Murder Has Nine Lives (2 page)

“Oh, Prozac!” I whispered in her ear. “I've had the most horrible day. Let me tell you all about it!”

And sure enough, my ever-empathetic kitty did what she's done countless times in my moments of need. The minute she heard my plea for a shoulder to cry on, she was out like a light. Snoring like a buzz saw.

“Very impressive,” said Dean, his head shots now totally forgotten.

The others nodded in assent.

“We have several other cats to interview,” Linda said, “but you're definitely a front runner. We'll call your agent by the end of the day.”

With a song in my heart, and a few gobs of Skinny Kitty on my sweater, I made my way across the corridor to the waiting room.

Deedee pounced the minute I entered.

“So? How did it go?”

“They seemed to like her. Linda said I'm a front-runner.”

“See?” Deedee said. “I told you everything would work out just fine.”

And it had. For me and Prozac, anyway.

The last thing I heard as I walked out the door was the redhead crying plaintively, “Wake up, Mr. Jingles! Wake up!”

* * *

Deedee and I rode down in the elevator together, Deedee kitchy-kooing over Prozac, babbling about how she was going to be a superstar.

“Bigger than Garfield, bigger than Marmaduke, bigger than King Kong!”

I refrained from pointing out that none of these stars were actual animals, afraid to burst her bubble of enthusiasm.

“Au revoir, mes enfants!” she cried, getting off at the lobby and waving good-bye with wrists ajangle.

Prozac and I proceeded down to the lower parking level, where Prozac had a joyous reunion with her good buddy Mr. Gas Pedal. So grateful was I for her bravura performance at the audition that I hardly even minded when she began bouncing around my feet like an errant pinball.

Yes, I was pulling out of the parking lot in the rosiest of moods, wondering exactly how much star kitties got paid, when I happened to look across the street and saw Deedee getting on a bus.

I blinked in surprise. She'd told me she was getting off at the lobby because she'd found a parking space on the street. Obviously, she'd been fibbing.

“That's odd, Pro,” I mused aloud. “Why isn't an agent to the animal stars driving a fancy foreign car with vanity plates? Why on earth is she taking the bus?”

But my frantic feline was too busy shredding the floor mats to give the matter much thought.

Chapter 3

M
y heart always swells with pride when I show up at the headquarters of Toiletmasters Plumbers.

There, painted on the front wall of the building, next to a caricature of a plumber brandishing two plungers like six-shooters, is my slogan
In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters!

True, the building is located in one of the San Fernando Valley's seedier enclaves, and my slogan is now festooned with several X-rated works of graffiti, but I still get a kick out of seeing my words splashed across the wall.

And that afternoon was no exception as I pulled into the lot to meet up with Phil Angelides and his Touch-Me-Not commode.

I found Phil in his back office, his battered desk drowning in a sea of papers and assorted wrenches. Sitting amid the clutter was a supersized jar of hand sanitizer.

“Great to see you, Jaine!” Phil said, leaping up to greet me as I walked in the door.

A mountain of a guy with hair everywhere on his body except his head, Phil's got the personality of a Labradoodle, happy and slurpy and bursting with enthusiasm.

He gave my hands an eager squeeze, almost breaking a knuckle or two in the process. Then, the minute he let go, he proceeded to douse his hands with sanitizer.

It never ceases to amaze me that Phil, who still goes out in the field and sticks his hands in God knows what, is worried about catching
my
germs.

“Wait'll you see the Touch-Me-Not!” he gushed, leading me out to his showroom. “You're gonna flip over it! But first, you gotta see what I just bought for my collection.”

The collection to which Phil referred was his stockpile of celebrity commodes.

Yes, you read that right. The guy collects toilet bowls of the rich and famous.

Whenever he learns of a celebrity home demolition, he's the first on the scene to pick up the commodes. Apparently, there's a market for this stuff. He's even been known to bid on toilets from overseas. The crown in his collection is a nondescript white porcelain number that used to belong to Johnny Carson, which he has proudly dubbed Johnny's Johnny. He claims to own commodes used by Winston Churchill, Cary Grant, and J. K. Rowling (Potter's Potty).

“Look!” he said, pointing to an old-fashioned toilet with a wooden seat and a pull chain. “Queen Elizabeth's toilet from Windsor Castle! “Just think!” he beamed. “I own the queen's
other
throne!”

After several minutes of oohing and aahing over the royal toilet, Phil finally got down to business.

“Time to see the Touch-Me-Not,” he said, heading over to his display of toilets for us mere mortals.

“Here she is,” he said, pointing with a flourish to a sleek white toilet.

The guy was so darn proud, I almost expected to hear a fanfare of trumpets blaring in the background.

“I just hold my hand over the tank,” he said, placing his hammy palm over a small round sensor atop the tank, “and like magic, the toilet flushes.”

Of course, the sample we were looking at did not flush, since it wasn't hooked up to any actual plumbing, but Phil assured me it worked like a charm.

“Isn't it great?” he said, waxing euphoric. “Fewer germs to pick up or leave behind!”

He grinned at me expectantly, waiting for me to be amazed.

“It's a miracle!” I cried, fearing I might be overdoing it just a tad.

But if I was overdoing it, Phil didn't seem to notice.

“You're going to have so much fun writing the brochure,” he said. “C'mon back to my office and I'll give you the specs.”

Back in his office, Phil started rooting around the papers on his desk, looking for the info on the Touch-Me-Not.

“By the way,” he said, tossing aside a stray Danish, “I hope you can make it to the Fiesta Bowl.”

No, Phil was not inviting me to a football game. The Fiesta Bowl to which he referred was Toiletmasters' annual employees bash, held at Phil's house out in Tarzana.

It's usually a rather raucous affair, featuring lots of beer, hot dogs, and plumbing jokes. Not exactly Noel Coward territory, but who was I to turn down a free hot dog?

“Wouldn't miss it for the world,” I assured him.

“Aw, honey, you're the best!”

By now Phil had dug up the Touch-Me-Not info and handed it to me in a manila folder dusted with Danish crumbs.

“I can always count on my Jainie, can't I?” he said, giving me a loving pinch on my cheek and then immediately splorting his hands with sanitizer. “One more thing,” he added. “I almost forgot. My nephew Jim just moved to town and started working for me. He's a great guy, and I thought maybe you might want to go out with him.”

He shot me his Labradoodle smile, eager and hopeful.

A blind date? Wasn't gonna happen.

Blind dates are God's way of telling you that nuns don't have it so bad, after all.

No way was I subjecting myself to a torturous evening with some goofball with whom I was certain to have nothing in common and who would at the end of the night no doubt whip out a calculator to figure out my share of the bill. Don't shake your head like that. If I had a calculator for every time that happened to me, I'd own IBM.

And Phil's nephew? I could just imagine what he'd look like. Phil's a darling man, but he's got enough hair in his ears to stuff a throw pillow. And his nephew was a plumber, to boot. Call me shallow, but I didn't want to date a guy who spent his days elbow deep in poo. I wanted someone creative—a writer, a musician, an artist! Someone intelligent and sensitive, with impeccably clean fingernails.

“So, Jaine? How about it?” Phil asked. “Are you up for a date with my nephew?”

Not if he were the last plumber on earth and I needed my shower snaked.

Time to haul out my imaginary boyfriend.

“Thanks so much for thinking of me, Phil, but actually, I'm seeing someone.”

“You are??”

He needn't have sounded so surprised. I mean, it's not that impossible, is it?

“Yes, Collier and I have been dating for a couple of months.”

I've always wanted to date a guy named Collier.

“Aw, that's too bad. I was hoping you and Jim might hit it off.”

“Sorry, Phil,” I shrugged, trying to look disappointed.

I gathered my purse and was just getting up to leave when the door to Phil's office opened and in walked the Collier of my dreams, a studmuffin of the highest order—tall and rangy, with a fab bod, streaky surfer-blond hair, and blue eyes no doubt reincarnated from the late Paul Newman.

“Speak of the devil,” Phil said. “Jaine, meet my nephew Jim.”

This hunkalicious piece of hubba hubba was Phil's nephew? I simply could not believe that these two guys swam in the same gene pool.

“Jim, I wanted to set you up with Jaine.”

“That would have been really nice,” said Mr. Incredible, revealing another weapon in his arsenal of good looks—a megawatt grin.

Suddenly dating a plumber seemed like a Must Do on my bucket list.

“But, unfortunately,” Phil said, “Jaine has a boyfriend.”

“That's too bad,” Mr. Incredible said, with what looked like genuine regret.

Why on earth had I told that ridiculous lie? Why couldn't I be one of those people who always say Yes to life? Why did I have to be the eternal pessimist, certain that any blind date of mine would inevitably turn out to be a loser and/or serial killer? If only I hadn't invented that stupid imaginary boyfriend!

“Actually,” I said, “my boyfriend and I aren't all that close. In fact, last night Curtis and I had a bit of a spat.”

“I thought his name was Collier,” Phil said.

“It is. It's Collier-Curtis. Hyphenated. He's a Brit.”

By now Phil was looking at me like I was nuts, but I plowed ahead.

“So maybe we could meet up,” I said to Jim, “just to see how things work out.”

“Oh, no. I couldn't possibly intrude on a relationship. I'd feel funny about seeing you when I know you're involved with someone else.”

“But we're not involved. Not really. Collier-Curtis and I have always been more friends than boyfriend and girlfriend. Really, we're just friends. Honest. I'd love to go out with you.”

My God, have you ever seen such a disgusting display of groveling?

“Well, if you're sure you're not in a relationship . . . ,” Jim said.

“I'm positive.”

“How about dinner?”

“Sounds fab!”

“I'll give you a call, and we'll set something up.”

“Yes! Absolutely!”

And with that, I waved good-bye and headed out the door, a new assignment in my hands, and not a shred of dignity to my name.

Chapter 4

T
hat night I left my future star of stage, screen, and cat food commercials waging her unending war against my throw pillows and drove off to meet my good buddy and longtime dining companion, Kandi Tobolowski, for an early dinner.

Kandi and I have been friends ever since we met at a screenwriting class at UCLA and bonded over bad vending machine coffee. Kandi has since clawed her way to the middle in the ranks of show biz, with a lucrative career writing for the Saturday morning cartoon,
Beanie & the Cockroach
(while I, alas, still toiled in the fields of Touch-Me-Not commodes).

We were meeting, as we often do, at our favorite restaurant, Paco's Tacos, a lively Mexican joint with margaritas to die for and burritos the size of a VW bus.

Kandi was waiting for me when I got there, blithely ignoring the bowl of golden corn chips right under her nose. Which is one of the reasons Kandi can slip into her size six jeans without emergency liposuction.

“Hey, sweetheart!” she cried, jumping up and wrapping me in a bony hug. “I already ordered us margaritas.”

“Bless you!” I said, my eyes lighting up at the sight of two frosty margs on the table.

I wasted no time taking a healthy slug of mine.

“So, what's up?” I asked when I came up for air.

“Big news.” A dramatic pause as she pulled my hand out of the chip bowl and held it in hers. “There's something wrong with me. Something very wrong.”

“Oh, no!” I moaned, picturing Kandi hooked up to an IV in intensive care. “What is it?”

Gathering her courage, she took a deep breath and intoned:

“I, Kandi Tobolowski, am a shopaholic.”

“Is that all?”

Tell me something I didn't already know. Kandi has always been a world-class shopper, a Kung Fu master of the credit card. Luckily, with her salary from
Beanie & the Cockroach
, it's a pastime she can well afford.

“It's gone too far, Jaine. Last week I came home with a pair of the most glorious knee-high boots I bought on sale at Nordstrom, only to discover I had the exact same pair in the back of my closet. In two other colors.

“I finally faced up to the fact that I've been using shopping as a way to drown my sorrows and ease the frustration of still being single after all these years.”

It's true. Kandi has kissed about a zillion frogs in her unending search for Mr. Right and has reaped nothing for her efforts but a bunch of emotional warts. It's hard to understand why she's had such poor luck. With her glossy chestnut hair and slim figure, one would think she'd have landed her Mr. Right ages ago.

But one would be wrong.

My theory is that Kandi keeps going after the wrong kind of guy—the egomaniacs, the no-goodniks, the self-centered jerks—in other words, your typical Los Angeles available man.

“But my spending days are behind me,” Kandi was saying. “I've cut up all my credit cards. From now on, I'm going to learn how to drown my sorrows in chocolate and chardonnay like you, Jaine. Only not quite so much chocolate, I hope.”

At which point, our waiter, a slim Hispanic guy with the sad eyes of a medieval saint, came whisking to our side.

“What will it be, senoritas?”

Kandi ordered the red snapper. And even though I was yearning for the crunchily delicious deep-fried chimichangas, I made up my mind to order the low-calorie snapper, too. The last thing I needed was a bunch of chimichanga carbs clinging to my hips if Jim Angelides decided to call.

“And for you?” The waiter turned to me, pen poised above his pad.

“The chimichanga combo plate,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “With extra sour cream on my refried beans,” I had the temerity to add.

I swear, any day now my picture's going to be on Weight Watchers' Most Wanted list.

Meanwhile, Kandi was still lost in the saga of her brave new life.

“I've enrolled in a money management class, and I've taken up the most fantastic new hobby to keep my mind occupied when I feel the urge to shop: Knitting! In fact, I made something for you, hon!”

With that, she reached for a shopping bag under her seat and pulled out a ginormous mass of lumpy wool, filled with dropped stitches and gaping holes.

“How nice,” I said with a feeble smile. “An area rug.”

“It's not a rug. It's a scarf. Somehow the stitches got stretched out. I'm still working on my technique.”

“It looks great,” I lied, wondering if I could use it as a bath mat.

“So what's new with you, hon?” she asked.

I wanted to tell her all about Jim, my dashing surfer boy plumber, to rave about his streaky blond hair and Paul Newman eyes, but I couldn't. Not when Kandi was at such a low point in her love life. I'd have to keep my Prince Charming under wraps for now.

So I swallowed my excitement, along with a handful of chips, and told her about Prozac's Skinny Kitty audition instead.

“That's fantastic!” she cried. “Maybe I can knit her a tutu!”

After I convinced Kandi that Prozac wasn't a tutu kind of cat, our entrées showed up, and we spent the rest of the night gabbing—discussing the joys of knitting, the paucity of decent men in L.A., and the pros and cons of ordering margaritas with or without salt.

At the end of the meal Kandi paid for her half of the bill with cash, her wallet empty of all credit cards, but sheathed in a lumpy hand-knit “wallet cozy.”

We hugged each other good-bye outside the restaurant, and I drove off with my new scarf wrapped around my neck at least seven times.

Kandi may not have mastered the art of knitting, but I was proud of her for recognizing she had an addiction and showing some discipline.

There was a lesson to be learned there. It was about time I showed a little impulse control of my own.

And so I'm proud to report that instead of making a pit stop at the supermarket for an après-chimichanga pint of Chunky Monkey ice cream like I usually do, I drove straight home and got in my jammies.

Then, and only then, did I throw on a raincoat and drive over for my Chunky Monkey.

* * *

Hard to believe, but true: By the time I got home from my Chunky Monkey run, I was feeling so guilty, all I ate was a couple of spoonfuls, and then I shoved the rest in the back of my freezer, behind some frozen peas and a Lean Cuisine dinner I'd been avoiding for months.

I really had to cool it on the calories if I expected to look halfway decent for my date with Jim.

Now as I lay in bed, watching
House Hunters
and trying to get Prozac to stop hogging my pillow, I still couldn't get over my good luck meeting the surfer/plumber of my dreams.

To think that Jim Angelides—a guy who, on a scale of one to ten was a 34—actually wanted to go out with me, Jaine Austen, a gal whose cellulite has been known to throw tailgate parties on her thighs!

Just as I was fantasizing about how marvelous it would be to run my fingers through his spiky blond hair, the phone rang.

“Jaine, sweetie!” Deedee's unmistakable trill came zinging across the line. “Are you sitting down?”

“Yes.”

“Is Prozac sitting down?”

“Yes, on my freshly washed pillowcase, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, brace yourself, darling. Prozac got the part! She's going to star in the Skinny Kitty commercial!”

“Omigod!” I squealed. “That's fantastic news.”

“No, sweetums. That's good news. The fantastic news is that they're paying five grand.”

Thank heavens I wasn't eating that Chunky Monkey, otherwise I'm sure I would've choked on it.

“The shoot is next week. I'll e-mail you the address. Just remember. All Prozac has to do is nap and eat.”

The easiest five grand I'd ever earn.

“Your little princess is headed for stardom,” Deedee assured me. “I just know it. I've got infallible star-dar!”

I hung up in a daze.

First Jim. Now this. The gods were surely smiling on me.

“Wake up, Pro!” I said to my precious furball, who was now snoring atop my pillow. “You got the part in the Skinny Kitty commercial!”

“She did?” asked a disembodied voice, seemingly from out of nowhere.

No, it wasn't a ghost. It was Lance, shouting at me from his bedroom. Thanks to our paper-thin walls, and Lance's X-ray hearing, the guy can practically hear me putting on my makeup.

“Yes, Lance,” I called back, with more than a hint of smugness in my voice. “The cat you said would never make it in show biz has landed a part in a commercial.”

“Really? I'll be right over!”

Two minutes later, he was sailing into my apartment in his pajama bottoms, his six-pack abs buffed to perfection.

I hate it when guys have skinnier waists than I do.

“So Prozac actually got that part?” he asked, not even trying to hide his disbelief.

“Yes, she did. And it pays five thousand dollars.”

At this his jaw literally hung open.

“Omigod, that's wonderful!” he cried when he finally recovered his powers of speech. “Just wonderful!”

I have to admit I was touched. Lance was happy for me and Prozac, after all. He cared about us and had stopped by to share in our good news.

“If Prozac can land a commercial,” he said, his eyes gleaming with unadulterated ambition, “then my Mamie is destined to be a major motion picture star!”

Scratch that empathy.

“All I need is your agent's name and contact info.”

Of all the nerve! Asking for my help, after how little faith he'd shown in Prozac.

Reluctantly, I scribbled a phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to him.

“Thanks, hon! And congrats on the Skinny Kitty job,” he added, wrapping me in a warm hug. “I'm thrilled for you guys.”

And he actually seemed to mean it.

I sure didn't see that one coming.

In fact, I was so touched, I was beginning to feel bad about giving him my chiropractor's phone number.