Death of a Neighborhood Scrooge

by Laura Levine

  In my arms, Prozac began to squirm.

  Lemme go! I wanna see all the stuff I can break!

  “Let’s put her in the kitchen for now,” Lance said. “She can’t do much harm there.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that, once I got a look at Mrs. Van H’s stainless steel and marble-countered kitchen, eyeing the fine stemware in glass-fronted cabinets.

  “We’d better give her something to eat,” I said. “That should distract her for a while.”

  And indeed, in spite of the charbroiled salmon she’d recently scarfed down, Prozac dived into the dish of caviar Lance had unearthed from the Van Hooten pantry with Olympian gusto.

  Leaving her inhaling fish eggs, we headed back out to the living room to figure out what to do next.

  “I know!” Lance said. “We’ll just keep her in the kitchen all the time.”

  “Forget it, Lance. Prozac’s the Houdini of cats. She’ll figure out a way to escape before we’ve even shut the door.”

  “Okay, then,” Lance said. “We’ll box up everything valuable in the house and stow it away.”

  “Are you kidding? Everything in this house is a museum piece. By the time we box it all up, it’ll be time to go home. Look, there’s no way out of it. I’m simply going to have to take Pro and go back to my apartment.”

  “But you can’t!” Lance moaned. “Not now, with my heart smashed to tiny pieces. I simply can’t bear the thought of spending Christmas alone.”

  He slumped down in the sofa, all traces of his holiday high leeched out of him.

  “Maybe I can call the Fur Seasons and beg them to take Prozac back.”

  I realized there was exactly zero chance of this happening, but I reached for my cell anyway.

  And just as I did, it rang.

  I didn’t recognize the name on my caller ID, but I answered it anyway, hoping it wasn’t one of the army of robocallers who seem to be tailing me these days like a swarm of particularly pesky gnats.

  “Hi!” A woman’s voice came chirping over my speaker.

  Oh, hell. I just knew it was going to be someone trying to sell me solar paneling.

  “Is this Jaine Austen?” the chirpy woman asked.

  “Yes,” I replied warily, waiting for her sales spiel to begin.

  “Do you have a cat name Prozac?”

  Thanks heavens! No sales spiel. I was off the hook for solar paneling.

  “Yes, I have a cat named Prozac.”

  “I got your name and number from her collar,” the chirpy woman said. “The adorable little thing just wandered into our house from our terrace.”

  “See?” I whispered to Lance. “I told you she’s a world-class escape artist.” And then, to the chirpy woman, I said, “I’ll come right over and pick her up.”

  When she gave me her address, I realized she was on the same street as Connie Van Hooten. I told her where I was staying, and she told me she was right next door.

  “We’re the big beige house, just south of Mrs. Van Hooten’s.”

  After hanging up, I charged into the kitchen with Lance and sure enough, one of the windows was slightly ajar. Obviously, Prozac’s means of escape.

  “I’ll go get her,” I said, scurrying out of the house, down the front path and over to the house next door.

  Like Mrs. Van Hooten’s, it was a magnificent piece of architecture. But I could see from the patchy lawn, overgrown bushes, and the water stains on the exterior paint that the house had seen better days.

  Heading up the front steps, I spotted a large plastic Rudolph reindeer, lying on a patch of fake snow, fake blood oozing from its head.

  Wow. Nothing says “Bah! Humbug!” like a dead Rudolph on your front lawn.

  Across the path on the other side of the lawn a menacing mechanical snowman glared at me with beady black eyes.

  I rang the doorbell, trying not to stare at my creepy companions.

  Seconds later, the door was opened by a leggy blond beauty in baby blue sweats, her lush mane of hair cascading like a waterfall, a Victoria’s Secret model come to life.

  In her arms, she held Prozac, who was gazing up at her worshipfully, nuzzling her neck, purring in delight.

  “You must be Jaine!” the blonde exclaimed. “Are you staying with Connie for the holidays?”

  “No, my friend Lance and I are house-sitting for Mrs. Van Hooten while she’s yachting in the Mediterranean.”

  “Well, it’s super to meet you. I’m Missy Parker. Excuse the gruesome Christmas decorations,” she said, gesturing to Rudolph and the snowman. “My husband thinks they’re funny. C’mon in and meet him.”

  She ushered me into a living room that had many of the same spectacular features of Mrs. Van H’s manse—triple molded ceilings, ornate fireplace, wide-planked hardwood floors.

  But here the walls were dingy, riddled with settling cracks, dusty drapes hanging from unwashed windows. The only spot of color in the room was a portrait of a little boy in a sailor suit hung over the fireplace.

  “Scotty, say hello to Jaine Austen.”

  I got my first glimpse of Scotty Parker as he sat in a cracked recliner—a middle-aged guy way older than his twentysomething wife—his eyes riveted on a bulky dinosaur of a TV, watching the Dow Jones ticker crawl across the bottom of the screen on CNBC.

  When he finally tore himself away from the Industrial Average to look up at me, I was surprised to see—in spite of his burgeoning pot belly and thinning red hair—the freckled face of an impish teenager.

  Think Huckleberry Finn after years of too much booze and not enough exercise.

  “Jaine and her friend are house-sitting for Mrs. Van Hooten next door,” Missy explained. “Connie’s such a doll,” she added, grinning at me.

  “The woman’s a royal bitch,” Scotty snapped. “Had her face lifted so many times, her kneecaps are where her chin used to be.”

  “Oh, Scotty!” Missy said, rolling her eyes. “Don’t be that way. He doesn’t really mean it,” she assured me.

  “Yeah, I do,” he grumbled.

  “I’m surprised Connie’s letting you keep a cat in her house,” Missy said, eager to change the subject. “She’s so fussy about her collectibles.”

  “That’s just it,” I said. “Prozac was supposed to be staying at a pet hotel, but things didn’t work out.”

  I shot Prozac a look of rebuke, but she was too busy rubbing up against Missy’s cascading curls to notice.

  “That’s too bad,” Missy said.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to have to take Prozac and go back to my apartment. I can’t possibly risk having her break something.”

  “And leave your friend to house-sit all alone?” Missy exclaimed. “What a pity.”

  Her silken brow wrinkled in dismay.

  “I know! Why don’t you have Prozac stay here! I’ve always wanted a kitty. And we don’t have any valuables for her to break.”

  This spoken, I couldn’t help but notice, with a tinge of regret.

  And she sure wasn’t lying about the paucity of valuables, I thought, eyeing the room full of mismatched furniture, decades old, each piece looking like it had been rescued from a second-rate thrift shop.

  “I keep my valuables locked up,” Scotty said. “Can’t trust the help these days.”

  That last bit shouted at a tiny slip of a Hispanic maid walking by in the foyer, carrying a load of laundry.

  Hearing Scotty’s zinger, the maid stopped in her tracks just long enough to shoot him a death ray glare.

  “So, how about it, Scotty?” Missy was saying, scratching Prozac behind her ears. “Can Prozac stay with us?”

  Scotty looked up, assessing me and Prozac, and from the disgruntled look on his freckled face, I was guessing he found us both wanting. Which is why I was so surprised when he shrugged and said, “Sure. Why not?”

  “That’s wonderful!” I said. “Thank you so much!”

  “And why don’t you bring your friend and stop by for dinner tonight?” he added.

>   Wow. I’d totally misjudged the guy. I had him down as a grouchypants extraordinaire, and here he was turning out to be a real sweetie.

  “We’d love to,” I said.

  “Good,” he said. “It’s pot luck. You two bring the entrée. Dinner for six.”

  Whoa. An entrée for six? As they say on the Champs-Élysées, quel chutzpah!

  But he was, after all, taking care of Prozac, and I figured dinner for six was the least I could do to repay him.

  “Bye, honey,” I said to Prozac as I turned to go. “I’ll see you later.”

  Wrenching herself away from where she’d been nuzzling Missy’s neck, Prozac gazed at me blankly.

  And you are . . . ?

  What can I say? Loyalty’s not one of her strong points.

  Missy walked me to the door, assuring me I could come visit Pro whenever I wanted.

  And then, just as I was about to leave, Scotty shouted out, “Don’t forget that entrée! Steaks would be great! Preferably filet mignon.”

  Filet mignon for six? He had to be kidding! No way was this guy a sweetie. On the contrary, I thought, as I made my way past dead Rudolph and the malevolent snowman.

  Ebenezer Scrooge was alive and well and living in Bel Air.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Busy as Bees!

  Hi, darling!

  Daddy and I have been as busy as bees getting ready for our Holiday Caribbean Cruise. As I probably already told you, a whole bunch of us Tampa Vista-ites are going. Just think how lovely it will be not to have fuss in the kitchen on Christmas Day, listening to Daddy and Uncle Ed arguing over how to carve the turkey! Instead, I’ll be basking in the sun with one of those cute rum umbrella drinks! Not that Daddy and I will have much time for basking. There’s so much to see and do. All those beautiful islands with magical names. Barbados. Antigua. Martinique! I can’t wait to see them all. Especially Martinique. I wonder if that’s where they invented the martini.

  Did I tell you that darling Isabel Norton will be turning ninety-five on December 30th and that we’re having a private party in one of the cruise lounges in her honor? I’m proud to say I was chosen to buy Isabel’s gift and I picked out a gorgeous bracelet from the Home Shopping Club. Only $136.48 plus shipping and handling! Which was really a bargain, since it’s a genuine diamonette, which is practically the same as diamond at a fraction of the cost!

  Not only that, we’re going to have our annual Secret Santa exchange on board the ship, too. I drew Ed Nivens from the grab bag, and got him the most adorable Christmas tie (just $24.95, and free shipping!) with tiny Santas all over it.

  I only wish you were coming with us to share in the fun.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  PS. I almost forgot! As an extra added attraction, our own Lydia Pinkus, president of the Tampa Vistas Homeowners Association, has been chosen to give a series of onboard lectures on “Christmas Celebrations Around the World.” It should be fascinating. Lydia’s such a captivating speaker!

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Insufferable Gasbag

  Dearest Lambchop—

  Your mom is in seventh heaven, getting ready for our Caribbean cruise. I haven’t seen her this excited since our trip to Dollywood.

  Did she tell you about the Secret Santa exchange?

  You’ll never guess whose name I drew! That arrogant battle axe, Lydia Pinkus!! I sent away for the perfect gift: A pair of “Yakity Yak” gag false teeth. You know, the kind that clatter like castanets. It will be my not-so-subtle way of reminding her what an insufferable gasbag she is!

  By the way, do not under any circumstances tell Mom about the false teeth. I told her I bought Lydia a potholder.

  I can’t believe it, but the Battle Axe has actually been hired by the cruise ship to give a series of lectures on Christmas Celebrations around the world. Guaranteed to be royal snorefests. I intend to miss every one of them.

  Love ’n snuggles from,

  Daddy O

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Almost Forgot, Part II

  Jaine, sweetheart—I almost forgot the most exciting news of all!

  There’s going to be a gala costume party on board the ship on New Year’s Eve! Daddy and I are going as Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. I’ve ordered the most adorable flapper dress and cloche hat for me, and a pair of cute knickerbocker pants, the kind that puff out at the knees, for Daddy!

  Won’t that be fun?

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Me Tarzan!

  Dearest Lambchop—

  Did Mom tell you about the Costume Gala on New Year’s Eve? She actually expects me to show up as F. Scott Fitzgerald in puffy pants! No way am I appearing in public in those silly pants. We Austens have our dignity! Instead I sent away for a really cool Tarzan costume. Well, it’s not much of a costume. Just a pair of underpants with a loincloth attached.

  No puffy pants for Hank Austen. No, sirree. Me, Tarzan!!!

  Love ’n snuggles from,

  Daddy O

  Chapter 3

  “How fantastic!” Lance cried when I told him that the Parkers had agreed to take Prozac for the duration of our stay. “What wonderful people!”

  “Not exactly. Missy’s okay. But Scotty’s a piece of work. The guy invited us to dinner tonight and then ordered me to bring the entrée. Filet mignon for six.”

  “Whoa.” Lance blinked in surprise. “Even I wouldn’t have the nerve to pull a stunt like that.”

  “Oh, well. I’ll just make a run to Costco and try to save a few bucks.”

  “Please!” Lance held up his palm, wincing in pain. “Don’t talk of Costco. Ever again.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “That’s where Justin and I first met. We bumped carts in the cosmetics aisle. God, he had great skin.”

  Oh, crud. I cringed at the thought of having to listen to Lance babble on about Justin for the next two weeks. I swear, the man can turn a handful of dates into a gay version of Anna Karenina.

  Eager to escape Lance’s saga of lost love, I grabbed my car keys and headed off for Costco.

  The place was mobbed with holiday shoppers, and after nabbing my filets, I got on a checkout line that seemed several counties away from the cash register.

  While waiting on line, I scrolled through the emails on my cell phone and read the latest news from my parents, about to set sail for the Caribbean.

  Poor Mom. I hoped she enjoyed those exotic ports of call, because she sure as heck was going to have her hands full trying to get Daddy into a pair of “puffy” pants.

  Daddy is nothing if not stubborn, and Mom is a saint for putting up with his antics all these years. Don’t get me wrong. I adore Daddy; he’s a sweetie of the highest order, but he’s a certified disaster magnet—leaving chaos in his wake wherever he goes.

  I shuddered to think of Lydia Pinkus opening her Secret Santa gift and finding those castanet false teeth. As president of the homeowners association, Lydia rules Tampa Vistas like a tsarina in support hose, and Daddy has always bristled under her iron-fisted regime.

  While Daddy’s the main culprit when it comes to family disasters, Mom is not without her quirks, either. She’s the one who made Daddy move three thousand miles across country from a perfectly lovely house in Hermosa Beach to live in Tampa Vistas, Florida, so she could be closer to the Home Shopping Club, under the mistaken notion that her packages would arrive faster that way.

  Oh, well. It seemed like a lovely cruise, and I hoped that, aside from castanet clackers and puffy pants, my parents would have the time of their lives.

  By now I’d finally made it up to the checkout counter, and minutes later, walked out of Costco fifty-seven dollars poorer.

  That night, Lance and I made our way to The House of Scrooge, armed with six of Co
stco’s finest filet mignons— along with Pro’s litter box and a shopping bag full of cat food I’d retrieved from my apartment.

  I hadn’t bothered to cook the steaks. No way was I about to dirty Mrs. Van H’s gazillion-dollar oven. I figured the least Scotty could do was have his maid broil the darn things.

  It was dark by then, and most of the houses on the street were lit up with holiday decorations. The showstopper on the block was the house across from Scotty and Missy; whoever lived there had gone all out with the kind of pyrotechnic display you see in Disneyland, Rockefeller Center, or an Elton John concert.

  It seemed as if every square inch of the lawn was filled with something moving, singing, or glowing. Santa and his reindeer were perched atop the roof, while down on the lawn mechanized elves frolicked near an elaborate Santa’s workshop. Frosty the Snowman was belting out his namesake tune alongside a ginormous teddy bear wishing the world Peace on Earth. Flashing neon candy canes bordered the lawn as a laser light projector showered the front of the house with a dazzling display of red and green sparkles. All topped off by a snow machine spewing chunks of fake snow in the air.

  Lance shook his head in wonder.

  “What a glitzfest! And we don’t have a thing on our lawn except for an ATD alarm sign.”

  “It’s not our lawn, Lance. It’s Mrs. Van Hooten’s.”

  “Not even a wreath!” Lance said, ignoring me. “The very least we can do is buy a Christmas tree.”

  News of the extravaganza across the street had gotten around. The block was clogged with cars, slowing down to watch the show. Some people had parked their cars and were crowding the sidewalk in front of the display. Others stood to admire it on the sidewalk outside Scotty’s house.