Death of a Trophy Wife (13 page)

And I suddenly understood why Marvin never seemed to have had time for Bunny, why he’d always been buried in his work. I thought he was your garden variety workaholic, but in truth, he was just avoiding her.

“At first I was pretty angry,” Ellen said, “as you well know from the wedding album. But then I saw how miserable Marvin was with Bunny, and the next thing I knew he was sneaking over to my place for meatloaf and
Seinfeld
reruns.”

And a little mattress action, I figured, eyeing her nightie.

“I wanted a divorce,” Marvin said, “but I knew how vindictive Bunny could be. She was sure to rake me over the coals.”

“You didn’t have a pre-nup?”

“Bunny said it took all the romance out of love, and I was dopey enough to go along with her. I could shoot myself for being such an idiot.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, darling.” Ellen said, running her fingers where his hair would have been if he’d had any.

“Ellen and I sweated bullets for our money, and we hated the thought of Bunny walking away with a chunk of it. Besides, I soon suspected that Bunny had a lover.”

If he only knew it was his own son-in-law.

“We kept hoping that she’d be the one who’d want the divorce,” Ellen said. “Which would’ve made things a whole lot easier. So we kept our affair a secret and pretended to be bitter exes.”

“And then,” Marvin said, “when Bunny got killed, we realized how bad it would look if people knew we’d been having an affair. I’d be the prime suspect for sure. So we’ve kept up the pretense.”

“What about your boyfriend?” I asked Ellen. “The silver-haired fox?”

“Escort service.” She winked. “A hundred bucks an hour. Two hundred after midnight.”

“Does anyone else know about all this?”

“Just Lupe. But she’s not about to go to the police. She knows we aren’t killers.”

And indeed, sitting there side by side, holding hands, a pudgy middle-aged couple, they didn’t much look like the murdering kind.

But looks can be deceiving. Just ask any vet who’s ever looked into Prozac’s innocent green eyes and called her a sweet little kittykins.

For all I knew, Marvin and Ellen decided to bypass a messy divorce with a dose of weed killer. Which led me to my next question.

“And the weed killer I saw in your closet?” I asked Ellen.

She had to think about this for a beat before she realized what I was talking about.

“Oh, that. I didn’t use it to poison Bunny, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s for our weekend house in Santa Barbara. Marvin and I have been meeting there when we get the chance.”

Sounded plausible. Not necessarily true. But plausible.

After promising that I wouldn’t squeal to the cops (not yet, anyway), I told the lovebirds I’d let myself out and left them sitting on the sectional, Marvin still gazing goo-goo eyed at Ellen.

I only hoped some man would look at me that way some day. Preferably without the Pillsbury Doughboy bathrobe.

L
ike a jungle cat lying in wait for his prey, Lance pounced on me as I headed up the path to my apartment.

“Hey, Jaine,” he cried, bounding out his front door. “About dinner tonight—”

He looked so eager, I felt a sudden stab of guilt about finking out on him.

“I was thinking of making skinless boneless chicken on a bed of steamed veggies.”

And presto, my guilt was gone. If God had meant us to eat steamed veggies, she would have never invented hollandaise sauce.

“I’m so sorry, Lance, but I checked my calendar, and it turns out I’ve already got plans.”

Thank goodness I’d accepted that date with Uzbekistan’s least eligible bachelor.

“That’s okay, Jaine. I was just about to tell you that, after all my recipe planning, I can’t make it, either. I’m going to a stress management class.”

“Fabulous! I mean, that you found a class.”

He did seem a lot perkier, and for that, I was grateful. I wished him good luck with his fellow stressees and trotted off to my apartment, thrilled to be out from under the steamed veggie threat.

I was happy for all of about thirteen seconds before it dawned on me that I’d accepted a date with Uzbekistan’s least eligible bachelor for nothing.

No need to panic, I thought, as I let myself into my apartment. I’d simply call Vladimir and break our date.

Yes, I know. A person of your high moral caliber would never cancel a date at the last minute. But that’s because you’ve never gone out with Uzbekistan’s least eligible bachelor. You’d change your tune fast enough if my rhyming Romeo showed up on your doorstep.

I was about to pick up the phone when I realized I didn’t know his number. Oh, well. No problem. I’d just look up his number on my caller ID.

I didn’t see the name “Trotsky” when I scrolled down my list of recent callers, but I did find an “out of area” number for the time he’d called last night. Eagerly I dialed it, but there was no answer. I must’ve let that damn phone ring twenty times. For crying out loud, didn’t the Trotskys have an answering machine?

With hours to kill before my ordeal, er, date with Vlad, I should’ve plowed ahead with my search for Fortuna. But the prospect of another date with Vladimir had pretty much drained me of all energy.

So instead, I whiled away the rest of the afternoon with Prozac—and a bag of Corn Doodles—watching Ellen, Tyra and Judge Judy.

(Prozac doesn’t much care for Dr. Phil.)

Every so often I’d get up during a commercial and try the Trotskys, but there was never an answer.

After Judge Judy had browbeat her last plaintiff, Prozac began yowling for her dinner. I sloshed some Tasty Tuna Innards in her bowl and gave the Trotskys another try.

This time someone actually picked up.

“Whaddaya want?” a gruff male voice asked. Probably a relative I hadn’t yet met.

“Can I speak with Vladimir, please?”

“Vladimir ain’t here.”

“What about Aunt Minna?”

“She ain’t here, either.”

“Well, can you give Vladimir a message for me?”

“No, I can’t give Vladimir a message, lady. This is a pay phone. There ain’t no Vladimir here. Now would you get off the line so I can call my parole officer?”

So much for canceling my date.

Reluctantly, I started getting dressed for my rendezvous with Vladimir, skipping any attempts at beautification. The last thing I wanted was to encourage the guy.

I tossed on some old elastic-waist pants and a pilly acrylic sweater. I didn’t even care when I discovered a ketchup stain on the sleeve. Then I pulled my hair back in a scrunchy and slapped on an unflattering shade of lipstick I’d found in the dollar bin at the drugstore.

Needless to say, I didn’t bother with perfume.

At precisely seven o’clock the doorbell rang. With heavy heart, I trudged to the door and opened it.

“Jaine, my beloved!”

Vladimir stood on my doorstep, decked out in a red vest and bow tie, his wiry curls freshly lubed for the occasion. I suppose this was what passed for spiffy in Uzbekistan.

“A present for you,” he said, handing me a half-empty pack of Juicy Fruit.

“Gum. How very thoughtful.”

“And flowers, too!” From behind his back, he whipped out what was clearly a stalk of blooms from my neighbor’s azalea bush. First Mrs. Hurlbut’s tulips. Now the azaleas. This guy could not seem to keep his hands off my neighbors’ flowers.

I hurried to the kitchen and put the azaleas in water, hoping I wouldn’t soon be getting a bill for a new azalea bush.

“Ready, my darling,” he asked when I came back out to the living room, “to dine at the finest restaurant in all of Los Angeles?”

“I sure am. But where are you taking me?”

Okay, I didn’t really say that. I just forced a halfhearted smile and said, “Sure.”

Outside, Vladimir linked his arm through mine and led me down the path to the curb.

“My car is parked down the street.”

Good lord. Had he actually managed to bring Boris’s rustmobile back from the dead? No matter, I wasn’t about to climb in that thing again. I’d insist we take my Corolla.

“Here we are!” he said, pointing to a shiny late model Mercedes.

I blinked in disbelief. Vladimir—the fellow who gave stolen flowers and used gum as gifts—driving a Mercedes?

“Vladimir, where on earth did you get this car?”

“A friend loaned it to me,” he grinned, bursting with pride.

“That’s some generous friend.”

“Allow me, dear lady.” He opened the passenger door with a flourish.

I settled in the luxurious depths of the leather, wondering if perhaps Vladimir was going to take me to a nice restaurant after all.

He turned on the ignition and the engine sprang to life. Minutes later, tooling along on our automotive Comfort Cloud, Vladimir launched into his latest love poem, a mushy rhyme-fest involving tresses, caresses, and wedding dresses.

I tuned him out around about the time he longed to experience the heavenly bliss of my tender kiss.

Instead I focused on the meal to come. The finest restaurant in all of Los Angeles, eh? Maybe he was taking me to a steak joint. I salivated at the thought of a T-bone smothered in onion rings. Talk about heavenly bliss. Of course, he could be taking me to a French place. Or an Italian. In which case, I’d get the lasagna for sure. I was lost in thoughts of a crusty loaf of garlic bread, dripping with butter, when I heard him say:

“We’re almost there!”

For the first time I realized we were in a pretty seedy neighborhood.

“Here it is,” he said, pointing out the window. “The finest restaurant in all of Los Angeles!”

“The House of Plov?” I said, reading a neon sign flashing above a tiny storefront restaurant.

“None other! You know what plov is, my beloved Jaine?”

“I don’t suppose it’s Uzbek for T-bone steak?”

“No, it’s like rice pilaf. Only better!”

Okay, so it wasn’t steak. Or lasagna, for that matter. But I’d always liked pilaf. At the very least, it was an improvement over steamed cauliflower.

How bad could it be?

Stick around and see for yourself.

Vladimir parked the Mercedes in front of the restaurant. No trouble getting a parking spot in this neighborhood. I only hoped the car would be there at the end of the meal.

Once more linking his arm in mine, he ushered me into The House of Plov, a kitschy joint with red checked tablecloths, linoleum floors, and plastic flowers on the tables.

A strolling accordionist wandered among the tables, playing what I assumed were Uzbek folk tunes.

“I got us the best table in the house!” Vladimir grinned.

Clearly, he didn’t have to pull too many strings. The place was practically deserted. Just one guy in the corner getting drunk on what looked like vodka shots. And a table of six rather large men in the back. When I say large, think rhinos on steroids.

Now I’ve never actually met a member of the Russian mafia, but I’d bet my bottom blini that those six guys had tossed a few corpses into the river in their day.

There was no sign of a hostess, so Vladimir led me to a table for two in the center of the room.

“Here’s our table!” he said, pointing with pride to a coffee-stained “reserved” sign propped up against the plastic flowers.

“Lucky for us,” he said as he held out a chair for me, “Cousin Sofi works here and saved it for us.”

“Sofi works here?” I gulped.

“Sure! She’s their number one waitress!”

As it turned out she was their only waitress, but her status at The House of Plov was the least of my worries.

If you recall, the last time Cousin Sofi and I had met, she’d threatened me with extreme bodily harm if I so much as smiled at her beloved Vladdie. What the hell would she do if she saw me here on a date with him?

I was about to find out.

For just then she came clomping out from the kitchen, hauling an enormous tray of food for the mafiosi.

One look at me and thunderclouds began gathering over her head.

“Guess what, Vladimir?” I chirped. “I’ve got this sudden craving for a Big Mac. Whaddaya say we hop on over to McDonald’s?”

“McDonald’s?” he sneered. “Ptui! House of Plov million times better than McDonald’s.”

Having finished serving the goons, Sofi now stomped over to our table, shooting me a death ray glare from under her massive unibrow.

“Welcome to House of Plov,” she grunted, hurling a menu at me.

I must confess, I was relieved when Vladimir ordered us drinks. Something told me I would need a little assist from Mr. Alcohol to get me through this evening.

“Bring us two Plov Martinis!” Vladimir instructed his cousin. “And don’t be stingy with the vodka.”

“Two Plov-Tinis,” Sofi snarled.

I just hoped mine didn’t come with a dollop of her spit.

Across the table, Vladimir was staring at me with a lovestruck grin. Quickly, I opened the menu to avoid eye contact.

I scanned the list of entrees, not one of which appeared to be vaguely edible. There was goat plov, sheep plov, horsemeat plov, and the special of the night, camel plov.

Good heavens. Had these people never heard of chicken?

I was trying to decide which dish was least likely to give me nightmares when Sofi showed up with our drinks. She banged them down on the table with thinly veiled fury, but Vladimir seemed oblivious to her anger.

“To my darling Jaine,” he said, raising his glass in a toast.

To me your smile is like a dream

With teeth as white as sour cream

I wish on all the stars above

For huggy kissy in The House of Plov

Oh, barf. I reached for my Plov-Tini and—praying it wasn’t laced with Sofi’s saliva—took a healthy gulp. Yikes, it was strong. I’d be lucky if I still had enamel on my sour cream teeth at the end of the evening.

“So whaddaya wanna eat?” Sofi asked, still beaming me death ray glares.

For one of the very few times in my life, I said the words:

“I guess I’ll have the house salad.”

“That’s it?”

“With a side of plain plov.”

“Don’t be silly!” Vladimir said. “We’ll have Camel Plov for two. With extra camel!”

“Really, Vladimir, I don’t think I can handle camel meat.”

“You’ll love it. I promise. It tastes just like horse!”

Sofi grunted and, with a final glare in my direction, stomped back to the kitchen.

At which point, the accordionist sidled up to our table and launched into a hammy rendition of “Strangers in the Night.”

“Shall we?” Vladimir asked.

And without waiting for a reply, he pulled me up out of my chair and started leading me in a frenetic fox-trot, whirling, dipping, and spinning me like a top. At one point my fanny brushed against one of the mafiosi, who rewarded me with a sly pinch and a gold-studded grin.

At last the number was over and I escaped back to my seat, where I took a desperate gulp of the paint thinner posing as my cocktail.

At which point Sofi showed up with our entrees, two ginormous plates of food, heaped with pilaf and the remains of some unlucky camel.

“Dig in!” Vladimir grinned.

I picked at my Camel Plov, avoiding the camel as best I could.

What little appetite I had was squashed to smithereens when Vladimir launched into a story of the time his goat, Svetlana, had gas so bad the vet had to perforate her stomach.

Somehow, between gruesome details, he managed to suck up his meal. When he’d cleaned his plate, he looked over at mine and saw how little I’d eaten.

“What’s wrong?” His raisin eyes widened in concern. “You don’t like?”

“Oh, no! It’s delicious! It’s just that I had a really late lunch.”

“Okay, then. I’ll eat.”

With that, he took my plate and started inhaling its contents.

When he had consumed enough camel meat to grow his own humps, he finally threw in the towel and belched gently.

“Excuse me, my beloved. I go to the Little Commissar’s Room to take pee.”

Still numb from the saga of Svetlana’s gastroenterological woes, I did not even flinch at the mention of his bodily functions.

And as he trotted off to the Little Commissar’s Room, I took advantage of the lull in the action to scarf down an old Lifesaver I found at the bottom of my purse.

I’d just popped it into my mouth when suddenly I felt myself being yanked from my chair.

“We need to talk,” Sofi’s voice hissed in my ear. And before I knew it, she was dragging me into the kitchen, a steaming hovel that, from the looks of it, had last been cleaned when Catherine the Great was in pigtails.

Under the bored gaze of a toothless chef sweating into a vat of plov, Sofi grabbed me by the neck of my sweater and held my face mere inches from hers.

(I didn’t say anything at the time, Sofi, but if you happen to be reading this, you might want to try the occasional breath mint.)

“I told you to leave my Vladdie alone,” she growled.

“I swear, Sofi, there’s nothing between us. We’re just friends!”

“I don’t believe!”

She now shoved me perilously close to the open range, and the sight of those flames (not to mention a most unattractive wart on Sofi’s nose) put the fear of God in me.