by Laura Levine
“Just one of many, I’m afraid.”
“How’s your grandmother taking it?”
I wish he’d stop focusing so much on dear old Grammy Austen.
“Grammy’s fine. She’s a tough old gal.”
“Just be careful,” he said, his brow furrowed in concern. “After all, there’s a murderer on the loose.”
“Oh, I will,” I assured him.
Another awkward moment while I waited in vain for him to take me in his arms and declare undying love and/or momentary lust.
“Well, see ya,” I said, starting for the door.
“Wait!” he called out.
I turned to face him.
“Let me make it up to you for getting caught last night,” he said. “I should have warned you about Olga standing guard at the front door.”
“Oh, that’s okay.”
“No, really. I owe you one. How about we go grab a bite of dinner?”
“What about the deli? Don’t you need to be here?”
“I can close if I want. I’m the boss. So how about it?”
Cat lovers everywhere will be horrified to learn that, at that moment, all thoughts of my hungry kitty waiting impatiently for her chow flew from my brain.
“Dinner sounds great,” I said, also ignoring the fact that I’d just packed away two (okay, three) slices of sausage and mushroom pizza. Surely, I could make room in my tummy for some of Darryl’s homemade cannelloni.
He got up from behind the counter, and joined me at the door. In jeans and a sweatshirt, he had that lanky Ichabod Crane bod I’m particularly partial to. (Obviously an opposites attract kind of thing.)
“Want to go for pizza?” he asked, slipping into a windbreaker. “I’ve been craving some all day.”
Pizza? Oh, crud. What if Harvy and Kendra were still at the pizza parlor and spilled the beans that I’d just been stuffing my face? The last thing I needed was for Darryl to think I was the kind of gal who went for pizza twice in one night. But what else could I suggest? Le Petit Ripoff? Not bloody likely.
“Um, sure,” I said. “Pizza sounds fab.”
Darryl locked up the deli, and after putting my groceries in my car, we started walking down Main Street.
I prayed there was another pizza parlor in town, one I hadn’t noticed, down a side street, perhaps. But alas, Darryl took me to the place I’d just left not more than twenty minutes ago.
To my immense relief, Harvy and Kendra were gone when we got there.
Darryl led me to a cozy booth for two, and was sitting across from me, smiling that killer smile of his, when I heard:
“You back again?”
Oh, hell. It was the waitress I’d had with Harvy and Kendra, a punk redhead with a most disconcerting diamond stud in her nose.
“Yes,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster under the circs. “Back again.”
“So what’ll it be?” she said, taking out her order pad.
“Is sausage and mushroom okay with you?” Darryl asked.
“Oh, it’s fine with her,” Ms. Punk piped up. “You want extra mushrooms like the last time?”
“Yes, that would be lovely,” I said with a stiff smile.
If only I had some kelp handy; I knew whose neck I’d like to wring.
“You’ve been here before?” Darryl asked as she skipped off.
“Um, yes. Grammy and I stopped by the other day before we checked into The Haven. Sort of a last hurrah before Grammy started her diet. I guess the waitress remembered me.”
“Speaking of your Grammy, are you sure she won’t mind your taking time to have dinner like this? Won’t she be hungry?”
“Oh, no. She was napping when I left. Grammy loves to nap.”
Then, eager to get off the Grammy track, I asked, “So tell me, have you always lived here?”
“No, I just moved here two years ago from L.A. I used to be a stockbroker, but I’m afraid I wasn’t cut out for it. Every time my clients lost money, I lost sleep.”
Omigosh, a stockbroker with a heart! Was he a sweetie, or what?
“So I cashed out my savings and bought the deli. Got myself a little bungalow up in the hills, and when I’m not working at the deli, I’m trying to write my Great American Novel.”
“You’re writing a novel? That’s wonderful! I’ve always wanted to do that.”
He blushed a most becoming shade of Aw Shucks Pink and asked, “So what about you? What do you do when you’re not dieting with your grammy?”
“Actually, I’m a writer, too.”
“You are?” His eyes lit up, impressed. “What have you written?”
For the briefest instant, I considered telling him that I dashed off ad campaigns for IBM and Procter & Gamble, but my whopper about Grammy Austen was bad enough, so I decided to stick with the truth.
“I write ads for local L.A. clients. Ackerman’s Awnings. Fiedler on the Roof Roofers. Toiletmasters Plumbers.”
“Toiletmasters?? You wrote In a rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters! ? I used to see that commercial in the middle of the night back in L.A. when I couldn’t sleep!”
“Yes, many people have told me it’s a highly effective sleep aid.”
At which point, Ms. Punk showed up with our wine and pizza.
“Here you go,” she said to me. “Again.”
Where the heck was that kelp when I needed it?
As she trotted off to harass her other customers, Darryl cut me a giant slab of pizza.
I gazed down at it, and guess what, folks? For once in my life, I wasn’t ready to swan dive into my plate.
Maybe it was the excitement of being across the table from Darryl; maybe it was the three (okay, four) slices I’d had earlier, but I just wasn’t hungry.
“Well, dig in!” Darryl said.
I began picking at my pizza, just like the Size 0 movie stars do in scenes that require them to put food in their mouths, quite enjoying the image of myself as a finicky eater.
The next several minutes passed in a happy blur as Darryl and I continued chatting, him telling me about life as a deli owner and aspiring writer, me nodding a lot and trying to figure out if his eyes were brown or hazel. Before long I was lost in a daydream of the two of us living together in his cozy bungalow in the hills, Darryl writing his Great American Novel and me writing long distance ads for Toiletmasters. Just as I was picturing the two of us sitting down to a home-cooked cannelloni dinner, with Ben & Jerry and dipsy doodle for dessert, I heard:
“Jaine, are you okay?”
I snapped back to reality and saw Darryl looking at my plate. “You’ve hardly touched your pizza.”
“I’m not all that hungry,” I said, in a moment straight out of Ripley’s Believe it Or Not.
“Wow. You really eat like a bird.”
Oh, Lordy. If he only knew.
Darryl walked me back to his parking lot in the cool night air, the moon a sliver in the sky above.
We’d lingered over our pizza, gabbing like crazy, the usual getting-to-know-you chatter about favorite books and movies. I was thrilled to discover that, in addition to P.G. Wodehouse, we both loved Anne Tyler, Sunset Boulevard and Roman Holiday. And guess what? He didn’t like The Three Stooges! Hated them, in fact.
That alone practically qualified him for sainthood.
“I just don’t get that whole ‘nyuck, nyuck, nyuck’ thing,” he’d said, shaking his head.
Yes, I’d felt a definite connection over pizza.
But now, as our footsteps echoed in the empty streets, an awkward silence fell between us.
I tried to think of something clever to say when we got back to my car, but all I could come up with was, “Thanks so much for the pizza.”
“My pleasure,” he replied.
I looked up into his eyes (hazel, definitely hazel), at his shaggy hair grazing the collar of his sweatshirt, and at that fabulous smile, hoping he’d soon be zeroing in for a kiss.
“Well, see ya,” he said, making no move whatsoever to
lock lips.
Swallowing my disappointment, I got in my Corolla, and was about to put the key in the ignition when he tapped on my window. I rolled it down, and he leaned in toward me.
Okay, this was it, the moment I’d been waiting for—our first big smackeroo.
But no, he just reached in and plucked a slice of mushroom from my sweatshirt.
Oh, damn. Even picking at my food, I’d managed to spill something. I can’t take me anywhere.
“Drive safely,” he said. “And give my best to Grammy Austen.”
“Will do,” I assured him with a weak smile, and took off into the night.
And as I drove back to The Haven I proceeded to read myself the riot act.
I really had to stop my ridiculous habit of fantasizing about guys I’d barely met. Here I’d built up this whole romantic Girl Meets Aspiring Writer/Deli Owner fairy tale, complete with Cozy Bungalow-For-Two happy ending, before the poor guy had even finished his first slice of pizza.
Darryl was just a cute guy who got lonely at his deli and wanted some company while he went for pizza. And I just happened to be at the checkout counter when he got the munchies.
No big fairy tale romance. No prince charming. Just a guy in the mood for pizza.
That’s it. End of story. Finito.
Back at The Haven, I groaned to see Olga at the reception desk, busily making notes in a ledger.
Rats. If only I’d snuck in the back door! What if she realized the bulges in my cargo pocket weren’t muscles?
Before I knew it, her eagle eyes were boring into me.
“Where have you been?” she asked, in full-tilt Gestapo mode.
“Out walking,” I said.
Which technically was no lie. I had, after all, walked all the way from the deli to the pizza parlor.
“Is that so?” she asked, her voice dripping with skepticism.
She got up and took a step toward me.
Uh-oh. I felt a strip search coming on. But just then the phone rang. Olga stared at it longingly, torn between nabbing a diet scofflaw or a potential customer.
Thank heavens, the customer won.
“Oh, what the hell,” she said finally, waving me by to pick up the phone and trill a sugary hello to the caller.
One dragon down, one to go.
Needless to say, Prozac was more than a tad miffed when I got back to our room.
She looked up from where she’d been pacing and shot me a venomous glare.
What the heck took you so long?
“I’m so sorry I’m late, sweetheart. I was busy conducting an important investigation.”
She practically rolled her eyes at that one.
Oh, please. I can smell the sausage on your breath from here.
And without any further ado, she began yowling to be fed.
I reached into my cargo pockets, where I’d stashed several cans of Darryl’s gourmet cat food—along with a blueberry muffin, a turkey and swiss cheese sandwich, and a couple Almond Joys to get me through the next day.
“Look what Mommy got you, love bug!” I held up a can of cat food in triumph. “Hearty Halibut Entrails!”
Prozac swished her tail impatiently.
How many times do I have to tell you? You’re not my mommy. And don’t call me love bug! Just open the darn can before I start eating the carpet!
“I’m opening it right now!”
And that’s when tragedy struck.
When I looked down at the Hearty Halibut Entrails, I realized Darryl’s gourmet cat food didn’t come with a pop top.
And guess who forgot to buy a can opener?
Minutes later, I was frantically prowling the hallway, searching for Delphine. I found her in the supply closet, stocking her cart with M&N’s.
“Thank God you’re here!” I cried. “I need a can opener ASAP! Please tell me that you’ve got one!”
“This is your lucky day,” she said with a perky nod of her ponytail. “It just so happens I’m running a sale on can openers.”
She reached down into her cart and pulled out a rusty relic of a can opener, crusted with ancient food stains.
“How much?”
“For you, thirty bucks.”
“Thirty bucks?” I blinked in outrage. “For a used can opener?”
“Better make up your mind. Sale ends soon. Then it goes up to fifty.”
“That’s highway robbery!” I shrieked.
“So I’ve been told,” she smiled blandly.
I was all set to storm off in a huff and go back to Darryl’s, but then I remembered Darryl had closed up shop. Of course it was possible he’d opened again after I left him in the parking lot, but I couldn’t risk it. Heaven help me if the deli was closed and I came back without that can opener. Prozac would probably make me open the darn can with my teeth.
“Tick tock, tick tock,” Delphine said, pointing at her watch.
“Wait a minute,” I sighed. “I’ll get my checkbook.”
Thirty dollars later, Prozac was burying her little pink nose in a can of Hearty Halibut Entrails.
And I was writing a very nasty e-mail to Lance.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: The Great Debate
Fantastic news, lambchop! I’ve challenged the battleaxe to a debate! Not only that, it’s going to be televised live on Tampa Vistas’ closed circuit TV. At long last I’ll be able to expose Lydia Pinkus for the petty tyrant she really is.
I don’t care what your mom says—PINKUS STINKS!
More later,
XXX
Daddy (aka “Mr. President”)
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: On the Warpath
I suppose Daddy’s told you about his debate with Lydia. Somehow he managed to talk Artie Myers into televising the debate live on Channel 99, Tampa Vistas’ closed circuit TV station. Artie’s the fellow in charge of Channel 99 programming. Which is mostly just a list of clubhouse activities and items for sale. But occasionally they do broadcasts. Last year, they shot George and Gloria Martin’s 50th wedding anniversary, which turned quite dramatic when the happy couple got into the most horrible fight about George’s habit of sucking his teeth which Gloria said had been driving her nuts for the past fifty years. But until Gloria threw that glass of champagne in George’s lap, it was really very sweet.
But I’m rambling, aren’t I? The fact is Daddy has insisted on debating Lydia, and I’m sure he’ll live to regret it. Why, Lydia is one of the most dynamic speakers I know. She’ll mop the floor with your father. Oh, well. It’ll serve him right for that PINKUS STINKS sign!
Right now he’s in the garage, making podiums of all things! Artie wanted to shoot the debate with the two candidates sitting at a table. But no, that wasn’t good enough for Daddy, who wants to stand behind podiums “just like they do on the real presidential elections.”
Oh, dear. All that hammering is giving me a headache.
More later, honey. I need an aspirin.
XXX
Mom
PS. You’re not going to believe this, but now Daddy expects me to call him “Mr. President.”
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Ta Da!
I finished my podiums, and if I do say so myself, they’re works of art!
Now I’m off to take them to the clubhouse. I just hope they fit in my “election-mobile.”
XXX
Daddy (aka “Mr. President”)
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Cardboard Coffins
You should see the rickety boxes Daddy is calling podiums. He’s carting them over to the clubhouse right now. They’re sticking out from the trunk of his Camry like two cardboard coffins.
Oh, well. At least the hammering has stopped. Now I can concentrate on the Aztec & Incan history book Professor Rothman assigned us to read. Would you believe that the Aztecs
invented both mandatory education and chewing gum! Imagine those poor Aztec janitors. Having to clean the first gum from the desks of the first kids forced to go to school!
Isn’t history just fascinating?
Love & kisses from,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: Sir Lancelot
Subject: How Exciting!
Sweetie, I just heard about Mallory’s murder. How exciting! And to think, you would have missed it all if it hadn’t been for me!
Crazy busy at work. Thank heavens I got a chance to unwind at dinner. Went to the most wonderful burrito joint in Culver City. The chimichangas were magnifico!
Hug hug, kiss kiss,
Lance
Chapter 16
“I didn’t sleep a wink last night,” Cathy said as we struggled up Mt. Olga on our nature hike the next morning, lagging behind the others as usual.
I hadn’t had the most peaceful night myself, having once again read my parents’ e-mails right before going to sleep. The thought of Daddy debating Lydia Pinkus on live TV kept my worry genes bubbling for quite a while.
The last time Daddy was on camera was at my cousin Joanie’s wedding, when the videographer caught him eating one of the frosted flowers off the wedding cake before it had even been cut. The footage of him being escorted out by the security guards was particularly riveting.
Heaven knows what would happen when he hit the stage with Lydia.
“Honestly, Jaine,” Cathy was saying, yanking me out of my reverie, “I was so scared, I kept a can of mace under my pillow all night. What if someone is out to get me?”
“Why on earth would anyone be out to get you?”
Other than to put an end to her incessant yapping, I couldn’t think of a single reason.
