Death by Pantyhose (28 page)

I bent down as if to get them.

"I can't find them."

"Oh, for Pete's sake," Hank said and put his
head in the car to get a better look.

Which was exactly what I hoped he'd do. Wasting no time, I grabbed the glove compartment
door and whacked him in the head as hard as I
could.

He reeled back from the car, stunned, the
gun falling from his hand.

I sprinted out of the car and dove for where it
had clattered on the pavement. I'd just grabbed
it when Hank lunged at me from behind. I
fought him off with every ounce of strength in
my body. But I was no match for the ferocity of a
screenwriter desperate for a movie deal.

In no time, he'd wrested the gun from my
grasp and was shoving it back in its old familiar
resting place: my gut.

"I've had enough of your games," he said, his
eyes blazing with fury. "The party's over, Jaine."

Then he aimed the gun at my forehead.

Oh, Lord. This was it. This really was the end
of the road.

Suddenly I was blinded by a fierce white light.

Had Hank pulled the trigger? Was I dead? Was
this the after-death white light I'd read so much
about?

And then I heard someone shout: "Freeze!"

I looked up and, to my immense relief, I realized that I was still alive and that the white light
blinding me was coming from the headlights of
a squad car.

Two cops had their guns drawn, aiming at
Hank.

That blessed German woman must've understood me, after all, and called the cops.

"Drop the gun!" one of the cops shouted.

Meek as a puppy, Hank dropped the gun, and
the next thing I knew he was up against the squad
car spread-eagled and handcuffed-and ratting
on Regan before the cuffs were even locked.

Ten minutes later, the place was swarming
with squad cars, and a sweet officer with a blond
ponytail was pouring me a cup of coffee from
her thermos.

The cop who'd put the cuffs on Hank came
over to ask me how I was doing. I started babbling an endless stream of thank yous.

"Thank heavens you came when you did," I
said, shuddering at the thought of what would
have happened had he shown up thirty seconds
later.

"You're lucky that lady called to tell us about
you. "

"Oh, yes," I said. "The German tourist."

"German tourist? What German tourist?"

"Didn't you get a 9-1-1 call from a German
tourist?"

"No, we got a call from an angry environmentalist, reporting an old Mercedes spewing carcinogens on the coast highway."

"And that's why you tracked me down?"

He nodded.

God bless Crazy Dave and his wreckmobiles!

"Is there anything else we can get you,
ma'am?" the cop asked.

"No, I'm just happy to be alive on the planet
to see the dawn of a new day."

Okay, so what I really said was:

"Got any chocolate?"

t was after midnight when I finally staggered
home.

Prozac looked up from where she was curled
on my pillow and yawned.

Did you bring me ice cream?

"Are you kidding? You're lucky I'm alive. I almost got my head blown off by a sociopathic
killer! "

She jumped off the sofa and began sniffing
my ankles.

So what are you saying? There's no ice cream?

No wonder dog people outnumber cat people
two to one. (Well, if they don't, they should.)

For the second time that day, I got in the
shower to wash away the memories of a most unpleasant experience. Not to mention the dirt
and grime I'd picked up rolling around on the
coast highway.

Then I got in my Frosty the Snowman pajamas
(a Shopping Channel gift from my mom) and
flopped into bed, where I slept like a rock until I was rudely awakened by a godawful pounding
on my front door.

I sat up with a jolt. The sun was streaming in
my window, and, according to my alarm clock, it
was nearly noon.

Jaine!" I heard Lance calling. "Open the
door."

I hurried to the door, wondering what on
earth could be the matter.

'What is it, Lance?" I muttered, as I flung the
door open.

"There's somebody out front to see you."

"Who?"

"Looks like an exterminator," he said, hurrying back into his apartment.

"I didn't send for an exterminator."

I threw on my old chenille bathrobe, the one
with the coffee stains in the shape of the Big
Dipper, and stepped outside.

There, parked at the curb, was a Bug Blasters
van, just like the one I showed up in for my
lunch date with Andrew. I cringed, remembering how everyone on the restaurant patio had
stared, goggle-eyed, at the 6-foot bug lying belly
up on top of the van.

Was that Leonard parked at the curb, I wondered, the kindhearted guy who'd taken pity on
me in my hour of need? Maybe there was a
slump in the bug-blasting business and he was
looking for work.

I started down the path to the street, when I
saw somebody getting out of the van. But it wasn't
Leonard.

Good heavens! It was Andrew!

Oh, crud. Why did I have to be wearing my Frosty the Snowman pajamas and that disgraceful coffee-stained robe?

Now he was heading up the path to my apartment, adorable as ever in khakis and a blue work
shirt-carrying a bottle of champagne in one
hand and a McDonald's take-out bag in the
other.

I was speechless.

But Andrew wasn't.

"Who says I'd never show up for a date in an
exterminator's van?"

And then he smiled a smile that could very
well be responsible for global warming.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

No, absolutely not. I had to nip this romance
in the bud. I had to ignore my emotions and
Just Say No.

"Yes! Please! Come in!" were the words that
actually came out of my mouth as I ushered him
inside.

Okay, so I'm a pillar of tapioca. You try resisting those curls at the nape of his neck.

Prozac, who can smell a Quarter Pounder
three counties away, came rocketing out of the
kitchen and hurled herself at Andrew's ankles.

Hi, lover!

For the next hour or so, my apartment
hummed with the sounds of belly rubs and contented purring.

And Prozac had a pretty good time, too.

egan was arrested, of course. She and Hank
-both sang like canaries, and thanks to their
damning indictments of one another, they'll be
spending the next ninety-nine pilot seasons behind bars.

Good news about Allison. She swore off comedians forever and very sensibly fell in love
with a fellow violinist at the symphony orchestra. As far as I know, they're happily married
and waxing each other's bows in complete harmony.

Mrs. Spiro found out about Spiro's cheating
ways and divorced the bum. She took everything in the settlement, including the Laff Palace,
which she turned into a male strip club called
The Body Shop. Holly works there as a barmaid
and is dating one of the male strippers. (And so,
incidentally, is Mrs. Spiro.)

Dorcas is back onstage, doing a comedy act
about her time in jail. It's not all that bad. It's
not all that good, either. But she's funnier than she used to be. And guess who her agent is?
Manny Vernon. Right now he's got her booked
at the Modesto Howard Johnson's, where she's
the opening act for Elroy "Chuckles" Monahan.

You'll never believe this (I still don't!), but
Pete found religion and gave up his porn collection. Last I heard, he was studying the Bible and
teaching inner-city kids how to mix non-alcoholic
drinks.

Needless to say, they never found my Corolla,
which was all for the best. It was high time I
stopped driving around town in a ten-year-old
Corolla. Yes, thanks to the generous payment
from my insurance company, I was able to trade
all the way up to a nine-year-old Corolla.

I was so grateful to Crazy Dave for indirectly
saving my life with his carcinogen-spewing car, I
enrolled him in the Baklava-of-the-Month Club.
(It's amazing what you can find on the Internet.)

As for me, I'm sitting here in my sequined
shorts set (I never did give it to charity), looking
at my oil painting of dogs playing poker (I tried
to give it away, but Goodwill wouldn't take it),
musing on the nature of human relationships.

Andrew, of course, went back to Stuttgart. He
says it won't be forever. But who knows? Maybe
he'll come back and we'll reconnect. Or maybe he'll meet a Heidi Klum lookalike and I'll
never see him again.

But no matter what happens, I'm glad he
came into my life. I guess there's some truth to
the old 'Ais better to have loved and lost than
never to have loved at all" gag.

Contrary to Prozac's prediction, I haven't
checked into Heartbreak Hotel.

If anything, the whole episode has given me
new hope for the future. I've come to realize
that if a good guy like Andrew was attracted to
me, there may, indeed, be Life After The Blob.

In fact, my romance with Andrew has inspired me to take up an ambitious new 1,200-
calorie-a-day diet and exercise program. It's a
very intense regimen, requiring a lot of dedication and willpower.

Which I intend to start the minute I finish my
Eskimo Pie.

Catch you next time.

When writer-for-hire faine Austen signs on to
script vows for the ultimate Bridezilla, "I
do's" soon become "I wish I hadn'ts "-and
curtains for the bride spell a veil of woes for
faine...

Jaine's accepted her share of lame gigs to pay
the bills, but rewriting Shakespeare's got to be
an all-time low. The fiasco begins with a call
from Jaine's high-school nemesis, caber-rich iiber-
witch Patti Devane. It seems Patti will soon be
sashaying down the aisle with another former
classmate from Hermosa High, and she'd like the
exchange of vows to evoke Romeo and Juliet ... except without the "downer" of an ending.

Even worse than the assignment itself is dealing with Patti as a client. At least Jaine's not alone,
as nobody can stand the demanding, spoiled,
and incredibly rude Bridezilla from Hell. Patti's
managed to rack up an amazingly long list of
enemies in a short time, not the least of whom
include her prospective mother-in-law, the soonto-be ex-wife of Patti's stolen-to-be groom, and
just about everyone involved in the wedding preparations. So it isn't a complete surprise when
the erstwhile Juliet plunges to her death during
her balcony scene.

The loosened bolts that brought down the
bride were clearly an act of sabotage-what's not
so obvious is whom, among Patti's numerous
haters, committed this murder most foul. Was it
the caterer she threatened to ruin? The bridesmaid tossed out of the wedding party for being
too chubby? Jaine's determined to learn the
truth-if only to end the hideous walk down memory lane kicked off by her association with
Patti.

Between fending off advances from the nerd
of her high school nightmares and figuring out
ways to stop Prozac the cat from corrupting the
victim's pet Poodle, Jaine's involvement in this
case keeps veering between comedy and tragedy.
That is, until another body is discovered-and
the killer starts laying plot for a final act-starring Jaine ...

Please continue on for an exciting
sneak peek at
KILLING BRIDEZILLA,
coming next month in hardcover!

ome people look back on their high school
I.Idays fondly, lost in happy memories of pep
rallies and senior proms. And then there are the
other 98% of us. For us, high school was hell
with acne, a blistering nook of inferno Dante
neglected to mention, where we first discovered
that life isn't fair and blondes really do have
more fun.