by Laura Levine
“Clever touch, wasn’t it, using the wire hanger? I thought for sure that would throw suspicion on Miles. She drove him nuts about those damn things. No one suspected me, of course. I was the one person on staff she was nice to. I made sure of that in bed.
“Anyhow, after I wrung her neck that night, I hopped up to her bedroom and stole the jacket. I figured I’d hold onto the jewels until it was safe to fence them. Then rake in the bonanza. This stuff is worth a fortune. Just think what it could do for my career. I can dump Estelle and get lessons from a real pro and become the virtuoso violinist I was meant to be.”
Oh, gulp. This was one seriously deluded psychopath.
How on earth had I let myself fall for him? Why hadn’t I been able to see past that damn dimple?
If he killed Bebe, surely he wouldn’t hesitate to kill me. I had to get out of there—preferably not in a body bag—and convince him his secret was safe with me.
“I don’t blame you,” I said, forcing myself to smile. “Talent like yours can’t be trampled; it has to survive at all costs. And besides, you didn’t really do anything wrong. Bebe was a terrible person. You were performing a public service.”
“I knew you’d understand,” he said, flashing me his now loathsome dimple. “Let’s pick up where we left off, shall we?”
Grabbing me by my wrist, he dragged me over to the Murphy bed and pulled it down from the wall.
For a minute, I considered playing along with him, going to bed with him, and praying he’d fall asleep so I could sneak away. But as he pressed his body against mine, I couldn’t go through with it, recoiling at his touch.
“Actually,” I said, “my neck is really starting to hurt. I guess I must have strained it cramped in your closet. But I do want to finish what we started,” I added, forcing myself to peck him on the lips, swallowing the bile rising in my throat. “Rain check?”
I prayed his ego would let him buy the whopper of a lie I’d just told, hoping he’d believe that, like Estelle, I’d fallen under his spell, a puppet whose strings he could easily manipulate.
A flicker of doubt flashed in his eyes, but only a flicker.
Then he was smiling again.
“Of course I understand. You go home and rest. And as soon as you’re better, we’ll meet up on my Murphy bed.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
Somehow I managed not to puke.
Then I picked up my purse and headed for the door, desperate to make my escape.
I was foolish enough to I think I was going to get away with it. Until I saw Justin’s reflection in the sliding glass window, coming toward me, holding up the now empty bottle of chardonnay, ready to smash in my skull.
He was going to kill me, after all.
And at that minute, I was rescued by the most unlikely of candidates—Cindy, the Jello-wrestling bimbo—and the very valuable head-butting technique I’d learned from her.
Fueled by fear and fury, I went charging at Justin, butting him in his gut with every ounce of strength in my body.
“Oof!” he cried, doubled over in pain, the wine bottle clattering to the floor.
Taking advantage of this lull in the action, I scooted out the door to freedom.
As I ran down the steps to the building’s entrance, I heard Justin lumbering after me for a few seconds before crashing to the ground, undoubtedly tripping over the wine bottle I’d so thoughtfully left in his path.
“Don’t bother getting up,” I called back to him, “I’ll see myself out.”
* * *
The minute I got home, I called both 911 and Detective Washington to spill the beans about Justin. For good measure, I called Estelle at the Fletcher Music Academy and told her Justin had been cheating on her.
And so I was extremely gratified the next morning—as I sat curled up in bed in my jammies, scarfing down my CRB—to see footage of Justin’s arrest on the local news. Apparently when the police showed up at his studio, they found him trying to flush Bebe’s jewels down the toilet.
And Justin wasn’t the only one in hot water. On page three of the L.A. Times was the headline SHOE SALESMAN C HARGED WITH GRAND LARCENY, about Sven Gustafson stealing designer shoes from Neiman’s to sell on the black market in Oslo.
So Lance was right. Sven had been up to no good.
When he came barging into my apartment later that morning, I expected Lance to be bragging about his crime-fighting prowess.
But, no.
“Wait till you see this video!” he said, plopping down next to me and taking out his cell phone. “What an amazing cat!”
Prozac, who’d been draped across my armchair, belching Bumble Bee fumes, instantly perked up.
I know! I’m The Cat Who Saved a Philanthropist’s Life!
Eagerly, she jumped on his lap to get a look at the video, then blinked in disbelief.
Hold on. That’s not moi!
Indeed it wasn’t.
On the screen was a brand new feline sensation—Herman, The Cat Who Plays the Violin.
“How delightful!” I cried, watching a tabby pluck the strings of a violin with his paw.
Prozac stared at the screen in disgust, then stalked off to claw a throw pillow to ribbons.
Hooray! Prozac had been dethroned. And she knew it. Her fifteen minutes of fame were over!
I sat back and polished off another cinnamon raisin bagel, marveling at the violin-playing cat, and thinking how much better he sounded than Justin ever did.
You’ve Got Mail
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: A Perfect Angel
Thanks heavens Lydia’s missionary cousins have dropped all charges against Daddy. In fact they even held a vigil to pray for his mental health.
I swore I’d never speak to him again after that mortifying incident at The Hideaway Motel. But he’s been a perfect angel, worming his way back into my good graces. Yesterday he bought me a dozen roses and a beautiful new parfait bowl. And tonight he’s taking me to dinner at Le Chateaubriand, Tampa Vistas’ most elegant restaurant.
What can I say? It’s hard to stay mad at Daddy. I guess I love him, warts and all.
XOXO,
Mom
PS. Best of all, Daddy’s agreed to go to Lydia’s opera series. I just hope he doesn’t take one of his “power naps” and start snoring!
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Out of the Doghouse
Dearest Lambchop—In a desperate attempt to appease your mom, I’ve agreed to go that dratted opera series.
But at least your mom’s talking to me again and even made me a great Reuben sandwich for lunch.
So it looks like I’m out of the doghouse!
Love ’n hugs
(and a big sigh of relief)
from,
Daddy
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Hot Gossip
Oh, my goodness. Tampa Vistas’ gossip grapevine is positively sizzling with the news that Dr. Denise, the radio talk show host, is having an adulterous affair with—of all people—Lydia’s party planner!
Must call Lydia and get the whole story.
XOXO,
Mom
TAMPA VISTAS GAZETTE
POPULAR TALK RADIO SHOW
HOST FIRED
Popular radio psychologist Doctor Denise was fired today after explosive news surfaced about an extramarital affair she was having with party planner Lucas Grundvig.
Suspecting her husband’s infidelity, Mrs. Grundvig hired a private investigator, who took photos of the adulterous couple holding hands and kissing at The Hideaway restaurant.
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: I Was Right All Along
Hah! I was right all along, Lambchop. Maybe not about Lydia. But I knew from the minute I laid eyes on The Flounder, he was up to no good. Sure enough, he’s been having an affair with Dr. Denise from the radio!
&n
bsp; I’m tempted to tell your mother about my amazing powers of perception, but I can’t risk it. Not so soon after The Hideaway Motel debacle.
But you and I know the truth.
Love ’n snuggles from your
Ever loving,
Daddy
PS. Just sent away for some military grade earplugs so I can power nap my way through those darn operas.
Epilogue
Criminal justice fans will be happy to know that Justin, my boy toy psychopath, is in jail, awaiting trial for Bebe Braddock’s murder.
And it turns out I was right about Tatiana. She attacked me in the alley to keep me from blabbing about her theft of Bebe’s Birkin bag, terrified it would scotch her chance at a comeback as Lacey’s stylist.
Today, thanks to anger management therapy, and a hefty dose of meds, she’s got her life back on track. In fact, ever since Lacey showed up at the Academy Awards in an outfit curated by Tatiana, the sixtysomething stylist’s career has been skyrocketing. So much so that she sold her shack in the Valley and bought a McMansion in Brentwood, not far from Miles and Anna.
Speaking of the adulterous duo, they’re now happily married and have opened an exclusive boutique, stocked with Anna’s original designs—all proudly displayed on wire hangers.
In other news, Heidi’s still doing hair and makeup for A-list movie stars. Last I heard, she was dating Sean, the Spectacular Studios tour guide.
Herman, The Cat Who Plays the Violin, made an appearance on the Today show, which irked Prozac no end. (And I’ve got the scratches on my TV screen to prove it.)
Every once in a while, I catch Prozac gazing wistfully out the window—either lost in memories of her internet glory—or planning an attack on the Sons of Satan (aka my new suede boots).
As for me, I sold my makeover outfits on eBay (all except that glorious blue cashmere sweater), the proceeds of which netted me just enough to pay Trudy’s six-hundred-dollar bill.
And I never did get that fifty thousand dollars from Edwin Alonso Allbritton. Alas, just days after texting me, he was arrested on charges of insider trading, his assets frozen.
(So if you were thinking of hitting me up for a loan, best make other plans.)
Needless to say, after my disastrous experience with Justin, I’ve sworn off younger men—and dimples—forever.
For the time being, I’m sticking with my four-legged significant other. Who, at this very moment, is meowing for a belly rub. Better run before Her Royal Highness gets her paws on my cashmere sweater.
Catch you next time.
XOXO
PS. I almost forgot! Biggest news of all! Tacoma’s art installation, Planet of the Grapes, just sold at auction for 1.4 million dollars!