Murder Has Nine Lives

by Laura Levine

  We were meeting, as we often do, at our favorite restaurant, Paco’s Tacos, a lively Mexican joint with margaritas to die for and burritos the size of a VW bus.

  Kandi was waiting for me when I got there, blithely ignoring the bowl of golden corn chips right under her nose. Which is one of the reasons Kandi can slip into her size six jeans without emergency liposuction.

  “Hey, sweetheart!” she cried, jumping up and wrapping me in a bony hug. “I already ordered us margaritas.”

  “Bless you!” I said, my eyes lighting up at the sight of two frosty margs on the table.

  I wasted no time taking a healthy slug of mine.

  “So, what’s up?” I asked when I came up for air.

  “Big news.” A dramatic pause as she pulled my hand out of the chip bowl and held it in hers. “There’s something wrong with me. Something very wrong.”

  “Oh, no!” I moaned, picturing Kandi hooked up to an IV in intensive care. “What is it?”

  Gathering her courage, she took a deep breath and intoned:

  “I, Kandi Tobolowski, am a shopaholic.”

  “Is that all?”

  Tell me something I didn’t already know. Kandi has always been a world-class shopper, a Kung Fu master of the credit card. Luckily, with her salary from Beanie & the Cockroach, it’s a pastime she can well afford.

  “It’s gone too far, Jaine. Last week I came home with a pair of the most glorious knee-high boots I bought on sale at Nordstrom, only to discover I had the exact same pair in the back of my closet. In two other colors.

  “I finally faced up to the fact that I’ve been using shopping as a way to drown my sorrows and ease the frustration of still being single after all these years.”

  It’s true. Kandi has kissed about a zillion frogs in her unending search for Mr. Right and has reaped nothing for her efforts but a bunch of emotional warts. It’s hard to understand why she’s had such poor luck. With her glossy chestnut hair and slim figure, one would think she’d have landed her Mr. Right ages ago.

  But one would be wrong.

  My theory is that Kandi keeps going after the wrong kind of guy—the egomaniacs, the no-goodniks, the self-centered jerks—in other words, your typical Los Angeles available man.

  “But my spending days are behind me,” Kandi was saying. “I’ve cut up all my credit cards. From now on, I’m going to learn how to drown my sorrows in chocolate and chardonnay like you, Jaine. Only not quite so much chocolate, I hope.”

  At which point, our waiter, a slim Hispanic guy with the sad eyes of a medieval saint, came whisking to our side.

  “What will it be, senoritas?”

  Kandi ordered the red snapper. And even though I was yearning for the crunchily delicious deep-fried chimichangas, I made up my mind to order the low-calorie snapper, too. The last thing I needed was a bunch of chimichanga carbs clinging to my hips if Jim Angelides decided to call.

  “And for you?” The waiter turned to me, pen poised above his pad.

  “The chimichanga combo plate,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “With extra sour cream on my refried beans,” I had the temerity to add.

  I swear, any day now my picture’s going to be on Weight Watchers’ Most Wanted list.

  Meanwhile, Kandi was still lost in the saga of her brave new life.

  “I’ve enrolled in a money management class, and I’ve taken up the most fantastic new hobby to keep my mind occupied when I feel the urge to shop: Knitting! In fact, I made something for you, hon!”

  With that, she reached for a shopping bag under her seat and pulled out a ginormous mass of lumpy wool, filled with dropped stitches and gaping holes.

  “How nice,” I said with a feeble smile. “An area rug.”

  “It’s not a rug. It’s a scarf. Somehow the stitches got stretched out. I’m still working on my technique.”

  “It looks great,” I lied, wondering if I could use it as a bath mat.

  “So what’s new with you, hon?” she asked.

  I wanted to tell her all about Jim, my dashing surfer boy plumber, to rave about his streaky blond hair and Paul Newman eyes, but I couldn’t. Not when Kandi was at such a low point in her love life. I’d have to keep my Prince Charming under wraps for now.

  So I swallowed my excitement, along with a handful of chips, and told her about Prozac’s Skinny Kitty audition instead.

  “That’s fantastic!” she cried. “Maybe I can knit her a tutu!”

  After I convinced Kandi that Prozac wasn’t a tutu kind of cat, our entrées showed up, and we spent the rest of the night gabbing—discussing the joys of knitting, the paucity of decent men in L.A., and the pros and cons of ordering margaritas with or without salt.

  At the end of the meal Kandi paid for her half of the bill with cash, her wallet empty of all credit cards, but sheathed in a lumpy hand-knit “wallet cozy.”

  We hugged each other good-bye outside the restaurant, and I drove off with my new scarf wrapped around my neck at least seven times.

  Kandi may not have mastered the art of knitting, but I was proud of her for recognizing she had an addiction and showing some discipline.

  There was a lesson to be learned there. It was about time I showed a little impulse control of my own.

  And so I’m proud to report that instead of making a pit stop at the supermarket for an après-chimichanga pint of Chunky Monkey ice cream like I usually do, I drove straight home and got in my jammies.

  Then, and only then, did I throw on a raincoat and drive over for my Chunky Monkey.

  * * *

  Hard to believe, but true: By the time I got home from my Chunky Monkey run, I was feeling so guilty, all I ate was a couple of spoonfuls, and then I shoved the rest in the back of my freezer, behind some frozen peas and a Lean Cuisine dinner I’d been avoiding for months.

  I really had to cool it on the calories if I expected to look halfway decent for my date with Jim.

  Now as I lay in bed, watching House Hunters and trying to get Prozac to stop hogging my pillow, I still couldn’t get over my good luck meeting the surfer/plumber of my dreams.

  To think that Jim Angelides—a guy who, on a scale of one to ten was a 34—actually wanted to go out with me, Jaine Austen, a gal whose cellulite has been known to throw tailgate parties on her thighs!

  Just as I was fantasizing about how marvelous it would be to run my fingers through his spiky blond hair, the phone rang.

  “Jaine, sweetie!” Deedee’s unmistakable trill came zinging across the line. “Are you sitting down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is Prozac sitting down?”

  “Yes, on my freshly washed pillowcase, as a matter of fact.”

  “Well, brace yourself, darling. Prozac got the part! She’s going to star in the Skinny Kitty commercial!”

  “Omigod!” I squealed. “That’s fantastic news.”

  “No, sweetums. That’s good news. The fantastic news is that they’re paying five grand.”

  Thank heavens I wasn’t eating that Chunky Monkey, otherwise I’m sure I would’ve choked on it.

  “The shoot is next week. I’ll e-mail you the address. Just remember. All Prozac has to do is nap and eat.”

  The easiest five grand I’d ever earn.

  “Your little princess is headed for stardom,” Deedee assured me. “I just know it. I’ve got infallible star-dar!”

  I hung up in a daze.

  First Jim. Now this. The gods were surely smiling on me.

  “Wake up, Pro!” I said to my precious furball, who was now snoring atop my pillow. “You got the part in the Skinny Kitty commercial!”

  “She did?” asked a disembodied voice, seemingly from out of nowhere.

  No, it wasn’t a ghost. It was Lance, shouting at me from his bedroom. Thanks to our paper-thin walls, and Lance’s X-ray hearing, the guy can practically hear me putting on my makeup.

  “Yes, Lance,” I called back, with more than a hint of smugness in my voice. “The cat you said would
never make it in show biz has landed a part in a commercial.”

  “Really? I’ll be right over!”

  Two minutes later, he was sailing into my apartment in his pajama bottoms, his six-pack abs buffed to perfection.

  I hate it when guys have skinnier waists than I do.

  “So Prozac actually got that part?” he asked, not even trying to hide his disbelief.

  “Yes, she did. And it pays five thousand dollars.”

  At this his jaw literally hung open.

  “Omigod, that’s wonderful!” he cried when he finally recovered his powers of speech. “Just wonderful!”

  I have to admit I was touched. Lance was happy for me and Prozac, after all. He cared about us and had stopped by to share in our good news.

  “If Prozac can land a commercial,” he said, his eyes gleaming with unadulterated ambition, “then my Mamie is destined to be a major motion picture star!”

  Scratch that empathy.

  “All I need is your agent’s name and contact info.”

  Of all the nerve! Asking for my help, after how little faith he’d shown in Prozac.

  Reluctantly, I scribbled a phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

  “Thanks, hon! And congrats on the Skinny Kitty job,” he added, wrapping me in a warm hug. “I’m thrilled for you guys.”

  And he actually seemed to mean it.

  I sure didn’t see that one coming.

  In fact, I was so touched, I was beginning to feel bad about giving him my chiropractor’s phone number.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: The Perfect Bathing Suit!

  Aloha, sweetheart!

  Fabulous news! I found the perfect bathing suit for our trip to Hawaii. Only $62.49, plus shipping and handling, from the Home Shopping Channel. An adorable turquoise tankini with a lei embroidered around the scoop neck. I mean, nothing says Hawaii like a lei on your tankini, right? Anyhow, it was so darn cute, I ordered one for you in Outrageous Orange. I just know you’re going to love it.

  Frankly, honey, I’m counting the days till we go. Daddy has been driving me crazy, training for the upcoming annual Tampa Vistas Scrabble Tournament.

  He took one look at the 14-karat gold championship ring on display at the clubhouse and threw his hat in the ring. He’s dead set on beating the reigning champion, Lydia Pinkus. Talk about your mission impossible! Not only is Lydia president of the homeowners’ association and just about the smartest woman I know, but she also happens to have her master’s degree in library sciences, which means she knows practically every word in The Oxford English Dictionary.

  But for some idiotic reason, Daddy’s convinced he can beat her, and has been busy memorizing all sorts of ridiculous words. Like syzygy (an alignment of three celestial bodies, a potential 93 points), muzhik (a Russian peasant, 128 points), and quetzal (the national bird of Guatemala, 374 points). I’ve spent hours giving him spelling tests. Only in our house it’s not called testing. It’s called “quizzifying” (a potential 419 points).

  And to make matters worse, he refuses to take off his ghastly plaid golfing cap, the one with the red pom-pom on top. He insists it’s his “Lucky Thinking Cap” and that he’s never lost a game without it. Which technically is true, since the only person he ever plays with is me, and I let him win all the time.

  Well, must run and order a Za (short for pizza, a potential 62 points).

  Had no time to cook. Too busy quizzifying.

  Love and XXX,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: A Shoo-In to Win

  Dearest Lambchop—

  Have you heard the exciting news? I’ve entered the annual Tampa Vistas Scrabble Tournament. And I’m a shoo-in to win. I’ve been hard at work memorizing the Scrabble dictionary, playing Scrabble on my iPhone, and fortifying myself with strategically timed Power Naps. And thanks to my Lucky Thinking Cap, my mind has been a virtual steel trap. I swear, your old DaddyO has become a walking, talking word machine!

  Lydia Pinkus has been champion for years, and it’s time somebody knocked her off her throne. Just because she has a degree in library science, she thinks she invented the English language. I can’t wait to see the look on the old battle-axe’s face when I walk away with the prized Scrabble championship ring.

  Wish me luck, Lambchop!

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  DaddyO

  Chapter 5

  Mom’s “lei” bathing suit arrived the next day, a hunk of industrial-strength latex with hidden “tummy tuck panels.” The kind of suit last worn by Mamie Eisenhower at Camp David. Mom bought it for me in a ridiculously large size, and clearly the garment was mislabeled because the hideous thing actually fit.

  I made up my mind to lose ten pounds promptly, so I’d have a decent excuse to return it.

  It’s a well known fact in Austen family lore that Mom is addicted to the Home Shopping Channel. In fact, she actually made Daddy retire three thousand miles across country to be near the shopping channel headquarters in Florida, under the mistaken notion that her packages would be delivered faster that way.

  You might conclude from this that Mom is the family eccentric. You’d conclude wrong. That honor goes to Daddy, a man who attracts trouble like freshly washed cars attract rain. As Mom so often says about him: “He doesn’t have ulcers. He’s just a carrier.”

  I only hoped Daddy wouldn’t drive Mom too crazy prepping for his Scrabble tournament. On the other hand, the more he kept her busy with the tournament, the less time she’d have to buy me “fun” outfits from the shopping channel.

  I was standing at the foot of my bed that morning, trying to wriggle my way out of my Outrageous Orange Lei Tankini, when the phone rang.

  Deedee’s voice came sailing over the line.

  “Guess what, sweetie?” she trilled. “I’m taking you to lunch. At the Peninsula Hotel!”

  The Peninsula? The swellegant hotel in the heart of Beverly Hills, where rooms started at six hundred dollars a night? What a quantum leap from my usual Quarter Pounder at Mickey D’s.

  “Meet me there at noon! We’ll sign your contract and toast darling Prozac with a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”

  “That’s awfully nice of you, Deedee.”

  “Pish tosh! It’s my pleasure.”

  With not much time to spare, I zipped into the bathroom for a quick shower and then dolled myself up for the occasion in skinny jeans, white silk blouse, suede blazer, and my one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks.

  “See you later, my little money maker!” I called out to Prozac as I headed for the door.

  She looked up from where she was lolling on the sofa.

  Don’t forget. I want my five grand in bacon bits.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was pulling up to the Peninsula Hotel valet parking area. Under normal circumstances, I’d drive around endlessly looking for a spot on the street before forking over money for valet parking. Especially at an outrageously expensive joint like the Peninsula. But what the heck? Deedee was treating. For once, I’d spring for valet parking.

  The valet who ambled over eyed my ancient Corolla as if I’d just driven up in a four-door cockroach.

  “Deliveries in the back,” he said.

  “I am not making a delivery,” I informed him with more than a hint of frost in my voice. “I’m here for lunch.”

  Blinking back his disbelief, he reluctantly got in my car and zoomed off into the underground lot, no doubt determined to park deep in its bowels, in order to avoid contaminating any of the luxury cars.

  I found Deedee out on the patio of the hotel’s garden restaurant, seated in a sun-dappled corner beneath a magnolia tree, waving to me merrily with a flute of champagne.

  “Jaine, darling!” she cried, bangles jangling. “So wonderful to see you!”

  Today she was swathed in neon green gauze, crystal necklaces twinkling
on her bosom, gold lacquered chopsticks popping out from her bun.

  “Have some bubbly, hon!” she said, pouring me a glass of Dom Pérignon. “Here’s to darling Prozac! I’m going to make that adorable furball the biggest animal star since Morris the Cat!”

  We clinked glasses and took a sip. Well, I took a sip. Deedee glugged hers down like a sailor on shore leave.

  Having downed her bubbly, she poured herself some more and then handed me a menu.

  “Order whatever you want, sweetie. The sky’s the limit.”

  I looked at the prices, eyeballs rolling. Would you believe twenty dollars for a burger? But that didn’t stop me from ordering it. Deedee topped me by ordering a lobster salad. (A nosebleed expensive twenty-nine smackeroos!)

  After our waiter left with our orders, Deedee whipped out a contract from her purse and slid it across the table to me.

  “Just sign at the Xs,” she said, flourishing a DEEDEE WALKER, AGENT TO THE ANIMAL STARS ballpoint pen.

  I signed the contract, my eyes spinning in delight at the spot where Deedee had typed in my five-thousand-dollar payment.

  Yes, indeedie. This was a Dom Pérignon day, all right.

  The luncheon drifted by in a happy glow, Deedee yapping about her famous animal clients. (Lassie’s great-granddaughter. Benji’s nephew. The cover parrot on Parrots Today magazine.) I just nodded on auto-pilot, scarfing down my burger and picturing the zeros on my paycheck.

  In spite of the fact that she’d been talking nonstop, somehow Deedee managed to inhale every last morsel of her lobster salad. Not to mention most of the champagne.