Death by Pantyhose (6 page)

"Oh, Leonard!" I wailed. "First my car was
stolen and then my insurance company gave me
fifteen crummy dollars a day to rent a car and I
got stuck with this lousy piece of junk and I finally got a date with the man of my dreams and
he asked me to meet him for lunch and I
crawled along the freeway with my knuckles
practically welded to the steering wheel, and
just when everything was looking okay Wheezy
died."

Leonard shook his head sadly.

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"My loss?"

"The deceased. This Weezie person."

"Oh, Wheezy's not a person. It's my car."

"I see," he said, nodding much like I imagine
orderlies nod to out-of-control mental patients
before they strap them into straitjackets. I fully
expected him to back away and beat a hasty retreat, but instead, he took out an impeccably
clean hanky from his pocket and handed it to
me.

"Blow your nose," he said gently. "Everything's
going to be fine. I'll get you to that lunch of
yours.

What an angel. I made up my mind then and
there that if I ever had a child, I was going to
name it Leonard. Provided it was a boy, of
course.

"But first," he said, "let's get this car of yours
out of traffic."

He had me put the car in neutral and steer it
while he pushed it to the curb.

"You can call a tow truck when you're ready
to go home," he said when we were through.
"Now let's head over to my van, and I'll give you
a lift."

Was he the nicest guy in the world, or what?
Hope began to seep back into my heart. Maybe
this day wouldn't be a total washout after all.

Then I saw his van and gulped. Leonard, it
turned out, was an exterminator. For a company
called Bug Blasters. And the van he drove had a
6-foot replica of a dead bug, straight out of
Kafka, lying belly up on top of it.

Oh, well, I told myself. So it wasn't a limo. Big
deal. Beggars can't be choosers.

"Hop inside," he said, sliding the door open.

And then suddenly I got scared. Leonard
seemed like a wonderful guy, the very definition
of a Good Samaritan, but hey, so did Ted Bundy.
And I hear Jack the Ripper was a lot of laughs at
parties. What if Leonard was a secret sex fiend
planning to have his way with me under the
giant bug?

I could practically hear my mother shouting:
Never get into cars with strangers!

But then I thought of Andrew and the way his
hair curled at the nape of his neck, and threw
caution to the wind.

I hopped on board.

It turned out that Leonard was as nice as
could be, an absolute doll, who gave me all sorts
of handy tips about getting rid of ants. (Boric
acid along your baseboards works wonders, in
case you're interested.) We zipped over to The
Patio in no time.

"Here we are," he said, pulling up in front of
the restaurant. "Only ten minutes late."

"Oh, Leonard. How can I ever thank you?"

"Let me give you my card, in case you ever
need an exterminator."

I took his card and promised to call him at
the first signs of termites, cockroaches, earwigs,
and/or silverfish.

Then I turned to open the van door and
gulped in dismay.

I'd never been to The Patio before, and I now
saw that the restaurant took its name from a spacious outdoor patio facing the street. A patio
which was, at that moment, filled to capacity
with upscale, well-groomed diners-all of whom
were gawking at the van with the giant dead bug
on top.

Dear Lord, I prayed. Please don't let Andrew be
sitting outside.

But there he was, out on The Patio's patio,
gawking at the van like everybody else.

Oh, crud. What would he think of me, showing up for our date in a Bug Blasters van? I considered telling Leonard to drive to the next
block and that I'd walk back, but he'd been so
nice to me I couldn't insult him by letting him
see that I was ashamed of his profession.

There was no getting out of it. I gritted my
teeth and climbed down out of the van, treating
the al fresco diners to a swell view of my tush.

It was a toss-up over which of us looked more
ridiculous: me or the dead bug.

Gathering what was left of my dignity, I made
my way to Andrew's table, trying to ignore the
stares following in my wake.

Andrew stood up to greet me, looking yummy in a pinstripe suit, his hair curling seductively
over his collar, just as I remembered it.

"That was quite an entrance," he said, barely
suppressing a smile. "Did you know your butt
looks really big climbing out of an exterminator's van?"

Okay, he didn't really say the part about my
butt. I just prayed he wasn't thinking it.

I plopped down in my chair and explained
what happened to Wheezy.

"What rotten luck," he said when I was
through. "But don't worry. We'll call a tow service after lunch and take care of everything."

He smiled a reassuring smile.

I just love men with reassuring smiles, don't
you?

"Anyhow," he said, "I hope you like this
restaurant. "

"Oh, I do."

"If not, there's a Roach Motel nearby."

Okay, he didn't say that, either. My imagination was in overdrive.

What he actually said was: "I'm sorry I
dragged you all the way downtown, but I've
been working night and day on a project. With
Sam Weinstock. You remember Sam don't you?"

Inwardly I groaned. I remembered Sam, all
right. Sam-short for Samantha-Weinstock
was the CFO of Andrew's bank, a stunning woman
with the face of a Clinique model and a waist the
size of my ankle. When I'd met her last year, I
was sure she and Andrew were a hot item.

Just the thought of her made me feel ten
pounds heavier.

"Actually," Andrew said, "she's here in the
restaurant, having lunch with a friend."

Drat. The last thing I wanted was to be in
comparison range with the spectacular size two
Sam.

"In fact, she's right over there."

I followed his gaze to where Sam was sitting
across from another razor-thin bizgal. If I'd
been harboring any secret hopes that working
long hours had taken its toll on Sam, I was in for
a disappointment. She was as spectacular as
ever, her delicate face framed by a gleaming
crown of chestnut hair, not a single one of
which dared stray out of place.

Andrew waved to her, and the next thing I
knew she was getting up and heading in our direction. I hoped against hope that she was
going to the ladies room, but no such luck. She
slithered straight to our table.

"Hello, Jaine," she said coolly.

"Hi," I managed to mutter.

I just prayed she hadn't seen me show up in
the giant bugmobile.

Once again, my prayers went unanswered.

"So good to see you again," she said, a malicious glint in her eyes. "What a colorful entrance you made."

"Yes, my Rolls is in the shop. Haha."

Andrew smiled at my feeble attempt at
humor. Sam didn't.

"How've you been?" she asked. "Still writing
toilet bowl ads?"

"As a matter of fact, I am," I said, wishing with
all my heart I could flush her down a Big John.

"Well, don't be too long," she said to Andrew,
wagging her finger at him playfully. "We've still
got lots of work to do, hon."

Accent on the hon.

Then she waved good-bye, an irritating little
flicker of her hand, and slithered back to her
bizgal friend.

As I watched her walk across the room, resplendent in her size two suit, I felt every ounce
of confidence drain from my body. I'd been a
fool to think Andrew was interested in me. Anyone who'd dated a woman like Sam couldn't
possibly be interested in me.

This wasn't a date, I realized. It was a business
lunch. Andrew probably wanted to offer me a
job writing brochures for the bank. My initial instincts had been right. If he were really interested in me, he'd have asked me out to a candlelit
dinner.

"So," Andrew said, "you're still working for Toiletmasters."

What did I tell you? He was asking me about
work. It had to be a business lunch.

"Yes, I'm still in the toilet. Haha. And how
about you? You still at the bank? What am I saying? Of course you're still at the bank. Otherwise why would you be working on a project
with Sam? Unless you were working in some
other profession and freelancing as a banker. I
suppose that's possible. Not likely, of course.
But possible ..

Oh, Lord. I was babbling again. Damn that
Sam. She'd totally thrown me for a loop. Before I
could stop myself, I reached for a sourdough roll
and smeared it with butter. Now Andrew was
going to think I was a butter-slathering blabbermouth. Oh, well. Who cared? He wasn't interested in me anyway.

Thank heavens the waiter showed up to take
our order and put an end to my inane chatter. Andrew and I both ordered the Patioburgers
with fries.

"That's what I like about you," Andrew said
when the waiter had gone. "You eat like a real
person." He watched as I shoveled down my buttered roll. "So many women I've dated spend
the entire meal pushing three shards of lettuce
around their plate and then say they're stuffed.
That's no fun.

"So," he said, taking a roll from the basket.
"You seeing anybody?"

Whoa. I almost choked on my sourdough.
Maybe this was a date after all.

"No, nobody on a regular basis."

If you don't count the Domino's delivery guy.

"Me neither," he said, smearing his roll with
butter.

"What about Sam? I thought you two were
dating."

"We were, but that's all over now."

I glanced over at Sam's table. Her lunch companion was chattering away a mile a minute, but
Sam was staring past her and watching us with
eagle eyes. Maybe Andrew thought it was all
over, but it sure didn't look like Sam got the
message.

"Anyhow," he said, "I've been wanting to ask
you out. But ..."

He stared down at his roll and hesitated.

But what? What's stopping you? Go ahead! Here I
am! Ready and available!

but I'm not sure it would be fair to you."

"Why wouldn't it be fair?"

"You see, I'm only going to be in L.A. for a
short time, and then I've got to go back to
Stuttgart."

"You're going back to Germany?" I said, not
bothering to hide my disappointment.

"I'm afraid so. And while I'm here I'm barely
going to have a minute to myself. This project
Sam and I are working on is taking up practically all my time."

"I'll bet she is-I mean, I'll bet it is."

He took a bite of his roll. A tiny dot of butter
clung to his cheek.

Only Andrew could look sexy with butter on
his cheek.

"Having loaded you down with warnings," he
said, "I'm hoping you'll still want to have dinner
with me."

He shot me a heart-melting grin.

No, I told myself, absolutely not. Why start
something that couldn't possibly go anywhere? I
knew what would happen. We'd go out and I'd
fall head over heels in love and he'd go off to
Stuttgart and meet some blond fraulein and forget all about me. Prozac was right. I'd just wind
up getting hurt. Scrumptious as he was, there
was no way I was going out with this guy.

So I hardened my heart, looked him straight
in the eye, and said, "Sure."

What can I say? Andrew was like a pint of
Chunky Monkey in my freezer. Impossible to resist.

Our burgers came and I didn't bother to pretend I was a dainty eater. I dove into mine with
gusto. Hadn't Andrew just said he liked a gal
with a hearty appetite? I would've liked the opportunity to impress him with my dessert-eating
skills, but there was no time for dessert. The in stant our waiter whisked away our lunch dishes,
Sam popped up at our table, reminding Andrew
that they still had lots of work to do at the bank.
. . . .. .. . .... . .

Andrew quickly paid the bill and drove me to
Wheezy, where we phoned for a tow truck and
sat back to wait.

There we were, just the two of us, as snug as
two bugs in a BMW. I should've been in seventh
heaven. But instead I was suddenly flooded with
doubts. What was I doing with this guy, anyway?
We were worlds apart. He was upper crust and I
was pizza crust. Sure, he was cuter than cute,
but what if, underneath that yummy exterior, he
was Sam's counterpart, an elitist snob?

"How about a strawberry?" he said, interrupting my thoughts. He reached for a box of strawberries in the backseat.

"Thanks," I said, plucking one from the box.
"They look delicious."

"I bought 'em from one of those guys on the
freeway. "

In Los Angeles, there are always poor souls
standing on freeway off-ramps selling flowers
and fruit. I dread to think how little they're paid
to stand in the blazing sun breathing in carcinogens all day. Most drivers just zoom past them,
but every once in a while, some kind soul will
stop and buy their wares.

It heartened me to think that Andrew was
one of those souls.

"Aren't you going to have one?" I said when
he didn't take any.

"No, I'm allergic to strawberries."

"You mean you bought the strawberries even
though you can't eat them?"

He nodded. "The guy looked so sad I couldn't
say no.

At that moment, any doubts I had about Andrew flew out the window. He was obviously the
warmhearted softie of my dreams.

I wanted nothing more than to linger in the
BMW with him, trading life stories and running
my fingers through his curls. But that was not to
be. Not three minutes after Andrew offered me
that strawberry, the Triple A guy came roaring
up and with lightning speed had Wheezy
hooked up and ready to tow.

"I'll call you soon," Andrew said, beaming me
a megawatt smile, "and we'll set up our dinner
date."