by Laura Levine
Opening my eyes, I saw The Brat standing in front of me, holding a soccer ball. With a most aggravating smirk, he took the ball and bounced it against the wall, just inches from my head. Then he bounced it again. And again.
“Stop bouncing that ball,” I said.
“What if I don’t?” The Brat said, bouncing the ball.
By now, I’d had it up to my eyeballs with this kid.
“This is what happens if you don’t!”
Like a shot I was up from my deck chair, snatching the ball from his grubby little hands.
“Hey!” he cried. “Gimme back my ball. It’s a genuine Nike professional soccer ball. It cost my grandpa a hundred and fifty bucks.”
“You want your ball?”
With that, I swung my arm back and tossed the damn thing clear overboard.
“Go get it!”
Needless to say, the kid was really steamed. Did my heart good to see his little face go purple with rage.
“Wait till I tell my grandpa. He’s gonna get you for this.”
I’d seen his grandfather today at lunch. A frail old guy with spindly legs and a thriving colony of liver spots. I could take him on with one hand behind my back.
And so, leaving The Brat in major sulk mode, I headed over to the buffet, flush with victory.
Justice, at long last, has been served!!
Love ’n cuddles from,
Daddy
Aka The Avenger
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Another Spellbinding Lecture!
Lydia’s lecture was fascinating as usual. Did you know that Norwegians hide their brooms at Christmas? I may try it next year, only I’ll hide the vacuum. How relaxing that will be.
Meanwhile, Daddy’s in a marvelous mood. I found him at the buffet diving into a hot fudge sundae and yapping about justice being served.
XOXO,
Mom
PS. Ever so excited about Isabel’s 95th birthday party. Can’t wait to see the look on her face when she gets a look at her new diamonette bracelet!!
Chapter 24
If only I were a true descendant of Jane Austen and my great-great-great-great-granny had snapped up Cousin Jane’s book for a mere ninety pence. Do you know how much that darn thing would be worth today?
About a hundred and eighty thousand dollars! That’s how much the last one raked in at auction.
Needless to say, I did not have a spare hundred and eighty thou to spring on a gift for Connie Van Hooten. So—after checking my emails and reading about Daddy’s triumphant soccer ball coup—I spent the next morning on my laptop at the kitchen island scouring the Internet for a reasonably affordable first edition of Pride and Prejudice. Finally, I found a gilt-edged copy for eighty bucks.
Unfortunately, this first edition was published in 1980, a good hundred and sixty-three years after Jane’s death. I only hoped Lance was right when he assured me that Connie never read anything more challenging than Vogue, and that my little deception would go undetected.
I’d just placed my order and was about to reward myself with an apple (okay, an apple Pop-Tart) when I thought I heard a rustling sound coming from the living room.
I put down my Pop-Tart and tiptoed to the kitchen door, wondering if it had been my imagination. But, no. There it was again. That rustling sound.
Omigod! Someone had broken into the house.
And right away, I thought of my hulking nemesis, Marlon Jenkins. What if he found out I’d ratted him out to the police, and he’d come to exact revenge?
I remembered his words to me in the parking lot: You wouldn’t want to wind up sharing space in the morgue with Scotty, would you?
Grabbing a frying pan, I tiptoed out into the hallway. Maybe I could catch Marlon unawares and bop him over the head before he even saw me.
But when I peeked in the living room, I saw it was a completely Marlon-free zone. No sign of the Incredible Hulk anywhere.
The source of the rustling noise, I discovered, was a squirrel—scampering down the fireplace. Now he was squeezing past the fire screen and making a beeline for the Christmas tree.
And then I realized what he was after: The acorns on the acorn garlands!
No doubt he’d sniffed out the nuts and had come for his midmorning snack.
I watched in horror as he leaped onto the tree, bouncing from branch to branch, in search of the perfect acorn.
Oh, hell. With all that bouncing around, the tree was beginning to wobble.
Racing over, I managed to catch the tree before it fell, and stood there, propping it up. Meanwhile, Mini-Marlon, as I had come to think of my furry friend, had found the acorn of his dreams and, after biting off the cap, was nibbling away at the contents.
“Shoo!” I called out, but the squirrel glanced at me as if I was nothing more than an annoying aphid and went back to nibbling.
I couldn’t stand there forever while the damn squirrel noshed at our Christmas tree.
“Beat it, buster!” I said, in my most authoritative voice, waving the frying pan at him.
The frying pan did the trick.
Mini-Marlon took one look at it and, reluctantly abandoning his acorn, skittered down off the tree.
I quickly tightened the screws at the base of the tree, securing it place. Thank heavens I’d averted disaster.
No, wait. I hadn’t averted disaster. Not yet. Those of you paying close attention will no doubt realize there was still a squirrel roaming free in the Van Hooten manse.
Somehow I had to get rid of him.
I raced to the front door and opened it to give Mini-Marlon an easy exit. After which, I frantically started running around searching for him.
I finally found him in the dining room just about to leap onto Mrs. Van H’s silk damask drapes. Oh, gaak! I could just picture his paw prints up and down that two-hundred-dollar-a-yard fabric.
“No!” I screeched, waving my frying pan.
At the sight of the pan, Mini-Marlon abandoned the drapes and was off and running. He led me on a merry chase through the dining room, the sun room (where he stopped for a beat to admire the view of the swimming pool), then into the kitchen, where he leaped onto the kitchen island and, much to my consternation, started nibbling on my Pop-Tart.
The nerve of some squirrels!
He then took a quick sniff of Lance’s smoothie glass and had the good sense to run away from it as fast as his furry little legs could carry him. And before I knew it, we were back in the living room where Mini-Marlon once again made a beeline for the Christmas tree.
But I beat him to it, standing in front of the tree, warding him off with my trusty frying pan.
I was congratulating myself on yet another heroic rescue of the tree when Mini-Marlon suddenly scuttled across the room and made a flying leap onto Mrs. Van H’s étagère.
The same étagère with about a gazillion dollars’ worth of museum-quality bibelots! Perched next to the highly breakable Ming vase, he was eyeing a nearby Fabergé egg with interest. He probably thought it was something to eat.
Sure enough, he scooted past the Ming vase, miraculously not toppling it, and reached out to grab the Fabergé egg.
“No! No! No!” I shouted, visions of priceless collectibles plummeting to the hardwood floor below.
And then, like an angel from on high, my salvation arrived.
“Hello?” I heard someone calling out from the front door. “Is everything okay?”
The next thing I knew, Graham the mailman came walking in the living room.
“Graham. Thank God you’re here! That damn squirrel broke into the house looking for acorns on our Christmas tree and now he’s about to bite into Mrs. Van Hooten’s Fabergé egg. One false move, and the Ming vase next to him is history!”
Graham looked over and saw Mini-Marlon, who was now standing stock still, perhaps realizing he was outnumbered two to one.
Graham, not missing a beat, went over to the Christmas tree and pulled off
an acorn garland.
“Hey, fella,” he called out in a voice as soft as velvet. “Look what I’ve got for you.”
He held out the acorns in the palm of his hand.
Mini-Marlon blinked, then looked at Graham’s hand, no doubt remembering why he’d broken into Casa Van Hooten in the first place.
His nose twitched with interest.
Graham took a step closer.
I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for Mini-Marlon to take off in terror, breaking several thousand dollars’ worth of doodads en route. But when I opened my eyes, I saw he hadn’t moved an inch. He sat stock still, staring at the acorns in Graham’s hand.
“C’mon, little guy,” Graham cooed, crouching down on his knees. “I won’t hurt you. I promise.”
His voice was soft and soothing, Valium to Mini-Marlon’s ears.
Much to my amazement, the squirrel jumped down off the étagère and slowly approached Graham. As Mini-Marlon moved forward, Graham, still crouched over, gradually eased backward, out of the room and into the hallway. Mini-Marlon followed, mesmerized—by the acorns, or Graham, I couldn’t tell which.
At last they were at the threshold of the front door. Graham backed outside, and to my everlasting relief, Mini-Marlon followed him.
Graham continued retreating until they were safe on the front lawn.
But instead of just tossing the acorns for Mini-Marlon to eat, Graham kept holding out his hand.
And in a moment I’ll never forget, Mini-Marlon scooted over to Graham and grabbed one of the acorns. While Mini-Marlon was nibbling to his heart’s content, Graham actually reached over and petted him.
Even more miraculous, Mini-Marlon actually let him.
I stared at Graham in awe.
“Omigosh!” I cried. “You’re a regular Squirrel Whisperer!”
“I guess I do have a way with animals,” he said, with a modest shrug.
What a sweetheart! For once, Lance had latched on to a keeper.
Of course, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s never interfere in other people’s love lives. If something goes wrong, you’re the one they’re sure to blame. Absolutely never ever get involved.
A rule I promptly proceeded to ignore.
“You know,” I said, taking one of Cupid’s arrows and aiming it straight at Graham. “Lance really likes you.”
“I like him, too,” Graham replied. “He’s a great guy.”
“Then how come you haven’t made any moves to see him again? According to my calculations, he’s probably sent you about two hundred forty-six texts.”
“I know,” Graham smiled. “He’s quite the communicator. I’ve been wanting to ask him out, but I’m having a hard time getting over the death of my last love. It’s been several years and I still haven’t let go.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you did? Sorry if I’m speaking out of turn, but a man as kind to squirrels as you are deserves a chance at love again.”
By now Mini-Marlon was practically sitting in his lap.
“You’re right,” Graham said, with a decisive nod. “I’ve got to start putting myself out there. In the meanwhile, though, I’m afraid I’ve got mail to deliver.”
He pointed to his mail cart down on the sidewalk.
“Omigosh! I’m so sorry I’ve kept you all this time. Thanks so much for coming to my rescue!”
“Thank you,” he said, “for some very sound advice. I’ll be in touch with Lance soon.”
Yay, me! Maybe this matchmaker thing wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.
“Lance is such an interesting guy,” Graham was saying. “General manager of Neiman’s. Former commando with the Navy Seals. And Calvin Klein underwear model.”
Oh, Lordy. Can you believe the whoppers Lance had pawned off on Graham?
I’d just set up the world’s sweetest squirrel whisperer with the Lyin’ King.
So much for my gig as Cupid in elastic waist pants.
* * *
The phone was ringing when I got back in the house.
It was Lance, in advanced panic mode.
“Major emergency!” he cried. “I just realized I left my cell phone home! I’ve been busy all morning with a sale on Ferragamos. By the way, they’ve got the cutest strappy sandals for only two hundred thirty dollars that would be perfect for your Internet dates.”
Yeah, right. The day I spend $230 on a pair of sandals is the day I drink one of Lance’s grass smoothies.
“Anyhow,” he blathered on, “I borrowed a customer’s phone to call you—Thank you so much, Mrs. Otis. You’ve got the most beautiful instep of any woman I know!”
Then, turning off his gush-o-meter, he switched back to me, all business: “I think my phone’s upstairs in my bathroom. You’ve got to get it and bring it over to me at Neiman’s. What if Graham calls and I miss him?”
I considered telling him about my recent chat with his postal heartthrob, but decided against it. Why get his hopes up, in case Graham flaked out?
“Okay, I’ll bring it over.”
“Make it snappy! No dawdling!”
“You’re welcome, Mein Führer.”
I trotted upstairs and found his phone on his bathroom counter, crammed between his deep pore cleanser and his volumizing hair mousse. Snatching it up, I then followed Lance’s strict orders and dashed downstairs and out to my Corolla.
Okay, so I dashed downstairs and nuked myself another Pop-Tart. But right after that I dashed out to my Corolla.
As I headed down the front path, I glanced next door and saw Dave Kellogg, carrying an armful of law books, waving good-bye to Missy.
“Just need to spend a few hours at the UCLA law library,” he called out to her, tossing his books in the backseat of a bright red VW Beetle, “and then I’ll be home.”
Trying not to upchuck at the sight of him blowing Missy a batch of nauseating baby kisses, I got in my car and followed Dave as he drove down to Sunset Boulevard.
Then something very strange happened.
If Dave were going to UCLA, as he’d just told Missy, he’d be making a right turn on Sunset.
But instead, he turned left.
My curiosity piqued, I followed him, careful to stay several car lengths behind him. A handy technique I’ve honed in my years as a part-time, semiprofessional PI and dedicated viewer of Magnum, PI reruns.
I tailed Dave south on Beverly Glen to Santa Monica Boulevard, not far from the Century City shopping center. For a minute, I thought maybe he was going to stop off to do an errand, but no, he kept driving until he got to a tree-lined street in the Rancho Park area of Los Angeles.
Stopping several houses away, I watched Dave pull into the driveway of a cute yellow cottage, with a white picket fence and a magnolia tree in the front yard.
He got out of his VW, leaving his books in the car, and sauntered up a brick path to the front door. And then, without a missing beat, he reached into his pocket, pulled out some keys and let himself in!
Whoa, Nelly! What the heck was going on?
Why did Dave need to rent a room from Scotty if he had a home of his own?
I was sitting in my Corolla, trying to make sense of it all, when I saw a mail carrier approach Dave’s house and deposit some mail in the mailbox at the front of the picket fence.
I waited for Dave to come out to get it, but when several minutes passed and he still hadn’t retrieved it, I took a chance and dashed over to do some snooping.
Hurriedly, I flipped open the door to the mailbox and pulled out its contents.
Riffling through his mail, I blinked in surprise to see that all the letters were addressed, not to Dave Kellogg—but to someone named Dave Chambers.
Whaddya know? It looked like the love-struck law student had been living a double life. First, Dave Kellogg. Now, Dave Chambers.
Which one was the real Dave? And why the grand charade?
Yet another mystery to be solved in this dratted murder.
Chapter 25
&
nbsp; “Thank heavens you’re here!” Lance cried when I showed up at Neiman’s, yanking his cell phone from my hand like an addict in desperate need of a fix.
“Omigosh!” he said, checking his messages. “Here’s one from Graham!”
“Really?” I asked, in fake surprise.
“The best news ever!” He beamed from ear to ear. “He’s invited me over to his apartment on New Year’s Eve!”
Yay! My pep talk had worked!
Then his face clouded over.
“Hell, no!” he moaned.
“What’s wrong?”
“He’s invited you, too.”
“What a catastrophe. Having to spend New Year’s Eve with me.”
“Jaine, sweetie. You know I adore you, and if I had to spend New Year’s Eve with anyone without an Adam’s apple, it would be you. But I can’t possibly make progress with Graham with you on the scene. Promise you won’t stay long? You’ll make up an excuse and pretend you have a party to go to?”
“I promise I won’t stay long.”
“Thank you, hon,” he said, throwing his arms around me in gratitude. “And who knows? Maybe, thanks to Smatch, you’ll have a date of your own for New Year’s Eve.”
“Don’t bet your Ferragamos on it.”
“In the meanwhile,” he said, “you simply must go upstairs and check out the sale they’re having on cashmere sweaters. They’re practically giving them away. If you find anything you like, I’ll get it for you with my employee discount.”
I sincerely doubted that Neiman’s was practically giving anything away—least of all cashmere sweaters. But I took the elevator upstairs and wandered around, lost in a sea of three and four-figure price tags, grateful that my I COULD GIVE UP CHOCOLATE, BUT I’M NOT A QUITTER T-shirt was hidden under my blazer.
