Death of a Bachelorette

by Laura Levine

  Good lord! My feline Houdini had staged another Escape from Sauna Central!

  Akela stifled a gasp, plopped the ice cream down on a sideboard and dashed back into the mansion.

  And like a flash, Prozac hopped up on said sideboard and began lapping up Manny’s strawberry ice cream, a little pink mustache clinging to her whiskers.

  “Excuse me,” I said, jumping up from my chair. “I’m not feeling very well.”

  Which was no lie.

  Manny’s seat at the head of the table faced away from the house, so he was mercifully unaware of Prozac’s antics behind him.

  But everyone else was staring at her, wide-eyed.

  I quickly raced over and scooped Prozac away from her strawberry treat.

  Only to be met by an indignant glare.

  Wait a minute! I was just getting to a chunk of strawberry!

  Wasting no time, I dashed inside, and as I did, I heard Manny asking: “Hey, where’s my dessert?”

  “Here it is,” I heard Polly say. “Akela added a special ingredient tonight. Just for you.”

  I peeked out to the patio and saw her handing him the bowl of strawberry ice cream.

  Manny dug into it with gusto.

  “Mmm,” he said, lapping up Prozac’s cat spit. “Delicious!”

  At last. A chapter with a happy ending.

  Chapter 27

  I couldn’t stay mad at Prozac. That clever cat put cat spit in Manny’s ice cream, a treat for one and all.

  I was still, however, beyond baffled by how she kept escaping from our room. After once again securing her behind our bolted door, I made my way over to Kirk’s cabin.

  His door was open when I got there. Peeking inside, I saw Kirk slumped in a chair, a bottle of bourbon on the floor at his feet.

  “Kirk?” I said, as I slipped into the room. “Are you okay?”

  “Never better,” he said, looking up at me with bloodshot eyes, red-rimmed with tears.

  His thick mop of hair was still clotted in greasy clumps, his bare feet crusted with dirt, his face covered in stubble. I could only imagine when he’d last showered and shaved.

  Nearby on a makeshift desk sat a laptop and a framed photo of Kirk and Hope in happier days, his arm around her tiny waist, both of them smiling into the camera—his eyes filled with love, hers as calculating as an Excel spreadsheet.

  Once again I remembered the scene outside the mansion when Hope told Kirk she was dumping him for Spencer. Had he been so blinded by rage and rejection that he’d sent the woman he loved hurtling to her death?

  “Want some?” he asked, picking up the bottle of bourbon from the floor and holding it out to me.

  I shuddered to think how many of Godzilla’s cousins had been scampering over it.

  “No thanks. I’m good.”

  “All the more for me then,” he said, taking a swig.

  Then his eyes wandered over to the picture on his desk, the one of him and Hope. He stared at it longingly, lost in memories.

  “Hope was the best thing that ever happened to me,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes. “Like a dream come true. I couldn’t believe a girl as wonderful as Hope would be interested in a blue-collar guy like me. I never made it past high school. But she liked me. That was the miracle.”

  He shook his head in wonder, then let out a deep sigh.

  “I should’ve known it was too good to last. She was bound to dump me sooner or later. She was so ambitious, determined to make a name for herself. Me, all I wanted was her.”

  Another slug of his bourbon.

  “Underneath it all, I always knew it was going to happen. But still, it was like a sucker punch to my gut when she dumped me. My stomach hasn’t stopped hurting since.”

  I thought perhaps his tummy problems might have something to do with that bourbon he was knocking back with alarming speed, but I deemed it wise to keep my mouth shut.

  “But what I don’t understand,” he said, scratching his head, “is Spencer. I thought for sure he was in love with Dallas. Although I shouldn’t be surprised he wound up choosing Hope. She was so damn special.”

  Hope? Special? On what alternate universe?

  By now tears were streaming down his face. I offered him a few futile pats on his arm, knowing I was wasting my time, that nothing I could say or do would be of any comfort.

  And besides, I had to stop this stroll down memory lane and get him to focus on the murder. That’s why I was there. Even if he wasn’t the killer, maybe he could give me a valuable lead.

  “Hey, Kirk,” I said, as gently as I could. “I know it’s painful, but I need to talk to you about Hope’s death.”

  “Hope’s death? All my fault,” he said, his words slurred by booze.

  Good heavens. Sounded like the start of a confession to me.

  “Hope’s death is all your fault?”

  “Yes,” he nodded, his chin sinking deep into his chest. “All my fault.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, wondering if I could whip out my cell phone and turn on my voice recorder app in time to catch his confession.

  But I never did get a confession, because just then, his head lolled back in his chair, eyes shut.

  Seconds later, he was snoring.

  I tried to gently nudge him awake, but it was no good. The guy was out like a light, dead to the world.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: The Mastermind

  Well, Lambchop. I told you I’d think of a way to get back in your mother’s arms for the Evening in Paris waltz. And I did it! Not only that, I managed to bump The Battleaxe from the program, too!

  Oh, happy day!

  All it took was a bit of careful strategizing. And I am nothing if not a master strategist. (Some day I really ought to take up chess. With my brain power, I know I’d be great at it.)

  But back to my plan. It was a bit of genius, if I do say so myself. I called Alonzo, blocking my phone number and disguising my voice, and pretended to be a producer from Dancing with the Stars. I told him I’d heard about what a wonderful dancer he was, and that I was over at Disney World in Orlando conducting auditions for the show. I said I wanted him to come over and audition, but the only time slot I had available was at 7 o’clock tonight. (Exactly when he’s scheduled to perform at the Evening in Paris gala.) And without missing a beat, he bailed on the gala and said he’d love to come to the audition.

  There was only one problem, though. He was in the middle of a Ronald McDonald gig, and his car was in the shop. He’d been planning on taking the bus to Tampa Vistas tonight, but no way could he take a bus all the way to Orlando.

  Now at that point a lesser man than your Daddy would have been stymied. But not me. In a flash, I knew exactly what to do. I told him I’d send a driver to pick him up. And the minute we hung up, I called Ed Nivens and told him I needed him to pick up Alonzo from McDonald’s and drive him to Disney World.

  Ed balked at first, but then I threatened to show Lydia pictures of Ed playing golf when he was supposed to be laid up with a bad back. (Of course, I had no such pictures, but your Daddy is nothing if not a great bluffer). And so, weaving my masterly web, I got Ed to agree to pick up Alonzo and drive him to Disney World, ensuring that the waltzing wonder would be nowhere near the Evening in Paris gala in time to dance with your mom.

  Seconds after I hung up, Alonzo called your mom, as I knew he would. I’d carefully timed my call when your mom was in the tub, primping for her dancing debut.

  So I answered her cell phone and listened as he apologized for not being able to attend the gala. I assured him I’d give your mom the message. Which I did. Only I added a few extra details. I said that Alonzo insisted that Mom dance with me. And that Lydia be booted from the show.

  Your mom was aghast.

  “Lydia, not perform?” she cried.

  “Yep,” I nodded gleefully. “Alonzo said she’d just have to sit it out. For the good of the show.”


  So I did it, Lambchop!

  I get to dance with your mom! And even better, The Battleaxe has been grounded.

  Victory is mine!

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  DaddyO

  (aka The Mastermind)

  To: Jausten

  From: SirLancelot

  Subject: Newsflash!

  Fasten your seatbelt, hon! Potential earthshattering news: Brett and I are meeting again for dinner tonight, and he says he has something very important he wants to tell me. I smell a Significant Other in my future!

  Ciao for now!

  Lance

  PS. Another weensy glitch with the Corolla. It seems that when they replaced the windshield, they had to open the hood to remove the windshield wipers and some of the highly flammable glass sealant fell onto the engine. And wouldn’t you know, it was at that exact moment that one of the workers chose to light up a cigarette. There was a teensy fire, and you may need a new engine, but don’t worry. I’m sure Senor Picasso will pay for it.

  Chapter 28

  I was sitting out on the patio the next morning, sawing into my breakfast waffle—trying not to think of my Corolla’s “teensy” engine fire and Daddy’s plot to keep Alonzo from the Evening in Paris gala—when Blackbeard, one of the camera guys I’d chatted with at the pool, came huffing up to Manny.

  “Kirk’s dead!” Blackbeard announced, ashen under his bushy beard.

  “What?” Manny cried, looking up from the fluffy ham omelet he’d been busy inhaling.

  “I went to his cabin to wake him, and he was cold as ice. No pulse. With an empty bottle of sleeping pills in his lap. Looks like he may have offed himself.”

  Next to me, Polly gasped.

  “I was afraid something like this was going to happen,” she said, glaring at Manny. “I told you Kirk was seriously depressed.”

  “What am I—a psychiatrist?” he shot back. “How was I to know the fool was going to kill himself?”

  Fishing his cell phone from his pocket, he put in a call to the police, after which he promptly returned to his breakfast.

  Not even death was going to come between Manny and his ham omelet.

  Ten minutes later, the two-man Paratito Police Department—Tonga and his sidekick, Ari—were riding up to the mansion in the official police Jeep.

  Manny and Polly accompanied them to Kirk’s cabin, where, according to Polly, they found Kirk slumped over in his seat, an empty bottle of Ambien in his lap. Along with an empty bottle of bourbon on the floor.

  On his computer, he’d left the following note:

  Forgive me for what I have done to my beloved Hope. I was the one who cut the cords on her parachute. I can no longer live with the guilt.

  So Kirk was the killer after all.

  The case of Hope’s death, Tonga informed us, was closed.

  The cast and crew of Some Day My Prince Will Come stood on the front lawn of the mansion as Kirk’s body was carted away, whispering among themselves, stunned and relieved that the killer was no longer among them.

  “I suspected it was him all along,” Spencer said.

  And it was true. I remembered when I questioned him, Spencer said he thought Kirk was the killer.

  “Poor chap clearly went bonkers after Hope rejected him.”

  Others, too, chimed in that they’d suspected Kirk.

  “It makes perfect sense,” said Blackbeard. “After all, he had unlimited access to the chutes.”

  Yes, everyone was convinced Kirk was the killer.

  But I had my doubts. Something about that suicide note bothered me. When last I saw Kirk, he’d been totally comatose. How had he worked up the energy to go over to his computer and type out a coherent suicide note? And when I’d left him, he was barely capable of opening a bottle of pills. Which, by the way, I had absolutely no memory of seeing in his cabin. It certainly hadn’t been on his desk. Or on the rickety night table beside his bed.

  Then again, it was entirely possible Kirk had woken from his stupor in the middle of the night, summoned the energy to type out that suicide note and gulp down a bottle of sleeping pills. Maybe the pills were in a dresser drawer. Or in his backpack.

  I really had to stop playing amateur PI. The case was closed.

  It probably all happened just like Tonga said.

  And yet, something in the pit of my stomach didn’t feel right. I tried to tell myself it was Manny’s godawful waffles, but my doubts lingered on.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, I was lounging at the pool with a bunch of crew members. Most of the others were busy working their phones—texting, sexting, and updating their résumés.

  But I just lay there, daydreaming about the first meal I’d eat when I got back home. I was debating between pepperoni pizza and chicken lo mein when Polly came racing outside.

  “Guess what?” she cried. “Dallas is back! She’s driving up to the mansion now.”

  Along with several of the others, I jumped up and hurried to the front lawn just in time to see Dallas emerging from the PPD Jeep.

  Unlike the rest of us, depleted by cardboard food and unrelenting heat, Dallas stepped down from the Jeep looking fresh as a daisy, clad in shorts and a halter top, her chestnut hair gleaming, her tanned skin glowing. Nary a bead of perspiration dared show itself on her brow.

  In one hand, she clutched her down pillow; in the other, an icy coconut rum drink.

  Tonga leaped out of the Jeep and followed her as she made her way up to the mansion, dripping apologies for having arrested her.

  “A most grievous error,” he was saying. “I pray that you will find it in your heart to forgive us. For I can assure you it has been an honor to have you stay in our humble prison. And please be sure to pass on my best regards to your revered father.”

  It looked like someone was trying to tap dance his way out of a lawsuit.

  Meanwhile, Ari trailed behind Dallas, toting her pink and green hibiscus bedding, a lovestruck look in his eyes.

  Soon Manny was huffing to her side, leaving a trail of cigar ashes behind him.

  “Welcome back, Dallas, darling! I knew all along you were innocent!”

  “Me, too!” said Justin, rushing to join them.

  What a couple of hypocrites.

  Just two days ago, they were ready to see her rot in jail.

  I followed Dallas and her entourage into the mansion, where Brianna was sashaying down the stairs to greet her.

  “Wow, Dallas!” she gushed. “You look fab. I can’t believe you just did time in the slammer. You’re positively glowing.”

  “I know,” Dallas said with a toss of her chestnut tresses. “Ari gives the best facials ever! And you should taste his coconut rum drinks.”

  Ari, still toting her hibiscus bedding, blushed a deep red.

  “Ari, sweetheart,” Dallas said, turning to grace him with a sparkling smile. “You’ve been a perfect angel. I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.”

  He gazed back at her, adoration oozing from every pore.

  Poor guy.

  While Dallas would soon be jetting back to Texas, Ari undoubtedly would be checking in at Heartbreak Hotel.

  Oh, well. At least he’d have his coconut rum drinks to console him.

  * * *

  When the excitement of Dallas’s return had died down, Manny gathered us all in the living room.

  With a proud flourish of his cigar, he announced that once Tonga filed the required paperwork with the authorities in Tahiti, we’d all be free to leave the island. Which, he guessed, would probably be the day after tomorrow.

  A collective groan, as we all thought about having to hang around Waterbug World for even one extra day.

  “We’ve suffered so many deaths,” Manny intoned, pasting a pained look on his face. “First, our beloved Hope. Then poor, tortured Kirk. And finally, the death of Some Day My Prince Will Come. A groundbreaking show, certain to have been a ratings blockbuster.”

  I simply
could not believe the bilge coming from his mouth, knowing as I did how the show was rejected by virtually every TV outlet known to man.

  “Finally,” Manny was blathering on, “I want to thank you all for your hard work on the show. And as a gesture of my appreciation, all beer will be half price for the remainder of your stay on the island.”

  What a sport, huh?

  We were all getting up to leave when he called out, “Jaine. Stay a minute. I need to talk to you.”

  Oh, hell. I hoped he didn’t expect me to take more notes on The Real Mothers-in-Law o f Miami Beach.

  I approached him hesitantly, prepared to fake a migraine if necessary.

  “Jaine, I got a message from King Konga. They’re having a celebration at the tribal village tomorrow night, and he wants you to come.”

  “Forget it, Manny,” I said, my mind flooded with images of Suma and her Spear of Death. “No way am I going back there. His number one wife threatened to kill me if I ever went near him again.”

  “Nonsense,” Manny replied. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. You’ll be with Konga all night.”

  A prospect almost as frightening as Suma’s Spear of Death.

  “Sorry, Manny. No can do. There’s no way I’m spending another night with that toothless wonder.”

  I started to walk away when Manny said, “Okay. Fine with me. If you don’t mind having your cat spend six months in quarantine.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks and whirled around.

  “What do you mean?”

  Manny’s eyes were narrowed into sly little slits.

  “Remember how I pulled some strings so your cat didn’t have to go through quarantine in Tahiti?”