by Laura Levine
The Tampa Vistas Players’ production of Lord Worthington’s Ascot got off to a soggy start when an actor playing the part of a butler accidentally set fire to Lord Worthington’s ascot and triggered the sprinkler system. No one was hurt, but theatergoers were soaked as they fled the Tampa Vistas Clubhouse.
“I knew all along that guy was a nutcase,” said writer/director Alistair St. Germaine, referring to Tampa Vistas resident Hank Austen, who played the part of the butler.
Mr. Austen was unavailable for comment.
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: I Told You So!
I told you Daddy was up to something, and I was right. You’re not going to believe this, but he set fire to the clubhouse! It’s been the talk of Tampa Vistas. They even wrote about it in the Tampa Tribune. I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life!
I knew the minute the curtain went up there was going to be trouble. From his very first entrance, Daddy started mugging and winking at the audience. It was disgraceful. And the awful thing is, the audience loved it. They kept laughing at his silly antics, which just encouraged him. All the other actors were furious, but there was nothing we could do.
Then came the scene where Daddy was supposed to light Lord Worthington’s cigarette. Daddy flicked on the lighter and, instead of looking at what he was doing, he turned and bowed to the audience. Naturally, he missed the cigarette by a mile, and wound up setting fire to Alistair’s ascot instead! Alistair whipped it off and tried to stomp it out on the carpet, but then the carpet caught fire and the smoke triggered the sprinkler system. Up until then, the audience thought the fire was part of the play and were laughing like hyenas. But they didn’t think it was so funny when the sprinklers went off. Everyone got drenched. Oh, honey. What a nightmare!
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: It Was an Accident!
I suppose your mother has told you about the little incident at the clubhouse. Sweetheart, I swear it was an accident. You’ve got to believe me. I admit I was hamming it up, but I never intended to set fire to The Germ’s ascot!
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: P.S.
I just got a call from the Tampa Vistas Board of Directors. Your father and I have been banned from the clubhouse for the next six months. Really, Jaine. This is the last straw. I’ve had it with Daddy. I don’t think I can ever forgive him.
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: P.P.S.
Guess what I just found next to my bowl of Cheerios? A diamond ring. All I can say is, if your father thinks I’m so shallow and materialistic that he can bribe his way back into my good graces with a diamond ring—he’s absolutely right! I adore it. I hate to think what he spent on it. He bought it at a local jewelry store, though, so at least he didn’t have to pay shipping and handling. And not only that, he’s booked us on a cruise to the Bahamas. So I guess all’s well that ends well. I never wanted to be an actress in the first place, and—more important—Daddy has given up his crazy dream of becoming an actor. For that I am truly grateful. From now on, I want to spend the rest of our lives out of the limelight.
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: What a Hoot!
Hi, Sweetpea. Did Mom tell you? We’re off to the Bahamas. It should be a lot of fun. They’re having a talent show on the last night. I’m going to do a soliloquy from Hamlet. Either that or my Daffy Duck impersonation. Hey, wait. I know. I’ll do Daffy Duck doing Hamlet. I think I’ll rent a duck suit. What a hoot, huh? Don’t tell Mom. I want to surprise her.
Chapter 22
I spent a ghastly night tossing and turning, jolting awake at the slightest noise, certain that Tyler was coming back to strangle me. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when the sun finally came up and I was still alive.
I staggered to the kitchen for my morning cup of tap-water coffee. First thing, after my brain cells started functioning, I’d get dressed and pay a visit to Lt. Mula. I’d tell him about Tyler’s social call last night. And how his alibi had been blown out of the water. I just hoped Mula would take me more seriously than the Beverly Hills cops.
By now all my other suspects had faded into the background. I was convinced it was Tyler who killed Frenchie. I’d bet my Prada suit on it.
After opening a can of Gourmet Chicken Gizzards for Prozac, I checked my e-mails and read the latest installment of my parents’ adventures in the world of the theater. Can you believe it? Daddy actually set fire to the Tampa Vistas Clubhouse! And now he was about to unleash his Daffy Duck impression on a cruise ship full of unsuspecting passengers. Poor Mom. I only hoped she’d be so busy admiring her new diamond ring that she wouldn’t mind Daddy running around in a duck suit. Oh, well. To paraphrase a famous philosopher: That which doesn’t kill you really aggravates you.
I put a Pop Tart in the toaster and turned on the TV. Regis was doing a rant about a leaky faucet in his luxury condo when suddenly the show was interrupted by a Breaking News bulletin.
“This just in,” said a bubble-haired newscaster, doing her best to look journalistic. “Santa Monica resident Owen Ambrose was arrested early this morning and charged with the fatal stabbing of his wife.”
There, flashing on the screen behind Ms. Bubble Hair, was a photo of Owen.
“According to the authorities, Mr. Ambrose had taken out a two-million-dollar life insurance policy on his wife and had been involved in an extramarital affair with one of his neighbors, aspiring actress Tiffany Gustafson.”
A picture of a brassy young blonde popped up on the screen. Something about her looked familiar. Where had I seen that face before? And then I remembered the twentysomething bimbettes I’d seen in the elevator of Owen’s apartment building. She was one of the bimbettes. Good Lord. Was paunchy, middle-aged Owen having an affair with her?
I remembered how griefstricken he’d been that day, how the tears wouldn’t stop. He seemed so damn pathetic. But maybe he wasn’t pathetic. Maybe he was a sexy charmer who knew how to turn on the grief to fool a gullible writer/detective. Everyone at Passions talked about how Frenchie cheated on Owen; it never occurred to anybody that Owen might have been cheating, too.
Now an on-the-scene reporter who looked barely old enough to shave was standing outside police headquarters.
“Sources close to the investigation say that the suspect’s fingerprints were found on the murder weapon and that traces of his wife’s blood were found on an undisclosed article of his clothing.”
The bubble-haired journalist in the studio thanked the pubescent reporter, and before I knew it, Regis was back on camera complaining about his in-laws.
I switched off the TV, dazed by what I’d just seen.
For a fleeting instant, I wondered if Owen could possibly be innocent. Not likely. Not with that two-million-dollar insurance policy and the bimbette lover waiting in the wings.
I had to face facts. I’d bungled this case badly. Five minutes ago, I’d been prepared to send Tyler to the electric chair. But I was wrong. Tyler wasn’t a killer. He was simply a lying, cheating sociopath with an anger management problem.
So much for my skills as a detective. Oh, well. The important thing to remember was that Becky was in the clear. And the other important thing to remember was that my rent was due any day now, and I still hadn’t lined up a writing assignment.
I’d have to buckle down and work on a promotional mailer. Today. Right now. This very minute. Well, maybe not this very minute. Maybe first I’d take a teeny tiny nap. What with Prozac stealing my pillow and me sitting up all night waiting for Tyler to strangle me, I was in terrible shape. I’d just lie down for ten minutes….
Eight hours later, the phone jolted me awake.
“Cookie!” Mr. Goldman’s voice came rasping over the line. “You want to have dinner at the hospital with me tonight? We’re having boiled chicken and creamed rice.”
> Just what I wanted, a bland food festival.
“Sounds mighty tempting, Mr. Goldman, but I don’t think I can make it.”
“That’s okay, cookie. I understand.”
I have to admit I was surprised. I thought for sure he’d give me a hard time.
“Of course,” he said, “I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t hollered at me, but that doesn’t mean you have to have dinner with me.”
Okay, so he was going to give me a hard time.
“I’ll just have a lonely chicken breast all by myself,” he sighed.
No way I was going to fall for this shameless guilt trip. I’d already pretended to be his girlfriend once: enough was enough.
“I was hoping you could cut my chicken for me. I haven’t quite regained the strength in my right arm. But I’ll manage somehow. Even though my wrist is weak as an egg noodle.”
Oh, please. Give me a break.
“The doctor says I may never play Ping-Pong again.”
Forget it. Nothing he said—absolutely nothing—would make me change my mind.
“We’re having hot fudge sundaes for dessert.”
“I’ll be there in a half hour.”
Dinner Chez Cedars was a delightful affair. You haven’t lived till you’ve dined by the light of a heart monitor.
Mr. Goldman had managed to get the nurses to bring two extra dinners, one for me, and one for Mr. Perez’s girlfriend, Rosie. I pecked my way through dinner, cutting Mr. Goldman’s boiled chicken, still going through the nauseating charade of being his girlfriend.
The dinner conversation went something like this (Diabetics beware!):
Mr. Goldman: How’s your boiled chicken, Honey Bunny?
Me (with sickly smile): Delish, Teddy Bear.
Mr. Goldman: Care for some salt substitute, Sweetums?
Me: No, thanks, Lambchop.
I was counting the minutes till we finished our “hot fudge sundaes,” which, incidentally, turned out to be nonfat yogurt with watery chocolate sauce.
Mr. Goldman: How’s your dessert, Honey Bunny?
Me: You lying son of a bitch, you promised me a hot fudge sundae!
Okay, so I didn’t really say that.
No, spineless wonder that I am, I said, “Yummy, Teddy Bear.”
And if you think Mr. Goldman and I were nauseating, you should’ve seen Mr. Perez and Rosie. They kept tasting each other’s food (for no apparent reason, since they were both eating the same thing), feeding each other with coy giggles.
“Say,” Rosie said, winking at me. “When our fellas are better, the four of us should go out on a double date.”
Oh, God. Spare me.
“Now if you folks will excuse me,” Rosie said, hoisting herself up from her chair. “I got a piece of chicken stuck in my dentures. I’ll be right back.”
And then she hobbled off on her cane to the bathroom.
Mr. Perez smiled proudly. “She’s some hot mama, huh, Goldman?”
“She’s all right,” Mr. Goldman said. “But she doesn’t hold a candle to my Jaine.”
Mr. Goldman patted my hand possessively.
“I gotta admit, you’re right,” Mr. Perez said. “Jaine’s a pistol.” Then he shot me a sly smile. “You know, maybe I should pull the plug on Abe, and then I’d have you all to myself.”
What a prince, huh? Here he was, flirting with me when his girlfriend was in the very next room, picking food debris from her dentures.
After a few minutes, Rosie came hobbling out from the bathroom and gave us an update on the chicken-in-the-dentures crisis.
“I got it out,” she said. “It was so big, I could’ve practically made a sandwich with it.”
A tad more information than I needed to know.
“So,” she said, patting her towering beehive hairdo, as if to make sure it was still there, “who wants to play Strip Parcheesi?”
Not me. Not in this lifetime.
“I do!” Mr. Goldman said, smiling at me eagerly. “How about it, Sweetums?”
“Actually, I’ve got to go.”
“Oh, no. Really?”
“Yes, my cat’s not feeling well and I’ve got to take her to the vet.”
Mr. Goldman shot me a look.
“Wasn’t she sick just the other day?”
“No, that was me. I had the emergency root canal. Remember?”
“Oh, all right,” Mr. Goldman said, with a martyred sigh. “You go ahead. I don’t mind being alone even though I’m awfully weak. Did I tell you the doctor said I may never play Ping-Pong again?”
“Yes, I believe you mentioned it, Teddy Bear, but I’ve really got to leave.”
At this point, I didn’t care if I had given him a heart attack; I positively refused to let him guilt me into a game of Strip Parcheesi.
And for once, I didn’t weaken.
I blew him a kiss good-bye and sailed out of his hospital room, like an ex-con on her first day of freedom.
I was headed for the elevator when one of the nurses at the nursing station called out, “Excuse me, Miss!”
“Yes?” I said.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure,” I said, walking up to the counter.
The nurse who’d called me over, a plump young woman in pastel pink scrubs, smiled awkwardly.
“I hope you don’t mind,” she said, “but we have a bet going.”
“A bet? About what?”
“Are you really Mr. Goldman’s girlfriend?”
“No, I’m not!”
I was prepared to keep up that ridiculous charade in front of Perez, but not in front of the Cedars nursing staff.
“I told you,” she said to the other nurses. “No one in her right mind would be his girlfriend.”
“I have not now or ever been Mr. Goldman’s girlfriend. I’m his teacher.”
“Still,” said one of the nurses, an older woman with glasses dangling from a cord around her neck, “it’s awfully nice of you to visit him. It means so much to him.”
“It’s the least I could do,” I said, “seeing as I’m responsible for him being here.”
“Responsible? How are you responsible?”
“I yelled at him in class one night and he keeled over. If it hadn’t been for me, he’d never be here.”
“That’s not true,” said the nurse in the pink scrubs. “The man was a heart attack waiting to happen. It was just a matter of time.”
“Huh?”
“His arteries were clogged pretty badly. Apparently he was skipping out on his cardiologist appointments and hanging out in the coffee shop of the medical building, eating banana splits and flirting with the waitresses.”
Arrrgh! Was Mr. Goldman impossible, or what? Here he had me blowing him kisses and cutting his boiled chicken when that damn heart attack had been his fault all along.
I felt like marching back into his room and poking holes in his IV tube. At the very least, I’d tell Mr. Perez the truth about our so-called relationship. But what good would that do? Besides, I might wind up giving Mr. Goldman another heart attack. And this time, it would be my fault.
No, I’d let him get away with his silly lie, but from now on, I wasn’t going to tolerate any more of his nonsense in class. No more interruptions. No more outbursts. No more insensitive critiques of his fellow classmates.
I was stomping toward the elevator, lost in thoughts of my new regime at Shalom, when I passed a petite redhead who bore a vague resemblance to Debbie Reynolds.
That was another thing, I told myself. No longer would I allow Mr. Goldman to tell those insane stories about having love affairs with movie stars.
I was pressing the button for the elevator when I heard the redhead say to one of the nurses, “Hi, hon. Can you help me?”
That was odd. Not only did she look like Debbie Reynolds, but she sounded like her, too.
“Of course, Ms. Reynolds,” the nurse replied. “What can we do for you?”
I darted back to the nurses’ station fo
r a better look. Yikes, it really was Debbie Reynolds. Could it be? Had Mr. Goldman been telling the truth about his affair with the star of Singin’ in the Rain? Nah. No way. Just because she was here at Cedars didn’t mean she was going to visit Mr. Goldman.
“Which way to Abe Goldman’s room?” she asked.
Okay, so maybe he knew her somehow. Maybe he once sold her wall-to-wall carpeting. That didn’t mean they’d been lovers.
But then I heard her say, as she walked into his room:
“Abe, loverboy. How’re they hanging?”
You could’ve knocked me over with a boiled chicken.
Chapter 23
I headed up the path to my apartment, my mind still reeling at the thought of Mr. Goldman and Debbie Reynolds as lovers. Had all his tales of romantic conquests been true? Had he actually, as he’d proudly claimed, danced the cha-cha with Ann-Margret, spent the night at the Disneyland Hotel with Joan Collins, and given Angie Dickinson a hickey?
Lost in thoughts of Mr. Goldman’s love life, I opened the front door and almost tripped over something on my doorstep. A frisson of fear ran down my spine as I looked down and saw what it was: A shoe. A high-heeled, high-fashion number. Exactly like the one I’d found impaled in Frenchie’s neck.
With trembling hands, I picked it up. The label said Jimmy Choo. Maybe it was real. Maybe it was a knockoff. But at that moment, I didn’t much care about its authenticity. My attention was riveted to a Post-it stuck to the dagger-like heel. Written on it was a message, two little words that turned my frisson of fear into a full-blown panic attack:
You’re Next
