Death of a Neighborhood Scrooge

by Laura Levine

  Little kids looked on slack-jawed as the phony snow fell to the ground. For most it was probably the only snow they’d ever seen.

  Making our way through the crowds, we headed up the path to Missy and Scotty’s place.

  Once again I saw Rudolph lying dead on the lawn, the menacing snowman now turned on and growling, “You lookin’ at me? You lookin’ at me?”

  “Geez,” Lance said, taking it all in. “Who’s their decorator—the Marquis de Sade?”

  “Scotty’s idea. I told you he was a piece of work.”

  We rang the bell and Missy came to the door, clad in black leggings, a red silk blouse, and matching red stilettos. Clutched in her hand was a rather large tumbler of white wine.

  “Hey, guys!” she said, waving us inside. “So good to see you!”

  “We brought Prozac’s litter box and some cat food,” I said.

  “Wonderful. Put them down here in the foyer and our maid will get them later.

  “You must be Lance,” Missy said, turning to Lance and shooting him a blinding smile.

  “And you must be Missy,” Lance cooed. “Jaine told me how lovely you were, and I can see she wasn’t exaggerating.”

  He was in Neiman’s Salesman Mode, the one meant to charm rich biddies into paying a thousand bucks for a pair of Jimmy Choos.

  Missy was suitably enchanted.

  “C’mon in,” she said, taking Lance by the elbow and ushering us into the living room, where Scotty was still glued to his recliner watching CNBC.

  “Look who’s here,” Missy called out brightly. “Jaine and Lance!”

  Scotty graced us with a reluctant grunt.

  “And this is our friend Dave,” Missy said, gesturing to a handsome guy in his thirties seated on a threadbare sofa facing the fireplace.

  He’d been staring halfheartedly at the TV when we walked in. Now he jumped up eagerly to greet us, grateful no doubt for the chance to chat with someone other than Scotty.

  “Dave Kellogg,” he said. “No relation to the cereal,” he added with a grin. “Wish I were. Then I could afford to pay off my humongous student loan.”

  With his lean frame, easy grin, and startlingly blue eyes, Dave had the wholesome good looks of an extremely hot former Boy Scout.

  “Dave’s our tenant,” Missy explained. “He’s studying law at UCLA.”

  Their tenant? No wonder the house looked so crappy. Scotty and Missy must’ve been having financial problems if they were reduced to renting out rooms.

  “You bring the steaks?” Scotty barked from the recliner.

  “Indeed I did,” I said, holding up a bag with the steaks. “I hope you don’t mind, but I didn’t cook them. We thought your maid could do it. That way they wouldn’t get cold.”

  Scotty grunted his disapproval, but Missy smiled brightly.

  “What a good idea. Lupe!” she called out. “Come in here for a minute, will you?”

  Seconds later, the tiny slip of a maid I’d seen earlier that day came scuttling into the room, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Lupe, honey, meet Jaine and Lance. They’re house-sitting for Mrs. Van Hooten next door.”

  Lupe nodded at us with a shy smile.

  “They’ve brought filet mignon for dinner,” Missy said, handing Lupe the bag.

  “Dios mio,” Lupe muttered as she gazed down into the bag. “Real steaks for a change. It’s a Christmas miracle!”

  “What’s that?” Scotty barked from the recliner.

  “Nothing,” Lupe said, giving him the stink eye.

  Clearly there was no love lost between these two.

  “Cook ’em blood rare, Lupe,” Scotty commanded. “Just the way I like ’em.”

  “What if Jaine and Lance don’t like their steaks rare?” Missy asked.

  “Too darn bad,” Scotty grunted. “They’re guests in our house. They’ll eat what we serve them.”

  What a charmer, huh?

  Grumbling what I’m guessing were a colorful assortment of Spanish curses under her breath, Lupe headed back to the kitchen with our steaks.

  “Have a seat,” Missy said to me and Lance, pointing to the rumpsprung sofa and two equally shoddy armchairs.

  Lance plopped down onto the sofa next to Dave, no doubt hoping to forge a love connection.

  But that wasn’t about to happen—not the way Dave was gazing at Missy, following her every move with undisguised longing.

  I settled down on one of the armchairs, unleashing a small cloud of dust. I hoped it wouldn’t take Lupe long to rustle up those steaks. I was starving.

  “I just love what you’ve done with the place,” Lance said, eyeing the threadbare furniture. “Shabby chic is all the rage these days!”

  “What’s so shabby about it?” Scotty growled from the recliner. “Place looks fine to me.”

  “No, no!” Lance said, putting on his tap shoes. “I just meant it all looks so comfortable and homey.”

  Scotty shot him a dubious glare and returned to his stock ticker.

  “Let me get you guys some wine,” Missy said, heading for a big box of wine propped up on a sideboard.

  “Not too much!” Scotty shouted as she began to pour wine from the box’s spigot.

  Missy rolled her eyes and proceeded to pour us each a generous glass of wine.

  I had a feeling we were going to need it.

  After delivering it to us, she wasted no time topping off her own glass.

  “Omigosh!” she cried. “I forgot all about the hors d’oeuvres.”

  My salivary glands sprang into action. I was hoping for something fun like a cheese ball or franks in a blanket.

  But all we got was a bowl of petrified pretzels.

  I was trying in vain to bite into one when Missy cried out, “Look who’s here! It’s Scarlett!”

  And there was Prozac prancing into the room.

  “Scarlett?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Missy said, scooping Prozac up in her arms. “Like Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. We thought ‘Prozac’ was so depressing, didn’t we, Scarlett?”

  Prozac looked up at her worshipfully.

  You betcha, honey chile!

  It seemed as if Dave wasn’t the only one smitten with Missy.

  “Come say hello to Jaine,” Missy said, depositing Pro in my lap.

  “Hello, darling,” I cooed, sweeping her up to my chest.

  A faint glimmer of recognition flickered in her eyes.

  Oh, yeah. I remember you. We used to live together, didn’t we? You’re the one with the Chunky Monkey stains on your pillow.

  She allowed me to hold her and scratch her behind the ears, but the minute Missy took a seat on the sofa, Prozac wriggled free from my arms and hotfooted it across to Missy’s lap.

  Good Lord. My cat was dumping me for another woman!

  I sat there sipping my bargain basement wine, imported no doubt from a vineyard in the Bronx, wishing I’d never brought Prozac to this wreck of a mausoleum.

  And I wasn’t the only one in a funk.

  Over in his recliner, Scotty was grumbling, “Goddamn kids, making such a racket.”

  Indeed, we could hear the crowds outside the house oohing and aahing over the Christmas lights across the street.

  “I ought to sue the Sinclairs for invasion of privacy,” he whined. “Their stupid lights are so bright, I can hardly see the TV screen.”

  “Let me close the drapes, honey,” Missy offered.

  “And let the Sinclairs win?” Scotty bellowed. “No way!”

  No doubt eager to change the subject, Lance pointed to the portrait hanging over the fireplace, the one I’d noticed earlier that day—of a little boy in a sailor suit.

  “Is that you?” he asked Scotty.

  Now that I took a good look at it, I could see that the little boy in the picture did indeed look like a younger version of the bloated man in the recliner.

  “Yep, that’s me in my glory days.”

  “Scotty was a child actor,” Miss
y said. “He played Tiny Tim in a remake of A Christmas Carol. They hardly show it here in the States, but it’s huge in Japan.”

  “It would’ve been big here in the States, too,” Scotty said, “if I hadn’t been stuck with a bunch of loser costars. The guy who played Cratchit couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag.”

  Scotty shook his head in disgust at the memory of his former costar.

  “I was a child actor, all right. Then I got acne and it was all over. But no matter. I showed those Hollywood bastards. I sued my parents for my savings and invested in the stock market.

  “Made a bundle,” he added with a smug smile.

  So he wasn’t poor, after all. Just a monumental cheapskate.

  Scotty’s smile quickly faded as he heard a kid outside shouting, “Look, Daddy. It’s snowing.”

  “I can’t take it anymore,” he snapped, hauling himself out of his recliner. “I’m going outside and put an end to this nonsense.”

  “Oh, honey!” Missy jumped up, alarmed. “Please don’t make a scene.”

  And it was at that moment that Lupe came in and averted disaster.

  “Steaks are ready,” she announced.

  Not about to miss out on a freshly broiled filet mignon, Scotty forgot the crowds outside and made a beeline for the dining room, grabbing the seat at the head of the table. The rest of us followed, Missy sitting opposite him, with Prozac/Scarlett in her lap. Lance and I sat on one side of the table, across from Dave on the other.

  “How interesting!” Lance said, eyeing the mismatched dishes on the table. “I just love the eclectic look!”

  And when I glanced down at my fork, I blinked in disbelief to see the words VITO’S RISTORANTE ITALIANO etched at the bottom of the fork.

  Good heavens. We were eating with stolen silverware!

  Paper napkins (courtesy of Lenny’s Deli) spread out in our laps, we all looked up eagerly as Lupe started serving our dinner.

  No appetizers. Just the steaks, accompanied by disconcertingly gray green beans and a basket of rolls almost as hard as the pretzels.

  It’s fair to say that the only thing edible at that table were the Costco steaks, which Lupe had cooked to perfection, ignoring Scotty’s orders and broiling them medium rare.

  “Hey,” Scotty pouted, cutting into his steak. “This isn’t blood rare.”

  “Oops. My mistake,” Lupe said with a defiant shrug. And with that, she turned on her heels and marched back into the kitchen.

  I was sitting next to Missy, which was both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, I was as far away from Scotty as possible. On the other hand, I had to sit there and watch her hand-feed Prozac pieces of filet mignon.

  “Isn’t that just yummity yum yum, Scarlett sweetums?” she cooed to my fickle feline.

  Prozac’s eyes shone with food lust.

  As God is my witness, I’ll never eat canned cat food again!

  I was so sick at the sight of those two cuddling and cooing, I could hardly finish Lance’s leftover steak.

  Lance, oblivious to my pain, was telling Missy about his job at Neiman’s and yammering on about how he’d love to have her stop by the store.

  “I only wish I could shop at Neiman’s,” Missy said, looking pointedly at Scotty.

  “And pay those crazy prices?” Scotty snorted. “No way! Payless shoes are good enough.”

  Missy sighed and took a healthy slug of her wine. If I wasn’t mistaken, this was the third glass I’d seen her pack away.

  Then she turned to me, ever the polite, if somewhat sloshed, hostess.

  “And what do you do, Jaine?”

  “I’m a writer,” I replied. “Mostly ad copy for local businesses.”

  “In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters! Jaine wrote that!” Lance bragged on my behalf.

  Scotty looked at me, a flicker of interest in his eyes.

  Then Lance started asking Dave about his courses at UCLA.

  Dave was in the middle of some rather snore-inducing chatter about torts, when a fresh batch of oohs and aahs erupted from the crowd outside.

  “That’s it!” Scotty said, having demolished every morsel of food on his plate. “I’ve had it! I’m getting my bullhorn.”

  He slammed down his purloined silverware and stalked off. Minutes later, we heard the front door bang open, and seconds after that, we heard Scotty’s voice booming over a bullhorn:

  “Everybody get the hell out of here or I’m calling the police! And by the way, kids. This just in. Santa’s had a stroke and is in intensive care. So you won’t be getting any presents this year.”

  “He does this every year,” Missy groaned. “It’s one of our treasured Christmas traditions.”

  With that, she drained what was left of her wine.

  “Dave, honey,” she said. “Get me some more wine, and then go outside and see if you can drag Scotty back in.”

  Dave dutifully poured Missy some more wine from the box on the sideboard, and then headed outside.

  “I’ll go, too!” Lance said, scurrying out after Dave, unwilling to miss a moment of potential drama.

  “God, I hate my life,” Missy said the minute we were alone.

  In her lap, Prozac meowed.

  I know what’ll make you feel better. Feeding me some more steak.

  “Here you go, Scarlett, honey,” Missy said, tossing Prozac a piece of filet mignon.

  I couldn’t believe she had any left after sharing so much with my greedy cat.

  “I would’ve never married Scotty if I’d known what a miserable cheapskate he’d turn out to be,” Missy said with a sigh. “Scotty wasn’t lying when he said he made a bundle in the market. He’s got money up his ying-yang, and he refuses to part with any of it.

  “Of course, he wasn’t that way in the beginning,” she said, pausing for a slug of wine. “In the beginning, everything was wonderful. I was a cocktail waitress at the Peninsula Hotel when Scotty started showing up and sitting at my table.”

  For those of you unfamiliar with the Peninsula, it’s one of Beverly Hills’s most expensive hotels, the kind of joint where you need a cosigner to order room service.

  “He was the last of the big-time spenders back then. Gave me fifty dollar tips, and told me how gorgeous I was. In those days, he took me to all the finest restaurants.

  “When he first showed me this house, I was shocked, of course, at how crummy it looked. But he said he’d been devastated by his divorce from his first wife and hadn’t had the emotional energy to fix things up. He promised I could redecorate once we were married.

  “Hah! What a joke. The minute we set off for our honeymoon, which, by the way, was at a Thrifty Inn in Modesto, I realized what a cheapskate he was. I discovered the real Scotty, the cold, angry tyrant with a calculator where his heart should be. So I’ve been stuck ever since in the House That Time Forgot with a man whose fingers have to be pried from a dime.”

  “Have you ever thought of leaving him?”

  “So many times. But what would I do? Go back to living in a crappy apartment in West Hollywood and being a cocktail waitress? Somehow, as bad as this is, that seemed worse. But now I’m not so sure.”

  “He does seem like a handful,” I commiserated.

  “The worst thing was how he’d tricked me. He had me completely fooled.”

  “I know the feeling,” I said, remembering my own marriage, an unmitigated disaster that lasted four years—about three years and fifty-one weeks too long, IMHO.

  When I first met my ex-husband, whom I not-so-lovingly refer to as The Blob, he’d seemed like the sweet, sensitive artist of my dreams. He’d told me he was studying Fine Art at the Otis Institute, a prestigious art school in L.A. But the truth was he was taking only one class a week. The rest of the time he devoted himself to studying the fine art of marijuana, which he smoked on a regular basis. Within weeks of our marriage, he’d morphed into a guy who clipped his toenails in the sink and watched ESPN during sex. With himself.

  My stroll do
wn marital memory lane was interrupted just then when Scotty returned with his bullhorn.

  “Everybody’s gone,” Dave said.

  “Scotty really put the fear of God into those kids telling them Santa was in ICU,” Lance added. “Most of them were bawling their eyes out.”

  Scotty beamed with pride.

  “Let’s adjourn to the living room for dessert,” he said.

  Dessert turned out to be a bowl of ancient mints (no doubt pilfered from Vito’s or Lenny’s). I sucked on one, utterly miserable, watching Prozac nestled in Missy’s arms.

  It was definitely time for Lance and me to say our goodbyes.

  I stood up to go, but before I got a chance to open my mouth, all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 4

  Someone was pounding on Scotty’s front door with such force I thought the hinges might give way. Maybe it was a posse of angry neighbors, come to tar and feather the neighborhood Scrooge.

  But, no. When Lupe scuttled over and opened the front door, I heard her exclaim, “Ms. Elise!”

  “Scotty’s ex-wife,” Missy whispered to me.

  Footsteps thumped in the foyer, and then a haggard blonde in her forties came storming into the living room.

  I blinked in amazement.

  The woman standing before us was a washed-out, beat-up version of Missy. Her cascading blond hair had long lost its shine. Her baby blues had bags the size of carry-ons. And her undoubtedly once-rocking bod had a bit of a belly.

  Nevertheless, the resemblance to Missy was unmistakable.

  She could have been her mother.

  In a classic Hollywood move, it looked like Scotty had traded in his ex-wife for a younger model.

  Now she stomped over to Scotty in his recliner.

  “Where the hell’s my alimony check, you cheap bastard?” she cried, her face splotchy with rage.

  “For crying out loud, Elise,” Scotty said with a put-upon sigh. “It’s in the mail. I sent it out yesterday. You should be getting it any day now.”

  “That’s what you always say,” Elise hissed. “And somehow the check never seems to show up. Every month I have to keep coming here, begging for what’s rightfully mine. You really get off on that, don’t you, Scotty?” she said, her face now a dangerous shade of puce. “Making me come and beg for my money.”