Murder Has Nine Lives

by Laura Levine

  “Why don’t we all take a break, hon?” she said to Dean, smiling that serene smile of hers. “It’s almost time for lunch anyway. When we come back up, we can shoot the last scene in the commercial, the one where you eat the cat food. In the meanwhile, we can send out for another crystal bowl, and Jaine can work with Prozac. I’ll help her. I’m sure, between the two of us, we can get Prozac to gobble up the Skinny Kitty.”

  Like magic, her words seemed to calm him down.

  There was something about her voice, so soft, so reassuring that even I, who had given up all hope of ever seeing a paycheck, was beginning to believe that maybe things would work out, after all.

  “Okay, Linda,” Dean said, at last unclenching his fists. “We’ll give it a try. Now I think I’ll go rest in my dressing room.”

  “Good idea, sweetheart.”

  “I’ll go with him,” the Panther piped up, not exactly happy at this loving exchange between husband and wife. “There are some more details we need to go over for the ad campaign.”

  Linda watched them trot off together, her smile frozen on her lips. Surely, she must have suspected something was going on between the two of them.

  “Zeke!” Dean called out as he was leaving. “Clean up the cat food mess.”

  Zeke nodded, gritting his teeth.

  As soon as Dean and the Panther were gone, Zeke got to work cleaning up the cat food, muttering curses under his breath. Meanwhile, Nikki left to buy a new crystal bowl, and Big and Bigger ambled off to set up the next shot.

  Ian and Deedee, still shaken from Dean’s threats, went out to the parking lot for a breath of fresh air.

  “Time for us to get to work with Prozac,” Linda said, turning to me, her comforting smile back in place again. “Let’s try to get her to exercise, so she can work up an appetite.”

  We headed over to the chaise longue where Prozac had shot her napping scene.

  “Dean’s just got the patent on his latest invention—a catnip-infused ball of yarn.” She reached into her purse and took out what looked like a simple ball of yarn. “The catnip scent is infused into the yarn and sealed in there so it stays fresh indefinitely. It’s really a breakthrough in the world of cat toys. “Let’s see if Prozac likes it,” she said, tossing the yarn onto the chaise.

  I plopped Prozac down next to it, but she just stared at it disdainfully.

  Puh-leese. If you think I’m about to play with a silly ball of—Oh, Mama! What’s that I smell? Yummity yum yum yum!

  By now her little pink nose was sniffing in overdrive, and she was rolling around on the chaise with that ball of yarn like a stripper wrestling in a vat of Jell-O.

  “I’ve never seen her so excited about a toy,” I marveled.

  Linda beamed with pride.

  “We call it Yarn-Nip. Dean and I think it’s going to be a top seller.”

  “Thanks so much for coming to our rescue,” I said as we watched Prozac prance around with the Yarn-Nip. “If you hadn’t stepped in, I’m sure Dean would have kicked us out the door.”

  “It was nothing, honey,” she shrugged. “After sixteen years of marriage I know how to defuse Dean. Underneath all his swagger and explosions, he’s really a good guy.”

  “Dean . . . a good guy?” Zeke scoffed as he sidled up to join us. “You’re a saint to put up with him, Linda. And everybody knows it.”

  “Stop it, Zeke,” Linda said sharply. “You know I don’t like that kind of talk.”

  “Sorry,” Zeke mumbled like a puppy who’d just been swatted on the head with a newspaper.

  Zeke continued to hang out with us as we watched Prozac have intimate relations with her ball of yarn, gazing at Linda with pure longing in his eyes.

  After a while, Nikki returned to the soundstage.

  “Mission accomplished!” she said, joining us. “I found a crystal bowl at a thrift shop just a few blocks away. The Skinny Kitty’s all prepped for Dean. I left it in the kitchen, safe from mischievous paws,” she added with a sidelong glance at Prozac, who by now, in several states, was undoubtedly legally married to the ball of yarn.

  Nikki then headed off to reward herself with a snack from the buffet table, accompanied by Linda and Zeke.

  I would have loved to join them and swan dive into some baked ham, but didn’t dare let Prozac out of my sight.

  Eventually, Big and Bigger announced that they were ready to shoot, and Ian and Deedee were summoned from the parking lot.

  Ian staggered back onto the soundstage, weaving unsteadily on his feet, clearly three sheets to the wind, gulping gin from him Starbucks thermos. He was soon followed by Deedee, who came marching in with a self-assured smile, brow unfurrowed under her ebony chopsticks.

  “Are you guys okay?” Linda asked, eyeing Ian with concern.

  “Fine,” Ian muttered

  “I’m perfectly well, thank you,” Deedee said. “Your husband may have issued some ugly threats, but I’ve got nothing to be worried about. Not now. You see, I’ve taken care of him forever.”

  And with those enigmatic words, she bopped over to the buffet table and helped herself to a bear claw.

  Linda, looking somewhat taken aback at Deedee’s pronouncement, summoned Dean and the Pink Panther from their latest “work” session.

  “Camille helped me with my makeup,” Dean said as he and the Panther sauntered over to join us.

  I’ll just bet she did, I thought, eyeing a smudge of foundation on the Panther’s thigh.

  “Okay, everybody. Quiet on the set!” Ian called out as Dean crossed to the stage and took a seat in the armchair that had been set up for the shot.

  “You ready?” Ian snapped, glaring at Dean.

  “Probably the only person on this soundstage who is,” Dean shot back.

  Ian took a defiant slug from his thermos and called out: “Where the hell’s the cat food?”

  At which point, Nikki came rushing in with a freshly styled bowl of Skinny Kitty, along with a tiny silver fork.

  “That bowl isn’t real crystal,” the Panther sniffed.

  “It’ll have to do,” Linda said, steely-eyed.

  “Yes, let’s get this thing over with,” Dean said, grabbing the bowl and fork.

  “Okay,” Ian shouted. “Action!”

  And just like that, Dean morphed from monumental grouch to personable spokesman, all smiles, Mr. Rogers in Armani.

  “My Skinny Kitty cat food is so delicious,” he said, spearing a forkful, “I eat it myself.”

  He held up the chunk of cat food, admiring it as it shimmered in the studio light. Then he popped it in his mouth and, true to his word, ate it.

  He was just about to dig in for another bite when suddenly he clutched his stomach, his face drained of color. The silver fork came clattering to the floor, followed by the bowl of cat food. Seconds later, Dean joined them with a thud, coiled in a fetal ball, moaning in pain.

  For a minute, everyone just stood there, frozen.

  “What’s wrong?” Ian finally managed to ask.

  “I’ve been poisoned, you idiot,” Dean gasped, in what turned out to be his genial last words.

  “Someone call 911!” Linda cried.

  Zeke dug out his cell phone and made the call as Linda raced to Dean’s side.

  “Hang in there, honey,” she crooned, cradling him in her arms. “You’re going to be okay.”

  But for once Linda couldn’t make things right.

  Dean was dead and gone long before the paramedics showed up.

  “And that,” Ian said, as they carted Dean’s body out the door, “is a wrap.”

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Scrabble Central

  I can’t wait till this dratted Scrabble tournament is over. Daddy has commandeered the dining room (now known as Scrabble Central), where he sits in his Lucky Thinking Cap, memorizing words with x’s and q’s, playing Scrabble on his iPhone, and taking Power Naps every seven and a half minu
tes.

  The other day he came home from the market with a jumbo jar of gherkin pickles. Apparently he read on some wacky Web site that pickles help boost brainpower, and he’s been stuffing his face with gherkins ever since.

  What with all that acid, I’m afraid he’s going to give himself an ulcer. I’ve told him he’s asking for trouble, but does he listen? Of course not! He just sits there, trying to figure out how he can work “oxyphenbutazone” into a game for 1,778 points.

  Oh, dear. Someone’s at the door. Must run. More later—

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: The Most Exciting News!

  Jaine, sweetheart, I’ve got the most exciting news. Guess who’s going to be the special guest presenter at the Scrabble Championship Awards Luncheon? World-renowned game show host (and silver fox) Alex Trebek!

  Lydia Pinkus just stopped by with the news. It turns out her old college roommate is a friend of Alex’s fourth cousin once removed. At any rate, Lydia wrote him one of her persuasive letters, told him how much we all adore Jeopardy, and that darling man agreed to come to Tampa Vistas!

  I absolutely must order a new dress for the luncheon. Which reminds me, honey. Did you ever get that Outrageous Orange tankini I sent you? Isn’t it the cutest thing ever?

  Love you oodles.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Last Days of the Scrabble Queen

  I suppose Mom has told you the good news, Lambchop.

  Alex Trebek is going to be giving me my championship ring at the Scrabble awards luncheon. Pretty darn exciting, huh?

  You know, I’ve always wanted to be on Jeopardy. When this Scrabble thing is over and I get back from Hawaii, I just may give it a try.

  Lydia was so full of herself when she was here just now, bragging about how she’d convinced Alex to come to Tampa Vistas. But I could tell, deep down she was scared. She saw me in my Lucky Thinking Cap and knew she didn’t stand a chance in the tournament. I could see the fear in her beady little eyes. Her days as Scrabble Queen are coming to an end, and she knows it.

  Well, I’m off to the market to buy some gherkin pickles. Did you know pickles are brain food, Lambchop? It’s true. I read it on the Internet!

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  Your Scrabble-tastic

  DaddyO

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Peace & Quiet

  Daddy’s at the market, getting more gherkins, and I must admit I’m enjoying the peace and quiet. No pop spelling quizzes. No cursing at the iPhone Scrabble game. Just blissful silence. I took advantage of the lull to order the most adorable dress for the Scrabble awards luncheon. Navy blue, scoop neck, three-quarter sleeves, with a flouncy skirt and tasteful smattering of bugle beads at the neck. (Just $69.95, plus shipping and handling!) They had it in a beautiful fuchsia color, which might be fun for one of your L.A. cocktail parties. What do you think?

  Oops. I hear Daddy at the front door. I’ll pretend I’m napping, in case he wants me to give him a spelling quiz. Oh, dear. Now he’s hollering about something. I’d better go see what’s wrong.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Infamy!

  Today, Lambchop, is a day that will live in infamy!

  My Lucky Thinking Cap is missing! And I know who took it. That snake in the grass, Lydia Pinkus. I saw her eyeing it when she was here earlier.

  I foolishly left the door unlocked when I went to the market, and she must’ve snuck in while I was gone and stolen it in a scurrilous attempt to rob me of my mental acuity.

  But her devilish plot will be foiled! I’ll get my cap back, if it’s the last thing I do.

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  DaddyO

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Oreo Therapy

  Of all the idiotic nonsense. Daddy’s misplaced his “Lucky Thinking Cap,” and he’s convinced Lydia Pinkus stole it. How absurd. He’s out “casing her town house” for evidence right now.

  Honestly, I bet that cap is sitting right here in the house somewhere. Although I must admit, I’ve looked everywhere and can’t find it.

  Must run, honey. Am in desperate need of Oreo Therapy—

  XOXO,

  Mom

  Chapter 8

  The next few days passed by in a blur of grief. Not over Dean, of course. I barely knew the guy. And what little I knew, I sort of hated.

  No, I was mourning the loss of my five grand and all the goodies it would have bought. There’d be no new TV in my future. No new used car. No Platinum Level Fudge-of-the-Month Club.

  I returned to my old life with its anemic checking account, dreaming of things that might have been and wondering, not incidentally, why the heck I’d never heard from Phil Angelides’s cutie pie nephew, Jim.

  My life was in a sinkhole, all right. And I was not alone.

  I was certain Daddy would drive Mom crazy searching for his Lucky Thinking Cap. It was so typical of him to assume Lydia Pinkus had stolen it. Daddy has always had it in for Lydia, always ready to lay the blame for anything amiss in his life at Lydia’s size EEE feet.

  Something told me Mom was in for a whole lot more Oreo therapy in the days to come.

  Even worse was poor Prozac. Ever since the shoot she’d been moping around, in a deep funk over her aborted career as a TV commercial star. Never had I seen her so glum. Gone was the kitty who lived to claw my cashmere sweaters to shreds, to snag the pepperoni from my pizza, and to hog my pillow at night. In her place was a sluggish shell of a cat, lying listlessly on the sofa with soulful Brando eyes and piteous little mews that seemed to be saying: I coulda been a contenda.

  I only hoped she’d snap out of it eventually. In the meanwhile, I was spoiling her rotten with chicken tenders and belly rubs. (The latter received with none of her usual writhing in ecstasy—just a glazed look in her eyes and a dispirited thumping of her tail.)

  Dean’s murder, of course, had been all over the news.

  Toxicology tests had shown that he’d been poisoned with Fragrance-Free Raid. Apparently, the killer had given the Skinny Kitty a spritz of the stuff when Nikki left it unattended to grab a bite at the buffet.

  So far the police hadn’t named any suspects. But my mind was buzzing with them.

  First and foremost on my list was Deedee. Hadn’t she returned to the studio, boasting that she’d gotten rid of Dean forever? And what about Ian? He certainly had motive. Dean had been threatening to torpedo his career.

  And finally, there was Zeke. Anyone could see the young writer detested his cousin. With Dean out of the way, Zeke would have an unencumbered path to Linda, the woman he so obviously adored.

  The one person I never thought the cops would suspect was me.

  Which is why I was so stunned when, a few days after the murder, there was a knock on my door and I opened it to find two homicide detectives standing on my doorstep.

  Both wore ill-fitting suits and not a trace of a smile.

  Flashing me their badges, they asked if they might have a few words with me about Dean’s murder. Reluctantly, I ushered them in, wishing I were wearing something a bit more confidence inspiring than my grungy sweats with the grape jelly stain on the sleeve.

  Settled side by side on my sofa, they asked me how well I’d known the deceased (not very) and whether or not I’d liked him (not much).

  “Dean was sort of difficult,” I explained. “A bit of a temper.”

  “So we’ve heard,” said one of the cops, a bulldog of a guy with a barrel chest and a most disconcerting scar on his cheek. “In fact,” he said, checking his notes, “it “appears that shortly before his murder, Mr. Oliver threatened you with a lawsuit.”

  “He said he was going to sue you for every cent you
were worth,” added his partner.

  I saw where this was going.

  “You’re not accusing me of killing him to stop his lawsuit, are you?”

  “We’re not accusing you of anything,” Scarface assured me. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Do you have any witnesses who can confirm you were on the soundstage while the poisoned cat food was left unattended?” his partner asked. “That would be from approximately eleven thirty a.m. to noon.”

  I thought back to the day of the murder, when Nikki, having prepped the cat food for the final shot, had shown up at the soundstage to grab a snack. Linda had been with me up until then, but she and Zeke soon left me to go to the buffet table, leaving me all by my lonesome, up a creek without an alibi.

  “No,” I admitted. “I was alone with my cat.”

  Prozac looked up from where she had been moping on my keyboard.

  I was almost a star, you know.

  I saw the cops exchange a look. For all they knew, I could have easily trotted across the hall and blasted the Skinny Kitty with Raid.

  “Just don’t leave town,” they warned me as they got up to go.

  “Oh, hell,” I moaned once I’d shut the door behind them. I was a murder suspect.

  Again.