Death of a Trophy Wife

by Laura Levine

  “What groceries?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? I’m cooking us dinner tonight.”

  “You are? That’s very sweet of you, Lance.”

  My heart always melts at the thought of a hot meal that doesn’t come on a plastic tray.

  “I’ll be right back and get started.”

  “Here? Why can’t you cook at your place?”

  “Aw, Jaine.” He looked at me with big, sad eyes. “I don’t want to be alone. I’ll just start feeling depressed again. You’ll keep me company while I cook.”

  “I can’t keep you company. I’ve got work to do.”

  “You mean, like on the case?” His eyes lit up. “You’re zeroing in on the killer, aren’t you? Oh, Jaine! I knew you’d come through for me.”

  “Actually, I’ve got to wrap up a Toiletmasters brochure.”

  “Oh,” he said, coming down off his bubble of hope.

  “But I’m making lots of progress, really.”

  Okay, so technically that was a bit of a whopper, but I couldn’t bear to tell him I didn’t have anything even resembling a shred of evidence.

  “You just have to give me a little more time. In the meanwhile, though, I’ve got to concentrate on my brochure. So maybe cooking dinner here isn’t the best idea.”

  “I promise I’ll be quiet as a mouse.”

  Yeah, right. I spent the next several hours trapped at my dining room table desk listening to Lance banging what seemed to be every pot I owned, whistling while he worked. I desperately tried to tune him out, but it was impossible.

  And as it turned out, he didn’t need me to talk to. He had Mamie, with whom he kept up a steady stream of nauseating baby talk.

  Would oo like a taste of cawwot, sweetcakes? Isn’t it yummy? Yes, it is! Yummy yum yumsters!

  You think you want to upchuck? I had to listen to that glop all afternoon.

  At first I told myself it was all going to be worthwhile, imagining something scrumptious like roast beef and Yorkshire pudding at the end of my culinary rainbow. Or perhaps a juicy T-bone with baked potato. Or maybe even—dare I hope?—homemade beef stew!

  But, alas, I soon discovered that Lance was cooking a most appallingly healthy meal of poached fish and steamed veggies.

  Plus a foul-smelling cauliflower soup, and lo-carb gluten-free dinner rolls.

  And Mom thought she had it rough with Daddy’s popalicious roast chicken.

  Finally, I got so disgusted listening to the sound of vegetables chopping, I abandoned my computer and trotted off to the bedroom, making my changes in longhand. I’d just have to transcribe them onto my computer later that night.

  I could still hear Lance banging around and cooing sweet nothings to Mamie, but at least it was somewhat muted, and I managed to finish the assignment just in time to hear him announce:

  “Dinner is served!”

  I had to admit, the dining room looked beautiful.

  Lance had cleared my office paraphernalia from my dining room table and set it with some beautiful placemats and napkins from his own apartment.

  He’d dimmed the lights, lit some candles, and poured us some chardonnay.

  All of which helped deaden the blow of the meal to come.

  Nothing like poached fish and cauliflower soup to send your taste buds into a coma.

  “Isn’t this dee-lish?” Lance asked, spearing one of the many veggies littering our plates.

  “Dee-lish,” I echoed with a wooden smile.

  “Sorry about the fishy cauliflower smell. It should go away in three or four days.”

  Somehow I managed to plow through the main course, occasionally casting envious glances at Mamie’s dog food.

  Then came time for dessert.

  “Tada!” Lance said, unveiling his surprise finale—a watery, gray rice pudding, with all the allure of Elmer’s glue.

  “It’s got no dairy whatsoever,” he boasted. “Made from nonfat soy milk.”

  By now my taste buds were on their knees, begging for mercy. And that’s when he dropped his bombshell on me.

  “I’ve really got to start cooking you dinner more often.”

  “No!” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “I mean, it’s way too much trouble.”

  “Don’t be silly. In fact, why don’t I come back tomorrow and cook something else? It’s about time you started eating right.” His eyes lit up with messianic fervor. “I’m going to put you on a whole new diet regime. Nothing but health foods! By the time I’m through with you, the pounds will be positively melting away!”

  At that moment, the only thing I wanted to see melting was some mozzarella on a pizza.

  “So,” he asked, digging into his rice pudding with gusto, “what do you want to watch on TV tonight?”

  Oh, lord. He wanted to stay and watch TV again. It was all I could do not to impale myself on my fork.

  And then, just in my darkest hour, a miracle happened. Lance’s cell phone rang. A friend, calling to see if he wanted to go to the movies.

  “I’d love to, Ben,” he said, “but I just promised my neighbor I’d watch TV with her tonight.”

  “No!” I shrieked. “Go! I insist!”

  “But I’d have to leave right now if I want to catch the show. And I wanted to do the dishes.”

  “That’s okay, Lance, I’ll do them. I don’t mind. Really. You’ve done enough for one night.”

  To my enormous relief he told his buddy he’d meet him at the movies and got up to go.

  “You really don’t mind?” he asked, scooping Mamie into his arms.

  “Not at all,” I said, practically shoving them out the door.

  The minute they were gone, Prozac jumped down from where she’d been hiding behind P. G. Wodehouse.

  “Hey, Pro,” I said, holding out the fish I’d buried beneath some vegetables on my plate. “Look at the special treat I’ve got for you!”

  One sniff and she recoiled in disgust.

  I’ve upchucked hairballs that smelled better than that.

  This from a cat who considers the garbage can a gourmet dining spot.

  And without any further ado, she began howling for something else to eat.

  Screwing up my courage, I took a deep breath and headed into the disaster area otherwise known as my kitchen. Every drawer was open, every pot dirty. It was Apocalypse Now with spatulas.

  I couldn’t possibly face cleaning it tonight. I’d wait till tomorrow, when I was fresh and perky and had regained the will to live.

  Instead I tossed some Chunky Lamb Innards to Prozac and hunkered down at my computer to type in the changes to You and Your Septic Tank.

  After faxing them to Toiletmasters, I treated myself to a nice long soak in the tub, tossing in an extra handful of strawberry-scented bath salts. Unfortunately, they did not begin to mask the toxic cloud of cauliflower hanging over my apartment. But I didn’t care. I was just happy to be in a Lance-free zone. I laid there, letting the hot water soothe my weary muscles, giving thanks to the humanitarian genius who invented the bathtub. And the Double Stuf Oreo, a package of which I’d brought along to keep me company.

  Eventually I pried myself from my sudsy paradise and collapsed into bed.

  I was in a deep sleep when the phone rang and woke me. In a fog, I picked it up. Too late, I realized it might be Lance.

  But it wasn’t.

  “Jaine, my beloved!”

  Vladimir’s voice came humming across the line.

  “I call to beg you to give me one more chance and have dinner with me tomorrow night.”

  Without missing a beat, I replied, “Sure, Vladimir.”

  Now don’t go packing me off to the loony bin. I hadn’t taken leave of my senses. There was a perfectly logical reason why I agreed to go.

  True, our last date had been a bit of a disaster. But at least no cauliflower had been involved. I had no idea what cavalcade of vegetables and bad TV Lance had planned for me tomorrow night.

  All I knew was that I didn’t w
ant to be around to find out.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Out of Stock!

  Tragic news, lambchop! I called the Turbomaster people to order some more Secret Spice, and they’re out of stock! And they won’t be getting in a new shipment for another month! I’ve been trying to cook without it, but my food just doesn’t taste the same. Especially my Popalicious Chicken à la Hank. Without the Secret Spice, it’s not nearly as Popalicious. Every time I think of Lydia Pinkus and her evil plot to keep me from winning the cookathon, I see red.

  But fear not. Your old daddy’s ever-nimble brain has come through again. I’ve thought of a surefire way to get my Secret Spice back from Old Pruneface.

  More later…

  XOXO,

  Chef Hank

  (aka Daddy)

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Of All the Nerve!

  Of all the nerve! Your father actually expects me to sneak into Lydia’s kitchen during our next bridge game and look for his silly Secret Spice. Well, I absolutely refuse.

  He can pout all he wants, but I am not about to take part in any of his ridiculous schemes!

  Your thoroughly disgusted,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Justice Will Prevail!

  All I can say, lambchop, is that I’m very disappointed in your mom. I asked her to do a simple favor and snoop in Old Pruneface’s spice rack, and she refused. To think, after all these years of marriage, I can’t count on my own wife in my time of need.

  It looks like I’m just going to have to take things into my own hands. Somehow, some way, Lydia Pinkus’s evil plot to destroy me will be thwarted!

  Justice will prevail!

  Love ’n’ hugs from,

  Chef Hank

  (aka Daddy)

  Chapter 18

  “Shhh!” I hissed at Prozac, who was clawing my chest bright and early the next morning, yowling to be fed.

  What if Lance heard us stirring and came racing over with some ghastly whole-grain breakfast? That would never do. So I hustled my little noisemaker off to the kitchen to silence her with Hearty Halibut Guts.

  My heart stopped when I saw the mess awaiting me.

  No miracle had occurred in the night. Every drawer was still open, every pot still out on the counter. Perhaps they’d even multiplied. If only I’d put the dishes in the sink to soak. Now the remains of last night’s dinner were practically welded to the plates.

  After tossing some halibut guts in a bowl for Prozac, I began the hellish task of cleaning up. I doubted Lance would hear me all the way in the kitchen, but if he did, so be it. There was no way I could live with this mess.

  Arming myself for battle, I put on my rubber gloves and dug in. I washed dishes and glasses, pots and pans, and knives I never even knew I owned. Half a bottle of Palmolive, two S.O.S pads, and three broken nails later, I was finally through.

  By now I was starving, so I nuked myself some coffee and an ancient cinnamon raisin bagel I uncovered in my freezer. I slathered the bagel with butter and strawberry jam. Heavy on the jam. I deserved it after what I’d just been through.

  Carting my breakfast to the living room, I eyed the front door warily. Dared I risk opening it for the newspaper? What if Lance was lying in ambush, waiting to pounce with a pitcher of carrot juice?

  Unable to resist the lure of the crossword puzzle, I took a chance and cracked the door open. Thank heavens all I saw was my neighbor’s azalea bush. So I snatched up the paper and scurried back inside.

  Normally there’s nothing I like better than doing a crossword puzzle with my morning coffee. I relish the challenge of coming up with seven-letter answers for obscure vice presidents. But that morning, I jumped every time I heard a noise, certain it was Lance about to barge in.

  This was no way to live. If I didn’t find the killer soon and get Lance his job back, I’d have to sign up for a witness protection program.

  It was time to get my fanny in gear and pay a visit to the next person on my suspect list: Ellen Cooper. I’d gotten a glimpse of the fury lurking beneath her sunny smile and was eager to lob a few questions her way.

  I called Owen at Mattress King. He was happy to give me her address and phone number. Well, not exactly happy. But given what I knew about his torrid affair with Bunny, he was in no position to turn down my request.

  Ellen was home when I phoned and agreed to see me later that morning.

  I whiled away the next half hour or so catching up on my e-mails and trying not to think about Daddy on the hunt for his Secret Spice. Then I got dressed as quietly as possible and poked my head out the front door.

  Once again, I breathed a sigh of relief to see a Lance-less horizon.

  Slinking past his apartment, I got in my Corolla and set out to question the jilted ex-wife.

  Ellen Cooper lived in a condo on the Wilshire Corridor, a strip of astronomically priced high-rises in Westwood—mini-cities complete with 24-hour valets, tennis courts, and state of the art gyms.

  I drove up the circular driveway of Ellen’s mammoth art deco building, where a doorman dressed as a five-star general gave my Corolla the once-over. Clearly he was not impressed with what he saw.

  “Deliveries around back,” he said, motioning with his thumb to the rear of the building.

  “I’m not making a delivery,” I informed him frostily. “I’m here to see Ellen Cooper.”

  “Sorry, ma’am,” he said, not looking the least bit sorry. “My mistake.”

  Grudgingly he opened my car door for me. As I walked off I could hear him say to a valet:

  “Park this thing where nobody can see it.”

  Well, he could just kiss his fifty cent tip good-bye.

  I pushed my way through a set of spotless revolving doors and entered a lobby straight out of a sultan’s palace: travertine marble floors, humongous floral arrangements, and chandeliers I wouldn’t want to be standing under during an earthquake.

  Having scaled the doorman hurdle, I now had to pass muster with a gimlet-eyed concierge who practically demanded my social security number before he let me past his desk.

  At last I was on a brass-railed elevator zooming up to Ellen’s thirtieth-floor penthouse. I had no trouble finding the place since there were only two condos on the floor.

  I rang what looked like a 14-karat gold doorbell, and seconds later Ellen came to the door in a baby blue sweatsuit, a smudge of chocolate on her cheek. She was as out of place in that joint as a Kmart shopper on Rodeo Drive.

  “C’mon in, honey,” she said, waving me inside.

  My feet sinking in the plush carpeting, I followed her past her vestibule and into her living room, where I gazed in awe at her panoramic view of Wilshire Boulevard to the south and—in the distance, but visible nonetheless—the mighty Pacific Ocean to the west.

  “What a view!”

  “Just one of the many perks of the Waldorf Hysterical. That’s what I call this place. A little over the top, don’t you think?” she said, gesturing to her football field-sized living room. “You should see the other tenants. Some of these women get a facelift just to pick up their mail. Frankly, I miss my old house in Encino. But after the divorce, I wanted a change of scene. And it is fun being right here in town. Ellen Cooper, Jet Setter, that’s me.”

  She graced me with one of her apple-cheeked grins.

  “Say, I was just about to dig into a box of Krispy Kremes. Want one? Oh, of course you do. I know a fellow donut-holic when I see one. Make yourself comfy and I’ll be right back.”

  I sank down into one of two chenille sofas facing each other in front of her massive fireplace. Ellen’s furniture, like Ellen herself, looked out of place in the grand expanse of the room. Her stuff had to be at least twenty years old, well-worn, no-nonsense pieces that she probably bought at the beginning of her marriage and never bothered to update. Sh
abby chic, without the chic.

  In no time, Ellen was back with a box of donuts, which she set down on a large pine coffee table between the two sofas.

  “Help yourself, hon.”

  Needless to say, I did.

  It was a toss up between jelly and chocolate glazed, but as always, chocolate triumphed.

  Ellen grabbed one, too, and plopped down opposite me, tucking her legs beneath her generous tush.

  “Sarah tells me that, despite your totally inept appearance, you’re some sort of private eye.”

  Okay, so she didn’t say the part about my inept appearance, but I could read between the lines.

  I assured her that I was indeed a part-time unlicensed private eye and proceeded to ask her the usual questions about the night of the murder. Unfortunately, I got the usual disappointing answers. She saw no one out on the patio because she was too busy staring at me single-handedly destroying Bunny’s guest bathroom.

  When I asked her if she could think of anyone angry enough to have wanted to see Bunny dead, she responded with a hearty chuckle.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, “take a number. Everybody hated her.”

  At which point we were interrupted by an ear-shattering whining noise.

  I looked up, alarmed.

  “Don’t worry,” she said when the noise had stopped. “It’s only the plumber. He’s snaking the drain in the master bath.”

  “Ms. Cooper!” A man’s voice drifted down the hallway. “Can you come here a minute? I got a problem.”

  “Why is there always a problem?” Ellen sighed, hoisting herself up from her sofa. “I’ll be right back.

  “Help yourself to another donut!” she called out as she started down the hall.

  I did not waste valuable minutes stuffing my face with a donut. Nope, I wasted only seconds scarfing one down. Then, wiping chocolate from my fingers, I started casing the room. With any luck, I’d run into a desk drawer jammed with incriminating evidence.