Kitty Kitty (13 page)

Camilla the concierge stopped us as we were going through the lobby to tell me that Dadzilla and Sherri! and my aunt and uncle had gone to Padua, a town on the mainland, for dinner with a world-famous soapologist, and wouldn’t be back until late, leaving specific instructions I was to stay with my friends and cousin
at all times
, and did we need dinner reservations because she could recommend—

“No,” I said, “we have plans.”

“Where are you going? Maybe it is not a good place. There are many places that are not good in Venice. Once I was on a date with—”

“We’re having dinner at Ca’Dario.”

“We are?” Polly said. “Wait, isn’t that—”

Camilla’s eyes got huge and her voice got low. “The House that Kills. You must not go there.”

“We’ll be fine. Guests never get hurt there.”

There was a long pause, the longest silence I’d ever heard from Camilla. Then she said, “I have enjoyed knowing you, Jasmine. Also, if you do not return, may I have your dress with the cherries on it? I am very fond.”

I assured her she could and we headed for the elevators. My bed, when we finally got to my room, looked like a slice of linen meringue pie and I dove right into it. Polly had adjusted to the news that we were going to The House that Kills for dinner remarkably well—she only said, “I should have guessed” and “We’ll need weapons”—and got busy with her scissors, BeDazzler, and campaign against my Wonder-bras. Roxy and Tom were Assisting, and I was Fingerprinting the Glass I’d Taken from Arabella’s with My iPod On.
²⁷
And finally, Being Alerted to the Startling Fact that My Leather Pants Were Now a Jaunty Cropped Jacket.

I sniffed the air. It was a little smoky. “Have you been burning something in here?”

“No,” Polly, Tom, and Roxy said in suspicious unison.

By then it was 9:15
A.M.
Los Angeles time, and Tom said I could try calling Jack, so I didn’t pursue the odor. My heart was all poundy and my fingers shook a little as I dialed and waited for him to pick up. I was so nervous that when a voice answered and said, “Hey, it’s Jack,” I started talking before I realized it was only his voice mail.

But that was okay! Totally! I was not disappointed at all! Much! In the least! Nor did I feel like I’d been punched in the stomach by Disappointment and his best bully friend Thwarted Hope! Or wonder where he could be at 9:15 on a Sunday morning!

I had no idea what to say but luckily the monkeys weren’t nearly as tongue-tied. They said, “Hi, Jack, it’s me. Jas. Jasmine. I’m sorry I missed you on IM yesterday but I got arrested for murder. I mean, I didn’t do it, but I accidentally told the police I did, so it was confusing. Now we’re going for dinner at The House that Kills, but that is only a nickname because a lot of people have died there, but it’s completely safe. Anyway, I hope you’re having a very nice morning and not melting in anyone’s mouth or hands—” No, monkeys! Bad, monkeys! “Sorry, I mean molting. On anyone. Ha ha. Because molting is bad. Unless you’re a wee creature of the forest but—um, never mind, I’ve got to go, bye.” After
which, of course, I wanted to die.

But One cannot be a burden to One’s pals. Even when One is worried that One’s boyfriend—who One is pretty sure One is in love with, and One would give her right arm to get just an email from—is out with other girls causing One’s heart to feel like the Incredible Hulk is holding it in a vise grip, One must set aside Le Wallowing in Misery and instead Wear Le Masko.

Plus, One’s boyfriend could call back at any moment.

Yes, One is a jolly dreamer.

Anyway, determined not to let anyone know that I wasn’t Jas but rather the hollow shell of Jas, I put on the new outfit Polly had made. It consisted of a modified-to-be-more-formfitting version of a navy blue jersey dress I’d had, and my new pant-jacket which, I had to admit, was quite cute. The waist of the pants was now the neck of the jacket, and one of the pockets went across the front with a button. Polly was just explaining the safety features of the ensemble—“The button on the front can be used as a cutting device, the hem of the dress detaches for restraining your hair or bad guys, the pocket can be ripped off and has been reinforced with your Wonderbra underwires to function as a throwing star, the cuff has a two-way radio built in, and we added a Skittles-based tracking device to your boots”—when her phone rang.

She picked it up, listened for a second, and held it out to me. Jack! It had to be Jack! To laugh with me in light
mirthful amusement at my message! My heart did a double axel combo that would have gotten tens across the board from the judges at the Olympics.

“Hello?” I said.

The voice on the other end said, “Hello, Your Highness?”

I don’t know if it was the fact that it was a woman or that she called me Your Highness, but I caught on pretty fast that it wasn’t Jack. Yes, tacks could take notes about how sharp I am. Also, the voice went on: “I work at Prada? I hear you asking about the girl in the picture today?” She was speaking the same nasal English as the saleswoman who had helped me earlier that day, but she sounded younger.

I pushed aside the le massivo disappointment that had washed over me and used my princess voice to say, “Yes. Do you know something about her?”

“Maybe. You will not tell that I call you? I will be fired.”

“I won’t tell. What’s your name?”

“I tell you later. I am not sure how to say this, but your friend, the one who was here, is she perhaps a little crazy? Wrong in the head?”

I didn’t have to think about that, but I was curious how she knew. I mean, it wasn’t
that
obvious. “She might have seemed that way. Why?”

“Does this mean that there is no reward?”

“Reward?”

“Your friend says that there will be a lot of money if
she can find Maria Longhi.”

“Oh, that reward,” I said in my Why-Certainly-I-Know-Just-What-You’re-Talking-About-Ha-Ha voice. “I’m sure that’s real. Do you know Maria?”

“I never work with her, but she comes in to visit others from time to time in the past. I might be able to help you meet her.”

“That would be great. Any information you can give me will lead to a reward,” I assured her. I did not mention that the reward might be my
How 2 Break-dance Like Da Pros
DVD.

“Where can I find you if I learn things?”

“The Grissini Palace Hotel, room 549. Or call me on this number.”

“Very good. Also if you see your friend’s boyfriend can you please say I am sorry I cannot help him?”

“Her boyfriend?”

“
Sì
. He comes in later that day and wants to know what she’d been looking at so he could buy it for her as a present. He was
triste
when we explained that she is only asking questions so I tell him that when she comes back the next day to talk to Cristina I will make sure to see what she likes. But she does not come back.”

Arabella had never mentioned having a boyfriend in Venice and her apartment was totally Single Use Only. “Can you describe what he looked like?”

“You do not know?”

“She had a lot of boyfriends,” I said quickly. “I just want to tell the right one.”

“This one speaks Italian and I think he is maybe—” She broke off, said, “I must go.
Arrivederci
,” and hung up.

I stared at the phone for a second. Reward? Mystery boyfriend? These were deep waters. I still had two impossible murders on my hands (and no call from Jack) but at least this was something New-n-Fresh. I’d known that Arabella was keen like a hungry dog sniffing a bone to find Maria, but the reward showed just how keen. Big dog keen. FIND M wasn’t just an idea for her, it was the Idea of Her Heart.

And the “boyfriend” was a sensation. Because it proved without any shadow of doubts or shadows of doubt that she was being spied on. By a sinister, Italian-speaking man.
Alias
Number-One Suspect.

(I wished Jack were following me around.)

Him traipsing after her and wanting to know what she’d said—I was sure asking about purses was just a clever cover to get the information he wanted—confirmed that her death had something to do with the questions she’d been asking. And since those questions seemed to have been focused on learning more about her father’s death—

“Well?” Polly said.

“Sorry, I was musing.”

“Less musing, more explaining.”

I told my pals about the call, concluding by saying, “See,
Polly, good things can come of going to Prada.”

“Yes, precious,” she said. “Now come here and put on your water wings. Roxy fitted each of them with several excellent devices, including mini smoke bombs in case you need to create a diversion. Just touch the two wires together. She made the fuel from the stuffing of your Wonderbras.”

“And I used the cups of your Wonderbra to make snack holders for my water wings,” Roxy chimed in.

Little Life Lesson 37: There should be a law against any sentence that combines the phrases “snack holders” and “Wonderbra.”

“What part of my bra collection are you wearing, Tom?” I asked, and I meant it to bite.

But he just gave a hollow laugh. Which made me more nervous.

Just then the Evil Henches came crowding into my room, bringing on a moment of silence. They were dressed in the latest Nymphs of the Wooded Glen style, which appeared to involve diaphanous gowns in green (Alyson) and lavender (Veronique), flowered crowns, and platform boots. They each had a gem glued in the middle of their foreheads, and they were carrying a Ouija board.

“What are you staring at, Jas?” NymphAlyson asked.

“You look—”

“I know,” Veronique squealed. “We’re totally the Sauce.”
²⁸

Fortunately, Camilla called on the hotel phone then to say that the launch from The House that Kills had arrived to pick us up and reiterate that she hoped nothing happened but, if for some reason I didn’t come back, could she also have the boots I wore with the cherry dress because she’d found a shoemaker who could adjust them to fit her.

With that nice sentiment ringing in my ears and floaties locked and loaded (and no word from Jack), we set out for The House that Kills.

The launch was piloted by an 800-year-old man with a peg leg, who thought Polly was totally Jordache and insisted on turning around and smiling at her a lot, which was understandable but disconcerting because it was foggy on the water and it would have been nice for him to watch where he was going and also because he only had three teeth, one of which was a strange gray color.

We were all lost in our own thoughts so our conversation—

—sounded more like a game of word association than anything else.

And, okay, maybe the
Forensic Files
Voice-over Man wasn’t there. But that’s what he would have said if life came with the
Forensic Files
Voice-over Man (like it should).

As we approached the dock, I composed this haiku prayer:

House that Kills please do

Not smite me I’m not ready

To go R-I-P

(Not before I kiss Jack again.)

At first it seemed like my prayer was answered. Pulling up, everything looked hunky with a side of dory. The boat tied up to a small wooden platform covered by a rubber mat with a huge NN printed on it in gold in the same pattern that the pen from Arabella’s box had on it. The large planters with trees in them that flanked the mat on either side were also emblazoned with golden Ns.

The door on the dock, with a double N door pull, was glass, and beyond it we could see a marble hall lit with mellow butter-colored light. So cozy! So welcoming! Tom pulled open the door.

Cut to: CHILLING SURPRISE.

It was like walking into a beating heart.
Buh-bump buh-bump
echoed off the walls, floor, and ceiling of the room, surrounding us and putting the EEEEEP! in CREEEEEEPY! Digits began scaling my spine with wild abandon.

Alyson stopped on the threshold and, taking a page from the Encyclopedia Drammatica, put her hand to her chest, saying, “I know none of you can feel them, but the vibrations, they’re so strong-slash-powerful here.”

“I feel them,” Veronique said. “It’s like they’re—”

“From the three hundred clocks upstairs,” a booming male voice said from in front of us. I was startled when I looked up and saw him. He was a massive man with a close-cropped, pointed white beard, wearing a royal blue cape over a dark blue-gray pin-striped suit, and a Three Musketeers–Style Hat Complete with White Feather, carrying a gold-headed walking stick, but he seemed to have materialized from nowhere, like a ghost. “They are supposed to calm the spirits. Welcome to Ca’Dario. I’m—”

“Lucien Wilder,” Polly breathed, and I swear she almost threw herself at his feet.

He bowed to her. “Indeed. I’m afraid Beatrice and young Robert are busy upstairs so they sent me to escort you in. Please, follow me.”

When I looked at him more closely I saw that he wasn’t really massive, he just gave the impression of massivity (if that’s a word). He had presence. As he gestured us toward
a doorway with the gold head of his stick—which I now saw was a naked lady with blue sapphire eyes (classy!)—his expression glittered with something between humor and mischievousness, like he knew a joke but he wasn’t going to tell us.

“Do you see the tailoring on his cuffs?” Polly leaned over to whisper to me. “He invented that.”

“Wow. Are you sure your phone is on?”

“Yes, Jas. Remember how you checked four times during the six minutes we were on the boat?”

We followed the Cuff Inventor up a wide staircase with NN patterned carpeting into a long, high-ceilinged room with a stone floor and three tall windows that overlooked the Grand Canal. The light came from two enormous glass chandeliers blown to look like they were flowering bouquets that hung from the ceiling of the room, and a series of tall candles in the corners. There were couches with NN embroidered throw pillows on them grouped on top of a Turkish rug near the windows, and he gestured to them, throwing off his cape and settling himself in a large leather chair. He kept his left leg straight out in front of him.

“You children have the advantage over me,” he boomed. “You know my name but I don’t know yours. Which of you is Jasmine?”

“That’s me,” I said, sitting forward. I felt like I should curtsy or prostrate myself on the ground or something.

He used the naked lady stick to point at me. “What are
those contraptions on your arms, dear?”

“Water wings. For safety. You know, with the boats and all that.”

He laughed a huge billowing laugh. “Take them off. They ruin the line of that otherwise scrumptious jacket. Who makes it?”

Polly turned a color I’d only ever seen her turn when she was caught in public kissing Tom. “I did, sir. But I’d rather Jas kept them on.”

“Artistic integrity. Interesting. And you are?”

“Polly Prentis. I made it out of a pair of pants.”

“You have talent, Polly Prentis.”

“We made our outfits too,” Alyson said, standing up and pulling Veronique with her.

Maybe that was wishful thinking, but I could have sworn Lucien winced. “Yes, you did. And you are?”

“Sapphyre with a Y and Tiger’s*Eye with a star, but the star is silent.”

“Ah. Bobby’s little pets. Charming, charming. And you two? You are twins?”

“Yes, I’m Tom, and this is my sister, Roxy.” Polly had coached Tom that afternoon, and he now launched into his speech. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. Polly has spoken so highly—”

“I like the way your jacket hangs, young man. Your handiwork?” he asked, pointing the stick at Polly.

“Yes.”

“Bravo, young lady. You have a very good eye.”

The only thing that kept Polly from fainting at that moment was the arrival of our hosts. Bobby, in a blue button-down shirt, a navy-and-white pin-striped blazer, and jeans, looked slightly disheveled, although that might just have been because he was standing next to the most put-together woman I’d ever seen. She was one of those women who make trench coats look chic and make you feel like a total mess even when you were dressed by Polly mere minutes ago and had miraculously avoided a hairtastrophe on the boat ride over.

From her perfectly tailored pencil skirt to the turned-back cuffs of her crisp white blouse and the carefully knotted scarf at her throat, there wasn’t a single thing out of place. If I were a betting girl, which, of course, I’m not because it is illegal for people my age to bet and also because I am, according to Dadzilla, already irresponsible enough with money, I would completely have put cash on the fact that her underwear was ironed and matched her outfit. I recognized her as the other woman in the picture I’d lifted from Arabella’s, only now her dark hair hung down her back.

She came forward and held out a perfectly-manicured-with-dark-polished-nails hand to me. “I am Beatrice,” she said in a voice with a faint Italian accent I recognized from Arabella’s phone. “You must be Jasmine. Thank you for coming.”

The Evil Hench Nymphs cleaved themselves to Bobby (if that means glued themselves to his arms like they had suction
cups for hands), and the rest of us followed them into the dining room. Beatrice said something about a simple, informal dinner, but there were three forks, two knives, three spoons, and two glasses at every place.

We were seated. We ate. We talked. Or at least, everyone else did. There was no I in DINNER for me that night. I don’t know if it was the one-two punch to the head I’d had, or the vibrations in the atmosphere, but my mind seemed to be tuned to RadioJas, where the programming bounced between repeating my conversation with my mystery Prada caller,
²⁹
wondering what seemed fishy about Bobby’s meeting the Henches,
³⁰
asking how I was going to convince Beatrice to show me Ned Neal’s office,
³¹
and other topics of general interest. Pertaining to the investigation. Exclusively.

I was NOT, for example, wondering about Jack or why he hadn’t called back or where he was or what he was eating for brunch or with whom or hoping that it was either Costume Sunday or freezing cold in Los Angeles so they would be wearing a lot of clothing, for example those wool face masks popular with bank robbers and kidnappers, unsightly wax lips, and gorilla suits.

(ATTENTION ALL TOTALLY HOT GIRL–BAND MEMBERS: This would be a very fetching outfit to wear to brunch.)

(Also, fake scars.)

(FYI.)

(Love, your friend Jas.)

In between RadioJas broadcasts, I picked up snippets from the general conversation:

LUCIEN: It was four years before I reintroduced the boat neck that Ned Neal and I met. That must be—my God, twenty-six years go. And it was right in this house.

ALYSON: I look good in boat necks.

VERONIQUE: You look better in halters.

ROXY: Did Mr. Neal ever participate in any secret missions to pillage priceless gems from sacred temples, for example, the large ruby eye from an Incan idol?

BEATRICE: No.

VERONIQUE: Is Incan Idol like
American Idol
for Incans?

TOM: Yes, it is.

LUCIEN: The place was being restored for a foundation and they ran a scholarship program—more like a chain gang for starving young artists yearning to breathe. They impressed us into service cleaning the old frescos and things in the house.

ALYSON: I look good in both halters and boat necks.

ROXY: Did Mr. Neal ever have a butler? Perhaps one with a nubile young daughter?

BEATRICE: There was a housekeeper, Mrs. Lyons, but she had two sons. Why?

LUCIEN: I’ve never spent so many dreary days in my life. Couldn’t stand the house from the start, personally—hated it almost as much as that stirrup pant trend—but Ned was crazy for the place.

ALYSON: I have a pair of stirrup pants! They’re totally Visa with my ankle boots.

ROXY: Did you ever notice Mr. Neal engaging in surreptitious robe-wearing?

BEATRICE: I’m not sure I understand. Surreptitious? If he was sick he would sometimes wear his robe at breakfast.

ROXY: No, I mean like if he was sneaking out to attend meetings of a blood cult? Or villainous secret brotherhood?

BEATRICE: Absolutely not.

LUCIEN: Ned swore he’d live in this house someday. I don’t believe he meant to die here, though. And thus, to paraphrase the poet Burns, the best-laid plans of mice and men go oft awry.

VERONIQUE: I read about that book.
Of Mice and Men
. There was a quote from it in
Rabbits for Dummies
.

ROXY: What about the Russian Mafia? Did he
have any dealings with—

BEATRICE: No.

Things kind of picked up for me after dinner. That’s when Literary Critic Veronique and Fashion Jet-setter Alyson convinced Bobby to take them on a tour of the house and Polly, Tom, and Roxy got confidential with Lucien. I was just trying to figure out the best approach to get into NN’s office when Beatrice leaned over and, as though she’d been reading my mind, asked if I’d like to see it.

To say I leaped like a leapfrog from my seat would be to understate things. I leaped so much that I bashed into Beatrice and knocked over a chair. And some small (piece of china, crystal goblet) items from the table.

But we had it cleaned up in no time, and then we were off.
³²

We went up a flight of stairs that had entwined Ns cut into the railing and down a stone corridor to a large wood door set into a marble frame. It had a huge old-fashioned round handle right in the center, but the lock on the side was modern, one of those electric, plastic key kinds.

“This registers whenever anyone goes in or out,” Beatrice explained. “That’s how we know no one entered the night Mr. Neal died. Although”—she pointed at nicks in the wood around it—“this isn’t the one that was here that night because we had to break it off to get in. It took
Signore Pagano, the handyman, fifteen hits with the sledgehammer to smash it.”

I mentally checked the NO box next to “someone could have picked the lock.”

Beatrice used a key card and there was a click and the door opened.