“You don’t mind, do you, darlin’?” he cooed.
No doubt about it. It looked like Joy had at last met her match in the Monumental Chutzpah Department.
Chapter 5
The Jonathan Club happens to be one of the most exclusive joints in L.A., where the one percent meet to steer clear of the rest of us 99ers.
Needless to say, Lance did not take me there for lunch.
Instead he opted for the slightly less prestigious Der Wienerschnitzel, where we dined al fresco on chili cheese dogs and fries, taking in the scenic view of the gas station across the alley.
Of course, Lance would spend at least 347 hours at his gym burning off Der Wienerschnitzel’s industrial-strength calories. I, on the other hand, have a “live and let live” policy where calories are concerned, and planned to let them settle merrily alongside the others nestled on my thighs.
“Why, I do declayah!” Lance said, after tucking into his chow. “This wiener is divine!”
“Enough with the accent, Lance. Any minute now you’ll be calling for your mammy and putting on your gown for the barbecue at Twelve Oaks.”
“I’ve always pictured myself a modern day Ashley Wilkes,” Lance drawled, a faraway look in his eyes. “Brooding, sensitive, and secretly in love with Big Sam.”
“Do you actually plan to keep talking like this on your date with Donny Johnson?”
“Sho ’nuff.”
“And by the way, I sincerely doubt Donny’s an heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune. Joy’s almost as big a faker as you are. You’ll be lucky if he can afford to pick up the check at Der Wienerschnitzel.”
“Oh, don’t be such a buzz kill,” Lance pouted. “It’s possible Donny might be filthy rich and insanely handsome.”
“Dream on,” I said, inhaling the last of my chili cheese dog.
Boy, that sure went down fast, didn’t it?
“So what’s with the makeover?” Lance eyed my new haircut. “You look great.”
“Thanks. You’re not the only one going on a Date of Joy. Joy’s fixing me up with somebody, too.”
Lance’s eyes lit up.
“That’s wonderful, Jaine! I bet this time you’re going to meet your prince charming!”
Then his brow furrowed with concern.
“But whatever you do, promise me you won’t wear elastic waist pants on your date.”
For some reason, Lance is convinced I’ve got no fashion sense. He says moths come to my closet to commit suicide. Which is perfectly absurd, as anyone who’s ever seen my vintage collection of CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS T-shirts will be the first to tell you.
“Did you hear me, Jaine?” Lance was waving a fry in my face. “No elastic waist pants.”
“But I like elastic waist pants. They’re so comfortable.”
“So are granny nightgowns. But you wouldn’t wear one on a date, would you ...? Well? Would you?”
“I’m thinking, I’m thinking. With the right elastic waist pants, it might not look so bad.”
“No more fries.” He slapped my hand away from his plate. (I’d long since finished my own and had started filching his.) “Unless you promise. No elastic waists.”
“Oh, all right,” I sighed. “No elastic waists.”
Having overturned the lone obstacle to my finding true love, Lance resumed waxing euphoric.
“Oh, Jaine! I have good vibes about all this. Something tells me we’re going to meet the men of our dreams!”
As you’ve no doubt already figured out, Lance’s imagination tends to run on overdrive—especially when it comes to romance.
“Wouldn’t it be great,” he was saying, Disney stars practically twinkling in his eyes, “if we both wound up falling madly in love and had a double wedding?”
“Lance,” I gently reminded him, “we haven’t even met the guys yet. Don’t you think you’re getting a little ahead of yourself planning our weddings?”
“You’re right, sweetie. Of course. First we’ve got to plan our bachelor and bachelorette parties! I’m thinking Vegas!”
I didn’t even try to talk sense into him. Instead I did the only thing possible under the circumstances:
Finish his fries.
Chapter 6
Feeling guilty about all those chili cheese dog calories nestling on my thighs, I took a twenty-block walk when I got home that night. Okay, so it was ten blocks. Okay, six, if you must know. Which is about five and a half more than I’d walk if left to my own devices.
By the time I got back to my apartment, I was ready to eat the wallpaper.
And I wasn’t the only one feeling peckish.
The minute I walked in the door, Prozac started weaving in and out around my ankles in her patented Feed Me dance.
Do you realize it’s been a whole two and a half hours since my last snack? If I don’t eat soon, I may faint.
“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” I said, trying to make my way to the kitchen without tripping over her.
I was just sloshing some Hearty Halibut Guts into her bowl, debating whether to order Chinese or pizza for my own dinner, when Joy called.
It turns out I was about to meet the man of my dreams a lot sooner than I thought.
“Fabulous news, Jaine!” Joy’s voice came braying across the line. “I’ve just worked another dating miracle and fixed you up with one of L.A.’s most eligible bachelors!”
Ten to one, it was Barry the pocket protector guy.
“He’s six feet tall, with blond hair, blue eyes, and homes in Malibu, Maui, and Palm Beach.”
That sure didn’t sound like Barry. Was it possible that for once in her life Joy had actually come through with a decent date?
“His name is Skip Holmeier III, and he’s picking you up in half an hour.”
A measly half hour? Well, that ruled out any last-minute liposuction.
“Now remember,” Joy was saying. “My reputation is on the line here. You need to make a good impression. So whatever you do, don’t wear elastic waist pants.”
Oh, hell. She must have been talking to Lance.
After assuring her I would not leave the house with elastic clinging to my waist, I dashed into the shower to prep myself for my date with one of L.A.’s most eligible bachelors. I have to confess I was more than a tad excited. I stood under the shower spray, my cute new coif stuffed into a shower cap, trying to remember the few attractive male clients I’d seen on Joy’s database and whether any of them had houses in Maui and Palm Beach. But my mind was a blank. Oh, well. I’d find out who he was soon enough.
Finished with my shower, I slipped on my undies and hurried to my closet, where I reached for a pair of nonelastic waist charcoal gray skinny pants I’d picked up half price at Nordstrom. Somehow I managed to close the button on its set-in waist, and put on a red merino wool tunic, some sterling silver dangly earrings, and my one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks.
Unfortunately I was unable to replicate Cassie’s fabulous makeup job, so I just scrunched my curls, slapped on some lipstick and a bit of mascara, and hoped for the best.
“What do you think?” I asked, modeling my outfit for Prozac, who was stretched out on the living room sofa, giving herself one of her hourly gynecological exams.
She yawned a cavernous yawn.
I think it’s time for a belly rub.
But there was no time for belly rubs. Because just then there was a knock on the door.
Omigosh. It was him! My Most Eligible Bachelor!
I took a deep breath and walked to the door.
And that’s when I made my first mistake: I opened it.
Standing there was Skip Holmeier III.
How foolish I’d been to think Joy would actually come through for me.
True, he was six feet tall. And true, he had blond hair and blue eyes.
But I’m guessing he’d had those baby blues of his for at least seventy-five years. And that blond hair sitting on top of his head like a yellow bird’s nest was most definitely a toupee.
For a crazy instant I allowed myself to hope that he was Skip’s elderly chauffeur.
But, alas, that was not to be.
“Jaine!” he cried, his blue eyes twinkling through his cataracts. “I’m Skip Holmeier. What a pleasure to meet you!”
“Likewise, I’m sure,” I gulped.
“For you, my dear,” he said, handing me a nosebleed expensive bouquet of long-stemmed roses.
“Thanks so much,” I managed to stammer. “Come on in, while I put these in water.”
He stepped inside, and as he did, he suddenly clutched his chest.
Omigod. What if he was having a heart attack right here in my living room? If only I knew CPR. Or the Heimlich maneuver. Or the name of a good cardiologist! I stood there, on the brink of calling 911, when I realized Skip wasn’t having a heart attack.
He was merely staring, awestruck, at Prozac, who had gone back to examining her privates.
“Egad, what a beauty!”
Prozac looked up and preened.
So I’ve been told.
“She’s the spitting image of Miss Marple!”
“Miss Marple?”
“My dearly departed cat,” he explained and then raced to the sofa to scoop up Prozac in his liver-spotted arms.
“What’s the little angel’s name?” he asked.
“Prozac, and she’s no little angel.”
“Of course, she is. Aren’t you, snookums?” he said to Prozac, rubbing his nose against hers.
She wriggled back in disgust.
Hey, buddy. Ever hear of breath mints?
Leaving Skip cooing sweet nothings in Prozac’s ear, I went to the kitchen to put the roses in a vase.
I debated making a break for it from my kitchen window but eventually nixed the plan. Mainly because I don’t have a kitchen window.
When I got back to the living room, Skip was still cooing.
“Why, you’re the cutest snookums in Snookums Land. Yes, you are!”
“I’m the only one who’s allowed to talk nauseating baby talk to my cat!” I felt like saying. But instead I just smiled brightly and said, “So! Where are we headed off to?”
He looked up at me vaguely, still in a love trance. And then he remembered.
“Oh, right. Our date. I made dinner reservations at Simon’s.”
Now it was my turn to go weak in the knees.
Simon’s just happens to be one of the most expensive steak joints in L.A. And I, for one, could not wait to wrap myself around one of their juicy top sirloins.
But then I felt a twinge of guilt. Was it fair to make Skip pay for an expensive steak dinner when I knew I’d never go out with him again? Maybe I should just tell him I had a headache and cut the date short then and there.
Oh, what the heck? If his Rolex and fine Italian loafers were any indication, Skip was rolling in dough. Taking me for an expensive steak dinner would be the tiniest drop in his bucket of millions.
“Sounds wonderful!” I smiled.
Somehow Skip managed to tear himself away from Prozac.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he said, blowing her a kiss.
Prozac gazed up at him lazily.
Yeah, right. Whatever. Don’t forget to bring back leftovers.
Tucking my arm into his elbow, Skip escorted me out to his car, a hulking monster of a Bentley, built no doubt when Queen Elizabeth was in diapers.
After a bit of a struggle, he managed to pull open the Brinks-like passenger door, and I slid onto an enormous bench seat, looking around for a seat belt.
“Afraid this model didn’t come with seat belts,” Skip explained.
Of course it didn’t. They hadn’t been invented then.
He popped around to the driver’s side and spent several minutes squinting in the dim light, trying to fit his key in the ignition. Finally, I guided it into the right slot, and off we went.
Simon’s was in the heart of Beverly Hills, about a five-minute drive from my duplex.
Five minutes, that is, when a normal person is driving the car.
Skip, however, maneuvered the QE2 at a maddening fifteen miles an hour, humming to himself and ignoring the furious honks of the drivers behind us.
At long last we got to the restaurant. We could’ve walked faster.
I perked up, however, when Skip handed over the Bentley to the valet and we headed inside the posh steakerie. Instantly I was overcome by the heady aroma of prime steaks sizzling on a grill.
Dimly lit and very men’s clubby, the place oozed old leather and new money.
Off in the bar, a jazz pianist was tinkling the ivories, while a tuxedo-clad maître d’ stood vigil at a podium.
“Ah, good evening, Mr. Holmeier!” said the maître d’, rushing to our side. “Right this way, sir.”
Clearly Skip was one of his more valued patrons.
Visions of top sirloins danced in my head as the maître d’ led us across the dining room. All around me I saw people digging into juicy T-bones. It was all I could do not to reach over and grab a bite.
The maître d’ gestured to a prime corner booth, and I scooted into it, wondering if I should order bacon bits with my baked potato.
Skip slid in from the other side. For a minute I was afraid he was going to sidle up to me and make thigh contact, but much to my relief, he kept a respectable distance between us.
Even in the flattering glow of the restaurant’s lighting, I could see that his blond nest of a toupee did not match the graying shrub of real hair growing beneath it.
“So,” Skip said when the maître d’ had left us with our menus and slithered off to greet more carnivores. “Tell me all about yourself.”
He flashed me what I was certain were a very expensive set of dentures.
“Well—” I began.
But before I could get out one syllable about Yours Truly, Skip butted in with: “And what about Prozac? How old is the little darling? How long have you had her? What do you feed her? Certainly not commercial cat food, I hope!”
His inquisition was cut short just then when our waiter came to take our order.
I was still debating about whether or not to order bacon bits with my baked potato when I heard Skip saying, “I’ll have my usual, Maurice.”
“The steamed vegetable plate, Mr. Holmeier?”
“Yes, indeed.”
Was he kidding? What sort of nut ordered a steamed veggie plate in a steak restaurant?
“And for the lady?” our genial waiter inquired.
To my horror, Skip replied, “She’ll have the same.”
“What??” I gasped.
“Didn’t Joy tell you?” he said, seeing the look of shock in my eyes. “I’m a strict vegan.”
“No, she didn’t happen to mention it.”
“Well, I am, and I can’t possibly allow you to pollute your body with red meat.”
I sat on my hands to keep them from strangling him.
“Is it okay if I pollute my body with a glass of chardonnay?”
“Of course!” he chuckled. “Be sure it’s organic,” he instructed Maurice. “Don’t worry, Jaine,” he said, turning back to me. “Simon’s has the best steamed veggies in all of Los Angeles!”
Oh, well, I thought, staring enviously at a guy shoving a piece of steak into his mouth. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about popping a button on my set-in waistband.
A busboy now appeared at our table with a basket of hot sourdough rolls and butter.
“No butter for us!” Skip instructed the busboy, waving away the butter crock.
I quickly grabbed a roll from the basket before he had that whisked away, too. I was just about to chomp down into it when I heard a familiar, “Yoo hoo!”
I looked up to see Joy tottering toward us on designer stilettos, cocooned in one of her billowing A-line dresses, honker sapphire earrings dangling from beneath an Early Streisand bob. Trotting alongside her like an obedient pup was Tonio, in black leather pants and a clinging white silk sh
irt. I wondered if the shirt was the two-hundred-dollar number he’d lusted after at Barneys.
“Hello, you two!” Joy cried in her Queen Mum voice. “Having fun?”
“Tons,” I replied, squashing the urge to stab her with my unused butter knife.
“Jaine’s such a delightful young woman,” Skip enthused. “Do you know she has a cat who’s the spitting image of Miss Marple?”
“Is that so?” Joy cooed.
Clearly eager to suck up to her wealthy client, Joy began blabbing about what a precious cat Miss Marple had been, telling a saccharine story about the time she played with Miss Marple while Skip was having his picture taken, feeding her ahi tuna and truffles and even some of the beluga caviar she kept hidden in her private refrigerator. She rambled on for a good sourdough roll and a half, extolling Miss Marple’s many virtues.
“I swear, she was the most adorable cat I’ve ever seen!” she said, finally wrapping up her paean.
“She was, wasn’t she?” Skip said, a far-off look in his eyes.
But Joy had forgotten all about Miss Marple.
“Look, Tonio!” she squealed with delight. “There’s Greg Stanton!”
She pointed to a hunkalicious dude sitting at a nearby table. Slim and tan, with craggy cheekbones and a headful of thick, sun-bleached hair, he looked like the guy voted “Most Handsome” in a Tommy Hilfiger photo shoot. Practically glued to his side was a stunning brunet, feeding him the olive from her martini.
Joy turned to me and breathily informed me, “Greg’s one of the most successful artists on the West Coast. Does fabulously colorful landscapes.”
“A very talented fellow,” Skip agreed.
“And he’s one of my most loyal clients,” Joy said with pride.
Huh? I had to wonder why on earth a gorgeous guy like Greg Stanton would need Joy’s services.
“Yoo hoo, Greg!” she called out, her sapphire earrings jangling as she waved.
Greg tore his eyes away from his brunet and, noticing Joy, offered up a feeble smile. Like most people who came in contact with Joy, he didn’t exactly seem thrilled to see her.
But if Joy sensed his lack of enthusiasm, she showed no sign of it.
“We positively must go say hello. Mustn’t we, Tonio?”
Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) Page 4