Death by Smoothie, page 8
As for Misty, I was sorry she was dead. But I certainly wasn’t going to miss her. I doubted anyone on the planet—aside from her parents—would. And even her parents seemed like an iffy bet. I could just picture Misty storming out on them with nary a hug goodbye the minute she turned eighteen.
Yes, I was in fine fettle that morning, thinking how wonderful it would be if David and Becca shut down production of I Married a Zombie now that they’d lost their leading lady. I’d had more than my share of rewrites and would be a happy camper indeed if I’d seen the last of what had to be the worst play ever written.
And so I tootled off to the kitchen with hope in my heart and tiny bits of pretzels in my hair (a souvenir of a late-night pretzels ’n ice cream binge).
After fixing Prozac a bowl of Hearty Halibut Innards, I nuked myself coffee and a cinnamon raisin bagel. I’d just taken the bagel out of the microwave when the phone rang.
I hurried to get it, hoping it was Becca telling me the final curtain had rung on I Married a Zombie.
But it wasn’t Becca. It was a guy named Brandon.
“I’m Skyler McEnroe’s personal assistant,” he explained.
“Skyler who?”
“Skyler McEnroe, the bachelor you bid on at the Gwyneth Paltrow School of Organic Cosmetology auction.”
Oh, right. My chipper mood vanished when I remembered the six hundred bucks I’d spent for a date with a slick entrepreneur and patron of the arts.
“Mr. McEnroe is wondering if you’d be free on Friday for dinner?”
“Um. Sure,” I said, hoping I wasn’t supposed to pick up the tab.
Six hundred smackeroos were the absolute maximum I intended to fork over to the Gwyneth Paltrow School of Organic Cosmetology.
“Great,” Brandon said. “Mr. McEnroe will call for you at six.”
I hung up, certain that Skyler McEnroe never dated anyone outside the model/actress/call girl demographic favored by L.A.’s mega-rich guys. In fact, I bet my bottom Pop-Tart I’d be the first woman ever to show up for a date with Skyler McEnroe with elastic in her waistband and cellulite on her thighs.
Which reminded me, I was all out of Pop-Tarts. I made a mental note to stock up ASAP.
Back in the kitchen, I finished prepping my bagel, slathering it, as always, with gobs of butter and strawberry jam. And I was just settling on my sofa to scarf it down when Lance came banging at my front door.
Why does that man always show up just when I’m about to dig into a cinnamon raisin bagel?
With a sigh, I got up and opened the door to find Lance looking drawn and haggard, having abandoned his usual fashion-plate look for tattered jeans and a baggy tee.
“Horrible news,” he groaned, slumping down onto my sofa.
Sensing his distress, Prozac leaped down from the armchair where she’d been belching hearty halibut fumes and hurried over to his lap to comfort him.
“The actress who played Cryptessa was murdered yesterday. And the police think Aidan did it! Just because he brought her a smoothie.”
“Don’t panic, Lance. The police are questioning everybody. The detective in charge of the case even hinted that I might have done it.”
“Really?” he asked, a glimmer of hope in his eyes.
“You needn’t look so happy about it.”
“Of course I’m not happy about it, Jaine. But better you than Aidan.”
No, he didn’t say that last part. But I had a sneaky suspicion he was thinking it.
“They can’t convict Aidan just because he was the one who brought Misty the smoothie,” I pointed out. “Anyone could have tampered with it.”
“But they took him in to be fingerprinted, and it turns out his prints are all over the box of rat poison that killed her.”
“They are?”
“Yes, but only because it was Aidan’s job to sprinkle the stuff on the baseboards,” he sighed, slumping down even lower on the sofa. “Just my rotten luck,” he said. “I finally meet the love of my life, and now he’s about to be arrested!”
Prozac, who’d been nuzzling him in that comforting way she has with anyone but me, jerked to attention.
Wait! What? I thought I was the love of your life.
With that, she jumped off his lap, indignant, and scampered back to the armchair, where she promptly proceeded to give herself a thorough gynecological exam.
Lance turned to me, desperate.
“You’ve got to do your Sherlock Holmes bit, Jaine, and prove Aidan is innocent.”
The Sherlock Holmes bit to which he referred is my penchant for tracking down killers. I’m really quite good at it, if I do say so myself.
“Of course I’ll help,” I assured him.
“Thank you, hon, from the bottom of my heart,” Lance said, misty-eyed with gratitude. “Ever since Aidan told me the bad news, I’ve been a total wreck. I barely slept a wink and can’t eat a thing.”
That last part he said while reaching for half of my cinnamon raisin bagel.
“Can’t eat a thing, huh?” I asked, eyeing the bagel en route to his mouth.
“Okay, so I’ve managed to choke down a few morsels. But everything tastes like cardboard. Got any grape jelly?”
I shuffled off to the kitchen to get Lance his grape jelly. When I got back, I found him checking his phone.
“What do you think?” he asked, holding out the screen. “I just got a ‘like’ from this guy.”
I looked down at a photo of a handsome honey on one of Lance’s many dating apps.
“What the heck are you doing on Tinder? What happened to Aidan, the love of your life?”
“I’ve got to face facts, Jaine. Aidan could be arrested any minute. What if they find him guilty and send him to jail? Yes, he’s my one true love, and I’d visit him in the slammer every week, but I’ve got to have a plan B in place just in case.”
“A plan B?” I cried, giving him the absolute stinkiest of stink eyes.
He had the good grace to look abashed.
“You’re right,” he said, clicking off his phone. “It’s too soon to work on plan B. I’m ashamed of myself for even going there.”
And so he headed out the door, ashamed—but not too ashamed to be munching on the other half of my bagel.
Chapter Twelve
Becca called the next day, bubbling over with excitement.
“Great news, Jaine! We’ve got a fantastic actress to play the part of Cryptessa, and the police have given us the okay to return to the theater. We’re going back to the original script, and I need you to come to rehearsals tomorrow to look for cuts and punch-ups.”
Oh, groan. Back to square one.
It looked like my stint in the land of the undead would never end.
When I showed up at the theater the next day, Becca came hurrying over to greet me with a cute young blonde in tow.
“Jaine,” she beamed, “meet Katie Gustafson, our new Cryptessa!”
“Hi, there!” Katie said with a friendly grin. Something I never once got from Misty.
I recognized her right away as the same dynamo I’d seen auditioning the day of my interview. With her blunt-cut blond bob, big blue eyes, and fresh-scrubbed complexion, she was the perfect girl next door.
Or, in this case, zombie next door.
“So nice to meet you,” I said.
“Likewise. Becca tells me you’re terrific!”
My, this was turning out to be quite the love fest. Maybe my return to I Married a Zombie wasn’t going to be so bad after all.
I wandered backstage to the kitchen to pour myself a cup of coffee and was thrilled to discover that Misty’s ghastly petrified muffins had been banished, replaced by a box of plump Danish pastries. I chose a cheese beauty, drizzled with icing.
Yes, indeedie. Things were looking up in zombieland.
Once the other actors had shown up and been introduced to Katie, rehearsals began. None of us knew it then, but a seismic change was about to take place.
Katie was everything Misty wasn’t—bright, sharp, and funny—a positively enchanting Cryptessa.
The other actors were clearly energized by her, their performances livelier than I’d ever seen them. Even Aidan, in spite of his recent unsettling chat with the police, seemed to be enjoying himself as zany Uncle Dedly.
Becca watched from the audience, beaming.
The only one not caught up in the excitement was David.
Gone were his aviators and tight jeans; he was back in his dweeb duds: muddy brown corduroys and a faded Star Wars tee.
Not only was he practically sleepwalking through his performance as Brad Abercrombie, he seemed to have lost all interest in directing. Up until then, he’d been a constant source of bad acting advice.
Now he was silent as one of the prop tombstones.
Instead, Becca seemed to have taken over the reins as director, occasionally offering her advice, but mostly buoying her actors with praise.
I sat at her side, looking for places to make cuts. (I still thought the whole play could be tossed in the shredder with no discernible loss, but thanks to Katie and the others, David’s clunky dialogue was actually coming to life.)
Every once in a while, Becca whispered rewrite suggestions to me, most of them pretty darn good. Her creative instincts, formerly stifled as David’s assistant, were now in full bloom, and the rehearsal sailed along seamlessly.
When it was time for lunch, we ordered from Fatburger.
I was in chowhound heaven.
Best news yet, the exterminator’s traps seemed to be working. There wasn’t a mouse in sight.
And with Misty gone, we’d gotten rid of our rat problem, too.
* * *
I ate lunch onstage with the actors, while out in the audience, Becca and David sat together, shoulders touching, talking softly. Whatever rift Misty had caused between them seemed to have been healed.
Up onstage, Delia, Preston, and Katie ate their lunch on the set’s living room sofa, while Aidan and I shared an ottoman.
“I can’t tell you how happy we are to have you on board,” Delia was telling Katie.
“I can’t tell you how happy I am to be here,” our new ingenue replied. “It’s been almost a year since I moved from Minneapolis, and I was beginning to think I was never going to land a part.”
Then her smile faded.
“I’m just sorry I got hired because the other actress was murdered. It’s all so tragic.”
“Not really,” Delia said, popping a fry in her mouth. “I think humanity will survive quite nicely without Misty.”
“Delia!” Preston chided. “That’s pretty harsh.”
“C’mon,” Delia replied. “We all hated her. I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but in Misty’s case, I’m willing to make an exception.”
“She really was bad news,” Aidan agreed.
“At any rate, we’re glad you’re here,” Preston said to Katie. “I thought for sure the play would close opening night, but now, who knows? Maybe we’ve got a shot.”
“Maybe we do,” Delia said. “The play’s so bad, it just might be good.”
“It could be a camp classic!” Aidan chimed in.
The actors continued to chat about the play with mounting enthusiasm, every once in a while tossing in a horror story about Misty.
I contributed nothing to the conversation, too busy inhaling my fatburger.
When it was almost time to resume rehearsals and the others had scattered off backstage to make phone calls or hit the restroom, I took Aidan aside.
“So how are you holding up?”
“Fine!” he assured me with a bright smile.
“Really?”
“Okay, maybe not so fine,” he conceded. “I told the police the only reason my fingerprints were on the box of rat poison was because I was in charge of sprinkling the stuff on the baseboards, but I could tell I’m still not out from under their radar. When the detective in charge of the case found out how Misty came on to me, she hinted that I might have killed her in a ‘Me Too’ moment of rage. It’s nuts, of course,” he said, dismissing Detective Jamison’s theory with a wave of his hand.
But I could see the fear in his eyes.
“Actually,” I said, “I’ve solved a couple of murders in the past.”
“I know. Lance told me. Your track record is very impressive.”
“And I’d be glad to do some snooping for you, if you’d like.”
“Would you?” he said eagerly. “That’d be great!”
“Did you happen to notice anyone going backstage during lunch break the day of the murder?” I asked, switching to part-time semi-professional PI mode.
“Only Preston. We’d been eating lunch together, and he excused himself to go to his dressing room to call his agent. But I have a hard time believing he killed Misty. He barely knew her.”
I agreed. I couldn’t see Preston as the killer, either.
There was only one person who hated Misty enough to spike her smoothie with rat poison, the guy who’d fallen head over heels in love with her, only to discover she was a user and a cheat.
Nope, in this homicide horse race, my money was still on David.
Chapter Thirteen
Misty’s murder was on the back burner of my brain that night as I sat at Paco’s Tacos, sipping a margarita and inhaling tortilla chips, waiting for Kandi to join me for dinner. Listening to the faint whir of the margarita blender and breathing in the enticing aroma of sizzling steak fajitas, I was soon lulled into a dreamlike state, lost in a rather naughty fantasy featuring me, Jude Law, and a vat of guacamole.
I was stirred from my X-rated reverie when Kandi came rushing over to our table, looking more than a tad frazzled.
“What a day!” she said, plopping down across from me, raking her hair from her forehead. I couldn’t help but notice that, even in her distress, her chestnut bob was as shiny as ever.
“Trouble on the set? “
“Big trouble. The day after the cockroach gets out of rehab, Tommy the Termite gets arrested on a DUI. I swear, it’s like our show has been sprayed by a karmic can of Raid.”
For the first time, she noticed the margarita I’d ordered for her and took a grateful sip.
Needless to say, my size-6 friend didn’t even think about reaching for a chip. Which was a good thing, since I’d finished them all.
“But look who I’m talking to about trouble on the job,” Kandi said. “I read about the actress from your play getting murdered.”
“It was pretty awful. And the police think that Lance’s friend Aidan may have done it. Lance is going nuts, and I don’t blame him. Aidan’s a really sweet guy.”
Kandi’s eyes widened in alarm.
“Please don’t tell me you’re going to go racing off on some crazy mission to find the killer!”
“Of course not,” I fibbed, eager to avoid a lecture on the dangers of tracking down homicidal maniacs.
When our waiter showed up to take our orders, we did our usual thing: tostada salad for Kandi, chicken chimichangas for me.
“Guess what?” Kandi said when he’d gone. “In all the hoo-ha of Tommy the Termite’s DUI, I forgot to tell you. I had a date with Ethan, my yachtsman.”
“How was it?”
“Divine! His boat is in dry dock, getting repainted. But he took me to dinner at his yacht club. We sat at a table out on the deck with a fantastic view of the marina, where we watched the sunset with oysters and champagne, and the moonrise with lobster and chardonnay.
“It was positively magical!” she gushed, her eyes aglow at the memory.
“And it turns out we both love mountain biking, Marvel action movies, and pineapple on our pizza.”
“Kandi, you don’t like any of those things.”
“Not yet. But I’m sure I will, once I try them. Anything will be fun with a guy as special as Ethan. You should see his eyes. They’re the exact same turquoise as a Tiffany box!”
Her ode to Ethan was interrupted just then by the sound of her cell phone pinging.
“That’s probably him!” she squealed in delight. “Do you mind if I get it?”
“Go for it.”
But the minute she checked her cell, her smile vanished.
“It’s a text from Tommy the Termite. They’ve suspended his driver’s license. Now we’re going to have to hire a car service to take him to and from the studio every day.”
She clicked off her phone with a groan.
“So what about you?” she asked, no doubt eager to distract herself from her termite woes. “What’s up with you and your bachelor?”
“I haven’t met him yet. He’s taking me out for dinner on Friday.”
“Oh, goodie!” she cried. “I’m so excited for you!”
“Don’t be. I doubt I’ll have anything in common with a bizguy entrepreneur.”
“You’ve got to think positive, Jaine! Imagine yourself going out on a fantastic date. Remember what I told you about visualization? If you picture what you want, it will come to you. It really works!”
“Maybe you’re right,” I said as the chimichangas I’d been visualizing for the past fifteen minutes showed up at the table. Did I mention they came smothered in sour cream and guacamole?
“Why, only yesterday,” Kandi was saying, oblivious to her tostada salad, “I bought the cutest bikini to wear on Ethan’s sailboat. Just visualizing myself there will make it happen.”
It shows what good friends we are that I didn’t hate Kandi for being able to try on bathing suits without the aid of intravenous tranquilizers.
I must confess, though, that I sort of tuned her out as she went on to describe the bikini, as well as Ethan’s amazing eyes, winning smile, and sparkling personality. Or maybe it was his sparkling eyes, winning personality, and amazing smile.
Like I said, I was too busy chowing down on my chimichangas to pay attention.
When I finally came up for air, Kandi had returned to the subject of my upcoming bachelor date.
“You’ve got to promise me that you’ll cut out all desserts between now and then.”
