Murder Gets a Makeover

by Laura Levine

Work until 6:00 PM (with time out for lunch)

  6:00–8:00 PM: Rejuvenating nap

  8:00–8:30: Dinner

  8:30–10:00 PM: Soak in tub, wash hair, exfoliate, moisturize, get dressed in fabulous club-hopping outfit, blow out hair, apply makeup, spritz perfume, and magically morph from dry cleaning drudge to club scene queen.

  My schedule set, I resumed work on Tip Top.

  At around one o’clock, I broke for lunch, treating myself to a nutritious southwest grilled chicken salad from McDonald’s, with just the weensiest side of fries. Okay, it wasn’t so weensy, but I felt quite noble having eaten so much lettuce in one sitting.

  I’d just finished scarfing down the last fry and was licking ketchup from my fingers when Lance came banging at my front door.

  “Open up, Jaine! Major news!”

  I rose with a groan. Lance’s idea of major news is getting right-swiped on Tinder.

  The minute I opened the door, he came whooshing in, waving his cell phone and making a beeline for Prozac.

  “Prozac, sweetie, you’re a star!”

  At the sound of her name, Prozac perked up.

  “Look!” Lance said, shoving the phone in my face. “Somebody took this video of Prozac—The Cat Who Saved a Toddler’s Life!”

  There on his phone was a video of Prozac racing across the street and pushing Trevor, the toddler with the Chicken McNugget, out from the path of the oncoming car.

  “Prozac!” Lance squealed. “You’re a hero. You saved a toddler’s life!”

  Prozac preened.

  Not only that, I vanquished the Evil Alien from Planet Acorn.

  “The video’s already got more than a thousand views,” Lance gushed. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  No, it wasn’t wonderful. Not in the least. The video made it look like Prozac was actually trying to protect Trevor when she knocked him out of harm’s way, totally leaving out the part where she swan dived into his McNugget. Instead, the buttinsky who shot the video focused on Trevor’s grateful mom, hugging her child—and then, most annoyingly, panned to a ghastly close-up of my tush as I bent down to pick up Prozac.

  “My furry princess!” Lance cried, scooping Prozac in his arms and taking a selfie with her.

  “Oh, please. Prozac didn’t try to save the toddler. She pushed him away so she could get at his Chicken McNugget.”

  “I refuse to believe that,” said Lance, aghast. “Not my angel Prozac!”

  Nestled in his arms, Prozac gazed at me with slitted eyes.

  Sure have him fooled, don’t I?

  “Far be it from me to criticize you, Jaine—”

  “Then don’t.”

  “—but you’re just jealous because Pro got all the attention, and all you got was a close-up of your tush.”

  He was right, of course. That shot of my tush appeared to take up the entire screen.

  Somehow I managed to pry Prozac from Lance’s arms and shove him gently out the door.

  Then I returned to my computer, determined to devote the rest of the day to Tip Top. But all I could think of was my tush in cyberspace. Thank goodness my face was hardly visible in the shot.

  Surely, no one would recognize me.

  Au contraire.

  I hadn’t finished my very first Oreo (okay, I was stress-eating) when the phone started ringing off the hook. I got calls from classmates I hadn’t seen since my days at Hermosa High; from former boyfriends (“I’d know that tush anywhere!”); and from Cryo-suction, a delightful company offering to freeze my fat cells for only five thousand dollars.

  Oh, Lord! My tush was going viral. I only prayed Justin hadn’t seen the video.

  After a few more phone calls, I disconnected the phone and finally got some writing done.

  By the time six o’clock rolled around, I was feeling a lot calmer—thanks to the distractive powers of work (and Oreos).

  I crawled into bed for my nap and was just about to doze off when I was jerked awake by a loud banging at my front door.

  Damn that Lance, I thought, certain he’d returned to annoy me with a Prozac news alert.

  But it wasn’t Lance. It was a delivery guy with a cellophane-wrapped gift basket from Trevor’s mom, filled with kitty treats and toys.

  Prozac bolted over to it and began sniffing it eagerly.

  I took a sniff, too, and recognized the minty smell of catnip coming from a toy mouse.

  Her eyes wide with catnip fever, Prozac looked up at me and meowed.

  Open this gift basket! Ipso pronto!

  But I couldn’t possibly open it and have Prozac ricocheting around my apartment, high on catnip. Not if I wanted to get any sleep.

  “Not now, Pro. I’ll open it later.”

  She practically gasped in disbelief.

  You’re saying no to The Cat Who Saved a Toddler’s Life?

  Ignoring her filthy look, I stowed the basket on the top shelf of my coat closet, firmly closing the door, and headed back to my bedroom.

  Once again, I was drifting off to sleep when I heard a loud crash.

  I ran out to the living room to find the closet door open, the gift basket on the floor, Prozac clawing at the cellophane.

  Why was I not surprised?

  My ingenious kitty had long ago mastered the art of leaping onto doorknobs and opening doors.

  Now she ripped open the cellophane and retrieved the catnip-filled mouse, batting it around with all the gusto of a World Series champ.

  There was no way I was going to be able to keep this toy from Prozac.

  Resigned, I trudged back to bed.

  Needless to say, I did not drop off into the restful slumber I’d been hoping for.

  Instead I lay there, visions of my tush dancing in my head, accompanied by the piercing squeaks of the toy mouse as Prozac pummeled it to oblivion.

  * * *

  Eventually I managed to doze off and got approximately ten measly minutes of sleep before my alarm went off.

  Not the least bit rejuvenated, I hauled myself out of bed and headed for the kitchen to fix myself dinner: a frozen mini-pepperoni and garlic pizza, only 390 calories a serving. I started reading the ingredients label on the box—tomatoes, pepperoni, extra virgin olive oil—and remembered Heidi’s suggestion about giving myself an olive oil hair treatment.

  What a great idea. I’d put some on my hair and let it soak in while I was eating dinner. And voilà! I’d have silky-soft tresses for my date with Justin.

  After putting the pizza in the oven, I began rummaging in my cupboard for olive oil.

  I vaguely recalled buying some when, in one of my rare fits of domesticity, I attempted to make a rosemary lemon chicken. An attempt that went spectacularly awry when I forgot to remove the plastic packet of giblets from inside the chicken.

  But I could swear I’d used olive oil in that recipe. And indeed I found a bottle shoved in the back of my cupboard.

  I retrieved it eagerly and began massaging it into my hair.

  By now, my pizza was heating up, smelling of pepperoni and garlic. A whole lot of garlic. My kitchen was reeking of the stuff.

  And suddenly I realized that the garlic I smelled was not coming from my pizza, but from my hair.

  I grabbed the bottle of olive oil and took a close look at the label. For the first time I noticed, in small print, the pivotal words “Garlic Infused.”

  Holy mackerel. I smelled like the exhaust vent at a pizzeria.

  This would never do for my date with Justin.

  So I dashed into the shower and began washing my hair. But the olive oil was greasy stuff. It took three rounds of sudsing to get rid of it.

  At least, I thought I got rid of it.

  After blowing my hair dry, I could still smell it.

  It took me two more trips to the shower to finally wash it away.

  Which meant, of course, that I did not have time to luxuriate in the tub, shave my legs, or tweeze my eyebrows. Exfoliation had bitten the dust, along with any shred of relaxation.


  Nor did I have time to rummage around in my closet and put together a fabulous club-hopping outfit. Instead I threw on a pair of elastic-waist skinny jeans and the first tunic I saw—a flowy black jersey number.

  All that mattered was that it covered my tush. Which, according to my latest check on YouTube, had accrued more than two thousand views. No way was my fanny getting any more exposure that night.

  By now, it was almost 9:30.

  I frantically spritzed on perfume, slapped on some lipstick, and shoved my feet into my one and only pair of Manolos.

  With no time to blow-dry my hair, I scrunched it into what I hoped was a sexy mop of curls gone wild.

  I was surveying myself in the mirror when all of a sudden, I smelled something burning.

  My pizza! I’d forgotten all about it!

  I raced to the kitchen past Prozac, who was conked out on the sofa, exhausted from her battle with the catnip mouse.

  Great. Now she was sleeping. The Cat Who Saved a Toddler’s Life couldn’t be bothered to let me know my apartment was about to catch fire.

  In the kitchen, I pulled the charred remains of my pizza from the oven.

  Just as I was tossing it in the trash, there was a knock on my door.

  Oh, crud. Justin. And I hadn’t had a thing to eat. (Except for the two Oreos I’d just shoved in my mouth.)

  * * *

  I hurried to the door, gulping down the Oreos, praying I didn’t have unsightly globs of chocolate on my teeth.

  Having barely survived the charred pizza and olive oil disasters, I must admit I was a tad frazzled when I opened the door.

  But the sight of Justin standing there—looking fab in tight jeans and TEAM BEBE bomber jacket, his hair slicked back from a shower—was just the pick-me-up I needed.

  “Come in!” I managed to croak.

  He stepped inside and sniffed.

  “Do I smell something burning?”

  “Just a minor culinary disaster. I specialize in those.”

  “Me too,” he grinned, treating me to a dazzling glimpse of his dimple. “I’m still figuring out how to nuke water.”

  I melted at the sight of that dimple, suddenly weak in the knees.

  And I wasn’t the only one smitten.

  Prozac, the shameless hussy, had hurled herself at his ankles, rubbing against him with wild abandon, a kitty porn star in the making.

  Hubba hubba, what a hottie. And so young! Then, shooting me a sidelong glance. Much too young for you!

  “Aren’t you a pretty kitty,” Justin said, picking her up.

  She purred in ecstasy as he scratched her behind her ears.

  You bet I am! Now rub my belly!

  “Gee,” he said, gazing down at her, “she looks awfully familiar. I feel like I’ve seen her before.”

  “No,” I insisted. “Not possible. She’s got a very common kitty face. I’m sure you’ve never seen her before.”

  Pro meowed in protest.

  She lies! I’m The Cat Who Saved a Toddler’s Life!

  “Well, let’s get moving,” I said, eager to sidetrack any discussion of Prozac’s video. “We don’t want to be late for the club.”

  “I hope you like to dance,” Justin said.

  “Absolutely,” I lied, dreading the thought of navigating the dance floor in my four-inch Manolos.

  “Okay, Pro,” I said, reaching for her. “Justin and I have to go.”

  A yowl of protest.

  Wait. He still hasn’t rubbed my belly!

  Somehow I managed to pry her away from Justin and deposit her on the sofa, where she gave me the stink eye royale.

  Somebody’s going to find an unpleasant surprise in her slippers tonight.

  Ignoring the threat of a revenge poop, I hurried Justin out the door.

  A cute red Fiat was parked out front, a perfect fit with Justin’s sexy metrosexual look.

  But Justin led me past the Fiat to a flimsy-looking motorcycle.

  “Here we are,” he said, with a flourish. “My trusty steed. Hope you like riding on motorbikes.”

  “Absolutely,” I lied again, picturing my lifeless body sprawled on a freeway after a deadly encounter with a big rig.

  “Put this on,” he said, unhooking a helmet from under his motorcycle seat.

  Bye-bye, curls gone wild. Now I’d be stuck with helmet hair all night.

  I put on the helmet and climbed behind him on the motorbike.

  “Hold on tight!” he said, pulling my arms around his hot bod.

  At last! Something fun!

  I held onto him as instructed, my arms around his torso, a surge of warmies in my day-of-the-week undies.

  Then, just as I nestled closer, feeling that this night might turn out to be quite wonderful, Justin sniffed the air and said, “I smell garlic.”

  Damn that olive oil!

  Chapter 8

  To this day, I still don’t know the exact location of the club Justin took me to, because I spent the entire ride over with my eyes squeezed shut, waiting to be hurtled to my death.

  “Isn’t this fun?” Justin had called out at one point.

  “Yes, fun,” I croaked, my heart pounding almost as fast as the cars I heard whizzing by on what sounded like a freeway.

  When we finally showed up at the club, I was so thrilled to be alive, I didn’t even care that my garlic-scented hair had been ironed flat by my helmet.

  Justin led me inside a barn of a building with a bar at one end and high tables and stools circling a huge dance floor. Strobe lights were flashing colorful stripes onto the couples dancing, all of them younger—much younger—than me.

  My eardrums and I were grateful when Justin nabbed us a table in a far corner of the room, away from the blaring speakers.

  “So what do you think?” Justin asked. “It’s crazy, right? ”

  “Crazy,” I echoed with a wan smile, wondering what the heck I was doing in a room full of kids just a stone’s throw from puberty.

  “Would you like something from the bar?” he asked.

  “A Chardonnay would be great.”

  “I’ll have a Sam Adams,” Justin said. Then, with a sheepish grin, he added: “Would you mind buying the drinks? I’m only twenty. They won’t sell me booze.”

  Only twenty? I knew he was young, but not that young!

  “Okay, sure,” I said, getting down off my stool.

  And as I headed for the bar, I remembered what Lance said about young guys on the hunt for sugar mamas. Was that what this was all about? Was I just a meal ticket? I should have guessed this whole Justin thing was too good to be true.

  At the bar, I gave our order to one of the hipster bartenders. By now, of course, I was starving. It was almost eleven, and I still hadn’t eaten any dinner.

  “Can I see a menu?” I asked.

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Ma’am? Did he just call me “ma’am”? “We don’t serve food here.”

  No food? He had to be kidding!

  So when he turned his back to get the drinks, I reached over and nabbed some maraschino cherries. I barely managed to scarf them down when he returned with the wine and the beer.

  “That’ll be twenty-three dollars. Twenty for the drinks. And three for the cherries,” he added with a smirk.

  I grudgingly forked over twenty-five bucks, resenting every cent of the two dollar tip I felt obliged to give him.

  When I returned to our table, I found Justin chatting with a cute young thing in skintight leggings and halter top, her hair dyed neon pink.

  “Hey,” Justin said to me. “This is my friend Mitzi. She models for Bebe sometimes.”

  “Omigosh!” the neon-haired Barbie cried. “You must be Justin’s mom! He’s told me so much about you!”

  Justin’s mom? For crying out loud, I couldn’t possibly look that old, could I? And then, with a sinking sensation, it occurred to me that, given Justin’s age, it was technically possible.

  I felt more foolish than ever for agreeing to go out with him.

&
nbsp; “Jaine’s not my mom, Mitzi. She’s my date.”

  That said with his arm sliding around my waist.

  Oh dear. His arm around my waist sure felt nice. But no, I couldn’t let myself get sucked into Justinland. No way was I about to become anyone’s sugar mama.

  “Oops. My mistake,” Mitzi said, her blush almost as bright as her hair. “Well, see you round, Justin.”

  And off she skipped with a fluttery wave.

  “Here you go,” I said, sliding out from Justin’s arm and putting the drinks on the table.

  As I climbed onto my stool, Justin reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet.

  “This ought to cover it,” he said, slapping two twenties on the table.

  Yes! He was paying for the drinks! He wasn’t looking for a sugar mama after all. Damn that Lance for planting the seed of doubt in my mind.

  “That’s way too much,” I said, pushing one of the twenties back at him.

  “I insist,” he said, shoving it back at me. “It’s my pleasure. Honest.”

  I was sitting there, basking in the glow of his smile, when he said, “Mitzi’s a nice kid, but she’s so immature. Like most women my age. That’s why I prefer dating older women.”

  That would be moi.

  “My last girlfriend was twenty-six. That’s about your age, right?”

  “Close,” I had the audacity to lie. “Twenty-seven.”

  Clearly I was missing the all-important transparency gene.

  “Here’s to older women,” Justin said, clinking my wineglass with his beer bottle.

  “To older women,” I echoed.

  “It’s funny,” he said, sniffing. “I keep smelling garlic. Don’t you?”

  I couldn’t possibly tell one more lie or some angel in a position of authority would come down from heaven and slap me silly.

  “Actually,” I confessed, “it’s coming from my hair.”

  “Your hair?” He blinked in surprise.

  “Heidi suggested that I give my hair an olive oil conditioning treatment, and I doused my head with the stuff before I realized it was ‘garlic infused.’ ”

  “Cool!” He leaned across the table to take a whiff of my hair. “I love garlic!”

  He loved garlic! Yes! We were culinary soulmates!

  “One of my favorite foods is garlic and pepperoni pizza,” he said. “The other two are Oreos and kale salad.”