“Okay,” Tonio muttered. “But let’s not stand around gabbing forever. I wanna eat.”
You’re not the only one, I felt like telling him.
“Be good, you two,” Joy said to me and Skip with a most disgusting wink, and then trotted off to hound Greg Stanton.
I spent the rest of the dinner in culinary hell, watching a parade of steaks sail past me, stuck with a plate of crummy steamed veggies.
The meal slogged on for what seemed like an eternity but was in reality only fifty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. (I was counting.) During which time Skip treated me to a recitation of The Life and Times of Skip Holmeier—starting with his kindergarten years, his stint at Stanford, his four decades at the brokerage firm of Holmeier & Holmeier, his endless charitable works, and his stultifyingly boring stamp collection. And, of course, his slavish devotion to the late Miss Marple, the patter of whose little paws had been like music to Skip’s ears.
Because he talked so much, it took him forever to finish his damn veggies. At one point, I was thisclose to stabbing my fork into his cauliflower and shoving it down his throat.
Eventually he finished his veggie plate, and I practically wept with relief when he signaled Maurice for the check.
At last my long ordeal was over.
Or so I thought.
We were on our way out of the restaurant when Skip looked over at the bar area, where the jazz pianist was still tinkling the ivories.
Stopping dead in his tracks, Skip clutched his heart. Once again, I was bracing myself for a coronary.
But, no. Skip was fine.
“The piano player,” he said. “He’s playing ‘Misty.’ ”
And so he was, a very lovely rendition of it.
“That was Miss Marple’s favorite song,” Skip said, blinking back tears.
(In case you’re interested, Miss Marple’s favorite movie was Three Coins in the Fountain, and her favorite TV show was Green Acres. All fun facts I’d gleaned during dinner.)
“Let’s go listen,” Skip pleaded.
I was about to say no, but then I saw something that made me change my mind—large bowls of mixed nuts on the tables.
After the anemic plate of steamed veggies I’d choked down for dinner, those nuts looked mighty tempting.
“Okay,” I said. “But just for a few minutes.”
Skip led me to a table right up front near the pianist, who was still belting out “Misty.”
The minute we sat down, I reached for the bowl of nuts and held on to them with a viselike grip.
Take these away, I felt like warning Skip, and you’re a dead man.
But Skip wasn’t interested in the nuts. His eyes were closed, lost no doubt in memories of Miss Marple.
We gave our orders to a cocktail waitress: celery tonic for Skip and organic chardonnay for moi.
The minute she was gone, I wasted no time diving into those nuts, picking out the cashews first, then chomping down on some Brazil nuts. I offered some to Skip, but thank heavens, he waved them away.
I’d just finished fishing out a particularly tasty Brazil nut when I looked up and saw the piano player staring at me and smiling in a most seductive manner.
Good heavens. Was he actually flirting with me?
Skip seemed to think so.
“I don’t like the way that man is looking at you,” he said, glaring at the piano player and taking a stiff shot of his celery tonic.
“Don’t be silly,” I whispered. “I’m sure he smiles at all the patrons.”
But I was wrong. The handsome, dark-haired pianist kept his eyes on me, and me only, all the while beaming me his seductive smile.
Hmm. Maybe this date wasn’t turning out so bad, after all. Maybe the pianist would turn out to be the man of my dreams, and maybe someday we’d be telling our grandchildren how we fell in love at first sight over a bowl of mixed nuts.
“No, I don’t like it,” Skip was saying, shooting daggers at the piano player. “Not one bit. He’s got a nerve staring at you like that.”
“I’m sure it means nothing, Skip,” I said, praying I was wrong.
We sat through a few more tunes, Skip growing angrier with each slug of his celery tonic. Finally when the pianist had not taken his eyes off me for twelve consecutive minutes, Skip banged down his glass.
“That does it!” he cried, getting up.
“Please, Skip. People are staring.”
And indeed everyone in the joint was looking at him.
But Skip didn’t care.
Shoving back his chair, he stomped over to the piano player.
“My good man,” he sputtered, “I resent the way you have been leering at my fiancée all night.”
His fiancée???
I almost choked on a filbert.
Since when had we gotten engaged? Was it possible he’d proposed during dinner and I’d missed it? Had I dozed off some time during the cauliflower course?
“I may be of advanced years,” Skip was saying, “but I am a master in the art of fisticuffs. Shall we take this out into the alley?”
“Okay, dude,” said the handsome pianist, smiling serenely, “but first I’m going to have to get Lucy.”
Lucy? We hadn’t even gone on our first date, and already there was another woman.
“C’mere, Lucy, honey!”
And then out from behind a curtain came a dog with a harness. The pianist got up and reached for a cane I’d failed to notice on top of his piano.
Yikes. Lucy was a Seeing Eye dog, and the guy who’d fallen in love with me at first sight was blind.
Cancel that honeymoon.
“I’m so sorry, my good man,” Skip said, tossing a fifty-dollar bill in the tip jar. “I had no idea....”
He rejoined me at our table and all around us, I could hear people buzzing in pity for the poor piano player, outraged at the scene Skip had just caused.
“I don’t care how old he is. He’s still a bully,” I heard one lady say.
“And what about his date?” I heard her husband reply. “Did you see the way she sucked up those nuts? Like a vacuum cleaner.”
I sat there, shrinking with embarrassment as my former true love finished his set.
“Shall we go?” Skip asked brightly when it was all over, as if he hadn’t just humiliated himself (and moi) in front of a roomful of jazz lovers.
Head bowed in shame, I followed Skip out the door, ignoring the dirty looks boring into our backs.
“Care for a nut?” I heard someone snicker behind my back.
“Nah,” another wise guy cried out. “She’s already dating one.”
A perfect ending to my Date of Joy.
Joy sprang from her office to greet me when I showed up at work the next day, eager to hear about my date with Skip.
“So how was it?” she asked.
“Like the Hindenburg, with cauliflower.”
Okay, so what I really said was:
“Skip’s a very nice guy, but I don’t think I want to see him again.”
“Oh, but you have to! It’s a Dates of Joy rule. You’ve got to give every potential love mate at least three chances.”
Oh, no. No way in hell was I going out with Skip again. A girl has her limits.
“Sorry, Joy. I’m a writer, not a member of your club. You set me up so I could get a picture of how the club works. I got the picture. I don’t need to see any more.”
I stood back and braced myself for Hurricane Joy to strike again.
But much to my surprise, she pursed her lips in a pout and put on a Poor Me look.
“Oh, dear,” she sighed. “Skip’s a very important client. I need to stay on his good side. And he really likes you. He already called to tell me so. If I throw in an extra five hundred bucks to your pay, will you follow my three-date rule?”
Good Lord. Did she actually think I was the kind of woman who’d pimp myself out and date a man I had absolutely no interest in for a few extra dollars?
If so, she kn
ew me well.
“Three dates, it is,” I said with a feeble smile.
Oh, don’t go shaking your head like that.
Somebody had to pay to keep Prozac up to her furry little neck in Hearty Halibut Guts. And I don’t see you opening your wallet, do I?
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Magnificent Gift!
Wonderful news, Lambchop! I’ve just bought your mom the most magnificent Valentine’s Day gift. A genuine pink diamond ring! For only fifty bucks! What a bargain, huh? I got it from a guy in the parking lot at Costco who gets his stuff wholesale and passes on the savings to his customers. I can’t wait to see your mom’s face when she opens the box!
Love ’n’ snuggles from,
Daddy
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: All I Really Want
Daddy’s been dropping hints all week about what a fabulous Valentine’s gift he bought me. Frankly, sweetheart, all I really want for Valentine’s Day is a nice dinner at Le Chateaubriand where Daddy doesn’t go running off to the bar every five minutes to check the sports scores.
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: A New Leaf
I’ve been giving it some thought, Lambchop, and I may have overreacted just a tad the other day at the clubhouse. Mom insists that all Lester was doing was giving her a palm reading, and I’m inclined to believe her. After all, your mother is a woman of sterling moral values. And Lester may be an insufferable gasbag, but he couldn’t possibly have the gall to make a pass at Mom, especially in a community like Tampa Vistas, where gossip travels at the speed of light. I guess I was rather foolish to overreact. Must make a note to turn over a new leaf and rein in my emotions in the future.
Oops. Gotta run. Your mom’s calling me.
Love ’n’ hugs from,
Daddy
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: The Gasbag Romeo Strikes Again!
You won’t believe what your mom just found on our doorstep: Two dozen pink roses. The card said, “Happy Valentine’s Day from Your Secret Admirer.”
Well, we all know who that is. The gasbag Romeo has struck again! If he thinks I’m going to sit by quietly as he flirts with your mother, he’s got another think coming!
Your outraged,
Daddy
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: My Secret Admirer
Omigosh, honey. Somebody just left two dozen of the most glorious pink roses on our doorstep. The card was signed, “From Your Secret Admirer.” There was no florist’s name on the card, so we have no way of finding out who sent them. Daddy’s convinced they’re from Lester Pinkus.
Oh, heavens. Could Daddy possibly be right?
Does Lester Pinkus have a secret crush on me?
Love and XXX
From your very rattled,
Mom
Chapter 7
I must admit I was a tad shocked to read my parents’ e-mails the next morning. I’d thought for sure Lester Pinkus’s “crush” on Mom was all a figment of Daddy’s imagination. But now I had my doubts.
Did Lester actually send Mom those two dozen roses? Was he her Secret Admirer? Would Daddy make it through the day without challenging him to a duel?
Only time—and the next couple of chapters—will tell.
All thoughts of my parents’ love triangle vanished into the ether, however, when I showed up at the office and found Joy in the middle of a major meltdown.
It seems her sapphire earrings, the ones I’d seen her wearing at Simon’s the other night, had gone missing. And now Joy was stomping around the office, curses flying, ready to call in Scotland Yard to nab the thieves. If you asked me, she probably misplaced them. But Joy was only too happy to pin the blame on someone else. Anyone else. The plumbers who’d come to her condo to fix a leak. Her weekly maid service. Even poor Travis came under suspicion, having been unlucky enough to have delivered some dry cleaning to her condo the previous afternoon.
After much deliberation, she decided the culprits were the gals at Mighty Maids Maid Service.
“I’m going to sue those bastards for every cent they’re worth!” she said, getting on the phone with her attorney.
I wisely spent the day trying to stay under her radarscope, working on fictitious dating profiles. At around five p.m. I made a break for it, whispering my good-byes to Cassie and Travis.
Out in the hallway I sprinted for the elevator and waited impatiently for it to come. It finally showed up, and I was just about to step inside when I heard Joy’s familiar screech:
“Yoo hoo, Jaine! Hold that elevator!”
Oh, groan. For an instant I debated pretending I didn’t hear her. But, coward that I was, I didn’t have the nerve. So I held open the elevator doors as she came puffing to join me. I rode down with her, listening to her blather about the evil vixens at Mighty Maids, all the while inhaling the asphyxiating scent of her designer perfume.
When at last the doors opened and we made our way to the small parking lot out back, I gulped the fresh air gratefully.
“Those thieving maids will rot in hell when I’m through with them!” Joy was ranting when suddenly an older-model Mercedes came roaring into the lot and, with a squeal of brakes, lurched to a stop in front of us.
A tall, raven-haired gal emerged from the car, her animal-print dress pulled tight around her stick-thin frame. She tossed her great mane of ebony tresses—most of which I suspected were extensions—and planted herself in front of us.
Up close I could see her skin had been pulled tauter than a snare drum, her eyebrows immovable as Mount Rushmore. Clearly she’d put some lucky plastic surgeon’s kids through college, and probably grad school.
“Why the hell haven’t you returned my calls?” she asked Joy, her eyes flashing anger.
“Do I know you?” Joy replied in her snootiest Queen Mum voice.
“Yes, you know me. I’m one of your clients. Alyce Winters.”
“The name sounds familiar,” Joy conceded.
“It should. I’ve been leaving you messages every day for the past two weeks.”
“I’ve been busy,” Joy replied with a careless shrug.
“Six months ago I forked over ten grand for your so-called dating service. You promised you’d introduce me to my choice of millionaires, and so far I’ve had exactly one date—with a dumpy insurance salesman from Downey who spent half the date trying to sell me a term life policy.”
If you expected Joy to be contrite, think again. Never an empathetic soul on the best of days, Joy was now in an especially foul Mighty Maids-induced mood.
With all the tact and sensitivity of a rabid pit bull, she snarled, “Hey, honey. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re not exactly a painting in the Louvre.”
Alyce gasped.
“You’re not fooling anyone with those hair extensions and that bargain-basement facelift. I’m a matchmaker, not a miracle worker. The insurance salesman was the best I could do for a Botoxed old bag like you.”
I’m sure Alyce’s face would have been contorted with rage if her muscles hadn’t been frozen solid.
There was, however, no mistaking the fire burning in her eyes.
“How dare you?” she managed to sputter.
“This is how,” said Joy.
With that, she gave her a powerful shove, which sent Alyce reeling up against a nearby Camry.
“Get lost, loser!” Joy screeched. “And don’t bother me again. You’re officially banned from Dates of Joy!”
Alyce and I watched in stunned disbelief as Joy marched over to her silver Jaguar, flung herself inside, and zoomed away.
“Never in my life has anyone ever talked to me like that.” Alyce’s lips somehow managed to bust through her filler and began trembling.
“I’m so sorry,�
� I tsked. “Would you like an Almond Joy?” I started fishing around in my purse for a bar I’d been snacking on earlier that afternoon. “I’m afraid I may have already taken a bite or two, but you can eat it from the other end.”
The offer of chocolate, usually a foolproof antidepressant, failed to cheer her up.
“No, thanks,” she said woodenly, brushing herself off and heading for her Mercedes.
As she walked away, I couldn’t help noticing she was crying.
The rest of her facial muscles may have been Botoxed to oblivion, but her tear ducts were working just fine.
I drove home, unable to forget those tears rolling down Alyce Winters’s cheeks. How could Joy have treated her so cruelly? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. By the time I got back to my apartment, I’d decided to quit my gig with Dates of Joy.
Yes, my mind was made up. And it stayed that way for a whole thirteen and a half seconds—until I saw the small mountain of unpaid bills piled up on my dining room table.
Oh, dear. As much as I wanted to, I simply could not afford to walk away from Joy Amoroso.
After sloshing some Minced Mackerel Guts into Prozac’s dinner bowl, I made a beeline for the fridge to pour myself a much-needed glass of chardonnay. I had just taken a few sips (okay, gulps) when the phone rang.
Wearily, I trotted over to answer it.
I did not think it was possible for my spirits to sink any lower, but the voice at the other end of the line sent them plummeting.
“Hello, sweetheart.” Oh, gaak. It was Skip Holmeier. “How’s my favorite green-eyed gal?”
“My eyes are hazel.”
“Actually I was talking about Prozac.”
Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) Page 5
