.

Then, just as I was resigning myself to a frosty death, Tristan and Isolde erupted, barking wildly. I blew the whistle again. More frantic barking. Omigosh. It must have been one of those whistles that emit noise at a frequency only dogs can hear.

I continued to toot the crazy contraption until at last I heard footsteps.

I just prayed it wasn't Linda and the Panther.

My heart pounding wildly in my chest, I waited for whoever it was to speak.

And then, at last, I heard a frightened voice ask, “Qué pasa?”

Thank God! It was Sofia!

“Help me!” I cried. “I'm locked inside! Call
la policía
!
La policía
!”

There was silence on the other side of the door. Oh, hell. What if Sofia was in the country illegally and was afraid of the police? What if she called the Panther instead and was instructed to let me die?

For several minutes I heard nothing. My heart sank. This was it.

There I sat, teeth chattering, skin crawling with goose bumps, Artic air blasting at me from all sides.

Damn it all. Why was I always getting myself into these scrapes? Why couldn't I have left everything to the police? So what if I missed my Hawaiian vacation? At least I'd be alive, and not a human Popsicle.

And suddenly I thought of Prozac. Poor, dear Prozac. Who'd take care of her when I was gone? Who'd feed her minced mackerel guts? Who'd give her belly rubs and pick her hair balls out of the freshly washed laundry?

A big fat tear rolled down my cheek and froze halfway down.

Then, just as I was ready to give up all hope, I heard it—a faint wail. I couldn't be sure, but it sounded like a police siren. Soon I heard pounding on the front door. Then footsteps clomping on the stairway, growing closer and closer.

And then, finally, the sweetest words I'd ever heard (aside from “Would you like whipped cream with that?”):

“Hang in there, ma'am. We'll get you out.”

And indeed, five minutes later, a police locksmith had opened the lock, and I walked out of my prison, icy cold, teeth chattering—but alive!

I flung my arms around Sofia, thanking her profusely.

She soon had me bundled in a pink cashmere blanket while I gave my statement to the police.

Eventually, Detective Carbone showed up with jelly doughnuts, bless his soul, and told me that Linda and the Pink Panther had been arrested out in Malibu, in the middle of their Cobb salads, and charged with attempted murder (mine).

When I'd answered my last question and scarfed down my last doughnut, I headed outside, reveling in the warmth of the sun on my face and vowing never again to complain about heat waves.

Later that night, when I was curled up in bed under my down comforter, watching the news with Prozac, I saw footage of the two killers being hauled off in handcuffs to a police van.

And as I watched the hot pink soles of her Louboutins disappear into the van, I couldn't help but wonder how the Pink Panther was going to look in a bright orange jumpsuit.

* * *

I'd barely had time to recuperate from my near brush with death when Lance came bounding into my apartment the next morning.

“You'll never guess who's a star on the Internet!” he cried, grabbing half of my cinnamon raisin bagel.

“You're right,” I said wearily. “I'll never guess. So tell me.”

“Prozac! Someone posted a video of her on YouTube. Look!” he said, pointing to his cell phone. “It's called
Where's the Beef?
”

And there was Prozac on the screen, perched on the buffet table at the Skinny Kitty shoot, scarfing down roast beef as only she can eat it, sucking it up like a kitty tornado.

Someone at the shoot must have been watching her all along.

“It's gotten over two hundred thousand hits!” Lance squealed.

“Did you hear that, Prozac?” he said, turning to my princess, who was busy battling aliens from the planet Chenille.

He shoved the phone under her nose, and she stared at it, fascinated.

“You're an Internet sensation!”

I swear, she understood exactly what he was saying.

Because suddenly she sat up, preening, batting her big green eyes, head tilted ever so coyly.

There'd be no living with her now.

And to think. She still had eight more lives to go.

Epilogue

T
he minute they were taken into custody, Linda and the Panther began ratting each other out. Their sworn statements damning one another—along with a chilling e-mail correspondence between the two of them plotting to kill Dean—should be enough to keep them behind bars for years.

And as you probably know if you've seen her picture on the cover of th
e Enquirer
, the Panther looks quite fetching in orange. Last I heard, she was voted Best Dressed in her cell block. Meanwhile, Linda has quickly risen in the ranks of the incarcerated and is now known to her homies as “The Enforcer.”

All you animal lovers will be happy to learn that Tristan, Isolde, and Desiree were adopted by my rescuing angel, Sofia, who is now working for one of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

You're not going to believe this, but Deedee wound up paying me every cent she owed me, including the two hundred and six bucks from our lunch at the Peninsula. She recently rescued an amazingly talented cat from a shelter and has just signed the little cutie to star in a national cat food commercial. To be directed by none other than Ian Kendrick.

As for Ian, he finally faced up to the fact that he was a raging alcoholic and sought help from, of all people, Emmy, the Reiki healer. Today Ian is celebrating six gin-free months of sobriety and is dating one of his Mighty Maids.

And remember that poison search on Zeke's computer? It happens he was merely doing research for his novel. Which has yet to be published. But on the plus side, he sold his tell-all story about Linda (
Black Widow: My Life with a Cold-Blooded Killer
), which will soon be a Lifetime Movie-of-the-Week.

As I suspected, Kandi's romance with Alexi didn't last. She finally dumped her violin-playing Uber driver when, after two months of dating, he was still charging her to ride in his car.

And good news for the House of Wonton. They got a four-star review in the
L.A. Times
, and now the place is packed. You can't get in without a reservation. The hostess now greets her guests in Escada and Jimmy Choos.

Here on the home front, Lance is head over heels in love, dating the photographer who took Mamie's publicity photos. As for Mamie, she's thrilled to be an anonymous doggie, chasing her tail and sniffing stray tushes.

After the first flush of excitement from her YouTube stardom died down, Prozac went back to her old ways, battling evil aliens from the planet Chenille. Which reminds me, I've absolutely got to go to Bed Bath & Beyond to buy some new throw pillows.

I'm happy to report that my trip to Hawaii with my parents was fantabulous. Daddy was unable to assemble his Make-It-Yourself Ukulele. (Mainly because Mom tossed some key pieces in the garbage when he wasn't looking.) So we jetted off to Maui, strings free, for seven glorious days in the Hawaiian sun. True, I had to spend those days in an Outrageous Orange tankini, but it was wonderful to be with my parents, who, as predicted, showered me with love and banana daiquiris.

Aside from that one incident at the luau with Daddy and a rubber chicken (don't ask!), it was a most delightful time.

Well, gotta run. Her Royal Highness is yowling for a belly rub.

Catch you next time!

* * *

P.S. Remember Artie Lembeck? The hapless inventor? Well, it turns out that Bilk, his milk-based beer, is all the rage in Japan. Artie's raking in a fortune. He and Nikki got married in a beautiful beachside ceremony in Malibu. Nikki wore her pink hibiscus ring, and every guest got a complimentary tube of two-way toothpaste.

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

 

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Copyright © 2016 by Laura Levine

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

 

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Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2016933892

ISBN: 978-0-7582-8509-6

First Kensington Hardcover Edition: July 2016

 

eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8511-9
eISBN-10: -0-7582-8511-6
Kensington Electronic Edition: July 2016