Murder Has Nine Lives (3 page)

Chapter 5

M
om's “lei” bathing suit arrived the next day, a hunk of industrial-strength latex with hidden “tummy tuck panels.” The kind of suit last worn by Mamie Eisenhower at Camp David. Mom bought it for me in a ridiculously large size, and clearly the garment was mislabeled because the hideous thing actually fit.

I made up my mind to lose ten pounds promptly, so I'd have a decent excuse to return it.

It's a well known fact in Austen family lore that Mom is addicted to the Home Shopping Channel. In fact, she actually made Daddy retire three thousand miles across country to be near the shopping channel headquarters in Florida, under the mistaken notion that her packages would be delivered faster that way.

You might conclude from this that Mom is the family eccentric. You'd conclude wrong. That honor goes to Daddy, a man who attracts trouble like freshly washed cars attract rain. As Mom so often says about him: “He doesn't have ulcers. He's just a carrier.”

I only hoped Daddy wouldn't drive Mom too crazy prepping for his Scrabble tournament. On the other hand, the more he kept her busy with the tournament, the less time she'd have to buy me “fun” outfits from the shopping channel.

I was standing at the foot of my bed that morning, trying to wriggle my way out of my Outrageous Orange Lei Tankini, when the phone rang.

Deedee's voice came sailing over the line.

“Guess what, sweetie?” she trilled. “I'm taking you to lunch. At the Peninsula Hotel!”

The Peninsula? The swellegant hotel in the heart of Beverly Hills, where rooms started at six hundred dollars a night? What a quantum leap from my usual Quarter Pounder at Mickey D's.

“Meet me there at noon! We'll sign your contract and toast darling Prozac with a bottle of Dom Pérignon.”

“That's awfully nice of you, Deedee.”

“Pish tosh! It's my pleasure.”

With not much time to spare, I zipped into the bathroom for a quick shower and then dolled myself up for the occasion in skinny jeans, white silk blouse, suede blazer, and my one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks.

“See you later, my little money maker!” I called out to Prozac as I headed for the door.

She looked up from where she was lolling on the sofa.

Fifteen minutes later, I was pulling up to the Peninsula Hotel valet parking area. Under normal circumstances, I'd drive around endlessly looking for a spot on the street before forking over money for valet parking. Especially at an outrageously expensive joint like the Peninsula. But what the heck? Deedee was treating. For once, I'd spring for valet parking.

The valet who ambled over eyed my ancient Corolla as if I'd just driven up in a four-door cockroach.

“Deliveries in the back,” he said.

“I am not making a delivery,” I informed him with more than a hint of frost in my voice. “I'm here for lunch.”

Blinking back his disbelief, he reluctantly got in my car and zoomed off into the underground lot, no doubt determined to park deep in its bowels, in order to avoid contaminating any of the luxury cars.

I found Deedee out on the patio of the hotel's garden restaurant, seated in a sun-dappled corner beneath a magnolia tree, waving to me merrily with a flute of champagne.

“Jaine, darling!” she cried, bangles jangling. “So wonderful to see you!”

Today she was swathed in neon green gauze, crystal necklaces twinkling on her bosom, gold lacquered chopsticks popping out from her bun.

“Have some bubbly, hon!” she said, pouring me a glass of Dom Pérignon. “Here's to darling Prozac! I'm going to make that adorable furball the biggest animal star since Morris the Cat!”

We clinked glasses and took a sip. Well, I took a sip. Deedee glugged hers down like a sailor on shore leave.

Having downed her bubbly, she poured herself some more and then handed me a menu.

“Order whatever you want, sweetie. The sky's the limit.”

I looked at the prices, eyeballs rolling. Would you believe twenty dollars for a burger? But that didn't stop me from ordering it. Deedee topped me by ordering a lobster salad. (A nosebleed expensive twenty-nine smackeroos!)

After our waiter left with our orders, Deedee whipped out a contract from her purse and slid it across the table to me.

“Just sign at the
X
s,” she said, flourishing a
DEEDEE WALKER, AGENT TO THE ANIMAL STARS
ballpoint pen.

I signed the contract, my eyes spinning in delight at the spot where Deedee had typed in my five-thousand-dollar payment.

Yes, indeedie. This was a Dom Pérignon day, all right.

The luncheon drifted by in a happy glow, Deedee yapping about her famous animal clients. (Lassie's great-granddaughter. Benji's nephew. The cover parrot on
Parrots Today
magazine.) I just nodded on auto-pilot, scarfing down my burger and picturing the zeros on my paycheck.

In spite of the fact that she'd been talking nonstop, somehow Deedee managed to inhale every last morsel of her lobster salad. Not to mention most of the champagne.

“By the way,” she said when she finally ran out of animal stories, “the Skinny Kitty people want you to stop by their offices today and pick up some cat food so you can rehearse Prozac's eating scene at home.”

Five grand
and
free cat food. Life just kept getting better and better.

“Will do,” I assured her.

Finally, after she'd practically licked the last drop of champagne from her flute, Deedee signaled our waiter.

“Check please,” she trilled.

Minutes later the check appeared at our table on a tiny silver tray.

Deedee reached into her purse, and suddenly her eyes widened in dismay.

“Oh, my dear!” she cried. “I can't believe it. I've left my wallet at home. How silly of me. You don't mind picking up the tab, do you, hon? I'll pay you back when I cut you your paycheck.”

I smiled weakly and assured her I didn't mind. But of course I did mind, especially when I saw the amount of the bill. Two hundred and six dollars. About two hundred dollars more than I usually pay for lunch. God knows how much that champagne cost.

Oh, well. I forced myself to focus on the five grand winging my way.

I gave the waiter my credit card, hoping it wouldn't be turned down. And thank heavens the friendly folks at MasterCard came through for me. They okayed the charge, and all was well in our sun-dappled corner under the magnolia tree.

Deedee and I air kissed each other good-bye, and I headed out to the lobby. Deedee said she wanted to stay behind to say hello to some friends. But when I turned back to wave to her, I could swear I saw her dumping a basket of rolls in her purse.

As I waited for the valet to retrieve my car from where he'd parked it—somewhere in Nevada, no doubt—I began to wonder if Deedee was nearly as successful as she claimed to be.

First, getting on that bus when she pretended to be driving. Then sticking me with the bill. And finally, swiping those rolls! Oh, well. So what if she was in a bit of a slump? She managed to get Prozac a gig worth five grand. And that's all that mattered.

That's what I kept telling myself, anyway.

* * *

When I showed up at the Skinny Kitty offices, there was no sign of the receptionist I'd seen the day of Prozac's audition. Instead a young guy was sitting at the reception desk. At first I didn't recognize him, but then I realized it was Zeke, the writer, one of the gang I'd met in the conference room.

Tall and lanky, he sat hunched over a book, his sandy hair flopping onto his forehead. I wondered what he was doing out here, playing receptionist.

He looked up from the book he was reading, which I now saw was something called
The Marshall Plan for Getting Your Novel Published
.

“Can I help you?” he asked, raking his hair off his forehead.

“I'm Jaine Austen. I was here the other day with my cat, Prozac.”

“Of course!” he said. “Prozac! The eater. I've never seen a cat suck up so much food so fast.”

“She's got a gift, that's for sure.”

“We were all very impressed,” he grinned.

“You're the guy who wrote the Skinny Kitty commercial, right?”

“Guilty as charged.”

“What are you doing out here at the reception desk?”

“Just filling in while the receptionist gets her nails done.”

Clearly, Zeke was not ranked high on the Skinny Kitty totem pole. And as if to prove it, the door to the inner offices swung open just then and Dean Oliver, the inventor of Skinny Kitty, came storming out, spray tanned to within an inch of his life, a salon's worth of gel on his hair.

“Where the hell is my coffee?” he roared at Zeke.

“It's still brewing,” Zeke replied with a put-upon sigh.

He pointed to a nearby coffee maker, which indeed was still in the process of dripping coffee into a carafe.

But by now Mr. Slick appeared to have forgotten about the coffee and had turned his attention to yours truly, gazing at me with a bit too much interest.

“Ms. Austen, isn't it?” He took my hand in his and shot me his version of a seductive grin.

“Right,” I said, wriggling free from his grasp.

“How can we help you?” he asked, beaming at me from behind his spray tan.

“I'm here to pick up some Skinny Kitty for my cat.”

“Ah, yes, the voracious Prilosec.”

“Actually, her name is Prozac.”

“Whatever.” Then, whirling on Zeke, he barked, “Where's the cat food?”

“Over here.” Zeke pointed to a shopping bag behind his desk. “It's all set to go.”

“Okay,” Dean nodded curtly. “Just be sure you bring me that coffee the minute it's ready. “Nice seeing you again,” he said to me, shooting his finger at me like a gun.

Then off he disappeared, back into his inner sanctum.

Zeke shook his head in disgust the minute Dean was gone.

“If I've learned one thing from this job,” he said, “it's never work for a relative.”

“You two are related?”

“First cousins,” he nodded. “We grew up together in Ohio. You should have seen him back then. Talk about your nerds. Glasses held together with duct tape. Zits the size of Mount Vesuvius. Now he thinks he owns the world. The minute I make my first sale, I'm outta here.”

“Your first sale?”

“I don't intend to be writing these crummy commercials my whole life. No way. I'm working on a novel. And some short stories. And a screenplay, of course.”

Of course. This was L.A. Scratch a receptionist, find a screenwriter.

A pinging sound came from the coffeemaker. I looked over and saw the machine had stopped gurgling; the carafe was full.

“Looks like your coffee's done,” I said.

“I suppose I'd better bring it to him, or all hell will break loose. Here's your cat food.” Zeke started to get me the Skinny Kitty when the door to the back offices opened again and the mousy producer I'd met at the audition came out into the reception area.

“Hi, Linda!” Zeke said, his eyes lighting up.

Just like the other day, she wore jeans and a T-shirt, her hair swept back in a headband, those god-awful harlequin glasses perched on her nose. Not a speck of makeup on her face. I still couldn't see her married to a slickster like Dean.

“Hi, Jaine,” she chirped. “Dean told me you were here. So nice to see you!”

Then she turned to Zeke, who, I couldn't help noticing, was gazing at her much like I gaze upon a freshly delivered pepperoni pizza.

“Coffee ready yet?” Linda asked.

“Yes,” Zeke gulped in reply. “I was just going to pour a cup for Dean.”

“Don't bother, hon,” Linda said. “I'll do it. And thanks for taking over the reception desk. I don't know what we'd do without you.”

She flashed him a smile, exposing a slight overbite, and I could practically feel Zeke's knees go weak.

“Aw, it's nothing,” he mumbled.

He watched her as she went to the coffee machine, his eyes filled with longing.

Clearly there was one part of his job that Zeke was madly in love with.

Chapter 6

I
spent the next few days rehearsing with Pro, and for once in her life, she was actually cooperating with me.

She gobbled up her Skinny Kitty. She napped on cue. She did everything I asked, with only the occasional belly rub as a reward. It was as if the little ham knew there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and was determined to get her claws on it.

Maybe Deedee was right. Maybe Prozac had a future as a TV star, after all.

Between rehearsals, I spent way too many hours making lists of what I was going to buy with our newfound riches. (Plasma TV. A brand new used car. Platinum Level Fudge-of-the-Month Club. And all the bacon bits my princess could eat.)

Of course, these were hours I should have spent working on the Touch-Me-Not toilet brochure. But my heart simply wasn't in it. There'd be plenty of time for toilet bowls after the shoot.

At last the big day arrived.

Prozac clawed me awake for her breakfast, and right away I was faced with a dilemma. If I fed her now, she wouldn't be hungry for the shoot. And yet there was no way I was going to get away without giving her something for breakfast.

So I put the tiniest dab of Skinny Kitty in her bowl. This would have to tide her over until the cameras were rolling.

After scarfing it down in milliseconds, she looked around, confused.

“You want to be hungry for the shoot, Pro. You want to gobble up that Skinny Kitty and earn us five grand, don't you, honey?”

An impatient thump of her tail.

“I promise you'll thank me later.”

Scooping her up in my arms, I plopped her on the living room sofa and tossed her an old cashmere sweater to distract her. Sure enough, within minutes, she was ripping it to shreds. A small sacrifice for that five-thousand-dollar paycheck.

Then I hustled over to my computer and printed out the call sheet Deedee had sent me with the address of the studio where the shoot was to take place. As I laid it beside my purse, my heart did a tiny somersault. How thrilling it was to see my name along with all the other members of the production. People in “the biz”—like Ian Kendrick, the director, a man who'd shot actual movies! True, most of them had gone straight to video, but who cared? Prozac was on the brink of national stardom, and that was all that counted.

By now I was dying to nuke myself a cinnamon raisin bagel but was afraid to go anywhere near the kitchen, lest Prozac follow me there in search of food.

So, like Pro, I went hungry for the sake of the pot of gold at the end of our rainbow.

Dreaming of a cheese Danish dripping with butter, I headed for the bedroom and proceeded to get dressed. I was just blowing out my bangs when there was a knock on my door.

It was Lance, muscles buffed to perfection in cutoffs and a tank top.

“Today's the big day, right?” he grinned. “Just stopped by to wish you good luck!”

Of course, he hadn't been nearly so sunny the other day, when he realized I'd given him my chiropractor's phone number instead of Deedee's. Then he'd come storming into my apartment, Mr. Drama Queen, accusing me of high treason, screeching about how I was Lucrezia Borgia, Tokyo Rose, and Mata Hari all rolled into one.

What with all those theatrics, I had no other choice but to give him Deedee's phone number, after which he was all smiles.

Just as he was this morning.

“I just know Prozac's going to do great today!” he gushed.

Not for one minute did I believe him. I remembered his harsh words about my princess's lack of talent. They were forever etched on my cerebellum, and I was determined to prove him wrong.

“Break a paw, kiddo!” he called out to Prozac, who sat on the sofa in a Buddha-like pose, having abandoned my cashmere sweater.

She looked up, slightly irritated.

Checking my watch, I saw it was time to go. So I grabbed my purse and gathered Prozac in my arms. Once again, I'd decided to leave the cat carrier at home, unwilling to risk upsetting my little moneymaker on the drive over to the studio.

Shoving my call sheet in my purse, I bid Lance adieu and headed out to my Corolla.

When I settled Pro in the car—miracle of miracles—she actually sat still on the passenger seat. No dancing around my gas pedal, no leaping onto the backseat like a Flying Wallenda.

No, this morning she was cool and poised, Grace Kelly on her way to meet Hitchcock.

If she could have reached it, she would've been primping in my rearview mirror. Instead, she sat staring out into space, a dreamy look in her eyes.

This was one cat who was ready for the red carpet.

* * *

I found the studio on a forsaken street in a treeless stretch of Hollywood where hookers were as plentiful as parking meters. (And a lot cheaper.)

After scoring a primo spot in the parking lot, I grabbed my purse and scooped Prozac out from the car. She gazed at the stucco bunker of a building, with the words
KLEINMAN PRODUCTIONS
painted over the door, clearly unimpressed.

Inside, a bored receptionist with a massive bubble of black hair sat behind a desk, reading
Entertainment Weekly
.

“I'm here for the Skinny Kitty shoot,” I informed her.

Barely looking up from this week's movie grosses, she waved me down a hallway. To my right was a warren of small offices, and to my left an oversized steel door leading to the soundstage.

A frisson of excitement shot through me. How many famous stars had stood before doors just like this before getting their first big break?

I looked down at Prozac nestled in my arms.

“This is it, kiddo. Showtime.”

My plucky little trouper looked up at me with bright green eyes.

Taking a deep breath, I headed inside.

At one end of the cavernous room were a buffet bar and a makeshift conference table surrounded by folding metal chairs. The other end of the soundstage had been set up for the shoot with a chaise longue and overstuffed armchair. Lights hung from the ceiling; a camera stood at attention, waiting to be called to action.

Glancing around, I saw Ian, the silver-haired director, sitting at the conference table and taking a slug from his Starbucks thermos. And over at the buffet, Linda was chatting with a fresh-scrubbed blonde in an apron, while Zeke lingered nearby, his eyes riveted on Linda.

As I made my way into the room, Deedee came rushing toward me in a blur of turquoise gauze and silver bangles, ebony chopsticks poking from her bun.

“Jaine darling!” she cried, taking a bite of a luscious cheese Danish.

I would have liked nothing better than to grab a Danish for myself, but I couldn't risk going near the buffet table and whetting Prozac's appetite.

“Here's our little star!” Deedee cooed, waving the Danish in my face as she leaned over to pet Prozac. It was all I could do not to rip it out of her hand. “You two are just in time! We're about to go over the script.”

She led me over to a seat at the conference table.

I settled myself in, with Prozac on my lap, nodding hello to Ian, who was still glugging from his Starbucks thermos. I couldn't help but notice he was looking a bit bleary-eyed, no doubt waiting for his caffeine to kick in.

Dean sat at the head of the table, hair slicked back with gel, talking intently to a striking brunette at his side. The reed-thin woman, who could have been anywhere from thirty-five to seventy (only her plastic surgeon knew for sure) was dressed head to toe in pink. From her Chanel suit to her Louboutins to the boatload of pink sapphires accessorizing her outfit, the gal was a one-woman Festival of Pink.

On her lap sat a sleek tabby cat with what looked like a pink diamond collar around her neck. True, the collar could've been made of rhinestones, but I'd bet my bottom Pop-Tart that cat was wearing something straight from Van Cleef & Arpels.

Prozac looked at the diamond-encrusted kitty through slitted lids.

Who invited
her
?

Deedee, following my gaze, whispered in my ear: “That's Camille Townsend. Aka the Pink Panther. Positively rolling in dough. Inherited boatloads when her hubby died. Dean met her at a pet charity function and stuck to her like Velcro ever since. From what I've heard, she's bankrolling this whole production.”

Dean was patting the Pink Panther's arm as they talked, lingering just a little too long with each pat.

“They seem awfully chummy,” I said.

“Chummy? That's putting it mildly. They've been boffing each other for months now.

“Poor Linda,” she said, nodding at Dean's wife, still busy chatting with the blonde in the apron. “She supported Dean for years while he worked on his inventions, and now, from what I hear on the grapevine, he's about to dump her for Ms. Moneybags.”

Dean interrupted Deedee's stream of gossip just then to summon everyone to the conference table.

“Hello, everybody,” he said, rising to greet his minions. “I'd like to welcome you all to the first of what I'm sure will be many Skinny Kitty commercials to come. That's because Skinny Kitty just happens to be the world's most delicious diet cat food. “I'm proud and humbled,” he said, not looking the least bit humble, “to have come up with the recipe in my very own test kitchen.”

He paused and waited. Across from us, Linda picked up his cue and led the rest of us in a round of applause. His ego sufficiently stroked, Dean then went around the table and introduced us.

It turned out the fresh-scrubbed blonde in the apron, a gal named Nikki Banks, was the food stylist, whose job it was to make Skinny Kitty look as luscious as filet mignon.

When Dean got to me, he said, “This is Jaine Austen and her delightful cat, Prozac, whose ability to suck up food is truly astounding.”

In my arms, Prozac preened.

“You all know Ian Kendrick, our esteemed director,” Dean continued.

Ian flicked two fingers in a limp wave.

“And my wife, Linda. Thanks, hon, for picking up the delicious deli spread for the buffet.”

Linda smiled shyly, still hiding whatever good features she possessed behind her hideous harlequin glasses.

“Oh, yes,” Dean said, almost as an afterthought. “There's my cousin Zeke, author of our script. Even though I had to rewrite most of it myself.”

He laughed as if he was kidding, but everyone knew he meant it, and across the table, Zeke was doing a slow burn.

“And finally, I'd like to introduce the woman whose generosity has made this shoot possible, my dear friend and colleague, Camille Townsend.”

The Pink Panther gave us all a regal nod.

“And, of course, her exquisite cat, Desiree.”

Camille held up her furry accessory for all to admire.

In my lap, Prozac snorted.

“Let's all give Camille a big round of applause,” Dean commanded. “Without her, we wouldn't be here today.”

Across the table, Linda applauded enthusiastically. If she had any idea about her husband's affair with the Pink Panther, she showed no signs of it.

“Okay, everybody,” Dean said, having paid homage to his benefactress. “Time to run through the script.”

I picked up the piece of paper in front of me. In fact, this was the first time I'd ever seen a copy of the script. So far, all I'd been doing was honing Prozac's eating and napping skills.

Dean began narrating our little cat food drama. “The commercial starts out with a voice-over announcer asking, ‘Is your cat fat? Lazy? Too stuffed to move? Does she turn her nose up at ordinary diet cat food? Well, it's time you tried Skinny Kitty, the diet cat food cats really like!'

“We'll show the ‘Before' cat,” Dean said, pointing to Prozac, “looking fat and lazy, first refusing to eat Brand X cat food, then digging into the Skinny Kitty. Then the announcer will say, ‘After only three weeks of eating Skinny Kitty, your cat will look like this.' “And we'll cut to a shot of Desiree.”

Camille smiled proudly and held up her sleek little princess.

The
Before
Cat? Prozac was the
Before
cat? I couldn't help but feel a tad insulted.

And in my lap, Prozac was none too happy. Scoff if you want, but I swear that cat understands English.

She glared at Dean, fire in her eyes.

Oblivious to Prozac's dirty look, Dean continued narrating his chef d'oeuvre.

“Then we're going to wrap up the commercial with a line that's sure to go down in advertising history:
My Skinny Kitty is so delicious, I eat it myself!
“That's right, everybody!” he beamed. “I will actually eat my own cat food. It really is that delicious.”

“He eats his own cat food?” I whispered to Deedee.

“According to Linda,” Deedee nodded, “he has no sense of smell. Hasn't tasted food in decades.”

“Let's take a short break,” Dean said, “while our cameraman and lighting director set up the first shot.”

Two burly guys, whose names I'd already forgotten but would come to think of as Big and Bigger, thumped off to do their job.

“While everything's getting set up,” Dean announced, “Camille and I will be in my dressing room, tweaking the Skinny Kitty ad campaign.”