Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 24

A merest hint of hesitation before she said, "Oh, I've seen it a million times in those corny ads of hers."

But there was something in that beat of hesitation before she answered, like someone who'd just steadied herself before tripping, that made me wonder if she'd seen that Cupid up close and personal-perhaps on the night of the murder, while she was slipping her niece a poisoned chocolate.

"So what do you think?" she asked, holding up the zipper earrings.

Oh, h.e.l.l. We were back to the jewelry again. Why did I tell that stupid "I want to buy jewelry" lie in the first place? Why couldn't I have told her my other stupid lie about doing a story for the L.A. Times?

"Just twenty-five bucks," she cooed.

I wasn't about to spend twenty-five dollars on a pair of zipper earrings. No way. No how. Never in a zillion years.

I'd simply tell Faith I thought her jewelry was lovely but I'd take a pa.s.s. That would be it, clean and simple.

"Do you take personal checks?" were the words that actually came out of my mouth.

What can I say? She was so d.a.m.n proud of her wacky jewelry, I couldn't say no.

I've actually wound up wearing the earrings a few times. They look sort of cute. Especially with my toothbrush bracelet.

Chapter 21.

You know how it is when you think you've finally gotten over a terrible cold and you hop out of bed, ready to rejoin the land of the living, and then you feel that annoying tickle in the back of your throat and let out a whopper of a sneeze and realize the cold you thought had gone away has come back?

Well, that's the way it was with Skip Holmeier. Like a nasty virus, he just wouldn't go away.

When I got home from my visit to Faith that afternoon, the phone was ringing.

I picked it up, blissfully unaware of the virus on the other end.

"h.e.l.lo, Jaine? It's me. Skip Holmeier III."

Oh, gaak.

"I got your letter," he said, "and I accept the fact that our relationship is over."

Our relationship? What relationship? One bar fight with a blind jazz singer, and lunch at his mother's grave?

"All I ask is that we get together one more time so I can have closure."

"Really, Skip. I don't think that's such a good idea."

Silence on the other end of the line. For a second, I allowed myself to hope that he'd hung up.

No such luck.

"I just came back from my doctor," he finally said with a catch in his voice. "He told me my toe fungus wasn't looking good."

Oh, please. He was playing the toe fungus card! How low could he go?

"In some cases," he whimpered, "it can be fatal."

"I'm sorry, Skip. But my answer is still no."

"If you go out with me, I'll bring pie."

"What day works for you?"

Can you believe it? I pimped myself out for a measly pie!

I was thoroughly disgusted with myself. I should have asked for ice cream, too.

Skip told me he'd pick me up the next morning at ten a.m., and indeed at the crack of ten, there he was on my doorstep, dressed in a nautical blue blazer and white slacks, his toupee peeking out from under a perky sailor's cap.

I had been tempted to dress for the occasion in funereal black (to match my mood) but instead opted for elastic waist pants, I MY CAT T-shirt, and sweatshirt hoodie.

"How adorable you look!" he cried.

Needless to say, he was not talking to me, but to Prozac.

"Here's your pie." He handed me a large bakery box. "I brought you chocolate cream, just like you requested. Heavy on the whipped cream."

Eagerly accepting my bribe, I trotted off to the kitchen to put it in the fridge. I couldn't wait for this date to end so I could dig into it. Skip had made me promise not to eat the pie in front of him so he wouldn't have to watch me "poisoning" my body.

"I've packed us a delicious picnic basket," he announced when I got back from the kitchen.

I groaned at the thought.

"Are we having lunch at the cemetery again?"

"No, of course not. We're going to Naples."

"Italy??"

No way was I jetting off to Europe with this guy, not without an armed chaperone.

"Naples, California," he corrected me with a hearty chuckle. "It's a charming little cl.u.s.ter of islands just south of Long Beach. We're going to take a gondola ride along the ca.n.a.ls."

"Sounds like fun."

And it did. If only I weren't going with Skip.

I grabbed my purse and started for the door when Skip said, "Don't forget Prozac!"

"Prozac?"

"She's coming, too!" he beamed. "I made special arrangements."

"Not a good idea, Skip. Prozac's impossible in a car. I can't even imagine what chaos she'd unleash on a gondola."

Prozac looked up from where she was hard at work shredding my throw pillow to ribbons.

Hey, who are you calling impossible?

Skip turned to me, devastated.

"Please let her come. You'll behave in the car, won't you, Prozac?"

But Prozac was too busy destroying my throw pillow to give him the time of day.

"I've brought caviar for my little princess," he crooned in her ear.

I swear, that cat understands English, because suddenly she forgot about the throw pillow and practically hurled herself into his arms.

Let's get this party started!

Normally the minute you put Prozac in a car, she starts doing the cha-cha around the foot pedals, causing near-fatal accidents. And if she's locked in her carrier, she's been known to wail at the top of her lungs for as long as five and a half straight hours. (If you don't believe me, just ask Virgin Airlines.) But that day, with the thought of caviar at the end of her rainbow, she was a perfect angel. A regular Emily Post with retractable claws. She trotted into her carrier with nary a whimper, and when I let her out in Skip's Bentley, she sat in my lap, gazing up at Skip with seductive green eyes.

"Love me, snook.u.ms?" he crooned.

You bet, Denture Breath. With us it was love at second sight. At first sight, I didn't realize you were loaded.

Naples is normally about a forty-minute drive from L.A. But of course with Skip behind the wheel, it took us close to two agonizing hours.

I figured I might as well take advantage of our alone time to ask a few questions about the murder. Maybe Skip saw something at the party that would lead me to the killer.

"I still can't get over the way Joy was poisoned," I said.

"A terrible tragedy," Skip clucked. "Are you sure Prozac's comfortable? I've got a down pillow in the back seat, if you think she'd like it."

"She's fine. Getting back to Joy ..." I prompted.

"Such a lovely lady," Skip reminisced. "Always so kind to me. And to Miss Marple-petting her and playing with her and giving her all those goodies to eat."

"I don't suppose you saw anyone sneaking into her office the night of the party?"

"People were coming and going all night, but I wasn't paying attention to anyone. Except you. I thought I saw you dash across the hall to her office."

"I didn't kill Joy," I hastened to a.s.sure him.

"Of course not!" he said. "n.o.body who owns a cat as wonderful as Prozac could ever be a killer."

Wow. What a glowing character endors.e.m.e.nt.

The rest of the trip pa.s.sed in an uneventful silence broken only by the curses of our fellow motorists, a tad miffed at Skip for going thirty-five miles an hour in the fast lane of the freeway.

At last we arrived at the gondola dock.

It was a glorious day, just a few cotton-puff clouds in a turquoise sky.

Skip parked his Bentley and took out his picnic basket from the trunk.

With Prozac safely back in her carrier, we walked along a pier of weathered wooden planks.

"Did you remember to bring an extra sweater?" Skip asked. "It can get a little chilly out on the ca.n.a.ls."

"Yes, I've got one right here."

"No, I meant for Prozac."

"I'm sure she'll be fine."

"No matter. I brought an ermine shawl she can use."

A slim athletic fellow in a blue and white striped shirt and straw hat greeted us at the end of the pier with a friendly "Buongiorno!"

From his bright red hair and freckles, I guessed he probably wasn't Italian.

"Welcome to the Mona Lisa," he said, gesturing to a sleek black gondola straight out of the ca.n.a.ls of Venice. "My name is Kevin, and I'll be your gondolier on your romantic gondola getaway."

Whoa, Nelly! Did I just hear the word "romantic?"

"Just FYI, Kevin," I piped up. "This is going to be a strictly platonic gondola ride. Right, Skip?"

"If you say so, my dear," he said with a most infuriating wink.

Kevin helped us aboard the narrow craft, and we settled down onto a wooden bench seat that had been lined with plump pillows and blankets to lay across our laps.

I made a point of putting my sweater between Skip and me, just in case he got any ideas.

"And who do we have here?" Kevin asked, peering into Prozac's carrier.

"My cat, Prozac."

By now Prozac was meowing at the top of her lungs, eager to get out and join the party.

A twinge of panic clutched my heart as I opened the latch; heaven only knew what Prozac would do once she was let loose on the Mona Lisa. I just prayed she wouldn't dive overboard at the sight of a juicy fish swimming by.

Gingerly I took her out.

"Buongiorno, Prozac!" Kevin greeted her.

She eyed his straw hat with interest. For a minute I feared it was a goner. But then, no doubt remembering the caviar to come, she restrained herself and curled up in a ball on my lap.