Death of a Trophy Wife

by Laura Levine

  “Oh, him,” she said, dismissing him with an airy wave of her hand. “What a jerk.”

  The woman is amazing. She can go from Wedding Bells to What a Jerk in the time it takes Dale Earnhardt to start his engine.

  “You won’t believe what happened.”

  If it happened to Kandi, I’d believe it.

  “He was all set to come to my apartment for dinner the other night. It was his first meal at my place and I worked my fingers to the bone ordering takeout from La Scala Presto. I had the table set, the candles lit, and Brazilian jazz playing in the background when I got a phone call from him.”

  She paused dramatically. Kandi is fond of milking her stories for all they’re worth. Which is one of the reasons why Beanie & the Cockroach happens to be one of the highest rated cartoons in its time slot.

  “He said he was at Starbucks, buying me some ground espresso for after dinner.”

  “How sweet.”

  “That’s what I thought. Until he told me he’d fallen madly in love with the gal on line in front of him.”

  “But that’s how he met you!”

  “Yes. The man is a Starbucks Stalker.”

  “Aw, honey,” I commiserated, “that’s too bad.”

  “No biggie,” she shrugged. “I’m well rid of him. It turns out he’s not even a real doctor. He’s a chiropractor in a minimall. And he probably cheats at Scrabble, too.”

  She reached into her tub of popcorn and popped a kernel in her mouth. She’s got to be the only woman on the planet who eats popcorn one kernel at a time.

  “So what’s up with you?” she asked, munching on her kernel.

  I decided not to tell her about my latest freelance detecting gig. Kandi always raises a stink when she knows I’m involved in a murder, nagging me about things I’d rather not be thinking about, like winding up in the morgue with an ID tag dangling from my big toe.

  “Nothing much,” I replied, playing it safe.

  “What about that guy from Mongolia?”

  “Uzbekistan.”

  “Did you ever go out with him?”

  “Did I ever.”

  Cringing at the memory, I gave her a brief recap of The House of Plov fiasco.

  “Men,” she grunted. “They’re all impossible.”

  Yeah, right. Until she met her next Mr. Wonderful.

  “Why on earth did you go out with him in the first place?”

  “Kandi! You were the one who insisted I give him a chance.”

  “Did I?” She blinked, puzzled.

  “Yes! You said he sounded charmingly ethnic.”

  “I don’t remember saying that.”

  “Well, you did!”

  “Shhhh!” someone behind us whispered.

  I looked up at the screen and saw the movie was about to start. A healthy smattering of gray-haired ladies and unemployed writers had filled the seats while Kandi and I had been chatting.

  Shoving our failed love lives aside, Kandi and I sat back and started watching the trials and tribs of the size 0 actress on the screen. In spite of my cynical self, I actually wound up enjoying it. When the heroine finally ended up in a tender embrace with her sweet-but-sexy studmuffin, I looked down and was amazed to discover Kandi’s tub of popcorn in my lap. With just a few unpopped kernels rolling around at the bottom.

  “What’s this doing here?” I asked Kandi, who was gazing at the credits, glassy-eyed.

  “I offered you some at the beginning of the movie, and you never gave it back.”

  Oh, lord. I’d just polished off a vat of buttered popcorn. Had I no self-control? Next thing I knew I’d be eating in my sleep.

  We made our way along our row of seats to the steps leading to the exit.

  “Wasn’t that just the sweetest movie ever?” Kandi sighed, as we started down.

  But I did not get a chance to answer her. Because just then I felt someone shove me in my back. Not a jostle. Not a pat. But a major shove.

  Which sent me stumbling down what seemed like an endless chasm of steps. Frantically I reached out for the handrail and managed to grab it. Just in the nick of time. One millisecond later, and I’d have been catapulting headfirst to some pretty serious, if not fatal, injuries.

  Kandi hurried to my side.

  “My gosh, Jaine, did you trip?”

  No, I most definitely did not trip. Somebody had pushed me down those steps on purpose.

  And I had a sinking feeling that somebody was Bunny’s killer.

  I looked around for my assailant, but aside from a few elderly ladies in orthopedic shoes, the theater was pretty much empty.

  Whoever’d pushed me was long gone.

  “Are you okay?” Kandi asked as I made my way down the rest of the steps.

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  Taking no chances, I checked behind me before I got on the escalator down to the theater’s lobby. I wasn’t about to take a tumble on that baby.

  “You don’t look fine,” Kandi said, peering at me through narrowed eyes.

  “I don’t suppose you noticed anyone standing behind me on those stairs, did you?” I asked, trying to sound as casual as possible.

  “Why? You don’t think somebody pushed you?”

  “No, no. Of course not.”

  “Yes, you do!”

  Darn that Kandi. She can read me like a Chinese take-out menu.

  “You’re chasing after another killer, aren’t you? I can always tell!”

  By now we were outside in the hazy afternoon sunshine, and Kandi pulled me over to one of the many wooden benches scattered around the mall.

  “C’mon,” she said, shoving me down onto the bench. “Tell Kandi everything.”

  And the next thing I knew I was blabbing all about the murder.

  “Jaine, Jaine, Jaine,” she sighed when I was through. “How many times do I have to tell you? Tracking down killers is dangerous.”

  “I know. But it adds a jolt of excitement to my life.”

  “You want excitement? Try the 15-Hour Sale at Macy’s.”

  She would’ve gone on reading me the riot act, but fortunately I was saved by her cell phone, which started ringing in her purse.

  “Damn!” she said, checking her caller ID. “I’ve got to take it. It’s the office.”

  The good news was I didn’t have to sit through her lecture. The bad news was she had to go back to work. The “bomb” in the ladies’ room turned out to be a bunch of old scripts one of the cleaning crew forgot to throw out.

  “Sorry, hon. I hate to leave you like this. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

  “I’ll be fine,” I said, faking a confident smile.

  But I couldn’t help it. I was spooked.

  “Promise me you’ll stop your investigation this instant, and leave everything to the police.”

  “I promise,” I lied.

  “If I find out you’re lying and you wind up getting killed, I swear, I’ll never speak to you again.”

  After a farewell hug, we parted ways and I headed down to where I’d parked my car.

  As I walked along the dimly lit underground lot, I had the uncomfortable feeling that someone was following me. At first I told myself it was just my imagination, but then I heard the squeak of rubber-soled shoes padding behind me.

  Someone was out to get me.

  But I wasn’t about to go down without a fight. Reaching into my purse, I grabbed my travel-sized can of hair spray. One spritz in the eye, I’ve found, can discombobulate an attacker almost as well as mace.

  Then I whirled around and spritzed my heart out.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

  I found myself standing face to face with an irate trophy wife in tennis whites and sneakers, whose perfectly coiffed blond hair had all the hair spray it needed, thank you very much.

  “Oh, gosh,” I sputtered, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to spritz you. I thought you were the killer who pushed me down the stairs in the movies.”

  She
looked at me like I’d just wandered in from the nearest psycho ward and without any further ado, made a mad dash for her Lexus.

  Can’t say that I blamed her.

  The Los Angeles evening rush hour, which starts about ten minutes after the morning rush hour, was in full swing when I left the mall. By the time I slogged my way home, it was after five.

  Prozac greeted me at the door with her patented “Feed Me” yowl.

  “How’s my little Bunnyface?” I asked, swooping her up in my arms.

  Hungry! And don’t call me Bunnyface.

  “Mommy almost got killed today,” I told her as I opened a can of Luscious Lamb Innards in Savory Sauce.

  Yeah, right. Whatever. Don’t be stingy with that savory sauce.

  Once her little pink nose was buried in the stuff, I poured myself a wee glass of chardonnay and ran the water for a nice long soak in the tub.

  Leaving my clothes in a heap on the bathroom floor, I sank into the steamy bubbles. As I lay there, waiting for the hot water to work its magic, my mind kept replaying that scene at the movies. That awful sensation as I lost my balance, the frightening sight of those steep steps looming below. I knew that shove was no accident. Someone had purposely pushed me. But who? The first person who sprang to mind was Fortuna. After all, I’d just been to her apartment and practically accused her of the murder. You saw how she went bonkers. It would have been easy for her to slip out of her apartment and follow me to the movies.

  Yes, Fortuna seemed like a likely candidate. But it could have been any one of my suspects. For all I knew, Bunny’s killer had been tailing me for days and waiting for the opportunity to pounce.

  Whoever it was wanted to scare the stuffing out of me.

  And I must confess, they’d done a darn good job.

  Forty-five minutes later, when the hot water had loosened the Boy Scout knots in my muscles, I emerged from the tub and slipped into my bathrobe. Then, grabbing my clothes from where I’d tossed them, I went to my bedroom to hang them up.

  How innocent I was in those few seconds as I walked toward my closet, totally unaware of the shock I was about to receive.

  “Omigod!” I shrieked in disbelief when I opened my closet door.

  No, there was no dead body gazing glassy-eyed at me from inside a garment bag. But it was almost as bad.

  Someone had stolen practically all of my clothes!

  Only a black cocktail dress, my Prada suit, and a few stray blouses remained, dangling midst a sea of empty wire hangers.

  Then I saw a note, pinned to one of the hangers:

  Jaine, sweetie—I’ve been meaning to clean your closet for ages, and today I finally got around to it. I left you with a few basics, and now we can start building a fun new wardrobe from scratch!

  Love and kisses,

  Lance

  PS. I threw out your Oreos, too.

  In a flash I was at his front door.

  “Lance, you idiot!” I cried, pounding on the door in my bathrobe. “Open up this minute!”

  But there was no answer.

  Then I remembered. Tonight was his date with Peter, his stress management buddy.

  I was heading up the path to my own apartment when I got the uneasy feeling that somebody was watching me. A chill ran down my still-damp spine. Had the killer followed me home to finish me off for good?

  I whirled around but saw no one.

  Obviously, my nerves were getting the best of me. I had to stop being such a wuss.

  Nonetheless, when I got back to my apartment, I dead-bolted the door and went around my apartment twice, checking to make sure all my windows were locked. Still feeling uneasy, I jammed a chair up against my front door and crept into bed with a cast-iron frying pan on my night table. Just in case.

  I laid there staring at the ceiling for what seemed like hours, until Prozac’s purring body, tucked under my chin, finally lulled me into a fitful slumber.

  Chapter 23

  The next day dawned bright and sunny. Outside I could hear the reassuringly normal sounds of birds chirping, dogs barking, and Mrs. Hurlbut hollering at Mr. Hurlbut.

  With the sun streaming in my window like a klieg light, last night’s jitters seemed just a tad foolish.

  Sheepishly, I got out of bed and removed the chair I’d propped up under my front door.

  Of course, there was still plenty of trouble in paradise. Aside from a killer on the loose, I had that matter of my empty closet to attend to. So the first thing after breakfast, I stomped over to Lance’s apartment to get my clothes back.

  “Where the hell are they?” I snarled when he came to the door, his blond curls still tousled from sleep.

  “And good morning to you, too.”

  He actually had the nerve to be smiling.

  “What did you do with my clothes?” I said, restraining the impulse to slap him silly.

  “I gave them to a thrift shop.”

  “What?!”

  “Now, Jaine,” he said, in a maddeningly calm voice. “I realize you’re upset. But someday you’ll thank me for this.”

  “What day would that be?” I shrieked. “When hell freezes over?”

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’re cute when you’re apoplectic?”

  “Which thrift shop did you give them to?” I asked through gritted teeth.

  “Trust me, honey. You don’t want your clothes back. Just say no to polyester.”

  “I swear, Lance,” I snarled, “if you don’t tell me where my clothes are, I’m going to strangle you with one of your Hugo Boss ties.”

  “Okay, okay.” He eyed the throbbing vein in my temple. “Don’t have a cow.”

  Reluctantly he gave the name of a thrift shop run by a local church.

  Wasting no time, I sped over there.

  In order to protect the innocent (namely me, from a lawsuit), I’m going to call the place the Our Lady of Monumental Chutzpah Thrift Shop.

  “Hello, dear,” an angelic gray-haired woman greeted me as I came racing in.

  She stood behind a glass counter jammed with kitschy knickknacks, her gray curls permed into a tight nimbus around her head.

  “How may I help you?” she chirped.

  “I want my clothes back!”

  At that, her angelic smile faded.

  “You want to take back a contribution you made?”

  “That’s just the point. I didn’t make it! Without my permission, my neighbor raided my closet and kidnapped my clothes!”

  “But, my dear, the proceeds of all sales go to a very worthy charity.”

  “I realize that, and I commend you for the wonderful work you do here at Our Lady of Monumental Chutzpah, but I need my clothes back.”

  “Well, dear, if it’s that important to you, let’s go find them.”

  I shot her a grateful smile.

  “When did the donation come in?” she asked.

  “Yesterday.”

  “Oh, we haven’t sorted through yesterday’s donations yet.

  “Anna, dear,” she called out to a tiny porcelain doll of a woman. “Please watch the counter while I help this young lady.”

  Then she took me out to a back room crammed with boxes and bags of donated items. Several other Monumental Chutzpah ladies were busy sorting through the sacks.

  “Here are the items that came in yesterday,” my permed companion said, pointing to some bags lined up near the door.

  It didn’t take long to find a huge garbage bag stuffed with my clothes.

  “Thank heavens,” I said, hugging my Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs T-shirt to my chest. “I thought I’d lost you forever.”

  “Oh, yes,” my companion said, eyeing my clothing, “I can see why you’d be so upset with your neighbor for giving your clothes away. You have some lovely things.”

  “Thank you,” I replied, happy to find someone who finally appreciated my discerning taste in fashion.

  “I can let you have these beautiful garments back for just one hundred dollars.”

&nb
sp; “One hundred dollars? But you haven’t even unpacked it yet.”

  “Legally, it belongs to us,” she said, still smiling that angelic smile, “and if you want it, you’re going to have to cough up a C-note.”

  Can you believe the gall of that woman, charging me one hundred bucks for my own clothes?

  “There’s an ATM machine right down the street,” she pointed out helpfully.

  Five minutes later, I was forking over one hundred of my hard-earned dollars to this septuagenarian extortionist.

  I only hoped her next perm fried her hair off.

  As I pulled out of the Monumental Chutzpah parking lot onto Olympic Boulevard, I noticed a boxy black car in my rearview mirror.

  Several blocks later, the car was still behind me.

  And just like that, last night’s jitters came rushing back. I was convinced it was the killer following me, just waiting for another chance to strike again.

  But then, when I turned down my street, the car continued on down Olympic.

  With a sigh of relief, I parked my Corolla and headed up to my duplex. I really had to calm down. Hundreds of drivers took Olympic Boulevard each day; that didn’t mean they were tailing me.

  Back in my apartment, I hung up my clothes, which were, of course, wrinkled beyond belief. I was sorely tempted to drag Lance over and make him iron every darn one of them. The only reason I didn’t was that I was afraid he’d stay and cook me one of his ghastly meals.

  When I’d finally put away my last fashion treasure, I grabbed myself a Diet Coke and plopped down on my living room sofa.

  “That was exhausting,” I sighed.

  Prozac looked up at me from where she’d been napping on one of the cushions.

  Maybe you’ll feel better if you fix me a snack.

  “Prozac, don’t give me that starving orphan look. There’s some leftover mackerel guts in your bowl if you want some.”

  Ignoring her baleful glare, I picked up the morning paper. I’d been so engrossed in the saga of my missing clothes, I hadn’t yet gotten around to reading it.

  I almost choked on my Diet Coke when I saw the headline:

  MAID’S BODY LEFT FOR DEAD IN DUMPSTER

  And there, smiling up at me in a grainy black and white photo, was Lupe.