by Laura Levine
So Missy had been lying. She’d snuck back into the house. Maybe she’d forgotten something. Or maybe she’d popped back in to bludgeon her hubby to death.
“I do a hundred squats every day,” Marlon was saying, beaming with pride.
Judging from the thigh muscles bulging from his shorts, I didn’t doubt it for a minute.
“How very impressive,” I said, eager to stay on his good side.
By now Marlon had finished screwing in Rudolph’s missing lights, all but the one for Rudolph’s nose. He picked up a big red bulb from where it was lying on the grass and was just about to screw it in when Graham came up the front steps with the mail.
“Hi, there,” Graham said, flashing us a friendly smile. “Here’s your mail, Marlon. I see Marlon Jr. got another letter from Santa.”
“Just drop it in the slot.” Marlon pointed to a mail slot alongside his door. “My wife’s been writing letters to Marlon Jr. every day,” he explained to me, “pretending to be Santa, trying to convince him that Santa is alive and well. We were finally getting him to believe it, and then Rudolph’s nose got stolen. Now little Marlon is convinced Rudolph is sick, too, and that any day now he’s going to be sharing a room with Santa in St. John’s intensive care unit.
“Damn that Scotty for ruining little Marlon’s Christmas!
“What’s worse,” he said, his face flushed with anger, “he had the nerve to call my boy a crybaby!”
I looked up just then and saw a little boy’s face peering out the window, a slight boy with delicate features.
To a man like Marlon, a veritable wrecking machine, the thought of his son being a crybaby must have been intolerable.
Suffused with rage at the memory of Scotty’s taunt, Marlon clenched his cantaloupe fists, and I heard the unmistakable sound of glass splintering.
“Hey, Marlon!” Graham cried. “Be careful!”
As if waking from a trance, Marlon opened his fists, revealing the red light bulb smashed in the palm of his hand, blood seeping out from a nasty gash.
This was one angry man.
Angry enough, I felt certain, to have delivered a fatal blow to the skull of the Neighborhood Scrooge.
* * *
As Marlon lumbered inside his house to bandage his hand, Graham and I headed down to the sidewalk.
“Wow,” I said. “Did you see the blood on Marlon’s hand? What a temper.”
“I guess that anger management class he took didn’t do much good.”
“Anger management class?”
“Marlon Jenkins used to be a professional football player and had a reputation for being a very volatile guy. A couple of years ago he got jailed for beating up a rival player. He got out after a few months, but part of the deal was that he had to go to an anger management class.”
Holy moly. The guy did jail time for assault and battery. Talk about your history of violence.
By now Marlon was running neck and neck with Elise in my Most Likely to Have Bonked Scotty to Death sweepstakes. Maybe he lied about seeing Missy coming home early from her run to deflect suspicion away from himself. Or maybe he did see her come home—not from his living room window, but from where he was hiding in Scotty’s house after having just offed his neighbor with a frozen Yule log.
“You know Scotty Parker was murdered, right?” I asked Graham.
Graham nodded.
“I heard it on the news on my way to work. Frankly, I’m not surprised. Scotty was a pretty terrible guy. Always fighting with the Sinclairs about their Christmas lights. Spying on the neighbors’ dogs to make sure they didn’t poop on his lawn. Mrs. Van Hooten told me he’d call the police and file a noise complaint every time she had a dinner party! And cheap? He once asked me to lay out postage for a package to Canada, promising to repay me.
“As if that was going to happen!” he added, rolling his eyes.
“The man was amazingly tight with a buck,” I agreed.
“No kidding,” Graham snorted. “Money had to be surgically removed from his wallet.”
By now he’d forgotten all about his mail cart, lost in memories of Scotty’s cheapskate ways.
“Technically, mail carriers aren’t supposed to receive gifts worth more than twenty bucks. But people in this neighborhood are so rich I often get fifty and hundred dollar tips at Christmas. Not Scotty. You wouldn’t believe the gifts I got from him—free toothbrushes recycled from his dentist, stale chocolates—even a pair of used socks! Unwashed!”
“Eeeew! How gross!”
“Scotty was one for the books, all right,” Graham said.
“Do you have any idea who might have killed him?”
“Not really. But from what I just saw, I’d say Marlon is a prime suspect.”
My sentiments exactly.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Glorious morning!
What a glorious morning we just spent in Martinique! After boarding our tour bus, we were whisked off to see a beautiful old church, Sacré-Coeur de Balata. Then off we tooled to the majestic Mount Pelée volcano. And I was wrong about Martinique being home of the martini. On the contrary, we made a most refreshing pit stop at a rum distillery where they treated us to some yummy samples! Afterward, we visited a fishing town where artist Paul Gauguin once painted. All this in four fascinating hours!
The only glitch on the tour was a visit to a gift shop where Daddy picked up the most hideous tiki mask he insists on hanging on our living room wall. As if that will ever happen.
Must take a tiny nap. Then off to Lydia’s lecture on Christmas traditions in Guam. It should be thrilling.
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: A Shoo-In to Win!
Spent the morning in Martinique, Lambchop, visiting some dusty old church, a dustier volcano, and a podunk fishing village where Paul Gauguin once lived. No wonder he moved to the South Pacific. Had a great daiquiri at a rum distillery, though, and picked up a super tiki mask for our living room.
Now Mom’s gone to one of Lydia’s gasbag lectures. And I’m heading downstairs to join some of the Tampa Vista guys for a scavenger hunt the cruise ship has organized. Each member of the winning team gets a $500 shipboard credit.
With me at the helm of our team, we’re a shoo-in to win. I’ve always had a knack for following a trail. In a former life, I must have been a Himalayan Sherpa.
Ciao for now!
Love ’n hugs from,
DaddyO
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: The Brat Strikes Again!
I should have known there’d be trouble when I saw The Brat on one of the other teams at the scavenger hunt.
From the minute the starting whistle blew, Team Tampa Vistas was off to a roaring start. In no time at all, we managed to find and take pictures of a magazine with a Kardashian on the cover, an animal carved out of fruit, someone wearing a seasickness patch, two people with matching T-shirts, and a Santa Claus lookalike. We were way ahead of all the other teams. All we needed was a deck chair “reserved” sign. At last we came across one. But just as I was about to snap a picture of it, The Brat came bolting in out of nowhere, grabbed it off the chair, and dashed away with it. There was nothing we could do but keep searching. We finally found another sign, but by that time Team Brat had already won the grand prize, and the little monster was posing for pictures with his teammates.
If that volcano we saw today was still active, I know just who I’d like to toss right in.
Your extremely frustrated,
DaddyO
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Determined to Stay Happy!
Did you know that Guam is the home of the annual Jingle Bells 5K run? And their Christmas sweets are coconut pies and yam doughnuts! Isn’t it amazing how Lydia digs up these fascinating facts? Such a knowledgeable woman!
XOXO,
Mom
PS. Daddy’s in a very bad mood. I found him at the buffet,
eating a chocolate éclair and muttering about throwing a little
boy into a volcano. I have no idea what that’s about. And I
don’t want to know. I’m determined to stay happy on this
trip. Can’t wait for darling Isabel Norton’s 95th birthday. And,
of course, for the exciting New Year’s Eve costume party.
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Insult to Injury!
Is there no end to The Brat’s evil doings? I just went down to the lobby to check out the official ship photos taken of the passengers on Christmas Day. They’re all displayed on racks in the lobby. When I looked at the pictures of Mom and me, I was horrified to see that somebody had blacked out my teeth and crossed my eyes with magic marker in all the pictures.
And I know exactly which little monster did it. I complained to the ship’s purser who promised they’d make new copies of the photos, but refused to take action against The Brat, seeing as I have no actual proof that the kid was the one who defaced the photos.
But he did it, all right.
And one of these days, he’s going to pay. This fight isn’t over yet.
Love ’n snuggles from,
DaddyO
aka The Avenger
Chapter 18
Thank goodness Lance was away at work the next day when I got ready for my date with NiceGuy. The last thing I needed was my self-appointed fashion guru micromanaging my outfit.
What with NiceGuy being a stockbroker, and probably somewhat of a straight arrow, I’d decided to abandon my usual Fresh-from-the-Ice-Cream-Aisle-at-the-Supermarket look.
Instead, I chose a pair of elastic waist skinny jeans, Eileen Fisher white silk tee, and strappy sandals. Topped off with a pair of tasteful silver hoop earrings. Then I applied my drugstore mascara and lipstick, thrilled not to have to listen to a Greek chorus of disapproval from Lance.
When I checked myself out in the mirror, I liked what I saw: Curls suitably shiny. Hips and tush suitably camouflaged. Drugstore lipstick pleasingly pink. Pronouncing myself dateworthy, I grabbed my car keys and took off for NiceGuy’s condo in the marina.
On the ride over, my mind drifted to Daddy’s shipboard battle with The Brat. Yes, I realized that as a grown man, Daddy should have risen above such childish antics, but frankly, the kid seemed like an insufferable little snot, and I didn’t blame Daddy one bit for being steamed about the stunt the kid had pulled in the scavenger hunt. Not to mention defacing Daddy’s photos. In the Battle of The Brat, I was definitely rooting for Team Daddy.
All thoughts of Daddy quickly faded, however, when I pulled up at NiceGuy’s condo. Dubbed the Marina Palms, it was more like a city than any condo I’d ever seen—a complex of three behemoth buildings with a guard station out front.
I gave my name to the guard at the gate, who had instructions to let me in. He pointed the way to the pool area, and after parking my car, I trekked down a winding brick path until I reached what can only be described as the Garden of Eden with deck chairs.
The grounds were lush with hibiscus and bougainvillea, swaying palms dotted throughout—all surrounding a glittering turquoise pool. Residents lolled in designer chaises, snack tables at their sides, enjoying the view of the sailboats docked in the marina at their feet.
Because of the warm weather, there were a number of people scattered around the pool. Three young boys frolicked in its turquoise waters with their dad, a burly bald guy, who elicited squeals of delight by picking up each boy one by one, holding him aloft in the air, and then tossing him into the water.
I spotted NiceGuy (whose real name was Phil) right away, sitting on a chaise in aviator sunglasses, reading The Wall Street Journal, his slicked-back black hair gleaming in the midday sun. Clad in baggy sweat pants and a tight tank top (revealing a divine set of abs), he was a Grade A cutie pie.
Looking around at everybody in their shorts and bathing suits, I suddenly felt a tad overdressed. But any awkwardness about my outfit vanished when Phil looked up from his paper and flashed me a smile that could melt the ice off a Minnesota snow plow.
“Jaine!” he cried, getting up from his chaise.
When he walked over to greet me, I noticed he was limping.
“Excuse the limp,” he said. “As I told you, I sprained my ankle. Bandages come off next week.”
He pointed down to a bulge around his ankle under his sweat pants.
“Anyhow, thanks so much for driving out here to meet me.”
“Not a problem,” I assured him with utmost sincerity.
“Well, I appreciate it,” he said, wrapping me in a warm bear hug.
Oh, goodness. I liked the feel of that.
“C’mon.” He gestured to a chaise adjacent to his own. “Sit down and we’ll order lunch.”
He handed me a Marina Palms menu.
“Wow,” I said, blinking in disbelief. “Your condo has its own restaurant?”
What a world apart from my life, where room service means a quick call to Domino’s.
“The food’s really very good,” Phil said.
It sure looked it. They had a whole bunch of salads, which I pretty much ignored, zeroing in on the Marina Burger, a half-pound beauty with bacon and mushrooms and thick-cut fries. But then I had second thoughts. I really needed to make a good impression and order something delicate and ladylike. Like the tuna niçoise salad. Or the mango and chutney on a bed of arugula. Something that would give Phil no clue to the pepperoni-pizza-and-chicken-chimichanga gal lurking beneath my elastic waist jeans.
The mango and chutney salad, it would be.
“So what would you like?” Phil asked.
“Marina Burger with fries.”
You didn’t really think I was going to order something on a bed of arugula, did you?
“Good choice,” he grinned. “It’s my favorite, too.”
Phil took out his cell phone and placed an order for two Marina Burgers, plus a beer for himself and a glass of chardonnay for me. Normally, I don’t drink during the day, but normally, I’m not sitting next to my potential future hubby.
While we waited for our food to show up, we started chatting. Much to my relief, Phil was easy as pie to talk to.
That is, when I could tear my eyes away from his fabulous abs.
He told me about going to college at Dartmouth and getting his MBA from Stanford and how he’d spent the past seven years as a VP at his brokerage firm.
And all I had to brag about was my Golden Plunger Award from the Los Angeles Plumbers Association for my Toiletmasters slogan: In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters!
With a lame smile, I told him about it.
“You wrote In a Rush to Flush?” he asked. “I’ve seen it on buses all over town!”
He actually seemed impressed!
I was in such a glow of good will I didn’t even mind when one of the tykes in the pool accidentally splashed water on my Eileen Fisher silk tee. I smiled and laughed it off, to show Phil what a good sport I was.
When our burgers arrived, I tried not to swan dive into mine, but I couldn’t help myself.
It was divine.
Soon ketchup was oozing from my bun and onto my fingers, grease dotting my chin as I scarfed it all down.
Phil was telling me how much he enjoyed his work, helping people plan their financial futures, making sure they were safe in their retirement years.
What a great guy, huh? The Mother Teresa of brokers.
“I’m also really into charity work,” he told me, managing to eat his burger, his fingers miraculously ketchup-free.
“In fact, that’s how I sprained my ankle,” he was saying. “Fell off a ladder while working for Habitat for Humanity.”
My gosh, he really was a saint!
I felt like a bit of a slacker in comparison.
I give clothes to the Go
odwill and money to worthy causes when I can afford to (Go, ASPCA!), but that’s about the extent of my charity work.
True, one year I volunteered at a soup kitchen at Thanksgiving. But I was told my services were no longer needed after I’d scarfed down a tad too many slices of pumpkin pie.
I fumphered something about my gig at the soup kitchen, careful to leave out the part about the pumpkin pie.
Meanwhile, at the pool, the kids were still splashing away, and a fresh crop of droplets landed on my blouse. Once again, I brushed them away with gay insouciance, secretly longing to lob what was left of my hamburger bun at the inconsiderate tykes.
But Phil was oblivious to the kids in the pool. Instead, he took off his sunglasses, revealing emerald-flecked hazel eyes, and gazed at me with grave intensity.
“So?” he asked. “Have you ever been married?”
“Once,” I admitted, repressing all thoughts of The Blob, refusing to allow him to ruin a perfectly lovely lunch. “But it didn’t work out.
“And you?” I asked.
“I’ve had a few relationships, but I haven’t found that special someone yet.”
Then he reached out and took my ketchup-stained hand in his.
“But I’m hoping that’s all about to change.”
Yikes! Did that mean what I thought it meant? Was my philanthropic financial guru actually interested in me? It sure looked like it.
Phil retrieved his hand to finish his burger and we continued talking. Well, Phil continued talking, telling me more about his job. But I have to be honest; my mind drifted just a tad when he got to the part about deferred income annuities.