Death of a Neighborhood Scrooge

by Laura Levine

  Clearly cowed, Scotty sat back down in his recliner and made no attempt to stop her as she headed out of the living room.

  Dazed by the drama that had just played out before us, we returned to watching the movie. Scotty continued trashing the actors, but with not nearly as much gusto as before, periodically glancing at the foyer, awaiting Elise’s return.

  Elise was gone for what seemed like an eternity, but then, any time in Scotty’s company seemed like an eternity. Finally she came back, waving a check, which she thrust, along with a pen, in Scotty’s hand.

  “Now sign the damn thing.”

  Reluctantly, Scotty placed the check on a TV tray by the side of his recliner and signed it.

  Elise snapped it up without missing a beat.

  “I don’t know how long I can keep putting up with this, Scotty. I’ve had it with you and your heartless determination to keep me living in poverty.”

  She started to stalk off but stopped to glance at the TV.

  “What an egotistical little ham,” she said, eyeing young Scotty. “The worst Tiny Tim ever. And the years have done you no favors. It’s time somebody shut down your act once and for all.”

  With that, she turned on her heel and stormed off into the night.

  In my humble op, the best performance of the night.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: The Nerve of That Man!

  You’re not going to believe what Daddy bought Lydia for her Secret Santa gift! A pair of clacking false teeth! Have you ever heard of anything so awful? And he actually had the nerve to put them in a fancy box from the ship’s gift shop before wrapping them in the gift wrap paper I’d brought from home for last-minute emergency gifts. It was just a stroke of luck on my part that I found the original packing for the false teeth stuffed away in his suitcase.

  Well, I rushed right down to the gift shop and bought Lydia a lovely scarf. Daddy almost bust a gasket when he found out it cost sixty dollars, but that’s what he gets for buying those false teeth in the first place.

  The nerve of that man! He claims he was making a statement about Lydia being an “insufferable gasbag.”

  We’re headed off to the Secret Santa exchange. Thank heavens I found out about Daddy’s devious plan in time to stop it. I shudder to think how embarrassed I would have been if poor Lydia had seen those clacking teeth.

  Merry Christmas, sweetheart! I only wish you were spending it with us!

  XOXO,

  Mom

  PS. Hope you got the adorable Capri set Daddy and I sent from the Home Shopping Club. I just love the cat on the T-shirt who says “Meowy Christmas!” The minute I saw it, I thought of you and your precious Zoloft.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Operation False Teeth Foiled!

  Bad news, Lambchop! Mom found out about my plan to give Lydia Pinkus those Yakity Yak false teeth for Christmas. Not only that, she went down to the gift shop and spent sixty bucks on a replacement gift! The thought of spending sixty dollars on The Gasbag is almost as nauseating as the thought of listening to one of her snorefest lectures.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Silver Lining

  Back from the Secret Santa exchange. Lydia, needless to say, loved her sixty-dollar scarf. I was all set to write the whole thing off as another Christmas fiasco. That is, until I opened my own Secret Santa gift. There, nestled in a wad of tissue paper, was a bright purple fright wig! The perfect accessory for my Tarzan loincloth!

  I can’t wait to wow everybody at the costume party.

  In the meanwhile, Lambchop, I’m sending you a load of extra hugs and kisses for Christmas. No present I ever get will be as special as my little Lambchop.

  Love ’n snuggles from,

  DaddyO

  Chapter 12

  I slept in till nine on Christmas morning. Which was not surprising. After all, I no longer had Prozac, my personal alarm clock, to pounce on my chest and claw me awake for her breakfast.

  As much as I tried, I simply could not erase the memory of her in those ridiculous fuzzy antlers last night, gazing longingly at Missy.

  I had to face facts. My cat was cheating on me with another woman. And my heart was breaking. Why, I didn’t even feel this bad when I found out that my ex, The Blob, had been sexting with his tai chi instructor.

  After brushing my teeth and splashing some cold water on my face, I checked my emails and was happy to learn that Mom had foiled Daddy’s dastardly plan to embarrass Lydia Pinkus with a pair of castanet false teeth.

  Relieved that all was well on the high seas, if not here in Bel Air, I headed downstairs to the kitchen where I found my roomie whipping up one of his ghastly green smoothies.

  You’d think he’d give himself the day off on Christmas, but no, he was determined to slug down that pureed grass no matter what.

  “Merry Christmas!” I said, forcing a bright smile.

  “You too, hon!” Lance grinned, a tiny green mustache on his upper lip. “Smoothie?” he asked, holding out the blender.

  “Not if I want my Christmas to stay merry.”

  “Suit yourself, but you’re missing out on a treat. I added nutmeg and extra wheat germ!”

  Oh, glug.

  Giving the blender a wide berth, I nuked myself some coffee and one of the cinnamon raisin bagels I’d laid in for the duration of our stay.

  Then I told Lance about last night’s festivities at The House of Scrooge, about their “borrowed” Christmas tree, their half-popped popcorn, Prozac’s obsession with Missy, and how Scotty’s ex-wife showed up and almost bonked him over the head with a fireplace poker.

  “I’ve had more fun at a bikini wax,” I sighed.

  “You poor thing,” Lance said, gulping down the last of his smoothie. “I know what’ll cheer you up. Let’s go open our Christmas presents! And remember. Act surprised!”

  And so we adjourned to the living room to open our gifts.

  I oohed and aahed (with utmost sincerity) over my cashmere sweater, a luscious baby blue beauty with a jewel neck and three-quarter sleeves. And after gushing “What a surprise!” Lance proceeded to admire the tie he had so painstakingly picked out for himself.

  “If all goes right,” he said, eyes shining, “I’ll wear it on New Year’s Eve with Graham. He just texted me a little while ago to wish me a Merry Christmas! Which means he’s thinking about me! Hopefully naughty thoughts if that winking emoji at the end of his text meant anything.”

  Buoyed by images of future snugglefests with his hunky mailman, Lance sprang up from the sofa.

  “Better hustle off to the kitchen and get started on my Christmas goose. I’m making a special tofu cranberry stuffing to go with.”

  Double glug.

  “Need any help?” I asked, praying he’d say no.

  My prayers were answered.

  “I don’t think so, hon. After that pine cone Santa disaster, I think it’s best to keep you as far away from the kitchen as possible, and leave everything to the master chef.”

  Puh-leese. This from a man whose idea of gourmet cooking is serving his Lean Cuisine on fine china.

  But I was grateful to be relieved of cooking duty, and as the pots and pans started clanging away in the kitchen, I headed upstairs to get dressed. In spite of last night’s painful encounter with Prozac, I was eager to pop by next door and deliver her Christmas gift.

  The one-hundred-dollar Mowse I’d ordered had arrived and now, after getting dressed, I put in the batteries and tested it out. I watched in awe as the egg-shaped toy with the feathery tail darted around my bedroom like a living critter.

  Surely, my Mowse would outshine anything Missy had bought.

  I trotted next door with the Mowse tucked away in a festive shopping bag, hoping for a much-needed show of affection from my fickle feline.

  Just as I was about to ring the bell, the door swung open to r
eveal Lupe in jeans and a T-shirt, her purse slung over her shoulder, her arms full of presents.

  “Ms. Jaine!” she whispered, quickly slipping outside to join me. “I was just about to sneak away to spend a few hours with my family. That’s my nephew,” she added, waving at a slim, dark-haired young guy standing at the curb beside a blue Nissan.

  He waved back, a sweet smile on his face.

  “Promise you won’t tell Mr. Scotty?”

  “Of course not!” I assured her. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “You know what that bastardo got me for Christmas?” Lupe said, eyes blazing. “A used apron!”

  “No!”

  “Yes! With a big gravy stain on it. He said, ‘It’s already broken in.’ ”

  “How awful!” I commiserated.

  “You come to work with him today?” Lupe asked, holding the door open.

  “God, no! I came to see my cat.”

  “Scarlett’s upstairs in Missy’s bedroom.”

  I cringed at the sound of Prozac’s new name.

  “And Missy?” I asked.

  “She’s out on her run.”

  Thank heavens. Now I’d get to spend some precious time alone with Pro.

  “I’d better be going,” Lupe said. “My nephew’s waiting. Merry Christmas, Ms. Jaine.”

  “You too, Lupe. And have a wonderful time with your family.”

  I watched as she hurried down the path to her nephew’s car and rode off, safe, for the time being, from Scotty’s wrath.

  Then I tiptoed inside, determined to steer clear of Mr. Wonderful.

  As I crossed the foyer to the staircase, I happened to glance into the kitchen and saw something that made me stop dead in my tracks.

  Something that always makes me stop dead in my tracks:

  Chocolate.

  Sitting on the kitchen counter on a cardboard bakery platter was the chocolate Yule log that Scotty had bought at a discount, the one with the words MERRY CHRISTMAS, AUNT HARRIET! blazoned across its chocolate frosting.

  Heaven only knew how stale it was underneath, but my, that frosting looked scrumptious.

  And before I knew it, I’d scampered into the kitchen for the weensiest taste.

  If I do say so myself, I have mastered the fine art of spackling over holes I’ve made after frosting taste tests. But when I went to dig my finger into the luscious chocolate goo, it was hard as a rock.

  Lupe must’ve just taken it out of the freezer to defrost.

  Oh, well. I couldn’t afford to be thinking about chocolate anyhow, not when I had Prozac’s affections to win back.

  Upstairs, I found my pampered princess on Missy’s bed, playing with the catnip-filled skunk Missy had given her, the one she’d called Rhett Butler.

  Prozac was pouncing on the toy with the wild abandon of a pole dancer in heat.

  “Merry Christmas, sweetheart!” I said, plopping down next to her on the bed. “Look what Mommy bought you.”

  I whipped out the Mowse from my shopping bag.

  “It’s a Mowse!” I said putting it on the floor.

  I was thrilled to see Prozac drop Rhett from where she had him clenched in her jaw and stare at the Mowse, who was now scampering about the room, feathery tail wagging in its wake.

  “See? It’s just like a real mouse, Pro! Go get it.”

  She watched it for a few more seconds, then turned to gaze at me with the same kind of look Samson must have given Delilah when she asked him how he liked his haircut.

  If that thing’s a mouse, I’m Albert Schweitzer.

  And back she went to molesting poor Rhett Butler.

  I was sitting there, cursing the day I ever allowed Prozac to stay here at the House of Scrooge, when I thought I heard a soft thud downstairs, followed by footsteps. Oh, hell. What if Scotty was coming upstairs? What if he found me here and expected me to work on his miserable script on Christmas Day? Or what if he was looking for Lupe? What the heck was I supposed to tell him?

  I sat there, frozen, for what seemed like a small eternity, but thank heavens, I didn’t hear his footsteps on the stairs. Maybe he just went to the fridge for one of his Econo-Colas.

  Finally spent from her antics with Rhett Butler, Prozac stretched out in a satisfied stupor and allowed me to scratch her back.

  “Does that feel good, sweetie?” I murmured as I scratched. “Does it?”

  She looked up and gazed at me sternly.

  Less yakking and more scratching, please.

  After enough scratching to cause carpal tunnel syndrome, I managed to get her nestled in my arms, and was holding her there, just like in the old days, when the door burst open and in trotted Missy, breathless and sweaty, ponytail tousled, in shorts and a tank top.

  “Just got back from my run,” she said.

  At the sight of Missy, Prozac wriggled free from my arms and raced over to her, rubbing against her ankles with the same wild abandon she’d lavished on Rhett Butler.

  “Did my precious Scarlett miss me?” Missy asked, scooping her up in her arms.

  A worshipful gaze from Pro.

  More than a can of freshly opened human tuna!

  At which point, Prozac began licking her with enough passion to qualify for a same-sex marriage license.

  “Wait till you see the cute gift I bought you for Christmas!” Missy chirped.

  With that, she reached into her vanity drawer and pulled out a cheap rubber squeaky mouse.

  Prozac took one look and went bananas, pouncing on the toy, still oblivious to my Mowse performing near acrobatic feats not two feet away.

  “What’s that?” Missy asked, noticing the Mowse.

  “Just a little gift I picked up for her. But I’m afraid she’s not very interested in it.”

  “That’s funny,” Missy said. “Scarlett seems to be crazy about everything I buy her.”

  By now I was ready to upchuck. Even Lance’s breakfast smoothie wasn’t this nauseating.

  “Time for me to go,” I said, getting up from the bed.

  “I almost forgot,” Missy said, as I headed for the door, “Scotty mentioned something at breakfast about wanting to talk to you about the script. Would you mind popping in his office on your way out?”

  Of course I’d mind.

  I couldn’t think of anything worse, except staying one more minute watching Prozac’s lovefest with Missy.

  I headed downstairs, girding my loins, prepared to tell Scotty I was not about to do a stitch of work. Not today. Not on Christmas.

  As it turned out, I would not have to work with Scotty that day. Or any other day, for that matter. Because when I stepped in his office the first thing I saw was Scotty Parker slumped over his desk, blood trickling from his scalp—bashed in the head with Aunt Harriet’s frozen Yule log.

  Chapter 13

  Soon after I called 911, the place was swarming with cops dusting for fingerprints, checking the body, and doing whatever else cops do when a guy has been bonked to death with a chocolate Yule log.

  One of the officers, a brawny African-American dude who looked like he could moonlight for Lance’s Jockey underwear catalog, took down my statement about finding the body.

  I assumed I could then skip off to freedom but was informed that I’d have to stick around until the detective on the case showed up. I don’t know what the detective was doing that morning—investigating another murder, or opening Christmas presents—but I wound up waiting two hours before he finally strolled in.

  Hours I spent huddled in the living room with Missy, Dave, and Prozac, the latter nestled—where else?—on Missy’s lap.

  I’d called out to Missy right after I’d phoned the police. She’d come running down the stairs and gasped at the sight of Scotty, blood pooling on his desk. I did not have to warn her not to touch the body; she made no attempt to go near it, just stared at it, eyes wide, and then turned away.

  Now as I sat across from her, she looked like a novice actress auditioning for the role of The Grieving Wido
w, wringing her hands and blinking back nonexistent tears. Every once in a while she managed to work up an actual drop of moisture but I sensed it was taking a lot of effort.

  I remembered how she’d badmouthed Scotty, how trapped she’d felt in the marriage and how desperately she’d been trying to figure a way out.

  Maybe the way out she’d taken was murder.

  Meanwhile, Dave was glued to her side, patting her hand, assuring her that everything was going to be okay.

  I couldn’t help but notice how his hand lingered on hers with each pat. It had been clear from the first night I met him that the Parkers’ tenant was crazy about Missy. Now I wondered: Was it possible he bumped off Scotty to get rid of his competition?

  And Dave was not the only one on the Missy Sympathy Bandwagon.

  Most galling was Prozac, nuzzling Missy under her neck, comforting her in her time of stress. How aggravating was that? Whenever I stressed out, all she ever offered me was her belly to rub. But today she was a bundle of affection.

  Who did she think she was, anyway—a dog?

  At last the detective on the case showed up: Lt. Max Muntner, a lumbering round-shouldered fellow with a bit of a pot belly and heavy-lidded eyes that looked like they’d seen it all—and then some.

  After offering condolences to Missy, he asked permission to use the den as headquarters, and summoned her first for questioning. Working up a few tears for the occasion, she rose from the sofa, still clutching her “darling Scarlett,” and headed off across the hall.

  With Missy gone, Dave realized I was actually there in the room and began chatting with me. He told me how shocked he was over Scotty’s death, how he’d been in his room all morning, studying his law books. He said he’d wanted to fly home to spend Christmas with his family, but finances were tight.