by Laura Levine
“No, they won’t. I gave them day off to make up for all the hell Tommy put them through. By the time they get back, you’ll be long dead.”
Another poke of steel in my back.
Oh, Lord, I thought, as she nudged me across the room to my own personal mausoleum. This was it. The end. Curtains. Just when I’d finally found true love, I was going to that great Oreo Factory in the Sky.
And what about Prozac? Tears stung my eyes. Who was going to feed her minced mackerel guts, give her belly rubs, and pick her hairballs out of their freshly washed laundry?
By now my pace had slowed to a crawl, anything to delay the inevitable.
And Emma was losing patience.
“Move it!” she shouted, ramming me with a shove that sent me stumbling to the ground.
And it was at that moment, when I’d pretty much given up hope, that I saw my salvation glittering in the morning sun—a stray shard of glass from the broken picture frame.
Pretending to struggle to my feet, I grabbed the glass and—with every ounce of strength I possessed—shoved it in Emma’s leg. With a yelp of pain, she dropped her gun, which I wasted no time scooping up.
“Now it’s your turn to get moving,” I said, jumping up.
With the gun in her back, I nudged her the last few feet into the panic room.
“Jaine, dear!” Sweet as sugar. “Perhaps I acted a bit too rashly. I’m sure we can come to some sort of agreement. After all, I didn’t do anything that bad. Not really. Daisy Kincaid was an unhappy woman. I put her out of her misery. And you have to agree I did the world a favor by getting rid of Tommy. Such a loathsome creature.
“What do you say?” she asked, as gaily as if she were inviting me for tea. “Let’s make a deal. You keep my secret and I’ll pay you a million dollars. That sounds fair, doesn’t it?”
“To a sociopath, maybe, but not to me. I’m calling the police.”
“It’ll be your word against mine,” she cried. “I’ll show them the gash on my leg and tell them you tried to kill me.”
“Nice try, Emma. But it’s not going to work. I’ve got the pictures of the real you.”
Indeed I did, having stashed them in my jeans pocket.
With that, I flicked the switch on the bookshelf and watched it swing shut.
“Don’t even try to get out,” I warned, “or I’ll shoot you on sight.”
“You miserable bitch!” she screamed from inside the panic room.
All traces of the gentle woman I’d known as Daisy were gone, replaced by a shrieking hellcat. Ignoring her stream of curses, I dug out my phone from my purse and called 911.
When the cops showed up, I opened the door to the panic room, where the former doyenne of La Belle Vie was slugging down bourbon straight from the bottle. I told them how Emma had confessed to killing both Daisy and Tommy. She denied everything, of course, once again playing the role of wide-eyed, ditsy Daisy Kincaid.
But the cops weren’t buying it, not after I showed them the incriminating photos. Soon the phony heiress, her leg bandaged by a helpful police officer, was being whisked off to the county jail.
As the police led her out the door, she shot me a look of sheer malice, probably the same look she’d given the real Daisy before pushing her off that cliff.
“By the way, Jaine, you’re fired. Finito. Cut off without another penny.”
“So are you, Emma,” I was happy to point out. “So are you.”
I watched the police cart her away, grateful that the killer had been caught, justice had been served, and—most important—that there were still plenty of chocolate croissants left in the kitchen.
Chapter 38
I spent the next two days recuperating from my near-death experience, watching old movies with Prozac and pampering myself with restorative doses of Chunky Monkey.
Dickie stopped by to check up on me and bring me a vat of ghastly turnip soup.
“Isn’t it delicious?” he asked as I gagged down a spoonful. “Hapi says it has amazing healing properties.”
For a minute, I was tempted to tell him about the Hapi hamburger incident, but I couldn’t bear to burst his bubble. So I said nothing, forcing down a few more spoonfuls of soup.
Unfortunately, Dickie’s visit was cut short by Pro’s constant hissing from her perch on my bedspread.
Who invited HIM?
“So sorry she’s being impossible,” I sighed.
“Not a problem,” Dickie assured me. “But I want you to bring her with you when you come to dinner at my condo.”
“Are you sure about that?” I asked, picturing his condo in shambles, FEMA guys picking their way through the rubble.
“Absolutely,” he said. “Cats are very territorial. I think she’ll feel far less threatened by me at my place.
“And besides,” he added, “I’ve got a very special gift waiting for her—and an even more special gift waiting for you.”
“Gift? What gift?”
“You’ll find out on Saturday,” he winked before kissing me good-bye and heading back to Venice.
Hmm. What special gift had Dickie bought me? I wondered as I tossed his soup down the garbage disposal. Could it possibly be an engagement ring? Was Dickie going to propose? Were we about to get married in a romantic beachfront ceremony, saying our “I do’s” with a glorious sunset as our backdrop?
Whoa, I cautioned myself, tamping down my hopes. It was probably another creative energy crystal or a gift certificate to a spin class.
But in spite of my best efforts to rein myself in, visions of engagement rings continued to dance in my head in the days leading up to our dinner.
At last the big night arrived. I spiffed myself up in my best skinny jeans and black cashmere turtleneck, my hair semi-straightened into a tousled bedhead look, my feet clad in my one and only pair of Manolos.
Needless to say, Prozac was her usual sunny self as I tried to get her into her carrier.
Unhand me this minute! What do you think you’re doing? Keep this up and I’m going to report you to the ASPCA! The ACLU! The CIA! Nothing will stop me in my pursuit of justice—Hey, do I smell savory salmon innards?
She lunged at the kitty treat I’d tossed in the carrier, and I snapped the latch shut.
Then I set off for Dickie’s condo, praying the fur wouldn’t fly once we got there.
* * *
Dickie was looking particularly yummy that night in chinos and a striped Oxford shirt, his sun-streaked hair smelling of citrus shampoo. I, on the other hand, looked more than a tad frazzled due to twenty-five minutes of nonstop yowling from Prozac on the drive over.
“Look what I got you, Pro,” Dickie said as I opened the door to her carrier and she came whooshing out. “A litter box.”
He pointed with a flourish to a litter box he’d set up in the foyer.
Prozac gave it a dismissive sniff.
Wow. My very own toilet. What a thrill.
“That’s very sweet of you, Dickie,” I said. “But all the same, I’m glad you’ve got hardwood floors. I don’t trust Prozac to behave herself.”
“I’m sure she’ll be a perfect angel, won’t you, Pro?” Dickie cooed.
I fully expected her to poop on the floor just to get on his nerves, but much to my surprise, she actually purred when he bent down to scratch her.
“See?” Dickie said. “I knew she’d warm up to me here in the condo.”
Maybe he was right. Maybe outside my apartment, Prozac would learn to love him.
“And look what else I got you, Pro!” he said, leading the way into his stainless steel and granite counter kitchen, where he took a jar from the counter and put it down in front of her
“Caviar!” Dickie beamed.
Another dismissive sniff from her ladyship.
Domestic.
But she swan dived into it anyway, inhaling the stuff at lightning speed.
“Just let me heat up our lasagna,” Dickie said. “Then we’ll go out to the balcony to watch the s
unset.
“Lasagna?” My taste buds sprang to life. “We’re having lasagna for dinner?”
“Yes, indeedie,” he said with a highly kissable grin. “I know how much you like it.”
How sweet! Dickie had put aside Hapi’s ban on pasta just to please me!
I was on culinary cloud nine as he poured us each a glass of organic chardonnay to take out to the balcony. Passing the dining area, I noticed the table set with spotless linens and a bowl of lilacs as a centerpiece.
“Lilacs!” I exclaimed. “My favorite flower!”
“I remember,” Dickie said. “That why I got them.”
Then, not a moment too soon, he took me in his arms and zeroed in for that kiss I’d been hankering for.
This was usually the point where Prozac erupted in a hissy fit, but she seemed mercifully uninterested in our smooching, instead wandering down the hallway toward Dickie’s bedroom.
Out on the balcony, Dickie and I sat cuddled together on a chaise, Dickie telling me about the latest developments on his ad campaign, me not really paying attention. I was too busy thinking about that lasagna—and my “special gift.”
Once again, I tried to tamp down my expectations. I thought of all the dreadful gifts Dickie had given me when we were married—the used tool belt, the toaster with crumbs still inside, the Happy Bat Mitzvah, Kimberly! flowers he’d picked from the neighbor’s trash.
True, Dickie had turned over a new leaf since those days—witness the lilacs and the lasagna—but I couldn’t allow my hopes to soar too high.
The sun having set in a glorious ball of orange, we polished off our wine and went back inside the condo. The minute I stepped over the threshold I stopped dead in my tracks.
The place reeked to high heaven, a god-awful stench that had to have rivaled Big Al’s Hair Wax on the Stink-o-meter.
“What’s that smell?” I gasped.
“Cabbage!” Dickie grinned. “For our cabbage lasagna!”
“Cabbage lasagna?”
“One of Hapi’s most popular recipes. You use cabbage leaves instead of pasta to separate the layers of chopped veggie filling.”
At which point, my taste buds lapsed into a deep coma.
“Wait right here,” Dickie said, leading me to my seat at the dining table before scooting off to the kitchen.
Alone at the table, I leaned into the lilacs, taking deep breaths, hoping to drown out the cabbage stench. But it was no use. Those poor lilacs didn’t stand a chance against Hapi’s cabbage lasagna.
I was sitting there wondering how I was ever going to get used to Hapi’s reign of terror in the kitchen when I saw something that made the whole world smell good again.
It was Dickie, walking over to me—with a Tiffany gift bag!
“I was going to give this to you after dessert, but I couldn’t wait. Here,” he said, handing it to me.
“Omigosh!” I gasped. “Tiffany!”
Then I felt a quick stab of fear. The used tool belt he’d given me had been wrapped in a box from Bloomingdale’s. Would I reach into the bag only to find a cheese grater with shards of cheddar still stuck to it?
Somewhat hesitantly, I riffled through the tissue paper until I came to a small box at the bottom.
A ring box!
I opened it to find a honker of a diamond winking up at me.
Holy moly! Dickie had come through with an actual ring from Tiffany!
And what a ring. I was no expert, but this thing had to be a couple of carats.
“It’s gorgeous,” I said, lifting it out from the box and slipping it on my finger.
I knew Dickie was doing well at his new job, but had no idea he was doing diamonds-from-Tiffany well.
“Can you really afford this? It must have cost a fortune.”
“Nothing’s too good for my Jaine! So what do you say?” he asked, getting down on one knee. “Will you—”
But he never got a chance to finish that thought, because just then the oven timer dinged.
“The lasagna!” he said, springing up. “Be right back!”
He dashed off to the kitchen, leaving me in a happy glow.
Dickie wanted to marry me!
Not only that, he’d given me the engagement ring of my dreams.
I watched it twinkling like a zillion stars, then took it off to admire the band.
It was then that I saw something written on the inside of the ring.
How sweet! He’d even had it inscribed!
Wondering what words of love he’d chosen, I read the inscription. And was boggled to see:
For Carmelita, Ay Caramba!
What the what? Who the heck was Carmelita?
Then the dawn came. He’d done it again. Another recycled gift. It was the used tool belt, the crumb-filled toaster, and Kimberly’s Bat Mitzvah flowers all over again.
Dickie hadn’t changed.
He may have had a new job and condo, but underneath it all, he was still the same old Dickie I’d divorced.
At which point, he came trotting back to the room.
“Now where was I?” he said, getting down on one knee.
I swatted away his hand as it reached for mine.
“Who, may I ask, is Carmelita?”
“Carmelita?” He blinked, puzzled. “I don’t know any Carmelita.”
“Then why is her name engraved on my engagement ring?”
I showed him the inscription, and he blushed with guilt.
“You didn’t really get this ring at Tiffany, did you?”
“No,” he admitted. “I bought it off a guy at a taco stand. But he swore it was a genuine cubic zirconia.”
The Blob was back, all right. A lying, scheming sack of poo.
I didn’t care that it wasn’t a diamond. (Well, not much, anyway.) I just cared that he lied.
“Anything else you’d like to come clean about?” I asked.
As if on cue, Prozac—in a moment she’d no doubt been longing for—came prancing in to join us, a red valet parker’s vest dangling from her mouth.
She dropped it at my feet, bursting with pride.
Look what I just found!
So Lance really did see The Blob parking cars at a restaurant!
“You work as a valet parker?”
He nodded, sheepish.
No wonder he was always busy at night.
“Your ad job? Does that even exist?”
“Not really,” he confessed.
“I don’t get it,” I said. “How can you afford this condo and a BMW working as a valet parker?”
I was about to find out.
Because just then we heard the front door opening and footsteps in the foyer.
We hurried over to see a tall, dark-haired guy wheeling in a suitcase.
Dickie blanched at the sight of him.
“Mark! What are you doing here? You’re not due back from London until next week.”
“I know, but Chrissy got the flu and we took an earlier flight home.”
At which point, a gorgeous blonde joined him, the same gorgeous blonde whose photo I’d seen in the night table drawer.
“Thanks so much for housesitting, pal,” Mark said as he shuffled off his jacket.
“What’s that awful smell?” Chrissy asked, wrinkling her nose.
“Cabbage lasagna!” Dickie said. “Want some? The recipe serves eight.”
“Ugh, no!” Chrissy groaned.
“Mark and Chrissy own the restaurant I work for,” Dickie said, turning to me. “I was housesitting for them while they were in London opening a new restaurant.”
“So I’m guessing you don’t really drive a BMW?”
“You drove my BMW?” Mark asked, clearly annoyed. “You were only supposed to start up the engine so the battery wouldn’t die.”
A shamefaced shrug from Dickie.
“So where do you actually live?” I asked.
“With a group of Hapi-ness members in an apartment in Glendale. I’m sorry I haven’t been entirely truthful.
”
“Entirely truthful? You’ve been lying like a time share salesman in the Gobi Desert.”
“Only because I love you, and also because we’re losing the lease on the apartment in Glendale. I was hoping I’d be able to move in with you. I realize I’m not perfect, but as Hapi has taught me, I forgive myself for my imperfections.”
“Well, I don’t!” I said, hurling his stupid ring at him. “We’re done, Dickie!”
“In that case, would you mind reimbursing me for the caviar?”
I didn’t even dignify that with a response.
“C’mon, Pro,” I said. “We’re outta here.”
Picking her up from where she was perched on Dickie’s valet vest, I saw she’d adorned it with a decorative piece of poop.
Prozac looked up at Dickie, her big green eyes twinkling merrily.
My parting gift to you.
“Ugh!” Dickie groaned, wrinkling his nose. “That smells disgusting!”
“Not as bad as the cabbage,” Chrissy pointed out.
“Amen to that,” I said, grabbing Prozac’s carrier and storming out the door.
“Oh, Pro!” I said out in the hallway. “You were magnificent!”
I giggled at the memory of her poop on Dickie’s vest.
And as I headed for the elevator, I felt a weight lift from my shoulders. How wonderful it was to be free again. No more pretending to like spin classes. Or Hapi’s hellish diet. Or Dickie’s silly affirmations.
Prozac had been right about him all along.
“So what should I order for dinner?” I asked my sagacious kitty. “Chinese? Pizza? Deli?”
She beamed up at me from where she was nestled in my arm.
Sounds good. And what will you be having?
HEADLINES IN THE NEWS
Convicted murderer Emma Shimmel inks $500,000 movie deal for Fifty Shades of Turquoise. Sizzling romance to star newcomer Solange Delacroix as “Clarissa Weatherly. ”
Marty “Hapi” Mellman, New Age guru and owner of The Body Shop strip club, sentenced to ten years for money laundering.
Esme Larkin, Clayton Manning to Wed at Bel Air Tennis Club.
Saudi prince buys famed mansion, La Belle Vie, for trysts with stripper Misty Harbor.
