Death of a Trophy Wife (14 page)

“But it’s true,” I wailed. “Honestly, after tonight, I’m never going to see Vladimir again!”

“You swear?”

“I swear!”

Reluctantly she let me go.

“If I find out you lie to me, you in big trouble.”

My knees trembling, I made my way out of the kitchen. If only I’d brought my Corolla I could make a dash for it and get the heck out of there.

But alas, I was trapped.

Sofi was right behind me as I headed back to my table, where Vladimir was waiting for me. The minute he saw me, he signaled the accordionist, who, much to my horror, began playing the “Wedding March.”

The cue for Vladimir to get down on his knees and take another one of his damn poems from his pocket. To the best of my memory, it went something like this:

TO MY BELOVED JAINE

Soon you will be at my side

My very own, my blushing bride

Your skin as soft as ripe banana

Just you and me and my goat Svetlana

Sofi snorted like a bull as Vladimir took a ring from his pocket.

“What are you doing?” she bellowed. “That’s my mama’s ring!”

“I know, Sofi. I borrow for tonight.”

Then he turned back to me.

“As soon as we get to Uzbekistan, my beloved Jaine, I get you the finest cubic zirconia money can buy.

“So how about it, honey bun?” he asked, looking up at me with eager raisin eyes. “Will you marry with me?”

Over at the mob table, the goons broke out in a loud cheer.

“You say yes,” the head goon instructed me. “He nice boy.”

Oh, lord. If I said no, would they take me out back and break my legs?

On the other hand, if I said yes, Sofi wouldn’t even wait to take me out back. She’d mince me into plov meat right here in the restaurant.

Besides, no way on earth was I possibly going to marry this guy.

I was just about to risk the mob’s wrath and ring in with a resounding no when the front door burst open, and two cops came charging in, followed by a distinguished-looking bizguy in a designer suit.

“That’s the guy!” the man shouted, pointing at Vladimir. “He’s the one who stole my Mercedes!”

Vladimir may have been the world’s least eligible bachelor, but he was not, you’ll be relieved to know, a car thief.

“I do not steal car!” he shouted, jumping up from where he had been kneeling at my feet.

“Of course you did!” the bizguy shouted back.

“It’s all her fault!” Sofi said, pointing to me.

“How on earth is this my fault?” I cried, unwilling to be pawned off as some kind of Uzbek Ma Barker.

One of the cops, a wiry Asian guy, held up his hands for silence.

“Everybody calm down. You’ll all get a turn to speak. You first.”

He pointed to Vladimir.

“I do not steal car!” Vladimir repeated, driving his theme home. “I was standing at bus stop in front of restaurant when this man drive up in nice car and throw me his keys.”

“Of course I threw you the keys,” Mr. Mercedes said. “I assumed you were the valet.”

Indeed, in his red vest and bow tie, Vladimir did bear a striking resemblance to a parking attendant.

“Valet?” Vladimir blinked, puzzled.

Clearly he was unfamiliar with the concept.

“I thought he loan me his nice car. I said to myself, ‘Vladimir, what a friendly place America is. The people are so kind, so generous!’”

“You thought I loaned it to you?” Mr. Mercedes shook his head in disbelief.

“I shout out to him, ‘I return your car after my date with my beloved Jaine,’ but he didn’t hear. He was already inside restaurant.”

“See?” Sofi piped up. “It’s all her fault.”

“I had nothing whatsoever to do with this!”

I didn’t care if she minced me to plov meat; I was getting darn sick of her accusations.

The mobster who’d pinched my tush now put in his two cents: “He no steal car, he’s good boy.” His fellow hit men nodded in unison. “He just ask girl with big fanny to marry him.”

And yes, he did call me the girl with the big fanny. If I hadn’t been so terrified of winding up with my feet in a cement block, I would have given him a good piece of my mind.

“You came here to propose?” Mr. Mercedes asked Vladimir, visibly touched.

“Congrattalashuns!” the drunk in the corner piped up.

“Yes, I come here to propose,” Vladimir said. “But I didn’t get my answer.”

Once more he got down on his knees in front of me.

“My beloved Jaine, will you marry me?”

How awkward was this? Everybody in the restaurant was looking at me: Vladimir. The cops. Mr. Mercedes. The mobsters. The drunk in the corner. And of course Sofi, who was still beaming me her death ray glares.

I hated to turn Vladimir down in front of an audience. But I had to put a stop to this ridiculous marriage proposal, or I’d wind up walking down some aisle in Uzbekistan with Svetlana as my goat of honor.

“I’m sorry, Vladimir. You’re a very sweet guy, but I can’t marry you.”

Vladimir gasped in dismay.

Over at their table, the hit men muttered in disgust.

“You not nice girl,” my fanny pincher hissed.

Indeed, everyone in the restaurant was giving me the evil eye as poor Vladimir sat down at our table, crushed, his head in his hands.

“I told you she no good,” Sofi gloated.

The cops turned to Mr. Mercedes. “You still want to press charges?” one of them asked.

“No, of course not. Anyone can tell this poor guy would never steal a car.”

“In that case, I guess we’ll be going.”

Having served and protected, L.A.’s finest made their way out the door. But not without first giving me a dirty look.

“C’mon, buddy,” Mr. Mercedes said, putting a comforting hand on Vladimir’s shoulder. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

“What about me?” I asked.

“After the way you broke his heart?” Icicles dripped from his voice. “You can get your own ride.”

With a final tortured glance in my direction, Vladimir allowed Mr. Mercedes to lead him out the door.

“Women!” I heard Mr. Mercedes saying, his arm draped around Vladimir’s frail shoulder. “Can’t live with ’em. Can’t shoot ’em.”

“Really?” Vladimir replied. “Not like back home.”

Stranded in the middle of nowhere, I sat back down at the table and phoned for a cab. I wasn’t about to bus it in this neighborhood.

Behind me, I could hear the mob muttering what I was certain were Uzbek curses. I only hoped they weren’t busy ordering a cement mixer.

I was sitting there wondering if I could possibly fend them off with a butter knife when Sofi came stomping over to the table.

“It was pleasure to serve you,” she snarled, slapping a check down in front of me. “Don’t forget tip.”

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: The Nerve of That Man!

Darling, you won’t believe what happened during our bridge club lunch at Lydia’s today. It was horrible. Simply horrible. Not the lunch, of course. Lydia fixed her Salmon Wellington, which was divine. Honestly, her pastry crust is nothing short of miraculous. How Daddy ever expects to beat her in the cookathon with his Popalicious Chicken is beyond me.

Anyhow, we were sitting there eating Lydia’s salmon (which Daddy childishly insists on calling Salmon Smellington!) when the doorbell rang. Lydia went to answer it, and when she came back, guess who came barging into the room with her? Daddy!

“I just stopped by to say hi!” he said. Which was a big fat lie. I knew very well why he stopped by: to snoop in Lydia’s kitchen. I swear, I wanted to throttle him!

Lydia, always the perfect hostess, asked if she could get him anything to eat. Daddy said no thanks, that he’d just fixed himself a
BLT à la Hank
, but that he was a little thirsty.

“Don’t let me interrupt your lunch,” he said to Lydia, practically shoving her back in her chair. “I’ll go to the kitchen and get myself a Diet Coke.”

Well, Lydia wasn’t having any of that! You know how house proud Lydia is. Well, I don’t suppose you do, do you?

You’ve never actually met her. But she’d rather be skinned alive than let someone see her kitchen if it isn’t immaculate.

“I can’t have you seeing my kitchen in such disarray,” she said, popping right back up again. “You stay right here, Hank, and I’ll get you your Diet Coke.”

“That’s okay,” I said, glaring at Daddy. “Hank can get his own Diet Coke at home. We’ve got plenty in our refrigerator.”

“Oh, all right,” he pouted, and stomped out the door.

We went back to our lunch, and I was just beginning to relax again when I happened to look out the window and got the shock of my life. There was Daddy, shimmying up Lydia’s palm tree! Honestly, I thought I’d have a heart attack. Thank heavens I was the only one facing the window. Clearly Daddy was trying to break into Lydia’s town house through her upstairs balcony! How on earth he thought he could sneak back downstairs to the kitchen without Lydia noticing, I’ll never know. But he never got the chance to try. Because just then we heard a piercing scream coming from upstairs.

It turns out Lydia’s Aunt Ida was visiting from Minnesota and was napping in the guest bedroom. Apparently Daddy had let himself in through the sliding glass door on the balcony, and she’d seen him standing in the shadows at the foot of her bed.

“Aunt Ida!” Lydia cried as we all came racing into the guest bedroom. “What on earth happened?”

I held my breath, certain that Aunt Ida was going to unmask Daddy as the intruder he was. But when she finally spoke she said, “I just saw your Uncle Alfred! He was standing right there! At the foot of the bed.”

What a relief! She thought she’d been dreaming and that Daddy was the ghost of her dead husband. While everyone was fussing around Aunt Ida, I sneaked out to the balcony, just in time to see Daddy jumping over Lydia’s hedge and running down the street. If that palm tree had a coconut hanging from it, I swear I would’ve thrown it at him! I was that angry!

I can’t believe he put himself and our reputation at risk, all for that silly Secret Spice, which I still say is nothing more than paprika!!

Can’t write any more, honey. I’m too upset. I’m going to the broom closet for some Oreos.

XXX,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Daring Rescue Attempt

Well, lambchop, you’ll be disappointed to learn that in spite of a daring rescue attempt, I was unable to retrieve my Secret Spice from the evil clutches of Lydia Pinkus.

For some crazy reason, your mom is upset just because I tried to let myself into Old Pruneface’s town house through an upstairs balcony. She can’t seem to understand that I was just trying to get back what was rightfully mine.

No way am I going to let that battleaxe keep me from winning first prize at the cookathon.

I may have been foiled today, but somehow, someway, I’m going to get back my Secret Spice!

Your very determined,

Daddy

(aka Chef Hank)

S
o worn out was I by my disastrous date with Vladimir that I barely blinked an eye when I checked my e-mails the next morning and read about Daddy’s attempted break-in at Lydia Pinkus’s town house. Normally my blood pressure would have skyrocketed a few notches, but that day I just sat there, staring numbly at the screen.

Nor did I have the strength to put up a fight when Lance showed up on my doorstep with pomegranate juice and gluten-free wheatberry muffins for breakfast.

Now I’ve never actually eaten cardboard, but I’m guessing it tastes a lot like gluten-free wheatberry muffins. Which, by the way, were annoyingly devoid of any actual berries.

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” Lance said, cutting his muffin into neat halves. “Which do you want first?”

“Good news.” I was long overdue for some.

“Well,” he said, his eyes lighting up, “I met the most fabulous guy in my stress management class. Honest, Jaine, I think I’m in love.”

“That’s nice.”

I did not even bother to fake enthusiasm. Partly because it’s hard to fake enthusiasm when you’ve just swallowed a mouthful of cardboard. But mainly because Lance, like Kandi, seems to fall in love with the frequency of a public radio pledge drive.

Oblivious to my lukewarm reaction to his newsflash, Lance began babbling about Peter, his latest crush. I only half listened, not wanting to waste valuable brain cells on a guy who’d probably be gone by his next haircut. I just glommed on to the highlights, which were that Peter was a travel agent coping with the stress of losing his longtime companion, a sexually ambivalent parrot named Mr. Polly.

I sat there, sipping the pink Drano posing as pomegranate juice, nodding my head every once in a while, as Lance blathered on about Peter’s (and Mr. Polly’s) many sterling qualities.

“So what’s the bad news?” I asked when he finally ran out of steam.

“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve finally met the love of my life, and I’m about to go to jail.”

“You’re not going to jail, Lance.”

“Why?” he asked eagerly. “Did you find the killer?”

“Not yet. But I’ve got a ton of suspects.”

“Like who?”

“Remember that fortune-teller at the party?”

“The dodo who told me I’d soon be marrying the woman of my dreams?”

“Apparently she and Bunny already knew each other before the party. Fiona overheard her telling Bunny she was a sadistic bitch who ruined her life.”

“Wow. You think she lined up that gig at the party to kill her?”

“Maybe. I’m going to track her down today and see what I can find out.”

“That’s great! Say, do you suppose you could wrap up the case by next Friday? Peter’s got us tickets to Barbados.”

“I already told you, Lance. I’m detecting as fast I can.”

“And I appreciate everything you’re doing, hon,” he said, actually licking his finger to snag some stray cardboard crumbs from his plate. “Which is why I feel bad about my other piece of bad news.”

Whatever it was, it couldn’t possibly be worse than these damn muffins.

“I’m seeing Peter tonight, so I won’t be able to cook you dinner like I was planning to.”

It was all I could do not to break out in a jig.

“What a shame,” I said, trying to keep the glee from my voice.

“And I hate to eat and run, sweetie, but I’ve got tons of stuff on my To Do list. Gotta keep busy. That’s rule number One in stress management class.”

Grabbing one last muffin for the road, he hurried off to tackle his To Do list.

Needless to say, the minute he left, I threw on some sweats and headed over to McDonald’s for an edible breakfast.

One Sausage & Egg McMuffin later, I was on the phone with
Let’s Party!
, the agency Bunny had used to hire Fortuna.

“I’m calling,” I said to the snooty Brit who’d answered the phone, “because I need to reach one of your entertainers.”

“I’m afraid we never give out contact information for our entertainers. All party plans must be made through us.”

Clearly, they didn’t want customers calling their people and making deals on the side.

“Actually, I’m a private investigator, and it’s a matter of utmost importance.”

“I repeat,” she said, with all the warmth of a pit bull, “we do not give out personal contact information for our performers.”

The next thing I knew, I was talking to a dial tone.

Oh, well. It looked like I was going to have to put on a little performance of my own.

Let’s Party!
was located in a small, three-story office building in Westwood, where parking spots are about as easy to find as hydrangeas in the Sahara. There were none in sight when I showed up, so I pulled into the miniscule private parking lot in back.

Ignoring the tow-away signs festooned everywhere, I parked alongside a green Jag with the vanity plates
LET’S P!
Unless the Jag belonged to a urologist, I was guessing its owner was a
Let’s Party!
person.

Then, gussied up in my Prada pantsuit, my mop of curls blow-dried into submission, I headed into the building, hoping to pass myself off as the kind of society dame who could afford to pay top dollar for a bad fortune teller.

A tiny elevator took me to the third floor, where I made my way to the offices of
Let’s Party!
Or, I should say, office. The place consisted of a single room, tastefully furnished with Currier & Ives prints, lush ferns, and cherrywood file cabinets. Through the open louvered windows I could hear the sounds of the traffic on Westwood Boulevard.

Sitting at an antique desk was a stunning black woman whose nameplate read Cynthia Hardwicke.

“Well, hello,” Cynthia said, shooting me a dazzling smile. “Welcome to
Let’s Party!
”

It was the same Brit I’d talked to on the phone. What a difference from her earlier frigid greeting.

“Have a seat.” She gestured to a suede chair facing her desk.

Once I was settled in its comfortable depths, she flashed me another dazzler and asked, “How may I help you?”

Time to play society doyenne.

“I’m throwing a little soiree,” I said, trying to sound as A-list as possible, “and I need an entertainer.”

“What kind of entertainer? Magician? Celebrity impersonator? We have a fabulous juggling Elvis.”

“Actually I was at a party at Bunny Cooper’s not long ago, and she had the most divine fortune-teller.”

At the mention of Bunny’s name, Cynthia’s perfectly plucked brows furrowed in sympathy.

“Poor Mrs. Cooper!” she tsked. “What a tragedy that was.”

Having allotted a whole two seconds of mourning for Bunny, she returned to the business at hand.

“I can’t quite recall who we sent out to that party.”

“Her name was Fortuna,” I prompted.

“Actually several of our fortune-tellers work under that name.”

“Well, I want the one who was at Bunny’s party. Do you keep a record of who you sent where?”

“Of course we do. But unfortunately, my computer’s down right now.”

Oh, crud. Of all days for her computer to be down.

“But you can look through our book of head shots and see if you recognize her picture.”

With that, she handed me a thick looseleaf folder, jammed with back-to-back eight-by-ten glossy photos.

I grabbed it eagerly and began poring through the clowns, jugglers, and celebrity impersonators until I finally came to the picture of the pretty brunette who’d been such a dud at Bunny’s party.

“Here she is!” I exclaimed, showing Cynthia the photo.

“Oh, yes. Fortuna #4. She’s one of our best entertainers.”

If she was one of the best, I’d hate to see the juggling Elvis.

“So what date do you need her?”

“Date?”

“For your party? Your little soiree?”

Was it my imagination, or did I detect a hint of skepticism in her voice?

“Oh, right. My party. It’s, um, next Saturday night. But I need to speak with Fortuna right away.”

“Of course. I’ll have her give you a call. As soon as I get your deposit.”

“What?”

“Your deposit. Two hundred should cover it.”

Two hundred bucks? For a woman who couldn’t find the fortune in a fortune cookie? She had to be kidding!

“Silly me,” I said, pretending to look in my purse. “I forgot my checkbook. Why don’t I just drop the check in the mail the minute I get home?”

“No need for that,” she said, her smile stiffening. “We take credit cards.”

Forget it. No way was I about to rack up a two hundred–dollar charge. Surely there had to be a way around this.

I was desperately trying to think of one when I heard a car alarm go off outside.

Which gave me an idea.

“Oh, dear,” I said, once more rummaging in my purse. “My wallet! I must’ve left it in the car.”

“Oh?” By now, Cynthia was positively oozing disbelief.

“I’ll be right back!” I cried as I dashed out the door.

Once in the hallway, I made my way to the elevator. But I did not get on. Instead I waited several minutes and then came hurrying back to Cynthia.

“Here I am,” I said, waving my wallet.

She looked up, surprised to see me. Clearly she’d had me pegged as a party-planning deadbeat.

“That’s wonderful,” she beamed, reaching for her card swiper.

Time to put my plan into high gear.

“By the way,” I said, “do you happen to drive a green Jaguar?”

“Yes, why?”

“When I was in the parking lot just now, I saw the tow-away guys hooking it up to their truck.”

“What??”

And just like I hoped she would, she jumped up and charged out the door.

The minute she was gone, I pulled out Fortuna #4’s photo from the looseleaf binder. Like most actors’ head shots, it had her resume printed on the back.

And right there at the top was her real name, Marla Mitchell, along with her contact information, which I quickly jotted down.

Then I slipped into the hallway and hid in the stairwell, peeking out from behind a crack in the door until I finally saw Cynthia Hardwicke stomping back to her office.

I figured under the circumstances it was best that we not bump into each other.

My ancient Corolla was lucky to have a steering wheel, let alone a GPS system, so I made a quick pit stop at my apartment to change out of my Prada togs and google directions to Fortuna’s place. After printing them out, I put in a call to make sure she was home.

Thank heavens for out-of-work actors. She picked up on the first ring.

“Sorry, wrong number,” I said when I heard her voice. No sense warning her of my impending visit.

Fortuna/Marla lived in North Hollywood, a quasi-hip, formerly dreary part of town referred to as NoHo by realtors desperate to unload foreclosed property. I pulled up in front of her apartment building, one of those spit-and-promise jobs that seem to spring up overnight in L.A. like mushrooms in the rain.

A sign out front said,
VALLEY VIEW APARTMENTS
. But one of the
V
s was missing, so it now read
ALLEY VIEW APARTMENTS
. Quite fitting, since the lucky residents in front had a scenic view of the bowling alley across the street.

After pressing all the buttons on the security intercom, somebody buzzed me in and I made my way to Marla’s first floor apartment. The faint sounds of sitar music drifted from inside.

I rang the bell and heard someone padding to the door.

“Who is it?” a woman I hoped was Marla called out.

“It’s Jaine Austen.”

“Isn’t she dead?”

For the 9,876th time in my life I cursed my parents for not naming me something sensible like Hortense or Esmeralda.

“Not that Jane Austen. We met at Bunny Cooper’s party. You told my fortune.”

The door opened a crack and Fortuna/Marla peered out.

“Oh, right.” She smiled. “I remember you. You were one of the nice ones.”

She swung open the door, a skinny thing in yoga pants and a big slouchy T-shirt, her dark hair swept up in a careless ponytail. Out of her gypsy garb and heavy make-up, she seemed a lot less exotic than she had the night of the party.

“How did you ever find my address?”

“Marvin Cooper gave it to me.”

I figured it was best to leave my good buddy Cynthia Hardwicke out of this.

“Gee, I didn’t know he had it. Usually Cynthia is so strict about giving out our contact info. Well, come on in. I was just meditating.”

I followed her into her living room, where a yoga mat was unfurled on the floor. Indeed, the place felt like a mini-ashram, with batik throws on her furniture, a serenity waterfall burbling on an end table, and the heady aroma of patchouli wafting in the air.

“With all the rejections I go through as an actor,” Marla said, sitting cross-legged on her yoga mat, “I don’t know what I’d do without my meditation. It really helps me get centered.”

“I’ll bet,” I said, centering my tush on her batik-covered sofa.

“Want some birch bark tea?” she offered, ever the polite New Age hostess. “It’s a great bowel cleanser.”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

“How about a stress ball?” She held up a red rubber ball. “Just squeeze it, and release all your tension.”

“That’s okay,” I said, opting to remain tense as well as uncleansed.

“Well, I really appreciate your stopping by, Jaine. You won’t regret it. I’ve improved a whole lot since you saw me. I’ve been channeling my Gypsy Persona in acting class and I’m much more convincing.

“So when is your party?” she asked with an eager smile.

Oh, dear. She thought I was there to offer her a job.

“Actually, Marla, I’m not having a party.”

“You want me to read your fortune for real? That good, I’m not.”

“No, I wanted to ask you a couple of questions about Bunny Cooper’s murder.”

“What are you, some kind of private eye?” she asked, giving her stress ball a squeeze.

“I guess you could say that.”

“I once played a detective on TV. My character got killed before the first commercial, though.”

She sighed at the memory of her aborted television appearance.

“So what did you want to know?”