Death by Tiara

by Laura Levine

  I managed a faint nod.

  “So what do you think, Jaine? You think you can write lyrics that will make my little princess sparkle?”

  Me, write for a beauty pageant? Absolutely not. No way was I going to participate in an institution that objectified young girls by making them parade around in swimsuits, twirling batons and spouting about world peace. I have my standards, you know.

  “I’ll pay you five hundred dollars.”

  On the other hand, who was I to say no to world peace?

  Chapter 2

  Back in my car, I checked my phone messages and was thrilled to find one from my boyfriend.

  Yes, you read that right.

  I, Jaine Austen—a woman whose spiciest romance in the last several years had been with Chef Boyardee—was actually dating someone! An adorable homicide detective named Scott Willis, with huge brown eyes and a most appealing Adam’s apple. I’d met him several months ago while tracking down a killer (a stirring saga you can read all about in Killing Cupid, now available in paperback and on all the usual e-gizmos).

  I knew he was my kind of guy when, on our first date, at a movie revival of Rear Window, he ordered extra butter for our popcorn. Afterward, we spent hours at a coffee shop yakking about our favorite Hitchcock movies. (His: Strangers on a Train. Mine: Shadow of a Doubt.)

  What a treat it was to be on a date with a guy who (unlike my ex-husband, The Blob) didn’t grab handfuls of sugar packets to take home and decant into his sugar bowl.

  All in all, it had been a most gratifying encounter (especially the sizzling good-night kiss at the end). I thought for sure I’d hear from him again. But alas, I heard nothing. Nada. I was back in dating limbo.

  I’d chalked the whole thing up to my bad dating karma when a few weeks ago, out of the blue, Scott called, apologizing profusely for his disappearing act. He said he’d had a reconciliation with an old girlfriend, but it hadn’t worked out. This time, he was certain, the relationship was over for good, and he begged me to give him another chance.

  I figured anyone who could recite all of Alfred Hitchcock’s movies in chronological order deserved a second chance, so I said yes, and we’ve been dating ever since.

  And by “dating,” I mean we’d seen each other exactly four times. But in my world, that constitutes a whirlwind romance.

  Now, in my car outside Heather’s house, I listened to his message eagerly.

  Jaine, I hope you’re free Friday night for dinner with my parents. Let me know, okay?

  Omigosh, he wanted me to meet his parents! Did that mean what I thought it meant? Was Scott getting serious about me?

  I spent the whole drive home in a daze. I should have been thinking about lyrics for Taylor’s song, but nary a syllable came to mind. No, all I could think about for the next thirty-seven miles was what it would be like to be married to Scott Willis and his heavenly Adam’s apple.

  The minute I walked in the door, Prozac glared up at me from where she was hard at work shredding a sofa cushion.

  Where the heck have you been? Do you realize it’s been a whole three hours and twelve minutes since my last snack?

  She raced to my side and was about to launch into her patented Feed Me dance, weaving in and around my ankles with frenzied abandon, when suddenly she stopped and sniffed, her eyes narrowing into suspicious slits.

  Wait a minute. I smell dog! You’ve been cheating on me!

  Oh, dear. Clearly I’d picked up some of Elvis’s dog hairs from Heather’s sectional.

  “I swear, Pro. Nothing happened. He didn’t even like me.”

  An imperious swish of her tail.

  As if. I bet you were cooing and cuddling and giving him belly rubs. To think of all the years we’ve been together, all the hair balls I’ve coughed up for you, all the dead spiders I’ve left in your cereal bowl. And this is how you repay me? I’m filing for divorce! Just as soon as I finish my snack—hey, speaking of my snack, where the heck is it?

  And just like that, she was weaving in and out around my ankles, doing her Feed Me dance.

  What can I say? Her mind tends to wander.

  I’d just tossed her some Hearty Halibut Guts when there was a knock on my door.

  I opened it to find my neighbor, Lance Venable, a stylish dude with a headful of tight blond curls and, at the moment, a huge carton in his arms.

  Lance and I share a duplex in the slums of Beverly Hills, at the very edge of the 90212 zip code, light years from the mega-mansions north of Sunset.

  “The UPS guy brought this while you were gone,” he said, setting the carton down on the floor.

  “It must be my new DVD armoire.”

  Tired of having my bedroom dresser littered with DVDs, I’d found a beautiful miniature armoire online and was looking forward to storing my treasured discs in faux antique splendor.

  “What a stunner!” Lance gushed.

  “How do you know? You haven’t even seen it yet.”

  “Not the armoire. The UPS guy.” His eyes lit up as they always do at the prospect of a love connection. “He’s new on the route. You should’ve seen him in his UPS shorts. Calf muscles to die for!”

  Something told me Lance would be ordering lots of packages in the weeks to come.

  “So how’d it go with the famous music industry star?” Lance said, plopping down on my sofa.

  I’d told him about my upcoming interview, back when I thought I’d actually be meeting someone in the music industry.

  “And who was it, anyway?” he asked eagerly. “Lady Gaga? Madonna? Cher?” By now, his tight blond curls were practically quivering with excitement. “Did you get me an autograph? Free concert tickets? A photo suitable for framing?”

  “Forget it, Lance. There was no music industry star. Some Real Housewife of Orange County wants me to write novelty lyrics for her daughter to sing in a teenage beauty pageant.”

  “Drat,” Lance pouted. “I was counting on those concert tickets to get a date with the UPS guy.”

  “Sorry to bust your bubble,” I said, sitting down next to him on the sofa. “But on the plus side,” I added, “I did get a call from Scott.”

  “The hottie detective?”

  Lance had met Scott during the Killing Cupid affair, and was thrilled that we were seeing each other. Or, as he’d put it, “At last! You’re having a meaningful relationship with someone of your own species!”

  “He wants me to meet his parents.”

  “He does?” Lance sat up, excited. “This is major. The gateway to the wedding altar. The guy’s practically proposing!”

  “Lance, don’t be absurd. Just because he invited me to dinner with his parents doesn’t mean he wants to marry me.”

  “But it means he’s getting serious.”

  Secretly, I couldn’t help but agree.

  “Omigosh!” Lance jumped up and grabbed my arm. “We’ve got to go shopping. I can’t possibly let you wear anything you already own.”

  For some insane reason, Lance is convinced I have no fashion sense. He says moths come to my closet to commit suicide. Which is perfectly absurd, as anyone who’s ever seen my vintage collection of Cuckoo for Coca Puffs T-shirts will be the first to tell you.

  “Lucky for you, today’s my day off,” Lance cried. “Now grab your wallet, hon. It’s about to get a major workout.”

  I’ve never actually hiked up the Himalayas, but I’m betting it’s a cakewalk compared to hitting the malls with Lance.

  With Lance, shopping is an endurance contest, The Amazing Race with accessories.

  One of his major principles in life is Never Buy the First Thing You See, Even If It’s Exactly What You’re Looking For. Lance’s theory is that something better may be right around the corner. And by right around the corner, I mean every mall and boutique within a five-mile radius.

  And of course, that’s exactly what happened when he took me shopping for something to wear to meet Scott’s parents.

  We saw a perfectly adorable Eileen Fisher out
fit on our first stop at Nordstrom—slate-gray silk slacks with a matching V-necked kimono sleeved top. I was a little nervous about the kimono sleeves, thinking they were a tad too dramatic, but Lance insisted they were exactly what I needed.

  “Kimono sleeves will add just the right note of glamor to your drab little life,” he insisted.

  “Who’re you calling drab?” I said, brushing lint off an old sourball I’d just fished out from the bottom of my purse.

  The outfit was on sale, fifty percent off, and fit me perfectly. But when I took out my credit card to buy it, Lance shook his head in horror, insisting we might find something even nicer elsewhere.

  He then proceeded to lead me on an expedition much like the one last made by Lewis and Clark. I can’t tell you how many stores we trekked through: Neiman Marcus (where Lance works as a shoe salesman), Saks, Bloomies, Macy’s, Fred Segal, and Kate Spade. With nary a single stop at a food court! Talk about cruel and unusual punishment. And at the end of our trek? Lance conceded that the first outfit we saw was the best after all.

  Honestly, I deserve combat pay for putting up with that man.

  I staggered back to my apartment, kicking off my shoes the minute I walked in the door.

  “Oh, Pro,” I wailed. “I’ve just spent four hours in shopping hell.”

  She gazed up at me lazily from where she was napping on my computer keyboard.

  Did you bring back snacks?

  Okay, so empathy’s not one of her strong points.

  “What do you think?” I asked, holding out my new outfit for inspection.

  She shot me a frosty glare.

  Very nice. I hope your new dog friend likes it.

  I made a mental note to throw everything I was wearing in the laundry to get rid of all traces of Elvis. And I was just about to do so when I noticed the carton on my living room floor, the one with my new DVD armoire.

  In the agony of my shopping expedition with Lance, I’d forgotten all about it.

  Soon I was ripping it open and lifting out my faux Chippendale armoire, admiring its sleek cherrywood finish. It was every bit as lovely as it had looked online, with plenty of shelves for my DVD collection. I was certain Alfred H. would be quite happy there.

  I spent the next twenty minutes setting it up in my bedroom next to my TV, feeling quite Martha Stewart-ish as I arranged my DVDs in alphabetical order.

  Satisfied with a job well done, I started to run the water for a bath, tossing in a handful of strawberry-scented bath beads. Then, after a quick trip to the kitchen to pour myself a much-needed glass of chardonnay, I stripped off my Elvis-tainted clothes and tossed them into the hamper.

  It was with a huge sigh of relief that I eased my shopworn muscles into the tub, inhaling the rich aroma of my strawberry-scented bubbles—not to mention a wee bit o’ chardonnay.

  Lying there, relaxing in the heat of the sudsy water, I thought about my upcoming dinner date with Scott’s parents. Was it possible Scott was really serious about me? Might he even be about to pop the question? Not that I was ready to get married. Not for a long time. Not until next Thursday, anyway.

  Taking another glug of chardonnay, I wondered what Scott’s parents would be like. What with Scott being a police detective, I figured he came from a down-to-earth middle class family, the kind of people who lived in a cute ranch home with an old-fashioned kitchen banquette and wood paneling in the den. In my mind, his dad was a tall, skinny guy with a hint of a paunch, his mom short and apple-cheeked, fussing over a pot roast in the oven.

  I saw myself sitting at their dining room table, laughing at their stories about the funny things Scott did when he was a kid, modestly telling them about my life as a freelance copywriter.

  “You wrote Just a Shade Better for Ackerman’s Awnings?” Scott’s mom would exclaim, eyes wide with admiration as she passed me the mashed potatoes.

  (Of which I’d be certain to take only one helping.)

  After dinner, Scott would get down on one knee in the wood paneled den, his Adam’s apple bobbing most appealingly as he proposed to me the old-fashioned way.

  And before I knew it, we’d be off on our honeymoon in the Bahamas, drinking mai tais in the infinity pool, after which we’d return to an ivy-covered cottage in Hermosa Beach to raise a family of little Willises. It wasn’t until the birth of our third child, a dimpled cutie named Sebastian, that I finally called a halt to my daydream and dredged myself out of the tub.

  Slipping into my robe, I drifted into my bedroom still high on cloud nine.

  I quickly came thudding back to earth, however, when I glanced over at my new DVD armoire and saw a deep gouge along its sleek cherrywood finish.

  And I knew exactly where it came from—Prozac’s mischievous little claws, which she was now licking industriously.

  “Prozac!” I shrieked. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

  She looked up at me with big green eyes.

  Playing with my new scratching post.

  Darn that cat. She was getting back at me for Elvis.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Exciting news!

  Exciting news, sweetheart! The Tampa Vistas Library is having a fashion show luncheon to raise money for the library, and guess who they’ve asked to be a model? Me! Your five-foot-three-inch, size-fourteen mom. Isn’t that positively thrilling?

  And clever Lydia Pinkus, president of the Tampa Vistas Homeowners Association, has worked out a deal with Pink Flamingo, one of the most exclusive clothing boutiques in town, to loan us clothing for the show.

  Normally, I wouldn’t even dream of buying a dress at Pink Flamingo. The Home Shopping Club is good enough for me. Why spend a fortune on designer clothes, I always say, when you can get a perfectly lovely outfit for a fraction of the price delivered straight to your door?

  Nevertheless, I must confess it’ll be fun to be a model, strutting my stuff at the Tampa Vistas clubhouse. We’re having the luncheon outdoors at the pool. Doesn’t that sound divine? Lydia’s arranging everything. She’s such a capable woman—

  Good heavens. There’s the most godawful racket going on outside.

  Must run and see what’s happening—

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: OMG!

  Omigod! I just looked out the window and there was Daddy, waving at me from a beat up old golf cart, a hideous red plaid golf cap on his head, honking a horn that plays La Cucaracha!

  I’d better get out there before the neighbors start complaining.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Nellybelle

  Of all the idiotic things your daddy has ever bought, this darn golf cart takes the cake. Apparently he answered an ad in the Tampa Vistas Tattler and bought it for $200. Which is about $199 more than it’s worth. He absolutely insisted I go for a ride in the damnable contraption, which he’s calling Nellybelle.

  I told him it looked like it was ready for the junk heap, but he swore it was in tip-top condition, and made such a fuss about taking me for a ride that I foolishly got in.

  What a mistake that was!

  We hadn’t made it to the end of the block when the old junk heap conked out. And guess who had to help Daddy push it back home?

  Time for a hot bath and an emergency piece of fudge.

  Love and XXX from

  Your aching,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: New Member of the Family

  Fantastic news, Lambchop! There’s a new member of the Austen family—Nellybelle, my new golf cart. Well, actually it’s a used golf cart that I picked up for only $200. Just what I need to tool around Tampa Vistas. Think of all the money I’ll save on gas! Took your mom out for an inaugural spin this afternoon. A wonderful adventure, until
Nellybelle stalled at the end of the block. But not to worry. Your mom and I pushed her back home, and now she’s resting comfortably in the garage. I’ll have her up and running in no time!

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  Mr. Fixit, aka Daddy

  P.S. Forgot to tell you: The guy who sold me Nellybelle threw in a free golf hat, and a horn that plays La Cucaracha. Neat, huh? Would you believe his wife made him get rid of all those treasures? Lucky for me, your mom is so understanding.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Feeling Much Better

  Feeling much better now, after my hot bath and piece of fudge. (Okay, three pieces.)

  Daddy’s insisting on fixing Nellybelle himself. Which means, of course, it’ll never get fixed, and I’ll never have to hear that damn La Cucaracha horn ever again.

  Life is good.

  XXX

  Mom

  P.S. Okay, it was four pieces of fudge.

  Chapter 3

  When I woke up the next morning, Prozac was not in her usual position astride my chest, clawing me awake for her breakfast. No, her claws were otherwise engaged, making fresh gouges on my DVD armoire.