Death of a Trophy Wife (18 page)

“Where you bashed her head in with a tire iron,” I said, stealing her punch line.

“Bingo, Sherlock. Now it’s your turn.”

By now we’d reached the edge of the roof.

“In case you didn’t realize it, you’re about to fall to a very tragic death.”

“No one’s going to believe I killed myself, Fiona.”

“I’ll take my chances. Now buckle up.” She smiled grimly. “It’s gonna be one heck of a crash landing.”

That’s what she thought. The strength had returned to my limbs and I wasn’t about to check out without a fight. As she leaned down to get a grip on me, I punched her in the groin with every ounce of strength I possessed.

Which, alas, turned out to be not much.

I guess I’d overestimated my recovery. I barely grazed her trousers.

I continued to flail at her, but I was no match for the sinewy Fiona. The woman had clearly been working out between trips to the liquor store. She knocked me to the ground with a quick sock to the jaw.

A wave of terror swept over me as she whipped out her stun gun and zapped me again.

Before I knew it she was hoisting my limp body over the parapet.

I looked down—way down—at the deserted alley below. Not a soul in sight.

Was it all going to end like this? Splattered to death behind Neiman Marcus, the ultimate fashion disaster?

“Okay, sweetie. Prepare for takeoff.”

Just when I was convinced I was headed for that great Ice Cream Parlor in the Sky, I heard three of the most welcome words in the English language:

“Jaine, my beloved!”

Omigosh! It was Vladimir.

“Have no fear!” my Uzbek Romeo cried, his squinchy black eyes aglow with heroic fervor. “Vladimir will save you!”

Reluctantly, Fiona loosened her grip on me, and I slid back down onto the roof as Vladimir came rushing at us.

But skinny little Vladimir was no match for Fiona, who zapped him with her stun gun before he could say Holy Plov.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Fiona clucked at us in irritation as we lay limply on the roof. “Now I’m going to have to kill the two of you.”

Correction. Make that three of us. Because just then someone else came charging on the scene. A thundering mass of fury named Sofi.

That’s right. It was Cousin Sofi, in the flesh, all three hundred pounds of her.

“You leave my Vladdie alone!” she cried, as she stomped across the roof.

Unfortunately, the sight of a human locomotive barreling toward her didn’t seem to faze Fiona a bit. Before Sofi could even land her first blow, Fiona whapped her with her stun gun.

I fully expected Sofi to crumple to the ground alongside Vladimir and me.

But then a miracle happened.

Sofi barely flinched. Maybe Fiona’s stun gun had run out of juice. Or maybe the electricity couldn’t make it past all that padding.

All I know is Sofi hauled off and decked Fiona with a single blow. Now it was Fiona’s turn to lie limp on the black tar.

Vladimir looked up at Sofi, stunned.

“Sofi! What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been following you for days, while you’ve been following this skinny minnie.”

“You were the one tailing me?” I gasped.

“Yes.” Vladimir nodded proudly. “I borrow Boris’s brand new used car to follow my beloved Jaine.”

“What you wasting your time for on her?” Sofi sniffed. “She nothing but a bag of bones. Don’t you see, Vladdie?”

“See what?” He blinked, puzzled.

“I love you!”

With that, she took him in her ham-hock arms and laid a giant liplock on him.

“I’ve always loved you,” she said when they finally came up for air. “With all my heart and soul!”

“It’s true, Vladimir,” I chimed in. “And it’s time you gave up this crazy notion of marrying me. Sofi is so much better for you than I am.”

“She sure is!” he agreed, just a little too enthusiastically for my ego. “What a terrific kisser!”

He gazed at her with the same lovesick expression that had been beamed in my direction not two minutes ago.

“Lay another one on me, hot stuff!” he crooned.

I sat there, trying to ignore the most nauseating slurpy sounds as the two of them played kissy-face. Good heavens. This was almost as bad as the stun gun.

By now, the other party guests had become aware of the commotion at our end of the roof and had gathered around us in an astonished huddle.

“What on earth happened?” Marvin asked, eyes popping, as he took in the scene.

Sofi and Vladimir were kind enough to stop slurping each other as I offered a brief summary of recent events.

The cops were quickly summoned and, after hearing my tale, wasted no time carting Fiona off to the criminal wing of USC General Hospital.

Watching her still-comatose body being wheeled away, the Barbies buzzed with excitement.

What a night it had been. Mariachis. Fireworks. Attempted triple murder. And best of all—a full bar!

Yes, in years to come everyone would agree:

It was Bunny’s best party ever.

G
ood news, fashion fans! You’ll be happy to know that Fiona Williams has been voted best-dressed inmate at her maximum security prison in sunny Chowchilla, California, where she is now doing twenty-five to life.

Lupe, thank heavens, survived her bout with Fiona’s tire iron, and—with the help of generous financing from Marvin—has started her own catering biz. Her first job? Marvin and Ellen’s wedding. Yep, the ex–Mr. and Mrs. Cooper retied the knot and are now happily ensconced in a Comfort Cloud love nest out in Encino, where Lenny is a regular and most welcome guest.

And Marvin and Ellen aren’t the only ones who’ve made a love connection. Ever since Bunny’s death, cupid has been working overtime:

Sarah, rebounding quite nicely from her divorce from Owen, is engaged to Zubin, her lab assistant at UCLA.

Kandi is dating a guy she met at a “Why I Keep Dating the Wrong Partner” seminar.

And mousy little Amy, unable to cancel the rooms she’d booked for her romantic getaway with Owen, checked into the Romeo & Juliet Suite by herself, where she told her tale of woe to a most sympathetic innkeeper. One thing led to another, and by the end of the weekend, they were making sweet love amid the heart-shaped throw pillows. Last I heard, she was working there full-time as his receptionist, and his wife.

On the sadder side of the romantic coin, Lance and Peter went off on their tropical getaway to Barbados, where Peter promptly proceeded to fall in love with their scuba instructor.

Cupid’s arrow has also failed to make an appearance at my apartment, which is fine with me. I’m thrilled to be footloose and Vladimir-free.

Speaking of Vladimir, I’m happy to report that he and Sofi exchanged wedding vows and sloppy kisses back in Uzbekistan. They sent me pictures from the wedding. I must say, it’s the first time I’ve ever seen the Maid of Honor eating a tin can.

As for Owen, rumor has it he’s working the night shift at a Dairy Queen out in Pacoima.

And you’ll never guess what I got in the mail not long ago. A letter from Fortuna. Just as I’d suspected, she was the one who pushed me that day at the movies. She followed me from her apartment, terrified I’d bad-mouth her to the cops. She begged my forgiveness and assured me she had her anger under control, thanks to daily affirmations and enough Paxil to choke a buffalo.

Should you need to reach her, you can find her at 1-800-Call-A-Psychic.

Saving the best news for last, I’m thrilled to tell you that Marvin gave me the Mattress King account! Yes, I am now the official Mattress King copywriter. The winning slogan, FYI, was:
If you can find a cheaper mattress anywhere, I’ll eat my crown.

Okay, so it’s not Shakespeare, but it’s a paycheck. Yes, thanks to dear sweet Marvin, my checkbook balance is no longer in the Emergency Resuscitate zone. First thing I did with my mattress loot was paint my walls a heavenly shade of inoffensive off-white. Then I treated myself to a new cashmere sweater. I never did join that Fudge of the Month Club. It was way too decadent, even for moi. Instead, I took the sensible route, and am now a proud member of the Cookie of the Month Club. Next month is Double Dutch Chocolate Chip. I can’t wait.

Well, that’s it for now. Gotta run. Her royal highness wants her back scratched.

Catch you next time.

PS. I thought you might be interested in the following item from the
Wall Street Journal: