Killer Blonde (3 page)

I
sat on SueEllen Kingsley’s toilet bowl with a sense of foreboding. Not about the book. After five minutes listening to SueEllen prattle, I knew her book
(At Home With SueEllen)
would never see the light of day. Not with recipes that began,
“Have your maid debone a turkey…”
This was a woman who probably needed directions to get to her kitchen.

No, I was worried about my father. Ever since my parents retired to Florida, Daddy’s been acting nuttier than ever. Last year, for example, he was convinced my mother was having an affair with one of the hosts from the Home Shopping Club. And now this business about buying a toupee at a thrift shop. What sort of person buys a used toupee? I only hoped he wasn’t going to wind up one of those crazy old men who take out their dentures in restaurants. Oh, well. There was no use worrying about it. With my parents living 3,000 miles away in Florida, there was nothing I could do.

I forced myself to listen to SueEllen, who was stretched out in the tub, rambling on about her childhood in the Deep South.

“We may not have had much money,” she said, “but from an early age I learned the art of gracious living.”

She picked up a pumice stone from a bath tray and began scraping away at her calluses. In addition to the pumice stone, her bath tray held such grooming necessities as a bottle of Cristal champagne, a Walkman TV, and a half-eaten salad. I eyed her salad covetously. Mainly because I was starving.

I’d shown up at one o’clock that afternoon, as instructed. Conchi fixed us lunch, eensy weensy turkey Cobb salads, with hardly enough turkey to feed a flea. I snarfed mine down in nanoseconds, sitting on the toilet bowl. SueEllen barely nibbled at hers. Now it was going on four o’clock and I was ready to eat the wallpaper.

“Mother and Dad came from old Southern aristocracy,” SueEllen said, flicking the dead skin from her calluses into the water. “By the time I came along, the family money was pretty much gone. Mother clung to the old traditions, though, and passed them on to me. She taught me how to make chicken and dumplings and mint juleps and sweet little lavender sachets. I was a rebel, though. Back then, I was more interested in boys than good manners.”

She looked up from her pumice stone and frowned.

“How come you’re not writing any of this down?”

“Because Margaret Mitchell already wrote it. It’s called
Gone with the Wind.”

Okay, so I didn’t really say that.

“I’m sorry,” I smiled. “It was just so interesting, I guess I forgot to take notes.”

I scribbled down the stuff about the lavender sachets and dumplings. Any minute now, I expected her to tell me about her Mammy, and them cotton fields back home.

“Of course,” she said, “the biggest influence in my life was my Aunt Melanie.”

She reached for her champagne, and took a sip. I’d long since polished off the Diet Coke Conchi had served me.

“Aunt Melanie married well and had scads of money. She threw the most marvelous parties, and I never forgot them. Yes, I guess you could say Aunt Melanie was the one who taught me everything I know about party planning.”

So I wrote that down, too, wondering if she’d notice if I reached over and filched some croutons from her salad. I wouldn’t have minded another Diet Coke, either. And a cushion. I was getting a mighty sore tush from sitting on the toilet for three hours. SueEllen had a bathroom the size of a football stadium; why on earth couldn’t she at least bring in a chair for me?

SueEllen droned on about Aunt Melanie, and her recipe for bourbon pecan balls. I was alternately taking notes and fantasizing about a cheeseburger with fries, when I glanced out the window and saw an elderly man standing on the balcony of the house next door. Normally I don’t get upset when elderly men stand on their balconies. But this man was looking through a telescope that just happened to be pointed straight at SueEllen’s boobs.

“SueEllen,” I said. “I don’t want to alarm you, but your neighbor is spying on you.”

“Oh, that’s old Mr. Zeller,” she said, sipping her champagne, not the least bit perturbed. “He’s a retired astronomy professor. Used to teach at Caltech. Don’t worry. He’s harmless.”

“Yoo hoo, Mr. Zeller!” She sat up straight in the tub, giving him an unobstructed view of her boobs.

And then she blew him a kiss.

Good Lord. She was actually getting off on this.

Now
that
would make an interesting chapter for her book. She could call it
Entertaining the Neighbors.
At least we wouldn’t have to bother with recipes.

An hour later, SueEllen was still strolling down memory lane. And I was ready to strangle her. I hadn’t been off that damn toilet seat all afternoon, except to add hot water to her tub.

“You don’t mind, do you?” she’d asked. “I’m so comfortable in the water, I hate to move.”

Heavens, no. I wouldn’t want her to exert herself by actually having to turn on a faucet. So I’d smiled weakly and turned on the hot water. I felt like a slave girl in one of those old ’50s biblical epics.

I checked my watch. 5:10. I couldn’t believe it. The woman was about to break the Guinness record for World’s Longest Bath. Even I don’t stay in the tub for four hours at a stretch. But here she was, still soaking, and still yapping. By now, of course, I was famished. I would’ve sold my soul for a Tic Tac.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but was probably only ten minutes, SueEllen called it a day, and got out of the tub.

“Hand me my robe, will you, dear?” she said, flaunting her fabulous body. Not an ounce of fat anywhere. I wondered if she’d had any of it sucked away by her plastic surgeon husband.

Just as she was tying the belt on her robe, a buzzer sounded. SueEllen crossed to a control panel above her bath and pressed a button.

“Yes, who is it?”

A young man’s voice filtered through a speaker. “It’s me, SueEllen. I forgot my key.”

“My stepson Brad,” SueEllen whispered to me. “Always forgetting his key.”

“Okay,” she said, pressing a button. “Come on in.”

Once again, my mind boggled. What sort of person has an intercom for their bathtub?

“Isn’t this clever?” she said. “I had it installed so in case the maid isn’t around, I don’t have to get out of the tub to answer the door. I don’t know what I’d do without it.”

Yeah, we all know how irritating it is when the maid isn’t around to answer the door.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea,” she said. “Why don’t you stay for dinner? You can meet my husband and stepchildren—Brad and his sister Heidi.”

“Actually, I think I’ve already met Heidi.”

SueEllen shook her head, in a gesture that was meant to portray sympathy.

“Poor Heidi. Such a troubled child. Terrible weight problem. I’m sure you can relate.”

Ouch. That one hurt.

“My heart goes out to the poor darling,” she said, scrutinizing her face in a magnifying mirror, and squeezing a blackhead. “So I’ve been helping her with her diet. One of these days, she’s going to look just fine.

“So how about it?” she said. “Will you stay for dinner?”

Was she kidding? If I had to listen to one more word about Aunt Melanie and her damned pecan balls, I’d go bonkers. No way was I staying for dinner. I’d head straight home with a pitstop at McDonald’s.

“We’re having beef bourguignon,” SueEllen said.

My salivary glands sprung into action.

“With cherry cobbler for dessert,” she added.

“Sure.” I gulped. “Sounds great.”

SueEllen plunked me down to wait in her oak-paneled den while she got dressed for dinner. The first thing I did was call Prozac. I once read that animals are comforted by the sound of their owner’s voice on the phone. Cooing into my answering machine, I told Prozac that I’d be late and that there was dry food in her bowl, and to please not pee on my pillow as she sometimes does when she’s pissed at me for being late. I told her to be a good girl, then made a few obnoxious kissy noises and hung up.

I tried to look over my notes, but I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think of was food. The smell of beef bourguignon simmering on the stove was driving me crazy. I ransacked my purse for something to eat, but all I came up with was an old Doublemint gum wrapper, which I’m ashamed to say I licked clean.

Then I glanced over at the wet bar and saw my salvation. A bowl of hard candies was sitting on the counter, beckoning to me. I raced over, only to discover they weren’t real candies, but made of glass. What sort of sadist has glass candies out on display to fool unsuspecting guests? The same sort of sadist who makes her writers sit on the toilet bowl, that’s who.

I decided to search behind the bar. Surely there’d be something to eat. Some nuts, maybe, or chips. But no. All I saw were bottles of booze. For a brief instant I considered chugalugging some Grand Marnier, but I couldn’t risk showing up tipsy at the dinner table.

I opened the mini-fridge. Nothing but white wine. Good heavens, these people were annoying. With all their millions, couldn’t they afford a measly bag of potato chips?

And then I found it. Way in the back of a cupboard, behind a stack of cocktail napkins: a jar of macadamia nuts. Macadamia nuts! I felt like Columbus discovering America, or Colonel Sanders discovering Extra Crispy Fried Chicken.

I grabbed the jar and tried to open it, but the Easy Open Lid wouldn’t budge. Lord knows how long it had been sitting there in the cupboard. Maybe it was permanently welded shut. I wanted to bang the lid on the counter to loosen it, but I was afraid I’d make too much noise. So I ran it under hot water in the tiny wet bar sink. It took forever for the water in the tap to finally turn hot, but at last it did, and I held the jar under the steamy water. Then I gave it another try. Still no luck. This was ridiculous. This jar was shut tighter than a bank vault. Somebody ought to write an angry letter to the Easy Open Lid people about the concept of truth in advertising.

I tugged at that jar with every ounce of strength I possessed, and at last the lid flew open. That was the good news. The bad news was that the nuts came flying out of the jar and landed all over the carpet.

I got down on my hands and knees and started gathering the nuts, cursing myself for agreeing to stay for dinner.

“Having fun?”

I looked up and saw SueEllen’s stepdaughter standing in the doorway, peering at me through those thick bangs of hers.

“Oh, geez. This is so embarrassing. You see, I got a little hungry, and—”

“Don’t worry,” she said, smiling shyly. “I’ll help.” Then she got down on her knees and started picking up nuts.

“Thanks so much,” I said. “This is awfully nice of you.”

“I bet the Calorie Cop didn’t feed you all day,” she said, plunking nuts into the jar.

“Just a tiny salad and a Diet Coke.”

“I told you she’d be hell to work for. You’re lucky you got the salad.”

We scooted around on all fours, gathering the macadamias. Finally, we rounded them all up. I looked down into the jar hungrily. I didn’t care if they’d been on the carpet. I still wanted them.

“Look, I hope you won’t think this is too disgusting, eating off the floor, but I’ve got to have some of these nuts. I’m starving.”

“Help yourself,” she shrugged.

I dusted some off and was just about to pop them in my mouth when I heard a voice warn me, “I wouldn’t eat those if I were you.”

I looked up and saw a handsome young guy, about eighteen. This was undoubtedly Brad, the stepson who forgot his keys.

“I had sex on that carpet last night.”

I dropped the nuts back in the jar. That hungry, I wasn’t.

Brad ambled into the room, leaving a trail of spicy aftershave in his wake. As he stretched himself out on the den’s leather sofa, I took in his dark curly hair, cobalt blue eyes, and lean young body. The kid was a knockout and he knew it. I could easily picture him having sex on the carpet, or anywhere else for that matter.

“You must be SueEllen’s new writer,” he said.

“Yes. I’m Jaine Austen. Like the author. Only with an ‘i’ in Jaine.”

He looked up at me, puzzled. “What author?”

Obviously the kid was no Class Valedictorian.

“Jane Austen,” Heidi said with a sigh. “She wrote
Pride & Prejudice.”

“Like I care,” he said, picking up a Ferrari brochure from the coffee table.

“My name’s Heidi,” Heidi said. “And this is my bad-mannered brother Brad.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said.

Brad didn’t bother to look up from his Ferrari brochure.

“Dad’s going to get me a Ferrari for a graduation present,” he said.

“Fat chance,” Heidi said. “SueEllen will never let him spend that kind of money on you.”

His brow furrowed in annoyance.

“Who says?”

“Get real, Brad. Don’t you know by now that all the big bucks in this house are spent on SueEllen?”

“You’re nuts,” he said. “Dad’ll get it for me.”

“Dream on.”

At which point, we heard the sound of high heels clacking on hardwood.

“It’s SueEllen,” Heidi warned. “Better put that away.”

I looked down and realized I was still holding the macadamia nuts. I scampered over to the wet bar, and shoved them into the cupboard, just seconds before SueEllen came sashaying into the room in skin tight capris and a low cut spandex T-shirt.

“Hi, kids,” she said, flashing what I suspected was a rare smile at them. “Brad, sweetheart, feet off the sofa, please.”

Brad grudgingly flopped his feet down from the sofa.

“Well,” she said, smiling brightly, “is everybody hungry?”

Talk about your rhetorical questions.

“Shall we?” she said, gesturing to the door. Then her face puckered in annoyance.

“What’s this?” She bent down and picked up a macadamia nut that had managed to escape our clutches.

SueEllen eyed Heidi coolly.

“Is this yours?” she asked, holding out the offending nut.

Heidi looked down at the carpet, saying nothing. What a nice kid, I thought. Clearly, she didn’t want to get me in trouble.