Pampered to Death

by Laura Levine

  Wasting no time, I ran around knocking on doors, praying she’d be alive behind one of them.

  At last I found her room upstairs at the end of the hallway.

  “Who is it?” she replied to my knock.

  I sighed with relief at the sound of her voice.

  “It’s me, Jaine.”

  Seconds later, I heard her padding across the floor. Then her shadow darkened the peephole and she opened the door a cautious few inches, clad in a pair of cat-covered pajamas. In the background, I heard her TV playing.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Sure, I’m fine. I was just watching I Love Lucy. The one where Lucy goes on a diet. I can so relate to the pain she feels when she’s eating a celery stick and Ethel and Ricky and Fred are eating steaks. But she sticks to her diet. Really, it’s such an inspirational episode. I’m so sorry you missed it, Jaine. You could really learn a lot from it.”

  Okay, alert the media. I’d found the one woman walking the planet who didn’t realize that I Love Lucy was a comedy.

  I felt like a fool for having been so worried about her.

  “Aren’t you hungry?” I wanted to know.

  “I’m fine,” she assured me. “Olga sent Delphine up with some chicken noodle soup.”

  “Campbell’s?” I asked, yearning for a bowl of the noodlestudded stuff.

  “And some tea and toast,” she nodded. “Needless to say, I didn’t open the door for Delphine. I made her leave my tray outside. I’m not taking any chances around here.”

  “You got toast?” I asked, zeroing in on the crucial part of her narrative. “Actual bread? With butter?”

  “Yep.”

  “And jam?”

  “Strawberry,” she nodded. “Not that I ate the jam, I was feeling too guilty about the calories from the bread and butter.”

  “Well, if you’re not going to eat it, can I have it?”

  “No, you can’t have it.” She tsked in disapproval. “Honestly, Jaine. Murder or no murder, we’re here to lose weight.

  “And speaking of the murder,” she beamed, “I think I may have figured out who did it!”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you at dinner. I’m still working out the details—Oops,” she said, checking her watch. “Can’t talk now. Sleepless in Seattle is about to start.”

  In the background I could hear the music for the movie’s opening credits.

  “See you later,” she said, shutting the door in my face.

  I stood there, shaking my head in disbelief.

  The woman was maddening, n’est-ce pas? Here she thought she knew who the killer was, and she was taking time out to watch Tom Hanks make goo goo eyes at Meg Ryan!

  I headed back downstairs, ticked off at her for not giving me that jam.

  But who cared? Lest you forget, I had one of Darryl’s heavenly turkey and swiss cheese sandwiches waiting for me back in my room.

  I whizzed down the steps, eager to sink my teeth into Darryl’s dense focaccia bread, studded with onion slivers and poppy seeds. But then I had a frightening thought: What if Prozac had beaten me to it?

  True, I’d taken the precaution of leaving her some of the turkey from my sandwich for a mid-morning snack. But what if she’d smelled the rest of the sandwich and decided she wanted more? What if she broke into the suitcase where I’d hidden it?

  Don’t laugh. That cat has been known to open pizza boxes, Chinese takeout cartons, and buckets of extra crispy KFC. Pulling open the zipper on a suitcase would be child’s play for my feline food felon.

  By now my head was filled with images of Prozac sprawled out on my bed, surrounded by a few focaccia crusts, belching her little heart out. I raced down the corridor to my room, where I fumbled with my key and shoved the door open.

  You’ll be happy to know that Prozac had not discovered my turkey and swiss treasure.

  But, alas, someone else had.

  There, sitting in my armchair, my sandwich in her lap, was Olga.

  And that’s not all she’d dug up.

  Displayed on my bed was the rest of my smuggled booty—Prozac’s gourmet cat food, my emergency Almond Joys, and a snack bag or three of Doritos.

  Not to mention the pathetic remains of poor Mr. Whirly Bird.

  Olga arose from the armchair like Zeus popping up on Mount Olympus. Eyes narrowed in disgust, she waved the sandwich in my face.

  “What, may I ask, is this?” Without waiting for a reply, she gestured to the swag on my bed. “And all this?”

  Prozac, who had been weaving among the cans of cat food under the delusion she was about to be fed, let out an irritated meow.

  It’s my lunch, lady, and I’d like it now!

  Ignoring Prozac’s yowls of complaint, Olga turned her eagle eye on yours truly.

  “Have you got anything to say for yourself?”

  “I sure do! You’ve got a lot of nerve breaking into my personal property! In certain circles,” I didn’t hesitate to point out, “that’s considered illegal!”

  You don’t want to mess with us Austens when we get our dander up. And my dander at that moment was ready to bust the dander-o-meter.

  Strangely, Olga didn’t seem at all fazed.

  “I’m perfectly entitled to search through your things,” she replied with a smug smile. “It says so right there.”

  She pointed to the laminated card on the back of the door, the one with the room rates and fire exit instructions. I perused its contents and sure enough there was some ridiculous clause claiming that if the management suspected a patron was sneaking food onto the premises, said management retained the right to conduct an on-site inspection and confiscate said food.

  “I’m well within my rights,” Olga smirked. “So you can forget about any lawsuit.”

  And with that, she tossed my sandwich into a Haven plastic laundry bag.

  Ten to one she’d be eating it for her dinner.

  When she started tossing in the cat food, Prozac’s eyes widened in alarm.

  Hey, whaddaya think you’re doing?

  Olga continued dumping stuff in the bag, ignoring Prozac’s decibel-shattering wails.

  Finally she got to the remains of Mr. W. Bird and happily informed me, “You’ll be charged an extra thirty dollars to replace this.”

  “Oh, please. That thing couldn’t have cost more than a buck ninety-nine.”

  Prozac eyed the last of Mr. Bird’s feathers.

  And it needed ketchup, too.

  Having gathered all my goodies in her bag, Olga started for the door. But Prozac was having none of this. With an outraged meow, she leaped off the bed and hurled herself at Olga’s ankles, clawing at her socks.

  Stop, thief!! I’m making a citizen’s arrest!

  Barely batting an eyelash, Olga grabbed Prozac by the scruff of her neck and dumped her in my arms.

  “This,” she said, tsking in disapproval, “is the most poorly disciplined cat I’ve ever met.”

  Prozac responded with the kind of hiss she usually saves for the vet.

  You’re no bargain yourself, lady.

  As Olga marched out the door, Prozac wriggled free from my grasp and ran out into the hall, yowling all the way.

  I’m going to report you to the ASPCA, the ACLU, and Morris the Cat!

  I quickly snatched her back into the room, where she began chewing the scenery for all it was worth, now whimpering like Camille on her deathbed.

  What’re we going to do? I’ve already gone two hours without a snack! Just look at me! I’m practically skin and bones.

  “Calm down, will you? I’ve got everything under control.”

  And indeed I did.

  We Austens know how to use our noodles in tough times. My strategic planning skills, honed on years of crossword puzzles and living with Prozac, had stood me in good stead.

  Figuring that Olga just might be sneaky enough to go nosing around in my room for forbidden calories, I’d taken the rather brilliant precaution of hiding some em
ergency provisions in my car.

  And without any further ado, I headed for the parking lot.

  Chapter 19

  Free at last from Olga’s scrutiny, I sat crouched in my Corolla, wolfing down a somewhat stale blueberry muffin. My taste buds were not exactly thrilled, having been primed for a turkey and swiss, but it was better than nothing.

  I’d just licked the crumbs from my fingers and was reaching into the trunk for my emergency can of cat food when I saw a sheriff’s cruiser pulling into the lot.

  Hallelujah! The cops were back. With any luck, they’d cracked the case and I could go home!

  Shoving the cat food in my pants pocket, I trotted over to get the skinny.

  Brangelina were sitting in the cruiser in their starched uniforms and reflective sunglasses, the heady aroma of recentlyeaten burgers and fries wafting from the window.

  Fighting back the impulse to ask if there were any leftovers, I greeted them with a cheery smile.

  “You guys here to make an arrest?” I asked, hoping they were and that it wasn’t me.

  “Not yet,” Angelina said, as she and Brad got out of the car.

  “I hope you don’t still consider me a suspect, haha.”

  I could see my sickly smile bouncing back at me from their sunglasses.

  “We’ll let you know when you’re off the list,” Angelina said.

  Ouch. Time for a little self-promotion.

  “You should know that I happen to be a model citizen. Ex-Brownie, former member of my high school civics club, and a certified State Farm Good Driver for the past seven years.”

  “We’ll keep that in mind,” Brad said.

  Desperate to score some points, I followed them as they walked toward The Haven, babbling about how Cathy had seen someone running from the kitchen on the day of the murder and how I suspected it was the killer stealing Olga’s Valium to drug our tea.

  Eagerly I waited for their reaction to this late-breaking bulletin.

  But their faces remained stony behind their Ray-Bans.

  Probably wondering what to order for dinner.

  “Just don’t leave town,” Brad warned me, as the two of them disappeared inside The Haven.

  Curious to see what they were up to, I hurried to the front door and peeked in the lobby, where I saw them talking to Olga at the reception desk.

  “We’re just going out back to get another sample,” I heard Brad say.

  Another sample? Of what? Fingerprints, perhaps?

  Figuring they had to be going to the scene of the crime, I decided to follow them.

  But no way was I going through the lobby. The last thing I wanted was to run into Der Fuhrer and get frisked for hidden cat food.

  Instead I scooted around the side of the house. And sure enough, when I got out back, I saw Brangelina making their way over to the Spa Therapy Center. I followed at what I hoped was a safe distance, straining to catch snippets of their conversation.

  But all I heard were the words Jumbo Jack and extra cheese.

  See? I told you. They were talking about what to order for dinner!

  When they got to the massage center, they did not go inside, but instead walked around to the side of the building.

  I sprinted behind a nearby yucca bush, feeling very proud of myself for being such a good shadow. They had absolutely no idea I was on to them.

  Crouched down, trying to avoid the yucca’s prickly spines, I watched as they snapped on rubber gloves and started scooping dirt into a plastic container.

  Why the heck were they taking dirt from The Spa Therapy Center?

  I sat there, ears attuned for gems of info, but they spent what seemed like eternities debating the pros and cons of toasting burger buns.

  “Toasting it keeps the bun from getting all soggy,” Brad said.

  “But untoasted keeps it nice and soft,” Angelina insisted.

  “I’m telling you, toasted’s better.”

  “Is not.”

  “Is too.”

  “Is not.”

  “Is too.”

  Finally, when I was thisclose to impaling them with a yucca leaf, Brad looked down at the dirt and said, “I just hope there’s some traces of the tea left.”

  “Yeah,” said Angelina, “I can’t believe the lab screwed up the first sample.”

  And then I realized why they were there. They must’ve found a wet spot outside one of the windows after the murder and figured the killer had dumped the sedative-laced tea outside. Now they were testing the dirt for traces of the tea.

  So whose window was it?

  Brangelina were crouched under the third window from the front of the building.

  I thought back to how we were lined up for our seaweed wraps. Here on this side of the building, I was first, then Mallory, and then, in the third cubicle—Kendra.

  Omigosh. Did that mean Kendra was the killer?

  “Although who knows if that wet spot we found was even tea,” Brad sighed. “For all we know it was just water from the sprinkler head.”

  So much for Kendra’s imminent arrest. But if the lab results showed tea under her window, it sure didn’t look good for her.

  By now Brangelina had packed up their things and were starting back up the path to The Haven.

  I held my breath as they walked past me. And as I did I heard Brad say, “Watch out for those yucca spines, Jaine. They can be awfully prickly.”

  Remind me not to give up my day job.

  There was a decided nip in the air when I stepped into my spa cubicle. Shawna, my former angel of mercy, had a gimlet look in her baby blues that did not bode well. She handed me my tea in an icy silence, then marched over to the supply table where she started clattering among the bottles of massage oils.

  “So how’s it going?” I asked, eager to get the conversational ball bouncing.

  “Just dandy,” she snapped.

  Before I’d barely had a chance to taste my tea, she snatched it away and pointed to the massage table.

  “Hop on,” she commanded, with nary a trace of a smile.

  Once I was settled on the table, a towel tossed carelessly across my privates, she slapped on some exfoliating gloves and began sawing away at my limbs like a 2x4 at a lumber yard. Gone was her gentle touch. The woman had morphed overnight from Florence Nightingale to Dr. Mengele.

  When she’d finished mauling my epidermis, she tossed aside her exfoliating gloves and began rubbing me down with massage oil. Last time she’d heated it. Now it was ice cold.

  My ministering angel was miffed, all right. And I was about to find out why.

  “Sven told me you two had a little chat,” she said, rubbing the clammy oil onto my thighs with what I considered a tad too much vigor.

  “Oh, that,” I said, with a nervous laugh. “It was nothing, really.”

  “Nothing? You practically accused us both of murder!”

  “No! Not at all,” I assured her. “I was just asking a few questions.”

  “What are you, some kind of detective?”

  I figured it was best to come clean.

  “Part-time, semi-professional,” I confessed.

  “No way, thunderthighs!”

  Okay, so what she really said was, “You sure don’t look like one.

  “You told Sven,” she then reminded me, “that everybody thinks I killed Mallory.”

  Oh, damn. Why the heck had I made up that idiotic fib?

  “Not everybody,” I backpedalled. “One or two people may have bandied that theory about, but I’m sure they didn’t mean it.”

  She whipped off the cucumber slices she’d slapped on my eyes, and glared down at me.

  “I don’t care what anybody says. I didn’t kill Mallory. After I got everyone settled in their seaweed wraps, I went to the gym to have it out with Sven. I was gone at least twenty minutes. Anyone could’ve slipped into Mallory’s cubicle during that time.”

  “Absolutely,” I assured her.

  “I simply can’t believe people wo
uld think I’m the killer,” she huffed, kneading my arms like Julia Child hacking at a wad of sourdough.

  “Mallory was making a play for your husband,” I pointed out as tactfully as I could. “It’s not hard to see why people might think you’d feel threatened.”

  Another icy glare.

  “I didn’t need to kill Mallory. I know what kind of man I’m married to. Sven has cheated before. And he’ll cheat again. But in the end, he always comes back to me.”

  She lifted her chin defiantly, but behind that confidence I detected a flicker of unease. Maybe Sven had always come back to her before. But Mallory wasn’t your ordinary middle-aged spa guest hoping to drop a few pounds. She was a knockout, a stunner, and a movie star, to boot. I wasn’t so sure Sven would have been able to resist her. And neither, I sensed, was Shawna.

  “So,” she said, as she flipped me over on my stomach and began pummeling my back, “which one or two people told you they thought I killed Mallory?”

  “I’m really not at liberty to say.... Ouch!”

  Good heavens, I’d had mammograms that were less painful than this.

  “Just working out the knots,” Shawna snapped. “Now I repeat, which one or two people?”

  I suddenly realized that my neck was just inches away from those very strong hands.

  Best not to get her any angrier than she already was.

  “Kendra and Harvy,” I admitted.

  “Harvy???” Shawna snorted in disdain. “That little twerp? He’s probably the killer! Now I’m sorry I didn’t report him to the cops.”

  Suddenly I forgot my pummeled muscles and perked up, interested.

  “What makes you think Harvy might be the killer?”

  “Because when I went to his cubicle to give him his seaweed wrap, he wasn’t there. He came hurrying in a few seconds later, said he’d gone to his room to get an aspirin. But why would he do that when he could’ve just asked me for one? I keep them right here in the supply cabinet. Who’s to say he wasn’t across the hall strangling Mallory?”

  Good question.

  Let’s all give that some thought between chapters, shall we?

  Chapter 20

  I left Shawna feeling like I’d just done ten rounds with Evander Holyfield and headed over to the jacuzzi to seek relief for my aching muscles.