Murder Has Nine Lives

by Laura Levine

  “Oh, well,” Linda said. “No harm, no foul. You won’t be around to poke your nose in things anymore. Not after today.”

  That sure didn’t sound good. I had to keep them talking while I thought of a way to worm my way out of this mess.

  “So my theory was right,” I said. “You killed Dean for the money. Now you won’t have to split the profits from your cat toy deal.”

  “We killed him,” Linda said, “because he was a cheating, lying bastard, and he deserved to die.” Then, with a sly wink, she added, “And for the money. I gotta admit, it was quite an incentive.”

  “You were the one who sprayed the cat food,” I said to the Panther.

  “It was all very serendipitous. We’d been planning to kill Dean by putting cyanide in his martini. But that day at the shoot, I took a break from my ‘work session’ with Dean to go to the ladies’ room and saw that Nikki had left the Skinny Kitty out on the counter. With the can of Raid right there on the shelf. So I just nipped right in and gave it a spray! Easy as pie!”

  She smiled with pride.

  “How did you manage to be . . . intimate with him?” I asked. “That can’t have been easy.”

  “Honey, I just closed my eyes and thought of all the millions of dollars at the end of the rainbow. How do you think I got all this?” she said, pointing to her mammoth jewelry case.

  “We had so much fun fooling everyone, didn’t we, hon?” Linda said, flinging her free arm around the Panther’s shoulder. “Remember that scene at the funeral reception?”

  Reprising the role she’d played that day, that of the grieving widow, Linda drew herself up with outraged dignity and huffed, “Please leave. You’re not welcome here.”

  They both broke out giggling like teenagers.

  “Dean never suspected a thing,” the Panther said. “Not for a minute. I used to go over to their house to be with Linda in the middle of the night, and he never knew.”

  So it wasn’t Dean the Panther had been visiting that night when Zeke spotted her outside his cottage. It was Linda.

  “From the moment we met at the charity ball, Linda and I clicked. Dean, egomaniac that he was, assumed that he was the one I was interested in. What a fool.”

  “At first we figured I’d just get a divorce,” Linda chimed in. “But a divorce from Dean would have been ugly. And so expensive. And why pass up all those millions from the cat toy deal? It seemed silly to let him have half the money. He didn’t deserve it, anyway. The catnip yarn wasn’t even his idea. He bought it from some poor soul out in West Covina for five hundred dollars. Swindled the guy, just like he swindled Artie Lembeck.”

  “But enough chitchat,” the Panther said with a bright smile on her pink lips. “Time to kill you, hon!”

  “Just one more question,” I said, still trying to keep them talking. “With all your jewels, why did you steal Nikki’s ten-dollar ring?”

  “As a memento of my very first murder!” The Panther grinned.

  “No more stalling,” Linda said, waving her gun. “Time to check out, hon.”

  “But you can’t shoot me. What if Sofia hears?”

  “We’re not going to shoot you,” the Panther said. “We’re going to lock you in my fur closet.”

  The Panther opened the door I’d seen earlier, the one I’d thought led to a panic room. It was a tiny hole of a room lined with a few empty shelves. Not a fur coat in sight.

  “Where are the furs?” I asked.

  “Furs are so yesterday,” the Panther said, with a wave of her fuchsia nails. “I sold them years ago. Had the closet converted into a freezer so I wouldn’t have to run downstairs for ice cream.”

  “Where’s the ice cream?” I asked, looking at the empty shelves.

  “Sorry, hon. I’m on a diet. If I knew we were going to kill you today, I would’ve laid in a farewell pint for you.”

  “Please,” Linda sniffed. “The last thing she needs is a pint of ice cream. Not with those thighs.”

  Of all the nerve! If she hadn’t had that gun pointed at my innards, I would’ve stung her with a bitter retort. As it was, I just mumbled something about not being very hungry anyway.

  “Just as well,” Linda said. “Once you’re locked inside, we’re going to set the thermostat to freezing. So I doubt you’d appreciate any ice cream.”

  “If the cold doesn’t kill you,” the Panther chirped, “the lack of oxygen will. And don’t even think of calling for help,” she added. “Sofia will never hear you in the kitchen.”

  “Let’s drive out to Malibu for a nice leisurely lunch, sweetie,” Linda said. “By the time we get back, she should be dead.”

  “Wait!” I cried in a last-ditch effort to save my life. “I told my neighbor where I was going, and that I suspected Linda of killing Dean. So if anything happens to me, the police will know it’s you two.”

  All lies, of course, but I was gambling it would work.

  A gamble, alas, that didn’t pay off.

  “We’ll take our chances,” said Linda, calling my bluff.

  With that, they shoved me in the closet and slammed the door shut.

  Instantly, the tiny room went black. Not a sliver of light crept in from under the door. I was sealed in tight.

  And suddenly, from a vent above me, I felt a blast of cold air. Very cold air.

  Oh, Lord. I really was going to freeze to death!

  I began screaming at the top of my lungs. But just as the Panther had predicted, nobody came to my rescue.

  I started doing jumping jacks, trying to keep warm. But then I realized the more I exercised, the more oxygen I was using up.

  If only I had something to eat, some calories to stoke my body heat.

  I reached into my jeans pocket, hoping to find an abandoned sour ball, when I felt something cold and metallic. What the heck was it? I couldn’t see a thing in this black hole. Fingering it, I finally realized it was the lipstick holder Artie had given me yesterday.

  Great. Just what I needed. Lipstick, so I could look good in my freshly dug grave. But then I remembered it was a combination lipstick holder and dog whistle!

  Maybe if I blew the whistle, Tristan and Isolde would start barking, summoning Sofia from downstairs.

  I felt around for the whistle part of the contraption and was just about to put it to my lips when I hesitated. What if Linda and the Panther were still in the house? What if they heard the whistle and came running in to pistol-whip me into silence?

  I wanted to wait a few more minutes to make sure they were gone. But by now, the freezing air was blasting through the vents like snow in the Artic. I was so damn cold, my fingers were beginning to feel numb. I couldn’t afford to waste any more time.

  I had to risk it. Gathering my courage, I put the whistle to my lips and blew.

  Dead silence.

  I slumped down to the floor, defeated.

  The darn thing didn’t work.

  Then, just as I was resigning myself to a frosty death, Tristan and Isolde erupted, barking wildly. I blew the whistle again. More frantic barking. Omigosh. It must have been one of those whistles that emit noise at a frequency only dogs can hear.

  I continued to toot the crazy contraption until at last I heard footsteps.

  I just prayed it wasn’t Linda and the Panther.

  My heart pounding wildly in my chest, I waited for whoever it was to speak.

  And then, at last, I heard a frightened voice ask, “Qué pasa?”

  Thank God! It was Sofia!

  “Help me!” I cried. “I’m locked inside! Call la policía! La policía!”

  There was silence on the other side of the door. Oh, hell. What if Sofia was in the country illegally and was afraid of the police? What if she called the Panther instead and was instructed to let me die?

  For several minutes I heard nothing. My heart sank. This was it.

  There I sat, teeth chattering, skin crawling with goose bumps, Artic air blasting at me from all sides.

  Damn it all.
Why was I always getting myself into these scrapes? Why couldn’t I have left everything to the police? So what if I missed my Hawaiian vacation? At least I’d be alive, and not a human Popsicle.

  And suddenly I thought of Prozac. Poor, dear Prozac. Who’d take care of her when I was gone? Who’d feed her minced mackerel guts? Who’d give her belly rubs and pick her hair balls out of the freshly washed laundry?

  A big fat tear rolled down my cheek and froze halfway down.

  Then, just as I was ready to give up all hope, I heard it—a faint wail. I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like a police siren. Soon I heard pounding on the front door. Then footsteps clomping on the stairway, growing closer and closer.

  And then, finally, the sweetest words I’d ever heard (aside from “Would you like whipped cream with that?”):

  “Hang in there, ma’am. We’ll get you out.”

  And indeed, five minutes later, a police locksmith had opened the lock, and I walked out of my prison, icy cold, teeth chattering—but alive!

  I flung my arms around Sofia, thanking her profusely.

  She soon had me bundled in a pink cashmere blanket while I gave my statement to the police.

  Eventually, Detective Carbone showed up with jelly doughnuts, bless his soul, and told me that Linda and the Pink Panther had been arrested out in Malibu, in the middle of their Cobb salads, and charged with attempted murder (mine).

  When I’d answered my last question and scarfed down my last doughnut, I headed outside, reveling in the warmth of the sun on my face and vowing never again to complain about heat waves.

  Later that night, when I was curled up in bed under my down comforter, watching the news with Prozac, I saw footage of the two killers being hauled off in handcuffs to a police van.

  And as I watched the hot pink soles of her Louboutins disappear into the van, I couldn’t help but wonder how the Pink Panther was going to look in a bright orange jumpsuit.

  * * *

  I’d barely had time to recuperate from my near brush with death when Lance came bounding into my apartment the next morning.

  “You’ll never guess who’s a star on the Internet!” he cried, grabbing half of my cinnamon raisin bagel.

  “You’re right,” I said wearily. “I’ll never guess. So tell me.”

  “Prozac! Someone posted a video of her on YouTube. Look!” he said, pointing to his cell phone. “It’s called Where’s the Beef?”

  And there was Prozac on the screen, perched on the buffet table at the Skinny Kitty shoot, scarfing down roast beef as only she can eat it, sucking it up like a kitty tornado.

  Someone at the shoot must have been watching her all along.

  “It’s gotten over two hundred thousand hits!” Lance squealed.

  “Did you hear that, Prozac?” he said, turning to my princess, who was busy battling aliens from the planet Chenille.

  He shoved the phone under her nose, and she stared at it, fascinated.

  “You’re an Internet sensation!”

  I swear, she understood exactly what he was saying.

  Because suddenly she sat up, preening, batting her big green eyes, head tilted ever so coyly.

  I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.

  There’d be no living with her now.

  And to think. She still had eight more lives to go.

  Epilogue

  The minute they were taken into custody, Linda and the Panther began ratting each other out. Their sworn statements damning one another—along with a chilling e-mail correspondence between the two of them plotting to kill Dean—should be enough to keep them behind bars for years.

  And as you probably know if you’ve seen her picture on the cover of the Enquirer, the Panther looks quite fetching in orange. Last I heard, she was voted Best Dressed in her cell block. Meanwhile, Linda has quickly risen in the ranks of the incarcerated and is now known to her homies as “The Enforcer.”

  All you animal lovers will be happy to learn that Tristan, Isolde, and Desiree were adopted by my rescuing angel, Sofia, who is now working for one of the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

  You’re not going to believe this, but Deedee wound up paying me every cent she owed me, including the two hundred and six bucks from our lunch at the Peninsula. She recently rescued an amazingly talented cat from a shelter and has just signed the little cutie to star in a national cat food commercial. To be directed by none other than Ian Kendrick.

  As for Ian, he finally faced up to the fact that he was a raging alcoholic and sought help from, of all people, Emmy, the Reiki healer. Today Ian is celebrating six gin-free months of sobriety and is dating one of his Mighty Maids.

  And remember that poison search on Zeke’s computer? It happens he was merely doing research for his novel. Which has yet to be published. But on the plus side, he sold his tell-all story about Linda (Black Widow: My Life with a Cold-Blooded Killer), which will soon be a Lifetime Movie-of-the-Week.

  As I suspected, Kandi’s romance with Alexi didn’t last. She finally dumped her violin-playing Uber driver when, after two months of dating, he was still charging her to ride in his car.

  And good news for the House of Wonton. They got a four-star review in the L.A. Times, and now the place is packed. You can’t get in without a reservation. The hostess now greets her guests in Escada and Jimmy Choos.

  Here on the home front, Lance is head over heels in love, dating the photographer who took Mamie’s publicity photos. As for Mamie, she’s thrilled to be an anonymous doggie, chasing her tail and sniffing stray tushes.

  After the first flush of excitement from her YouTube stardom died down, Prozac went back to her old ways, battling evil aliens from the planet Chenille. Which reminds me, I’ve absolutely got to go to Bed Bath & Beyond to buy some new throw pillows.

  I’m happy to report that my trip to Hawaii with my parents was fantabulous. Daddy was unable to assemble his Make-It-Yourself Ukulele. (Mainly because Mom tossed some key pieces in the garbage when he wasn’t looking.) So we jetted off to Maui, strings free, for seven glorious days in the Hawaiian sun. True, I had to spend those days in an Outrageous Orange tankini, but it was wonderful to be with my parents, who, as predicted, showered me with love and banana daiquiris.

  Aside from that one incident at the luau with Daddy and a rubber chicken (don’t ask!), it was a most delightful time.

  Well, gotta run. Her Royal Highness is yowling for a belly rub.

  Catch you next time!

  * * *

  P.S. Remember Artie Lembeck? The hapless inventor? Well, it turns out that Bilk, his milk-based beer, is all the rage in Japan. Artie’s raking in a fortune. He and Nikki got married in a beautiful beachside ceremony in Malibu. Nikki wore her pink hibiscus ring, and every guest got a complimentary tube of two-way toothpaste.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2016 by Laura Levine

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2016933892

  ISBN: 978-0-7582-8509-6

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: July 2016

  eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8511-9

  eISBN-10: -0-7582-8511-6

  Kensington Electronic Edition: July 2016

 

 

 
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