Killer Blonde

by Laura Levine

  Sure, Ted was handsome. But he was also a self-centered, self-serving cheapskate egomaniac. And those were his good points.

  At the beginning, of course, I didn’t know all this. I was actually foolish enough to think it might be a pleasant evening. After putting the daisies in water and saying goodbye to Prozac, we headed outside to Ted’s “previously owned” Mercedes. It was previously owned, all right. No doubt by a member of the Soprano family. I do not lie when I tell you there were bullet holes on the passenger side of the car. My first omen that the evening was not going to be the date of my dreams. An omen I should have paid attention to.

  “I made reservations at a terrific restaurant in Westwood,” Ted said. “You’re going to love it.”

  So we drove over to Westwood Village, the Mercedes belching noxious plumes of smoke into the air. Ted spent the entire time talking about the traffic he encountered on the 405 freeway on his way to pick me up. (It was bumper to bumper all the way from Ventura to Santa Monica Boulevard, in case you’re interested.) Okay, so it wasn’t the snappiest conversation I’d ever heard. But I figured maybe he was nervous. Or maybe he was a traffic aficionado. I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  About half a mile away from Westwood, he pulled into a residential street and parked the car.

  “I thought we were going to Westwood,” I said.

  “We are.”

  “But it’s at least a dozen blocks away.”

  “I know,” he said, checking his profile in the rearview mirror, “I thought it would be fun to get some exercise.”

  Translation: I’m too cheap to spring for valet parking. Or a parking lot. Or even metered parking.

  So we trekked sixteen blocks (but who’s counting?) in the damp night air into Westwood. You’ll be glad to know Ted had stopped talking about traffic on the 405. Now he was talking about traffic on the 110.

  “You should have seen it. There was a semi jackknifed across three lanes. Traffic was backed up for miles in both directions.”

  Well, at least those people were sitting comfortably in their cars, not clomping through the fog in tight boots. By now, my feet were killing me, and my hair was so wiry, you could’ve used it to scour pots.

  At last we made it to Westwood.

  “Right this way,” Ted said, taking me by the hand. Up ahead I could see an Arby’s. For a frightening instant I thought that’s where we were going. After all, Ted had made me trek halfway across town to save a buck on a parking meter.

  But no, he lead me past Arby’s to a charming restaurant nestled in an old brick building. Hmm. Maybe I’d misjudged the guy. Maybe he wasn’t a cheapskate. Maybe he really did want to get some exercise. After all, he was an actor. He had to keep in shape.

  The maitre d’ greeted us warmly and led us to a cozy corner table for two. The place was tastefully elegant, with soft lighting, exposed brick walls, and a bud vase of fresh cut orchids at our table.

  As I sat down, the waistband of my jeans dug painfully into my gut, thanks to those five brownies and the Whopper I’d snarfed down earlier. Why the heck hadn’t I worn the elastic waist outfit I’d worn to SueEllen’s party? Oh, well. Maybe I could manage to sneak open the button on my waistband when Ted wasn’t looking.

  Our waiter (a slim young man whom I’ll call Kevin because that’s what nine out of ten waiters in Los Angeles are called) slipped us our menus.

  “You don’t mind if I order for both of us?” Ted asked.

  “Yes, actually, I do mind. I don’t like it when people presume to know what I feel like eating.”

  Of course, I didn’t say that. I didn’t have a chance to say that, because before I knew it, Ted was giving Kevin our order.

  “We’ll share a cup of soup, and two coffees for dessert.”

  Uh-oh. It was going to be an Arby’s night, after all.

  “Haha! Gotcha!” he said, poking me most annoyingly in my ribs, and then adding, “Somebody at this table could stand to work on her abs.

  “Actually,” he told Kevin, “we’ll have the lobster bisque, heirloom tomato salad, chateaubriand for two, and crème brulee for dessert. Make sure the soup is hot, really hot, and the steak is bloody rare. You like it rare, don’t you, Jaine?”

  No, I don’t, but it didn’t matter, because he didn’t wait for me to answer.

  “And bring us a bottle of the Jordan cabernet.”

  I happened to know that the Jordan cab cost sixty dollars. You know how I happened to know? Because Ted told me.

  “This wine costs sixty bucks,” he boomed, for all the world to hear.

  It was a good thing I’d eaten that Whopper and five brownies. Because, as it turned out, Ted kept sending everything back. The soup was too cold, the salad was too warm, the wine was too “new,” and the steaks were too well done.

  I was convinced that the chefs and waiters were lined up in the kitchen taking turns spitting in our food.

  By the time our corrected dishes were finally brought out to us, I had totally lost what little appetite I’d started out with.

  Yes, it was truly the Dinner from Hell. I’d long since popped the button on my waistband. I didn’t care whether or not Ted noticed. But he didn’t notice. He was too busy talking about his favorite topic—Ted.

  I heard about his childhood, his adolescence, his college years, his three ex-wives (all of them bitches), and his career. Oh, did I hear about his career. I heard about every part he’d ever played, starting with the time he played a rutabaga in his kindergarten production of Our Vegetable Friends.

  I tried valiantly to tune him out, but I couldn’t. His voice bored into my skull like a vise in a medieval torture chamber.

  Not once did he ask me about myself. I stand corrected. Once. Here’s how it went:

  Him: “Kandi tells me you’re a writer.”

  Me: “Yes, I—”

  Him: “That’s fascinating. I’ve always wanted to write a novel. And I’ve got a great idea, too. All about an actor in Hollywood. One of these days, when I’ve got a few weeks to spare, I’m going to write it.”

  And so it went, on and on and on, until I wanted to impale him on my butter knife. Finally, our busboy cleared away our dinner plates. I’d barely touched my bloody rare steak. I couldn’t. It was practically still alive.

  “For a gal with your build, you’re not much of an eater, are you?” Ted asked with all the subtlety of a Mack truck.

  But I didn’t care. He could hurl veiled insults at me all he wanted. Because at last I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. We’d finished the main course. Now all I had to do was make it through dessert and this ghastly ordeal would be over. Somehow I managed not to ball up my napkin and shove it down his throat while Ted rambled on about his life as a cartoon character.

  Finally, I saw Kevin approaching with our dessert, a gorgeous crème brulee. I was thoroughly disgusted with myself when I realized that I actually wanted to eat it. But the diet fairy must have been looking out for me, because just as I cracked open the golden crust with my fork, Ted whipped it away from me.

  “Just a sec,” he said, pulling a Baggie from the inside pocket of his sports jacket. And then, before my horrified eyes, he took out a dead cockroach and plopped it into the crème brulee.

  “What are you doing?” I managed to gasp.

  “Getting us a free meal. Don’t worry,” he winked. “This works every time.”

  He snapped his fingers, summoning our waiter.

  Kevin, who’d grown to loathe us with each succeeding course, came warily to our side.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “What sort of a restaurant is this?” Ted exploded. “Look what we found in our crème brulee. A cockroach. I want to see the manager.”

  By now the other diners were sneaking covert looks in our direction.

  “No, no, that’s okay,” I said. “Accidents happen.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Ted said, shooting me a look. “I want to see the manager immediately.”
<
br />   Kevin scurried off to the kitchen. Minutes later, a red-faced man in a chef’s toque approached our table.

  “You’re not satisfied with your meal, sir?” he said, smiling pleasantly.

  “Of course not,” Tommy boomed. Now the other diners were openly staring. “Look at this. A roach in our crème brulee. You don’t expect us to pay for this meal, do you?”

  “I certainly do.”

  Then he leaned over and said, not so pleasant anymore: “We’re on to you, asshole.”

  Ted blinked in surprise.

  “This cockroach didn’t come from our kitchen,” the chef said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “It came from your jacket pocket. The busboy saw you take it out.”

  “That’s a lie,” Ted said, oozing righteous indignation. “You’re going to take his word over mine?”

  Then someone at a nearby table piped up. “I saw it, too. It was in a Baggie.”

  “Pay up,” said the chef in a steely voice, “or I call the police.”

  And with that he plunked our bill down on the table.

  Smiling feebly, Ted handed it to me. One hundred and ninety six dollars. Without the tip.

  “Would you mind?” he said. “I forgot my credit card.”

  “You arrogant jerk! You expect me to pay $200 for the most hellish night of my life?”

  Okay, so I didn’t say that. No, my exact words were, “Do you take the Discover Card?”

  By now, the whole restaurant was buzzing with excitement at this moment of dining drama.

  Willing to do anything to end my misery, I forked over my credit card, and counted the milliseconds till Kevin came back with my receipt. I gave him a twenty percent tip for all the abuse he’d put up with. Then I asked him to call me a cab.

  “Don’t you want me to drive you home?” Ted asked. “Maybe we can stop off at Baskin-Robbins for a cone. I’ve got a two-for-one coupon.”

  I managed to fight back the impulse to strangle him.

  “Go away, Ted.”

  “Can I call you some time?”

  “No, you can never call me. Not under any circumstances. Not even if you should attain last-man-on-earth status.”

  “Your loss,” he said, shrugging. “A girl with your thighs shouldn’t be so fussy.”

  Then he got up and strolled out the door, but not before grabbing a fistful of mints on his way out.

  I thought I’d wait inside until the cab showed up, but it was far too painful. People kept looking at me and shaking their heads, either in disgust or pity, I wasn’t sure which. I could swear I overheard one of them say, “I saw her pop the button on her waistband.”

  No, I had to get out of there. I grabbed my purse and started for the entrance when suddenly I heard someone call my name.

  “Jaine?”

  Whoever it was, I prayed they were calling some other Jane, some Jane who spelled her name the sensible way.

  “Jaine Austen, is that you?”

  I turned around, and who should I see, but Mrs. Pechter. Oh, God. Now everyone at Shalom would know about my humiliation.

  “Jaine, dear, come here,” she said, motioning me to her table.

  Smiling stiffly, I headed over to her table, where I saw that she was sitting with an absolutely adorable guy. Spiky sandy hair, green eyes, and an amazing smile. Really, this guy was cute with a capital C.

  “Jaine, say hello to my grandson Morris.”

  This was Morris, the accountant? The grandson she wanted to fix me up with? I groaned softly. Did I really pass up a date with this dollburger to go out with Tommy the Termite?

  Mrs. Pechter looked up at me through her bifocals and shook her head, pityingly.

  “Was that your boyfriend? The one with the cockroach?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  “So what were you doing having dinner with him?”

  Would this nightmare never end?

  “Oh, look, there’s my cab!” I lied. “Gotta run. See you in class.”

  I hurried outside, where the fog had now turned to an ugly drizzle. The cab, of course, was nowhere in sight.

  The valet parkers whispered among themselves; obviously they’d heard about L’Affaire Cockroach. I guess they must have felt sorry for me, because one of them asked me if I’d like some coffee while I waited for my cab. I nodded gratefully, and minutes later, he came out with a styrofoam cup of coffee.

  And as I stood there, huddled in the doorway, a well-heeled couple came walking by. The next thing I knew the man took out a ten-dollar bill and dropped it in my coffee cup.

  Dear Lord. He thought I was a panhandler.

  “Go get yourself a hot meal, honey,” he said. “There’s an Arby’s down the street.”

  A perfect ending to a perfect night.

  Chapter Twelve

  I drove over to the Marina to meet Kandi for brunch the next morning, still fuming over my date with Tommy the Termite. Flashbacks from the evening kept playing in my brain like a trailer for a low-budget horror movie. I saw Ted chewing with his mouth full. I saw him snapping his fingers and calling the busboy “muchacho.” I saw the cockroach lying belly up in the crème brûlée. And, most humiliating, I saw Mrs. Pechter’s gorgeous grandson looking at me like I was something the cat burglar dragged in.

  And to think, I had to pay two hundred dollars for all that fun.

  Kandi was waiting for me on the patio of Tony P’s, a casual dockside restaurant, where she’d managed to nab a table with a spectacular view of the Marina. Last night’s fog had burned away and now the sun was shining on the million-dollar yachts, turning the scene into a picture postcard suitable for framing.

  A storm cloud, however, was about to erupt on the horizon. Namely, me.

  I stomped over to the table where Kandi sat, perky and carefree, sipping a Bloody Mary.

  “Hi, honey,” she beamed, her eyes bright with excitement. “I ordered you a drink.”

  I plopped into a chair, and glugged down some of the Bloody Mary waiting for me on my place-mat.

  “So how’d it go last night?” she said, oblivious to my simmering rage. “I want to hear every detail.”

  “No, you don’t,” I said, through gritted teeth.

  “It wasn’t good?”

  I laughed, a bitter laugh.

  “I would’ve killed for merely ‘not good.’”

  “What happened?”

  “Let’s put it this way: Ted Lawson made The Blob look like George Clooney, Prince William and Denzel Washington rolled into one.”

  “You poor thing.” She tsk-tsked sympathetically. “Tell Kandi all about it.”

  And I did. I filled her in on every excruciating moment, from soup to nuts. The “nuts” being Ted.

  “Now it all makes sense,” Kandi said when I was through. “I wondered why a handsome guy like Ted was so desperate for a blind date. I should’ve known there was something wrong with him.”

  Yes, I thought. You should’ve.

  “And I can’t believe you got stuck with the check.”

  “Two hundred dollars!” I reminded her. “Plus tip!”

  “Well, it’s all my fault. So I insist on picking up the tab for brunch.”

  “And I insist on letting you.”

  Kandi flagged down our waiter and ordered us huevos rancheros and two more Bloody Mary’s.

  “I don’t suppose you want to hear about my date with Matt?” she asked.

  “No, but you’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you?”

  “No, no. The last thing you want to hear is a fabulous date story,” she said, dying to tell it.

  “Oh, go ahead,” I said, sucking the vodka from my celery swizzle stick. “I’m all ears.”

  So she launched into her latest True Romance tale—how Matt (aka Mr. Martial Arts) took her to a romantic Italian restaurant, where they drank chianti and ate spaghetti, and how they got up and danced in the aisle to a Dean Martin song, and how all the other customers applauded when they were through. I heard how they playe
d kissy face in the parking lot, and how she was dying to sleep with him, but didn’t want to seem like too much of a pushover, so she called it a night after after-dinner drinks at a cozy jazz club.

  Thanks to my second Bloody Mary, I didn’t mind listening to her. I was just happy not to be sitting across the table from Tommy the Termite

  She was somewhere in the middle of figuring out where she and Matt would live when they got married—his downtown loft or her Westwood condo—when she suddenly interrupted herself.

  “Omigosh,” she said. “In all the excitement of our dates, I forgot about that body you found in the bathtub. Whatever happened with that, anyway?”

  Not wanting to take up too much time away from Mr. Martial Arts, I quickly told her that the cops suspected Heidi of killing her stepmom, and that I was trying to find the real killer.

  “How do you know the kid didn’t do it?” Kandi asked.

  “I know. Just like I knew you weren’t a murderer.” (Yes, last year the cops suspected Kandi of murder, a ghastly episode in her life that you can read all about in Last Writes, now available in paperback, a fact I may have already mentioned once or twice.)

  “Yes, but I’m your best friend,” Kandi said. “Heidi is practically a stranger. Besides, this investigation stuff is dangerous. You could get hurt. Remember last year? You almost got killed.”

  That I did.

  “Are you sure you want to be doing this?”

  “Yep,” I nodded, certain that nothing the fates threw my way could be as scary as what happened to me last night.

  “Well, then. Just remember. In an attack situation, scream bloody murder. Kick ‘em in the groin, and gouge out their eyes. And if they’ve got a gun, run. Matt says that a predator will hit a running target only 4 out of 100 times. And even then, it most likely won’t be a vital organ.”

  “That’s a comforting thought.”

  “I just want you to be careful.”

  “I’ll be careful. I promise. Now, as long as you’re treating, how about dessert?”

  One lovely tiramisu later, we headed out to the parking lot.

  The sun was shining, the gulls were swooping in graceful arcs in the deep blue sky, and the million-dollar yachts were bobbing merrily in the water. I was feeling a lot more mellow than when I first showed up. I could tell I’d mellowed out, because I no longer wanted to strangle Kandi. Maybe there was life after Tommy the Termite, after all. Maybe, in time, the memory of last night’s debacle would fade. Never completely, of course. But enough to make me think of crème brulee without puking.