Death of a Neighborhood Scrooge

by Laura Levine

  But, wait. There would be no comforting cuddle with Pro.

  The little rat had tossed me aside like an empty can of minced mackerel guts.

  It was with heavy heart that I climbed out of my Corolla—only to see my cheating angel nestled in the arms of Missy as they made their way up the front path to the former House of Scrooge.

  “Hi, Jaine!” Missy called out, spotting me as I got out of the Corolla. “Guess where Scarlett and I just came from? The groomer’s.”

  “And you lived to tell about it?”

  Let’s just say Prozac doesn’t care for people coming at her with any kind of implements, unless said implements contain food.

  “She was a perfect angel. Look! Isn’t she the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

  I gawked at the sight of Prozac, sporting a bright pink-bowed headband. This was almost as bad as her ridiculous mistletoe hat. And her reindeer antlers. Never in her old life would Prozac have put up with such a humiliating piece of headgear.

  But now, she was actually preening.

  Pretty in pink. That’s moi!

  “I wanted her to look extra nice before she goes back home with you,” Missy said. Then, lobbing me a pleading look, she added, “I don’t suppose you’d let her stay on with me? We’ve grown so very close.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  In Missy’s arms, Prozac looked up, alarmed.

  Hey, what’s all this talk about me moving back with whatshername?

  “Just a few more days,” Missy cooed, “and then you have to go back home, pumpkin face.”

  If I’d called her “pumpkin face,” I would’ve lost an ear.

  But Pro just purred like a buzzsaw.

  “Ciao for now!” Missy said with a jaunty wave, skipping into the house, my former significant other practically glued to her arms.

  I’d been so appalled at the sight of Prozac with that moronic bow in her hair I hadn’t noticed a pile of trash waiting to be picked up by the garbage men.

  Now I saw, spread out at the curb, Scotty’s creaky office swivel chair, a carton full of notes for The Return of Tiny Tim, and the framed poster of Scotty’s long-ago version of A Christmas Carol.

  So much for keeping Scotty’s memory alive.

  I gazed at the faded poster of Scotty as a child, fresh-faced and, if not exactly innocent, at least not yet the jaded misanthrope he was destined to become.

  I was checking out the names of the other cast members when suddenly I saw it. A name that sent my brain cells whirring:

  Everett Chambers.

  I flashed back to Christmas Eve, watching A Christmas Carol with Scotty as he trashed all the other actors, aiming most of his barbs at the man who played Bob Cratchit—Everett Chambers!

  Everett Chambers! he’d said. I’ve seen better acting from a ventriloquist’s dummy!

  Was it possible that Dave Chambers was somehow related to Everett?

  I’d been meaning to head straight for the tub when I got back to Casa Van Hooten. Instead, I made a beeline for my laptop and my good buddies at Google.

  Before long I was reading all about Everett Chambers—his bio, his screen credits, and most important, his obituary.

  Apparently the actor who’d played Bob Cratchit opposite Scotty’s Tiny Tim had died two weeks after shooting wrapped on the movie. His wife was quoted as blaming her husband’s death on the stress of working on the movie. In particular, working with young Scotty Parker, who, in the words of Mrs. Chambers, had been “quite a handful.”

  According to the obituary, in addition to his wife, Audrey, Mr. Chambers was survived by one son.

  A boy named David.

  Holy Moly. So Dave was Everett Chambers’s son! And Scotty’s bad behavior had driven his father to an early grave.

  Had Dave Kellogg aka Chambers shown up at the House of Scrooge, not to rent a room, but to avenge the death of his father?

  It sure looked that way to me.

  Chapter 28

  I slept poorly that night, tossing and turning on Connie Van Hooten’s ultra-plush mattress. I dreamed I was sprawled out on the trolley tracks, frozen, unable to move, watching in terror as a ginormous trolley came charging at me, certain that the driver was Scotty’s killer. But when his face came into view I saw it was Duane L. Forrester, grinning maniacally, his stupid hamster toupee askew on his head.

  I bolted awake in a cold sweat, wondering which would be worse: coming face-to-face with Scotty’s killer, or going on another date with Hamsterhead.

  It was a close call.

  Feeling like I’d been asleep for all of two minutes, I staggered down to the kitchen where Lance began chattering about our New Year’s Eve date with Graham—trying to decide what to wear (Hugo Boss vs. Armani) and reminding me to make my excuses and leave as early as possible.

  “Ten minutes would be optimal. Just enough to say hi and good-bye.”

  “Why not cut it down to thirty seconds? I could just drive by and wave.”

  “Would you?” he asked, hopefully.

  “No, Lance. I’m not going to drive by and wave. I’m going to stop in for a drink and an hors d’oeuvre or three. And then I’ll leave. I promise I’ll be gone in time for you two to fall in love and live happily ever after.”

  An indignant sniff from His Royal Chatterbox.

  “It looks like somebody woke up on the grouchy side of the bed this morning. Here. Have a lemongrass smoothie. You’ll feel better in no time.”

  “You offer me one of your lawn mower smoothies one more time, Lance, and I’m going to park my fanny at Graham’s all night long.”

  “Okay, okay! No smoothie,” he said, glugging his down with gusto.

  I proceeded to nuke myself a cup of strong black coffee—and another—and another—until at last I’d rejoined the land of the living and began functioning.

  First thing on my agenda: Confront Dave Kellogg about his alter ego Dave Chambers.

  I showered and dressed and headed next door, where Missy greeted me in a pink velour jog suit, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Guess where Dave’s taking me for New Year’s Eve!” she said, eyes bright with anticipation. “Dancing at the Bel Air Hotel.”

  Whoa. That must have cost him at least six months of tax returns.

  “And look what he bought me,” she cried, skipping into the living room and holding up a giant gray stuffed elephant. “I’m calling him Ashley Wilkes. Isn’t he the cutest thing you’ve ever seen?”

  “Adorable.” I nodded weakly.

  “Elephants are supposed to bring good luck. And it certainly seems to be working. Dave says he’s already got a new place lined up for us to live.”

  I just bet he did—a cozy little cottage in Rancho Park.

  “Not only that, he says he’s already saved up enough money so I don’t have to go back to work!”

  Clearly Dave hadn’t clued her in on his life as a CPA.

  “Speaking of Dave,” I said as casually as possible, “is he around? I sort of wanted to talk to him.”

  “Oh?” she said, a questioning look in her eyes.

  I couldn’t very well tell her I suspected her beloved of being a killer, so I came up with the following fib:

  “My cousin is thinking of applying to UCLA law school, and she had a couple of questions she wanted me to ask him.”

  That seemed to satisfy her.

  “He’s at the law library now, but he should be back later this afternoon. I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

  “Thanks,” I said, certain that the “law library” would turn out to be Dave’s house in Rancho Park.

  “Want to hear the love poem Dave left on my pillow this morning?” she asked, taking out a folded slip of paper from her bra.

  Not if I wanted to keep down the CRB I’d scarfed down for breakfast, I didn’t.

  “I’d love to, but I’ve really got to go. Lots of errands to run.”

  “Okay, later then.”

  “Sure. Right. Absolutely.”

&
nbsp; With that I beat a hasty retreat, eager to hustle on over to Rancho Park and have it out with Dave Kellogg aka Chambers.

  * * *

  Zipping off in my Corolla, I was confident I would be able to remember the route I took to Dave’s yesterday.

  But I was wrong. Way wrong.

  I spent at least twenty minutes circling the streets of Rancho Park, desperately searching for Dave’s house, and cursing myself for not writing down his address.

  Just when I was about to give up hope, I stumbled upon the yellow cottage with the white picket fence and the magnolia tree out front. Seconds later, I was making my way up the front path and ringing the bell.

  Dave came to the door in khakis and blue oxford shirt, a pair of techno-nerd horn-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

  “Jaine.” He gulped at the sight of me. “What are you doing here?”

  “I could pretend I was here to have my taxes done by a certified CPA, but that would be a lie. Sort of like the life you’re leading with Missy. May I come in, Mr. Chambers?”

  He nodded, dazed, and led me into a cozy living room with a brick fireplace, hardwood floors, and beamed ceiling. The walls were lined with movie posters—all featuring Everett Chambers. And those were not the only testaments to Dave’s father. The fireplace mantel, along with several end tables, were jammed with framed photos of the long-dead actor.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” Dave asked.

  “Thanks, I’m fine,” I said, those three cups of coffee still sloshing around inside me.

  “Well, I’m not. I need a scotch. Be right back.

  “Make yourself at home,” he added as he left the room, waving to a sofa in front of a bay window.

  But I didn’t sit down. Instead I did what I always do when I get the chance:

  I snooped around, looking at the pictures on Dave’s mantel and end tables. Mostly of Everett Chambers—some publicity stills, and plenty of candid shots with his wife and toddler Dave. All smiling radiantly into the camera.

  Dave returned with a few inches of scotch in a highball glass. He plopped down into an armchair with a sigh, and I took a seat across from him on the sofa.

  “Chocolate?” he offered, pointing to a box of Godiva truffles on the coffee table between us.

  “I really shouldn’t,” I said, popping one in my mouth.

  “Eat as many as you want. I’m allergic. One of my clients gave them to me as a Christmas gift.”

  “No, no. One is plenty,” I said, reaching for another.

  “So how did you discover the truth about me?”

  “I followed you here the other day and checked the mail in your mailbox. All addressed to Dave Chambers. Then I saw your dad’s name on Scotty’s Christmas Carol poster and put two and two together.”

  “Yes,” he said, taking another slug of his scotch, “I’m Everett Chambers’s son. And just for the record, Scotty Parker killed my father. Not outright murder. But he killed him nonetheless. Scotty looked young for his age; he was actually thirteen when he played Tiny Tim. I guess he was going through an early teenage rebellion, because he was a real wiseacre, giving everybody lip, holding up production, making everyone’s lives miserable. My dad had a bad heart. And after months of stress putting up with Scotty, his heart gave out. I was just a toddler when my dad died, but I have vivid memories of him. He was a wonderful man and didn’t deserve to go the way he did.

  “My mom never recovered from his death,” he sighed, staring down into his highball glass. “She spent the rest of her life lonely and depressed.”

  Then he looked up, eyes burning with a long-nursed grudge.

  “Scotty ruined our family and I never forgave him. I Googled him periodically to see what he was up to, like picking at a sore tooth. I even hired a detective to keep tabs on him. Then one day the detective told me Scotty, rich as Croesus, was actually renting out a room in his house. The monumental cheapskate wanted even more income.

  “I paid a fortune for a fake ID and took the room, pretending to be a law student on a tight budget. I was hoping to get a look at his account books, find some financial hanky panky, and send him to jail for tax fraud.”

  Then his expression softened.

  “What I didn’t expect to find was Missy. The minute I saw her, I fell head over heels in love. Suddenly getting even with Scotty didn’t seem so important. All the anger drained out of me. All I wanted was Missy.

  “I came to Scotty’s house to destroy him, but I swear, I didn’t kill him.”

  He looked so sincere in his nerdy horn-rimmed glasses, I couldn’t help but believe him.

  “That’s it,” he said, swigging down the last of his scotch. “That’s my story. Anything else you need?”

  As a matter of fact, after all those coffees I’d sloshed down that morning, I desperately needed to take a tinkle.

  “Would it be all right if I used your rest room?” I asked.

  “No problem. I’ve only got one,” he said, pointing down a hallway, “and I’m afraid it’s not as tidy as it could be. But there’s a clean guest towel on the rack.”

  “Thanks so much.”

  I trotted down the hallway to Dave’s bathroom.

  He did not lie. The bathroom was a mess. Wet towels lay on the floor. Globs of dried toothpaste dotted the sink.

  I wondered if Missy realized what a slob she’d fallen in love with.

  I was just wiping my hands on the guest towel when I glanced down at a filled-to-overflowing hamper and saw the sleeve of a blue oxford shirt popping out from under the lid.

  The elbow of the shirt, I noticed, was stained with something dark.

  And at that moment, my part-time, semiprofessional PI antennae sprang to life. I bent over and took a whiff.

  Just as I’d thought: Chocolate.

  When it comes to sniffing out the stuff, I’m a regular bloodhound.

  But, wait. Hadn’t Dave just told me he was allergic to chocolate? If so, what was he doing with it on the sleeve of his shirt? Was it possible, I wondered, that he got it while whacking Scotty with a Yule log?

  Suddenly, instead of coffee, fear was now sloshing in my innards.

  What if I was alone in the house with a killer?

  I told myself I was being crazy. If the chocolate on Dave’s sleeve was from the scene of the crime, wouldn’t he have washed it out long ago?

  Not if he was confident the cops had no clue to his double life.

  No, I chided myself, I was overreacting. There had to be a thousand ways Dave could’ve gotten chocolate on his sleeve, and nine hundred and ninety-nine of them didn’t involve a lethal Yule log.

  I headed back to the living room to say good-bye and found Dave at the fireplace mantel, staring at a wedding photo of his parents, his eyes misted over with tears.

  See? I was being nuts. Anyone this sensitive couldn’t possibly be a killer.

  I was standing there next to him when my eyes wandered over to a loose photo lying on the mantel—of Dave in a Santa sweatshirt.

  But it wasn’t the sweatshirt that caught my eye.

  It was the hat on Dave’s head:

  A blue ski cap.

  Just like the one worn by the guy who pushed me on the trolley tracks.

  The fear in my innards started sloshing again.

  First the chocolate on his shirt. Now the blue ski cap. Two strikes, and Dave was out.

  I didn’t care how innocent he looked in his nerd glasses.

  Something told me I’d just been scarfing down Godiva truffles with Scotty’s killer.

  * * *

  I shot out of that house like a highly caffeinated rocket, eager to get back to Casa Van Hooten and put in a call to Lt. Muntner.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t at his desk when I called, so I was shunted to his voicemail, where I left a rather breathless message about Dave, his dual lives, and his very compelling motive for killing Scotty—filling him in on my harrowing incident on the Grove trolley tracks and my discovery of Dave’s chocol
ate-stained shirt and incriminating blue ski cap.

  I urged him to call me back ASAP, and hung up with a sense of accomplishment, waiting for the wheels of justice to spring into action.

  In the meanwhile, I sat back, relaxed, and chowed down on a Godiva truffle I’d popped in my purse when Dave wasn’t looking.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  CRUISE NEWS, SS CARIBBEAN QUEEN

  The captain wishes to assure all passengers that the man they may have seen running through the ship last night clad in nothing but a loincloth and fright wig was not part of a terrorist attack, but merely a passenger in a most ill-advised New Year’s Eve costume.

  Said passenger was held in the brig for two hours before being released in his wife’s custody.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: I’m So Mad I Could Spit!

  Never in my life have I been so humiliated! Poor Isabel Norton’s birthday party was ruined—absolutely ruined! And it’s all Daddy’s fault!

  The evening was a disaster from the get-go.

  It all started when I tried on my dress for Isabel’s party and realized it was too tight. It’s so darn unfair! Daddy’s been stuffing his face at the buffet for the entire cruise and hasn’t gained an ounce! But I, who have been nibbling on only the tiniest of cookies, managed to gain five pounds! I had to positively cram myself into that dress.

  When I was finally ready to go, Daddy claimed he had a headache and would join me in a little while. But I knew what was really going on. He just wanted an excuse to get out of listening to Lydia’s birthday tribute to Isabel.

  I didn’t care. I’d rather have him back in the cabin than at the dinner table, making wisecracks through Lydia’s speech. So, in haste—and running late because I’d spent so much time agonizing over those dratted extra pounds—I grabbed Isabel’s gift and hurried to the party.

  From the minute I left the cabin, I had a feeling something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I just assumed the icky feeling in my tummy was the waistband of my dress digging into my gut.