by Laura Levine
There, prancing out in the lobby before my horrified eyes, was Prozac.
And she was not alone. No, sir. Dangling from her mouth was one of Olga’s prized koi!
When I’d left my room earlier, she’d been hunched up on the patio chaise staring out into the distance. I should’ve known she’d been eyeing that koi. Somehow she’d managed to bust out of stir and go for her prey!
“Omigod!” I moaned.
“I know,” Cathy tsked. “It’s disgraceful, isn’t it? Not only is she stealing produce, but she eats the grapes without washing them. Ugh!”
Thank heavens Cathy was facing away from the hallway, so she hadn’t noticed my little fishnapper. Nor had the gang at the “A” table, still busy sneaking shots from their flask.
“I just remembered a very important call I have to make,” I said, jumping up.
“But you’ll miss dessert,” Cathy protested. “Tonight it’s gluten-free zucchini cookies.”
“Mighty tempting,” I said, dashing for the door, “but I’ll pass.”
I got to the lobby just in time to see Prozac’s tail disappearing into the lounge. Lunging in after her, I spotted her near the fireplace, the poor koi still flapping in her mouth. For a terrifying instant, I was afraid she was going to toss it into the flames for a quickie barbeque.
But no, the minute she saw me, she was off and running again.
Damn that cat. She was actually enjoying this!
And it was at that moment, just as I was about to take off after her, that a tiny ball of tan fur came whizzing into the room.
Good heavens, it was Armani! He’d seen Prozac and Mr. Fish and had decided to join in the fun.
So there we were in a frantic daisy chain, me chasing Armani while Armani chased Prozac while the poor little koi was no doubt wondering what the heck had happened to his pond.
Fortunately, thanks to all those years of being toted around in the crook of Mallory’s arm, Armani wasn’t used to high speed chases, and I quickly managed to nab him. Frantic, I looked around for a place to stash him.
Spotting a nearby door, I opened it and saw a small wellappointed library, filled to the brim with leather bound volumes.
“No fish for you,” I hissed, tossing him inside. Then, firmly shutting the door, I returned to Prozac, who continued to lead me on a merry chase around the furniture, her tail swishing with glee. It seemed like forever but was probably only seconds before I caught up with her behind a loveseat, where she dropped the fish at my feet.
Quite proud of herself.
I’d like it sauteed, please, with a beurre blanc.
I looked down at the poor critter. Thank heavens it was still wriggling. Thrilled to see no visible blood, I snatched it up with one hand, and with Prozac slung under my other arm, I raced back to my room where I filled my sink with water, and dropped in the fish.
Prozac looked up from where she was pacing at my ankles.
Wait a minute. That’s not beurre blanc.
I stared at the sink in dismay. The koi was just floating there, immobile. Oh, Lord. It was dead after all. Desperate, I gave it a gentle push.
And then—miraculously—my little gold friend started swimming!
Hallelujah! It was still alive! As I watched it circumnavigate the sink, my heart flooded with relief.
But just when my blood pressure was descending from the stratosphere, I remembered Armani.
I raced downstairs to the library where I found him busily chewing a first edition of Catcher in the Rye. I wrestled it away from him (I’ve still got the commemorative scars to prove it) and was just putting the book back on the shelf when Kendra came wandering in.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” she scolded Armani. “What the heck have you been up to?
“Catching up on his reading,” I said with a feeble laugh, hoping she wouldn’t notice the scrap of J.D. Salinger hanging from his tush.
Unwilling to risk any surprise encounters, I decided to wait until everyone had gone to bed to put Mr. Koi back in his pond. Which meant I spent the next hellish few hours trying to keep Prozac out of the bathroom and away from her “dinner.”
At one point she gave up on the bathroom and made a mad dash for the patio screen. For the first time I noticed a gap in the bottom of the mesh. So that’s how the little devil made her escape. I had no idea if the opening had been there all along, or if my ingenious kitty had managed to pry it open herself. I wouldn’t put it past her. This was a cat who could crack open a safe if there was something to nosh on inside.
Before she could escape again, I grabbed her and deposited her on the bed, locking the door to the patio.
The minutes passed like centuries as she yowled for her lost dinner.
I was tempted to run to town to get her some cat food, but I couldn’t trust her with the koi just a bathroom away. So I stuck it out until I was fairly certain everyone had retired for the night.
And then I got ready for my mission.
Looking around my room, I spotted the bowl of fresh flowers on my dresser. I dumped out the flowers and rinsed the bowl in the bathtub, filling it with fresh water. Then I scooped up the koi, still doing laps in the sink—and plopped the poor little thing into the bowl.
“C’mon, sweetpea,” I said. “We’re going home.”
I tiptoed down the corridor with my precious cargo, praying I wouldn’t bump into Olga on her way to the kitchen for a midnight snack.
My prayers were answered, and I was soon slipping out the back door and along the path to the koi pond.
“Okay, little fella,” I said when I reached my destination, “time to join your brothers and sisters.”
I was just about to preside over this touching family reunion, when I heard a chirpy voice behind me say:
“Bon Voyage!”
I whirled around to see Delphine, still in uniform, arms clamped across her flat chest.
“What’s up?” she asked with a sly grin.
Oh, foo. What on earth was I going to tell her?
“A gift for Olga,” I lied shamelessly, dropping the fish in the pond. “I was in town today and picked up another koi for her collection.”
“Really?” she smirked. “The same koi I saw in your cat’s mouth earlier this evening?”
Rats. Busted.
But I’d be damned if I was going to let her rattle my nerves.
“Okay, so my cat took the fish,” I said, going for an air of nonchalance. “It’s alive and that’s all that matters.”
“Not exactly,” Delphine pointed out. “Olga’s crazy about her koi babies. If she knew Sparky had almost been cat food, she’d have a snit fit.”
“Sparky?”
“Yes, she’s got names for all of them. Sparky’s the one with the black dots down his back.”
Oh, Lordy. Who knew that Olga was a koi cuckoo? I hated to think what she’d do to me if she found out about Prozac’s fishnapping. Probably chain me 24/7 to that damn organic garden.
“You’re not going to tell her, are you?” I asked, unable to keep a pleading note from my voice.
“Of course not,” she assured me. “I won’t breathe a word.”
“You won’t?”
“Worry not. For fifty bucks, my lips are sealed forever.”
Oh, for crying out loud. She’d be blackmailing me about this for the rest of my life.
And suddenly something in me snapped. I’d had it up to here with this pint-sized con artist.
“Go ahead and blab to Olga! And I’ll tell her how you’re selling forbidden calories to her guests. You’ll be out of a job before you can say ‘highway robbery.’”
But if I expected her to be cowed, I was sadly mistaken.
“Olga will never fire me,” she said. “Not with what I know.”
“What do you know?”
“I know,” she said, pausing for dramatic effect, “that Olga killed Mallory.”
“What??”
“It’s true,” she insisted. “Right a
bout the time Mallory was killed, I happened to be taking a teensy break from my chores and sampling the pinot noir in Harvy’s minibar. Anyhow, I was looking out Harvy’s window when I saw Olga come running out of the spa therapy center. She dashed out of there like a crazy lady, her eyes all buggy and weird. Like . . . well, like she’d just strangled someone.”
Oh, boy. It looked like Olga had just joined the rapidly swelling ranks of my Most Likely Suspects.
“She killed Mallory all right,” Delphine nodded confidently. “Olga wasn’t about to let that bitch destroy The Haven with her gossip. So you can tell her all about my little food concession. She’s not about to fire me. Not with what I know.
“But you, on the other hand,” she said, that smirk of hers back in action, “she’s not scared of you at all. Quite the contrary.”
She held out her palm.
“So that’ll be fifty bucks, please.”
You’ll be quite proud to know that I stuck to my guns and refused to fork over fifty bucks for her silence.
I did, however, fork over fifty bucks for some M&N’s and a can of Fancy Feast, which the little extortionist just happened to have in her pockets.
Fifty bucks richer, Delphine skipped off into the night, leaving me alone at the koi pond. I stood there watching Sparky frolic with his kin, cursing Delphine and, not incidentally, wondering if The Haven’s genial Diet Nazi was indeed a killer.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Not My Fault!!
I don’t care what Mom says about the debate, it was not my fault.
Your innocent,
Daddy
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: So Mad I Could Spit!
I’m so mad at Daddy I could spit. You won’t believe what happened at the debate.
First off, he insisted on taking one of his dratted gnomes with him, as a “visual aid.” I had to hold the hideous creature in my lap as we drove over to the clubhouse. Daddy made such a fuss over the darn thing, I’m surprised he didn’t buy it a car seat.
Anyhow, we got to the clubhouse and were walking past the rec room when Daddy poked his head inside and saw the remains of a party buffet.
“Oh, wow!” Daddy said, eyeing one of the platters. “Baby lamb chops! My favorite.”
“Hank Austen!” I said. “Don’t you dare go in there and take one of those lamb chops.”
“Why on earth not?” he wanted to know.
“First, because it’s not our food, and second, because we don’t have time. The debate is scheduled to start any minute.”
“Oh, please,” Daddy pshawed, “they can’t start the debate without me. Besides, I’m starving.”
“Starving? You just finished a meatloaf dinner!”
But you know Daddy. Nothing I ever say makes a dent in that brain of his. Before I could stop him, he was zooming over to the buffet table for a baby lamb chop. Which I have to confess was quite tasty. (Okay, I had one myself).
And then, just as he was reaching for another, the most awful thing happened.
With that dratted gnome in his arms, he knocked over a glass of champagne, which spilled right down the front of his pants!
In a most embarrassing spot.
“Oh, for heavens sakes!” I said. “Now look what you’ve done. You can’t go walking around like you’ve just taken a tinkle in your pants.”
Instead of worrying like a normal person, Daddy just smiled in that superior way of his and said, “That’s the trouble with you, honeybun. You panic in times of crisis. While I, on the other hand, stay cool as a cucumber. That’s one of the key leadership qualities I possess that will make me such a valuable president of the homeowners association.”
“Okay, Mr. President, exactly what do you intend to do?”
“Simple. I’ll dry my pants under the men’s room hand dryer. They’ll be good as new before you can say, You Can Bank on Hank For President!”
And with that, he shoved the gnome in my arms and dashed across the hallway to the men’s room.
Well, honey, I stood outside that men’s room for what seemed like a small eternity when suddenly I heard Daddy shout, “Oh no!”
Two seconds later, he poked his head out the door.
“What on earth happened?” I asked.
“I set my pants on fire.”
“What??”
It turns out he held the pants way too close to the dryer nozzle and I guess it must have ignited the alcohol from the champagne.
“Now what are we going to do?” he wailed. “I had to throw my pants in the trash.”
At which point Artie Myers came running up to us.
“Where the hell have you been, Hank? The debate was supposed to start five minutes ago.”
Daddy explained how he’d set his pants on fire, and I offered to go back home and get another pair.
“We don’t have time for that,” Artie said. “I’ve got a poker game that starts in a half hour. Let’s get this show on the road.”
So we hustled up the stairs to the Channel 99 studio, with Daddy in his I My Gnome boxer shorts, praying no one would see us.
“Don’t worry,” Artie told Daddy when we got to the studio. “Just stand behind the podium, and I’ll shoot you from the waist up.”
I waited in the wings as Daddy took his spot behind one of his coffin shaped podiums, his gnome on the floor beside him. Then the cameras started rolling and the debate began. Lydia, needless to say, after an initial gasp at Daddy’s boxers, was poise personified, talking about her plans to improve the quality of life at Tampa Vistas.
Then it was Daddy’s turn to speak. Up to this point, Daddy had been Mr. Confident, snickering and smirking throughout Lydia’s wonderful speech. But the minute the camera was on him, he froze. Just stood there and gulped.
Finally, he took out his notes, cleared his throat and said, “And now, a few words about ancient Aztec and Incan civilizations. . . .”
Good heavens! He’d taken my class notes by mistake!
I couldn’t believe it. I’d spent all day listening to him rehearse his speech about freedom of speech and press and the right to bear lawn gnomes. And here he was yakking about how the Aztecs invented popcorn!
We all just stood there, boggled, wondering what on earth had gotten into him. Then I guess Daddy must have realized he was several hundred years and a hemisphere off topic, and began blathering about his campaign to save the gnomes.
Finally, remembering his visual aid, he picked up his gnome and said, “I’d like you to meet a little friend of mine.”
He plunked the gnome down on the podium. And that’s when it all fell apart. Literally. The minute the gnome hit the podium, the rickety wooden structure shattered to smithereens. Which was no surprise. The darn thing had been practically put together with spit and paper clips. And that silly gnome weighed a ton.
So there was Daddy, without a podium for cover, in his I My Gnome boxers, his own “little friend” thisclose to making its TV debut.
And as if that weren’t bad enough, the very next minute the janitor came racing in the studio shouting, “Everybody out! Fire in the clubhouse! Some idiot put a pair of burning pants in the trash!”
Not only did Daddy expose himself in his underwear to all of Tampa Vistas, the darn fool set fire to the clubhouse men’s room!
In other words, honey, I think it’s safe to say that
HANK STANK!
And as for me, I’ve never been so humiliated in all my life!
Love and kisses from
Your wretched,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: Sir Lancelot
Subject: Surely You Didn’t Mean It
Jaine, sweetie, I got your last message and I must say I was rather upset. Surely you didn’t mean it when you threatened to choke me with a chimichanga.
I’m sorry if you resent a few meals I might have enjoyed while you were
dieting. I never dreamed it would get on your nerves.
I’m sure you’re just cranky from all that sugar withdrawal.
Hug hug, kiss kiss,
Lance
PS. Will call soon. I promise!
Chapter 22
I cringed at the thought of questioning the Diet Nazi about Mallory’s murder. (You would, too, if you’d seen her biceps.) But question her I must, so I decided to use my busted patio screen as an excuse to pay her a little visit.
I waited till after breakfast the next morning (rice cakes and stewed prunes—gaaack!), and found her office tucked away at the back of The Haven across from the kitchen. At least I assumed it was her office from the PRIVATE sign on the door.
The door was partially open, and after a tentative knock, I poked my head inside.
Olga, seated behind a desk, waved me in as she talked on the phone.
“I can assure you, Mrs. Washton,” she was cooing, “that Mallory Francis’s tragic demise has not affected the safety of our guests in the slightest.”
Yeah, right. Except for the occasional attempted jacuzzi drowning.
As Olga rambled on about the nonexistent security system at The Haven, I glanced around her small office, which was decorated more like a living room than a place of business, with furniture straight out of the pages of Architectural Digest . True, it would have been a decades old issue of the magazine. But even I, the queen of Ikea, could tell the stuff had cost a bundle in its day.
