Authors: Laura Levine

Murder Has Nine Lives (16 page)

BOOK: Murder Has Nine Lives

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* * *

Driving home, I kept thinking about that multimillion-dollar cat toy deal.

Artie believed Dean was trying to cheat Linda out of her half of the profits. But if that were the case, and Dean wanted to get his hands on Linda's share of the money, Linda would have been the one murdered, not Dean.

And suddenly I wondered: What if it was the other way around, and it was Linda who'd been trying to cheat Dean?

I flashed on the image of Zeke sitting side by side with Linda at the funeral. At the time, I assumed Zeke was the one madly in love. But who's to say Linda wasn't head over heels in love, too?

What if all the while Dean had been cheating on her with the Pink Panther, Linda had been burning some mattresses with Zeke?

Was it possible that her tears for Dean had been a highly perfected act, that she'd killed her husband to ace him out of a lucrative business deal? With Dean dead, Linda would be getting every one of those multimillion dollars. Not to mention avoiding a messy divorce.

Two perfect motives for murder.

I swerved over to the curb, inciting several angry honksâand a colorful assortment of four-letter wordsâfrom my fellow motorists. When the curses died down, I took out my cell phone and called Artie. After apologizing profusely for lying about my friendship with Nikki, I begged him to answer one final question.

“That multimillion-dollar toy deal Dean and Linda signed. Do you know for a fact if the deal ever went through?”

“No,” Artie said. “It was just a rumor.”

Damn. If only I knew for sure.

I hung up with a sigh, and left Artie to brew a fresh batch of Bilk.

Chapter 25

T
wo bombshells were waiting for me on my voice mail when I got home from Artie's. The first from my schizo Romeo, Jim Angelides:

Hey, Jaine. Hope you haven't forgotten about the Toiletmasters Fiesta Bowl tonight. Pick you up at seven. Arnold says Hi, and to wear something sexy.

What with all the hoo-ha of the murder, I
had
forgotten about the Fiesta Bowl. I'd been planning to call Phil with an excuse to get out of it, but I'd long passed the expiration date for excuses. No way could I cancel at the last minute and offend Phil. Who, by the way, was the voice behind message number two.

Jaine, sweetheart. Looking forward to catching up with you tonight at the Fiesta Bowl. Jim's so excited. He can't wait to see you again. And by the way, I still haven't gotten the copy for the Touch-Me-Not brochure. Think you can e-mail it to me by the end of the day?

Ouch. Once again, I'd been so caught up in Dean's murder (see hoo-ha excuse above), I was woefully behind on the Touch-Me-Not brochure.

I absolutely had to hunker down at my computer and get cracking.

Which I did.

And after several sweat-filled, Oreo-fueled hours, I finally managed to send off my magnum opus (
Touch-Me-Not: The Hands-Free Flush of the Future
) to Phil.

My brochure winging its way through cyberspace, I sat back with that feeling of exhilaration that comes with a job well done. Or, in my case, a job done thirty seconds under deadline.

But my glow of accomplishment quickly faded when I checked my watch and saw that it was 6:45. Jim said he'd pick me up at seven. Which left me all of fifteen minutes to get ready.

Oh, well. No big deal. So what if I looked crappy? The last thing I wanted to do was encourage the guy.

Off I shuffled to my bedroom where I threw on skinny jeans, white silk blouse, silver hoop earrings, and my trusty Manolos. I didn't even bother to corral my curls into a ponytail. Instead, I left them loose and wild in what I hoped the Toiletmasters gang would think was a Boho Botticelli look.

As a concession to Phil, I slapped on some lipstick. But that's as far as I was willing to gussy up.

Just as I was blotting my lipstick, I heard the dreaded knock on my front door.

It was Jim, of course.

If I hadn't known about his precarious mental state, I would have thought he looked pretty darn terrific in khakis and a sport jacket, his blue eyes sparkling, his surfer blond hair spiked with gel.

The guy was like a human Snickers barâsmooth and yummy on the surface, totally nuts inside.

I blinked in surprise to see Arnold in the crook of his arm, dressed in a teddy bear tux.

“Hello, Jaine,” Jim said. Then, in Arnold's high-pitched voice, he added, “Hubba hubba, baby cakes!”

“You're bringing Arnold to the party?”

Jim nodded wearily. “He refused to stay home.”

Then, catching sight of Prozac sprawled on the sofa, Jim asked, “How's your kitty? Still depressed?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Maybe Arnold can cheer her up. He's good with cats.”

With that, he went over to Prozac and waved Arnold in her face, making kitchy-koo noises as Arnold.

Prozac lobbed him a look of utter disdain.

Somewhere out there, buddy, there's a padded cell with your name on it.

“Let me get my purse,” I said.

“You're not going like that, are you?” came Arnold's falsetto whine.

“What do you mean?” I asked, turning around to face him.

(Can you believe I was actually having a conversation with a stuffed animal?)

“You're not wearing any makeup. Sorry, babe. But you can't get away with it. You need blush, and you need it bad.”

“I've got a fabulous combination foundation/blush/ concealer out in my glove compartment!” Jim cried, back in his own voice. “I'll go get it!”

And before I knew it, he'd tossed Arnold on the coffee table and was dashing out the door.

I didn't even want to think about what Jim was doing with a combination foundation/blush/concealer in his glove compartment. Instead, I headed for the kitchen for the weensiest sip of chardonnay to help me face the hours ahead.

My, that sip felt good going down. So I had another. And another.

After a few soul-restoring seconds, I reluctantly tore myself away from the bottle and returned to the living room, only to get the shock of my life.

Remember how Emmy the Reiki healer promised that any day now Prozac would get better and be back to her old self? Well, she was right. I stared in disbelief at Prozac, who was now prancing around the room, full of pep and vinegar.

Yes, indeed. The Old Prozac was back.

Only one problem:

My peppy, vinegary furball had Arnold clutched firmly in her mouth, dragging him around by his tummy!

“Prozac! What do you think you're doing?”

She gazed up at me in ecstasy.

Playing touch football! Arnold's the football!

I quickly ran over and snatched Arnold from her jaws.

She meowed in protest.

Hey, no fair! I was winning!

Then, abandoning her triumphs on the football field, she jumped up on the sofa.

Time to resume my never-ending battle against the evil forces from the planet Chenille!

And with that she began mercilessly clawing my throw pillow.

Yes, my little angel was back in action.

But at what price?

Poor Arnold. I lifted his tux, and to my horror, I saw that his tummy seam was ripped open. Stuffing was already beginning to pop out. Jim was going to kill me when he saw this.

I raced to the kitchen and patched the seam shut with masking tape. Somehow before the evening was over, I was going to have to sew Arnold back together again. In the meanwhile, I hurried to my bedroom to blow-dry Prozac's cat spit from Arnold's tux. I'd just about finished when Jim came walking in the front door.

“Sorry it took me so long,” he said when I dashed out to greet him. “I couldn't find the right size makeup brush.”

Good heavens. He had makeup brushes in his glove compartment, too?

Was it possible Jim's former roommate had been Cover Girl Barbie?

He whipped out his magical cosmetic and began expertly applying it to my face.

“VoilÃ !” he said when he was through, admiring his handiwork.

“What do you think, Arnold?” he asked his roomie, whom I had clutched in my arms, far from Prozac's devil jaws.

Jim grabbed him from me and mimed the bear looking me over.

“Yowser!” was Arnold's appreciative reply.

“Well, time to go!” Jim said, packing up his cosmetics.

But I couldn't leave without my sewing kit.

“Wait!” I said. “I think my earring's coming loose. I'd better go put on a new pair. Be right back.”

Grabbing my purse, I hurried to my bedroom and, after some frantic searching in my lingerie drawer, finally retrieved a sewing kit from some long-ago hotel visit. Quickly I slipped it into my purse and headed back out to the living room.

“I thought you were going to change your earrings,” Jim said.

“Oh, right. Changed my mind. They don't feel loose, after all.”

“She may be cute, Jim,” I heard Arnold stage-whisper as we headed out to Jim's Porsche, “but I think she's a bit eccentric.”

Look who's talking
! I felt shouting.

But instead, I kept my mouth firmly shut, praying Jim wouldn't feel the masking tape under Arnold's tux.

And off we went to the Toiletmasters Fiesta Bowl. Or, as I would soon come to think of it, Arnoldgate.

* * *

It was a long drive to Phil's house in Tarzana, a leafy suburban community deep in the wilds of the San Fernando Valley.

I spent the entire time crammed in the back seat of Jim's Porsche, my knees jammed in my chest, while Arnold luxuriated up front in the passenger seat.

By the time we got there, I was ready for back surgery.

As on our first date at the restaurant, Jim handed Arnold to me, instructing me to hide him in my purse.

“I don't wanna hide in her purse!” Arnold whined.

“You can either hide in her purse and come to the party,” Jim said, “or you can sit out here in the car all night.”

“Oh, all right,” Arnold snapped.

Frankly, I was glad to have Arnold in my purse. The less Jim could touch him, the less likely he was to discover the hole in his seam.

Phil greeted us at the door to his sprawling ranch house, which, according to a plaque on his front door, had been dubbed “Flushing Acres.”

He beamed in pleasure at the sight of us.

“Hey, you two crazy kids!”

Well, he got one of us right.

“Follow me,” he said, ushering us inside. “The party's out back.”

We followed Phil through his country-style living room and ginormous kitchen out to a backyard the size of a small theme park.

The yard had been transformed into a party venue, with floodlights and heat lamps and a buffet table on the patio. A deejay was off in a corner spinning records as a few hardy couples shook their booties on a makeshift dance floor.

Round tables had been set up on the lawn, with tiny vases shaped like commodes holding centerpieces of fresh-cut flowers.

An antique claw-foot bathtub, filled with ice, held bottles of beer and wine.

“So what do you think?” Phil asked, gesturing to the bathroom-themed splendor.

“Everything's so . . . festive,” I managed to reply.

“It looks super, Uncle Phil,” Jim grinned, looking deceptively sane.

“What a cute couple you two make,” Phil said, beaming at us.

Any minute now, he'd be announcing our engagement.

“Help yourself to the buffet,” he said. “And have fun!” he added, with a most unsettling wink.

We made our way through the crowd of plumbers, mostly burly guys guzzling beer and discussing their stock portfolios.

At last we reached the buffet table, the one bright spot on my otherwise dismal horizon. Phil's wife had set out an amazing spread: Swedish meatballs, chicken satay, baby lamb chops, cold pasta salad, and mountains of yummy sourdough rolls.

I piled food on my plate with gusto, making sure not to let my pasta salad spread out and take up too much space. With the precision of a civil engineer, I managed to load a sample of pretty much everything on one eight-inch plate.

“Hungry much?” I heard Arnold's voice snipe as I piled on a baby lamb chop. “Any more food on that plate, and you're gonna need a forklift.”

Of all the nerve! I was getting sick and tired of Jim's acerbic alter ego.

And I wasn't the only one.

Across the buffet table a rather large woman in an
I

MY PLUMBER
T-shirt looked up from where she was ladling Swedish meatballs on her plate and shot me a filthy look.

“I wouldn't talk if I were you, honey. You've got enough food there to feed a USO troop.”

Oh, hell. She thought I'd just dissed her. Damn that Arnold and his high-pitched voice.

“I'm so sorry,” I stammered. “It wasn't me. I didn't say anything.”

“If you didn't,” she said, oozing skepticism, “who did?”

What could I tell her? That it was my schizo date's teddy bear?

And then the most infuriating thing happened.

Jim smiled apologetically and said, “You'll have to forgive my girlfriend.”

His girlfriend? On what planet?

“I'm afraid she's had a bit too much to drink.”

The woman melted under his dazzling smile.

“What's a nice young man like you doing with her anyway?” she cooed, practically batting her eyelashes at him.

“She's not so bad when she's sober.”

It was all I could do not to shove a baby lamb chop up his nose.

I stalked off in high dudgeonâJim hot on my heelsâand headed over to one of the dinner tables at the outskirts of the crowd, carefully choosing one without any party-goers, unwilling to risk another outburst from Arnold.

“I can't believe you let me take the fall for Arnold's wisecrack,” I said, plopping down into a chair.

“I'm sorry, Jaine.” Jim shot me a sheepish look. “I didn't want to get in trouble with Uncle Phil.”

“But it's okay if
I
get in trouble with him? He's my boss, too, you know.”

“I guess I just wasn't thinking.”

BOOK: Murder Has Nine Lives

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