Murder Has Nine Lives (8 page)

Chapter 14

B
ack home, I spent the next several hours toiling away on the Toiletmasters Touch-Me-Not brochure. Okay, so it wasn't exactly several hours. More like twenty minutes. After which I tossed all thoughts of hands-free toilet flushing to the winds and headed for the tub, where I proceeded to luxuriate in a strawberry-scented bubble bath, daydreaming about my upcoming date with the hunkalicious Jim Angelides.

Dating a plumber had never exactly been high on my wish list, but then, I'd never seen eyes as blue as Jim's. Now plumbing seemed like quite the dashing profession. Just think, when we were married and living in our charming little cottage by the sea, I'd never have to worry about a clogged drain ever again!

I let my mind wander down fantasy lane, drifting off on moonlit walks on the beach, romantic getaways in the Bahamas, and lingering kisses on the deck of our yacht.

What can I say? I like to dream big.

When the last strawberry-scented bubble had bit the dust, I dredged myself out of the tub and started to get ready for my big date.

After moisturizing, spritzing, spraying, and blow-drying, I slipped into pearl gray slacks, a black cashmere sweater, gold hoop earrings, and my trusty Manolos. I topped it all off with a fabulous black Dooney & Bourke satchel bag I'd picked up half price at Nordstrom.

“So, Pro. How do I look?” I asked, twirling around for her inspection.

She gazed up from where she was sprawled out on my bedspread.

Dammit. She was still showing no signs of getting better. I just hoped Emmy, the Reiki healer, would be able to help.

I was giving myself a final dab of perfume when Jim showed up, looking even better than I remembered him, très spiffy in chinos and a blue blazer, his surfer hair glistening with streaks of blond, smelling of some positively yummy aftershave.

He stood on my doorstep for an awkward beat as we smiled at each other, not sure of what do to.

“So good to see you,” he finally said, breaking the ice with a small but tingleworthy hug. “And who's this?” he asked, looking over at Prozac, who'd just wandered in from the bedroom.

Normally, at the first sign of a cute guy, Prozac morphs into a feline floozy, hurling herself at his ankles, doing her version of a pole dance.

But tonight she just jumped on the sofa and settled down into a listless lump.

“Who're you, cutie pie?” Jim cooed, scratching her behind the ear.

She gazed up at him morosely.

“Does she always look so unhappy?” Jim asked.

“She's been in a bit of a funk lately, but I'm hoping she'll snap out of it soon.”

“Poor baby,” Jim said, giving Pro a sympathy scratch. Then he turned to me and asked, “Ready to go? I've made reservations at Simon's.”

You bet I was ready to go! Simon's happened to be one of the most expensive restaurants in town, famous for their fabulous prime rib.

I bid Pro adieu and headed out the door with Jim, visions of prime rib dancing in my head.

Jim's car was parked out front, a sleek, low-slung silver Porsche. And as I sank down into the decadently soft bucket seat, I offered a silent prayer of thanks to my darling friend and employer, Phil Angelides.

I was riding along in the Porsche, watching the palm trees whoosh by, feeling the cool night air on my cheeks, and trying to decide whether to order butter or sour cream with my baked potato, when Jim said, “I hope you don't mind, but before we go to the restaurant, I need to stop off at my apartment.”

Wait a minute. I didn't care how cute he was. No way was I about to have dipsy doodle with this guy
before
our first date.

“Don't get the wrong idea,” he added, as if reading my mind. “I want you to meet my roommate. Arnold and I are very close, and I need to get his approval before I can go out with you.”

“What?” He had to be kidding.

“I know it sounds strange, but a while back I got involved with a woman, and it turned out pretty badly. We went through a messy breakup, probably like you and Collier-Curtis.”

“Collier-Curtis?”

“Your old boyfriend.”

“Right,” I nodded, remembering the ridiculous beau I'd made up at Toiletmasters.

“Anyhow, I never want to make that kind of mistake again. Arnold warned me this gal was all wrong for me from the get-go. And he was right. I really trust his judgment, so it would mean a lot to me if you met him.”

“Well, okay . . . I guess.”

“Don't worry,” Jim assured me. “Arnold is sure to love you.”

I looked at Jim's gorgeous profile, his lake blue eyes, his surfer hair with the white-blond streaks and tried to tell myself I was on my dream date. But this whole roommate approval thing seemed a bit weird.

And things were about to get a whole lot weirder when Jim pulled into the parking lot of the Sunset Manor Retirement Home.

“I thought we were going to your place,” I said, looking around. “What are we doing here?”

“I live here.”

“You live in a retirement community?”

“I like the amenities,” he said. “Especially bingo night! Well, c'mon! Let's go meet Arnold!”

With sinking heart, I left the luxurious confines of the Porsche and followed Jim into the lobby of the apartment building, where several elderly women were sitting in wingback chairs.

“Playing bingo tonight, Jim?” one of them asked.

“No, I've got a date,” he said proudly, pointing to me. “That is, if Arnold approves.”

The women nodded and looked at me with what I couldn't help but think was pity.

We rode up in an elevator fitted with handrails and got off on the third floor.

“I've got a fabulous view of the physical therapy pool!” Jim announced as he led me to his apartment.

By now, I was having serious doubts about my dream date. But when Jim opened the door to his apartment, hope flooded back into my heart. The place looked terrific. Hardwood floors, taupe leather furniture, chrome and glass end tables—not a handrail anywhere. This was definitely the pad of a hip young metrosexual.

I chided myself for my earlier doubts. So what if he lived in a retirement community? Maybe the rent was reasonable. And maybe the amenities were terrific. And so what if he was tight with his roommate? It was probably a good thing he could be close with another guy; it showed he was capable of commitment.

“Go ahead,” Jim grinned. “Say hello to Arnold.”

“Where?”

“He's right over there. On the sofa.”

I looked at the sofa but didn't see anything on it. Except for a stuffed teddy bear in a red T-shirt with a big “A”embroidered on the chest.

“Well?” Jim said, picking up the bear and holding him out to me. “Aren't you going to say hello to Arnold?”

Oh, God. He actually expected me to talk to his stuffed animal.

“Um. Hello, Arnold,” I managed to say.

“Hi, Jaine,” Jim replied as Arnold, in a high falsetto voice. A voice he would slip in and out of all evening as he played the part of Arnold, the Teddy Bear.

“So what do you think, Arnold?” Jim asked, back in his own voice. “She pass inspection?”

“With flying colors!” came his falsetto reply.

Would you believe I was actually sort of relieved? I hadn't been there thirty seconds, and I cared what an inanimate object thought of me.

“Better be careful, buddy,” came the high-pitched voice. “I may make a move on her myself.”

“Hands off!” Jim cried, as Jim. “I saw her first!”

Then he turned to me with a heart-melting smile.

Good heavens. How could someone so cute be so nuts? Maybe this was all a giant joke. Maybe he was testing me to see if I had a sense of humor.

“Ready to go to dinner?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” I said, waiting for him to tell me that he loved to kid around and talk like a teddy bear.

But no, the next thing I heard was “Arnold” saying, “I want to come, too!”

Jim turned to the teddy bear. “Forget it, Arnold. I want to be alone with her.”

“But you never take me anywhere!” the falsetto voice whined. “I'm tired of sitting here alone in the apartment listening to Mr. Rosenblatt next door blasting
Hoarders
on his TV.”

“Oh, all right,” Jim said, with a sigh. “You don't mind, do you, Jaine?”

Of course I minded. The last time I went on a date with a stuffed animal, I was four.

But I just smiled weakly and said, “No, I'm fine.”

Jim thrust Arnold into my arms and went to get him a sweater.

“He's so susceptible to drafts,” he explained.

Alone with Arnold, I seriously thought about making a break for it and calling a cab. But then I remembered Phil Angelides, my boss at Toiletmasters. I couldn't risk Phil's ire by dumping his nephew in the middle of a date.

Soon Jim returned with a miniature cashmere V-neck for Arnold (I kid you not; it was cashmere!), and we headed out to the elevator.

Waiting there was an elderly lady in a floral housedress.

“Hello, Eloise,” Jim said in his normal voice.

She mumbled a curt hello and proceeded to ride down with us in stony silence.

Just before she got off at the lobby, she grabbed my elbow with bony fingers and whispered to me, “Watch out for the bear. He's trouble.”

Then she sprinted off the elevator, Jim and I following in her wake.

Crossing the lobby, Jim suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

“Oh, God!” he gasped. “It's her.”

“Who?” I asked.

“My old flame. The messy breakup I told you about.”

“Just ignore her,” Arnold advised. (By now you know it was Jim talking in his falsetto, right?) “I'll take care of her.”

We approached the woman in question. I was expecting one of the staff, a cute young thing—a waitress, a nurse, or one of the administrators. But no, Jim's ex-inamorata was a chubby grandmotherly woman well into her seventies, with china-blue eyes and a nimbus of fluffy white curls.

“Hello, Ida,” Jim said coolly.

“Remember the restraining order, Jim,” she said, holding out her palm.

“What did you ever see in her, anyway?” came the falsetto voice.

“Oh, hell,” Ida groaned. “Not that damn bear again.”

“Hey, Ida,” the falsetto voice blared on. “You're so old, at your birthday party, the candles cost more than the cake!”

“Now, Arnold,” Jim chided in his own voice, “there's no need for unpleasantries, just because she broke my heart.”

“No one treats you that way and gets away with it, buddy,” the falsetto voice replied.

Holy Moses. Send in the psycho squad!

Beyond embarrassed, I raced out to the parking lot and yanked open the passenger door of Jim's Porsche.

Jim and Arnold came strolling along seconds later.

“I wanna sit up front!” Jim whined as Arnold. “I wanna sit up front!”

Then, turning to me and switching voices, he asked, “Do you mind, Jaine?”

“Fine. Better him than me.”

Okay, I didn't say that last part, but I was thinking it, believe me. By now I was eager to put as much distance between me and Jim as humanly possible.

But I soon regretted my decision to give up the front seat as my knees jammed into my chest in the tiny rear seat of the sports car.

I spent the drive over to the restaurant listening to Jim and Arnold argue over which station to listen to (Jim wanted country; Arnold wanted salsa), with an occasional insult hurled by Arnold to nearby motorists.

“Hey, lunkhead! Where'd you learn how to drive? The Braille Institute?”

Invariably, the lunkhead in question would turn and shoot me a rude middle finger, assuming that the high-pitched voice hurling the insult could have come only from moi.

At last we pulled in at Simon's, a vine-covered restaurant with a dark green canopy out front.

Jim turned to me and thrust Arnold into my hands.

“Quick. Put him in your purse.”

“I don't wanna go in her purse!” Arnold wailed.

“Stop making a scene in front of Jaine,” Jim chided the teddy bear, “or she'll get a bad impression of us.”

Too late, brother. That bus had left the station a long time ago.

I stowed Arnold in my purse and stepped out of the car, my knees stiff from twenty minutes of being welded to my chest.

Jim tossed his keys to a valet parker, and as the valet got in the car, Arnold's falsetto voice rang out, “Hey, buddy. Whatever you do, don't fart in the car!”

Naturally, the valet assumed it had been me talking and shot me the filthiest of looks.

Slinking away from the valet, I followed Jim inside the restaurant—a macho man steak place with plush carpeting, dim lighting, and deep burgundy leather booths. The kind of joint that reeked of T-bones and testosterone.

The maître d', a beefy guy with an obvious toupee, stood guard at the reception podium.

“May I help you, sir?” he asked Jim as we approached.

“I have reservations,” Jim said.

That made two of us.

“Angelides, party of two.”

As the maître d' looked down to check his reservations book, “Arnold” chimed in, “Party of
three
.”