Killing Bridezilla

by Laura Levine

  And there on my bed, chewing happily on one of my favorite—and most expensive—suede boots, was Mamie.

  Prozac was sprawled out on top of her, like Cleopatra lounging on the Nile, purring like a buzz saw.

  I think I like having a dog.

  “Mamie!” I shrieked, wrestling the boot away from her. “Did you do all this?”

  At least she had the grace to look ashamed. Which is more than I can say for Prozac. She swished her tail delightedly.

  Isn’t she a hoot? She’s so much more fun than I thought she’d be.

  I surveyed the wreckage and sighed. I simply could not deal with it now. I’d clean up tomorrow. All I wanted was to get in bed with my Rocky Road and watch mindless TV.

  Then, for the first time since I walked in the room, I noticed that the Lassie marathon that had been playing when I left was off the air. The television screen was filled with snow and static. Rats. The cable had gone out. I was just about to grab my phone and report the outage when I saw that the wire had been severed.

  A few inches of cable still dangled from the back of the TV, but the rest of it lay coiled on the floor, cut clear through. Well, not exactly cut. Chewed was more like it. I could still see Mamie’s teeth marks on the rubber.

  “Mamie, you chewed right through my cable!”

  Prozac leaped down from the bed and sniffed at the rubber.

  What a neat trick, huh?

  With a weary sigh, I plucked my pajamas from the lampshade and got undressed. Then I climbed into bed and scarfed down my Rocky Road listening to talk radio, where only the world’s looniest nutcases can be found calling in on a Saturday night. One guy claimed he’d just been released by aliens from the planet Playtex.

  “You think you had it rough, buddy?” I muttered. “Try going out with Walter Barnhardt.”

  When I’d licked every morsel of ice cream from the carton, I turned off the light and settled down for the night. Yes, I know I didn’t brush or floss, but I was in no mood for oral hygiene.

  I was just about to drift off to a well-earned sleep when I realized I hadn’t taken Mamie outside to do her business.

  I staggered out of bed, muttering a string of unprintable curses, and reached for my Reeboks. I started to put them on but stopped when my big toe felt something warm and squishy. It looked like Mamie had done her business after all.

  Prozac preened proudly from her perch on my pillow.

  I taught her how to do that!

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Happy Ending

  Well, Roberto’s gone and we all had a marvelous time. Once Daddy saw that my “lover” was a chubby, balding man, he was as charming as could be. And your father can be quite charming when he wants to be. Which is why I married him, I suppose. I have to remind myself of that the next time he’s driving me up a wall.

  As for Roberto, what can I say? Such a sweet man—it’s hard to believe how many years have passed since our picnic on the Spanish Steps. Try to enjoy every minute of your life, darling; it all goes by so quickly.

  And the really good news is that Daddy was feeling so guilty about abducting Signor Facciobene, he didn’t even put up a fight when I insisted he return his library book. He brought it back, meek as a lamb, paid the fine, and Lydia issued him a new library card.

  Best of all, he’s given up that ridiculous lawsuit, which is all that matters.

  Your very relieved,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: If At First You Don’t Succeed, Sue, Sue

  Again

  Guess what, honey? Roberto turned out to be a pretty nice guy. I suppose I overreacted a tad when I heard he was coming. After all, your mom is entitled to an innocent romance in her youth. Live and let live. That’s my motto.

  Love and kisses,

  Daddy

  PS. I’ve decided to drop the Pinkus case. But don’t worry, Lambchop. All my legal training wont go to waste. I’m suing the city of Tampa for false arrest.

  Chapter 23

  An odd rattling noise woke me the next morning. Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I saw Mamie at my bedroom door, jumping up and turning the handle with her paws.

  So that’s how she opened it last night. Mystery solved.

  I looked around at the disaster area formerly known as my bedroom and groaned. Oh, Lord. It would take hours to clean up this mess.

  I pried myself out of bed, threw on some jeans and a T-shirt, and took Mamie for a brisk walk to ensure no more accidents in my Reeboks. Then I fed Thelma and Louise (as I was now calling them) their breakfast. The little darlings had worked up quite an appetite after their rampage last night, and they dove into their chow with gusto.

  And, I must confess, so did I. I nuked myself some coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel, slathered with cream cheese, which I ate at the computer, checking my e-mail.

  So Daddy was going to sue the city for false arrest. While he was at it, maybe he could sue the people who made Walter Barnhardt’s toupee for hamster abuse. I just hoped for Mom’s sake that she wouldn’t have to live with Hank Austen, Esq. for too much longer.

  Having scarfed down every last raisin in my cinnamon raisin bagel, I could no longer delay the inevitable. I gritted my teeth and set out to clean the mess in my apartment.

  As predicted, it took hours.

  When I was through, I plopped down on the sofa and looked over at Mamie, who was hard at work scratching my baseboard.

  Prozac, draped over the back of the sofa, eyed her approvingly.

  You go, girl! Get as much paint off as you can!

  I was quite fond of the little fluffball, but it was obvious I had to find her a new home and get her away from Prozac’s evil influence. If I kept the two of them under the same roof, I wouldn’t have a roof for very long.

  But who would take her?

  I tried calling Kandi—hoping to convince her that a pet in her life would be less trouble and more rewarding than a man—but she wasn’t home.

  So I got out my address book and called practically everyone I knew, making my pooch pitch. But sad to say, nobody wanted an adorable white dog with a designer wardrobe and a penchant for chewing cable wire.

  I was just about to give Kandi another try when I thought of Dickie Potter.

  Daphna hadn’t wanted Mamie around because she brought back memories of Patti. But conversely, maybe Dickie would want her around to keep Patti’s memory alive.

  I fished out his phone number from my purse and gave him a call, then briefly told him of Mamie’s plight.

  “Daphna was going to send her to the pound?” he said. “That’s terrible.”

  “I thought maybe you might want to take her—seeing as Patti loved her so much.”

  “Of course I’ll take her. When can you bring her over?”

  “Right now, if it’s okay with you.”

  “Sure, come on by.”

  I hung up, elated.

  “How do you like that, Mamie? I found you a home!”

  She looked up from the baseboard as if she’d understood.

  “I’ll go get your stuff.”

  She followed me into the bedroom and watched as I took her Gucci suitcase from the closet and packed her things. At the last minute, I tossed in one of my suede boots.

  “Something to remember me by,” I said, bending down and kissing her soft fur. “I’m gonna miss you, dollface.”

  And I would.

  I drove over to Dickie’s, my heart aching for Mamie. I hated shuffling her from owner to owner like this.

  I looked at her—perched on the passenger seat, her head out the window, lapping up the wind—and for a minute, I felt like turning around and driving back home. But I couldn’t possibly keep Mamie and Prozac together, not if I wanted to preserve my sanity and my apartment.

  Besides, Dickie Potter was a sweet guy. I felt certain Mamie would be happy with him.

&nb
sp; And indeed, the minute Dickie came to the door, she was all over him, slobbering at his ankles. Clearly this dog had never met a tree or a human she hadn’t liked.

  “Hi, Mamie,” he said, bending down to pet her. “How you doing, girl?”

  Dickie was looking good that day—clear eyed and freshly shaven—a far cry from the disheveled wreck who’d come to the door on my last visit.

  Mamie licked his face with gusto.

  “Thanks so much for taking Mamie,” I said.

  “Thank you.” He smiled up at me. “You’re the one who’s doing me the favor.”

  Mamie panted in delight as he scratched her behind her ears, her tail wagging at rocket speed. And as I watched them together, a big load lifted from my shoulders, confident I was doing the right thing.

  I brought in the rest of Mamie’s things from my car and offered to stay and help get her settled.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” Dickie said. “I can handle it. You’ve done more than enough already. Patti would be very grateful if she knew how kind you’ve been.”

  At the mention of Patti, his eyes misted over.

  “I guess I’d better be going then.”

  With a twinge of regret, I scooped Mamie up in my arms for one last hug. And it was then, just as I was burying my nose in her soft fur, that I happened to glance into Dickie’s hall closet. The door was ajar, and I could see a white jacket hanging from an inside hook. And not just any white jacket. A white chef’s jacket. Just like the one Veronica had been wearing in her shop.

  My keen powers of perception led me to deduce that it was, in fact, Veronica’s jacket. Mainly because I could see the name “Veronica” embroidered on the pocket.

  What the heck was Veronica doing here? And why was she hiding?

  I intended to find out.

  “Thanks again for taking Mamie,” I said.

  “It’s my pleasure.” For the first time, I detected a hint of impatience behind his smile. He wanted to get rid of me.

  I blew Mamie a kiss and headed out to my Corolla. Dickie stood in the doorway, waving as I drove away.

  I waved back, a phony smile plastered on my face.

  But I didn’t drive very far, just to the next block. Then I got out and headed back to Dickie’s house, where I crept across the lawn and crouched under one of the living room windows.

  I peeked inside and stifled a gasp. Veronica was stretched out on Dickie’s sofa, leafing through the latest issue of Gourmet, wearing nothing but a bra and panties.

  There was no sign of Mamie—or Dickie, for that matter. But a few seconds later, he sauntered into the room.

  “I put the dog in the den so she won’t bother you.”

  I could hear the muffled sounds of Mamie whimpering in the background.

  “I still don’t see why you had to take her,” Veronica pouted. “You know how much I hate dogs.”

  “Because now that Austen idiot will run around telling everyone how devoted I am to Patti’s memory. No one will ever suspect the truth.”

  Who the heck was he calling an idiot? I stiffened with indignation under my Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs T-shirt.

  Dickie picked up Patti’s picture from the end table, the one taken in the Secret Gazebo.

  “I hate looking at this thing,” he said, slapping it facedown on the table. “What a holy terror she was.”

  “I’ll say,” Veronica sighed.

  “I deserve an Academy Award for my performance as The Loving Fiancé. Every time I kissed her, I closed my eyes and thought of you.”

  He snuggled next to Veronica on the sofa and lifted the magazine from her hands.

  “But it all worked out in the end, didn’t it?” he smiled. “We got the money, just like I said we would.”

  Then he leaned in to kiss her, a big steamy suctionfest of a kiss.

  I blinked in amazement.

  Good Lord. It was Veronica, not Patti, who Dickie fell in love with at the Hermosa High reunion. Veronica had made a point of telling me how Dickie had taken one look at Patti and gone gaga. What a crock. She was the one Dickie had fallen for. Hadn’t she been seen by everyone talking to Dickie and Normalynne that night? By the time Patti showed up, Dickie had already taken the plunge.

  Now as I watched her run her fingers through his hair, I flashed back to Dickie’s tousled hair on my first visit to his bungalow. Maybe Veronica was there that day, too. Maybe that’s why he was so reluctant to invite me in. Maybe his disheveled look was due not to grief but to frantic sex.

  Poor Patti. Dickie never did love her. That misty-eyed shtick of his was just an act to get his hands on her money. He probably got her to name him beneficiary in her will. And then, once he knew he’d inherit everything, his lover and partner in crime took a break from her cooking duties and sabotaged the balcony. The woman Julio saw up on the balcony was Veronica!

  “And don’t worry about the mutt,” Dickie murmured, when they finally came up for air. “I’ll bring her to the pound when things settle down. In the meanwhile, everyone will think I’m Saint Dickie.”

  I heard another muted whimper.

  Poor Mamie. I couldn’t leave her there with a pair of killers.

  So there I was, ducked under the window, wondering how the heck I was going to get Mamie out of the house, when suddenly I heard the tinkling strains of “The Mexican Hat Dance.”

  It was not, I’m sorry to report, coming from inside the bungalow. That idiotic tune was the ringer I’d chosen, in a momentary lapse of good taste, for my cell phone.

  “Somebody’s outside!” I heard Veronica saying. “I think it came from that window.”

  At that point I had a choice. I could do the sensible thing and run for my life. Or I could stay and try to rescue Mamie.

  It was no contest. Good sense didn’t stand a chance against a sweetheart like Mamie. I stood up and screeched “Mamie!” at the top of my lungs.

  I had no idea what good that would do, given that Dickie had her stowed away in the den. So you can imagine my joy—and surprise—when she came bounding into the room. She must’ve pulled her old Jump-Up-and-Turn-the-Door-Handle escape trick.

  What a clever dog!

  “Here, Mamie!” I called to her.

  And like a curly-haired bat out of hell, she charged across the room and out the window into my arms.

  Veronica, who’d been gaping openmouthed throughout this daring canine escape, now regained her powers of speech.

  “Damn it!” she cried. “It’s Jaine. She probably heard everything.”

  And then, tearing a page from Mamie’s book, I did my own impression of a flying mammal out of Hades and took off down the block.

  “Stop her, Dickie!” Veronica shrieked.

  The door banged open as Dickie came bolting out of the house in hot pursuit.

  Now Dickie was a tall, rangy athletic guy, and I’m about as athletic as your average lawn ornament. So normally he would’ve caught up with me in a heartbeat. But lucky for me, he was barefoot. As I puffed toward my car, Mamie in my arms, I heard him yelp in pain. I turned and saw him clutching his foot, plucking out what I figured was a piece of glass.

  Which was why I was able to make it to my car and drive off unscathed.

  “Oh, Mamie,” I said, my hands trembling on the steering wheel, “I’m so sorry for leaving you with those dreadful people.”

  But Mamie had already forgotten her ordeal and was busy sniffing for buried treasure in my purse.

  She’d just dug out a priceless used Kleenex when I heard the strains of “The Mexican Hat Dance.” I was afraid it might be Dickie, but when I flipped open my phone, I was relieved to see Kandi’s number on the screen.

  “Hey, Kandi,” I said, putting her on the speaker.

  “Jaine, where were you? I tried calling you a few minutes ago.”

  So she was the one who blew my cover.

  “You’ll never believe what happened,” she moaned. “It’s just awful.”

  “What’s wrong?”

&n
bsp; “I’m stranded in Minneapolis!”

  “What??”

  “Remember my air date? The guy I was meeting on the plane?”

  Yes, indeed. I remembered her plan to fake a business meeting in Minneapolis in order to hook up with a perfect stranger. How could I forget such an idiotic idea?

  “He never even showed. I flew all the way to Minneapolis for nothing. And we landed in the middle of a storm. They closed the airport. I could be stranded here for days.”

  I restrained myself from breaking into a rousing chorus of I-told-you-so’s.

  “All the decent hotels are booked. And now I’m stuck in the world’s crummiest motel with nothing to wear, except for a Vikings sweatshirt I bought at the airport gift shop. I don’t even have a toothbrush. What am I going to do?”

  But before I could offer any words of wisdom, I heard a car roar up behind me. There, in my rear view mirror, was Dickie behind the wheel of his yellow VW.

  “Hang in there, honey,” I called out to Mamie as I hit the gas pedal.

  “How can I hang in there,” Kandi whined, “when I’m trapped in this godforsaken motel?”

  “I wasn’t talking to you. I was talking to the dog.”

  “What dog?”

  “The dog who’s eating my wallet.”

  And it’s true. Mamie, oblivious to my sudden burst of speed, had fished my wallet out of my purse and was now digging into it as if it were a T-bone steak.

  “Don’t eat the MasterCard!” I shrieked.

  “Jaine, don’t tell me you got a dog? Don’t you have enough aggravation with Prozac? And speaking of aggravation, you should see the towels in this joint. They look like they’ve been recycled from a car wash. Ugh!”

  By now I was barreling along the streets of Santa Monica, Dickie hot on my tail.

  “Kandi, I think I’m going to have to call you back—”

  “And the guy at the front desk looks just like Norman Bates. Honestly, I don’t know how I’m going to sleep a wink tonight.”