Death of a Trophy Wife (6 page)

I was hoping the meal might perk up with dessert. Perhaps a little something from Polly’s House of Pies. A banana cream pie sure would go a long way to erase the memory of that yogurt pizza.

But alas, for dessert, Minna trotted out lukewarm tea and cookies the consistency of hockey pucks.

“You like?” she asked as I took my first nibble.

“Dee-lish,” I replied, trying not to chip a molar.

At last, the ghastly dinner ground to a halt, and I asked if I could help with the dishes.

“No,” Minna grunted. “You too clumsy.” She glared at a tiny stain on the tablecloth near my wine glass. “You spill wine.”

I certainly did not spill any wine. That spot, I can assure you, was there when I sat down, along with several other colorful specimens. But I was not about to argue with the woman. After all, she had just fed me dinner. True, it was a spectacularly awful dinner. But it was dinner nonetheless.

Instead, I put on my most gracious smile and said, “I’m so terribly sorry.”

“Not to worry. I’ll send you cleaning bill.”

Oh, for crying out loud. First Mrs. Hurlbut’s tulips. Now a dry-cleaning bill. This date was costing me a fortune.

My smile slightly less gracious, I told her to go ahead and send me the bill.

“Such a wonderful meal, Aunt Minna!” Vladimir said, patting his flat tummy. Amazingly, he’d packed away quite a lot of pizza. “I go take Jaine home now for huggy kissy.”

In your dreams, buster.

He dashed off to get the car keys, while Minna retreated to the kitchen to do the dishes. Boris had long since returned to his soccer game, which left me alone with Sofi. Who now got up from the table and, without any preamble, grabbed me by the collar of my sweater.

“Hey, wait a minute,” I protested. “Go easy on the sweater, willya? It’s fifty-five percent cashmere.”

But Sofi didn’t care about my sweater’s cashmere content.

With unibrow furrowed most menacingly, she muttered, “You stay away from Vladimir. Otherwise I break your kneecaps with my bare hands.”

And I knew she could do it, too. I’d seen the way she’d pulverized those walnuts.

“No need to resort to violence, Sofi,” I said, trying to wriggle free from her grasp. “I have no designs on your cousin whatsoever.”

“I love my Vladdie with all my heart.” Her squinchy eyes glowed with what I assumed was a reasonable facsimile of affection. “And no skinny American tootsie is going to steal him away!”

“Not a problem,” I assured her. “He’s all yours.”

“Good,” she said, at last letting me go.

As she stomped off to the living room, no doubt to resume her walnut-cracking duties, I stared after her, boggled. To think there was a woman on this planet who actually found Vladimir attractive.

You could’ve knocked me over with a chuchvara.

Dinner Chez Minna having limped to a close, I climbed into the rustmobile gratefully.

The sound of its asthmatic engine coughing to life was music to my ears. Before long, I told myself, this hellish evening would be over and I would be cuddled in bed with Prozac and a comforting pint of Chunky Monkey.

Or not.

We weren’t halfway home when the rustmobile sputtered to a halt.

“Not to worry, my beloved Jaine,” Vladimir assured me. “This happens all the time. I just have to make sweet talk to her.”

“Sweet talk?”

“Nice car,” he said, patting Old Rusty on the dashboard. “Pretty car. Such pretty color. Such strong engine. And horn like the angels play. You start for Vladimir. Okey doke?”

This nauseating chatter went on for several minutes. Frankly, I was surprised he didn’t write the darn thing a poem.

But the rustmobile, much like yours truly, was immune to Vladimir’s charms. No matter how much Vladimir whispered sweet nothings, the car refused to start.

With a sigh, I took out my cell phone and called Triple A.

“Who you calling?” Vladimir asked.

“Someone to start the car.”

Vladimir’s eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“You know this guy? You make huggy kissy with him?”

“No, Vladimir. I don’t know him and I haven’t made huggy kissy with him.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Well, okay,” he grunted, not quite convinced.

The good news is the Triple A guy showed up in no time. Which meant my Alone Time with Vladimir was kept to a minimum.

But that’s where the good news ended.

The Triple A guy, a very sweet fellow named Xavier, tried to jump-start the car, but the rustmobile’s battery was beyond resuscitation. As was the alternator. And, according to Xavier, just about every part under the hood.

The entire time Xavier was working, Vladimir was giving him the evil eye, convinced he was my secret paramour.

“This thing isn’t even worth towing,” Xavier said, putting his jumper cables away.

“You tow!” Vladimir commanded, arms clamped across his chest à la Aunt Minna. I bet he didn’t even know what the word
tow
meant, but because the Triple A guy said he didn’t want to do it, Vladimir wanted it done.

“Okay,” Xavier said, “but first you gotta sign this release form.”

Vladimir signed the form with a flourish.

And that’s when things got really painful.

Shaking his head skeptically, Xavier tried to hoist the car to his tow truck. But the minute he did, the front fender gave way and the car came crashing to the ground, scattering car parts everywhere. I groaned in dismay as the side view mirror clattered to my feet.

“See, Jaine?” Vladimir gloated. “He’s not so smart. Don’t worry. Boris and I come back tomorrow and fix.”

Oh, please. Anyone with half a brain could see that Old Rusty had gone to that great Junk Yard in the Sky. Which left us stranded in the middle of nowhere. How the heck were we supposed to get home?

“Do you think you could give us a ride?” I asked Xavier.

“I’m sorry,” he said, with an apologetic shrug. “I’d like to help, but I’ve got an emergency call out in Pasadena.” Off my stricken look, he added, “Maybe you can take a bus.”

A bus? At that hour of the night? For those of you unfamiliar with our local transit system, after-hours buses in L.A. run approximately every other Tuesday.

With sinking heart, I watched Xavier get into his tow truck and drive off.

Oh, well. There was no way out of it. I was going to have to spring for a cab.

And that’s when lady luck really gave me the finger.

When I took out my cell phone, I discovered that—much like the rustmobile—it was dead as a doornail.

Fortunately, though, it was a mere twenty-seven blocks from my duplex, so with nary a bus in sight, we trudged the rest of the way home on foot, Vladimir regaling me with a fascinating tale of the time Svetlana ate his neighbor’s wristwatch and the whole town stopped by to hear her stomach tick.

Quite a raconteur, that Vladimir. The minutes flew by like weeks.

At last we staggered up the front path to my apartment. By now it was almost midnight. After informing Vladimir that there would be no huggy kissy of any kind, I used my landline to phone for a cab to take him home.

“I don’t suppose you have any money to pay the fare?” I asked when the cab showed up.

“Of course! Vladimir has plenty money!”

He whipped out a wad of cash as big as my fist. Unfortunately, it turned out to be Uzbek currency, worth in total about six bucks. This would never cover the cost of his trip.

Racking up yet another charge to this fun-filled night, I forked over my credit card and paid for his ride home in advance.

With a jaunty wave, Vladimir climbed into the cab and disappeared into the night.

And if I had anything to say about it, out of my life forever.

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Chef Hank

Hi, darling—

Well, I thought for sure Daddy would have lost interest in that darn Turbomaster by now. How wrong I was. He’s plastered to the kitchen like wallpaper, morning, noon and night, tinkering with that infernal machine.

Somehow he’s convinced himself he’s a world-class chef. You’re not going to believe this, but he actually went to the cooking supply store and bought himself a professional chef’s jacket. With “Chef Hank” embroidered on the pocket!

That’s right. He now refers to himself as Chef Hank. And calls me his “sous chef.” (Which means I get to clean up his messes.)

He insists on doing all the cooking, and everything he makes is “à la Hank.”
Pork Chops à la Hank. Chicken à la Hank.
The man nukes some Tater Tots, and it’s
Tater Tots à la Hank.
And he’s constantly using his ridiculous Turbomaster “Secret Spice,” which I swear is nothing but paprika. I’m lucky he doesn’t put it on our oatmeal.

When he’s not making a mess in the kitchen, he’s glued to the Food Network, shouting at the
real
chefs, telling them what they’re doing wrong!

Last night he used up some of that five-pound bag of popcorn and made roast chicken with popcorn stuffing. Have you ever heard of anything so silly? He calls it his
Popalicious Chicken à la Hank.

And don’t even ask what it all tastes like. Ninety percent of the stuff that comes out of that dratted Turbomaster tastes like leather. (The other 10 percent tastes like rubber.) Even Edna Lindstrom’s dog Buster won’t eat Daddy’s food, and Buster once ate a Frisbee. Usually I wind up tossing my meal into my napkin when he’s not looking.

It’s a good thing I’ve got my secret stash of Oreos in the broom closet.

Love from your frazzled,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: Discovering My Inner Chef

Has Mom told you about my exciting new life as a chef? Yes, it’s true. I’ve taken over cooking duties and am preparing all our meals. It’s about time I gave your poor mom a break in the kitchen. And although she hasn’t come right out and said so, I can tell she’s very grateful. You should see the way she gobbles up my food. Her plate is clean at the end of every meal.

Just between you and me, lambchop, I have to confess that my cooking is a lot better than hers. Not that your mom isn’t a wonderful cook. She’s just not on my advanced level. I never realized I had such an aptitude for the culinary arts. I’ll always be grateful to the Turbomaster 3000 for helping me discover my Inner Chef.

Well, I think I’ll mosey over to the clubhouse and see what’s doing. Haven’t been there in a dog’s age.

Love & hugs from,

Chef Hank

(aka Daddy)

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Encouraging News

Daddy just left to go to the clubhouse. It’s the first time he’s been out of the house in days. Maybe it means his interest in cooking has peaked. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that this ridiculous craze may soon be over.

XOXO,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: A Shoo-In to Win!

What a lucky thing I decided to go the clubhouse! I was just about to invite some of the guys over for some
Cheese Doodles à la Hank
when I happened to glance at the bulletin board. Imagine my delight when I saw a notice announcing the annual Tampa Vistas Cookathon. Isn’t that exciting, lambchop? A cooking contest, right here in Tampa Vistas!

I’m a shoo-in to win, of course. I’ve decided to enter with a fabulous new recipe I’ve invented: popcorn-stuffed roast chicken. I call it my
Popalicious Chicken à la Hank.
Clever, huh?

Well, gotta run and tell Mom the exciting news!

Bon appetit from,

Chef Hank

(aka Daddy)

I
spent the next several days working on mattress ideas. Marvin had been kind of vague about what he wanted, so I tried lots of different approaches:

All-Purpose:
Sleep Like a King, with Mattress King

Corny:
If You Can Find a Cheaper Mattress Anywhere,

I’ll Eat My Crown

Risqué:
We’re Good in Bed

Comedy:
Take My Mattress—Please

Derivative:
Got Mattress?

And following in Vladimir’s poetic footsteps, I even tried haiku:

In the pale moonlight

My backache throbs—I should’ve shopped

At Marvelous Marv’s

Clearly, my ideas needed work. So I hunkered down and pounded out some more. Finally, when I’d come up with a few I actually liked, I called Marvin and set up a meeting.

The day of my appointment, Prozac clawed me awake for a gourmet breakfast of Savory Shrimp ’n’ Tuna Tidbits.

Her breakfast, of course. I had nothing more enticing in my fridge than cold pizza and those darn martini olives.

Today of all days, I wanted a decent breakfast. So I decided to treat myself to one of my all-time gourmet faves: a sausage and egg McMuffin, smothered with ketchup.

My meeting wasn’t until 1
P.M
., so I’d have plenty of time to shower and dress and go over my ideas when I got back.

I drove over to McDonald’s, my mind abuzz with mattress slogans and, not incidentally, my parents’ latest e-mails from Florida. I’d been foolish enough to read them before I left the house. So Daddy fancied himself a chef, huh? Not that I was surprised. Daddy goes through personas like I go through drugstore pantyhose. To the best of my recollection he’s been an amateur attorney, plumber, painter, and archaeologist. (He once found a piece of a Coke bottle in our backyard that to this day he insists is a relic from King Tut’s tomb). Mom’s just lucky he hasn’t taken up do-it-yourself neurosurgery.

But all thoughts of Daddy’s culinary adventures quickly faded as I drove up to the Golden Arches.

The first thing to greet me when I opened the door was the heavenly aroma of sizzling sausage. Not quite so heavenly, however, was the aroma of the eccentric homeless guy singing
O Sole Mio
at the top of his lungs.

Needless to say, I ordered my McMuffin to go.

Too hungry to wait till I got home, I opened my culinary treasure in the car.

Now I just want to say before I proceed any further that there is a special place in hell for the guy who invented the ketchup packet. (It couldn’t have been a woman; we’re just not that sadistic.)

I don’t know about you, but I can never open the darn things without a battle royale. At home I usually wind up using a pair of scissors. Unfortunately, I had no scissors in the car, so I struggled mightily, breaking a nail in the process. After a string of colorful curses not often heard outside an HBO special, I finally managed to rip it open.

And that’s when tragedy struck.

Before my horrified eyes, the ketchup spurted out of the packet with the force of a rocket and landed on my passenger seat.

Now under ordinary circumstances this would not be a tragedy. My passenger seat has its fair share of stains, chocolate being the primary offender.

But astute readers will recall that the last time I’d been in my car, I had something beside me on my passenger’s seat.

Extra credit for those of you who remember what it was.

That’s right. Marvelous Marv’s mattress sample—whose snowy white pillow top was now sporting a big red ketchup blob.

Frantically I tried to blot it with a napkin, turning it into an even bigger red blob.

But I couldn’t let myself panic. After all, I had plenty of time before my meeting. I’d simply go home and wash the stain out.

Bagging my uneaten McMuffin, I tore back home and spent the next hour scrubbing that damn mattress sample. I tried Wisk, Comet, even Head & Shoulders shampoo.

When I was all finished, I’m pleased to report that the mattress sample was dandruff free, but unfortunately still sported a faint red stain.

“Oh, Pro!” I wailed. “What on earth am I going to do now?”

She looked up from where she was sunning herself on my windowsill.

You could scratch my belly. That’s always fun.

This is why there’s no such thing as a Seeing-Eye Cat. They just don’t care.

I, on the other hand, was beside myself with worry. I couldn’t possibly bring the sample back to Marvin this way. How could he depend on me to take care of his advertising if I couldn’t take care of a silly mattress sample?

No, I had to prove to Marvin that I was reliable and responsible.

And there was only way to do this:

I had to drive over to another Mattress King and steal a replacement.

Now don’t get all righteous on me. Once I landed the job—or even if I didn’t—I’d explain to Marvin what happened and reimburse him. But right now I couldn’t afford to make a bad impression.

So I googled the address of the Santa Monica Mattress King, and minutes later I was heading down Santa Monica Boulevard in my Corolla, trying to figure out a way to pull off my heist. The sample was way too big to slip into my purse. I’d just have to wait until the salespeople were distracted with other customers and try to sneak out with it then.

Unfortunately, when I got there, the place was deserted. Not a customer in sight. The lone salesman, a dapper black guy whose name tag read
Carlton
, jumped up from his desk, thrilled to see me.

“Hi, there,” he said, flashing me a dazzling smile. “How can I help you get a Sleeptacular night’s rest?”

“Actually, I’m just looking,” I said, spotting the store’s mattress sample, tossed casually atop a bed not three feet away from me.

So near and yet so far.

For an instant I considered grabbing it and running. But a quick glance at Carlton’s muscles rippling under his crisp white shirt told me how futile that would be. He’d take me down in no time.

Playing it casual, I started wandering around, feeling the different mattresses, praying that Carlton would leave me alone.

But Carlton was on me like glue, extolling the virtues of the various Mattress King models: the Sweet Dreamer, the Heavenly Rest, and—in Carlton’s words—“the Mercedes of mattresses,” the Comfort Cloud.

“Sleeping on this baby,” Carlton crooned, running a loving hand across its plush surface, “is like sleeping in paradise.”

Unlike the lugubrious Lenny, Carlton was one heck of a salesman. If I’d actually been in the market for a mattress, he undoubtedly would have hypnotized me into springing for the Comfort Cloud. Along with a matching ergonomic pillow.

But, as we all know, I was not in the market for a mattress. All I cared about was that dratted sample.

I casually strolled over and picked it up.

“Wow, this is fascinating,” I said. “You can see the springs and everything.”

“More coils to the inch,” Carlton said, still standing over me like a hawk. “That’s what we give you here at Mattress King.”

He flashed me another dazzler smile.

By now I could tell I was never going to get rid of this guy.

There was no way out of it. I’d simply have to try my heist at another branch.

“Thanks so much for your help,” I sighed. “I’ll think it over.”

“You leaving? So soon?” His eyes widened in surprise. I got the feeling very few customers, especially those of the female persuasion, were able to resist his charms. “Don’t you want to at least try one out?”

“Some other time,” I demurred.

“Take my card,” he said, thrusting his business card into my hand. “Come back and see me if you change your mind.”

“Will do,” I said with a feeble smile, then scurried out the door.

Back in my Corolla, I got out my cell phone and was just about to call Information for the address of the nearest Mattress King when I got an idea. One that just might work.

I fished out Carlton’s business card and punched in his number.

“Mattress King,” he answered. “Where every customer is king.”

“Hi,” I said, doing my best to disguise my voice, “I was in your store last week and saw a mattress I really liked. The Comfort Cloud.”

“Oh, yes, the Mercedes of mattresses.”

“Anyhow, I’ve decided to buy it, and I’m wondering if I can order it over the phone with my credit card.”

“Of course you can,” he said, his voice brimming with excitement. “What size did you want?”

“California King.”

“Wonderful!” he gushed. I could practically hear him calculating his commission. “Have you got your credit card number?”

“Yes, here it is. It’s a MasterCard 5466—oh, darn.”

“What’s wrong?”

“The doorbell’s ringing. Hold on just a sec while I get it, okay?”

“Of course,” he said. “Take your time.”

I did not take my time. Au contraire. I put the phone down on the car seat and hightailed it back into the store.

Carlton looked up, surprised to see me.

“You’re back,” he said, covering the mouthpiece.

“Yes, I changed my mind.”

“I’ll be right with you; I’m just writing up a sale.”

“No problem,” I said, trotting over to the mattress sample.

Then, bold as brass, I picked it up and trotted back to the front door.

“Hey!” Carlton shouted, jumping up. “Where are you going? You can’t take that with you!”

Wanna bet?

I was out of there in a flash.

For a brief second it looked like he was going to chase me, but in the end, he did what I thought he’d do. He stood there, holding on to the phone, unwilling to let the commission on a Comfort Cloud slip through his fingers.