Marisol gave me a curious look. “Taking up journaling?” she said, half teasing.
I scoffed. “I just have a bad memory, okay? It’s not like it’s a diary or something. Jeez.”
There was a rumble and a huge, sparkling white limousine came rolling smoothly around the corner. It stopped right in front of me, and a chauffeur in a tuxedo stepped out and walked around to the passenger side.
“Ms. Dark?” the man boomed in a smooth baritone.
I was dumbfounded. A white limo? It must be Charlie’s idea of a joke. What was this, Pretty Woman? I had to give it to him—he knew how to cheer a girl up.
Marisol gave me a wide-eyed smirk. “Friends in high places, huh?”
I tossed my hair like a movie star, gave Marisol my best Hollywood air kiss, and stepped up to the car with mock haughtiness.
The driver opened the door for me. A moment later we were off.
As the car drifted along the glittery Halo City avenues, I imagined myself as the Princess of Swords, carried in my royal chariot. I lay back, put my feet up on the seat, and lounged on the white leather upholstery. I picked up the car phone and found, to my amazement, that there was a dial tone. Impulsively I called my mother in California. Maybe she would have some advice about all this.
“Mom!” I said excitedly when she answered. “I’m in a white stretch limo!”
“That’s a weird coincidence,” she said breezily. “So am I. One of those big ones that sort of look like pickup trucks.”
I was put off. Leave it to Isabelle Dark to steal my thunder.
“Why are you in a white stretch SUV?” I asked.
“Penelope Cruz sent it for me. We’re having a get-together in Malibu. I’m playing her secretary in this movie—some fake-o artsy neo-noir. You know the drill.”
“Do you die?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“She stabs me with my own letter opener,” she admitted, slightly dejected. Then she brightened. “It’s the climax of the first act, though. My death scene is going to be brilliant. Lots of eye rolling and wheezing. Like this.” There was a long, strangled noise from California. I held the phone a few inches away from my ear while my mom ack-argh-hack-hack-arghed. The icing on the histrionics was a high-pitched, thirty-second scream that slowly faded to a gurgle.
“How do you like it?” she finally asked, finished.
“Great, Mom. You’ll be great.”
“Too bad you couldn’t see the eye rolls. They’re the best part. It’s not like I’m going to win an Oscar, but it’s all about your personal best, you know? That’s what they always tell you at those change-your-life seminars. Don’t try to compete with others; compete with yourself. It’s always middle-aged B actresses at those things, by the way. I wonder why. So how are you?”
“Fine,” I said. “I just wanted to tell you that I was in a white stretch limo.”
“Well, enjoy,” she said. “But don’t stick your head out the sunroof. I knew this poor girl who got decapitated that way. She could have been famous if only she hadn’t stuck her head out the sunroof.”
“C’mon, Mom, it’s not like I’m at some tacky bachelorette party,” I said. “Have a little faith.”
“I have all the faith in the world when it comes to you. You know your mom, though, always fussing over nothing.”
“Listen, Mom, could you give me some advice about something?”
“Of course, darling. What do you need to know? I hope it’s not to do with getting a stain out of your dress because I’m really not good with that Hints from Heloise stuff.”
“Well—” I began, but I didn’t get to finish my sentence.
“Sorry, babe,” Isabelle said. “I’m going to have to cut this short. I’m here at Penelope’s.”
“Okay, Mom,” I said, resigned. “Talk to you soon.”
“You too, honey.” And click.
It was a typical conversation with Isabelle. Her head is always in the clouds, if not on the moon. It’s not like she doesn’t love me; it’s just that she never seems to pay any attention to what I have to say. If I’d bothered to tell her that I was being pursued by an evil murderesses in pink hot pants, she probably would have laughed and told me about some movie where she had to die while wearing hot pants herself. Oh, well, I thought—at least there was Dad. That was more than a lot of people could say. For instance, Daisy. Both of her parents are crazy.
I took out my notebook and wrote, CHILDBIRTH AND INSANITY. IS THERE A MEDICAL CONNECTION?
Signs pointed to yes.
The limo dropped me off in front of my house, and the chauffeur idled across the street. He’d be there as long as I needed him. This was the life.
Back in the loft, there was a note from my dad on the kitchen counter. Somehow the fact that he and Theo were going to be out of town for a week at some big art opening had slipped my mind.
Lulu! the note read. Have fun by yourself. No wild parties OR ELSE. Or parties of any kind, for that matter. The credit card’s on the coffee table and there’s plenty of food in the fridge. If you need anything, just call my celly. Be good, and if not, be careful. Love, Dad.
Crap. This was not what I needed when I was being pursued by a killer lunatic! Normally I would have been thrilled to have the apartment to myself, but under these circumstances? No way.
I was still studying the note when I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Aaaaaaaa!” I let out a bloodcurdling scream.
EIGHT
I WHIRLED AROUND, READY TO fight to the death.
Standing behind me was none other than Genevieve—with a very sour look on her face. Yeah, I know, you thought it was going to be Berlin’s murderer. Well, needless to say, I’m happy it wasn’t, but trust me, being snuck up on by Charlie’s fink of a sister is almost as bad.
“Hello, Lulu,” she said, glowering. “I think we need to have a little chat.”
She was standing with her arms crossed, eyeing me up and down while I backed slowly toward the kitchen counter. I wasn’t sure what was going on, but I knew it couldn’t be anything good.
“What do you want?” I snapped. “And how did you get in here?” I was feeling a little paranoid, I guess.
Genevieve rolled her eyes. “Lulu, your dad let me in before he left. We need to talk.”
“Talk about what?” I said with suspicion.
Genevieve smiled condescendingly. “Just a little girl talk, Lulu. Woman-to-woman. Now, can you please chill out? You’re being a real freak.”
She was right; I was just on edge. “Okay, Genevievil. Talk. But get to the point. I need to meet your brother in a few minutes.”
“Fine,” she said, sniffing. She put a hand on her hip and cocked her head. “I know that you and I don’t always get along. But I respect you, sort of. And I’m concerned for my brother. You’re being a real bitch to him, Lulu, and that’s not okay. If you do anything to hurt him, then you and I are really going to have problems. Are we clear on that?”
I looked at her incredulously. “You’re going to have to explain, Gen, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Listen, you obviously know that Charlie is completely in love with you. Everyone does.” Genevieve looked at me meaningfully.
I blinked. Everyone knew that Charlie was in love with me? That was ridiculous! Just last night he made it perfectly clear that he only wanted to be friends.
I squinted at Genevieve. Someone in this room was smoking crack, and it definitely wasn’t me.
“Anyway,” Gen went on, “if you think you’re too good for Charlie, you’re obviously deluded. All I’m saying is that you’d better stop jerking him around like this. Seriously, you do not want to be on my bad side any more than you already are.”
Jerking him around? This had to be some kind of joke.
I was so stressed out already—Charlie’s alleged infatuation was the last thing I wanted to think about. My palms grew clammy and my stomach churned. This was worse than the time my dad decided to sit me down and talk to me
about my “cycles.” I had to end this conversation. Quickly.
“Genevieve, I don’t know where you’re getting your information from, but Charlie is not in love with me. He told me only last night that we were just friends.”
She raised her eyebrows at me like I was a moron. “Yeah, he told me all about last night, Lulu. You’re sending him all kinds of mixed signals. Of course he wanted to save face.”
I let out a groan and dragged myself over to the couch. I slumped down in it with my face in my hands. I had to collect my thoughts, and Genevieve was only making my brain more cluttered and confused.
“Gen, this is too much. I’m not trying to screw with Charlie’s mind. In fact, maybe it’s the other way around. I mean, when he dresses up and takes me out to Medardo only to tell me it’s not a date, what am I supposed to think?”
Gen had followed me onto the couch. She sat next to me.
“Lulu.” She sighed. “For such a know-it-all, your feminine intuition is seriously deficient.”
“Feminine intuition is so sexist.” I sniffed.
“Well, whatever. How do you feel about my brother?”
I threw my hands up in the air. “I don’t know! I think Charlie’s cute. I think he’s great. I think he’s the best friend I could ever ask for.”
Genevieve twirled a tendril of her blond hair around her pinky finger. She looked at me appraisingly. “Fair enough,” she finally said. “But you really need to talk about this with him or things are just going to get worse. And if you hurt him . . .” She let her thought trail off, raising her eyebrows again.
I got the point.
“Fine,” I moaned. “I’ll talk to him.”
Right about the time that hell freezes over, I added to myself.
Genevieve gave me a tentative smile and a pat on the knee. “Good. That’s all I wanted to hear. In the meantime, as a gesture of goodwill, I’m going to give you a piece of information that you might find helpful: I was at Rhonda B’s boutique yesterday, and one of the clerks mentioned that Berlin Silver had been in there recently. You might want to check it out.”
“Berlin Silver?” I gasped. “Like, how recently?”
“Sometime in the last week,” Genevieve reported. “Now, don’t say I never did anything nice for you.” She stood up, gave me a quick peck on the cheek, and was out the door without saying goodbye.
I closed my eyes and took a couple of deep, cleansing breaths. I was being tugged in so many directions—the thing with Sally Hansen, the stuff with Charlie, the situation with Berlin. I checked my watch. Rhonda B’s was closed. I would have to head over tomorrow and see what they knew.
There was no way, though, that I was going to sleep in this apartment alone tonight. Daisy would just have to let me sleep over at her place whether Svenska liked it or not. I spruced myself up, packed an overnight bag as fast as I could, and hurried out the door.
In the limo I had a thought. I picked up the car phone and dialed Detective Wanda Knight.
“Detective, it’s Lulu Dark,” I said when she answered. “I need police protection.”
I could hear the detective stifling a laugh on the other end. “What is it now, Lulu?” she asked.
After I told her about the incident with Sally Hansen, she sighed. “Lulu, I think you’re overreacting. This young woman didn’t even say anything to you.”
“She didn’t need to say anything!” I yelped. “She was trying to kill me.”
“Well,” Detective Knight said carefully, “I suppose you should be careful. You can call me if anything else happens. But unless this person threatens you directly, there’s nothing I can do.”
“You can’t just give me one teensy police escort?” I whined.
Detective Knight laughed out loud this time. She wasn’t trying to be mean, but I still didn’t appreciate it.
“Maybe this will make you feel better,” she said when she was done chortling. “Berlin Silver is alive and well. I paid a little visit to the Primrose Hotel for Young Ladies today. Melanie Raymond practically talked my ear off.”
“What did she say about Berlin?” I cut to the chase.
“That Berlin called the hotel yesterday and told her she was moving out. A guy came and picked up all her stuff and everything. So the shark girl from the river isn’t Berlin Silver—just as I told you. You can rest easy, Lulu. Your friend is fine.”
I shook my head. This didn’t add up. “Was Mel sure it was really Berlin?” I asked.
“She was positive. And you know, a woman like that, she doesn’t miss a beat.”
Sure, I thought. The woman who ran the Primrose Hotel missed just about every beat.
If Detective Knight or Mel hadn’t seen Berlin in the flesh, I wasn’t buying this story.
“Lulu,” Detective Knight said, “I know you’re on edge, but who knows why you keep seeing the same girl? Maybe she lives down the street from you. Maybe she wants to ask you where you got your glasses. Where did you get your glasses, by the way? They’re very original.”
“Halo Park Eyewear,” I said. I could tell that she was just trying to cheer me up by complimenting me, and it wasn’t going to work. “Well, thanks,” I added.
“Buck up,” she told me. “Berlin’s fine. . . . You’ve got nothing to be concerned about.”
I hung up with a sigh. A lot of help she was. Detective Knight seemed like a smart lady, but I still thought she was missing something. I just had to figure out what it was.
At Little Edie’s, I felt slightly better. Seeing Daisy in full waitress mode is so amusing that it gave me a breather from all the day’s puzzles.
That night she was jetting around the café with sparkling aplomb, balancing like five plates on each arm. I sat in my usual chair, waiting for Charlie to show. I was taking small sips from my coffee, trying to make it last because there was no way Daisy was getting around to giving me a refill.
The place was packed, and Katinka, the night manager, was playing hooky as usual. Her dad owns Little Edie’s, making it her prerogative to never show up. As a result Daisy always ends up running the place herself, which is a little like putting the bull in charge of the china shop.
She was looking sporty that particular night, or at least Sporty Spice, in striped jogging shorts, a white T-shirt, flip-flops, and red terry-cloth wristbands. She glided around the place like some out-of-whack figure skater, keeping everyone waiting and mixing up all the orders. When Daisy is your waitress, you’re lucky to get your food at all, but it’s okay because of the adorable way she laughs and spins and tosses her ponytail.
You would think that Daisy being the manager would be a sure-fire recipe for disaster, but in the end it never failed to be fine. The cash register balanced itself; the dishes got done. Things fall into place for Daisy—they just do. She should take up gambling, I often think. Daisy would be the queen of the roulette wheel.
I’d been contenting myself for the past hour just people watching and trying to ignore the fact Charlie hadn’t arrived. He was supposed to show up soon and—given my conversation with Genevieve—the last thing I wanted was for there to be awkwardness.
At the heart of it, though, I was anxious for him to walk through the door. I hoped that once I saw him, all this confusion between us would just melt away. I had no idea where things were going between us, but I was pretty sure I could count on him not to get all weird at a time when I needed him.
I focused my attention back onto the scene at Little Edie’s. All the regulars were there, and they were a constant source of fascination. Daisy and I had given them all their own nicknames.
In the corner Doughnut and his red-faced girlfriend, Raspberry, were crammed together on the divan, deep in an ostentatious lip lock since my arrival. Right next to me, on a velvet ottoman, was the guy we called Aladdin. He always wore the same thing—a red sequined vest over a bare, flabby, plucked torso, accessorized with a golden fez the size of a Dixie cup. Aladdin was obsessed with word finds, the kind old ladies buy in
books at the supermarket. He would sit at Little Edie’s for hours, barely looking up, just flying through stacks of them.
I glanced at my watch again. Why was Charlie Reed always, always late?
I was getting totally bored. I needed a distraction.
Daisy, having a mild case of ESP, could tell I was getting antsy, so she put me to work for her. “Lulu!” she shouted from across the room. “How about finding these people seats?”
She pointed toward a bored cluster of biker ladies by the door.
Daisy was shimmying and bouncing to the song on the jukebox while she absentmindedly tossed the food in her arms onto random tables. I sighed and stood up to help.
I told Doughnut and Raspberry to get a room and moved Aladdin onto a makeshift seat to make room for the bikers. As I was handing them menus, Charlie breezed in, with Genevieve in tow. She was carrying her annoying Boston terrier, Viking, in a wicker picnic basket. I gave Genevieve a quick smile, which was returned with an icy, furious glare.
I shook my head. Sometimes I swear that girl is bipolar. Hadn’t she been sort of friendly with me just an hour earlier?
I glanced at Charlie and gave him a tentative grin as well. Rather than reciprocating, he barely met my gaze.
“Lulu, my lady,” he said, with a hint of sarcasm. “I’ve been hearing about your adventures.”
“Ugh.” I sighed. “It’s been terrible.”
“It didn’t sound so terrible to me,” he retorted.
I was about to correct Charlie when Viking freed himself from his carrier and began chewing on my ankle.
“Genevieve,” I said, half jokingly, “all Vikings must control themselves or be sent to the pound.”
“Oh, Lulu, you’re such a little jokester.” She scooped the dog into her arms and glared at me—again.
“Don’t blame me,” I told her, returning the mean look this time. “It’s management policy.”
I wanted to ask Charlie why, precisely, he thought that being chased by a killer sounded anything less than horrifying, but he had already moved on. He hated listening to me bicker with his sister, and from the looks of things, he was hungry. He stood and wandered the café, busing plates and eating the leftovers as he did it.
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