Death by Tiara

by Laura Levine

  “Prozac!” I cried, leaping out of bed.

  She gazed at her handiwork with pride.

  Who says cats can’t draw?

  I quickly snatched her up in my arms and hauled her to the kitchen, where I distracted her with a bowl of Hearty Halibut Guts.

  Then, with heavy heart, I examined the damage she’d wrought on the armoire. Fortunately she’d only attacked the side panel. Maybe I’d be able to cover the scratches with some wood stain. In the meantime, I had to keep the armoire safe from further harm. So I covered it with the carton it came in, weighing the carton down with two telephone books.

  It would have to do until I could think of some other way to keep Prozac away from my treasured purchase.

  Carefully closing the bedroom door, I headed back out to the kitchen to nuke myself some coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel.

  Then I settled down at the dining room table, otherwise known as my office, to check my emails. I was foolish enough to open the ones from my parents, something bitter experience has taught me never to do on an empty stomach.

  My parents are perfectly lovely people, but disaster magnets of the highest order. Daddy’s the main culprit. The man attracts trouble like white cashmere attracts red wine. Of course, Mom is not without her quirks, having made Daddy move three thousand miles across country to be near the Home Shopping Club, under the mistaken notion she’d get her packages faster that way. Nevertheless, she’s been a saint to put up with Daddy’s antics all these years. I just hoped she was right about Nellybelle and that the golf cart would soon disappear into the slag heap of Daddy’s unfinished projects out in their garage.

  But I couldn’t worry about my parents. Not now. Not when I had Taylor’s lyrics to write. I’d agreed to do a rush job and promised Heather I’d send them to her by the end of the day. Which meant I had less than eight hours to write song lyrics for a teen queen wannabe posing as a Latin spitfire in a fruit headdress.

  Why, oh, why had I wasted all that time shopping with Lance yesterday?

  So the very minute I finished my cinnamon raisin bagel I buckled down and started writing.

  Okay, so the minute I finished my cinnamon raisin bagel, I nuked myself another one. But right after that, I got down to work. I did not get very far, however, staring at the blank screen, wondering what the heck I’d gotten myself into.

  The whole thing turned out to be a lot harder than I anticipated.

  I don’t suppose you’ve ever given it any serious thought, but many of the words that rhyme with “queen” are a tad uninspired. Like “mean,” “bean,” and “latrine,” to name just a few.

  Finally, after countless trips to the refrigerator for inspiration, I came up with the following ditty:

  TAYLOR FOR TEEN QUEEN

  My name is Taylor

  And I’m here to say

  I want to be teen queen

  In the very worst way

  I’ve got grace, I’ve got charm, I’ve got poise to spare

  Not only that, I’ve got super shiny hair!

  I look good in a swimsuit without sucking my gut

  And if I say so myself I’ve got a mighty cute butt

  I can sing, I can dance, I can play the kazoo

  But my real ambition is to represent you

  So vote for Taylor and I’ll never cease

  To whiten my teeth and work for world peace!

  CHORUS

  Aye aye aye aye

  Taylor’s so sweet

  Aye aye aye aye

  She can’t be beat

  Aye aye aye aye

  Goodwill she’ll preach

  Aye aye aye aye

  Taylor’s a peach!

  (TAKES A PEACH FROM HER HEADDRESS

  AND THROWS IT TO THE JUDGES WITH

  A PERKY SMILE)

  Something told me I could forget about my career as a future Grammy winner. But it was the best I could do. So I took a deep breath and emailed the lyrics to Heather.

  I only hoped she liked them. And what if she didn’t? Would she still pay me the five hundred bucks she’d promised? I kicked myself for not ironing out the details of the deal. Oh, well. There was nothing I could do about it now.

  Worn out from my exertions, and still in my pajamas, I headed for my bedroom to take a restorative nap.

  I cringed to see the bedroom door open.

  Which could mean only one thing. Prozac had broken in.

  I raced inside to check on my armoire. Surely there was no way she could get past two phone books and a packing carton.

  Who am I kidding? That cat was a regular Houdini with hair balls.

  Somehow she’d managed to dislodge the phone books and upend the carton, and was back at work perfecting her chef d’oeuvre on the side of my armoire. Several more scratches had been added to her masterpiece.

  She gazed up at me with a proud swish of her tail.

  Eat your heart out, Picasso.

  A half hour later, I’d put all my DVDs back on my dresser, sealed the armoire tight as a drum in its carton, and stashed it away in the hall closet.

  Score one for Prozac.

  But this little game wasn’t over.

  Not by a long shot.

  The next day dragged by interminably as I waited in vain for Heather to call.

  I spent most of it working on a Toiletmasters brochure for their new “double flush” commode (don’t ask), but my heart wasn’t in it.

  True, my heart’s rarely in it when I’m writing about toilet bowls, but that day I was especially distracted.

  When three o’clock rolled around and I still hadn’t heard from Heather, I assumed it was a lost cause. She’d read my teen queen lyrics and was probably using them to scoop up Elvis’s latest poops.

  I was heading for the kitchen for a teensy Oreo break when I heard a knock at my door.

  I opened it and saw the first bright spot in my otherwise gloomy day.

  Standing there was Scott, my shiny new boyfriend, his Adam’s apple looking extra kissable in the afternoon sun.

  “Hi, there,” he smiled, turning my knees to mush. “I was working a case in the neighborhood and I decided to pop by for a quick hello.”

  “Hi,” I squeaked, trying not to sound too overjoyed.

  “Actually,” he said, stepping inside, “I wasn’t really in the neighborhood. I drove all the way from Culver City. And I didn’t want to just say hello.”

  With that, he wrapped me in his arms for a smooch.

  This is a family novel, so I won’t go in for tawdry details, but let’s just say it was quite a while before we finally came up for air.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said.

  “Not a thing,” I replied, mentally tossing all thoughts of Heather and double-flush toilets out the window.

  We were in the middle of an encore performance of our smooch when suddenly I felt something furry wedging its way between us.

  It was Prozac, of course, who was using Scott’s ankle as her own personal stripper pole.

  “How’s my little love bunny?” Scott asked, swooping her up in his arms.

  She gazed up at him seductively.

  Lonesome without you, big boy.

  Talk about your shameless hussies.

  “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven,” Scott said to me as Prozac licked his neck with abandon, “and we’ll drive out to my folks together.”

  “Fine,” I nodded, still a bit numb from his kisses.

  For all I knew, he asked all his dates to meet his parents. I was probably making way too big a deal of this.

  “I sure hope they like me,” I said.

  “Of course, they’ll like you. They’re gonna love you. Just like—”

  Just like I do, were the words I was waiting for him to add. But much to my disappointment, all he said, was, “Just like everybody does.”

  So much for declarations of love.

  “Wish I could stick around,” he said, “but I’ve got to get back to work. My par
tner thinks I’m out getting donuts.”

  After planting a quick kiss on my nose, he peeled Prozac from his neck and headed out the door.

  I trudged back to my computer with a sigh, forcing myself to wax euphoric over Toiletmasters’ double-flush toilet. I was in the middle of describing its sleek lines and “comfort height” seat when the phone rang.

  “Jaine, honey!” Heather’s voice came zinging across the line. “So sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner, but I’ve had a hectic day at the spa. So many pores, so little time! Anyway, hon, Taylor and I read your lyrics and we love them!”

  Ka-ching! Five hundred clams in the bank!

  “Not only that, Taylor insists that you come with us to the pageant this weekend. She wants you there for moral support. I’ll pay for everything, of course. Room. Food. The works.”

  A weekend in Alta Loco at a teen beauty pageant? Not exactly a dream destination.

  “I’ll even throw in an extra five hundred dollars!” Heather chirped.

  “What time do we check in?”

  We agreed to meet in the hotel lobby the next day at 3 PM. I explained to Heather that I’d need to drive up to L.A. for dinner with Scott’s folks, which was fine with her.

  I hung up, feeling quite pleased with myself. Not only was I about to earn an extra five hundred bucks, but it was most gratifying to know that I’d made a connection with Taylor. Clearly the teen had been impressed with my talents and looked upon me as a role model and mentor.

  It felt good having such a positive effect on a girl at such an impressionable age.

  Just as I was basking the glow of my own wonderfulness, about to award myself my own personal Medal of Honor, the phone rang.

  “Jaine. It’s me, Taylor.” For some reason, she was whispering. “About this weekend—”

  “I’m really flattered that you want me along, Taylor. Any advice you need, any moral support, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Yeah, right, whatever. Just remember to bring M&M’s, okay?”

  Cancel that Medal of Honor.

  Chapter 4

  I set out for Alta Loco the next afternoon with a spring in my step, a smile on my lips, and enough M&M’s to stock a movie concession.

  All systems were go for my departure.

  Lance had agreed to look after Prozac while I was gone and had already planned a special outing at a pet beauty spa for her and his dog Mamie.

  I’d texted Scott to tell him I’d be driving to his parents’ house from Alta Loco and asked him to send me their address. And packed away in my suitcase, ready to make a fab first impression, was my new gray silk blouse with the kimono sleeves.

  What’s more, I’d checked the hotel online and saw it had a Jacuzzi and sauna. With any luck, I’d be able to sneak off to the sauna and sweat off an extra pound or fifteen before dinner.

  Now I picked up my bags and headed for the door.

  “Thanks so much for taking care of Pro,” I said to Lance, who was sitting on the sofa with her royal highness.

  “No problem, hon. She and Mamie are going to have so much fun getting their aromatherapy baths.”

  I pitied the poor soul who tried to give Prozac a bath. Fur would fly, and it wouldn’t be Prozac’s.

  “Will you miss me while I’m gone, sweet pea?”

  Prozac glanced up from where she was nestled in Lance’s arms and gave me a quizzical look.

  And you are . . . ?

  Really, in my next life, I’ve got to come back as a dog person.

  I wasn’t expecting the Ritz-Carlton, but I groaned in dismay when I pulled into the cracked blacktop parking lot of the hotel. A concrete bunker with sun-bleached stucco and rusted balconies, the place hadn’t been updated in years. A red sign out front perched on rickety poles told me that I was at the AMADA INN. Even from thirty feet away I could see the faint outlines of a missing R. Clearly the place had once been a Ramada Inn, and whoever bought it hadn’t bothered to spring for a new sign.

  The inside wasn’t any better. The carpet was threadbare, the lobby chairs worn thin by decades of tourists’ tushes.

  I did not, however, get to see much of the hotel furniture when I walked in the lobby to the Teen Queen pageant that day. The place was a sea of raging hormones. Everywhere I looked, I saw big hair, pouty lips, and jutting boobs.

  And those were just the moms.

  The teens were an assorted lot of pubescent nymphs—some ready for their Cosmo close-ups, others still wrestling with braces and acne.

  I looked around and spotted Heather and Taylor waiting on line to check in. Heather was decked out in skin-tight jeans and tank top, her long legs tottering on five-inch wedgies. And nestled in her arms, growling at anyone foolish enough to make eye contact, was her pooch, Elvis.

  Taylor stood next to her, still in the same sloppy sweats she’d been wearing when I met her, still reading Siddhartha.

  “Honestly, Taylor,” I heard Heather say as I walked over to them. “I don’t understand why you insisted on wearing these ratty old sweats.”

  “They’re not judging me on checking in,” Taylor replied with an exasperated sigh.

  “Who knows?” Heather snapped. “Maybe they are. Maybe secret judges are lurking around to see how you behave when you’re not on stage.”

  “Well, I don’t understand why you had to bring that stupid calorie scale,” Taylor shot back.

  I looked down and sure enough, there was a small scale perched on top of Heather’s matching leopard-print luggage.

  “Because you can’t afford to gain a single ounce, that’s why!”

  Time for me to break up this little mother-daughter spat.

  “Hi, guys!” I said, wheeling over my CVS suitcase (only $29.99, plus a 25 percent off coupon on my next purchase of Dr. Scholl’s foot pads).

  “Jaine, dear!” Heather cried, wrapping me in her arms and giving me an air kiss.

  Did you bring the M&M’s? Taylor mouthed behind her back.

  I shot her a surreptitious nod as Heather let me go.

  “Look, Mom!” someone piped up behind us. “A dog!”

  We turned to see a blue-eyed teen making koochy noises at Elvis, who rewarded her with a particularly nasty growl.

  “Don’t pet him,” snapped the teen’s mom, a wiry redhead with a pinched face and jutting chin. “He may have fleas.”

  “My dog does not have fleas!” Heather cried, whirling around to see who’d just insulted her pride and joy.

  “If you say so,” the redhead replied with a smirk.

  “And watch where you’re eating that ice cream,” Heather warned the redhead’s daughter, who was eating an ice cream cone just inches away from a rolling rack with several garment bags suspended from it. “There’s a fifteen-hundred-dollar Vera Wang gown in one of those bags,” Heather bragged.

  “Really?” said the redhead. “You spent fifteen hundred dollars on a gown for your daughter?”

  “Not only that,” Heather added, pointing to yours truly, “I hired a songwriter to write lyrics for the talent contest.”

  I stood there, trying to look as professional as possible, hoping no one would ask me to sing a medley of my hit tune, The Toiletmasters Christmas Party Song.

  “My Gigi’s a natural beauty,” the redhead crowed. “She doesn’t need a designer label or a songwriter to win this contest.”

  “Maybe not,” Heather muttered under her breath. “But she sure could use a nose job.”

  “I heard that!” the redhead screeched.

  “C’mon, Mom,” Taylor said, grabbing Heather by the arm. “It’s our turn to check in.”

  And indeed, a harried clerk was waving us over to the check-in desk. Not a moment too soon.

  “They shouldn’t allow dumb animals in this hotel,” the redhead hissed in a stage whisper that could be heard clear across the lobby.

  Heather whirled around, indignant.

  “My Elvis is not a dumb animal!”

  “I wasn’t talking about the dog,” the
redhead sneered.

  Heather shot her a filthy look.

  Oh, dear. Something told me this was going to be a long weekend.

  We rolled our luggage over to the Amada Inn’s two dinky elevators, only to discover one of them was out of order.

  Why was I not surprised?

  Impatient clumps of moms and teens hovered near the working elevator, ready to charge in the minute the doors opened.

  Heather grabbed her garment rack and was about to push her way through the mob when she suddenly stopped dead in her tracks.

  “Omigosh!” she whispered, nudging me in the ribs. “A judge!”

  She gestured to a skinny guy in a bow tie and round wire-rimmed glasses.

  And indeed on the lapel of his blazer was a tag that read OFFICIAL JUDGE, MISS TEEN QUEEN AMERICA PAGEANT.

  “That’s Dr. Fletcher,” Taylor said. “He’s the principal at Alta Loco High.”

  “Let’s go over and say hello,” Heather said, eager to pounce.

  “I can’t say hello, Mom,” Taylor protested. “He doesn’t even know me. Alta Loco is a big school.”

  “Well, young lady, it’s time he got to know you.”

  With that, she grabbed Taylor by the elbow, and hauled her over to the principal’s side.

  “Hi, there,” she cooed, batting her false eyelashes. “I couldn’t help but notice you’re one of the pageant judges.”

  He nodded warily. I’m guessing he knew a barracuda mom when he saw one.

  “Allow me to introduce myself,” Heather prattled on. “I’m Heather Van Sant, and this is my extraordinarily talented daughter, Taylor.”

  All around her, the other moms were giving her the stink eye.

  But Heather kept slathering it on with a trowel.

  “You should hear my daughter sing,” Heather crowed. “She has the voice of an angel.”

  “How nice,” the principal replied with a wan smile.

  For a minute, I was afraid Heather was going to make Taylor put on her Carmen Miranda outfit and belt out a tune right there in the lobby.

  But just then the elevator door opened, and Heather sprang into action, determined to make her way on board.