Murder Has Nine Lives

by Laura Levine

  In my lap, Prozac snorted.

  What a cream puff.

  “Let’s all give Camille a big round of applause,” Dean commanded. “Without her, we wouldn’t be here today.”

  Across the table, Linda applauded enthusiastically. If she had any idea about her husband’s affair with the Pink Panther, she showed no signs of it.

  “Okay, everybody,” Dean said, having paid homage to his benefactress. “Time to run through the script.”

  I picked up the piece of paper in front of me. In fact, this was the first time I’d ever seen a copy of the script. So far, all I’d been doing was honing Prozac’s eating and napping skills.

  Dean began narrating our little cat food drama. “The commercial starts out with a voice-over announcer asking, ‘Is your cat fat? Lazy? Too stuffed to move? Does she turn her nose up at ordinary diet cat food? Well, it’s time you tried Skinny Kitty, the diet cat food cats really like!’

  “We’ll show the ‘Before’ cat,” Dean said, pointing to Prozac, “looking fat and lazy, first refusing to eat Brand X cat food, then digging into the Skinny Kitty. Then the announcer will say, ‘After only three weeks of eating Skinny Kitty, your cat will look like this.’ “And we’ll cut to a shot of Desiree.”

  Camille smiled proudly and held up her sleek little princess.

  The Before Cat? Prozac was the Before cat? I couldn’t help but feel a tad insulted.

  And in my lap, Prozac was none too happy. Scoff if you want, but I swear that cat understands English.

  She glared at Dean, fire in her eyes.

  I demand a rewrite!

  Oblivious to Prozac’s dirty look, Dean continued narrating his chef d’oeuvre.

  “Then we’re going to wrap up the commercial with a line that’s sure to go down in advertising history: My Skinny Kitty is so delicious, I eat it myself! “That’s right, everybody!” he beamed. “I will actually eat my own cat food. It really is that delicious.”

  “He eats his own cat food?” I whispered to Deedee.

  “According to Linda,” Deedee nodded, “he has no sense of smell. Hasn’t tasted food in decades.”

  “Let’s take a short break,” Dean said, “while our cameraman and lighting director set up the first shot.”

  Two burly guys, whose names I’d already forgotten but would come to think of as Big and Bigger, thumped off to do their job.

  “While everything’s getting set up,” Dean announced, “Camille and I will be in my dressing room, tweaking the Skinny Kitty ad campaign.”

  Just as Deedee was rolling her eyes and betting that the only things Dean and the Panther would be tweaking would be each other, a woman’s voice came blaring out over the PA system. Will the owner of a crummy white Corolla with bird poop on the windshield please move their car immediately. You’re parked in the owner’s spot.

  Okay, so she didn’t really call my Corolla crummy and she didn’t mention the bird poop on the windshield, but the annoyance in her voice was palpable.

  “Oh, dear. That’s me,” I said, thrusting Prozac into Deedee’s arms. “Watch her, will you, while I go move my car?”

  “My pleasure!” Deedee cooed. “Deedee will take good care of your precious cargo.”

  Grabbing my purse, I sprinted down the hallway, past the receptionist, who looked up from her magazine and gave me the stink eye. Out in the lot, I quickly moved my Corolla from its coveted spot near the front entrance—I should’ve known it was too good to be true—to a far less enviable location next to the studio dumpster.

  When I returned to the studio, the receptionist was busy applying press-on nails.

  And to think, some people actually have to work for their money.

  Heading back down the hallway, I happened to glance into one of the small offices and saw that it was a kitchen. Standing there at a prep table was Nikki, the food stylist, arranging cat food in a bowl. Written on the bowl were the words Brand X. Hadn’t the script said something about the Before Cat turning up her nose at ordinary diet cat food? This was no doubt the stuff that Prozac would refuse to eat.

  Nikki was carefully sculpting it with a spoon, standing back to admire the effect, much like Rodin must have looked as he was putting the finishing touches on The Thinker. Pleased with the final result, she then absentmindedly reached for a spray can. Just as she was about to give a spritz, I realized it was a can of Raid.

  “Stop!” I cried. “That stuff is poison!”

  Nikki looked at the insecticide in her hand and gasped. “Gosh!” she cried. “It looked just like the lemon oil I spray on the Brand X cat food to make it unpalatable for the cats.”

  She pointed to a spray can of lemon oil, which did indeed bear a striking resemblance to the pest killer. “Thank God you were passing by. What if I’d sprayed the Raid by mistake and your poor kitty ate it? She could have died.”

  “That’s okay,” I assured her. “You didn’t spray it. All is well.”

  But I have to admit, I was shaken. I shuddered at the thought of Prozac, hungry from no breakfast, digging into Brand X, laced with Raid.

  “The studio’s been having troubles with ants,” Nikki said, putting the Raid aside on a shelf. “I should have never kept it on the prep table.”

  Then she picked up the lemon oil and sprayed the Brand X cat food.

  “Are you sure that stuff really keeps cats away?” I asked. “I hardly gave my cat any breakfast this morning, and I’ll bet she’s starving. What if she tries to eat it?”

  “No worries,” Nikki assured me. “Cats hate lemon oil. Once she smells it, she’ll never touch the food.”

  I had my doubts. After all, we were talking about a cat who’s been known to nibble on rancid gym socks.

  “Voilà!” Nikki said, holding up the bowl. “Brand X, destined to be rejected.”

  It was then that I noticed an adorable pink ring, shaped like a hibiscus, flashing on her middle finger. What a perfect accessory for my trip to Hawaii!

  “That’s such a cute ring!”

  “It is, isn’t it?” She flashed it to and fro, making it twinkle in the overhead fluorescent lighting. “I picked it up for only ten bucks at Venice Beach.”

  Making a mental note to pop on down to Venice and do a little vacation shopping, I bid Nikki farewell and headed back to the soundstage.

  The first thing I saw when I got there was Deedee, talking on her cell phone—Prozac no longer in her arms.

  Where the heck was her “precious cargo”?

  Looking around, I groaned to see Prozac perched on the buffet table! When I raced over, I found her chowing down on some rare roast beef. Which, by the way, looked mighty fantastic.

  Thank heavens there was no one else at the buffet to witness her crime.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I said, whisking her up in my arms and grabbing a cheese Danish while I was at it. “Mergfleflugaffleflillwhoppersofeffer?”

  Well, what I meant to say was, “Have you no willpower whatsoever?”

  But my mouth was full of Danish at the time.

  At which point Deedee approached.

  I gulped down the rest of my Danish and sputtered, “I thought you were supposed to be watching Prozac!”

  “Sorry, hon. I had to set her down while I took an emergency call from a client. Pierre, my star parrot,” she gasped with all the angst of a Shakespearean tragedienne, “has mange!”

  I failed to offer her my condolences, fighting the urge to throttle her instead.

  “Oh, dear,” Deedee now piped up. “Is that roast beef I smell on our princess’s breath? Has she been a naughty kitty and been raiding the buffet table?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid she has.”

  “I hope she hasn’t ruined her appetite.”

  “You and me both,” I muttered.

  “I’m sure our little trouper will pull through for us,” Deedee enthused. “I can tell by the determined look in her eyes.”

  Prozac had a determined look in her eyes, all right. She was no
w staring at the baked ham, determined to get a bite.

  But just then Dean strode onto the soundstage, followed by Camille with Desiree in her arms. Was it my imagination, or was the Panther buttoning one of the buttons on her blouse?

  By now Big and Bigger had done their job. The lights were set; the camera was ready to roll.

  “Okay,” Ian called out. “We need the ‘Before’ cat.”

  In my arms, Prozac’s tail thumped in annoyance.

  Don’t call me the ‘Before’ Cat! I happen to be the star of this commercial!

  I headed over to where Ian was standing at the chaise longue.

  “In the first scene, we’ll have your cat spread out on the chaise, napping. She can do that, right?” Ian asked, treating me to what seemed like more than a hint of gin on his breath. Suddenly I wondered exactly what he’d been toting around in his Starbucks thermos.

  “Absolutely, she can nap,” I assured him, praying Prozac would get over her snit fit about being the Before Cat and snooze on command.

  My prayers were answered.

  I set Pro down on the chaise, where, no doubt drowsy from all the roast beef she’d just sucked up, she instantly proceeded to stretch out.

  Before I even had a chance to whisper my knockout mantra (Oh, Pro. Wait till I tell you about the miserable day I’ve just had… ) she was snoring like a buzzsaw.

  Big, the cameraman, wasted no time and zoomed in to get some footage.

  Nearby Deedee gushed, “Isn’t she fantastic! Such a natural!”

  “She sure can snore,” Dean said, eyeing her in wonder.

  After Prozac’s triumphant portrayal of fat and lazy, Big and Bigger reset for the next shot: Prozac turning her nose up at Brand X.

  We moved to a large square of linoleum—on this rather thrifty production, meant to represent a kitchen floor.

  Nikki came bustling in with the bowl of Brand X cat food glistening with lemon oil. She set it down on the linoleum, careful to make sure it was positioned so the camera picked up the words Brand X.

  “Are we ready?” Ian called out.

  I set Prozac down next to the cat food and waited with bated breath, hoping she wouldn’t swan dive into the bowl.

  But thank heavens Nikki had been right about the lemon oil. The stuff was kitty kryptonite.

  Prozac took one sniff and instantly recoiled.

  For the first time in recorded history, my champion chowhound actually turned away from a bowl of food.

  “My God!” Deedee cried. “I haven’t seen an animal this talented since Beverly Hills Chihuahua!”

  Then it was time for Prozac’s big moment. Her final shot of the commercial—eating the Skinny Kitty.

  Another break while Big and Bigger set up the shot. When they were finally ready, Nikki brought out the Skinny Kitty in a gorgeous crystal bowl, no doubt part of the Pink Panther’s dinner service.

  What with all the setups and footage Big had been shooting, it had been well over an hour since Pro had scarfed down that roast beef. With any luck, enough time had passed for my feline garbage disposal to have worked up an appetite.

  By now, my confidence was growing. Prozac was on a roll. She could smell that five grand and all the bacon bits it could buy. I felt certain she’d put on the feed bag and suck up that cat food.

  Nikki set down the crystal bowl. She’d done a great job of styling the Skinny Kitty, making the chunks of mystery meat look like something straight out of a Martha Stewart cookbook.

  Prozac sniffed at it hungrily. She was all set to chow down.

  And then Dean went ahead and opened his big mouth.

  “As soon as we’re through with ‘fatty’ here, we’ll set up for our star, Miss Desiree.”

  That’s when everything went to hell.

  I told you Pro understands English. She looked up from the Skinny Kitty, fury flashing in her eyes.

  Fatty? He called me Fatty? That’s it. I’m outta here.

  “Forget about him, Pro,” I whispered in her ear. “Just take a bite.”

  Nothing.

  “I’m begging you.”

  Still nothing.

  “Just think of all those juicy bacon bits.”

  But it was no use. Her jaws were clamped tighter than a chastity belt in the Middle Ages.

  “Hey, what’s the holdup?” Dean groused.

  “Not a problem, Dean,” Ian said, stepping up to the plate. “I’ve got this. I work with animals all the time. They always listen to me.”

  He crouched down and started to whisper in Prozac’s ear, but one blast of his breath sent her skittering away.

  Whoa, Nelly. Somebody had a Gin Mc Muffin for breakfast.

  “Nice work, Cecil B,” Dean snapped. “Now what are we supposed to do?”

  “Don’t worry, Dean,” Deedee said, hustling to his side. “This is just a minor hiccup. Prozac is a trained professional. I guarantee she’ll give the performance of a lifetime. Animals often need a moment of reflection before throwing themselves into their roles. Isn’t that so, Prozac, honey? Aren’t you just about to throw yourself into the role?”

  At which point, Prozac did sort of throw herself into the role. The role of a Psycho Kitty. With a mighty swipe of her paw, she sent the crystal bowl of cat food skittering across the stage and crashing into a floor light, where it promptly shattered to smithereens.

  “That’s my good Waterford!” cried the Pink Panther, turning as pink as her sapphires.

  Dean kneeled down and looked Prozac straight in the eye, oozing rage from every pore.

  “Why, you no-talent little flea ball!”

  Prozac oozed right back at him.

  Better a flea ball than a sleazeball. And, by the way, Dippity-do called. They want their gel back.

  Then, as the coup de grâce, she reached out and landed a nasty scratch on his arm.

  And right before my eyes, I saw my five grand going bye-bye.

  If you think, as I thought at the time, that I’d hit rock bottom, that things couldn’t possibly get any worse, think again.

  Because just then, the doors to the soundstage opened and Lance came strolling in, with Mamie in tow.

  “Hi-ho, everybody! I’d like you all to meet Mamie, the most talented dog in the world! Is this a good time?”

  Chapter 7

  Lance skipped across the room, Mamie trotting behind him, an adorable white fluffball with a fake daisy in her hair.

  “You must be Jaine’s agent!” Lance cried, making a beeline for Deedee. “Jaine’s told me so much about you. And Mr. Kendrick,” he said practically salaaming to Ian, “I’m such a fan of your work. I just adored Attack of the Lemming People!”

  The little toady must have seen my call sheet this morning and wasted no time doing his homework.

  “A pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. Oliver,” he said, pumping Dean’s hand with gusto. “I’ve brought you pictures of my amazing dog, Mamie. Say hello, Mamie.”

  Right on cue, Mamie gave a perky little yap.

  “Here she is,” Lance said, passing out photos, “as a cowgirl. As Cleopatra. And as a licensed registered nurse—”

  Dean, no doubt pissed at getting third billing in the introductions, had had enough.

  “We don’t have time for this nonsense. We’re trying to shoot a commercial. With a cat who refuses to eat the cat food.”

  “Really?” Lance’s eyes lit up. “I’m sure Mamie would eat it. She adores cat food. And I bet she could pass as a cat if you shot her in really soft focus.”

  Dean stared at him, incredulous.

  “Will somebody get this clown out of here?”

  For once, Dean and I were on the same page.

  Big and Bigger materialized at Lance’s side, grabbed him by the elbows, and hauled him out the door, Mamie scampering happily in their wake.

  By now Dean had worked himself up into quite a frenzy, his face an unbecoming shade of puce.

  “What a freaking mess!” he cried, pointing to the Skinny Kitty splattered all
over the fake kitchen floor. “It’s all your fault,” he said, whirling on me. “You and your no-talent cat. I’m gonna sue you for every cent you’re worth.”

  Oh, gulp. The last thing my anemic checking account and I needed was a lawsuit.

  “And you,” he said, turning his wrath on Ian. “You call yourself an animal director? What a joke. You couldn’t direct a flea to a dog.”

  “That’s not quite fair,” Ian protested. “You’ve got to admit, Prozac’s a bit bonkers.”

  “Stop making excuses,” Dean snapped. “You can’t direct because you’re too damn drunk! I could smell the gin on your breath from the parking lot. When’s the last time you actually had coffee in that thermos of yours? I’m going to personally see to it that you never work in this town again.”

  Ian blanched, fear shining in his bloodshot eyes.

  “Now, Dean,” Deedee said, putting her bangled wrist on his arm. “Let’s all take a deep breath and calm down. I’m sure all Prozac needs is a few minutes to center herself, and we’ll be up and running.”

  “Shut up, Deedee,” Dean said, slapping her hand away. “I should’ve never worked with you in the first place. You haven’t represented a decent animal act in decades.”

  “That’s not true!” Deedee cried. “Why, my parrot Pierre just shot the cover of Parrots Today.”

  “I’ve made a few phone calls about you, hon, and rumor has it you’ve swindled quite a few clients out of their commissions.”

  “That’s a vicious lie!” Deedee cried, chins quivering in indignation.

  “Yeah? Well, you can tell your side of the story to the authorities. Because I’m going to report you to the D.A.’s office the first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Deedee gulped in dismay.

  And I must say, I was a bit shaken myself.

  Was it possible that Dean was right, and that all along Deedee had been planning to cheat me out of my five grand?

  By now the tension was so thick, you could cut it with a weed wacker.

  Nikki and Zeke were huddled together, along with Big and Bigger, waiting for Dean to spew his anger on them, but by this point, he seemed to have run out of steam. He just stood there, fists clenched, his face still that unbecoming shade of puce.

  It was then that mousy little Linda stepped up and saved the day.