Murder Has Nine Lives

by Laura Levine

  I was giving myself a final dab of perfume when Jim showed up, looking even better than I remembered him, très spiffy in chinos and a blue blazer, his surfer hair glistening with streaks of blond, smelling of some positively yummy aftershave.

  He stood on my doorstep for an awkward beat as we smiled at each other, not sure of what do to.

  “So good to see you,” he finally said, breaking the ice with a small but tingleworthy hug. “And who’s this?” he asked, looking over at Prozac, who’d just wandered in from the bedroom.

  Normally, at the first sign of a cute guy, Prozac morphs into a feline floozy, hurling herself at his ankles, doing her version of a pole dance.

  But tonight she just jumped on the sofa and settled down into a listless lump.

  “Who’re you, cutie pie?” Jim cooed, scratching her behind the ear.

  She gazed up at him morosely.

  A has-been, a nobody, another trampled heart on the mean streets of Tinseltown.

  “Does she always look so unhappy?” Jim asked.

  “She’s been in a bit of a funk lately, but I’m hoping she’ll snap out of it soon.”

  “Poor baby,” Jim said, giving Pro a sympathy scratch. Then he turned to me and asked, “Ready to go? I’ve made reservations at Simon’s.”

  You bet I was ready to go! Simon’s happened to be one of the most expensive restaurants in town, famous for their fabulous prime rib.

  I bid Pro adieu and headed out the door with Jim, visions of prime rib dancing in my head.

  Jim’s car was parked out front, a sleek, low-slung silver Porsche. And as I sank down into the decadently soft bucket seat, I offered a silent prayer of thanks to my darling friend and employer, Phil Angelides.

  I was riding along in the Porsche, watching the palm trees whoosh by, feeling the cool night air on my cheeks, and trying to decide whether to order butter or sour cream with my baked potato, when Jim said, “I hope you don’t mind, but before we go to the restaurant, I need to stop off at my apartment.”

  Wait a minute. I didn’t care how cute he was. No way was I about to have dipsy doodle with this guy before our first date.

  “Don’t get the wrong idea,” he added, as if reading my mind. “I want you to meet my roommate. Arnold and I are very close, and I need to get his approval before I can go out with you.”

  “What?” He had to be kidding.

  “I know it sounds strange, but a while back I got involved with a woman, and it turned out pretty badly. We went through a messy breakup, probably like you and Collier-Curtis.”

  “Collier-Curtis?”

  “Your old boyfriend.”

  “Right,” I nodded, remembering the ridiculous beau I’d made up at Toiletmasters.

  “Anyhow, I never want to make that kind of mistake again. Arnold warned me this gal was all wrong for me from the get-go. And he was right. I really trust his judgment, so it would mean a lot to me if you met him.”

  “Well, okay . . . I guess.”

  “Don’t worry,” Jim assured me. “Arnold is sure to love you.”

  I looked at Jim’s gorgeous profile, his lake blue eyes, his surfer hair with the white-blond streaks and tried to tell myself I was on my dream date. But this whole roommate approval thing seemed a bit weird.

  And things were about to get a whole lot weirder when Jim pulled into the parking lot of the Sunset Manor Retirement Home.

  “I thought we were going to your place,” I said, looking around. “What are we doing here?”

  “I live here.”

  “You live in a retirement community?”

  “I like the amenities,” he said. “Especially bingo night! Well, c’mon! Let’s go meet Arnold!”

  With sinking heart, I left the luxurious confines of the Porsche and followed Jim into the lobby of the apartment building, where several elderly women were sitting in wingback chairs.

  “Playing bingo tonight, Jim?” one of them asked.

  “No, I’ve got a date,” he said proudly, pointing to me. “That is, if Arnold approves.”

  The women nodded and looked at me with what I couldn’t help but think was pity.

  We rode up in an elevator fitted with handrails and got off on the third floor.

  “I’ve got a fabulous view of the physical therapy pool!” Jim announced as he led me to his apartment.

  By now, I was having serious doubts about my dream date. But when Jim opened the door to his apartment, hope flooded back into my heart. The place looked terrific. Hardwood floors, taupe leather furniture, chrome and glass end tables—not a handrail anywhere. This was definitely the pad of a hip young metrosexual.

  I chided myself for my earlier doubts. So what if he lived in a retirement community? Maybe the rent was reasonable. And maybe the amenities were terrific. And so what if he was tight with his roommate? It was probably a good thing he could be close with another guy; it showed he was capable of commitment.

  “Go ahead,” Jim grinned. “Say hello to Arnold.”

  “Where?”

  “He’s right over there. On the sofa.”

  I looked at the sofa but didn’t see anything on it. Except for a stuffed teddy bear in a red T-shirt with a big “A”embroidered on the chest.

  “Well?” Jim said, picking up the bear and holding him out to me. “Aren’t you going to say hello to Arnold?”

  Oh, God. He actually expected me to talk to his stuffed animal.

  “Um. Hello, Arnold,” I managed to say.

  “Hi, Jaine,” Jim replied as Arnold, in a high falsetto voice. A voice he would slip in and out of all evening as he played the part of Arnold, the Teddy Bear.

  “So what do you think, Arnold?” Jim asked, back in his own voice. “She pass inspection?”

  “With flying colors!” came his falsetto reply.

  Would you believe I was actually sort of relieved? I hadn’t been there thirty seconds, and I cared what an inanimate object thought of me.

  “Better be careful, buddy,” came the high-pitched voice. “I may make a move on her myself.”

  “Hands off!” Jim cried, as Jim. “I saw her first!”

  Then he turned to me with a heart-melting smile.

  Good heavens. How could someone so cute be so nuts? Maybe this was all a giant joke. Maybe he was testing me to see if I had a sense of humor.

  “Ready to go to dinner?” he asked.

  “Absolutely,” I said, waiting for him to tell me that he loved to kid around and talk like a teddy bear.

  But no, the next thing I heard was “Arnold” saying, “I want to come, too!”

  Jim turned to the teddy bear. “Forget it, Arnold. I want to be alone with her.”

  “But you never take me anywhere!” the falsetto voice whined. “I’m tired of sitting here alone in the apartment listening to Mr. Rosenblatt next door blasting Hoarders on his TV.”

  “Oh, all right,” Jim said, with a sigh. “You don’t mind, do you, Jaine?”

  Of course I minded. The last time I went on a date with a stuffed animal, I was four.

  But I just smiled weakly and said, “No, I’m fine.”

  Jim thrust Arnold into my arms and went to get him a sweater.

  “He’s so susceptible to drafts,” he explained.

  Alone with Arnold, I seriously thought about making a break for it and calling a cab. But then I remembered Phil Angelides, my boss at Toiletmasters. I couldn’t risk Phil’s ire by dumping his nephew in the middle of a date.

  Soon Jim returned with a miniature cashmere V-neck for Arnold (I kid you not; it was cashmere!), and we headed out to the elevator.

  Waiting there was an elderly lady in a floral housedress.

  “Hello, Eloise,” Jim said in his normal voice.

  She mumbled a curt hello and proceeded to ride down with us in stony silence.

  Just before she got off at the lobby, she grabbed my elbow with bony fingers and whispered to me, “Watch out for the bear. He’s trouble.”

  Then she sprinted of
f the elevator, Jim and I following in her wake.

  Crossing the lobby, Jim suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

  “Oh, God!” he gasped. “It’s her.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “My old flame. The messy breakup I told you about.”

  “Just ignore her,” Arnold advised. (By now you know it was Jim talking in his falsetto, right?) “I’ll take care of her.”

  We approached the woman in question. I was expecting one of the staff, a cute young thing—a waitress, a nurse, or one of the administrators. But no, Jim’s ex-inamorata was a chubby grandmotherly woman well into her seventies, with china-blue eyes and a nimbus of fluffy white curls.

  “Hello, Ida,” Jim said coolly.

  “Remember the restraining order, Jim,” she said, holding out her palm.

  “What did you ever see in her, anyway?” came the falsetto voice.

  “Oh, hell,” Ida groaned. “Not that damn bear again.”

  “Hey, Ida,” the falsetto voice blared on. “You’re so old, at your birthday party, the candles cost more than the cake!”

  “Now, Arnold,” Jim chided in his own voice, “there’s no need for unpleasantries, just because she broke my heart.”

  “No one treats you that way and gets away with it, buddy,” the falsetto voice replied.

  Holy Moses. Send in the psycho squad!

  Beyond embarrassed, I raced out to the parking lot and yanked open the passenger door of Jim’s Porsche.

  Jim and Arnold came strolling along seconds later.

  “I wanna sit up front!” Jim whined as Arnold. “I wanna sit up front!”

  Then, turning to me and switching voices, he asked, “Do you mind, Jaine?”

  “Fine. Better him than me.”

  Okay, I didn’t say that last part, but I was thinking it, believe me. By now I was eager to put as much distance between me and Jim as humanly possible.

  But I soon regretted my decision to give up the front seat as my knees jammed into my chest in the tiny rear seat of the sports car.

  I spent the drive over to the restaurant listening to Jim and Arnold argue over which station to listen to (Jim wanted country; Arnold wanted salsa), with an occasional insult hurled by Arnold to nearby motorists.

  “Hey, lunkhead! Where’d you learn how to drive? The Braille Institute?”

  Invariably, the lunkhead in question would turn and shoot me a rude middle finger, assuming that the high-pitched voice hurling the insult could have come only from moi.

  At last we pulled in at Simon’s, a vine-covered restaurant with a dark green canopy out front.

  Jim turned to me and thrust Arnold into my hands.

  “Quick. Put him in your purse.”

  “I don’t wanna go in her purse!” Arnold wailed.

  “Stop making a scene in front of Jaine,” Jim chided the teddy bear, “or she’ll get a bad impression of us.”

  Too late, brother. That bus had left the station a long time ago.

  I stowed Arnold in my purse and stepped out of the car, my knees stiff from twenty minutes of being welded to my chest.

  Jim tossed his keys to a valet parker, and as the valet got in the car, Arnold’s falsetto voice rang out, “Hey, buddy. Whatever you do, don’t fart in the car!”

  Naturally, the valet assumed it had been me talking and shot me the filthiest of looks.

  Slinking away from the valet, I followed Jim inside the restaurant—a macho man steak place with plush carpeting, dim lighting, and deep burgundy leather booths. The kind of joint that reeked of T-bones and testosterone.

  The maître d’, a beefy guy with an obvious toupee, stood guard at the reception podium.

  “May I help you, sir?” he asked Jim as we approached.

  “I have reservations,” Jim said.

  That made two of us.

  “Angelides, party of two.”

  As the maître d’ looked down to check his reservations book, “Arnold” chimed in, “Party of three.”

  The maître d’ looked up, puzzled.

  “Is that two or three, sir?”

  “It’s two,” Jim said, giving my purse the evil eye.

  Scooping up some menus, the maître d’ led us through the restaurant, past tables filled with rich old men and their stunning young “nieces.” He made quite an imposing figure as he strode in front of us, his toupee shining in the glow of the restaurant’s soft lighting.

  Then a familiar falsetto voice piped up: “Hey, buddy. Is that a toupee on your head or a carpet remnant?”

  The maître d’ whirled around and glared at me.

  Oh, foo. Was I going to get blamed for Arnold’s zingers all night?

  Still quite miffed, our not-so-genial host led us to a booth, where he practically hurled our menus at us and stomped off.

  “Let me out of here!” Arnold whined the minute the maître d’ had gone. “I refuse to sit here next to a half-eaten Almond Joy all night.”

  I looked down at my open purse, and sure enough, an Almond Joy was visible in the clutter next to Arnold.

  Normally I’d be embarrassed to have my date see a half-eaten candy bar in my bag. But with Jim, I didn’t give a flying frisbee. By now his blue eyes and sun-streaked hair had lost all their appeal.

  “All right,” Jim said, plucking Arnold out of my purse and propping him on the table against a pair of oversized salt and pepper shakers. “You can sit here.”

  “No!” Arnold whined. “I want to sit on Jaine’s lap.”

  “You’re not sitting on Jaine’s lap!” Jim snapped. “That’s how we got hit with that restraining order from Ida.”

  “Waiter!” he called out, motioning to a guy in a cropped red jacket.

  The waiter scurried to our table, only to stare goggle-eyed at Arnold, propped up against the salt and pepper shakers.

  “We need a baby seat,” Jim said.

  “A baby seat, sir?”

  “Yeah,” Arnold’s falsetto rang out. “You got a problem with that?”

  “Er . . . no, sir,” the waiter gulped.

  And off he dashed, no doubt to update his résumé.

  Minutes later, he returned with the baby seat, which, in a stroke of good luck, Jim parked between us. At least there’d be no kneesies to worry about.

  “My girlfriend’s got a thing about her stuffed animal,” Jim explained to the waiter with an indulgent shrug. “She just can’t leave him at home.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sakes.

  “He’s not mine!” I cried.

  “If you say so, hon,” Jim said, winking broadly at the waiter.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” the waiter now asked, trying hard not to stare at Arnold in his baby seat.

  “A chardonnay, please,” I said. “Just bring the bottle. I don’t need a glass.”

  Of course, I didn’t really ask for a bottle. But, oh, how I wanted one.

  Jim ordered a martini—and a whiskey sour for Arnold.

  After the waiter left, I sat there fuming. I still couldn’t believe Jim had the nerve to pawn off his insane teddy bear fixation on me.

  And now he’d ordered a martini and a whiskey sour. Both of which Jim would no doubt guzzle down. This could only spell trouble. I’d had it with this guy. I had to get out of there. Now. I’d just tell him I had to go. No excuses. Just get up and go.

  “Look, Jim. I’ve really got to—”

  And just as I was about to make my break for freedom, I happened to glance down at the menu.

  Oh, Lord. Apparently, I’d died and gone to Chow Heaven. There on the parchment-like pages was the stuff dreams are made of. My dreams, anyway. Prime rib au jus. Double-stuffed baked potatoes brimming with sour cream and bacon bits. Creamed spinach. And for dessert, Molten Chocolate Lava Cake—dense chocolate cake with a warm, gooey chocolate center, topped with whipped cream and fudge sauce.

  “Jaine?”

  I looked up and realized Jim was looking at me questioningly.

  “You were saying? Yo
u’ve really got to . . . ?”

  “Order this fabulous molten chocolate lava cake. It looks divine.”

  Yikes! I’d just sold my soul for a chocolate cake!

  (Are you even remotely surprised?)

  “Go ahead,” Jim said. “Order all you want. And don’t worry about the insanely expensive prices. It’s my treat.”

  I checked out the menu and saw that the prices really were insanely expensive.

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “Not a problem,” Jim replied with an expansive wave.

  He may have been a nutcase, but at least he was a generous nutcase.

  The waiter now returned to our table. I couldn’t help but notice a wary look in his eyes, like that of a rabbit approaching a particularly cranky lion.

  “Ready to order?” he asked after setting down our drinks.

  “Yes,” Jim said. “We’ll have the chateaubriand for two.” Then, turning to me, he asked, “And what would you like, Jaine?”

  Good heavens. He actually intended to “share” a chateaubriand for two with his stuffed animal! The guy was certifiable.

  I gave the waiter my order, going whole hog with the prime rib, baked potato, and creamed spinach. “And molten chocolate lava cake for dessert,” I added, the words tripping off my tongue in happy anticipation.

  “You sure can pack it away, can’t you?” Arnold commented after the waiter had sprinted away.

  But I’d already had a few sips (okay, gulps) of my chardonnay and was thus immune to Arnold’s zinger. And I hardly minded when Jim started feeding him bits of French bread, making yummy noises as Arnold “ate.”

  “So, Jaine,” Arnold said between bites, “tell us all about yourself.”

  “Well—”

  “Do you put out on the first date? How do you feel about threesomes? Are you wearing panties?”

  “Arnold!” Jim cried. “Cut that out!” Then he turned to me apologetically. “I’m afraid he’s had a bit too much to drink.”

  And indeed, Jim had been putting the whiskey sour to Arnold’s lips and making slurping sounds along with his yummy bread-eating noises.

  “This is why I don’t take you anywhere,” he said, turning back to his best buddy.

  At which point, I looked up to see the maître d’ leading a couple to their table—a gorgeous young thing, all legs and boobs, accompanied by a massive goon of a guy with hair sprouting from his open Hawaiian-print shirt.