A Playdate With Death

Praise for the Mommy-Track Mysteries . . .

A P
LAYDATE WITH
D
EATH

“Waldman is a master of smart, snappy repartee . . . funny tidbits about bringing up toddlers and the liberal mom’s dilemma over giving her kids toy guns to play with. Juliet’s got charm, spunk, and . . . a reason to get out of the house.”

—
Kirkus Reviews

“Witty and well-constructed . . . those with a taste for lighter mystery fare are sure to relish the adventures of this contemporary, married, mother-of-two Nancy Drew.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“[A] deft portrayal of Los Angeles’s upper crust and of the dilemma facing women who want it all.”

—
Booklist

T
HE
B
IG
N
AP

“Waldman treats the Los Angeles scene with humor, offers a revealing glimpse of Hasidic life, and provides a surprise ending . . . An entertaining mystery with a satirical tone.”

—
Booklist

“Amusing but poignant . . . Waldman has given her heroine a compelling story befitting her intelligent, witty voice.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Juliet Applebaum is smart, fearless, and completely candid about life as a full-time mom with a penchant for part-time detective work. Kinsey Millhone would approve.”

—Sue Grafton

“Juliet is a modern heroine refusing to quit or take another snooze until she feels justice is properly served.”

—
BookBrowser

N
URSERY
C
RIMES

“[Juliet is] a lot like Elizabeth Peters’s warm and humorous Amelia Peabody—a brassy, funny, quick-witted protagonist.”

—
Houston Chronicle

“Funny, clever, touching, original, wacky and wildly successful.”

—Carolyn G. Hart

“A delightful debut filled with quirky, engaging characters, sharp wit, and vivid prose. I predict a successful future for this unique, highly likable sleuth.”

—Judith Kelman, author of
After the Fall

“A humorous tale . . . Juliet’s voice is strong and appealing, and the Hollywood satire is dead on.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Told with warmth and wicked humor,
Nursery Crimes
is a rollicking first mystery that will leave you clamoring for more. Ruby’s adorable and Juliet is the sort of outspoken and funny woman we’d all like as a best friend.”

—
Romantic Times

“[Waldman] derives humorous mileage from Juliet’s ‘epicurean’ cravings, wardrobe dilemmas, night-owl husband, and obvious delight in adventure.”

—
Library Journal

“Unique . . . will intrigue anyone who values a good mystery novel.”

—
Pittsburgh Tribune-Review

“[Waldman is] a welcome voice . . . well-written . . . this charming young family has a real-life feel to it.”

—
Contra Costa Times

M
ANY
thanks go to Susanna Praetzel who gave me critical information about Tay-Sachs disease; to Julie Barroukh, Sandra Braverman, Lauren Cuthbert, Ginny Dorris, Clare Duffy, Allison Kaplan Sommer, Carlie Masters William, Saundra Schwartz, and Karen Zivan for being ever-present companions and ever-useful sources of information; to Mary Evans, Jeff Frankel, and Sylvie Rabineau for working so tirelessly on my behalf; to Sue Grafton, an inspiration and a role model; and to Michael, my best friend.

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

I
SAAC
shot me two times in the chest. With his toast.

“You’re dead,” my two-and-a-half-year-old son said, biting off a chunk of his Glock 9mm semiautomatic pistol.

“Mama doesn’t like that game, Isaac. You know that. Mama doesn’t like guns.” I ruffled his hair with my hand, planted a kiss on the top of his older sister’s head, and turned to my husband. “Don’t cut his bread on the diagonal anymore.”

“Why not?” Peter asked over the top of his coffee mug. His hair stuck out in wiry spikes and his gray eyes were bleary with exhaustion.

“Because he chews out the middle and turns the crust into a gun.”

“Maybe if he had a
toy
gun, he wouldn’t need to fashion weapons out of his
breakfast.
”

I gave my husband a baleful glare and poured my own coffee. I leaned against the kitchen table and slurped. Ruby turned to me with a conspiratorial air made only slightly ridiculous by the fact that her uncombed curls stood up all over her head. She looked like a dandelion puff.

“Isaac has been playing guns all morning, Mama. And Daddy let him.”

“Oh really?” I said.

“Don’t be a tattletale, Ruby,” Peter said.

He was right. Telling tales is a dreadful habit. Nonetheless, I was glad of an ally. I was becoming heartily sick of Isaac’s never-ending game of “bang bang you’re dead.” Honestly, what
is
it with boys? Before I had one of my own, I would have sworn up and down that gender differences were cultural constructs and that it was possible to raise a boy who defied stereotypes by being more interested in dolls than trucks and in arts and crafts than weapons. Then Isaac was born. And he
was
interested in dolls: Superman dolls. Batman dolls. And he
loved
painting and sculpture; they were wonderful tools with which to make the weapons I wouldn’t buy for him.

I took away the Play-Doh, the modeling clay, and all cylindrical objects. We stopped eating food that could be easily chewed into the shape of artillery. I banned all remotely aggressive videos and television, including most of the Disney movies the kids liked; Peter Pan spends way too much time sword-fighting and that Sea Witch would inspire anyone to violence. I refused to be swayed by the fact that Isaac was chafing under a diet of
Teletubbies
and
Barney.
Mindless pap was better than warfare any day. I bought him a succession of gender-neutral toys and videos, played house with him, changed his dolls’ diapers, and taught him every single Pete Seeger song I could remember. So far, my efforts had borne exactly no fruit.

My mother attributed Isaac’s gun obsession to the fact that I’d been shot the day I gave birth to him, but that’s just blaming the victim, as far as I’m concerned.

“What fabulous thing are you guys going to do today?” I asked. I’m afraid I didn’t do a terribly good job of concealing my glee at the thought of being excluded from my family’s plans for the morning. Peter, a screenwriter, had just finished two long months of shooting on his latest work of art,
The Cannibal’s Vacation.
The director had demanded his presence on the set, apparently worried that without Peter there to rewrite various exclamations of horror, the film would never wrap. To compensate me for having been alone with the kids while he lounged away the days and nights on Lomboc, a lesser-known tropical island in Indonesia, my husband had been doing solo kid duty for a week or so.

“We’re going fishing for dinosaurs,” Isaac announced.

“Really?” I asked.

“We are
not
going fishing.” Ruby reached across the table and pinched her brother, who squealed in protest. I inserted myself between them and frowned at her.

“Ruby, watch it, or you won’t be going anywhere,” I said.

“Yes I will. Because Daddy promised to take us to the La Brea Tar Pits, and you’re going to the gym, so I am
too
going.”

The mouth on that kid. But you couldn’t argue with her logic.

I didn’t bother answering her, just picked Isaac up and buzzed him with my lips. “I’m going to miss you guys today,” I lied.

“You could come if you want.” Peter’s voice was a hopeful squawk.

“No thanks. Ruby’s right, I’m going to the gym.”

I plopped Isaac on the floor and finished my coffee with a gulp. I took a Powerbar out of my stash hidden in the back of the pantry, waved gaily at my family, and headed out the door.

“I’m taking your car!” I shouted, all too happy to leave Peter with my station wagon bursting with car seats, baby wipes and broken toys, and haunted by a mysterious odor whose origin lay in some long-lost tube of fluorescent yogurt. I slipped into his pristine, orange, vintage BMW 2002, popped the car into gear, and zipped off down the street, reveling in my hard-won freedom.

I’m the first to admit that I’m a somewhat unwilling stay-at-home mom. Not that I didn’t choose the role. I did. Before I’d had my kids, I’d been a public defender representing indigent criminals in federal court. My particular specialties had been drug dealers and bank robbers, but I’d happily handled white-collar cases and even the odd assault on a national park ranger. I had never expected to leave work. I’d planned for a three-month maternity leave, imagining that I’d toss Peter the baby to take care of while I happily continued my twelve-hour-a-day schedule. I even tried it after
Ruby was born. I went back to work when she was four months old, skipping off with my breast pump in one hand and my briefcase in the other. Ten months later, I was back home. I couldn’t stand being away from her for so much of the time. By the time I realized that I wasn’t any happier at home all day than I’d been at work all day, I was already pregnant with Isaac. That pretty much put the nails into my professional coffin. The past couple of years had passed in something of a blur, punctuated by car pool, endless loads of very small laundry, and the occasional murder.

I pulled into the parking lot of my gym and slipped into a spot. For my last birthday, Peter had given me a series of training sessions at a glitzy Hollywood health club. I had decided to view the gift not as a passive-aggressive comment on the magnitude of my ass but rather as the expression of a good-hearted wish to see me fit and healthy. I’d been having a terrific time, despite my usual loathing of all things physically active. There is something remarkably pleasurable about having your very own personal trainer hovering over you, expressing apparently sincere interest in your food intake and exercise concerns. I, like the majority of women I know, am certain that the rest of the world finds every detail of my calorie neuroses and body image obsession as scintillating as I do myself. I skipped into the gym, ready to confess to Bobby Katz the grim tale of the four Girl Scout cookies and half pound of saltwater taffy I’d eaten the night before.