He looked up at me sheepishly.
“I hope you don’t think any the less of me.”
“Oh, no! I totally understand.”
I looked over at him and for the first time I saw sadness behind those twinkling blue eyes.
Popping a chestnut in my mouth, I hoped I’d lead the kind of life that wouldn’t require a re-write.
If you happened to have walked by Casa Austen later that night, you would not have seen me sipping eggnog. Or writing out my gift list. Or belting out jolly Christmas carols. No, you would have found me hiding in my hall closet, crouched among my boots, my vacuum cleaner jammed into my ribs.
My latest ploy in the Battle of the Christmas Photo.
Up until then, I’d tried everything to get Prozac to sit for a picture. I’d tried kitty treats. I’d tried squeaky toys. I’d even tried attaching feathers to my camera, hoping she’d think it was a bird.
All to no avail.
But this, my latest plan, the Candy Cane Caper, felt destined for success.
I’d cleverly placed a candy cane smeared with Minced Mackerel Guts on my living-room coffee table. Surely Prozac would not be able to resist this holiday treat.
It was just a matter of time before she came wandering in from the kitchen where I’d left her meowing for her dinner.
Her little nose would twitch at the scent of the fetid fish, and before I knew it I’d be snapping hilarious photos of Prozac licking a candy cane. Perhaps I’d even send them in to one of those photo contest web sites.
Honestly, sometimes I surprise myself with my creativity.
I sat in the closet, thinking of how cute my Christmas cards would be, and not incidentally about the moo shoo pork I’d picked up for dinner, waiting for Prozac to take the bait.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen. Then twenty. Where the heck was she? And why the heck wasn’t she howling for her chow?
Hunched over with that damn vacuum cleaner still jammed in my ribs, every one of my muscles were now aching at full throttle.
Finally, when me and my muscles could stand it no longer, I conceded defeat. Hobbling out of the closet, I headed for the kitchen, eager to pour myself a glass of chardonnay and dig into my moo shoo pork.
You know where this is going, right?
You know what I saw the minute I stepped into the kitchen:
Prozac sprawled out on the kitchen counter, belching up the remains of my Chinese dinner.
Somehow she’d clawed open the carton, and now just a few shards of pork lay scattered around her on the counter.
She was kind enough to leave me the fortune cookie, though.
Covered with cat spit.
What a disaster that had been, I thought, rinsing mackerel guts off the candy cane before I ate it.
The next day I shared my woes with Barnaby. We were at the end of our shift, waiting for Scotty and Gigi to show up, and at the moment there were no kids on line.
“I’ve had it with that cat,” I said. “I guess I’ll just take the easy way out and send e-cards.”
“Have you tried the Cat Whisperer?” Barnaby asked.
“The Cat Whisperer?”
“Yes. A fellow named Ernie DeVito. He owns a shop right here in the mall called Picture Perfect. He specializes in photos of children and animals, and I hear he works wonders with cats.”
“Really?”
Suddenly I was filled with hope. Maybe this Cat Whisperer could somehow wrangle Prozac into submission. Maybe he could even get her to wear those reindeer antlers!
A designer-clad kidlet now showed up with her Conspicuous Consumption mom in tow.
As I trotted over to greet them, I heard Mom say, “Now, remember, sweetie. No biting Santa like you did last year!”
I led The Biter over to Barnaby and plopped her on his knee, hoping no rabies shots would be required. She then proceeded to give him detailed instructions about exactly what kind of pony she wanted for Christmas.
“All white. No spots. Pure bred. And not smelly.”
Barnaby reminded her about the needy kids who couldn’t afford ponies and got her off his lap with admirable finesse.
“Poor kid,” he sighed when she’d gone. “With expectations that high, life’s not going to be easy for her.”
I, however, was not thinking about The Biter’s future.
My mind was still on the Cat Whisperer. I was dying to hustle over and make an appointment. But Scotty and Gigi had still not shown up to relieve us.
“Where the heck are those two?” I sighed.
“You go ahead, Jaine,” Barnaby said. “I can handle the kids.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks, Barn. You’re a doll.”
Happily I trotted over to the employees’ locker room to change, visions of Reindeer Prozac floating in my head.
My visions came to a screeching halt, however, when I turned the corner to my locker and saw Scotty locked in a steamy embrace.
At first I could not make out his embrace. But then I caught a whiff of Juicy Fruit gum and recognized that pert little figure.
Omigosh. It was Gigi! It looked like she really was Scotty’s #1 Elf!
And all along I assumed she hated him just as much as the rest of us.
I stood there, boggled, as she clamped her lips on his.
And I was not the only one to witness this touching scene. After a second or two I realized I was not alone. I turned to see Molly standing behind me, fury oozing from every pore.
“Scotty!” she hissed, her fists clamped in tight balls at her sides.
The lovebirds flew apart, Scotty’s eyes darting like a trapped rat.
“Molly, babe,” he cried. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
“Oh? Then what is it? Mouth to mouth root canal?”
I could practically see the wheels spinning in Scotty’s brain trying to tap dance his way out of this mess. But then Gigi spoke up.
“It’s no use, Scotty,” she said. “You’ve got to tell her the truth.”
The truth was clearly a novel approach for a guy like Scotty, but apparently he decided to go with it.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen, Molly,” he said with his idea of a penitent look. “I fought it, really I did.” Then, placing his arm around Gigi, he dealt the coup de grace. “But Gigi and I are in love.”
“Well, goody for you,” Molly said, dripping sarcasm.
“I suppose this means we’re fired,” Gigi said, her voice practically a whisper.
“No, I’ll never be able to replace you this close to Christmas. You can keep your jobs. Just don’t ever talk to me again. Either of you.”
Gigi had the good grace to look ashamed as Molly turned on her heel and started for the door.
“Molly, babe,” Scotty called after her lamely. “I’ll make it up to you somehow. I promise.”
She whirled around, fire burning in her eyes.
“You want to make it up to me, Scotty? Drop dead.”
Whaddaya know? It looked like the mouse had claws, after all.
Chapter Eight
By the next day I’d forgotten all about the drama in the employees’ locker room.
That’s because I’d managed to set up an appointment with Ernie DeVito, aka The Cat Whisperer. He was squeezing me in that very morning to take Prozac’s photo. Which would give me plenty of time to bring her in before reporting for work on the night shift.
“My gosh, Pro,” I said as I brushed her fur to a glossy shine. “Isn’t this exciting? We’re going to the photographer who took the original head shots for the Taco Bell Chihuahua!”
(I’d looked up Ernie on the Internet, and his credits were quite impressive.)
Prozac, I regret to say, was not nearly as stoked as I was.
She spent the entire drive over to the mall yowling at the top of her lungs.
The humane society is going to hear about this!
“Oh, please. Do you know how many
cats would kill to be photographed by the Cat Whisperer?”
But Prozac just hissed.
The only thing I’d kill for right now is a new owner.
At last we arrived at the mall and I made my way over to the Cat Whisperer’s studio, Prozac yowling every inch of the way.
Help! Police! Someone report this woman to the ASPCA!—Whoa! Is that a corn dog you’re eating, mister?
What can I say? She’s easily distracted.
I headed into Ernie’s studio and announced myself to the receptionist—a middle-aged woman with a blunt cut brown bob and an I ♥ My Cat pin on the lapel of her polyester suit jacket.
“Mr. DeVito!” she called out. “Ms. Austen is here.”
And then the great Cat Whisperer himself came out from behind a curtain that separated the reception area from his photo studio.
I must admit I was shocked.
You’d expect a guy named Ernie DeVito to be short and stocky with more hair in his ears than on his head. You would not expect him to look like he’d just stepped out of a GQ fashion spread. Tall and sinewy, with patent leather slicked-back hair and smoldering bedroom eyes, Ernie was one suave signor indeed.
“Ah, Signorina Austen,” he said, “what beautiful eyes you have. So big and round, like the Taco Bell Chihuahua. I took his head shots, you know.”
“Yes, I know,” I said, wondering if he expected a round of applause. “I read all about it.”
“And who do we have here?” he said to Prozac, who had mercifully stopped wailing and had confined herself to merely shooting me dagger looks.
He took her carrier from me and set it down on the reception counter.
“Be careful,” I warned him, as he started to open the latch. “She’s in a terrible snit. She’ll probably scratch.”
“Oh, no. Not this bella principessa.”
When he reached in to get her, I fully expected the fur to fly, but much to my amazement, she took one look at Ernie and began purring like a buzzsaw.
Hubba hubba, hot stuff!
“Ciao, bella!” he said, scratching the sweet spot behind her ears.
She lay nestled in his arms, much like Scarlett O’Hara on her honeymoon with Rhett, as Ernie carried her past the curtain into his studio, where a bank of cameras were set up across from a raised platform.
“Aren’t you the most beautiful kitty in the world?” Ernie cooed, still scratching her sweet spot.
She gazed up at him dreamily.
That’s what I’ve always thought.
“I can’t wait to take your picture, cara mia!”
Ernie kept on scratching. Prozac kept on purring. It was quite a love fest. In fact, I was almost tempted to tell them to get a room, when he finally carried her over to the raised platform, on top of which was a pedestal draped with black velvet.
“Cats like to be high up,” he explained, perching Prozac on the pedestal. “It makes them so much easier to work with.”
Oh, yeah? Just wait till he took out his camera. Let’s see how easy to work with she was then.
“Once she sees your camera,” I warned him, “she’s going to be impossible.”
Prozac looked up at him with innocent green eyes.
Don’t listen to her. I’m very easygoing. She’s the impossible one.
“I don’t suppose you could get her to wear these?” I whispered, showing Ernie the fuzzy reindeer antlers I’d shoved into a shopping bag.
“Of course!” he beamed. “You are looking at the man who once got Vin Diesel’s pit bull to wear a tutu.”
He took the antlers from the bag and headed over to Prozac.
At this point, I expected her to leap up and fly off the pedestal, but she barely moved a muscle as he put the antlers on her head and tied the straps under her chin.
Then she cocked her head at a coquettish angle.
Ready for my close up, Mr. DeVito.
I blinked in amazement. Suddenly she was Heidi Klum with retractable claws.
“Why the heck couldn’t you do this for me,” I muttered, “the woman who’s fed you and scratched your belly for the past umpteen years?”
She shot me an impatient glare.
Move it, willya? You’re blocking my view of his tush.
By now, Ernie had his camera in his hand. I feared that once Prozac saw it, all would be lost. But no. She kept on purring and posing like a pro.
It looked like Ernie really was a miracle worker! I’d be getting the holiday photo of my dreams, after all.
And then, just as he raised the camera to take his first shot, disaster struck.
At that moment a toddler, whose name I would later find out from the news reports was Wesley Thorndal III, was being wheeled in his stroller past Ernie’s studio. His nanny had just bought him a corn dog from the food court.
Now you must remember Prozac is a cat who can smell food cooking in Beirut.
At the first whiff of that corn dog, Ernie’s charms were totally forgotten and Prozac was off her pedestal like a rocket, bounding out the studio at the speed of light.
Where she then proceeded, as Wesley’s nanny told the Eyewitness News reporter, to nab the corn dog straight out of little Wesley’s hand and sprint off down the mall.
I, of course, was in hot pursuit, chasing Prozac past startled shoppers as she sped by, reindeer antlers on her head, a corn dog in her mouth.
Before I knew it, I’d chased her all the way over to Santa Land, where Scotty and Gigi were on duty.
Prozac, the fickle hussy, took one look at the ginormous Christmas tree on display, and forgot all about Operation Corn Dog.
Because there, standing before her, were at least a hundred shiny ornaments, all of which she could destroy.
It was her fondest Christmas dream come true!
I raced over to get her before she could do any damage, but, alas, I was too late.
Just as I was about to reach out and grab her, she leaped up into the tree, flying past screaming kids and a terrified old lady in a holly berry scarf.
“Omigod!” the old woman cried out. “It’s a bat. Somebody call animal control!”
“It’s not a bat!” I said. “It’s just a cat in reindeer antlers.”
“A cat in reindeer antlers?” huffed an indignant mom. “What sort of person puts a cat in reindeer antlers? Everybody knows cats hate costumes.”
Well, excuse me for trying to get into the holiday spirit with a simple little photo.
“Some people shouldn’t be allowed to have pets!” sniffed PETA mom, whose own tyke at that very moment was busy kicking another kid in the shins.
I was hoping that Santa would say something to calm down the crowd, but Scotty, in his usual helpful way, just took a big snort from his thermos.
At which point, Corky came huffing on the scene.
“What’s going on here?” she asked.
“There’s a bat in the Christmas tree!” the old lady screamed.
“It’s not a bat!” I snapped. “It’s a cat in some perfectly pet-friendly reindeer antlers.”
Catching sight of my antlered darling on one of the Christmas tree branches, Corky sprang into action, lunging for Prozac, who nimbly sprinted to a higher branch. Corky lunged again, hurling her rather hefty bod against the tree.
A major mistake.
Because this time she rammed into the tree with just a little too much force.
The massive tree teetered for an agonizing second and then began to fall. We all watched in horror as, on its way down, the tree toppled the umbrella from the nearby roasted chestnut stand. Which in turn landed smack dab in the chestnut cooker. Seconds later, the umbrella was up in flames. Which, naturally, triggered the sprinkler system.
Bedlam ensued as water gushed from the ceiling.
I rushed over to the felled Christmas tree, my heart pounding, afraid Prozac might have been injured in the fall.
But no, there she was, keeping dry under the shelter of some branches, happily batting around a glass ornament li
ke a hockey puck.
The minute I realized she wasn’t hurt, a wave of anger came washing over me.
“Bad kitty!” I tsked, sweeping her up in my arms. “Look what you’ve done.”
I gestured to the chaos around us.
She preened with pride.
I know. Isn’t it great?
By now the sprinklers had shut off and when I looked over at the crowd, I saw that Molly had shown up.
Which meant it was time for me to make tracks.
Lest you forget, I desperately wanted that copywriting gig, and the last thing I needed was for Molly to find out my cat was at the epicenter of this little fiasco.
No, I’d quickly slink away and avoid any possible collateral damage.
And so I was tiptoeing out of Santa Land when I happened to pass Scotty’s chair.
How odd. He was just sitting there like a lump, his thermos in his lap.
Was he so drunk that he slept through this whole disaster?
“Wake up, Scotty!” I hissed.
But he didn’t move a muscle.
I went over to shake him awake, and that’s when I saw it—the sharp metal snowflake ornament plunged in his heart.
For once, Scotty wasn’t dead drunk on the job.
This time, he was just dead.
Chapter Nine
So much for keeping a low profile.
Before I knew it, the cops had shown up on the scene, and I soon found myself sitting in the mall’s security office, shivering in my wet clothes, Prozac snoozing peacefully on my lap. Across from me sat a freckle-faced young cop who looked less like an officer of the law than a boy scout on steroids.
“So you’re the one who first discovered the body,” he said.
“Right,” I replied, staring at a rebel cowlick popping up from his copper colored hair. First the freckles. Now the cowlick. Good heavens. I was being questioned by Huck Finn.
“Notice anyone else near the deceased before you walked over?” Huck asked.
“No, nobody.”
“Can you think of anyone who wanted to kill him?”
Could I think of anyone who didn’t want to kill him, would be more like it.
But I wasn’t about to get an innocent person in trouble. Surely, the Conspicuous Consumption security department would have the whole crime captured on their security cameras.
Secret Santa Page 20
