by Laura Levine
“I inherited her from someone who died,” I said, giving him the Reader’s Digest version of events.
“Won’t Prozac be upset if you bring home a dog?”
“That’s putting it mildly. I’m fully expecting World War III to break out in my living room. Which is why I’m going to have to find another home for her.”
“That shouldn’t be hard,” he said, scratching her behind the ears. “She’s adorable.”
“Hey,” I said, a spark of hope igniting. “Why don’t you take her?”
Mamie seemed to approve of this suggestion and began covering him with sloppy kisses.
“Clearly she’s crazy about you.”
“Actually,” Lance said, gazing down at her, “I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“Oh, Lance. She really is a sweetheart! So warm and loving and friendly. And hardly any trouble.”
Notice how I didn’t mention her penchant for rolling around in garbage. Which I didn’t count as a flaw, since I was convinced Prozac put her up to it.
“I don’t know,” he hesitated. “It’s all so sudden.”
“She’d make a great date magnet,” I said, revving up my sales pitch.
“I don’t need a date magnet,” he said, suddenly starry eyed. “I think at last I’ve found my soul mate.”
I barely suppressed a groan. Lance is one of those incurable romantics who falls in love with the frequency of an NPR pledge drive.
“Remember Kevin?” he gushed. “The guy I met at the yogurt parlor? We’re so totally on the same wave length. And not just about yogurt. About everything!”
I nodded through a few more beats of Isn’t-Kevin-Wonderful chat, then got the conversation back on track.
“So what about Mamie?”
He looked down at the bundle of fur in his arms, then broke out into a smile. “Okay, I’ll take her.”
“Lance, you’re an angel!”
I would’ve thrown my arms around him and covered him with kisses but Mamie beat me to it.
“I’ll get her suitcase,” I said, reaching into the Corolla.
“Omigod,” Lance gasped. “Is that Gucci?”
“You bet. Monogrammed. And you should see her outfits. I never knew Versace made dog clothes.”
“Oh, honey,” he said, nuzzling Mamie’s fur. “You’re a girl after my own heart.”
After settling Mamie at Lance’s apartment, I trotted back to my own place, thrilled to have averted the wrath of Prozac.
“Hi, Pro!” I called out as I let myself in.
She looked up from where she was curled up on my sofa and sniffed.
I smell dog fur.
Her pink nose twitched indignantly.
And then, before she could get any closer, I raced to the shower to wash away all traces of The Other Woman.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL
NOBEL PRIZE WINNER ABDUCTED FROM AIRPORT
Famed Italian physicist and Nobel Prize winner Enrico Facciobene, whom Stephen Hawking has called “one of the keenest analytical minds of our generation,” was abducted from Tampa International Airport last night by what witnesses described as a deranged attorney.
Facciobene was scheduled to begin a research grant at the University of Tampa. But when representatives of the university arrived at the airport to pick him up, they saw him being forcibly dragged to a white late-model Toyota Camry.
Professor Susan MacDonald described the abductor as a balding man in his sixties wearing an If At First You Don’t Succeed, Sue, Sue Again T-shirt.
“This crazy fellow tore out of the airport and raced to his car, which was illegally parked in a white zone,” said MacDonald, “dragging poor Signor Facciobene against his will.”
Any witnesses with information about the abduction should contact Det. John Hill at (813) 555-9876.
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Can’t write much now. I’m off to bail Daddy out of jail.
More later—
Mom
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: The Wrong Man!
Well, I’m back, and you’ll never believe what happened.
Daddy picked up the wrong man at the airport!
I don’t know how he could have possibly made such a ridiculous mistake. The man looked nothing like Roberto’s picture. I knew the minute he walked in the house it wasn’t him.
Daddy always was bad at recognizing people. I’ll never forget the time he asked a waitress at Howard Johnson’s for her autograph because he swore she was Meryl Streep. I said, “Hank, what on earth would Meryl Streep be doing waiting tables here in Tampa?” He insisted it was her, said she was probably “researching a role.”
But I’m rambling, aren’t I? Getting back to Signor Facciobene. That’s the man Daddy abducted, a famous scientist from Italy. I could tell the poor man was upset. He kept shouting “Hiya! Hiya!” It turns out he was trying to say “Hyatt.” That’s where he was supposed to be staying, but of course we didn’t know that.
I said to your father, “Hank, this isn’t Roberto.” And he said, “Of course it is; he looks just like his photo,” and I said, “I’m the one who dated him; I should know who he is for heaven’s sake!”
“Well, if he isn’t Roberto,” Daddy asked, “who the heck is he?”
And just then I happened to look over at the TV, which I’d turned on while I was setting the table.
You know how I like to have the TV on to keep me company when I’m doing chores around the house. Anyhow, there on the TV was a news bulletin with Signor Facciobene’s picture, saying how a world-famous Nobel Prize winner had been abducted from the airport by a crazy man in an If At First You Don’t Succeed, Sue, Sue Again T-shirt!
“Good gracious, Hank!” I said. “You’ve kidnapped a Nobel Prize winner! How could you??”
But Daddy never did get a chance to answer my question because just then the doorbell rang. And there on our doorstep, where all the neighbors could see them, I’m sure, were two uniformed policemen!
Daddy started babbling that it was all an innocent mistake, that he hadn’t meant to kidnap anybody, that he thought he was picking up his wife’s boyfriend. You can imagine how red my face turned at that.
But it turned out they weren’t here about Signor Facciobene. “We’ve come to investigate a claim of stolen property,” one of them said. “An overdue library book.”
Can you believe it? They were here about Daddy’s silly library book!
At which point Signor Facciobene came running up to them crying “Aiuto! Aiuto!” which apparently is Italian for “help.” Of course the police recognized him right away, and faster than you can say “Arrivederci, Roma,” they were carting Daddy off to jail.
And just as they were driving off, you’ll never guess who pulled up in a taxi. The real Roberto! I have to admit, he didn’t look much like the photo he sent; that picture must’ve been taken years ago. He’s put on quite a few pounds since then. But he’s still as sweet as ever and was kind enough to come down to police headquarters with me. After they called in a translator, Roberto explained what happened and they let Daddy go.
Then the three of us all had a lovely dinner at Applebee’s because I’m sorry to say in all the ruckus of Daddy getting arrested, my eggplant parmigiana got burned to a crisp.
Well, that’s it for now, darling. I’m off to bed. Which reminds me. I sent you some fabulous leopard throw pillows to go with your new comforter set. They’ve got a few teeny rhinestones on the leopard’s nose which may be a trifle garish, but I’m sure you can snip them off.
Much love—
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Little Mix-up
I suppose Mom wrote you about that little mix-up at the airport. It was a perfectly understandable mistake. After all, the fellow kept saying Hiya! Hiya! I thought he was saying hello. The only reason I dragged him to the car was because I was parked in the white z
one and I didn’t want to get a ticket.
And I don’t care what your mother says, the man was the spitting image of Roberto’s picture. I happen to have an amazing gift for recognizing people. Why, I once saw Meryl Streep waiting tables at HoJo’s!
How many people can say that?
Love and hugs from,
Daddy
Chapter 20
I drove over to Denise’s law office the next day, my mind reeling over my parents’ e-mails. Can you believe Daddy kidnapped a Nobel Prize winner? This was worse than the time he set fire to the Tampa Vistas clubhouse. I’m telling you, the man should be declared a National Disaster Area. How he’s made it this far without a prison record is beyond me.
But I couldn’t think about Daddy. Not now. I had to stay focused on the case and confront Denise with my Topless Cheerleader discovery.
After parking my Corolla deep in the bowels of Denise’s high rise, I took a series of escalators up to the lobby and then boarded the elevator to her sky-high office.
I went over my plan of attack as I rode up. I’d barge into her office and catch her off guard. Then I’d flash the Topless Cheerleader photo and watch her face crumple in dismay. Tears streaming down her face, she’d admit that Patti had been blackmailing her and that she’d resorted to murder to put a stop to it.
With any luck, I’d be walking out of her office with a signed confession.
But things didn’t exactly go according to plan.
For starters, I didn’t barge into Denise’s office. Her gargoyle secretary (a woman with biceps the size of Easter hams) kept me cooling my heels for thirty-five minutes before she finally allowed me to go in.
“Hello, Jaine,” Denise greeted me, not the least bit startled, having had thirty-five minutes to prepare for my appearance. “How can I help you?”
“Take a look at what I found in Patti’s yearbook.” I said, trying my best to send out Tough Girl vibes.
I whipped the topless cheerleader photo from my purse and showed it to her. Sad to say, she didn’t crumple in dismay. No tearful confessions ensued. Nope. She just threw back her head and laughed.
“Patti still had that silly thing?”
And suddenly my theory that Patti had been blackmailing Denise didn’t seem quite as compelling as it had thirty seconds ago.
I plowed ahead anyway.
“I think Patti was using this picture to keep you under her thumb. That’s why you stayed friendly with her all these years. You were afraid not to. But when you decided to run for office, you couldn’t risk having her spill the beans about your topless past.”
“Are you saying I’m the one who sabotaged that balcony?”
She wasn’t laughing anymore.
“Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
She got up from her chair, reed thin in a pinstriped pantsuit, and walked around her desk to face me.
“I already told you, Jaine,” she said in an even voice. “I stayed in Patti’s life for one reason only. I felt sorry for her. I don’t run scared. Not from anyone. Not Patti. Not the voters. And certainly not you.”
Well, that certainly knocked the stuffing out of my piñata.
“As for that silly ‘blackmail’ picture, lest you forget, I’m running for office in the state of California. A topless picture of me in my cheerleader days will probably win me the election.”
I had to hand it to her. If she was bluffing, she was doing one hell of a job. Why couldn’t I ever stand up to people like that? I usually fold after the first dirty look. Like I did with Kyle Potter.
And like I was about to do then.
“Hey, it was just a wacky theory,” I said, backing out of the room. “I get ’em all the time. Doesn’t mean it’s true. Well, I’ve wasted enough of your valuable time. Must dash. Great seeing you! Rah, rah, Hermosa, and all that.”
I scooted out of her office and made my way to the elevator, minus my backbone. I really had to work on my confrontational skills. But in the cold light of Denise’s icy glare, my blackmail theory seemed pretty lame.
On the other hand, she could’ve been bluffing. Maybe her bravado was just an act. All I knew for sure was that Denise was one cool cookie. The woman had the cojones of a Beverly Hills real estate broker.
I sure as heck didn’t envy the poor soul who was running against her.
The elevator ride down to the lobby took forever, stopping at what seemed like every other floor. Before long, the tiny space was jammed with $500-an-hour attorneys, packed together like sardines in testosterone.
At last the elevator doors dinged open. I made my way across the travertine marble lobby to the escalators that led down to the garage. They, too, were crowded when I got on, but by the time I got to the peon level of the garage where I’d parked, I was the only one still on.
I started the long trek to my car, which was parked in the spot I always seemed to get stuck with—the one as far as possible from the escalators.
It was dark and creepy down in peon-land. You’d think they’d spring for some decent lighting in a ritzy building like this. Instead they had puny 40-watt bulbs casting ominous shadows wherever I looked.
Suddenly I felt uneasy, as if some unknown danger were lurking in the shadows. It told myself I was being silly. It was just this murder business that had me on edge.
Nevertheless, I trotted the rest of the way to my car, eager to get out of this dungeon and back into the light of day. At last I saw my trusty Corolla. With a sigh of relief I ran to its dinged side.
I’d opened the door and was just about to get in when I noticed a flyer stuck under the windshield:
LOSE WEIGHT FAST!
Seven-Day Wonder
DIET!
Call (323) 555-7676 for details
A jolt of fear ran down my spine.
Not at the thought of going on a diet, although that’s never a pleasant prospect.
No, what sent that tingle down my spine was the fact that someone had scratched out the “T” in diet, changing it to:
DIE!
Was this a threat from the killer? Her way of telling me to mind my own business?
Just then I heard the sound of high heels clicking on the cement. I turned and saw a woman heading toward the escalator alcove. A reed thin brunette. I gulped when I saw what she was wearing. A pinstriped suit! I’d just seen that same pantsuit not five minutes ago.
My God, it was Denise!
So she had been bluffing in her office. She was the killer. She must’ve taken an express elevator and put the note under my windshield to scare me off the case. After the way I’d caved in her office, she probably figured it would be easy to put the fear of God in me. She was right of course. I was a tad terrified. But I’d be damned if I’d let her intimidate me.
“Denise!” I called out.
She went on walking.
I started to run after her, and at the sound of my footsteps, she started running, too. The chase was on—but I had the advantage. I was wearing running shoes while she was stuck with wobbly designer heels.
That is, I thought I had the advantage. For a woman in three-inch stilettos, she was pretty darn fast. As I went puffing after her, weaving in and out between luxury cars, I cursed myself for not going to the gym more often. Or ever, if you want to get technical.
But eventually I managed to narrow the gap between us. I’d almost caught up with her and was all set to pounce when I heard the earsplitting sound of brakes squealing.
I looked up and saw that I had come thisclose to being mowed down by an SUV. An angry blonde in designer sunglasses shouted at me through her open window.
“Are you crazy, darting out in front of my car like that? I could’ve killed you.”
“You’ll have to wait your turn,” I shouted as I dashed into the escalator alcove where Denise had disappeared.
By now she was halfway to the top of the stairs. I was just about to leap on after her when out of nowhere a young mother with a baby stroller jutted in front
of me. And it wasn’t just any baby stroller. The woman had twins! Talk about inconsiderate. Couldn’t she sense I was chasing a killer? And what the heck was she doing bringing toddlers to an office building? There was no way I was going to get past her and her wide-bodied stroller.
And so I did what millions of drunken fraternity boys have been doing since time immemorial. I went up the Down escalator.
Trust me, it’s not easy. Now I knew what a salmon felt like at spawning time.
“Stop that woman!” I shouted as I struggled against the current of the downward moving steps. “She’s the Bridezilla Killer!”
But my fellow escalatorians just looked at me like I was nuts. Can’t say as I blame them. I was, after all, a woman in a Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs T-shirt going up the Down escalator.
Pushing my way past the downstream passengers, I finally made it to the top. This time, with no pesky strollers impeding my progress, I leaped onto the next escalator and took the steps two at a time.
“It’s no use, Denise!” I called out as she got off the escalator. “I know you killed Patti.”
