Death by Pantyhose (23 page)

just then I looked inside and saw Sam standing near the French doors glaring at us, her
beautiful brow marred with a frown.

I smiled and waved gaily.

She quickly turned her attention to the
group of people she was standing with. She pretended she hadn't seen us, but I knew better.
She'd seen us, all right, and now she was doing a
slow burn.

Eat your heart out, you vindictive bitch! I
thought, savoring the moment.

Just as I was biting into another crab puff, I
noticed one of the men she was talking to. A tall
attractive man with graying temples. In a blue
blazer and tan slacks. And tinted aviator glasses.

Wait a minute! I'd know that guy anywhere. I
recognized the glasses. And the graying temples. And the blazer. It was the sleazy con man
who pretended to be Stan McCormick-the
creep who stole my Corolla!

Then, to my horror, I saw the woman next to
him hand him her valet parking ticket! Holy
Mackerel! Somehow he'd faked his way into the
party and was pulling the same scam again! I
couldn't let him get away with it.

I swallowed my crab puff and leapt to my feet.

Jaine, where are you going?"

"I've got to stop that man!"

I charged through the French doors and saw
my con man weaving his way across the room toward the foyer.

"Stop right now!" I shrieked. "I know what
you're up to!"

But he kept on going, playing it cool, strolling
out the living room, nonchalant as you please.

And suddenly all the rage I felt-at Sam, at
Gustavo, at the sicko who'd sabotaged my carcame to a head as I tore across the room.

"You miserable sonofabitch!" I shouted, tack ling him from behind. "You're not going to get
away with this!"

He was a big man, but fueled by anger and
crab puffs, I sent him sprawling to the floor.
Flush with victory, I straddled his chest, much
like Dorcas had done with Vic at the Laff Palace.

Unlike Dorcas, though, I didn't go the strangling route. Instead I shouted:

"Somebody call the police!"

I looked around the room. But nobody
reached for a phone. Everybody just stood there
staring at me, slack jawed with disbelief.

I suddenly realized that, in straddling my con
man, my dress had risen dangerously high on
my thighs, treating the assembled guests to an
up close and personal view of my new black lace
panties. But I didn't care. I'd brought my car
thief to justice!

Then Andrew stepped out from the crowd.

`jaine, what are you doing?"

"This guy is a con man. He stole my car."

"Don't be absurd," Sam said, joining our little
party. "He's not a car thief. He's Rupert Van
Skoyk, the CEO of Union National Bank."

I took a good look at my captive, and my
stomach sank. Seeing him up close, I realized
Sam was right. He wasn't my con man, after all.

"Oh, dear. I'm so sorry," I started babbling. "I
thought you were somebody else. You see, I
went on this job interview and a man in a blue
blazer and tan slacks just like yours with graying
temples took my parking ticket and drove off with
my Corolla and when I saw you take that lady's
ticket, I just assumed you were my car thief."

"No," he said. "I was going out to the car to
get my wife's sweater."

"I'm so sorry," I moaned. "Is there anything I
can do to make it up to you?"

"For starters, you ucan get up off my chest."

Oh, cripes! I was still sitting on the poor guy's
chest! I leapt to my feet, scarlet with shame.

"I'm so sorry!" I said, in what was rapidly becoming a mantra.

"It's all right, my dear," he said. And then he
leaned in to whisper, "I quite enjoyed the view."

The CEO of Union National Bank had seen
my black lace crotch. I wanted to die. I looked
around and saw that nobody was looking at us
anymore. They'd all gone back to their conversational klatches, talking among themselves.
But I knew what the topic of conversation was:
Me. Jaine Austen, Certified Crazy Lady. This was
a story that would be circulating on the "A" list
for months, if not years, to come.

"Thanks for the floor show, Jaine," Sam said.
She and Andrew were the only ones still at my
side. She could barely contain her glee at my
humiliation.

Andrew, on the other hand, looked almost as
mortified as I did. Poor guy. He'd never be able
to live this down. It's a good thing he was going
back to Stuttgart.

"I'm sorry I embarrassed you, Andrew."

He smiled weakly. "It was an honest mistake."

"No, it was a stupid mistake. A really stupid mistake. Wasn't it, Sam? It worked out so much better
than a bad hairdo, huh?"

"What's she talking about?" Andrew asked.

"I have no idea," Sam replied, all wide-eyed
innocence.

"Well, Sam," I sighed, "I guess you win. He's
all yours."

And then I did what I should've done the
minute I walked in the door. I turned around
and walked out.

`Jaine, wait up!"

I was waiting for the valet to bring me my
Mercedes when Andrew came running out of
the house.

"Let's go someplace where we can be alone.
We need to talk."

"No, Andrew. Sam was right about me. I'm all
wrong for you. You belong with one of those size
twos inside. You don't want someone in elasticwaist pants who writes toilet bowl ads for a living.

"But, Jaine," he said, as the Mercedes came
rattling up the driveway, "I already told you. I'm
not like these people. You and I have a lot in
common.

"Really?" I said, getting in the car. "Would you
tackle a bank CEO at a cocktail party? Would you
drive around in a clunker from Crazy Dave's
Rent-A-Wreck? Would you show up for lunch in
an exterminator's van?"

He stood there, awkward and silent.

"I didn't think so."

Then I started the engine and drove off into
the night.

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Back in the Swing of Things

Hi, darling-

It looks like Daddy was right. The police haven't
shown up, and I doubt they will. I guess they've
got more important things to worry about than a
ratty old shirt.

I know what Daddy did was wrong, but he's so
much happier now that he thinks he's got his
lucky shirt back. (For all I know, it is his shirt, but
I sincerely doubt it.) Thank goodness he's
stopped moping around. I thought for a while I
was going to have to have him surgically
removed from his La-Z-Boy.

The really wonderful news is that Daddy's membership in the clubhouse has been reinstated!
He signed the contract at the board of directors'
meeting, promising to behave himself, and
miraculously managed not to offend anybody in
the process. I was worried the board would find
out about Daddy being the Shirt Thief, but everything worked out just fine. In fact, today is our
first day back at the clubhouse.

This afternoon we're going to a lecture on Lowering Your Blood Pressure Through Positive Thinking (a skill I certainly could have used these past
few days!), and afterward we're going square dancing. I'm going to wear my new Rhinestone
Cowgirl pantsuit-a Shopping Channel "Bargain
Buy"-only $45.99 plus shipping and handling. I
can't wait!

Much love to you and precious Zoloft,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Kicked Out-Again!

You're not going to believe this, but Daddy's
been kicked out of the clubhouse again!

Oh, honey, it was so awful.

We showed up for the lecture on Lowering Your
Blood Pressure Through Positive Thinking,
happy as clams to be back in the swing of
things. There we were, sitting in the front rowme in my new Rhinestone Cowgirl pantsuit and
Daddy in his "lucky" Hawaiian shirt-when Ms.
Vickers, our new social director, introduced the
guest lecturer, Dr. Herman Kotler.

Good heavens, I thought, where had I heard that
name before? And then, when Dr. Kotler walked
out onstage, I almost died! It was the same man
Daddy attacked outside the Megaplex!

He took one look at Daddy and jumped down off
the stage, shrieking "Shirt Thief!" at the top of his
lungs. (I'm no expert, but he certainly didn't

seem to be lowering his blood pressure through
positive thinking!)

The next thing you know, Daddy and Dr. Kotler
were wrestling each other over that darn shirt,
each of them claiming the shirt was his. Thank
goodness Ed Peters was able to pull the two of
them apart.

Then Dr. Kotler took out his wallet and showed
Daddy a photo with one of those camera date
stamps, dated ten years ago, of Dr. Kotler wearing "Daddy's" shirt at a luau in Hawaii.

Even Daddy had to admit the picture proved
Dr. Kotler had owned the shirt for years. He apologized to Dr. Kotler and had just given him his
shirt back when Ms. Vickers started screaming. It
seems that one of the shirt buttons had popped
off in the scuffle and broke the cap on her front
tooth.

She was so upset she quit her job right then and
there.

"Mrs. Stuyvesant warned me about you,
Mr. Austen," she said, "and she was right."

Needless to say, the board of directors kicked
Daddy out of the clubhouse. This time, he lasted
a whole twenty-three minutes.

Your thoroughly disgusted,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Little Misunderstanding

Hi, sweetheart-

I suppose Mom has told you about the little misunderstanding at the clubhouse.

Your mother is so upset, I've booked us on a
cruise to Bermuda to cheer her up.

I have to admit I've been acting sort of crazy
lately, which is not at all like me. I finally realized
that I don't need a shirt to bring me good luck.
After all, the best thing that ever happened to me
happened long before I ever got that shirt: marrying your mother.

I'd better go apologize to her.

Your loving,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: All's Well That Ends Well

Daddy just apologized. He was so sweet, I
couldn't stay mad. And guess what? He's
booked us on a cruise to Bermuda. Doesn't that
sound lovely?

So I guess all's well that ends well. True, we'll
have to wait another six months before they let Daddy back in the clubhouse. But on the plus
side, I'll never have to look at that ghastly shirt
again! And that alone is worth all the aggravation
I've been through.

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Great news!

Great news, lambchop! The thrift shop called,
and they found my lucky shirt! It turns out they
never sold it, after all. They've been using it as a
rag! I raced right over and got it. It's a little worse
for wear, but who cares. I can't wait to wear it on
the cruise!

- -woke up the next morning, Prozac curled
-under my chin. Who needed a man when I
had a sweet loving kitty by my side?

Okay, so Prozac wasn't exactly sweet and loving. She was selfish and demanding, with the appetite of a sumo wrestler. But at least she never
left the toilet seat up.

"Looks like it's just you and me, kiddo," I
said, stroking her silky fur.

Then she got up and crawled onto my chest,
and I got the scare of my life.

There on the pillowcase where she'd been
sleeping was a dark pool of dried blood. My heart
started racing. Had Prozac somehow cut herself?
Omigod. What if the killer broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and, in another
attempt to scare me off the case, attacked my
darling kitty?

By now I was in an advanced state of panic. I
was just about to scoop Prozac into my arms and
race her to the vet when she began kneading my chest, the way she always does when she wants
her breakfast. Funny, she didn't look hurt. I felt
her body for blood. Nothing.

Then I sniffed the stain on the pillow and realized it wasn't blood, after all, but dried chocolate from the pint of Chunky Monkey I'd bought
on my way home from Sam's party last night. I'd
wolfed it down in bed, watching a Six Pack Abs
infomercial on TV.

"Oh, Pro!" I said, wrapping her in my arms.
"You're not hurt!"

No, but I'm hungry. So let's move it, okay?

"I'll get your breakfast right away, sweetheart."

The first thing I saw when I got out of bed
(after an empty carton of Chunky Monkey) was
my new black dress and lace undies lying where
I'd left them in a heap on the floor.

I sighed. All that money for nothing. I'd never
be able to wear that dress without remembering
what had to be the most humiliating night of my
life. I shoved it way in the back of my closet and
tossed the underwear in my hamper, certain
none of it would ever again see the light of day.