Death of a Neighborhood Scrooge

by Laura Levine

  “I know it was you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I could hear the sneer in Scotty’s voice. “Prove it.”

  With that, he stepped back inside and slammed the door in her face.

  The furious aristo stormed across the street to her darkened front lawn. As she hurried up her front path, I couldn’t help but notice the irony of her unlit “Peace on Earth” teddy bear.

  Peace on earth?

  Not in Bel Air. Not that night.

  Not that Christmas.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Exciting Day!

  What an exciting day in Antigua! So much to see. Daddy and I took a fabulous catamaran ride, sailing past historic Nelson’s Dockyard (named after Admiral Horatio Nelson, or Willie Nelson, I forget who), the magnificent Pillars of Hercules cliff formations, quaint fishing villages and exotic banana trees. Plus a delicious lunch on board the catamaran. Now we’re back on the ship and off to hear Lydia Pinkus’s lecture on Holiday Traditions Around the World. (Today she’s doing Latvia.)

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Off to the Pool!

  Hi, Lambchop. Back from Antigua. Took a boat ride, saw an old dock, a couple of banana trees, and some guys out fishing. Pretty good lunch on the catamaran, but not up to the standards of the Buffet Master.

  Your mom actually expected me to go with her to listen to Lydia bore us senseless with her lecture on Holiday Traditions in Latvia.

  But your old DaddyO put his foot down and said No Way. Right now I’m headed over to the pool to soak up some rays.

  Later, gator!

  Smooches from,

  DaddyO

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: The Brat Is Back!

  Most aggravating incident at the pool. I was having a perfectly pleasant time, lying in my deck chair, feeling the warm ocean breezes waft over my body, when I decided to take a dip. I swam a few laps—doing a very impressive crawl stroke, if I do say so myself—then got out and walked back to my chaise to towel off. But when I opened my towel, I found a hairy black spider lurking in the folds. I don’t mind telling you, my heart did a couple of flip-flops.

  Taking a closer look, however, I saw that it was a rubber spider, one of those gag items, probably from the same joint that sold me Lydia’s Yakity Yak castanet false teeth. Just as I was just plucking it out from the towel, I heard an obnoxious giggle. I turned to see the same redheaded kid who’d stolen my éclair grinning at me from the other side of the pool.

  Clearly, he was the one who’d shoved the spider in my towel. He was laughing so hard, it was all I could do not to run over and slap him silly. But, seeing as he was with his mother, I had to refrain from any capital punishment.

  Instead I sat back down in my chaise and plotted revenge.

  It didn’t take long for me to come up with a plan. I bided my time until the kid and his mom went into the pool—The Brat diving underwater, his mom doing laps. Once I was sure they were both distracted, I zipped over to their deck chairs and hid the spider in his mom’s towel.

  Then I sat back and waited. Sure enough, when they got out of the pool, the kid’s mom reached for her towel to dry off, found the spider, and got the shock of her life. Then, just like me, she realized it was a fake. Instantly, she knew where it had come from. She turned to The Brat and started chewing him out, wagging her finger, and taking away the sundae he’d ordered from the poolside café.

  As The Brat sat on his chaise and sulked, I gave him a jaunty wave.

  Vengeance is mine!

  Nobody crosses your DaddyO and gets away with it.

  Love ’n snuggles from,

  DaddyO

  aka The Avenger

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Such an Edifying Chat!

  Darling, did you know that Latvia is the home of the first Christmas tree ever? According to Lydia, whose lecture was simply spellbinding, the first documented use of an evergreen tree at Christmas was in the town square of Riga, the capital of Latvia, in the year 1510. I can’t believe Daddy chose to miss out on such an edifying chat!

  By the way, I found him at the buffet, eating something he called his Victory Éclair. Heaven knows what that was all about.

  I stopped by for a sensible apple. (True, I picked up a cookie instead, but it was really a very small cookie.)

  XOXO,

  Mom

  Chapter 9

  After inhaling my breakfast croissant and reading about Daddy’s latest skirmish with The Brat, I was back at the salt mines with Scotty the next morning, slaving over The Return of Tiny Tim: Vengeance Is Mine!

  And I do mean slaving.

  The aging Huck Finn sat across from me, feet propped on his desk, the freckles on his scalp peeking through his thinning hair, still refusing to let go of a single syllable of his script.

  Glugging down cans of something called Econo-Cola and nibbling at individually wrapped Saltines (filched, no doubt, from Lenny’s Deli), he clung to his godawful dialogue like a barnacle on a sinking ship.

  We’d come upon a five-page passage where Tim was tying the noose he was going to use to hang one of his victims, rambling on about avenging the honor of the Cratchits.

  “Scotty,” I said, plastering on a placating smile, “surely we don’t need to waste five pages making a noose.”

  Scotty looked up from his Saltine, irritated.

  “We’re not wasting pages,” he snapped. “We’re building tension.”

  Trust me, the only tension we were building was the headache throbbing in my temples.

  By now I was ready to reach over and ram a Saltine up his nose.

  But as much fun as that would have been, I didn’t get a chance to do it, because just then there was a commotion at the front door. And the next thing I knew the aristocratic neighbor I’d seen yelling at Scotty last night came sweeping into the room.

  Today her Katharine Hepburn slacks were topped off with a cashmere sweater that cost more than a Kia. Underneath her helmet of perfectly sculpted silver hair were icy gray eyes and cheekbones so sharp they could slice tomatoes.

  In her hand, she was waving a piece of paper.

  “Hello, Olivia,” Scotty said. “Wish I could it say it was nice to see you, but I’d be lying through my teeth. Have you met my indentured servant, Jaine?”

  (No, he didn’t really call me his indentured servant, but we all know that’s what I was.)

  “Jaine, this is Olivia Sinclair, who’s been a pain in my butt ever since she and her husband moved in across the street.”

  I shot her a weak smile, which she totally ignored.

  She was there for one reason and one reason only: to have it out with Scotty.

  “My electrician just finished rewiring my Christmas lights. Here’s the bill for the damages.” She slammed the paper down on Scotty’s desk. “I expect you to pay every bit of it, plus five hundred dollars for pain and suffering.”

  Scotty glanced at the bill and snickered.

  “I won’t be paying you, Olivia. Not one penny.”

  With that, he took the bill, wadded it up into a ball, and tossed it across the room at his wastepaper basket.

  “Slam dunk!” he cried as it landed in the rusty wire receptacle.

  “On the contrary,” he said, turning to Mrs. Sinclair with a sly smile, “you’re the one who’s going to be paying me. Big time.”

  Mrs. Sinclair’s granite features turned even stonier with rage.

  “That’s it. I’m calling the police.”

  “Not so fast, Olivia. Before you make that call, I have a present for you.”

  Opening his top desk drawer, he took out a manila envelope.

  “A little something for your memory book,” he said, handing it to her.

  She grabbed the envelope and pulled out what looked like a
n eight-by-ten photo. And suddenly all the anger drained from her face, fear radiating from her eyes. As if in a trance, she walked out of the room, the envelope clutched to her chest.

  I’d tried to get a peek at the picture, but to no avail. All I knew was that whatever Scotty put in that envelope had scared the stuffing out of the stony aristo.

  Something told me I’d just witnessed an ace blackmailer at work.

  * * *

  Lance was waiting for me when I got home that night, pouncing on me like an eager puppy.

  “Oh, Jaine!” he cried. “Aren’t you excited?”

  “About what?”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten. Tonight’s Double Date Night. Your date with Randy and my date with Graham.”

  As a matter of fact, after eight hours of working with Simon Legree—I mean, Scotty—I had forgotten all about the date Lance had set up for me with the guy he’d met on line at the supermarket.

  “You’re meeting him at seven for coffee at the Starbucks on Pico Boulevard in Westwood.”

  “Coffee? But I’m starving. I haven’t had a thing to eat since lunch.”

  (Except for a Saltine I’d filched while Scotty was in the loo.)

  “You don’t have time for food now!” Lance replied. “You need every available minute to make yourself presentable.”

  “I’m not leaving this house,” I said, arms planted firmly across my chest, “without something to eat.”

  “Oh, all right,” he conceded. “I’ll go get you a snack.” Off he raced to the kitchen, while I plopped down on the living room sofa, exhausted from my day at the salt mines.

  Minutes later, Lance returned with a teensy container of no-fat, no-fruit, no-fun yogurt.

  But I ate it with good grace and a smile on my face, mainly because while he’d disappeared to the kitchen to get it for me, I’d chowed down on an emergency Almond Joy I had stashed in my purse.

  After scraping the last of the yogurt from the container, I hauled myself up from the sofa and headed upstairs to get ready for my date. Much to my regret, Lance hurried after me, hot on my heels.

  I was hoping he’d be too busy primping for his date with Graham to pay any attention to me, but I was sadly mistaken.

  He’d nailed down his outfit for the evening (California Preppy, whatever the heck that was) and—given that he wasn’t meeting Graham until eight (“Such an elegant time to dine!”)—he was, most unfortunately, devoting all his primping energies to me, making good on his earlier threat to give me a complete makeover.

  He’d actually driven back to my apartment and ransacked my closet to choose an outfit for me to wear: my most uncomfortable skinny jeans (with a gut-pinching set-in waist), black silk blouse, faux suede blazer, and my one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks.

  He had the whole outfit laid out on my bed in the guest bedroom, along with the new teardrop earrings he’d bought me.

  “Now hustle into the shower,” he commanded, very Henry Higgins, “and wash your hair. We need to straighten out every last curl on that mop of yours.”

  “Do I have to? I think my curls look fine.”

  Indeed, with zero humidity in the Santa Ana winds, my curls were silky-shiny, at their Botticelli best.

  “It’s straight hair for you, young lady. We’re going for the sleek, sophisticated look. Remember,” he said, wagging a most irritating finger. “You’ve got only one chance to make a fab first impression.”

  So I plodded into the shower and washed my hair, after which I spent a good half hour ironing out every last curl with my dryer, so it rested on my shoulders in a curl-free bob.

  When I was through, Lance eyed me appraisingly.

  “On second thought,” he said, “you’re right. I think I like the curls better.”

  Argggh. Is he the most aggravating man ever, or what?

  And so, under great protest, I went back into the shower, rewashed my hair, and had it scrunched dry to curly perfection by Lance, with the help of some expensive glop from Neiman Marcus he uses for his own hair.

  I have to admit, the end result was worth it. My hair looked pretty darn terrific.

  Having conquered my curls, Lance hovered over me as I applied my makeup.

  “You don’t use lip liner?” He looked on, aghast, as I slapped on some lipstick straight from the tube. “And don’t tell me you’re using drugstore lipstick! My God, hookers in Calcutta buy better makeup than you.”

  At last he left me alone to get dressed. (And to suck on an ancient Life Saver I’d rescued from the bottom of my purse.)

  When I was finished, Lance hurried back to my side and spun me around for inspection.

  “Perfect!” he pronounced, fussing with a stray curl. “You actually look presentable! Now, whatever you do, don’t be yourself! Try for someone sexy and alluring.”

  “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “No problem, hon,” he said, oblivious, as usual, to my sarcasm.

  Then, after checking his watch, he added, “Guess it’s time for me to make myself fabulous. Which should be easy. I’ve got so much to work with!”

  Frankly, I was surprised there was enough room in the Van Hooten mansion for me, Lance, and his outsize ego.

  Wishing him good luck with Graham, I grabbed my car keys and headed downstairs, off to my blind date with Lance’s Supermarket Special.

  Chapter 10

  Driving over to Starbucks, I was overcome with doubts. Lance, after all, was a master of hype. For all I knew my “gorgeous” blind date would be Quasimodo’s homelier brother. With a rampaging personality disorder.

  Why on earth had I ever let him talk me into this?

  I arrived at the appointed Starbucks, parked my car in a nearby municipal lot, and after struggling with a meter to accept my credit card, came dashing into the café a good five minutes late.

  Looking around, I saw the usual assortment of writers banging away on their screenplays, readers engrossed in their books, and a group of geeks lost in a board game.

  Then one of the readers looked up and waved at me.

  My God. Lance did not lie. How could I have ever doubted him?

  The dollburger waving at me was a world-class stunner. I was so taken back by his movie star good looks, I almost stumbled onto the lap of one of the gamer geeks.

  The next thing I knew Lance’s supermarket special was standing up and beckoning me to his table.

  Although Lance had mentioned his name was Randy (or Andy; I really wasn’t paying attention), for the purposes of my little story, and to get an idea of just how scrumptious he was, let’s just call him Ryan Gosling II.

  I gulped as I took in his tawny, blond-streaked hair, emerald green eyes, and the sexiest smile west of the Marlboro Man.

  “You must be Jaine!” Ryan II said, treating me to his high-testosterone smile.

  “Um . . . uh . . . er . . .”

  Okay, what I meant to say was “yes,” but I was a tad overwhelmed. You would have been, too. Honest.

  Finally, I regained my powers of speech.

  “Yes, I’m Jaine.”

  “What a pleasure to meet you!” Ryan II said, pulling out a chair for me.

  A dollburger—with lovely manners! I was in blind date heaven!

  “What can I get you?” he asked.

  My brain cells, busy focusing on the blond streaks in his hair, couldn’t be bothered with ordering.

  “I’ll have what you’re having,” I managed to say.

  So entranced was I with his spectacular good looks that I did not even think about ordering my usual chocolate chip muffin.

  As he walked over to the counter, I glanced down at the book he’d been reading and gasped in delight.

  Omigosh. It was Joy in the Morning. By P. G. Wodehouse.

  P. G. Wodehouse just happens to be one of my favorite authors. And not many guys I’ve met even know who he is.

  To think that Ryan Gosling II was a fan! Clearly we were literary soulmates.

&nbs
p; And I soon discovered we had even more in common when Ryan II returned to our table with two Mocha Frappuccinos—and a double chocolate chunk brownie.

  A P. G. Wodehouse reader—and chocoholic, too!

  At that moment, I was certain that Cupid was hovering over us, getting ready to ping us with his arrow of love.

  “Hope you like chocolate,” he said, setting the brownie down on the table between us.

  “Kinda sorta,” I replied in the understatement of the year.

  Under normal circumstances, I would have already plowed halfway through that brownie. But that day, all I did was sit there with a goofy smile on my face, afraid of biting into the thing and winding up with a glob of chocolate on my teeth.

  “I can’t tell you how excited I am to meet you,” Ryan II said, flashing me his heart-stopping smile. “It’s not every day I get to meet a famous TV writer.”

  A famous TV writer? What on earth did he mean? True, last year I got roped into working on a Grade Z reality show, and years ago, I’d done some time on an equally forgettable sitcom, but that hardly made me famous. Where had he gotten that idea?

  And then it hit me: Lance! Lord knows what lies Lance, the master of hype, had spewed to land me this date.

  “Actually,” Ryan II said, reaching down into an attaché case by his chair, “I was hoping you might be able to get me a job on one of your shows.”

  And with that he whipped out a publicity head shot and résumé.