Pampered to Death (9 page)

Authors: Laura Levine

I
allowed myself the faint hope that Olga might cancel our classes out of respect for the not-so-dearly departed. But alas, that night over celery fizzes, Olga announced that, murder or no murder, it was business as usual at The Haven. Same nine hundred miserable calories a day. Same god-awful exercises.

Whatever uneasiness had descended upon the gang in the aftermath of Mallory’s death was gone by dinner. Olga was positively buoyant as she dished out the evening’s slop (gray chicken, soggy zucchini, and—alert the media!—cantaloupe instead of mangoes for dessert).

Kendra had taken Mallory’s place at the “A” table, and for once, I saw a smile on her face. After a whole thirteen seconds of pretending to mourn her sister’s death, she and Harvy and Clint were laughing and telling jokes, in the highest of high spirits. Every once in a while, Olga would join in with a bon mot of her own.

Even Armani, the Peke, seemed to be in a jolly mood, digging into his steak tidbits with gusto.

Here with me at the peasant table, though, Cathy was a nervous wreck, still convinced one of her fellow guests was a killer.

“Not you, of course, “she whispered to me. “I know you didn’t do it. But I wouldn’t trust those others as far as I could throw a celery stick.

“How I wish I were back in Duluth scanning Pringles at the Piggly Wiggly,” she moaned. “I should have listened to Mr. Muffin. He told me not to go away and leave him in the kennel.”

She was right, of course. Not about Mr. Muffin. I had no idea whether he was in psychic communication with his mistress.

But I did know that someone at The Haven was a killer. And I was still steaming over Brangelina’s insinuation that it might be me. I made up my mind then and there to do a little investigating of my own. The sooner the Spa Strangler was found, the sooner I could go home to my Chunky Monkeystocked refrigerator.

Back in my room, I saw Prozac out on the patio staring at the koi pond.

You’ll be pleased to know that in my absence she finally got a vigorous workout with her Whirlybird exercise toy.

I found the feathered remains of the poor thing scattered everywhere.

“Prozac,” I said, plucking a feather from the bowl of flowers on the dresser, “how could you?”

She glared at me, affronted, and began swishing her tail in an Academy Award-winning performance of a Long-Suffering Kitty.

How could I???? Trapped in this diet dungeon with nothing to eat but a measly can of Fancy Feast? No wonder I went after that idiotic Whirlybird. If I don’t get something in my tummy soon, there’s no telling how long I’ll last! At this stage of the game, I’ll eat anything, I tell you! Anything!

“Here,” I said, holding out the gray chicken I’d smuggled from dinner. “I brought you this.”

She took one look at it, and wrinkled her pink nose in disgust.

Eeeeu. I can’t eat that.

Is she impossible, or what?

“It’ll have to do, until I get back from my food run,” I said, plopping it in her bowl.

After gathering poor Mr. Bird’s remains and hiding them in my suitcase (heaven knows what punishment Frau Olga would mete out if she discovered them), I headed off to town.

I’d cleverly donned cargo pants and a jacket with plenty of pockets to store the goodies I planned to buy. I intended to dash into Darryl’s Deli to load up on calories and a quick peek at the eminently peek-worthy Darryl, then hurry back to feed Prozac, who’d been meowing piteously when I left, draped over the back of the armchair, very Sarah Bernhardt On Her Deathbed.

But you know how it is with best laid plans.

Driving through town, I happened to see that the pizza parlor was open. Even from my car, I could smell the garlic wafting from the exhaust vent. Mind you, I’d been dreaming of that pizza ever since I’d first seen the restaurant from the top of Mount Olga.

The lure of garlic was too powerful to resist. The next thing I knew, I was pulling into the parking lot.

I’d just run in for a quickie slice to go. I’d be in and out in five minutes. Six, tops.

But once again my plans were derailed. Because the first thing I noticed when I stepped inside, other than the heady aroma of garlic and sausages, was Harvy and Kendra sitting at a table, a pizza and pitcher of beer on the red checkered tablecloth between them.

What a perfect opportunity to start my investigation. Princess Prozac would just have to wait.

I trotted up to Mallory’s former posse, a suitably mournful but friendly smile on my face.

“Hi, there. What a surprise running into you two like this.”

Kendra looked up from her beer with bloodshot eyes.

“Not really,” she replied, slurring her words. “Sooner or later everybody at The Haven winds up here.”

Aha. So I wasn’t the only inmate who cheated.

“Mind if I join you?” I asked, pulling out a chair before they could say no.

“Sure,” Harvy said, with an expansive wave of his beer stein. “Have a seat.”

I horned myself in between them and got right down to business.

Okay, I didn’t get right down to business. I took one look at their pizza and forgot all about the interview. Gosh, that thing looked good. Sausages and mushrooms, swimming in a sea of thick gooey cheese.

“Help yourself,” Harvy said, no doubt noticing the pizza lust in my eyes.

He and Kendra watched in disbelief as I wolfed it down in record time.

“Care for another slice?” Harvy asked.

Before he’d even finished the question, slice number two was in my mouth.

“Miss!” Kendra called out to our waitress. “Another sausage and mushroom pizza. Looks like we’re gonna need it.”

Then she turned to Harvy and, in a stage whisper that could be heard in Fresno, said, “Better grab a slice while you can.”

“Guess I was a little hungry.” I smiled apologetically when I’d finished inhaling.

“I’d hate to see her when she’s starving,” Kendra muttered into her beer.

“I’ll be happy to pay you for what I ate.”

“No, that’s okay,” Harvy said, staring at the empty space where the pizza slices had been. “It’s our treat.”

“Thanks so much.”

My feeding frenzy abated, at last I remembered my mission.

“I can’t believe I’ve been sitting here all this time and haven’t offered you my condolences about Mallory.”

“It hasn’t been that long,” Harvy said. “I think you ate that pizza in less than thirty seconds. It could be a world record.”

Okay, so I ate fast. He didn’t have to make such a big production over it.

“As I was saying,” I said, eager to drop the topic of my speed eating. “I want to express my condolences on the untimely demise of your sister, Kendra. It was a real tragedy.”

“Yeah,” Kendra said, in a voice singularly devoid of sorrow, “a real tragedy.” She hoisted her beer stein in a toast. “To my dearly departed sister. Here’s hoping they serve mangoes in hell.”

Harvy clinked his glass against hers and they wasted no time slugging down their beer.

Something told me it wasn’t their first pitcher.

“I just got off the phone with her attorney,” Kendra groused, “and would you believe that selfish bitch left me only fifty grand?”

Wow, she sure hadn’t wasted any time making
that
phone call.

“She left a hundred grand to the gal who gave her botox shots, for crying out loud! A million for the care and feeding of Armani. And the rest to the Mallory Francis Foundation for Abused Pekes.”

She slammed down her beer stein in disgust.

“How many abused Pekes are there on the planet, anyway? Zero, that’s how many! Armani will be vacationing at the Ritz Carlton and I’ll be stuck with fifty measly grand.”

Of course, fifty thousand dollars sounded like a gold mine to me, but obviously Kendra had been expecting more. Much more. And once again, I wondered if she’d bumped off her sister to get it.

Harvy reached over and took her hand, a reasonable facsimile of sympathy in his eyes. “I’d give you some of my money, hon, but I need it for the salon. But you can come in any time for a free cut and color.”

“Thanks a ton,” Kendra sighed. “At least I’ll look good on the unemployment line.”

“I wish it could be more, but I’ve already signed the lease and everything.”

“Hey, not to worry. It’s not your fault my sister was such a bitch.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Harvy said, guzzling down some more suds. “Remember the time she flew me back from my uncle’s funeral to blow out her bangs? And then she expected me to reimburse her for the plane ticket!”

“How awful,” I commiserated. Lord knows how many resentments he’d stored away over the years. Probably enough to want to see her dead. Maybe even enough to kill her himself.

“Mallory was always pulling off stunts like that,” Kendra said.

“Did she really send out that assistant director to buy mangoes in a hurricane?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Kendra nodded. “Poor Pablo. Crashed his car and was injured pretty badly. Heard he wound up in a wheelchair.”

“And what about the makeup lady she fired just as her little boy was about to go into the hospital for surgery?” Harvy chimed in, tripping down miserable memory lane.

“Poor thing lost her health insurance,” Kendra said. “Did Mallory care? No, she was just annoyed she had to break in a new makeup lady. No wonder somebody killed her. Frankly, I’m surprised it took so long.”

“Do you have any idea who might have done it?” I asked.

“Half the population of Hollywood had a motive. But I still think it’s that masseuse.”

“Me, too,” Harvy seconded. “I heard Sven and Mallory going at like bunnies last night. Shawna had to know about it.”

“Are you kidding?” Kendra sniffed. “If I know Mallory, she was probably bragging to Shawna about it.”

“Besides,” Harvy pointed out, “Shawna’s the one who was in the room with Mallory, giving her the seaweed wrap.”

All very true, of course. Shawna had both motive and opportunity. But I couldn’t help wondering why she’d kill Mallory during the seaweed wrap, knowing she’d be the obvious suspect. Why wouldn’t she wait for some other chance to strangle her rival in romance?

If you ask me, both Kendra and Harvy had equally strong motives for killing Mallory. Who’s to say they weren’t pointing fingers at Shawna to throw suspicion off themselves?

For all I knew, the killer was right there at my table, scarfing down a Heineken.

Chapter 15

I
left Mallory’s former posse bitching into their beers and dashed over to Darryl’s, popping an Altoid en route—just in case my deli doll was behind the counter.

Oh, goodie. He was.

“Welcome back!” He grinned as I walked in the door.

“Hi, there,” I replied, my heart melting at the sight of his laugh lines.

“How did you and Grammy Austen like the fudge sauce last night?”

“Never got a chance to try it,” I sighed. “I got busted at the front door by Olga.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I should have warned you to be careful. She’s got eyes like a hawk.”

“I learned my lesson. This time,” I said, pointing to my cargo pockets, “I’m prepared to smuggle my loot into my room.”

“Smart thinking.”

He smiled again.

My heart melted again.

Then, after an awkward second or two during which he did not take me in his arms and cover me with baby kisses, I said, “Guess I’d better get my groceries.”

I grabbed a cart and headed down the aisles, praying my tush didn’t look too big.

A few minutes later I was back with my loot.

“Find everything you want?” he asked.

“Possibly, now that I’ve met you.”

Of course, I didn’t really say that. I just nodded and wowed him with the delightfully witty, “Yes, thanks.”

“I hope you’re not too upset about what happened at the spa today,” he said, as he started bagging my stuff.

“Upset? About what?”

“Mallory Francis’s murder.”

Oh, for crying out loud. Can you believe I’d forgotten all about it? Shows you what a few laugh lines on the right face can do.

“Right. The murder. What a terrible thing.”

“Everybody in town’s been talking about it.”

“Any idea who did it?” I asked, hoping he’d heard some juicy gossip.

“Not a clue,” he shrugged. “Although word on the street is that Olga hated Mallory’s guts.”

“Just one of many, I’m afraid.”

“How’s your grandmother taking it?”

I wish he’d stop focusing so much on dear old Grammy Austen.

“Grammy’s fine. She’s a tough old gal.”

“Just be careful,” he said, his brow furrowed in concern. “After all, there’s a murderer on the loose.”

“Oh, I will,” I assured him.

Another awkward moment while I waited in vain for him to take me in his arms and declare undying love and/or momentary lust.

“Well, see ya,” I said, starting for the door.

“Wait!” he called out.

I turned to face him.

“Let me make it up to you for getting caught last night,” he said. “I should have warned you about Olga standing guard at the front door.”

“Oh, that’s okay.”

“No, really. I owe you one. How about we go grab a bite of dinner?”

“What about the deli? Don’t you need to be here?”

“I can close if I want. I’m the boss. So how about it?”

Cat lovers everywhere will be horrified to learn that, at that moment, all thoughts of my hungry kitty waiting impatiently for her chow flew from my brain.

“Dinner sounds great,” I said, also ignoring the fact that I’d just packed away two (okay, three) slices of sausage and mushroom pizza. Surely, I could make room in my tummy for some of Darryl’s homemade cannelloni.

He got up from behind the counter, and joined me at the door. In jeans and a sweatshirt, he had that lanky Ichabod Crane bod I’m particularly partial to. (Obviously an opposites attract kind of thing.)

“Want to go for pizza?” he asked, slipping into a windbreaker. “I’ve been craving some all day.”

Pizza? Oh, crud. What if Harvy and Kendra were still at the pizza parlor and spilled the beans that I’d just been stuffing my face? The last thing I needed was for Darryl to think I was the kind of gal who went for pizza twice in one night. But what else could I suggest? Le Petit Ripoff? Not bloody likely.

“Um, sure,” I said. “Pizza sounds fab.”

Darryl locked up the deli, and after putting my groceries in my car, we started walking down Main Street.

I prayed there was another pizza parlor in town, one I hadn’t noticed, down a side street, perhaps. But alas, Darryl took me to the place I’d just left not more than twenty minutes ago.

To my immense relief, Harvy and Kendra were gone when we got there.

Darryl led me to a cozy booth for two, and was sitting across from me, smiling that killer smile of his, when I heard:

“You back again?”

Oh, hell. It was the waitress I’d had with Harvy and Kendra, a punk redhead with a most disconcerting diamond stud in her nose.

“Yes,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster under the circs. “Back again.”

“So what’ll it be?” she said, taking out her order pad.

“Is sausage and mushroom okay with you?” Darryl asked.

“Oh, it’s fine with her,” Ms. Punk piped up. “You want extra mushrooms like the last time?”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” I said with a stiff smile.

If only I had some kelp handy; I knew whose neck I’d like to wring.

“You’ve been here before?” Darryl asked as she skipped off.

“Um, yes. Grammy and I stopped by the other day before we checked into The Haven. Sort of a last hurrah before Grammy started her diet. I guess the waitress remembered me.”

“Speaking of your Grammy, are you sure she won’t mind your taking time to have dinner like this? Won’t she be hungry?”

“Oh, no. She was napping when I left. Grammy loves to nap.”

Then, eager to get off the Grammy track, I asked, “So tell me, have you always lived here?”

“No, I just moved here two years ago from L.A. I used to be a stockbroker, but I’m afraid I wasn’t cut out for it. Every time my clients lost money, I lost sleep.”

Omigosh, a stockbroker with a heart! Was he a sweetie, or what?

“So I cashed out my savings and bought the deli. Got myself a little bungalow up in the hills, and when I’m not working at the deli, I’m trying to write my Great American Novel.”

“You’re writing a novel? That’s wonderful! I’ve always wanted to do that.”

He blushed a most becoming shade of Aw Shucks Pink and asked, “So what about you? What do you do when you’re not dieting with your grammy?”

“Actually, I’m a writer, too.”

“You are?” His eyes lit up, impressed. “What have you written?”

For the briefest instant, I considered telling him that I dashed off ad campaigns for IBM and Procter & Gamble, but my whopper about Grammy Austen was bad enough, so I decided to stick with the truth.

“I write ads for local L.A. clients. Ackerman’s Awnings. Fiedler on the Roof Roofers. Toiletmasters Plumbers.”

“Toiletmasters?? You wrote
In a rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters!
? I used to see that commercial in the middle of the night back in L.A. when I couldn’t sleep!”

“Yes, many people have told me it’s a highly effective sleep aid.”

At which point, Ms. Punk showed up with our wine and pizza.

“Here you go,” she said to me. “
Again.
”

Where the heck was that kelp when I needed it?

As she trotted off to harass her other customers, Darryl cut me a giant slab of pizza.

I gazed down at it, and guess what, folks? For once in my life, I wasn’t ready to swan dive into my plate.

Maybe it was the excitement of being across the table from Darryl; maybe it was the three (okay, four) slices I’d had earlier, but I just wasn’t hungry.

“Well, dig in!” Darryl said.

I began picking at my pizza, just like the Size 0 movie stars do in scenes that require them to put food in their mouths, quite enjoying the image of myself as a finicky eater.

The next several minutes passed in a happy blur as Darryl and I continued chatting, him telling me about life as a deli owner and aspiring writer, me nodding a lot and trying to figure out if his eyes were brown or hazel. Before long I was lost in a daydream of the two of us living together in his cozy bungalow in the hills, Darryl writing his Great American Novel and me writing long distance ads for Toiletmasters. Just as I was picturing the two of us sitting down to a home-cooked cannelloni dinner, with Ben & Jerry and dipsy doodle for dessert, I heard:

“Jaine, are you okay?”

I snapped back to reality and saw Darryl looking at my plate. “You’ve hardly touched your pizza.”

“I’m not all that hungry,” I said, in a moment straight out of
Ripley’s Believe it Or Not
.

“Wow. You really eat like a bird.”

Oh, Lordy. If he only knew.

Darryl walked me back to his parking lot in the cool night air, the moon a sliver in the sky above.

We’d lingered over our pizza, gabbing like crazy, the usual getting-to-know-you chatter about favorite books and movies. I was thrilled to discover that, in addition to P.G. Wodehouse, we both loved Anne Tyler,
Sunset Boulevard
and
Roman Holiday
. And guess what? He didn’t like
The Three Stooges
! Hated them, in fact.

That alone practically qualified him for sainthood.

“I just don’t get that whole ‘nyuck, nyuck, nyuck’ thing,” he’d said, shaking his head.

Yes, I’d felt a definite connection over pizza.

But now, as our footsteps echoed in the empty streets, an awkward silence fell between us.

I tried to think of something clever to say when we got back to my car, but all I could come up with was, “Thanks so much for the pizza.”

“My pleasure,” he replied.

I looked up into his eyes (hazel, definitely hazel), at his shaggy hair grazing the collar of his sweatshirt, and at that fabulous smile, hoping he’d soon be zeroing in for a kiss.

“Well, see ya,” he said, making no move whatsoever to lock lips.

Swallowing my disappointment, I got in my Corolla, and was about to put the key in the ignition when he tapped on my window. I rolled it down, and he leaned in toward me.

Okay, this was it, the moment I’d been waiting for—our first big smackeroo.

But no, he just reached in and plucked a slice of mushroom from my sweatshirt.

Oh, damn. Even picking at my food, I’d managed to spill something. I can’t take me anywhere.

“Drive safely,” he said. “And give my best to Grammy Austen.”

“Will do,” I assured him with a weak smile, and took off into the night.

And as I drove back to The Haven I proceeded to read myself the riot act.

I really had to stop my ridiculous habit of fantasizing about guys I’d barely met. Here I’d built up this whole romantic Girl Meets Aspiring Writer/Deli Owner fairy tale, complete with Cozy Bungalow-For-Two happy ending, before the poor guy had even finished his first slice of pizza.

Darryl was just a cute guy who got lonely at his deli and wanted some company while he went for pizza. And I just happened to be at the checkout counter when he got the munchies.

No big fairy tale romance. No prince charming. Just a guy in the mood for pizza.

That’s it. End of story.
Finito.