Murder Gets a Makeover

by Laura Levine

  “Guess what, Jaine?” he said when he answered. “I’ve got a new job. Personal assistant to a socialite in Holmby Hills. Her current PA says she’s a doll to work for. And the pay is great. Anyhow, I wanted to celebrate, and the first person I thought of was you.”

  Yay! I was tops on his list.

  “Are you free for dinner tomorrow?”

  I reminded myself not to sound too eager, to create an aura of sophisticated insouciance.

  “You betcha! Absolutely! Sounds great!”

  Aack! I’m hopeless.

  “Terrific. See you at seven. I’ll text you my address.”

  I hung up in a happy glow, thrilled at the prospect of dinner with Justin—a cozy tête-à-tête that just might lead to some after-dinner smooching and possible whoopsie doodle!

  Things were definitely looking up. A date with Justin tomorrow—and a steak dinner at the Paws Across America charity gala tonight.

  If you recall, the only reason I’d accepted the invitation to the gala was the promise of a thick, juicy steak on my plate.

  True, I was still a bit miffed that Prozac was being hailed as the cat who saved a toddler’s life when all she’d really cared about was that Chicken McNugget. But free steak dinners don’t come around every day, and I wasn’t about to pass this one up.

  It was too bad I didn’t have Tatiana’s cute black spaghetti-strap number to wear. I thought about wearing one of the dresses from my makeover, but somehow they seemed tainted by the memory of Bebe.

  In the end, I decided to go with my one and only Prada pantsuit. After digging it out from the back of my closet, I dusted it off, hoping no one would notice the grease stain on the elbow that years of dry cleaning had not been able to eradicate.

  (A word to the wise: Never eat chimichangas in a Prada pantsuit.)

  And so I showered and dressed for the gala, murder suspects a distant memory amid vivid images of Justin and a top sirloin.

  “I hope you realize this is a very special day for you,” I said to Pro when I was all spiffed up and ready to go.

  She looked up from where she was sprawled out on the sofa.

  It sure is. I broke my record for seventeen naps in an hour.

  “Tonight,” I reminded her, “you’re getting an award for an act of bravery you don’t deserve.”

  You’re just cranky because I look fab and you’ve got that grease stain on your elbow.

  “Time to get going,” I said, hauling her cat carrier out from my hall closet, hoping for once she wouldn’t give me a rough time.

  I hoped in vain. The minute she saw the carrier, she was crouched on all fours, poised for battle.

  You don’t think I’m actually going to get in that thing, do you?

  When I reached down to pick her up, all hell broke loose. Claws out, fur flying, she meowed in protest.

  This is how you treat The Cat Who Saved a Toddler’s Life? By locking her up in a cage? Wait till the people at Paws Across America hear about this gross miscarriage of justice!

  Suffice it to say that my Prada suit now had a small rip on the lapel to go with the grease stain on my elbow.

  I finally managed to lure her in the carrier with a kitty caviar treat and headed out to my Corolla.

  The gala was being held at the Beverly Hilton, a posh hotel with banquet rooms the size of third world nations. The drive over was a bit of a nightmare, what with Prozac screeching nonstop, pausing only when I tossed a caviar treat into the carrier every three and a half seconds.

  Because of all the time wasted getting her into her carrier, we were late, of course.

  Matilda, our liaison at Paws Across America, a tall, stork-like woman with a beaky nose and fluttering hands, was waiting for us at the entrance to the banquet room.

  “Thank goodness you’re here!” she said. “I was beginning to get worried.”

  “So sorry we’re late. I had a hard time getting Prozac into her carrier. She absolutely hates being cooped up and makes the most terrible fuss.”

  “Really?” Matilda said. “She seems quite happy now.”

  I looked down and saw Prozac, the duplicitous devil, curled up in her cage, quiet as her squeaky toy mouse after she’d battered it to oblivion.

  She rarely lets the real world see her inner monster. She saves that privilege for me.

  “Follow me,” Matilda said, leading us into the banquet room, past tables of wealthy animal lovers digging into their salads, the mouthwatering aroma of steaks to come wafting in the air.

  A velvet curtain opened to the backstage area, where Matilda escorted us down a corridor.

  “Here we are,” she said, ushering us into a private dressing room with a vanity table and small sofa, a TV monitor mounted on the wall. “A room all to yourself. This way our little heroine won’t have to be cooped up in her carrier. You can see what’s happening onstage,” she added, pointing to the monitor, which at that moment showed an empty stage with a lectern at the center.

  “Make yourselves comfy, and I’ll be back in a flash with your dinners!”

  As soon as I opened the latch, Prozac bolted from the carrier, shooting me the filthiest of looks before leaping onto the vanity table and admiring herself in the mirror, thrilled with her own reflection.

  I settled down on the sofa, watching the empty stage on the TV monitor and salivating at the thought of my dinner to come.

  By now, I was famished.

  True to her word, Matilda was back in a flash, wheeling in a food-service cart.

  “I’m so very sorry,” she said with an apologetic flap of her hands, “but unfortunately we’ve run out of steaks.”

  What??!

  “I was able to cobble together a few steak tidbits for Prozac and brought a vegetable plate for you, Ms. Austen: Tofu ravioli with mushrooms and steamed broccolini!”

  Tofu ravioli? Ugh. Somewhere out there a bugler was playing “Taps” for my taste buds.

  “All our vegetarian guests say it’s most delicious. I hope you’ll enjoy it.”

  Fat chance of that. As soon as she left, I intended to grab a few steak tidbits from Prozac’s bowl.

  “I’ll come get you when it’s time for you and Prozac to go onstage,” she said. “Bon appétit!”

  The minute she was gone, I reached down to Prozac’s bowl to grab a steak tidbit, but the little chowhound had already scarfed down every last scrap and was now industriously licking her whiskers.

  My, that was tasty.

  I eyed my tofu ravioli with disgust, listlessly picking at the ravioli shells and avoiding the slimy white chunks of tofu nestled inside.

  (One of my major principles in life is to never eat anything that looks like bathtub caulking.)

  All in all, a most unsatisfying experience.

  Meanwhile, on the monitor, the keynote speaker had settled himself behind the lectern and was yakking about the wonderful work Paws Across America was doing and thanking all the animal lovers who’d shown up to fork over five hundred dollars a plate. After some chatter about spaying, neutering, and no-kill shelters, he passed the baton to a rotund fellow, a local philanthropist who’d just made a whopping two-million-dollar donation to the charity. The philanthropist rambled on about his love of all creatures great and small, until finally ceding the mic to the city councilman who’d come to give Prozac a kibble key to the city.

  At which point, Matilda showed up to get us. After checking myself in the vanity mirror to make sure I didn’t have any broccolini in my teeth, I scooped Prozac in my arms and followed Matilda to the stage wings, where I could see little Trevor and his mom, Trudy, were already onstage waiting for us.

  The councilman, a slick guy in a designer suit and hair sprayed to perfection, introduced Prozac, the cat of the hour, and with an encouraging smile from Matilda, I ventured out onstage.

  Nestled in my arms, Prozac preened as the audience applauded wildly.

  Yes, I’m quite wonderful, aren’t I?

  “And now the moment we’ve all been wait
ing for,” the councilman said. “It is indeed an honor to present this kibble key to the city to Prozac, The Cat Who Saved a Toddler’s Life.”

  From behind his lectern, he whipped out an oversized key, welded out of kibble bits. The audience chuckled at the whimsical award.

  The councilman began recapping Prozac’s courage in the face of danger, darting in front of an oncoming car to push little Trevor out of harm’s way.

  But Prozac wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to him—or to the audience.

  She only had eyes for Trevor. And, more important, what Trevor had clutched in his tiny little fist—another Chicken McNugget.

  Prozac watched, eagle-eyed, as the kid nibbled on the chicken.

  By now, the councilman had finished his speech and was ready to present the award.

  “Here you go, Prozac,” he said, waving the key in front of her face.

  Prozac sniffed at it in disdain.

  Sorry, pal. I only eat human food.

  Then, with the agility of an eel on uppers, she wriggled out of my arms and lunged at Trevor, knocking him down to get at his chicken.

  Trudy looked on, appalled.

  “That cat’s no hero!” she cried. “She wasn’t trying to save Trevor from that car. All she wanted was his Chicken McNugget! ”

  The audience murmured their disapproval.

  True, this was one of the more humiliating moments in my life, ranking right up there with my tush on display on the dance floor with Justin, not to mention my mortifying feud with Fun-topia’s vending machine.

  And yet, I couldn’t help but feel elated.

  At long last, everyone knew the truth about Prozac. The little rascal had been outed as the shameless chowhound she was. Maybe she’d finally get down from her high horse and stop playing the prima donna at home.

  Having scarfed down the chicken, Prozac looked out at the audience, tsk-tsking their disapproval.

  Hey, what’s the problem? I was hungry. I hadn’t eaten a thing since those steak tidbits a whole twenty-three minutes ago.

  I was feeling pretty darn good about this state of affairs when the audience’s tsk-tsking was suddenly interrupted by the heaving gasps of someone choking.

  And not just any someone. It was the philanthropist who’d just forked over two million dollars to Paws Across America.

  “Omigod!” a woman at his table cried out. “He can’t breathe.”

  Without missing a beat, Prozac clambered down from the stage and over to the philanthropist’s table, where she leaped up and hurled herself at his chest.

  It wasn’t exactly the Heimlich maneuver, but it worked. The offending meat came flying out of his mouth.

  Now everyone was buzzing about this miraculous rescue!

  No one seemed to care that Prozac was busy scarfing down the guy’s steak. Instead, they all got out their cell phones, shooting videos of Prozac, The Cat Who Saved a Philanthropist’s Life!

  You’ve Got Mail

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Operation Secret Love

  Tonight’s the night I’ve been waiting for, Lambchop. The night The Battle-Axe is meeting The Flounder for their illicit rendezvous. And I am happy to report Operation Secret Love has been successfully launched!

  This morning I drove over to The Hideaway Motel (right across the street from The Hideaway Restaurant) and put my plan into action.

  I waited patiently in the parking lot until I saw the maid go into room number twelve, the room The Battle-Axe had requested for her tryst with The Flounder.

  Then I made my way over to the room and strolled in the open door, where the maid was busy making the bed.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  Time to execute my brilliant plan.

  “I checked out earlier this morning, and my wife seems to have lost an earring. Mind if I look around?”

  “Help yourself,” she said with a shrug.

  I spent the next several minutes crawling around on the carpet, pretending to look for a nonexistent earring, until the maid finally left the bedroom and headed into the bathroom. The minute I heard the water running, I dashed over to the window and opened it just a bit, enough for me to pull it open later tonight and surprise the unsuspecting lovers.

  Can’t wait to see the look on The Battle-Axe’s face when she realizes she’s been caught in her love nest.

  At long last, triumph will be mine!

  Love ’n kisses from,

  Daddy

  TAMPA VISTAS GAZETTE

  TAMPA VISTAS MAN ARRESTED FOR

  BREAKING INTO MOTEL ROOM,

  TERRIFYING ELDERLY COUPLE

  Tampa Vistas resident Hank Austen was arrested last night for breaking into a room at The Hideaway Motel, terrifying an elderly couple, Lloyd and Eloise Pinkus, Methodist missionaries, who had come to Florida to attend a family reunion.

  “My poor cousins flew all the way from Nairobi to be at our reunion, only to be scared half out of their wits by that lunatic!” said Lydia Pinkus, organizer of the reunion and president of the Tampa Vistas Homeowners Association.

  “Eloise and I were in bed watching a National Geographic documentary about hyenas mating in the wild,” said Mr. Pinkus, “when suddenly a man came climbing through our window, yelling something about a battle-axe and a flounder. Clearly the poor soul is unbalanced. Eloise and I will be praying for him.”

  Mr. Austen was arrested at the scene but later released on bail by his wife.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Just got back from bailing Daddy out of jail. I may never speak to him again.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: In the Doghouse

  Well, Lambchop. I suppose your mom has sent you the news about my arrest.

  It seems I may have been a wee bit off base about The Battle-Axe having an affair. It turns out The Flounder is a party planner and was helping her arrange a family reunion. And according to your mom, the Victoria’s Secret shopping bag I’d seen Lydia toting contained a gift for her niece, whose wedding shower she’d been unable to attend.

  Of course, I knew none of this when I showed up at The Hideaway Motel last night and made my way to room number twelve, where I heard loud grunting and moaning sounds. I thought for sure The Battle-Axe and The Flounder were giving the mattress a workout.

  So I climbed in the window, only to find an elderly couple watching two hyenas mating on the National Geographic channel.

  I apologized profusely, but one of them had already called 911, and before I knew it, the police showed up, and I was taken into custody.

  It was all an unfortunate misunderstanding. (I should’ve known from the start that no man in his right mind would get romantically involved with The Battle-Axe.)

  But needless to say, I am in the doghouse with your mom.

  Love ’n snuggles

  (something I won’t be getting from your mom anytime soon)

  Daddy

  Chapter 30

  You’d think it’d be impossible for Prozac’s ego—already the size of the Goodyear Blimp—to get any bigger, but you’d be wrong.

  She clawed me awake the next morning, gazing down at me much like Louis IV must have looked down at the guy who washed his feet.

  Awake, commoner! The Cat Who Saved a Philanthropist’s Life wants breakfast!

  “Oh, no,” I moaned. “You’re going to drive me crazier than ever, aren’t you?”

  That was my plan, yes! Now chop-chop. My food bowl isn’t going to fill itself!

  I dragged myself to the kitchen and slopped some minced mackerel guts into her bowl.

  An utter waste of time, as I suspected it would be. She didn’t even bother to sniff it, just shot me an imperious glare.

  The Cat Who Saved a Philanthropist’s Life wants human tuna!

  I didn’t have the energy to fight her, so I popped open a can of Bumble Bee’s
finest and watched as she inhaled it with lightning speed.

  I was hoping against hope that news of last night’s kitty Heimlich maneuver would go unnoticed, but no such luck. When I retrieved the L.A. Times from my doorstep, I groaned in dismay to see the headline CAT SAVES PHILANTHROPIST’S LIFE on the front page, along with that ghastly picture Sarita had taken of Prozac perched on my super-sized thighs.

  Back in the kitchen, I nuked myself some coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel, slathered as usual with butter and strawberry jam (extra jam to cope with extra stress). I’d just settled on the sofa to guzzle it down when I noticed a piece of paper had been slipped under my front door. I picked it up—only to find an itemized invoice from Trudy, who expected to be reimbursed for all the money she’d spent on gifts for Prozac—a whopping six hundred dollars!

  Tossing the invoice on my dining room table with the rest of my unpaid bills, I returned to the sofa, determined to distract myself with the newspaper’s crossword puzzle while I ate my breakfast. I didn’t even make it past One Across when Lance came knocking at my door.

  “Jaine! Let me in! I’ve got exciting news!”

  With a sigh, I got up to open the door. Lance was sure to whip out his cell phone to show me a video of Prozac in action last night—the very last thing I wanted to see.

  “Wait till you hear the news!” he cried, rushing in.