by Laura Levine
It wasn’t until Lydia had finally finished her tribute to Isabel (I must admit, it ran on quite a while) and Isabel was about to open her gift, that I looked at the box and realized what was bothering me. I’d grabbed the wrong box! The box with the diamonette bracelet was smaller than the one in Isabel’s hands. I suddenly remembered that Daddy had gift-wrapped those dratted clacking false teeth in the same wrapping paper I’d used for Isabel’s gift.
Oh, no! I grabbed the wrong gift by mistake! I watched in horror as sweet, darling Isabel opened her ninety-fifth birthday gift, only to find a pair of clacking false teeth inside. She smiled gamely, which made it all the worse, given that her teeth are clearly dentures.
I swear, I wanted to fall through a hole in the floor.
And just when I thought things couldn’t possibly get any worse—Daddy came bursting into the dining room wearing nothing but a loincloth and fright wig!
I may never talk to him again.
XOXO,
Mom
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: I Can Explain Everything!
I suppose Mom told you about my grand entrance at Isabel’s party night. I know it looks bad, Lambchop, but honestly, I can explain everything.
First of all, it’s not my fault that your mom grabbed those clacking false teeth to bring to the party. I think she needs to take the heat for that one.
As for my appearance in the loincloth and fright wig, here’s how it happened:
I’d made up my mind to show up late for the party, refusing to sit through what was sure to be The Gasbag’s endless tribute to Isabel. Taking advantage of Mom’s absence, I decided to try on my costume for the New Year’s Eve party, just to make sure everything was fitting properly. I had no sooner slipped into my loincloth and fright wig (which, by the way, were a terrific combo!) when there was a knock on our cabin door.
I opened it to find The Brat. How he found our cabin I’ll never know. The little sneak had probably been tailing me ever since the soccer ball incident.
“My grandpa’s coming to beat you up,” he said with a smug smile.
“Your grandpa? The skinny guy with the knobby knees and liver spots?”
“No, not that grandpa. My other grandpa. Mr. Senior Universe.”
I stepped out into the hallway and got the shock of my life.
There, thundering down the hallway, was a human boulder. A lumbering giant with muscles the size of rump roasts.
I consider myself a brave man, Lambchop, but I have to confess I was a wee bit terrified. And wouldn’t you know, The Brat had taken advantage of my momentary shock to slam my cabin door shut. I was locked out. Nowhere to hide!
I could either stand up like a man and face the enemy. Or run for my life.
Needless to say, I started running.
Lucky for me, I ran track in high school. I thought for sure I could easily outrun The Boulder, but he was surprisingly speedy for a man of his bulk.
I raced down the corridor and considered buzzing for the elevator, but couldn’t risk the chance that The Boulder would catch up with me. So up I ran, three flights of stairs, through the lobby, past the Christmas tree, the gift shops, and clusters of shocked passengers. It’s not every day they saw a man in a loincloth and fright wig running through the Lido deck.
By this point, I was exhausted. The Boulder was gaining on me. Any minute now I would be pounded to smithereens.
But then, in a stroke of luck, I turned a corner and spotted a small door that I assumed was some sort of utility closet. Praying that the door wasn’t locked, I turned the handle.
Hallelujah, it opened!
I dashed inside, certain I’d found refuge—only to realize I was in the middle of Isabel Norton’s ninety-fifth birthday party. Mom was staring at me, aghast, as were all the other Tampa Vista-ites.
For a brief second, the only sound in the room was the castanet clacking of those Yakity Yak false teeth.
Ship security soon showed up and hauled me off to the brig. For which I was, to be honest, sort of grateful. At least they’d saved me from the clutches of The Boulder.
Mom insists I ruined Isabel’s party. But I got a look at the roast beef they were serving. Looked darned good to me.
Mom had to bail me out of the brig, and pay $150 for the soccer ball I threw overboard. She says she’s never speaking to me again.
Oh, well. Time to bite the bullet and make amends.
Love ’n smooches from,
Your DaddyO
(In the doghouse again!)
Chapter 29
I must admit I was rather annoyed the next morning when I still hadn’t heard from Lt. Muntner.
Clearly he wasn’t taking me very seriously.
I put in another call to him, once again getting shunted to his voice mail, and urged him to get back to me ipso pronto.
All thoughts of the murder were put on hold, however, when I read the latest emails from my parents.
Can you believe Daddy—racing through the Caribbean Queen wearing nothing but a loincloth and fright wig? And poor Isabel. Opening her birthday present, only to find those clacking false teeth!
Yet another disaster in Daddyland.
I was just about to log out of my email and leave my parents adrift in the Caribbean when I saw I had a message from someone at Smatch.
Memories of my recent encounter with Hamsterhead still etched in my cranium, I was all set to delete it. Especially since my correspondent, Love in Venice, didn’t have a photo posted. Usually, when I came across a man without a photo, I zapped the guy to oblivion. But something, call it fate, made me read what Love in Venice had to say:
Warm, empathetic graphic illustrator, living in Venice,
CA, with a view of the Pacific from my balcony.
Seeking unpretentious woman. Someone who eats
Chunky Monkey for breakfast. Does crossword puzzles
in the tub. Enjoys wine at sunset and romantic walks to
the refrigerator.
If you’re a writer, that’s a big plus.
PS. Must love cats!
Omigosh, the man had practically described me to a tee. And he didn’t sound too shabby, either. I’ve always had a thing for artists. And one with a view of the Pacific from his balcony sounded particularly appealing.
He’d written me a note, saying:
I think we’d really hit it off. Care to meet up and find out?
Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes!!! were the words I was
tempted to write in reply. Instead I went with the far
more restrained: I would indeed.
A few more volleys and we’d set up a date to meet the next day.
Yes, I know I’d sworn off Smatch for all eternity, but this guy seemed special. I’d go on the date and hope for the best, fully realizing it could all blow up in my face. I just prayed this time there would be no bad toupees or arrest records involved.
In the meanwhile, my mind lingered on the final words of Love in Venice’s profile:
Must love cats!
I really had to do something to repair my shattered relationship with Prozac. I prayed that once we were back home, she’d forget about her insane crush on Missy.
But why wait till we got home? Why not spend New Year’s Eve with her like I always did, cuddled together, watching TV and eating Chinese takeout? Lance wouldn’t care. The minute I left Graham’s place, he and Graham would be sailing off on the Love Boat together.
Eager to reunite with my pampered princess, I popped next door to tell Missy of my New Year’s Eve plans.
Lupe let me in, in jeans and a sweatshirt, her hair swept up in a sloppy ponytail.
“Ms. Jaine! Excuse the way I look. I’m right in the middle of packing. Tomorrow I leave for my new job.”
“That’s wonderful!” I said, relieved Lupe wasn’t the killer, that her return trip to The House of Scrooge on Christmas morning did not involve bonking her employer to death.
“
Is Missy around?” I asked.
“Upstairs, getting dressed. Mr. Dave is taking her out on a special New Year’s Eve date.”
I hurried upstairs where I found Missy checking herself out in a full-length mirror, modeling a bling-studded evening dress so skimpy, it was practically a bikini.
“Oh, hi, Jaine,” she said. “I was just trying to decide what to wear tonight.
“What do you think?” she asked, modeling her Band Aid-sized hoochfest. “Is it okay for the Bel Air Hotel?”
Only if they allowed hookers at the bar.
“You think it’s too much?”
“Maybe just a tad,” I said, at my diplomatic best. “You might want to go for something a bit more modest.”
“You’re right,” she said. “Isn’t she, Ashley-Washley? Mommy needs to wear something more modest.”
I looked over at Missy’s bed and realized for the first time that Prozac was no longer in her place of honor on Missy’s faux mink throw. She had been displaced by Ashley Wilkes, the gray stuffed elephant. Missy was clearly gaga over her fuzzy gift from Dave.
And Pro was none too happy about it.
I knew Prozac’s snit fits when I saw one, and right then, she was in major snit fit mode, sitting at the corner of Missy’s bed, her tail thumping like a bass drum, her eyes narrowed into angry slits.
“Isn’t Ashley the most adorable thing ever?” Missy was cooing. “Aren’t you, sweetums?” she said, nuzzling the elephant’s trunk.
From the corner of the bed, another angry thump of Prozac’s tail.
My God! The woman’s a moron. Talking to a lump of stuffing! What did I ever see in her? She has the IQ of a radish.
When I reached down to pick her up, Prozac practically leaped into my arms.
Thank goodness you’re here!
Then she gazed up at me lovingly, the kind of look I sometimes get after a marathon belly rub.
Can you ever forgive me for abandoning you? I must have been blinded by human tuna.
“How about this one?” Missy was saying, back at her closet, holding out a silky black number. “What do you think?”
“It’s great,” I said, barely looking at it, clutching Prozac close to my heart, right where she belonged.
Reunited at last.
* * *
Missy was delighted when I told her of my plans to spend New Year’s Eve with Prozac.
“What a wonderful idea! I hate the thought of Scarlett, Rhett, and Ashley Wilkes being alone on this special night! What an angel you are to keep them company. Isn’t she, Ashley?” she added, kissing her stuffed elephant on the trunk.
At which point, Prozac practically rolled her eyes in disgust.
I left Pro sulking on Missy’s bed, and headed over to Hop Li Chinese restaurant in Westwood to pick up our New Year’s Eve feast: spring rolls, steamed dumplings, and—Prozac’s favorite—shrimp with lobster sauce.
Lance was upstairs in his room when I returned to the casa, his bed littered with enough outfits to stock the men’s department at Bloomie’s.
“Oh, good! You’re home!” he cried when he saw me. “I desperately need your advice. I’ve narrowed it down to two choices to wow Graham tonight: Blue cashmere sweater and khaki slacks. Or jeans and turtleneck?”
I looked over his choices and came to a decision.
“Blue cashmere and khaki.”
“Okay, then. Jeans and turtleneck it is!”
Lance always does this. For some reason he is convinced that I have no fashion sense whatsoever, that moths come to my closet to commit suicide.
After all these years, I don’t even bother to get insulted anymore.
“Well, time for my bath!” he chirped. “And to work my magic on my bod!”
Then off Lance trotted to his bathroom, where he spent the next several hours doing heaven knows what to his body. I suspect waxing, self-tanning, and deep pore cleansing were involved.
I spent the afternoon in my bedroom, forcing myself to work on an online mailer to generate business in the new year. I’d been away from work long enough. It was time to start hustling.
But I was having a hard time concentrating, wondering why I hadn’t heard from Lt. Muntner, and spending far too much time daydreaming about my upcoming date with Love in Venice.
I was right in the middle of a most enjoyable fantasy where my online Romeo—who bore a striking resemblance to Jude Law—and I were sipping wine at sunset on his balcony overlooking the Pacific, when I was jolted back to reality by the terrifying appearance of Lance skipping into my bedroom, his face covered in the most appalling mask of blue goo.
“Yuck! What’s that disgusting glop on your face?”
“A detoxifying, hydrating antioxidant gluten-free facial mask. Guaranteed to remove any and all impurities. You really ought to try it, hon,” he said, holding out a jar of the stuff. “It’ll do wonders for those enlarged pores of yours.”
“Thanks ever so, but I’ll pass.”
“Don’t you want to look good for tonight?”
“Tonight? I’m only staying at Graham’s for fifteen minutes, remember?”
“I know, sweetheart, but you never know who you’ll bump into in the freezer aisle on your run for Chunky Monkey.”
“For your information,” I huffed, “I won’t be going on any Chunky Monkey runs tonight.”
Which was true. I’d already stopped off for a pint on my way home from my trip to the Chinese restaurant.
“Suit yourself,” he shrugged. “But you’re making a big mistake. You never know what life has in store for you, a chance encounter when you least expect it. Just like with me and Graham. I happened to run into him one day when I was picking up Connie’s mail, and the next thing I knew he was asking me out for New Year’s Eve.”
I blinked in disbelief.
“Are you insane? You chased down that guy like a fox during hunting season. You sent him enough texts to fill the Gutenberg Bible.”
“I may have written him a few notes,” Lance sniffed, “but it was fate that brought us together.”
Oh, brother. How delusional could one man be?
He left the jar of goo on my night table, just in case I wanted to go around looking like an extra from Revenge of the Slime People, and trotted off to get dressed.
After a few more stabs at trying to get some work done on my mailer, I gave up and flipped on the TV to while away the time until we left for Graham’s.
I’d just zapped past some “diamonette” earrings on the Home Shopping Club and reached a local news station when I saw something that made me jolt up in Connie Van Hooten’s Queen Anne chair.
There on the screen behind a surgically enhanced anchor was a photo of Dave Kellogg aka Chambers, who, according to the anchor, had just been brought down to police headquarters for questioning in the murder of former child actor, Scotty Parker.
So Lt. Muntner got my message after all!
It sure would’ve been nice of him to let me know.
Chapter 30
Lance was a happy camper as he drove over to Graham’s apartment in Burbank, checking his curls in the rearview mirror every two minutes.
He’d seen Dave being hauled away on the news, and was quite impressed when I told him how I’d tipped off the police.
“Honestly, hon,” he said. “You deserve a medal or something.”
Indeed I did. And a cash reward wouldn’t hurt either.
Holiday traffic on the freeways was sluggish that night, but Lance was totally unfazed, planning his first weekend getaway with Graham, conducting a one-man debate between the mountains vs. the beach, the beach winning out in the end because of the chance to see Graham in a pair of Speedos.
At last we arrived at Graham’s apartment, a squat stucco building with azaleas out front and Christmas lights strung along the balconies.
“Now remember,” Lance said as we headed up to the front entrance. “Fifteen minutes, and you’re gone.”
“Yes, Lance,” I sighed. “I
remember.”
“You can take my car, and I’ll Uber it home. With any luck,” he winked, “tomorrow morning.”
Graham buzzed us into the building and we made our way down a long corridor to his apartment.
After a final fluff of his curls, Lance rang the bell, and Graham came to the door, looking très hunky in a skin-tight tuxedo T-shirt and Bermuda shorts.
“Hey, guys,” Graham grinned. “Great to see you!”
“You, too!” Lance gulped, eyeing Graham’s abs with more than a tad of prurient interest.
Graham took our jackets and hung them on a coatrack in the entranceway, then led us into the living room—very tastefully decorated with black leather furniture, steamer trunk coffee table, Christmas tree in the corner, and gas flames flickering in a phony fireplace.
“Sit down, guys.” Graham gestured to his sofa. “Make yourselves comfy.”
“Jaine can’t stay long,” Lance said before my fanny had even hit the cushion. “She’s got a party to go to. She’ll only be here about fifteen minutes or so. Isn’t that right, Jaine?”
