Death by Tiara

by Laura Levine

  Before I started out on my walk, I decided to limber up with some leg lifts. So I got down on my Flokati rug and began. Right leg, lift. Left leg, lift. Right leg—Gosh, my Flokati was soft. And fluffy, too. I’d never realized it was so comfy before. Like a cloud of wool. Maybe I’d just close my eyes for a minute to gather my energy.

  You know where this is going, right?

  Three hours later, I woke up with drool on my chin and Flokati fuzz up my nose.

  Thoroughly disgusted, I hoisted myself up and took my long-delayed walk—all the way to the phone to order Chinese food for dinner.

  Okay, so I didn’t go for a walk. And I ate Chinese food for dinner.

  But don’t have a hissy fit. All I had was two egg rolls and a bowl of wonton soup. Honest!

  And I practically skipped breakfast the next morning. Just half a cinnamon raisin bagel. No butter. No jam. Which I ate standing up at the kitchen sink. And, as anybody who’s ever studied physics in the National Enquirer knows, anything consumed while standing up has zero calories.

  After breakfast, I spent a good hour showering, exfoliating, and wrestling my curls into an artfully tousled bed-head look.

  Then I headed to my closet to choose an outfit. Deciding what to wear, however, was a bit tricky.

  Ma Willis had told me to dress casually. But for all I knew, that was a trap. Maybe I’d show up in jeans only to find Chloe lounging about in a lavish designer dress. In the end I decided to compromise and go for the Elegant Casual look: My skinny jeans, a white silk blouse, and my one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks.

  I was just about to get dressed when I heard Lance banging on my door.

  “Jaine! Let me in!”

  With a sigh, I shuffled into the living room and opened the door, prepared to hear another Ode to Gary.

  “What is it?” I asked, a tad brusquely.

  “The best news ever!”

  “You got a riding crop to match your new tweed jacket?”

  “No, but that’s an interesting idea. Must Google ‘riding crops’ when I get back to my apartment. Anyhow, hon, I just got off the phone with my pilot buddy Frank. Frank does skywriting, and he’s agreed to skywrite a love note from Cyril above Scott’s parents’ house today!”

  “Cyril?”

  “Cyril, your old boyfriend, the one who can’t forget you. The one who sent you those gorgeous silk flowers, which, by the way, I’d like back.”

  Ah, yes. My mythical boyfriend, dreamed up by Lance to make Scott jealous.

  “Here’s what the message is going to say.”

  Lance whipped a piece of paper from his pocket and read:

  Jaine Austen is Awfully Nice

  Like Sugar and Spice

  Love and kisses, Cyril

  “Lance, that’s way too long for a skywriter. The most they ever do is a word or two.”

  “That’s what I thought at first. But thanks to new skywriting technology, Frank assures me he can write out the entire message.”

  “You really think it can work?”

  “Absolutely! When Scott sees it, he’ll be positively oozing jealousy.”

  I liked the sound of that.

  “Now all I need is the Willises’ address.”

  I gave it to him, and I have to admit I was feeling quite pumped. It was fun having a skywriting ex-boyfriend who worshipped the ground I walked on.

  “Wish me luck at the party,” I said.

  “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Just be yourself.” Then, eyeing my ratty chenille robe with the jelly stains on the lapel, he added, “On second thought, be someone else. Try Gwyneth Paltrow. That should make a good impression.”

  “Thanks heaps,” I snarled.

  “No need to thank me, hon! That’s what friends are for!”

  And off he skipped, back to his apartment, to surf the Web for riding crops.

  Chapter 28

  I set out for Malibu, full of confidence. When I’d checked myself out in the mirror before leaving my apartment, I liked what I saw. My skinny jeans/white silk blouse/Manolo Blahniks ensemble looked quite fetching, especially when I added a pair of dangly silver earrings. So what if my earlier visits to Hell House had been a tad disastrous? There was no reason today couldn’t be a perfectly lovely day.

  After all, I reminded myself as I tooled along the Coast Highway, I was bright. Funny. Reasonably attractive. And I had a skywriting ex-boyfriend who worshipped the ground I walked on.—No, wait. I didn’t have Cyril. He was just a figment of Lance’s overactive imagination. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t attractive. Especially in my skinny jeans and white silk blouse ensemble.—Oh, no! Was that a big yellow mystery stain on the sleeve of my blouse? Why hadn’t I noticed it at home? And why were my skinny jeans pinching me at my not-so-skinny waist? I’d hardly eaten a thing for breakfast. I peeked in my rearview mirror to check out my hair. What had seemed cute and bedhead-y at home now looked like a messy mop of frizz. Oh, who was I kidding? I could never compete with the spectacular Chloe. Why on earth had I ever agreed to go back to Hell House?

  I spent the rest of the ride reliving humiliating vignettes from my prior visits: Spilling wine on Ma Willis’s heirloom tablecloth. Showing up reeking of Cat-Away. Sending Pa Willis to the hospital with an errant Frisbee. All of it in slo-mo and living color.

  By the time I drove up to the Willises’ driveway, I was ready to turn around and go home again. I’d call Scott and make up some excuse. A dental emergency. Or a flat tire. I’d think of something.

  I was just about to make a break for it when the front door opened and Scott came out, looking great, as usual, in jeans and a T-shirt.

  “Hi, Jaine!” he said, walking over to my Corolla, his brown curls glinting in the sun. “I saw your car pulling up.”

  I looked up at his Adam’s apple and my heart (and other assorted body parts) melted.

  Like a lamb trotting willingly to slaughter, I got out of the car.

  “Happy birthday,” I squeaked.

  “It is, now that you’re here.”

  With that, he wrapped me in his arms and kissed me. A hot, steamy one.

  And just like that, I was filled with hope. Maybe this birthday brunch wouldn’t be so awful after all.

  His arm draped proprietarily over my shoulders, he led me inside the house and then out back to the patio, where the lynch mob—I mean, family—were gathered around the brunch table, sipping mimosas.

  Sure enough, Chloe was there, too.

  “Hey, everybody!” Scott called out. “Look who’s here.”

  “Jaine, my dear, how lovely to see you,” Ma Willis lied, wiggling her fingers hello beneath her gimlet glare.

  I saw now that she hadn’t misled me about dressing casually. Everyone except Grammy Willis (clad in an eye-popping hibiscus muumuu) seemed to be wearing jeans.

  Chloe, a much better actress than Ma Willis, hopped up and pecked me on the cheek.

  “So nice you could make it,” she cooed. Her jeans were topped off with one of those flowy blouses with tiers of ruffles that only the truly skinny can get away with. On her feet she wore intricately tooled cowboy boots. Very Sundance Goes to Brunch.

  I fought back a wave of jealousy and forced a smile.

  Pa Willis, I gulped to see, was sporting a big black eye patch, his one good eye glued, as usual, to The Weather Channel.

  “Omigod, what’s she doing here?!” cried Grammy Willis, clutching a Bloody Mary in her gnarled fist. “Watch out, Brighton, or she’ll poke your other eye out.”

  “Ignore her,” Scott whispered in my ear. “The woman’s a walking advertisement for euthanasia.”

  He led me over to the table, as far from Grammy Willis as possible, his arm still nestled over my shoulders.

  I took a seat, and though I knew I was sitting in a viper’s nest, I felt marvelously protected.

  Throughout the meal, as Ma Willis rambled on about people I didn’t know and places I’d never been, Scott murmured in my ear: about how pretty I looked. How s
weet I smelled. How he wished it were just the two of us alone together.

  He barely even glanced at Chloe.

  Between the fantastic frittata I was eating, the mimosa I was drinking, and Scott’s hand on my thigh, I was having a marvelous time.

  I didn’t even mind when Grammy Willis mistook me for Rosita and asked me for a refill on her Bloody Mary.

  By the time the real Rosita wheeled out Scott’s birthday cake, I was feeling foolish about ever having been worried about coming to the party.

  Everyone sang Happy Birthday (except Grammy Willis, who was belting out the national anthem), and then Scott blew out the candles and made a wish.

  I only hoped he was wishing for a gal in a white silk blouse with a yellow mystery stain on the sleeve.

  The birthday cake, you’ll be happy to know, was divine: Chocolate with fudge frosting. I vowed to leave a ladylike portion of cake on my plate, a vow that flew right out the window as soon as I took my first bite.

  Chloe picked at her cake, avoiding the frosting. (Don’t you just hate her?) But who cared? I was the one sitting within kissing distance of Scott’s Adam’s apple, not her.

  Just as I was scraping the last of the frosting from my plate, Ma Willis tinkled her champagne glass with a fork.

  “Attention, everybody!” she said, with a sidelong glance in my direction. “Time to open the birthday presents.”

  With that, Rosita wheeled out another trolley, this one piled with birthday gifts for Scott.

  Aha! Ma Willis had been trying to make me look bad, after all, telling me not to bring a present. But thanks to Lance and his thoughtful Aunt Celeste, her dastardly plot was about to be foiled.

  “Here’s my gift!” I said, whipping the Hugo Boss tie from my purse.

  I skipped over and put my gift box with the other presents, ignoring Ma Willis’s withering glare.

  Then we all looked on as Scott began opening his gifts: From Ma Willis, a wallet that cost some endangered species its life. A book on meteorology from Pa Willis. A crisp five-dollar bill from Grammy Willis, who apparently thought it was still 1955. And a baby blue cashmere sweater from Chloe.

  True, it was a gorgeous sweater, but Ma Willis was oohing and aahing like Chloe had just given him a Porsche. I wanted to wring her neck.

  Scott saved my gift for last. Once again, I sent a silent prayer of thanks to Lance and Aunt Celeste. My Hugo Boss tie, while not a cashmere sweater, would make a respectable showing.

  Scott shot me a heart-melting smile as he lifted it out of the box.

  “Look, everybody!” he said, holding it up. “A Hugo Boss tie!”

  And that’s when I saw it. The price tag hanging from the tie. Not from Saks. Or Nordstrom. Or Neiman Marcus. But from Goodwill. For three whole dollars.

  Damn Lance and his chintzy Aunt Celeste.

  And I wasn’t the only one who saw the tag.

  “How clever of you, Jaine,” Ma Willis said, malice oozing from every pore, “to have found something so lovely at the Goodwill. And such a bargain. Only three dollars. And once we get rid of that gravy stain, it’ll be good as new.”

  Oh, hell. The tie had a stain right at the tip, which I hadn’t noticed tucked away in the gift box.

  I wanted to die. I wanted to fall through a hole in the patio and just die. But as that was not an option, I sat there staring into my empty mimosa glass.

  “I love it!” Scott said, beaming me a big smile. “How did you know I shop at the Goodwill? I got these there last week,” he said, patting his jeans.

  What a sweet, thoughtful, wonderful lie. You can see why I was crazy about him, can’t you?

  But even under the warmth of his smile, I could sense the sharks circling in for the kill.

  “So, Jaine,” Chloe asked, toying with the fudge frosting on her cake. “How’s your knee?”

  “My knee?”

  “The one you injured in that water-skiing accident.”

  So flustered was I by the Hugo Boss fiasco, that I answered without thinking.

  “Oh, it’s fine.”

  It was not until the words escaped my lips that I realized what she was talking about. Last time I was at Hell House, I’d faked a knee injury to get out of playing Frisbee.

  “Wonderful!” Chloe cried. “Then you can join us horseback riding today.”

  Horseback riding? Was she nuts? The only horses I’d ever ridden were at a merry-go-round. And even then, I usually chose the ones that didn’t go up and down.

  “Yes,” Ma Willis piped up. “Didn’t I mention that we’re all going for a ride?”

  “No,” I said between clenched teeth, resisting the urge to smash a slab of chocolate cake in her face. “You didn’t.”

  “Well, we’re all going.”

  “Won’t it be fun!” Chloe said, clapping her hands like an irritating little tyke.

  “You did say you’ve been riding all your life, didn’t you?” Ma Willis asked.

  I suddenly remembered my preposterous lie on that first dinner at Hell House, when I was so desperate to make a good impression.

  “But I can’t go!” I said. “I don’t have the right shoes.”

  Thank heavens for my Manolos. They couldn’t possibly expect me to go riding in them.

  “Not a problem,” Ma Willis said. “We’ve got lots of spare boots. What size are you? Ten?”

  “Seven and a half!” I cried indignantly.

  And sure enough, out from some closet, they dredged a pair of boots that fit me just fine.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Scott asked. “You look a little uneasy. I don’t have to go. You and I can stay here with Grammy Willis.”

  “But, Scott!” Ma Willis said. “You’ve been looking forward to this ride all week.”

  I could see from the look on Scott’s face that he had been looking forward to this ride. And I was not about to be the one who rained on his parade. If I let him stay behind with me and Grammy Willis, he might realize how much he had in common with Chloe and how little he had in common with me.

  Scott would go riding, all right. And so would I. No way was I going to let him go galloping off into the sunset with Chloe.

  How hard could it be to ride a horse, anyway?

  Poor Rosita was stuck with Grammy Willis while the rest of us piled into the family Mercedes and rode a mile up the Coast Highway to a stable where the Willises boarded a bunch of horses.

  Ma Willis wanted me to ride a fire-breathing dragon named Rocky, but fortunately Scott intervened, and soon I was being led over to a geriatric nag named Mr. Muffin.

  Thanks to a contraption called a mounting block, I was able to climb some stairs to the horse, and get in the saddle after only three mortifying tries.

  “Are you sure you’ve ridden before?” Ma Willis asked with a sly smile.

  “Of course,” I said, refusing to back down. “It’s been a few years, though,” I added to Scott. “So I’m a little rusty.”

  “Well, we’re off!” Ma Willis cried, leading the way out of the stable and across the coast highway to the beach.

  All the horses started trotting after her—all of them except Mr. Muffin, who was still as a statue.

  “Okay, Mr. Muffin,” I whispered in his ear. “Time to go. Giddyap! Hi ho, Silver, and all that.”

  But Mr. Muffin just stood there, no doubt dreaming of a nice relaxing nap.

  “Squeeze him gently with your calves,” said Scott, who’d hung back by my side.

  I squeezed Mr. Muffin with my calves, and lo and behold, he started moving.

  “Pull the left rein if you want him to go left, pull the right rein if you want him to go right, and pull both reins if you want him to stop.”

  “Right,” I shouted. “Thanks. It’s all coming back to me.”

  As if I’d actually done this before.

  Crossing the coast highway was a tad terrifying, and I held my breath until Mr. Muffin and I made it onto the beach without a fender stuck to Mr. Muffin’s tail.

&nb
sp; I followed the others as they trotted along the shoreline. Somehow I managed to hang on to the reins and keep my tush in the saddle.

  As Scott directed, I pulled left on the reins when I wanted Mr. Muffin to veer left and right when I want him to veer right. And believe it or not, the little angel actually did what I wanted. True, I’d seen geezers with walkers making better time, but I didn’t care. By now, I was getting used to Mr. Muffin’s easy rhythm and I actually liked it.

  This horseback riding thing wasn’t so bad, after all.

  “Nice going, Jaine!” Scott waved to me.

  I was feeling quite proud of myself when I looked over and saw a wedding party on the beach.

  How romantic! Maybe one of these days I’d be exchanging vows with Scott at this very same spot.

  The wedding in progress was one of those hippy-dippy affairs, the groom in cutoffs and flip-flops, the bride in sandals and vintage lace dress, her hair in Botticelli curls down her back. In her hands she was carrying what I would later learn was a “vegan” bouquet. Made of asparagus stalks, baby artichokes, and carrot sticks.

  I don’t know about you, but items from the produce section are not my idea of a fun wedding bouquet.

  Mr. Muffin, however, seemed to be of an entirely different school of thought. He took one look at the carrots and woke from his geriatric stupor, in the mood for a snack. And suddenly, before my horrified eyes, my mild-mannered nag turned to greased lightning, thundering toward the bride.

  I pulled the reins like Scott told me, but Mr. Muffin wasn’t about to take orders. Not with those carrots within chomping distance. Frantically, I wrapped my arms around his neck, holding on for dear life.

  The wedding party looked up, aghast, as Mr. Muffin came charging toward them.

  “What’s that horse doing here?” the bride shouted.

  “I think he wants your bouquet,” the groom shouted back. “Give it to him, Tracy!”

  “But, Chad. I paid seventy five-dollars for this bouquet!”