Death of a Neighborhood Scrooge

by Laura Levine

“Ow!” I cried, in response to the kick he’d just given me behind the steamer trunk.

  “That’s too bad,” Graham said, easing his bod into a chair across from us. “Are you sure you can’t stay a little longer?”

  “Maybe I will stay a little longer,” I said, smiling sweetly at Lance, payback for that kick.

  “I just love what you’ve done with your place, Graham!” Lance gushed, after another quick jab at my ankles. “It’s so you!”

  I, on the other hand, was not focused on the décor but rather on the plate of rather yummy looking mini-quiches Graham had set out on the coffee table.

  “Help yourself to an hors d’oeuvre,” Graham said, no doubt seeing the food lust in my eyes.

  He didn’t have to ask twice.

  I was just about to bite into an eggy beauty when I happened to notice a pair of bright pink eyes staring up at me from the front of the fireplace. Holy mackerel. It was a rabbit! For a minute I thought it was going to hop on my lap and nab my quiche. Then I realized it wasn’t alive—but dead and stuffed.

  A chill ran down my spine.

  “That’s Peter,” Graham said. “He passed away a few years ago. He loved to sit in front of the fireplace.”

  Lance blinked, confused.

  “You mean like Peter, your old boyfriend, who also died a few years ago?”

  Graham smiled a wistful smile.

  “No, you must have misunderstood. The Peter I told you about was my rabbit. We were very close. Rabbits are really quite underrated as pets. They can be amazingly affectionate. At least, my Peter was.” His eyes misted over. “Truth be told, I’m still not quite over his loss.”

  Lance told me Graham kept calling Peter his “honey-bunny.” Now I knew why.

  “Well, I don’t want to bring the party down—” Graham said.

  Too late for that.

  “—so I’ll just zip into the kitchen for some champagne.”

  “My God,” I whispered to Lance the minute he was gone. “The guy is in love with his dead stuffed rabbit!”

  “Okay, so he’s a little quirky,” Lance said. “I like quirky.”

  Talk about being blinded by lust.

  A cork popped in the kitchen, and seconds later Graham came bounding back into the living room with a bottle of champagne and three glasses on a tray.

  “Here’s the bubbly!” he announced, the model of a gracious host.

  He poured us all champagne, and I took a healthy slug of mine, trying not to look at Peter’s eyes staring up at me from in front of the fireplace.

  I decided right then and there to make an early exit, after all. In fact, I wasn’t even sure I was going to last fifteen minutes.

  While I sat there, counting down the seconds till my getaway, Lance was babbling up a storm, gushing about how he’d always been fascinated by the US Postal Service.

  “So many people have such awful handwriting; it’s amazing anyone gets any mail at all! And I just love how you carry on through rain and snow and sleet and hail! Not that we have any sleet or snow or hail in L.A., but still. All that walking! No wonder you’re in such fab shape!”

  Oh, for crying out loud. Why didn’t he just go sit in the guy’s lap?

  After Lance finished waxing euphoric about Graham’s life as a mail carrier, he leaned forward, chin in hand, in prime time interview mode.

  “So tell me. However did you get started in such a fascinating career?”

  “I didn’t always want to be a mail carrier,” Graham said.

  “Oh?” Lance blinked, all agog, as if he was about to hear Al Einstein explain his theory of relativity.

  “No, when I first came to L.A., like every other guy who played the lead in his high school drama club, my dream was to break into show biz.”

  He got up and brought back a framed picture of himself from a nearby bookshelf—a professional head shot, taken sometime in his twenties. And indeed, he’d been an utter knockout.

  “But you were so handsome!” Lance gushed. “And you still are! I’m surprised you’re not a big star today.”

  I have to confess, I was a bit surprised, too. If Graham could act half as well as he looked, he seemed destined for some sort of career in the business.

  “I took a job at the post office to make ends meet and was actually starting to make some progress, going to auditions after work and on my days off. I even got a few commercials and some small parts in TV shows.

  “But then,” he sighed, “it all came to an end.”

  “Why?” Lance asked, breathless, in his own special brand of hammy overacting. “What on earth happened?”

  “My agent had lined up an important audition for me in an A-list movie. But in a bit of horrible luck, the night before the audition, I ate some stale cherry-filled chocolates, not realizing that the cherry filling had gone bad. I wound up with a virulent case of food poisoning.

  “I wanted the job so badly, I decided to go to the audition anyway. It was the opportunity of a lifetime. Besides, I figured the worst of the food poisoning had passed.

  “But I was wrong. The worst hadn’t passed. I wound up throwing up on the Italian leather loafers of one of Hollywood’s biggest directors,” he said, shuddering at the memory, “all of which was captured on someone’s phone. The video went viral, and overnight, I became an untouchable, my show biz career dead and buried.”

  “That’s so unfair!” Lance cried, thoroughly outraged, no doubt ready to picket the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences on Graham’s behalf.

  It really was a painful story, though—Graham’s career crashing down in shambles all because of some stale chocolates.

  And then suddenly something in Graham’s tale of woe rang a bell. The stale chocolates! I remembered Graham telling me about the horrible Christmas gifts he’d gotten from Scotty—used socks, recycled toothbrushes—and stale chocolates!

  What if the chocolates Graham had eaten before that fateful audition had been a gift from Scotty? What if Scotty’s crappy Christmas gift had ruined Graham’s dreams of stardom? What if Graham never forgot—or forgave—and was bent on revenge?

  How easy it would have been for him to gain access to the house on Christmas Day. All the windows were open. He could’ve climbed right in, seen the Yule log on the kitchen counter, and killed the man who’d ruined his career.

  What if I’d been wrong about Dave and Graham was the real killer? Had I just sent an innocent man to jail?

  After all, the blue ski cap I’d seen Dave wearing in that photo was a fairly common item. I bet there were scads of them floating around the city. And who knew where that chocolate stain on his shirt had come from? Maybe he’d bumped into someone eating a chocolate-frosted cupcake. Or maybe my nose had been wrong. Maybe it wasn’t even chocolate. Maybe it had been carob or some other chocolate substitute. Or even common garden dirt.

  Just then a timer dinged in the kitchen.

  “My stuffed mushrooms!” Graham said, jumping up. “Be right back.”

  He scooted off to the kitchen, and the minute he was gone, Lance whirled on me.

  “Will you stop eating all the hors d’oeuvres? You’re like a human dustbuster.”

  I looked down at the plate of mini-quiches and saw there were just a paltry few left.

  Traumatized by the thought that I’d possibly sent the wrong man to prison, I must have gone into one of my eating trances, where calories find their way unbidden into my body and I barely remember a single bite.

  “Lance, you know how I eat when I’m stressed.”

  “And when you’re happy, sad, anxious, exhilarated, sleepy—”

  “Enough! You’ve made your point. Listen to me. I think Graham may be the one who killed Scotty.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. No one that adorable could possibly be a killer.”

  “Graham just told us his career was ruined because he ate stale chocolates. And guess who gave him stale chocolates for Christmas once? Scotty Parker! I think Graham has been nursing a grudge all
these years and finally took his revenge.”

  “That’s the silliest thing I ever heard!”

  “The guy is clearly nuts, carrying a torch for a dead rabbit he’s got stuffed in front of his fireplace.”

  “This is all conjecture on your part, Jaine. You have no proof the poisoned chocolates Graham ate that day came from Scotty, or that Graham was anywhere near Scotty’s house the day he was killed.”

  “I don’t care. As soon as I leave, I’m calling the cops.”

  “Right. Just like you called the cops about Dave.”

  He had me there. Maybe Lance was right. Maybe I was jumping to conclusions again. This whole case had my mind in a spin. But then, just as I was beginning to doubt myself, I glanced over at the coatrack where Graham had hung our jackets. There, hanging from one of the rungs, was a navy blue ski cap.

  Why would he have it hanging on his coatrack in this unseasonably warm weather if he hadn’t recently used it?

  I’d rushed to judgment with Dave. But this time I was fairly certain that the ski cap hanging from Graham’s coatrack was the one worn by the man who’d pushed me onto the trolley tracks—the same man who killed Scotty Parker.

  “I’m sorry, Lance. I’ve made up my mind. The minute I get out of here, I’m calling the cops.”

  “That’s what you think.”

  I looked up and saw Graham standing in the kitchen doorway, not with a plate of stuffed mushrooms—but wielding a most intimidating butcher knife.

  “I’ve been listening to every word you said on Peter’s baby monitor.” He pointed to a white plastic speaker on the fireplace mantel. “No way are you calling the cops. You’re not going anywhere. I killed that bastard Scotty for ruining my life. And I have no compunction whatsoever about killing you, too.”

  With that, he came charging at me, waving the butcher knife, Norman Bates come to life.

  Hell, no! I couldn’t die like this. Absolutely not. I refused to be Janet Leigh in the shower scene.

  I looked around, desperate for a way to save myself. And then I saw it:

  Peter Rabbit.

  Snatching him up from the floor, I clutched the stuffed critter in front of my chest.

  “If you kill me,” I said, “you’re going to have to go through Peter first.”

  Graham stopped, appalled at the thought of stabbing his true love.

  At which point, Lance finally came to his senses and bonked Graham over the head with the champagne bottle.

  “You know, I think you may be right about him being the killer,” he finally conceded, staring at Graham’s body sprawled out on the floor. “I’ll just sit on his chest to make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”

  “He’s unconscious, Lance.”

  “I know. But why take chances?”

  I reached for my cell phone and called 911.

  Soon the place was crawling with cops.

  And after Lance was pried from Graham’s now conscious body, Graham was hauled off to jail.

  “TTYL!” Lance called out as they carted him away.

  Some people never give up, do they?

  We got home just in time to see Dave walking up the front path to The House of Scrooge.

  If he had any idea I’d been the one responsible for having him brought in for questioning, he showed no signs of it. He was too busy kissing Missy to even notice me.

  Back at Casa Van Hooten, I asked Lance if he wanted to spend the rest of the night with me and Pro, but he declined, saying he was way too depressed to celebrate.

  “I was so deeply in love,” he groaned. “I’ll never get over Graham. Never!”

  Which would have all been quite touching if he hadn’t been on his laptop at the time, checking out hotties on Smatch.

  I left him some shrimp with lobster sauce and headed next door with the rest of my Chinese chow (and a celebratory pint of Chunky Monkey).

  I’m pleased to say I spent New Year’s Eve right where I belonged, cuddled up on Missy’s faux mink throw, poor Ashley Wilkes banished to an armchair, Prozac nestled on my chest.

  “Happy New Year, sweetheart,” I whispered in her fuzzy ear. “I’ve missed you so.”

  And she looked up at me in that precious way of hers that could mean only one thing:

  Got any more spring rolls?

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: All Is Forgiven

  Well, sweetheart, I’ve forgiven Daddy.

  He told me about those dreadful pranks that little boy played on him. Frankly, I would’ve thrown that soccer ball overboard, too.

  Meanwhile, Daddy’s been sweet as pie, bought me flowers and the most adorable Caribbean Queen earrings from the gift shop.

  Most important, he promised to hang his new tiki mask in the garage when we get home.

  PS. We had a marvelous time at the New Year’s Eve cocktail party. Isabel was wearing her new diamonette bracelet. And Daddy looked simply divine as F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Tarzan Will Return!

  Dearest Lambchop—

  I’m happy to report I’m back in your mom’s good graces. It took a lot of groveling, not to mention a pricey trip to the gift shop, but she’s finally forgiven me. Of course, I had to wear those silly puffy pants to the New Year’s Eve costume party. Which actually didn’t look so bad, after all. I think a man of my inherent manliness can pull off the puffy pant look.

  I still haven’t given up on my loincloth and fright wig, though. Don’t tell Mom, but I’m saving them for next year’s Tampa Vista’s Halloween party. Won’t that be a hoot?

  Off to the buffet, for one last éclair—

  Love ’n snuggles from

  DaddyO

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Banned Forever

  It turns out that dreadful little boy had been playing pranks on lots of people on board. He’s been banned from all future travel on the Caribbean Queen.

  But then again, so has Daddy.

  Epilogue

  I trudged over to the Starbucks where I was meeting Love in Venice with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man heading off for the gas chamber.

  Why, oh, why had I said yes to yet another Smatch date?

  Suddenly it seemed like the worst idea ever.

  Hadn’t I learned my lesson after Duane “Hamsterhead” Forrester?

  Not only had I agreed to meet another disaster in the making, I’d agreed to meet him without even seeing his photo.

  For all I knew I’d be hooking up with Shrek V.

  I’d reached the door to Starbucks and could delay the inevitable no longer.

  Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped inside.

  And then I saw him sitting at a table, nursing a coffee. Tall, lanky, with the soulful brown eyes of a medieval saint.

  Instantly, before a word was spoken, I felt a jolt of yearning. The same jolt of yearning I’d felt many years ago when I’d first met him.

  Because the man sitting before me was none other than my ex-husband, The Blob.

  Could he possibly be Love in Venice?

  Indeed he was.

  “Jaine!” he cried, hurrying to my side. “I’m so happy you came!”

  He took me by the hand, setting off a spark I hadn’t felt in years, and led me to his table.

  “I ordered you a Frappuccino. With extra whipped cream. Just the way you like it.”

  So boggled was I, I barely even noticed the mountain of calories on the table beside me.

  “I put my profile on Smatch,” he said, “hoping I’d find you. I’ve never stopped loving you.”

  His eyes shone with what I could’ve sworn was sincerity.

  “I know I wasn’t the best of husbands.”

  No kidding. The one year he remembered my birthday he bought me a tool belt. (Used.)

  “But I swear I’ve changed.”

 
He certainly looked it. The last time I saw him, he’d been a scruffy mess, from his greasy hair to his unwashed feet shuffling in their flip-flops.

  But today his hair was shiny clean, cut short at the sides, long and slightly spiky on top, with sexy sun-bleached highlights. He wore a crisp white shirt with just-tight-enough jeans.

  “You must believe me, Jaine. I’ve turned over a new leaf.”

  A line I’d heard many times before. The man had turned over enough new leaves to start a bonfire.

  “I gave up trying to be the next Picasso,” he said with a wry smile, “and got myself a steady job as a graphic artist.”

  (For years, I’d been the breadwinner in our household, while The Blob dedicated himself to his “art,” churning out a slow trickle of paintings in between Netflix binges.)

  Now he reached out and touched my cheek with the tip of his fingers, and I felt an X-rated tingle in my day-of-the-week panties.

  “Please, Jaine,” he whispered, his soulful eyes shining. “Give me another chance.”

  God, he looked good. But I couldn’t let some spiky hair and tight jeans sway me. He’d made so many promises to me in the past, promises he never kept.

  Inside my head a little voice was shouting, Run! He fooled you before. He’ll fool you again!

  That little voice was right. I had to get out of there. No way was I giving The Blob another chance.

  I told myself to turn around to make a break for it. But instead, much to my amazement, I found myself heading straight for his open arms.

  And before I knew it, he had me swept up in a blockbuster of a kiss.

  Holy moly. I’d forgotten what a good kisser he was.

  By now the little voice in my head was shouting at the top of its lungs for me to get out before it was too late.

  But then The Blob started nibbling on my earlobe, and I melted like the whipped cream on my Frappuccino.