Murder Has Nine Lives (4 page)

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Authors: Laura Levine

BOOK: Murder Has Nine Lives
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Just as Deedee was rolling her eyes and betting that the only things Dean and the Panther would be tweaking would be each other, a woman's voice came blaring out over the PA system.
Will the owner of a crummy white Corolla with bird poop on the windshield please move their car immediately. You're parked in the owner's spot.
Okay, so she didn't really call my Corolla crummy and she didn't mention the bird poop on the windshield, but the annoyance in her voice was palpable.
“Oh, dear. That's me,” I said, thrusting Prozac into Deedee's arms. “Watch her, will you, while I go move my car?”
“My pleasure!” Deedee cooed. “Deedee will take good care of your precious cargo.”
Grabbing my purse, I sprinted down the hallway, past the receptionist, who looked up from her magazine and gave me the stink eye. Out in the lot, I quickly moved my Corolla from its coveted spot near the front entrance—I should've known it was too good to be true—to a far less enviable location next to the studio dumpster.
When I returned to the studio, the receptionist was busy applying press-on nails.
And to think, some people actually have to work for their money.
Heading back down the hallway, I happened to glance into one of the small offices and saw that it was a kitchen. Standing there at a prep table was Nikki, the food stylist, arranging cat food in a bowl. Written on the bowl were the words
Brand X
. Hadn't the script said something about the Before Cat turning up her nose at ordinary diet cat food? This was no doubt the stuff that Prozac would refuse to eat.
Nikki was carefully sculpting it with a spoon, standing back to admire the effect, much like Rodin must have looked as he was putting the finishing touches on
The Thinker
. Pleased with the final result, she then absentmindedly reached for a spray can. Just as she was about to give a spritz, I realized it was a can of Raid.
“Stop!” I cried. “That stuff is poison!”
Nikki looked at the insecticide in her hand and gasped. “Gosh!” she cried. “It looked just like the lemon oil I spray on the Brand X cat food to make it unpalatable for the cats.”
She pointed to a spray can of lemon oil, which did indeed bear a striking resemblance to the pest killer. “Thank God you were passing by. What if I'd sprayed the Raid by mistake and your poor kitty ate it? She could have died.”
“That's okay,” I assured her. “You didn't spray it. All is well.”
But I have to admit, I was shaken. I shuddered at the thought of Prozac, hungry from no breakfast, digging into Brand X, laced with Raid.
“The studio's been having troubles with ants,” Nikki said, putting the Raid aside on a shelf. “I should have never kept it on the prep table.”
Then she picked up the lemon oil and sprayed the Brand X cat food.
“Are you sure that stuff really keeps cats away?” I asked. “I hardly gave my cat any breakfast this morning, and I'll bet she's starving. What if she tries to eat it?”
“No worries,” Nikki assured me. “Cats hate lemon oil. Once she smells it, she'll never touch the food.”
I had my doubts. After all, we were talking about a cat who's been known to nibble on rancid gym socks.
“Voilà!” Nikki said, holding up the bowl. “Brand X, destined to be rejected.”
It was then that I noticed an adorable pink ring, shaped like a hibiscus, flashing on her middle finger. What a perfect accessory for my trip to Hawaii!
“That's such a cute ring!”
“It is, isn't it?” She flashed it to and fro, making it twinkle in the overhead fluorescent lighting. “I picked it up for only ten bucks at Venice Beach.”
Making a mental note to pop on down to Venice and do a little vacation shopping, I bid Nikki farewell and headed back to the soundstage.
The first thing I saw when I got there was Deedee, talking on her cell phone—Prozac no longer in her arms.
Where the heck was her “precious cargo”?
Looking around, I groaned to see Prozac perched on the buffet table! When I raced over, I found her chowing down on some rare roast beef. Which, by the way, looked mighty fantastic.
Thank heavens there was no one else at the buffet to witness her crime.
“What do you think you're doing?” I said, whisking her up in my arms and grabbing a cheese Danish while I was at it. “Mergfleflugaffleflillwhoppersofeffer?”
Well, what I meant to say was, “Have you no willpower whatsoever?”
But my mouth was full of Danish at the time.
At which point Deedee approached.
I gulped down the rest of my Danish and sputtered, “I thought you were supposed to be watching Prozac!”
“Sorry, hon. I had to set her down while I took an emergency call from a client. Pierre, my star parrot,” she gasped with all the angst of a Shakespearean tragedienne, “has mange!”
I failed to offer her my condolences, fighting the urge to throttle her instead.
“Oh, dear,” Deedee now piped up. “Is that roast beef I smell on our princess's breath? Has she been a naughty kitty and been raiding the buffet table?”
“Yes, I'm afraid she has.”
“I hope she hasn't ruined her appetite.”
“You and me both,” I muttered.
“I'm sure our little trouper will pull through for us,” Deedee enthused. “I can tell by the determined look in her eyes.”
Prozac had a determined look in her eyes, all right. She was now staring at the baked ham, determined to get a bite.
But just then Dean strode onto the soundstage, followed by Camille with Desiree in her arms. Was it my imagination, or was the Panther buttoning one of the buttons on her blouse?
By now Big and Bigger had done their job. The lights were set; the camera was ready to roll.
“Okay,” Ian called out. “We need the ‘Before' cat.”
In my arms, Prozac's tail thumped in annoyance.
Don't call me the ‘Before' Cat! I happen to be the star of this commercial!
I headed over to where Ian was standing at the chaise longue.
“In the first scene, we'll have your cat spread out on the chaise, napping. She can do that, right?” Ian asked, treating me to what seemed like more than a hint of gin on his breath. Suddenly I wondered exactly what he'd been toting around in his Starbucks thermos.
“Absolutely, she can nap,” I assured him, praying Prozac would get over her snit fit about being the Before Cat and snooze on command.
My prayers were answered.
I set Pro down on the chaise, where, no doubt drowsy from all the roast beef she'd just sucked up, she instantly proceeded to stretch out.
Before I even had a chance to whisper my knockout mantra (
Oh, Pro. Wait till I tell you about the miserable day I've just had…
) she was snoring like a buzzsaw.
Big, the cameraman, wasted no time and zoomed in to get some footage.
Nearby Deedee gushed, “Isn't she fantastic! Such a natural!”
“She sure can snore,” Dean said, eyeing her in wonder.
After Prozac's triumphant portrayal of fat and lazy, Big and Bigger reset for the next shot: Prozac turning her nose up at Brand X.
We moved to a large square of linoleum—on this rather thrifty production, meant to represent a kitchen floor.
Nikki came bustling in with the bowl of Brand X cat food glistening with lemon oil. She set it down on the linoleum, careful to make sure it was positioned so the camera picked up the words
Brand X
.
“Are we ready?” Ian called out.
I set Prozac down next to the cat food and waited with bated breath, hoping she wouldn't swan dive into the bowl.
But thank heavens Nikki had been right about the lemon oil. The stuff was kitty kryptonite.
Prozac took one sniff and instantly recoiled.
For the first time in recorded history, my champion chowhound actually turned away from a bowl of food.
“My God!” Deedee cried. “I haven't seen an animal this talented since
Beverly Hills Chihuahua
!”
Then it was time for Prozac's big moment. Her final shot of the commercial—eating the Skinny Kitty.
Another break while Big and Bigger set up the shot. When they were finally ready, Nikki brought out the Skinny Kitty in a gorgeous crystal bowl, no doubt part of the Pink Panther's dinner service.
What with all the setups and footage Big had been shooting, it had been well over an hour since Pro had scarfed down that roast beef. With any luck, enough time had passed for my feline garbage disposal to have worked up an appetite.
By now, my confidence was growing. Prozac was on a roll. She could smell that five grand and all the bacon bits it could buy. I felt certain she'd put on the feed bag and suck up that cat food.
Nikki set down the crystal bowl. She'd done a great job of styling the Skinny Kitty, making the chunks of mystery meat look like something straight out of a Martha Stewart cookbook.
Prozac sniffed at it hungrily. She was all set to chow down.
And then Dean went ahead and opened his big mouth.
“As soon as we're through with ‘fatty' here, we'll set up for our star, Miss Desiree.”
That's when everything went to hell.
I told you Pro understands English. She looked up from the Skinny Kitty, fury flashing in her eyes.
Fatty? He called me Fatty? That's it. I'm outta here.
“Forget about him, Pro,” I whispered in her ear. “Just take a bite.”
Nothing.
“I'm begging you.”
Still nothing.
“Just think of all those juicy bacon bits.”
But it was no use. Her jaws were clamped tighter than a chastity belt in the Middle Ages.
“Hey, what's the holdup?” Dean groused.
“Not a problem, Dean,” Ian said, stepping up to the plate. “I've got this. I work with animals all the time. They always listen to me.”
He crouched down and started to whisper in Prozac's ear, but one blast of his breath sent her skittering away.
Whoa, Nelly. Somebody had a Gin Mc Muffin for breakfast.
“Nice work, Cecil B,” Dean snapped. “Now what are we supposed to do?”
“Don't worry, Dean,” Deedee said, hustling to his side. “This is just a minor hiccup. Prozac is a trained professional. I guarantee she'll give the performance of a lifetime. Animals often need a moment of reflection before throwing themselves into their roles. Isn't that so, Prozac, honey? Aren't you just about to throw yourself into the role?”
At which point, Prozac did sort of throw herself into the role. The role of a Psycho Kitty. With a mighty swipe of her paw, she sent the crystal bowl of cat food skittering across the stage and crashing into a floor light, where it promptly shattered to smithereens.
“That's my good Waterford!” cried the Pink Panther, turning as pink as her sapphires.
Dean kneeled down and looked Prozac straight in the eye, oozing rage from every pore.
“Why, you no-talent little flea ball!”
Prozac oozed right back at him.
Better a flea ball than a sleazeball. And, by the way, Dippity-do called. They want their gel back.
Then, as the coup de grâce, she reached out and landed a nasty scratch on his arm.
And right before my eyes, I saw my five grand going bye-bye.
If you think, as I thought at the time, that I'd hit rock bottom, that things couldn't possibly get any worse, think again.
Because just then, the doors to the soundstage opened and Lance came strolling in, with Mamie in tow.
“Hi-ho, everybody! I'd like you all to meet Mamie, the most talented dog in the world! Is this a good time?”
Chapter 7
L
ance skipped across the room, Mamie trotting behind him, an adorable white fluffball with a fake daisy in her hair.
“You must be Jaine's agent!” Lance cried, making a beeline for Deedee. “Jaine's told me so much about you. And Mr. Kendrick,” he said practically salaaming to Ian, “I'm such a fan of your work. I just adored
Attack of the Lemming People
!”
The little toady must have seen my call sheet this morning and wasted no time doing his homework.
“A pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. Oliver,” he said, pumping Dean's hand with gusto. “I've brought you pictures of my amazing dog, Mamie. Say hello, Mamie.”
Right on cue, Mamie gave a perky little yap.
“Here she is,” Lance said, passing out photos, “as a cowgirl. As Cleopatra. And as a licensed registered nurse—”
Dean, no doubt pissed at getting third billing in the introductions, had had enough.
“We don't have time for this nonsense. We're trying to shoot a commercial. With a cat who refuses to eat the cat food.”
“Really?” Lance's eyes lit up. “I'm sure Mamie would eat it. She adores cat food. And I bet she could pass as a cat if you shot her in really soft focus.”
Dean stared at him, incredulous.
“Will somebody get this clown out of here?”
For once, Dean and I were on the same page.
Big and Bigger materialized at Lance's side, grabbed him by the elbows, and hauled him out the door, Mamie scampering happily in their wake.
By now Dean had worked himself up into quite a frenzy, his face an unbecoming shade of puce.
“What a freaking mess!” he cried, pointing to the Skinny Kitty splattered all over the fake kitchen floor. “It's all your fault,” he said, whirling on me. “You and your no-talent cat. I'm gonna sue you for every cent you're worth.”
Oh, gulp. The last thing my anemic checking account and I needed was a lawsuit.
“And you,” he said, turning his wrath on Ian. “You call yourself an animal director? What a joke. You couldn't direct a flea to a dog.”
“That's not quite fair,” Ian protested. “You've got to admit, Prozac's a bit bonkers.”
“Stop making excuses,” Dean snapped. “You can't direct because you're too damn drunk! I could smell the gin on your breath from the parking lot. When's the last time you actually had coffee in that thermos of yours? I'm going to personally see to it that you never work in this town again.”
Ian blanched, fear shining in his bloodshot eyes.
“Now, Dean,” Deedee said, putting her bangled wrist on his arm. “Let's all take a deep breath and calm down. I'm sure all Prozac needs is a few minutes to center herself, and we'll be up and running.”
“Shut up, Deedee,” Dean said, slapping her hand away. “I should've never worked with you in the first place. You haven't represented a decent animal act in decades.”
“That's not true!” Deedee cried. “Why, my parrot Pierre just shot the cover of
Parrots Today
.”
“I've made a few phone calls about you, hon, and rumor has it you've swindled quite a few clients out of their commissions.”
“That's a vicious lie!” Deedee cried, chins quivering in indignation.
“Yeah? Well, you can tell your side of the story to the authorities. Because I'm going to report you to the D.A.'s office the first thing tomorrow morning.”
Deedee gulped in dismay.
And I must say, I was a bit shaken myself.
Was it possible that Dean was right, and that all along Deedee had been planning to cheat me out of my five grand?
By now the tension was so thick, you could cut it with a weed wacker.
Nikki and Zeke were huddled together, along with Big and Bigger, waiting for Dean to spew his anger on them, but by this point, he seemed to have run out of steam. He just stood there, fists clenched, his face still that unbecoming shade of puce.
It was then that mousy little Linda stepped up and saved the day.
“Why don't we all take a break, hon?” she said to Dean, smiling that serene smile of hers. “It's almost time for lunch anyway. When we come back up, we can shoot the last scene in the commercial, the one where you eat the cat food. In the meanwhile, we can send out for another crystal bowl, and Jaine can work with Prozac. I'll help her. I'm sure, between the two of us, we can get Prozac to gobble up the Skinny Kitty.”
Like magic, her words seemed to calm him down.
There was something about her voice, so soft, so reassuring that even I, who had given up all hope of ever seeing a paycheck, was beginning to believe that maybe things would work out, after all.
“Okay, Linda,” Dean said, at last unclenching his fists. “We'll give it a try. Now I think I'll go rest in my dressing room.”
“Good idea, sweetheart.”
“I'll go with him,” the Panther piped up, not exactly happy at this loving exchange between husband and wife. “There are some more details we need to go over for the ad campaign.”
Linda watched them trot off together, her smile frozen on her lips. Surely, she must have suspected something was going on between the two of them.
“Zeke!” Dean called out as he was leaving. “Clean up the cat food mess.”
Zeke nodded, gritting his teeth.
As soon as Dean and the Panther were gone, Zeke got to work cleaning up the cat food, muttering curses under his breath. Meanwhile, Nikki left to buy a new crystal bowl, and Big and Bigger ambled off to set up the next shot.
Ian and Deedee, still shaken from Dean's threats, went out to the parking lot for a breath of fresh air.
“Time for us to get to work with Prozac,” Linda said, turning to me, her comforting smile back in place again. “Let's try to get her to exercise, so she can work up an appetite.”
We headed over to the chaise longue where Prozac had shot her napping scene.
“Dean's just got the patent on his latest invention—a catnip-infused ball of yarn.” She reached into her purse and took out what looked like a simple ball of yarn. “The catnip scent is infused into the yarn and sealed in there so it stays fresh indefinitely. It's really a breakthrough in the world of cat toys. “Let's see if Prozac likes it,” she said, tossing the yarn onto the chaise.
I plopped Prozac down next to it, but she just stared at it disdainfully.
Puh-leese. If you think I'm about to play with a silly ball of—Oh, Mama! What's that I smell? Yummity yum yum yum!
By now her little pink nose was sniffing in overdrive, and she was rolling around on the chaise with that ball of yarn like a stripper wrestling in a vat of Jell-O.
“I've never seen her so excited about a toy,” I marveled.
Linda beamed with pride.
“We call it Yarn-Nip. Dean and I think it's going to be a top seller.”
“Thanks so much for coming to our rescue,” I said as we watched Prozac prance around with the Yarn-Nip. “If you hadn't stepped in, I'm sure Dean would have kicked us out the door.”
“It was nothing, honey,” she shrugged. “After sixteen years of marriage I know how to defuse Dean. Underneath all his swagger and explosions, he's really a good guy.”
“Dean . . . a good guy?” Zeke scoffed as he sidled up to join us. “You're a saint to put up with him, Linda. And everybody knows it.”
“Stop it, Zeke,” Linda said sharply. “You know I don't like that kind of talk.”
“Sorry,” Zeke mumbled like a puppy who'd just been swatted on the head with a newspaper.
Zeke continued to hang out with us as we watched Prozac have intimate relations with her ball of yarn, gazing at Linda with pure longing in his eyes.
After a while, Nikki returned to the soundstage.
“Mission accomplished!” she said, joining us. “I found a crystal bowl at a thrift shop just a few blocks away. The Skinny Kitty's all prepped for Dean. I left it in the kitchen, safe from mischievous paws,” she added with a sidelong glance at Prozac, who by now, in several states, was undoubtedly legally married to the ball of yarn.
Nikki then headed off to reward herself with a snack from the buffet table, accompanied by Linda and Zeke.
I would have loved to join them and swan dive into some baked ham, but didn't dare let Prozac out of my sight.
Eventually, Big and Bigger announced that they were ready to shoot, and Ian and Deedee were summoned from the parking lot.
Ian staggered back onto the soundstage, weaving unsteadily on his feet, clearly three sheets to the wind, gulping gin from him Starbucks thermos. He was soon followed by Deedee, who came marching in with a self-assured smile, brow unfurrowed under her ebony chopsticks.
“Are you guys okay?” Linda asked, eyeing Ian with concern.
“Fine,” Ian muttered
“I'm perfectly well, thank you,” Deedee said. “Your husband may have issued some ugly threats, but I've got nothing to be worried about. Not now. You see, I've taken care of him forever.”
And with those enigmatic words, she bopped over to the buffet table and helped herself to a bear claw.
Linda, looking somewhat taken aback at Deedee's pronouncement, summoned Dean and the Pink Panther from their latest “work” session.
“Camille helped me with my makeup,” Dean said as he and the Panther sauntered over to join us.
I'll just bet she did
, I thought, eyeing a smudge of foundation on the Panther's thigh.
“Okay, everybody. Quiet on the set!” Ian called out as Dean crossed to the stage and took a seat in the armchair that had been set up for the shot.
“You ready?” Ian snapped, glaring at Dean.
“Probably the only person on this soundstage who is,” Dean shot back.
Ian took a defiant slug from his thermos and called out: “Where the hell's the cat food?”
At which point, Nikki came rushing in with a freshly styled bowl of Skinny Kitty, along with a tiny silver fork.
“That bowl isn't real crystal,” the Panther sniffed.
“It'll have to do,” Linda said, steely-eyed.
“Yes, let's get this thing over with,” Dean said, grabbing the bowl and fork.
“Okay,” Ian shouted. “Action!”
And just like that, Dean morphed from monumental grouch to personable spokesman, all smiles, Mr. Rogers in Armani.
“My Skinny Kitty cat food is so delicious,” he said, spearing a forkful, “I eat it myself.”
He held up the chunk of cat food, admiring it as it shimmered in the studio light. Then he popped it in his mouth and, true to his word, ate it.
He was just about to dig in for another bite when suddenly he clutched his stomach, his face drained of color. The silver fork came clattering to the floor, followed by the bowl of cat food. Seconds later, Dean joined them with a thud, coiled in a fetal ball, moaning in pain.
For a minute, everyone just stood there, frozen.
“What's wrong?” Ian finally managed to ask.
“I've been poisoned, you idiot,” Dean gasped, in what turned out to be his genial last words.
“Someone call 911!” Linda cried.
Zeke dug out his cell phone and made the call as Linda raced to Dean's side.
“Hang in there, honey,” she crooned, cradling him in her arms. “You're going to be okay.”
But for once Linda couldn't make things right.
Dean was dead and gone long before the paramedics showed up.
“And that,” Ian said, as they carted Dean's body out the door, “is a wrap.”
YOU'VE GOT MAIL!
 
 
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Scrabble Central
 
I can't wait till this dratted Scrabble tournament is over. Daddy has commandeered the dining room (now known as Scrabble Central), where he sits in his Lucky Thinking Cap, memorizing words with
x
's and
q
's, playing Scrabble on his iPhone, and taking Power Naps every seven and a half minutes.
 
The other day he came home from the market with a jumbo jar of gherkin pickles. Apparently he read on some wacky Web site that pickles help boost brainpower, and he's been stuffing his face with gherkins ever since.
 
What with all that acid, I'm afraid he's going to give himself an ulcer. I've told him he's asking for trouble, but does he listen? Of course not! He just sits there, trying to figure out how he can work “oxyphenbutazone” into a game for 1,778 points.
 
Oh, dear. Someone's at the door. Must run. More later—
 
XOXO,
Mom
 
 
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: The Most Exciting News!
 
Jaine, sweetheart, I've got the most exciting news. Guess who's going to be the special guest presenter at the Scrabble Championship Awards Luncheon? World-renowned game show host (and silver fox) Alex Trebek!
 
Lydia Pinkus just stopped by with the news. It turns out her old college roommate is a friend of Alex's fourth cousin once removed. At any rate, Lydia wrote him one of her persuasive letters, told him how much we all adore
Jeopardy
, and that darling man agreed to come to Tampa Vistas!
 
I absolutely must order a new dress for the luncheon. Which reminds me, honey. Did you ever get that Outrageous Orange tankini I sent you? Isn't it the cutest thing ever?
 
Love you oodles.
 
XOXO,
Mom
 
 
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Last Days of the Scrabble Queen
 
I suppose Mom has told you the good news, Lambchop.
 
Alex Trebek is going to be giving me my championship ring at the Scrabble awards luncheon. Pretty darn exciting, huh?
 
You know, I've always wanted to be on
Jeopardy
. When this Scrabble thing is over and I get back from Hawaii, I just may give it a try.
 
Lydia was so full of herself when she was here just now, bragging about how she'd convinced Alex to come to Tampa Vistas. But I could tell, deep down she was scared. She saw me in my Lucky Thinking Cap and knew she didn't stand a chance in the tournament. I could see the fear in her beady little eyes. Her days as Scrabble Queen are coming to an end, and she knows it.
 
Well, I'm off to the market to buy some gherkin pickles. Did you know pickles are brain food, Lambchop? It's true. I read it on the Internet!
 
Love 'n' snuggles from
Your Scrabble-tastic
DaddyO
 
 
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Peace & Quiet
 
Daddy's at the market, getting more gherkins, and I must admit I'm enjoying the peace and quiet. No pop spelling quizzes. No cursing at the iPhone Scrabble game. Just blissful silence. I took advantage of the lull to order the most adorable dress for the Scrabble awards luncheon. Navy blue, scoop neck, three-quarter sleeves, with a flouncy skirt and tasteful smattering of bugle beads at the neck. (Just $69.95, plus shipping and handling!) They had it in a beautiful fuchsia color, which might be fun for one of your L.A. cocktail parties. What do you think?
 
Oops. I hear Daddy at the front door. I'll pretend I'm napping, in case he wants me to give him a spelling quiz. Oh, dear. Now he's hollering about something. I'd better go see what's wrong.
 
XOXO,
Mom
 
 
To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Infamy!
 
Today, Lambchop, is a day that will live in infamy!
 
My Lucky Thinking Cap is missing! And I know who took it. That snake in the grass, Lydia Pinkus. I saw her eyeing it when she was here earlier.
 
I foolishly left the door unlocked when I went to the market, and she must've snuck in while I was gone and stolen it in a scurrilous attempt to rob me of my mental acuity.
 
But her devilish plot will be foiled! I'll get my cap back, if it's the last thing I do.
 
Love 'n' snuggles from
DaddyO
 
 
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Oreo Therapy
 
Of all the idiotic nonsense. Daddy's misplaced his “Lucky Thinking Cap,” and he's convinced Lydia Pinkus stole it. How absurd. He's out “casing her town house” for evidence right now.
 
Honestly, I bet that cap is sitting right here in the house somewhere. Although I must admit, I've looked everywhere and can't find it.
 
Must run, honey. Am in desperate need of Oreo Therapy—
 
XOXO,
Mom

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