Death by Tiara (3 page)

We saw a perfectly adorable Eileen Fisher outfit on our first stop at Nordstrom—slate-gray silk slacks with a matching V-necked kimono sleeved top. I was a little nervous about the kimono sleeves, thinking they were a tad too dramatic, but Lance insisted they were exactly what I needed.

“Kimono sleeves will add just the right note of glamor to your drab little life,” he insisted.

“Who’re you calling drab?” I said, brushing lint off an old sourball I’d just fished out from the bottom of my purse.

The outfit was on sale, fifty percent off, and fit me perfectly. But when I took out my credit card to buy it, Lance shook his head in horror, insisting we might find something even nicer elsewhere.

He then proceeded to lead me on an expedition much like the one last made by Lewis and Clark. I can’t tell you how many stores we trekked through: Neiman Marcus (where Lance works as a shoe salesman), Saks, Bloomies, Macy’s, Fred Segal, and Kate Spade. With nary a single stop at a food court! Talk about cruel and unusual punishment. And at the end of our trek? Lance conceded that the first outfit we saw was the best after all.

Honestly, I deserve combat pay for putting up with that man.

I staggered back to my apartment, kicking off my shoes the minute I walked in the door.

“Oh, Pro,” I wailed. “I’ve just spent four hours in shopping hell.”

She gazed up at me lazily from where she was napping on my computer keyboard.

Did you bring back snacks?

Okay, so empathy’s not one of her strong points.

“What do you think?” I asked, holding out my new outfit for inspection.

She shot me a frosty glare.

Very nice. I hope your new dog friend likes it.

I made a mental note to throw everything I was wearing in the laundry to get rid of all traces of Elvis. And I was just about to do so when I noticed the carton on my living room floor, the one with my new DVD armoire.

In the agony of my shopping expedition with Lance, I’d forgotten all about it.

Soon I was ripping it open and lifting out my faux Chippendale armoire, admiring its sleek cherrywood finish. It was every bit as lovely as it had looked online, with plenty of shelves for my DVD collection. I was certain Alfred H. would be quite happy there.

I spent the next twenty minutes setting it up in my bedroom next to my TV, feeling quite Martha Stewart-ish as I arranged my DVDs in alphabetical order.

Satisfied with a job well done, I started to run the water for a bath, tossing in a handful of strawberry-scented bath beads. Then, after a quick trip to the kitchen to pour myself a much-needed glass of chardonnay, I stripped off my Elvis-tainted clothes and tossed them into the hamper.

It was with a huge sigh of relief that I eased my shopworn muscles into the tub, inhaling the rich aroma of my strawberry-scented bubbles—not to mention a wee bit o’ chardonnay.

Lying there, relaxing in the heat of the sudsy water, I thought about my upcoming dinner date with Scott’s parents. Was it possible Scott was really serious about me? Might he even be about to pop the question? Not that I was ready to get married. Not for a long time. Not until next Thursday, anyway.

Taking another glug of chardonnay, I wondered what Scott’s parents would be like. What with Scott being a police detective, I figured he came from a down-to-earth middle class family, the kind of people who lived in a cute ranch home with an old-fashioned kitchen banquette and wood paneling in the den. In my mind, his dad was a tall, skinny guy with a hint of a paunch, his mom short and apple-cheeked, fussing over a pot roast in the oven.

I saw myself sitting at their dining room table, laughing at their stories about the funny things Scott did when he was a kid, modestly telling them about my life as a freelance copywriter.

“You wrote
Just a Shade Better
for Ackerman’s Awnings?” Scott’s mom would exclaim, eyes wide with admiration as she passed me the mashed potatoes.

(Of which I’d be certain to take only one helping.)

After dinner, Scott would get down on one knee in the wood paneled den, his Adam’s apple bobbing most appealingly as he proposed to me the old-fashioned way.

And before I knew it, we’d be off on our honeymoon in the Bahamas, drinking mai tais in the infinity pool, after which we’d return to an ivy-covered cottage in Hermosa Beach to raise a family of little Willises. It wasn’t until the birth of our third child, a dimpled cutie named Sebastian, that I finally called a halt to my daydream and dredged myself out of the tub.

Slipping into my robe, I drifted into my bedroom still high on cloud nine.

I quickly came thudding back to earth, however, when I glanced over at my new DVD armoire and saw a deep gouge along its sleek cherrywood finish.

And I knew exactly where it came from—Prozac’s mischievous little claws, which she was now licking industriously.

“Prozac!” I shrieked. “What on earth do you think you’re doing?”

She looked up at me with big green eyes.

Playing with my new scratching post.

Darn that cat. She was getting back at me for Elvis.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Exciting news!

Exciting news, sweetheart! The Tampa Vistas Library is having a fashion show luncheon to raise money for the library, and guess who they’ve asked to be a model? Me! Your five-foot-three-inch, size-fourteen mom. Isn’t that positively thrilling?

And clever Lydia Pinkus, president of the Tampa Vistas Homeowners Association, has worked out a deal with Pink Flamingo, one of the most exclusive clothing boutiques in town, to loan us clothing for the show.

Normally, I wouldn’t even dream of buying a dress at Pink Flamingo. The Home Shopping Club is good enough for me. Why spend a fortune on designer clothes, I always say, when you can get a perfectly lovely outfit for a fraction of the price delivered straight to your door?

Nevertheless, I must confess it’ll be fun to be a model, strutting my stuff at the Tampa Vistas clubhouse. We’re having the luncheon outdoors at the pool. Doesn’t that sound divine? Lydia’s arranging everything. She’s such a capable woman—

Good heavens. There’s the most godawful racket going on outside.

Must run and see what’s happening—

XOXO,

Mom

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: OMG!

Omigod! I just looked out the window and there was Daddy, waving at me from a beat up old golf cart, a hideous red plaid golf cap on his head, honking a horn that plays
La Cucaracha
!

I’d better get out there before the neighbors start complaining.

XOXO,

Mom

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Nellybelle

Of all the idiotic things your daddy has ever bought, this darn golf cart takes the cake. Apparently he answered an ad in the Tampa Vistas
Tattler
and bought it for $200. Which is about $199 more than it’s worth. He absolutely insisted I go for a ride in the damnable contraption, which he’s calling Nellybelle.

I told him it looked like it was ready for the junk heap, but he swore it was in tip-top condition, and made such a fuss about taking me for a ride that I foolishly got in.

What a mistake that was!

We hadn’t made it to the end of the block when the old junk heap conked out. And guess who had to help Daddy push it back home?

Time for a hot bath and an emergency piece of fudge.

Love and XXX from

Your aching,

Mom

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: New Member of the Family

Fantastic news, Lambchop! There’s a new member of the Austen family—Nellybelle, my new golf cart. Well, actually it’s a used golf cart that I picked up for only $200. Just what I need to tool around Tampa Vistas. Think of all the money I’ll save on gas! Took your mom out for an inaugural spin this afternoon. A wonderful adventure, until Nellybelle stalled at the end of the block. But not to worry. Your mom and I pushed her back home, and now she’s resting comfortably in the garage. I’ll have her up and running in no time!

Love ’n’ snuggles from
Mr. Fixit, aka Daddy

P.S. Forgot to tell you: The guy who sold me Nellybelle threw in a free golf hat, and a horn that plays
La Cucaracha
. Neat, huh? Would you believe his wife made him get rid of all those treasures? Lucky for me, your mom is so understanding.

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Feeling Much Better

Feeling much better now, after my hot bath and piece of fudge. (Okay, three pieces.)

Daddy’s insisting on fixing Nellybelle himself. Which means, of course, it’ll never get fixed, and I’ll never have to hear that damn
La Cucaracha
horn ever again.

Life is good.

XXX

Mom

P.S. Okay, it was four pieces of fudge.

Chapter 3

W
hen I woke up the next morning, Prozac was not in her usual position astride my chest, clawing me awake for her breakfast. No, her claws were otherwise engaged, making fresh gouges on my DVD armoire.

“Prozac!” I cried, leaping out of bed.

She gazed at her handiwork with pride.

Who says cats can’t draw?

I quickly snatched her up in my arms and hauled her to the kitchen, where I distracted her with a bowl of Hearty Halibut Guts.

Then, with heavy heart, I examined the damage she’d wrought on the armoire. Fortunately she’d only attacked the side panel. Maybe I’d be able to cover the scratches with some wood stain. In the meantime, I had to keep the armoire safe from further harm. So I covered it with the carton it came in, weighing the carton down with two telephone books.

It would have to do until I could think of some other way to keep Prozac away from my treasured purchase.

Carefully closing the bedroom door, I headed back out to the kitchen to nuke myself some coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel.

Then I settled down at the dining room table, otherwise known as my office, to check my emails. I was foolish enough to open the ones from my parents, something bitter experience has taught me never to do on an empty stomach.

My parents are perfectly lovely people, but disaster magnets of the highest order. Daddy’s the main culprit. The man attracts trouble like white cashmere attracts red wine. Of course, Mom is not without her quirks, having made Daddy move three thousand miles across country to be near the Home Shopping Club, under the mistaken notion she’d get her packages faster that way. Nevertheless, she’s been a saint to put up with Daddy’s antics all these years. I just hoped she was right about Nellybelle and that the golf cart would soon disappear into the slag heap of Daddy’s unfinished projects out in their garage.

But I couldn’t worry about my parents. Not now. Not when I had Taylor’s lyrics to write. I’d agreed to do a rush job and promised Heather I’d send them to her by the end of the day. Which meant I had less than eight hours to write song lyrics for a teen queen wannabe posing as a Latin spitfire in a fruit headdress.

Why, oh, why had I wasted all that time shopping with Lance yesterday?

So the very minute I finished my cinnamon raisin bagel I buckled down and started writing.

Okay, so the minute I finished my cinnamon raisin bagel, I nuked myself another one. But right after that, I got down to work. I did not get very far, however, staring at the blank screen, wondering what the heck I’d gotten myself into.

The whole thing turned out to be a lot harder than I anticipated.

I don’t suppose you’ve ever given it any serious thought, but many of the words that rhyme with “queen” are a tad uninspired. Like “mean,” “bean,” and “latrine,” to name just a few.

Finally, after countless trips to the refrigerator for inspiration, I came up with the following ditty:

TAYLOR FOR TEEN QUEEN

My name is Taylor
And I’m here to say
I want to be teen queen
In the very worst way
I’ve got grace, I’ve got charm, I’ve got poise to spare
Not only that, I’ve got super shiny hair!
I look good in a swimsuit without sucking my gut
And if I say so myself I’ve got a mighty cute butt
I can sing, I can dance, I can play the kazoo
But my real ambition is to represent you
So vote for Taylor and I’ll never cease
To whiten my teeth and work for world peace!
CHORUS
Aye aye aye aye
Taylor’s so sweet
Aye aye aye aye
She can’t be beat
Aye aye aye aye
Goodwill she’ll preach
Aye aye aye aye
Taylor’s a peach!
(TAKES A PEACH FROM HER HEADDRESS
AND THROWS IT TO THE JUDGES WITH
A PERKY SMILE)

Something told me I could forget about my career as a future Grammy winner. But it was the best I could do. So I took a deep breath and emailed the lyrics to Heather.

I only hoped she liked them. And what if she didn’t? Would she still pay me the five hundred bucks she’d promised? I kicked myself for not ironing out the details of the deal. Oh, well. There was nothing I could do about it now.

Worn out from my exertions, and still in my pajamas, I headed for my bedroom to take a restorative nap.