Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 6

OmiG.o.d. What if he was having a heart attack right here in my living room? If only I knew CPR. Or the Heimlich maneuver. Or the name of a good cardiologist! I stood there, on the brink of calling 911, when I realized Skip wasn't having a heart attack.

He was merely staring, awestruck, at Prozac, who had gone back to examining her privates.

"Egad, what a beauty!"

Prozac looked up and preened.

So I've been told.

"She's the spitting image of Miss Marple!"

"Miss Marple?"

"My dearly departed cat," he explained and then raced to the sofa to scoop up Prozac in his liver-spotted arms.

"What's the little angel's name?" he asked.

"Prozac, and she's no little angel."

"Of course, she is. Aren't you, snook.u.ms?" he said to Prozac, rubbing his nose against hers.

She wriggled back in disgust.

Hey, buddy. Ever hear of breath mints?

Leaving Skip cooing sweet nothings in Prozac's ear, I went to the kitchen to put the roses in a vase.

I debated making a break for it from my kitchen window but eventually nixed the plan. Mainly because I don't have a kitchen window.

When I got back to the living room, Skip was still cooing.

"Why, you're the cutest snook.u.ms in Snook.u.ms Land. Yes, you are!"

"I'm the only one who's allowed to talk nauseating baby talk to my cat!" I felt like saying. But instead I just smiled brightly and said, "So! Where are we headed off to?"

He looked up at me vaguely, still in a love trance. And then he remembered.

"Oh, right. Our date. I made dinner reservations at Simon's."

Now it was my turn to go weak in the knees.

Simon's just happens to be one of the most expensive steak joints in L.A. And I, for one, could not wait to wrap myself around one of their juicy top sirloins.

But then I felt a twinge of guilt. Was it fair to make Skip pay for an expensive steak dinner when I knew I'd never go out with him again? Maybe I should just tell him I had a headache and cut the date short then and there.

Oh, what the heck? If his Rolex and fine Italian loafers were any indication, Skip was rolling in dough. Taking me for an expensive steak dinner would be the tiniest drop in his bucket of millions.

"Sounds wonderful!" I smiled.

Somehow Skip managed to tear himself away from Prozac.

"Parting is such sweet sorrow," he said, blowing her a kiss.

Prozac gazed up at him lazily.

Yeah, right. Whatever. Don't forget to bring back leftovers.

Tucking my arm into his elbow, Skip escorted me out to his car, a hulking monster of a Bentley, built no doubt when Queen Elizabeth was in diapers.

After a bit of a struggle, he managed to pull open the Brinks-like pa.s.senger door, and I slid onto an enormous bench seat, looking around for a seat belt.

"Afraid this model didn't come with seat belts," Skip explained.

Of course it didn't. They hadn't been invented then.

He popped around to the driver's side and spent several minutes squinting in the dim light, trying to fit his key in the ignition. Finally, I guided it into the right slot, and off we went.

Simon's was in the heart of Beverly Hills, about a five-minute drive from my duplex.

Five minutes, that is, when a normal person is driving the car.

Skip, however, maneuvered the QE2 at a maddening fifteen miles an hour, humming to himself and ignoring the furious honks of the drivers behind us.

At long last we got to the restaurant. We could've walked faster.

I perked up, however, when Skip handed over the Bentley to the valet and we headed inside the posh steakerie. Instantly I was overcome by the heady aroma of prime steaks sizzling on a grill.

Dimly lit and very men's clubby, the place oozed old leather and new money.

Off in the bar, a jazz pianist was tinkling the ivories, while a tuxedo-clad maitre d' stood vigil at a podium.

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Holmeier!" said the maitre d', rushing to our side. "Right this way, sir."

Clearly Skip was one of his more valued patrons.

Visions of top sirloins danced in my head as the maitre d' led us across the dining room. All around me I saw people digging into juicy T-bones. It was all I could do not to reach over and grab a bite.

The maitre d' gestured to a prime corner booth, and I scooted into it, wondering if I should order bacon bits with my baked potato.

Skip slid in from the other side. For a minute I was afraid he was going to sidle up to me and make thigh contact, but much to my relief, he kept a respectable distance between us.

Even in the flattering glow of the restaurant's lighting, I could see that his blond nest of a toupee did not match the graying shrub of real hair growing beneath it.

"So," Skip said when the maitre d' had left us with our menus and slithered off to greet more carnivores. "Tell me all about yourself."

He flashed me what I was certain were a very expensive set of dentures.

"Well-" I began.

But before I could get out one syllable about Yours Truly, Skip b.u.t.ted in with: "And what about Prozac? How old is the little darling? How long have you had her? What do you feed her? Certainly not commercial cat food, I hope!"

His inquisition was cut short just then when our waiter came to take our order.

I was still debating about whether or not to order bacon bits with my baked potato when I heard Skip saying, "I'll have my usual, Maurice."

"The steamed vegetable plate, Mr. Holmeier?"

"Yes, indeed."

Was he kidding? What sort of nut ordered a steamed veggie plate in a steak restaurant?

"And for the lady?" our genial waiter inquired.

To my horror, Skip replied, "She'll have the same."

"What??" I gasped.

"Didn't Joy tell you?" he said, seeing the look of shock in my eyes. "I'm a strict vegan."

"No, she didn't happen to mention it."

"Well, I am, and I can't possibly allow you to pollute your body with red meat."

I sat on my hands to keep them from strangling him.

"Is it okay if I pollute my body with a gla.s.s of chardonnay?"

"Of course!" he chuckled. "Be sure it's organic," he instructed Maurice. "Don't worry, Jaine," he said, turning back to me. "Simon's has the best steamed veggies in all of Los Angeles!"

Oh, well, I thought, staring enviously at a guy shoving a piece of steak into his mouth. At least I wouldn't have to worry about popping a b.u.t.ton on my set-in waistband.

A busboy now appeared at our table with a basket of hot sourdough rolls and b.u.t.ter.

"No b.u.t.ter for us!" Skip instructed the busboy, waving away the b.u.t.ter crock.

I quickly grabbed a roll from the basket before he had that whisked away, too. I was just about to chomp down into it when I heard a familiar, "Yoo hoo!"

I looked up to see Joy tottering toward us on designer stilettos, coc.o.o.ned in one of her billowing A-line dresses, honker sapphire earrings dangling from beneath an Early Streisand bob. Trotting alongside her like an obedient pup was Tonio, in black leather pants and a clinging white silk shirt. I wondered if the shirt was the two-hundred-dollar number he'd l.u.s.ted after at Barneys.

"h.e.l.lo, you two!" Joy cried in her Queen Mum voice. "Having fun?"

"Tons," I replied, squashing the urge to stab her with my unused b.u.t.ter knife.

"Jaine's such a delightful young woman," Skip enthused. "Do you know she has a cat who's the spitting image of Miss Marple?"

"Is that so?" Joy cooed.

Clearly eager to suck up to her wealthy client, Joy began blabbing about what a precious cat Miss Marple had been, telling a saccharine story about the time she played with Miss Marple while Skip was having his picture taken, feeding her ahi tuna and truffles and even some of the beluga caviar she kept hidden in her private refrigerator. She rambled on for a good sourdough roll and a half, extolling Miss Marple's many virtues.

"I swear, she was the most adorable cat I've ever seen!" she said, finally wrapping up her paean.

"She was, wasn't she?" Skip said, a far-off look in his eyes.

But Joy had forgotten all about Miss Marple.

"Look, Tonio!" she squealed with delight. "There's Greg Stanton!"

She pointed to a hunkalicious dude sitting at a nearby table. Slim and tan, with craggy cheekbones and a headful of thick, sun-bleached hair, he looked like the guy voted "Most Handsome" in a Tommy Hilfiger photo shoot. Practically glued to his side was a stunning brunet, feeding him the olive from her martini.

Joy turned to me and breathily informed me, "Greg's one of the most successful artists on the West Coast. Does fabulously colorful landscapes."

"A very talented fellow," Skip agreed.

"And he's one of my most loyal clients," Joy said with pride.

Huh? I had to wonder why on earth a gorgeous guy like Greg Stanton would need Joy's services.

"Yoo hoo, Greg!" she called out, her sapphire earrings jangling as she waved.

Greg tore his eyes away from his brunet and, noticing Joy, offered up a feeble smile. Like most people who came in contact with Joy, he didn't exactly seem thrilled to see her.

But if Joy sensed his lack of enthusiasm, she showed no sign of it.

"We positively must go say h.e.l.lo. Mustn't we, Tonio?"

"Okay," Tonio muttered. "But let's not stand around gabbing forever. I wanna eat."

You're not the only one, I felt like telling him.

"Be good, you two," Joy said to me and Skip with a most disgusting wink, and then trotted off to hound Greg Stanton.

I spent the rest of the dinner in culinary h.e.l.l, watching a parade of steaks sail past me, stuck with a plate of crummy steamed veggies.

The meal slogged on for what seemed like an eternity but was in reality only fifty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. (I was counting.) During which time Skip treated me to a recitation of The Life and Times of Skip Holmeier-starting with his kindergarten years, his stint at Stanford, his four decades at the brokerage firm of Holmeier & Holmeier, his endless charitable works, and his stultifyingly boring stamp collection. And, of course, his slavish devotion to the late Miss Marple, the patter of whose little paws had been like music to Skip's ears.

Because he talked so much, it took him forever to finish his d.a.m.n veggies. At one point, I was thisclose to stabbing my fork into his cauliflower and shoving it down his throat.

Eventually he finished his veggie plate, and I practically wept with relief when he signaled Maurice for the check.

At last my long ordeal was over.

Or so I thought.

We were on our way out of the restaurant when Skip looked over at the bar area, where the jazz pianist was still tinkling the ivories.

Stopping dead in his tracks, Skip clutched his heart. Once again, I was bracing myself for a coronary.

But, no. Skip was fine.