by Laura Levine
By now I couldn’t wait to get out of her apartment.
“I’ve really got to run,” I said.
“Can’t you stay a bit longer?”
“Sorry, but I’ve got a ton of work to do on Daisy’s book.”
“Well, okay,” she said grudgingly, “but I’m counting on you to get me out of this mess. Don’t let me down, or you’ll wind up on my voodoo shelf. Haha.”
I forced a weak laugh but wasted no time grabbing my purse and sprinting out the door.
“Let’s do this again soon,” Kate called after me.
“Absolutely,” I lied.
She stood in the hallway watching me as I hurried to the elevator, which took forever to show up. Finally the doors opened, and I practically leaped in.
Minutes later, I was speeding back home in my Corolla, wondering if I’d just chowed down on extra-crispy chicken with Tommy’s killer.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
TAMPA VISTAS GAZETTE
MAYHEM AT THE MICHELANGELO
GALLERY
The Grand Unveiling of Lydia Pinkus’s much-acclaimed torso of Sir Isaac Newton at the Michelangelo Art Gallery was disrupted last night when one of the guests accidentally sent the sculpture toppling to the ground.
“Although I’m not so sure it was an accident,” a clearly peeved Ms. Pinkus opined.
The event was also marred by what several attendees described as a “god-awful fishy smell.”
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Daddy Does It Again!
I knew Lydia’s unveiling ceremony was going to be a disaster the minute we pulled into the parking lot and Daddy took out his gummy bear with a torch—I mean, Statue of Liberty—from where he’d hidden it in the trunk of the Camry.
“Hank Austen!” I said. “You can’t possibly bring that thing into the gallery.”
“And deny the art lovers of Tampa the chance to see it? Never!”
Then in he marched to the gallery, bold as brass, his silly Statue of Liberty in the crook of one arm, the other arm free to scarf down hors d’oeuvres from the buffet.
Needless to say, I stayed as far away from him as possible, hiding in a corner behind a statue of a naked lady.
Peeking over the naked lady’s shoulder, I saw Lydia in the center of the room, surrounded by a sea of well-wishers. Next to her was her torso of Sir Isaac Newton, perched on a pedestal and covered with a black cloth, to be whipped away at the Grand Unveiling.
Way too embarrassed to face her, I stayed huddled in the corner.
Darling Edna Lindstrom saw me hiding and hurried over with some franks in a blanket, which I was way too upset to eat. (Okay, I ate them, but they tasted like chalk in my mouth.)
Edna assured me that everyone was used to Daddy’s crazy antics by now and begged me to come out of hiding, but I couldn’t bear to show my face.
I was huddled behind the statue of the naked lady when an artsy-looking woman in a bright red beret wandered over to my side, puffing on an e-cigarette.
“Who is that foul-smelling man,” she said, waving her e-cigarette at Daddy, “holding the statue of a gummy bear?”
“I have no idea,” I said with a feeble smile, and breathed a sigh of relief when she wandered away.
At last the big moment arrived. Time for the Grand Unveiling. Molly, our instructor, stood beside Lydia and clinked her champagne glass to get everyone’s attention. After welcoming us all to her gallery, she went on to talk about what an amazing sculptor Lydia was, calling her “the most talented student I’ve had in all my years of teaching.
“Without any further ado,” she then said, “the Michelangelo Gallery is proud to present Sir Isaac Newton by Lydia Pinkus!”
With that, she whipped off the cloth covering the statue and everyone burst into applause at the sight of Sir Isaac.
(Everyone except for Daddy, who was pouting in a most unsportsmanlike manner.)
Then suddenly, amidst all the oohs and aahs, a flying ball of fur came zooming across the room, making a beeline for Daddy, who was standing with his Statue of Liberty in one hand and a cheese puff in the other.
“Michelangelo!” Molly cried.
It turned out Molly’s cat, Michelangelo, had escaped from Molly’s office where he’d been stowed away, lured by the smell of Daddy’s fishy hair. He reminded me so much of your darling Zoloft as he leaped through the air and landed on Daddy’s shoulder.
Daddy, caught by surprise, stumbled backward toward Lydia’s torso, his arms flailing about wildly as he tried to keep his balance.
But it was no use. We all gasped as he went slamming into Sir Isaac Newton and sent it toppling to the floor.
“His nose!” Lydia cried. “Sir Isaac Newton’s nose broke off!”
Sure enough, poor Sir Isaac had lost his nose in the fall.
“Michelangelo must have smelled your fishy hair,” Molly said, prying the cat from where it was lodged on Daddy’s shoulder.
“Fishy hair?” Daddy bristled. “My hair doesn’t smell like fish.”
“Oh, yes, it does!” everyone called out.
“You stink!” added the lady in the red beret.
Naturally, I felt terrible that poor Sir Isaac had lost his nose, but part of me was secretly thrilled to see Daddy finally realize what a stink bomb he was.
In a rare display of humility, Daddy apologized to Lydia and Molly and offered to re-attach Sir Isaac’s nose with Crazy Glue. After their somewhat icy refusal, he spotted me hiding in the corner and hustled me out the door—but not before grabbing one last cheese puff for the road.
I love him dearly, but the man is impossible!
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Minor Mishap
I suppose Mom’s told you about the minor mishap at the Grand Unveiling last night. Frankly, I think Fig Newton looks much better without his nose, but that’s just one man’s highly artistic opinion.
And I don’t see why everyone is blaming me. I wasn’t the one who came sailing through the air to smell my hair. If you ask me, the whole thing is Michelangelo’s fault.
But Mom may have been right about Big Al’s Hair Wax. I went to the doctor this morning and discovered my sinuses were stuffed up. Thanks to a sinus rinse, they’re all clear now. And when I took a whiff of Big Al’s Hair Wax, I had to admit it did smell a bit fishy.
Love’n hugs from,
DaddyO
PS. I’ve decided to give up sculpting, satisfied to have created my masterpiece, which I now have proudly displayed on a shelf in the garage, where Mom made me put it. True, from that vantage point it can’t receive the accolades it deserves, but at least I get to appreciate it every time I park the Camry.
PPS. I don’t care what Mom says; my Lady Liberty does not look like a gummy bear with a torch!
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Begging and Groveling
Just got off the phone with Harvy, and after much begging and groveling, I got him to agree to see Daddy and get rid of his hideous haircut.
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Off To See Harvy
Dearest Lambchop—With heavy heart, I’ve agreed to give up my Metrosexual Mohawk. Which, I suppose, was inevitable. It doesn’t look quite as striking without Big Al’s Hair Wax to hold it in place.
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Bye-Bye, Mohawk!
Daddy’s back from his appointment with Harvy, who got rid of his moronic Mohawk. At last, he doesn’t look like an aging extra in a punk rock video.
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Fun While It Lasted
I hated to lose my magnificent Mohawk, but I must admit, my new cut looks very good. Harvy really is a great haircutter.
Looking back on it, I can see how my daring do may have been a bit too wild for a man of m
y age (or any age, for that matter).
But it was fun while it lasted!
Love’n snuggles
From your newly shorn,
DaddyO
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Life Is Good!
Well, sweetheart, I’m happy to report all is well in Tampa Vistas. Daddy’s given up sculpting. No fishy smell in the house. No stupid Statue of Liberty. And best of all, Sir Isaac’s nose has been epoxied back on, and you can hardly notice the crack.
Life is good!
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Guess What Came in the Mail?
Great news, Lambchop! Guess what came in the mail? A discount coupon from Fast Eddie’s House Painters. For a limited time only, Fast Eddie will paint a whole room in our house in just one day for a fraction of his usual rate.
Mom’s been wanting to have the living room painted for the longest time. So I’m going to take her to St. Pete’s for the day and surprise her with a freshly painted living room when we get back.
What’s more, Fast Eddie is offering an extra discount on his discontinued paint colors. Which look darn good to me. I’ve chosen a lively Orange Popsicle. Just the splash of color our living room needs.
I can’t wait to see the expression on Mom’s face when she sees it!
Chapter 37
Daisy greeted me at the door when I showed up for work the next morning, looking a lot perkier than she had in recent days—her pixie cut freshly washed, gold hoops dangling from her ears, lips painted a bright pink.
“Jaine, dear! You’re just the person I wanted to see. I’ve decided I absolutely must get out of my funk. And so I’m going to throw myself into Fifty Shades. In fact, I’ve come up with a few suggestions I’d like to toss your way.”
Phooey-rats-darn-it-to-hell! I’ve been around the track more than a few times, and whenever a client tells me they’ve got “a few suggestions,” it usually means a Page One Rewrite.
“I’ll pop by your office in a bit to chat.”
“Great!” I said, trying to sound as if I meant it.
After lobbing her a feeble wave good-bye, I dashed to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a weensy chocolate croissant.
(Okay, it wasn’t so weensy, but I was in crisis mode, and I needed all the chocolate I could get.)
Back in the office, I sank down into my chair with a sigh.
It seemed everything I’d been doing lately had been a waste of time. All that running around trying to find the killer for Kate, when all along it was probably Kate herself.
And now Daisy was going to waltz in with her “suggestions,” which would no doubt undo all the blood, sweat, and heaving bosoms I’d poured into Fifty Shades of Turquoise.
It was no use working on the book until I heard what she had to say. So, after scarfing down my chocolate croissant, I checked my emails and read about Daddy’s “minor mishap” at the art gallery. What a mess. Oh, well. At least “Fig” Newton’s nose job had been a success.
Musing on Daddy’s uncanny ability to create chaos wherever he goes, I absentmindedly picked up Dickie’s creative energy crystal.
The pale blue rock rested in my palm like a misshapen ball. Idly I began tossing it back and forth, hoping it would give me the strength to deal with Daisy’s new ideas.
There I was, playing catch with myself, when—oops!—I missed one of the tosses and the crystal went sailing into the framed photo on my desk, the one of Daisy as a toddler, sitting in her billionaire father’s lap.
I gulped in dismay as the photo crashed onto the hardwood floor, glass shattering into what seemed like zillion shards.
When I got down on my knees to clean up the mess, I saw something odd. Very odd.
There, hidden behind the picture of Daisy and her dad, were three other photos. The first showed a clearly recognizable Daisy as a young woman. But this young woman was no heiress. Wearing a cheap cotton dress, she stood beside a rusted tractor with a man in overalls. Another picture was a school photo of Daisy from a high school in Hastings, Nebraska.
Hello. Didn’t Kate say that Daisy had been raised in luxury on the East Coast? If so, what the heck had she been she doing going to Hastings High?
Then I picked up the third picture—a faded photo of Daisy standing with another woman, about her age and her size. But this other women was swathed in furs, while Daisy stood beside her in a simple wool coat.
I flashed back to the story Kate told me my first day at work, about Daisy’s companion being killed in a tragic hiking accident.
Now, looking at these pictures, it occurred to me that maybe it was the other way around. The woman I knew as Daisy was never an heiress. The heiress was the one killed in Tuscany. Daisy was the companion!
Daisy must have somehow assumed her old boss’s identity and had been living in luxury ever since.
Was it possible that Tommy knew about this switch and was blackmailing her? Is that why she’d been so kind to him, lavishing him with gifts, essentially turning over her fortune to him, all the while planning to bump him off?
So engrossed was I in this bombshell of a discovery, I failed to hear the sound of approaching footsteps.
“So now you know my little secret.”
I looked up to see Daisy standing in the doorway, a steely glint in her normally placid blue eyes.
“You’re not really Daisy Kincaid, are you?” I said.
“Nope,” she shrugged. “Emma Shimmel from Hastings, Nebraska. I worked as the real Daisy’s companion for twenty years. Twenty years of being treated like dirt, stuck with a sour old fossil of a boss.
“Absolutely loathed my job,” she said, plopping down in Kate’s chair and giving it a swivel. “But then one day I came up with a plan. It was so simple, really. Daisy liked taking nature walks. All I had to do was push her over a handy cliff and pawn it off as a tragic accident. The locals were only too happy to believe me, especially after I showered them with bribes. More cash got me a forged ID and passport. And voila, I became Daisy Kincaid!”
Beaming with pride, she continued her saga, eager to brag about how clever she’d been.
“Daisy was a recluse, never socializing, with few living relatives—all of them back east. So I packed my bags—I should say Daisy’s bags—and moved to Los Angeles, where no one would have known the real Daisy.”
For the first time a frown marred her cherubic face.
“What I never counted on was my own nephew showing up on my doorstep. From the time he was a little boy, Tommy had always been a manipulative little schemer.”
Look who’s talking! I felt like saying.
“He saw my picture in the Bel Air Society News and recognized me right away. He figured out my con and threatened to expose me unless I took him into my life and married him. There would have been a divorce, of course, with a giant settlement, and undoubtedly years of ensuing blackmail.
“I went along with it, pretending to be gaga over him, convincing everyone I was in love with him. So no one would ever dream I was the killer when I finally plunged that Swiss Army Knife in his neck.
“My, that was satisfying,” she said, smiling at the memory. “What a pity you found those photos. Now we’ve got a bit of a problem.”
She got up and made her way to the bookcase against the far wall, where she reached for a leather-bound copy of Crime and Punishment.
Was this one of her secret money stashes? Was she going to try bribing me to keep my mouth shut?
It was indeed a hollowed-out book, but when she opened it, I was horrified to see her whipping out a gun.
“These book safes are so handy!” she said, aiming the gun straight at my gut. “I’m afraid it’s your turn to die, my dear.”
Then she flicked a switch on the back of the bookcase, in the space where Crime and Punishment had been. The bookcase swung open, revealing a no-frills room stocked with bottled water, cann
ed food, and a healthy supply of bourbon.
“My panic room.” she grinned proudly.
So this was the panic room Solange told me about.
“The perfect place to hide your corpse!”
Now she trotted over to where I was standing frozen to the spot.
“Get moving,” she said, prodding me in the back with her gun.
“You can’t shoot me. Raymond and Solange will hear the gunshot.”
