Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 25

"Ready to set sail?" asked Kevin.

After we a.s.sured him we were ready for our grand adventure, Kevin plopped his oar into the water and began rowing across the bay that separated Naples from the mainland.

Skip wasted no time opening his picnic basket and taking out a jumbo jar of caviar, along with some toast squares, chopped hard-boiled eggs, and a bottle of champagne.

Popping open the champagne bottle, he poured us each a gla.s.s.

Then the moment Prozac had been waiting for: Skip opened the caviar. And before you could say Holy Beluga, Prozac jumped into his lap, waiting for the feast to begin.

Lay it on me, big boy.

Her wish was his command.

Taking a tiny spoon from the basket, he started hand-feeding her beluga's finest.

Needless to say, Prozac was in seventh heaven.

I, however, was not a fan of fish eggs, so I had to settle for nibbling on toast squares and hard-boiled eggs. Not too bad, especially when washed down with a snootful of champagne.

After a few sips of the bubbly, I was beginning to feel quite mellow. By now we had reached the islands of Naples. I leaned back against the pillows, snuggled under a blanket, as Kevin steered the gondola along the ca.n.a.ls, pointing out the sights. I looked up at the spectacular homes that lined our route, daydreaming of some day living there with proceeds from the sale of my Great American Novel.

Skip had, thank goodness, shown no signs of getting romantic. Not with me, anyway. He was saving all his love for Prozac, stroking her fur with each spoonful of caviar.

After cruising the ca.n.a.ls for a while, we reached a bridge spanning two of the islands.

Kevin stopped rowing and glided to a halt under the structure.

"This is Lovers' Bridge," he announced.

Uh-oh. I didn't like the sound of this.

"Tradition has it that lovers are supposed to kiss and seal their love here, under the bridge."

Clearly my little talk about platonic friendship had not sunk in.

"Don't worry," he added with a wink. "I won't look." And with that, he turned his back to us and started belting out a rather ear-piercing version of "O Sole Mio."

Meanwhile Skip was staring at me with moony eyes.

I certainly hoped he didn't expect to cop a kiss from me. If he did, I was prepared to bean him over the head with his own champagne bottle.

But much to my relief, Skip didn't make any move toward me. Instead he reached into his pocket and took out a small turquoise box.

OmiG.o.d. I'd recognize that color anywhere. It was Tiffany blue.

"Open it," he said, handing it to me.

For a terrifying instant I thought it might be an engagement ring, but when I lifted the lid, I saw it was a bracelet. I held it up. Even in the shadow of the bridge it was sparking like a zillion candles.

"These aren't diamonds, are they?" I asked.

"Ten carats' worth," he nodded.

Holy Moses! It had to be worth a fortune. It took every ounce of willpower I possessed to say, "The bracelet is gorgeous, but I can't possibly accept it."

"No worries," Skip said. "It's not a bracelet, and it's not for you."

Huh?

"It's a collar, and it's for Prozac."

At the sound of her name, Prozac looked up from where she had been industriously licking the lid of the caviar jar.

For moi?

And before I could stop him, Skip s.n.a.t.c.hed the collar from me and fastened it around Prozac's neck.

She looked up at him with coy green eyes.

Your place or mine?

By now, Kevin had finished mangling "O Sole Mio" and we were back in the sunshine, heading to the dock.

"I'm sorry, Skip," I said, "but Prozac can't accept the collar, either."

I reached out to unfasten it from her neck, but the minute I did, she turned into The Beast With a Thousand Claws.

No way was I getting that collar off her neck without capsizing the gondola.

"I'll take it off when we're home," I promised, "and return it to you then."

Skip held up his hand in protest.

"No! You must keep it. I insist! So how about it, Jaine?" he asked, his cataracts misting over with emotion. "Will you make me the happiest man in the world and give me your hand in marriage?"

"I'm sorry, Skip, but I can't."

"Okay, then will you make me the happiest man in the world and give me your cat?"

"No, I won't give you Prozac!"

"I'll pay you twenty-five grand."

"Twenty-five grand?" I gasped.

Prozac perked up, interested.

I'm worth every penny.

I sat there in stunned disbelief, aghast at the idea of selling my beloved kitty.

I thought back to the day I first saw her at the shelter, a scrawny critter snoring in the corner of her cage. I remembered how I picked her up and felt her tiny heart thumping wildly against my chest. And how, when I brought her back to my apartment, she curled up in a ball on my sofa and looked up at me, grat.i.tude beaming from her big green eyes, as if to say, I'm home at last.

Okay, so maybe she didn't exactly curl up on my sofa. Maybe she ran around my apartment, attacking my plants, chewing on my electrical cords and clawing my coffee table, looking up at me as if to say, So when do we eat?

But still, the little furball had wormed her way into my heart, and I wasn't about to let her go.

"Forget it," I told Skip.

"I'll throw in another pie," he said, a hopeful look in his eyes.

Resisting the impulse to ask what kind, I shook my head, my answer still an unequivocal no.

We drove home in silence, Skip staring mournfully ahead.

I made a few stabs at small talk, but he wasn't having any.

When we finally turned up the street to my duplex, I put Prozac back in her carrier. "I'll get that collar back to you as soon as I can."

A yelp of protest from the carrier.

Like h.e.l.l she will!

"And thanks for the pie."

"About that pie ..." Skip hesitated a sheepish beat. "It's not exactly chocolate cream."

"What is it? Banana cream? Apple? Cherry?"

"Soy-carob, with a wheat germ crust."

"You've got to be kidding!"

"Some day you'll thank me, Jaine," he said with the self-righteous nod of a health food fanatic.

"And what day would that be?" I muttered. "When h.e.l.l freezes over?"

Swallowing my irritation, I flounced out of the Bentley and headed up the path to my apartment.

Was he the most infuriating man ever, or what?

Of course, that was just one gal's opinion.

From her carrier, I could hear Prozac meowing.

Call me soon, big boy!

Chapter 22.

Skip's soy-carob pie was inedible, of course. (Think Elmer's Glue in a wheat germ crust.) After just one bite, it went sailing into the trash.

Even Prozac, who has been known to nosh on old gym socks, would not go near it.

Of course, after her caviar binge, Prozac was turning her nose up at anything and everything I put in her bowl. It would take weeks of hissing, scratching and yowling at the moon (by me) to get her to eat cat food again. But that's a whole other story, one I'm saving for a licensed psychotherapist.

In the meanwhile, I had to get that d.a.m.n collar off her neck.

I tried several times to undo the clasp while she was napping, but all I had to show for it was an arm crisscrossed with cat scratches.

I tried diverting her with Hearty Halibut Guts, always a sure fire distraction in the BC (Before Caviar) days.

But she just sniffed at her bowl in disdain.

What-no Beluga?

Well, if she thought I was going to run out and buy ridiculously expensive caviar, she was crazy.

I stuck to my guns and bought ridiculously expensive shrimp instead.

After cutting the shrimp into tidbits (scarfing down a few morsels for myself), I set them down before her with bated breath.

Would she fall for it? Would she dive right in and not look up till every morsel had disappeared down her gullet?

I'm happy to report the answer was yes!

Before I knew it, she had her little pink nose buried in the bowl, oblivious to everything around her.

Wasting no time, I reached over and sprang open the clasp on that d.a.m.n collar.

At last I held the sparkly diamonds in my sweaty hands.

For a minute, I was tempted to try it on as a bracelet. But I quickly came to my senses and realized I hadn't a second to spare. I had to hide the d.a.m.n thing before she inhaled the last of her shrimp and came up for air.

I raced to my bedroom where I tucked the collar back in its Tiffany box. I'd just finished shoving it into the far reaches of the top shelf of my closet when there was a knock on my front door.

I hurried to the living room to get it.

By now Prozac had finished her snack and was scratching her neck in outraged disbelief.

Hey! I've been robbed!

Ignoring her indignant yowls, I answered the door.