Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 34

I glanced down at the vegan munchies on the coffee table. How totally unfair that Prozac was getting lobster tails and I was stuck with those ghastly tofu blobs. It had been ages since I'd scarfed down my Quarter Pounder (I mean, Southwest Salad) at McDonald's, and by now I was starving.

No way was I about to dig into the tofu blobs, so I rummaged around my purse and was thrilled to discover half a Hershey's bar stuck in a tissue packet.

Just as I was unwrapping it and plucking a piece of lint off the H, Skip came back with Prozac's lobster.

He took one look at the Hershey's bar and froze dead in his tracks.

"My G.o.d!" he cried. "Are you crazy?"

Then he sprang to life, wrenching it from my hand.

"Don't you realize this is poison?" he said, waving the chocolate bar in my face.

Okay, that did it. I'd had it up to here with this health nut.

"For your information," I said, grabbing the Hershey's bar right back, "I happen to eat chocolate all the time, and I'm perfectly healthy."

"Who cares about you?" he screeched. "I was talking about Prozac. Chocolate is poisonous to cats. That's how poor Miss Marple died. Some idiot fed her chocolate!"

He stood there, eyes popping, the veins on his temple pulsing, his face flushed with fury.

And suddenly I flashed back to my first date with Skip at the steak restaurant, when Joy came over to our table and rambled on about how much she'd adored Miss Marple, how she'd fed her tuna and caviar and truffles. Omigosh! When Joy said she'd fed Miss Marple truffles, had she meant the chocolate kind? From her G.o.diva box?

Was it possible that, however unwittingly, Joy had killed Miss Marple?

Clearly Skip had been cuckoo over his dearly departed cat. Cuckoo enough to have killed Joy to avenge Miss Marple's death?

One look at his wild eyes and throbbing temples convinced me that he was.

When Joy bragged about feeding Miss Marple those truffles, she'd undoubtedly signed her own death warrant.

Skip was watching me closely now, as if he realized he'd said too much.

I had to get the h.e.l.l out of there, but I couldn't leave without Prozac.

Skip had her firmly in his grasp, back on the sofa, feeding her lobster bits, cooing to her in a high-pitched keen that made me feel sick inside. I couldn't risk grabbing her; Lord only knew how he might harm her in a struggle.

Somehow I had to convince him I suspected nothing, and then break away to call 911.

"I'm so sorry about Miss Marple," I said, trying my best to sound soothing. "I don't blame you for being upset. And you're so right. I'll never eat chocolate in front of Prozac again."

The tension seemed to drain from his face.

"So sorry I raised my voice, my dear," he said with an apologetic smile.

Thank goodness he seemed to be mollified.

"Ready for more Adventures of Miss Marple?" he asked.

"Absolutely. But first, I need to use the powder room. That alfalfa juice just zipped right through me."

"Of course. It's the third door to your left."

I grabbed my purse and headed out the door as calmly as I could. Then as soon I was in the hallway, I dashed into the first room I saw.

At first I thought it was a child's room, with a pink canopy bed and bins of toys everywhere. But then I saw a plushly carpeted scratching post and realized the walls were lined with framed photos of the cat I'd seen in the vestibule. An open closet door revealed tiny cat outfits hanging from the rod.

Good heavens, the room was a shrine to Miss Marple!

But I couldn't stand around pondering Skip's obsession with a dead cat.

I had to get help.

I whipped out my cell phone. But just as I was about to call 911, the phone rang.

d.a.m.n. Of all times for someone to call.

I checked the caller ID but didn't recognize the number.

"Who is it?" I snapped, pressing the TALK b.u.t.ton.

"It's me. Lance! Oh, Jaine. The most horrible thing has happened."

"I can't talk now, Lance."

I didn't have time to stand around listening to a tragic tale of how he got a stain on his Ralph Lauren sweater.

"But, Jaine. I'm in jail!"

"Jail??"

"Yes, it turns out Donny's a kleptomaniac. All those gifts he gave me were stolen. And so was his new Porsche. I got arrested as an accessory to Grand Theft Auto, and I need you to come and bail me out."

"I will as soon as I can, but right now I'm trapped with a killer and I've got to call the cops."

"Trapped with a killer? That's awful! If you make it out alive, you won't forget to bail me out, will you?"

"No, I won't forget."

"And would you mind bringing me a turkey wrap from the Urth Cafe, hold the mayo, no chips?"

Arggh! It would serve him right if I let him rot in custody.

"Gotta go," I snapped, clicking him to oblivion. Then, with trembling fingers, I called 911. My heart was in my stomach as I waited for them to pick up. It was taking forever. Why, oh, why did I have to live in a city with so many emergencies? I just prayed they wouldn't put me on hold. I was standing there waiting for an operator to come on the line, imagining Lance giving fashion tips to his cellmates, when suddenly I felt the phone being ripped from my hand.

I whirled around to see Skip standing there, madness gleaming in his watery blue eyes.

With surprising strength, he hurled the phone across the room. It landed with a crash behind the scratching post. I was certain he'd broken it.

Then I glanced down and saw what looked like a giant hypodermic needle in his hand. Cripes, that thing looked dangerous. And something told me he wasn't there to give me a flu shot.

"This was her room," he was saying. "Isn't it beautiful? Nothing was too good for Miss Marple. She was the love of my life. And that b.i.t.c.h Joy took her away from me."

His face flushed with rage under his ghastly toupee.

"I brought Miss Marple with me to Joy's office one day when I was having new photos taken," he said, his eyes glazing over at the memory. "Joy said she'd play with her while I was in the photo studio. That night Miss Marple got sick. She died before I could even get her to the vet. I had no idea Joy fed her anything.

"For months, I just a.s.sumed Miss Marple's death was an unexplained tragedy. But then that night in the restaurant when Joy bragged about feeding Miss Marple truffles, my heart stopped. I remembered those G.o.diva truffles in Joy's office, and I realized that dreadful woman had poisoned my precious angel with her chocolates!"

He smiled now, a soft faraway smile.

"So you see, I had to kill her."

"Of course, you did," I clucked in false sympathy, wondering how the h.e.l.l I could make it past him without getting stabbed by that G.o.dawful needle.

"I was afraid you figured it out," he said. "Tonio called and told me you were snooping around. He was lying to you, of course. We weren't together all night at the Valentine's party. Tonio left me for about ten minutes to go to the men's room. But he was so frightened the police would try to pin the murder on him, he begged me to give him an alibi. I was only too happy to oblige, since I was the one who put that poisoned chocolate in Joy's G.o.diva box. While Tonio went to the men's room, I hurried across to her office, tossed out the other chocolates, and slipped in my little poisoned gift. I wanted Joy to die just like my poor Miss Marple did.

"I thought I got away with it. But now you know the truth. So it's time for you to go. The same way Joy did. And Nancy Ruth."

"Nancy Ruth?"

"My wife. We were married fifty-two years. Enough was enough."

No doubt about it. The guy was a certified fruitcake.

"It won't hurt much if you don't struggle," he said, waving the giant needle.

"What the h.e.l.l is that thing?" I asked.

"It's my flavor injector. You can buy it at any cooking supply store. It's how I injected the poison in Joy's chocolate. I used it today to stuff the tofu b.a.l.l.s with carrot puree. Now, of course, it's filled with cyanide."

He started slowly toward me, his flavor injector aimed straight at my gut.

Oh, how I wanted to shove him aside and make a run for it! But I couldn't risk getting stabbed.

Then I realized I was still carrying my purse. Reaching inside, I felt around for my Aqua Net, prepared to zap Skip in the eyes and render him helpless. But when I pulled out the can, I realized it wasn't hair spray-but Squirrel-B-Gone, the stuff I'd used to ward off Rocky and Bullwinkle. I just prayed it would work on humans, too. Aiming straight for his eyes, I gave it a spritz.

And out came ... nothing.

Dammit. The plastic safety guard was still on!

Why do they make these things so hard to open, anyway? Don't the people at Squirrel-B-Gone realize their customers might someday find themselves face to face with a geriatric maniac?

With no time to fiddle with the safety guard, I simply lobbed the can of Squirrel-B-Gone at Skip's head.

The bad news is I missed. But the good news is he was so startled, he dropped his flavor injector.

My cue to get the h.e.l.l out of there.

Wasting no time, I went charging out into the hall.

And that's when fate stepped in and slipped me a knuckleball.

I hadn't taken two steps when I tripped over one of Skip's precious Persian rugs.

Dammit.

The next thing I knew I was sprawled on the floor, Skip straddling my chest, pinning my arms to my sides with his legs. For a skinny guy, he felt awfully heavy.

Then, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I saw his flavor injector peeking out from his shirt pocket.

"Look, Skip. There's no need to kill me. Honest. I swear I won't tell a soul that you killed Joy. I hated her, too. It'll be our little secret."

"Sorry, Jaine. I can't take that chance. And besides, I really do want Prozac, and I don't think I'll get her unless you're out of the picture."

"So," he said, baring his dentures in a feral grin, "I'll just kill two birds with one flavor injector."

He took it out of his pocket with a flourish.

Squirming mightily, I tried to free my arm to punch him in the groin, but he was a lot tougher than he looked.

As much as I struggled, I couldn't break free.

Now I cringed to see the syringe coming closer and closer. Skip was aiming it straight for my neck.

He was thisclose to plunging it in when suddenly a giant furball with lobster breath came hurtling through the air and sank her teeth into Skip's hand.

Thank heavens! My darling Prozac had come to my rescue!

That's what I'd like to think, anyway. Frankly, I suspect she was just trying to snag lobster bits from Skip's fingers.

Whatever the reason, Skip dropped the flavor injector, yowling in pain. At last I managed to free my arms and gave him that punch in the groin he so richly deserved.

Shoving him off me, I left him doubled over, clutching his privates. Then I grabbed the flavor injector and raced back to Miss Marple's room.

I scrambled to pick up my cell phone from where Skip had hurled it behind the scratching post. Not only was it still working, but an operator had actually come on the line and heard Skip confessing to Joy's murder.

I quickly gave her Skip's address and minutes later heard the wail of police sirens. Soon the cops were storming in the front door. After kindly fixing Skip an ice pack for his groin, they carted him off to the Crazy Old Coot wing of the county jail.

The minute he was gone, I turned to Prozac and gathered her in my arms.

"Thank you, my precious angel, for saving my life!" She gazed up at me with wide, adoring eyes.

It's the least I could do for someone as wonderful as you.

Okay, so technically, she jumped down and trotted back to the den to lick the last of the lobster from the bowl.

But a cat owner can dream, can't she?