by Laura Levine
“Maybe I could come over to your place for a while,” I suggested, eager to find my happy place with some transcendental whoopsie doodle.
“Sorry, hon. But I’ve got to get back to work. It’s really a madhouse at the agency.”
He walked me to my car, a stilted silence between us.
“Good night, Jaine,” he said when we got to my Corolla.
Another antiseptic peck on my forehead.
I got in my car and started home, my paranoia back in full throttle, worried that Dickie hadn’t really forgiven me for killing Cleopatra.
Maybe he wasn’t going back to work.
Maybe he was headed to his condo to gaze at the photo of his old girlfriend and rue the day he ever broke up with her.
Chapter 29
Driving back to my apartment, I vowed to read the Hapi-ness pamphlet the minute I got home.
Well, not the minute I got home.
The minute I got home I ordered a mushroom and sausage pizza.
Then I fished out the pamphlet from my stack of unpaid bills.
But one look at Hapi’s smiling face brought back memories of poor squished Cleopatra, and I just couldn’t do it. Instead I shoved the pamphlet in my purse, promising myself I’d read it tomorrow at work.
Right then all I wanted was to wash the day away with a quick shower before the pizza guy showed up.
I hurried to the bathroom and turned on the shower, then started for my bedroom to tear off my clothes. But I hadn’t taken two steps when I heard a thunderous crash in the bathroom.
Racing over, I opened the shower door and saw my heavy steel showerhead on the floor. Somehow it had come loose. Yikes! I could have been seriously—maybe even fatally—injured if I’d been standing underneath it.
With trembling hands, I turned off the hot water and stood there staring at the showerhead.
How on earth had it come loose?
I often move the showerhead around to spray the walls when I’m cleaning. Had I somehow loosened it in the process?
Or had someone loosened it for me?
Had the killer been following me, biding his or her time until I was away from my apartment, and then sneaked in to tamper with my showerhead?
Frantically I began running around my apartment, looking for signs of forced entry. But I found nothing. No broken windows, jimmied locks, or loosened screens.
My apartment was sealed tight as a drum.
I checked to see if Prozac was upset, but she was stretched out on the sofa, snoring like a buzz saw, having one of her seventeen daily naps.
Flooded with relief, I sank down next to her.
No one had broken into my apartment. No one was out to kill me. I must have unwittingly loosened the showerhead by myself.
I was leaning back into the sofa cushions, feeling my blood pressure drift down from the stratosphere, when Ahmad showed up with my pizza.
Yes, I’m on a first name basis with my pizza delivery guy.
It’s how I roll.
After tipping him generously (his is a noble calling), I hurried to the kitchen with my gooey treasure. I opened the box, salivating over the chunks of mushroom and sausage swimming in a sea of cheese.
Eagerly, I cut myself a slice. But just as I was raising it to my lips, I was struck by a frightening thought.
The killer hadn’t forced his or her way into my apartment. But what if they’d found the spare key I keep hidden under the geranium flowerpot by my front door and used it to let themselves in? Even worse, what if they kept the key and were coming back to finish me off for good?
Oh, Lord! If only I had Daisy’s panic room to escape to!
My heart pounding, I abandoned my pizza and raced outside. Slowly I lifted the flowerpot, afraid of what I might find. But the key was still there, exactly where I left it under the pot.
Or—I suddenly wondered, a frisson of fear running down my spine—was the key a bit off to the side? Had it been moved just a tad?
“Jaine, are you okay?”
So engrossed had I been in thoughts of a deadly stalker that I hadn’t heard Lance come up the path.
“I’m fine,” I lied. “Just wondering, though, if you happened to notice anyone suspicious outside my apartment today?”
“No. I was at work all day, then met an Internet date for a drink. Ugh!” he groaned, “what a nightmare that was. But why do you ask?”
So far, I hadn’t told Lance about Tommy’s murder, or my attempts to clear Kate’s name, hoping to avoid a lecture on the dangers of trying to track down cold-blooded killers without a gun or any professional training.
But now, feeling particularly vulnerable, I caved and told him everything.
“I’m afraid someone may have broken into my apartment and tampered with my showerhead.”
“Jaine, Jaine, Jaine!” he tsked. “How many times have I warned you not to go chasing after homicidal maniacs?”
Oh, hell. I was about to get another lecture.
But just as Lance was about to launch his spiel, he stopped and sniffed.
“Is that pizza I smell?”
“Sausage and mushroom,” I nodded.
“Great! I’m starving!” he said, racing into my apartment and making a beeline for the kitchen.
On the plus side, I was off the hook for that lecture.
On the minus side, I was out half a pizza.
I spent the next twenty minutes watching Lance inhale my pizza, all the while giving me a blow-by-blow account of his Internet date from hell.
“I couldn’t get a word in edgewise,” he said, not letting me get a word in edgewise. “I nursed my glass of pinot until I finally pretended I had an emergency root canal and made my escape.
“Oh, Jaine,” he sighed. “You don’t know how lucky you are to have found Dickie.”
“Yeah, right,” I said, taking a desultory bite of pizza, wondering if I’d ever see Dickie again.
At last Lance ran out of steam (and pizza) and bid me good night.
“Try not to worry, hon,” he said, scarfing down a final piece of crust. “I’m sure nobody broke into your apartment today.”
“You really think that?” I asked hopefully.
“Absolutely. But just in case, sleep with a can of mace under your pillow. And remember, I’m right next door if you need me. Just bang on the wall. But not before ten in the morning. I’m sleeping in tomorrow.”
And off he scooted into the night.
After retrieving my key from under the flowerpot, I headed to the bathroom for a nice long soak in the tub.
No way was I going near my shower in the foreseeable future.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: An Artistic Triumph!
Exciting news, Lambchop!
We just got our sculptures back from the kiln, and I’m proud to say my Statue of Liberty is an artistic triumph! So much better than The Battle-Ax’s stupid torso of Sir Isaac “Fig” Newton. While technically proficient, Sir Isaac lacks the creative spark that radiates from my Lady Liberty.
I’ve put it on the fireplace mantel, where it’s sure to be admired by everyone who sees it.
Love’n hugs
From your very proud,
DaddyO
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Gummy Bear with a Torch
Just got our sculptures back. I’m afraid my canape plate turned out a tad bumpy, but I’m sure no one will notice the bumps once you’ve got canapes on it. I’ll ship it out to you ASAP!
Daddy’s convinced himself his Statue of Liberty is the greatest piece of art to come down the pike since the Mona Lisa. But if you ask me, it looks like a gummy bear with a torch.
He’s got it up on the mantel, an eyesore for all to see. But it won’t be there for long, not if I have anything to say about it.
Meanwhile, Lydia’s bust of Sir Isaac Newton turned out beautifully. Lydia captured Sir Isaac’s prominent
nose and long wavy hair to a T. She’s such a talented woman!
Must run and move Daddy’s Statue of Liberty to a less conspicuous place on the mantel.
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Oh, My Stars!
Oh, my stars! Guess what I just saw on the Tampa Vistas Gazette website: A photo of Lydia’s statue of Sir Isaac Newton! It turns out that Molly, our instructor, loves it so much, she’s going to exhibit it in her art gallery in a Grand Unveiling Ceremony!
Isn’t that simply thrilling?
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Gross Miscarriage of Justice
Would you believe our idiotic sculpting instructor has chosen to exhibit The Battle-Ax’s torso of “Fig” Newton at her art gallery?
Up to now I thought Molly was a woman of discerning taste. How wrong I was. I can’t believe she overlooked my mesmerizing Statue of Liberty in favor of The Battle-Ax’s lump of clay.
What a gross miscarriage of justice!
Even worse, there’s going to be a gala Unveiling Ceremony at the gallery. Your mom says I’ll look like a sore loser if I don’t go, but I don’t care. No way am I going to that gala. And nothing, but nothing, will make me change my mind!
Love’n snuggles from,
DaddyO
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Temper Tantrum
Daddy, in one of his temper tantrums, is refusing to go to the Grand Unveiling of Lydia’s statue. Frankly, I’m relieved. The last thing I need is Daddy pouting at my side all night.
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Change of Heart
Guess what, Lambchop? I’ve decided to go to the Grand Unveiling. After careful consideration, I decided Mom was right. I don’t want to look like a sore loser.
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Drat!
Oh, drat. Daddy’s coming to the Grand Unveiling. He says he wants to be a good sport. But the only reason he changed his mind is because he found out there’s going to be a free buffet. You know Daddy. He can never resist the lure of free food!
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Justice Will Be Served!
Dearest Lambchop—I just figured out a great way to give my Statue of Liberty the exposure it deserves! Will fill you in on the details later.
All I can say for now is that artistic justice, at long last, will be served.
Love’n snuggles from,
DaddyO
Chapter 30
First thing the next morning, I called a locksmith and had my lock changed.
I tried to convince myself that I’d overreacted to the showerhead incident, that I’d undoubtedly loosened it myself. But I couldn’t afford to take any chances.
My nerves were more than a tad on edge when I got on my stepladder and began screwing the showerhead back into place—afraid that any minute Norman Bates, dressed as his dead mother, would come storming in and stab me to death.
What can I say? I’ve got a highly active imagination.
And my near death-by-showerhead wasn’t the only thing haunting me. I shuddered to think what goofy plan Daddy had up his sleeve to give his Statue of Liberty the “exposure” it deserved.
Most upsetting of all, I kept replaying my disastrous visit to Hapi House last night, killing Cleopatra, Hapi’s holy beetle—and the frosty way Dickie had kissed me good-bye.
I checked my phone, hoping Dickie had texted me.
Nada.
So I texted him a perky, Morning there, you! Thanks so much for the creative energy crystal! XOXO
No reply.
“Oh, Pro.” I sighed. “I think I screwed things up with Dickie.”
My precious princess looked up from where she was belching minced mackerel fumes.
Congratulations! You go, girl!
All of which is why I was in a bit of funk as I headed off to La Belle Vie that morning, my creative energy crystal nestled in my purse along with the Hapi Way of Life pamphlet.
After parking my Corolla in Daisy’s driveway, I hustled to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. There I found Raymond and Solange wrapped in a steamy embrace, the kind of embrace I’d been hoping to get from Dickie last night.
They sprang apart at the sight of me, grinning from ear to ear.
“Hey, guys,” I said. “How’s it going? Silly question. I can see things are going great with you two.”
“Couldn’t be happier,” Raymond beamed.
“What about Daisy? How’s she doing?”
“Still grieving,” Solange said. “But Esme’s convinced her to go out for a spa day. I’m sure it will do her a world of good.”
And a free spa treatment on Daisy’s dime wouldn’t hurt Esme either, I thought, most uncharitably.
Back in my office, I settled down at my desk, where for the fourth time that morning (okay, the thirteenth time), I checked for a text from Dickie.
Still nothing.
With a sigh, I reached into my purse for the creative energy crystal he’d given me and put it alongside my computer, hoping it would act like a router and stream fabulous ideas into my laptop without any heavy lifting from moi.
Then I fished out the Hapi-ness pamphlet and, fortified by a healthy swig of coffee, began to read it. It was every bit as gloppy as I feared it would be, a cliché-ridden ode to the Hapi Way of Life, the joys of meditation and vegan diets, the power of affirmations, and the evils of red meat.
I was struggling to stay awake when I saw something that grabbed my attention. Along with the dratted beetle, it turned out that the lotus plant was also high up on Hapi’s Holy List.
And just like that, I’d found a way to make amends for last night’s Cleopatra disaster. I’d buy Hapi a lotus plant!
I’d hand-deliver it to Hapi House, and filled with gratitude, Hapi would forgive me for squishing poor Cleopatra. With any luck, he’d share my thoughtful gesture with Dickie, who, in turn, would wrap me in his manly arms for a smooch.
Yes, time to get started on Operation Lotus Plant.
Which wasn’t quite as easy as I thought. Lotus plants are not exactly a hot seller in most nurseries. But at last I located one at Hashimoto Garden Supplies in West Los Angeles.
They had one for sale for a whopping fifty bucks.
Hang the expense. It’d be worth it.
In a flash, I grabbed my purse and was tooling over to the nursery—glad that Daisy was off at the spa and not there to see me running out on C. Weatherly.
A half hour later, I walked out of Hashimoto’s, fifty dollars poorer, a beautiful pink lotus plant nestled in my arms.
It took me ages to slog my way over to Hollywood, but I remained relentlessly perky, shrugging off road closures and drivers darting out from nowhere at Indy 500 speeds only to slow down to a crawl once they’d landed in front of me.
Yes, indeedie, I was a hopeful camper when I pulled into a parking spot a mere six blocks from Hapi House, confident my beautiful lotus plant would mend any broken fences with Hapi, and—by extension—Dickie. Sheltering the precious bloom in my arms, I fairly skipped those six blocks to Hapi House.
In broad daylight, the bungalow was even more rundown than it had looked last night. I rang the bell, and seconds later Hapi came to the door, no longer in a flowing robe but in jeans and a Three Stooges T-shirt.
I have to admit I was surprised by his outfit. Not exactly guru garb.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, giving me the stink eye.
And then I caught a whiff of something in the air. Was it my imagination, or did I smell meat cooking? No, it couldn’t be. Hapi was a strict vegetarian. It must have been coming from next door.
“I feel so bad about what happened
to poor Cleopatra,” I said, launching into my prepared speech, “I got you this holy lotus plant, hoping it will ease your pain.”
“Yeah, okay.” He grabbed it from me, barely glancing at it, clearly eager to get rid of me.
And then I heard a woman’s voice calling:
“Hey, Marty. You want mustard or ketchup with your burger?”
Burger?? I took another sniff. This time, there was no doubt about it. I smelled meat cooking—not next door, but here in Hapi House.
Whaddaya know? Dickie’s holier-than-thou guru was a carnivorous Three Stooges fan!
Gotcha! I felt like crying out.
Instead, I opted for a simpering smile and a cheery, “Enjoy your burger, Marty!”
He had the good grace to blush before slamming the door in my face.
Chapter 31
So Hapi was a fake.
My first instinct was to call Dickie and break the news to him. Hopefully, he’d be so disillusioned he’d give up his god-awful vegan diet. And I wouldn’t have to suffer through any more kale and tofu salads.
But maybe that wasn’t such a smart idea. Dickie might not believe me and be angry with me for casting aspersions on his beloved guru. No, best to keep my mouth shut for the time being.
In the meanwhile, the smell of Hapi/Marty’s burger had me hankering for a nice juicy Quarter Pounder. As I drove back to Daisy’s, I kept my eyes peeled for a Mickey D’s. Usually they’re everywhere. But now, when I was dying for a burger, there wasn’t a golden arch in sight.