Death of a Bachelorette Page 12

  He and Suma turned to look, and as they did, I tossed my snotty lunch into the water.

  “I don’t see anything,” Suma said, squinting off into the distance.

  “Really?” I said. “I thought I saw dolphins.”

  “There are no dolphins in Paratito,” Suma grunted.

  “Gee, it must have been an optical illusion.”

  Now Konga and Suma had turned back in their seats to face me.

  “You finished your fish,” Konga said, looking at my empty banana leaf.

  “Yes, it was dee-lish!”

  Suma eyed me suspiciously. She knew something was up.

  “Really yummy,” I added, shooting her a wicked smile of my own.

  Once the banana leaves had been cleared away, we got down to the main event: Harpoon Fishing.

  Suma handed out the harpoons, which we were supposed to use to spear innocent little fishies.

  While Suma and Konga began thrusting their spears with gusto, I—refusing to be an instrument of death—made only a few half-hearted stabs in the water.

  Konga, his belly jiggling with the effort, managed to stab a fish or two.

  At the other end of the canoe, Suma maneuvered her harpoon with impressive expertise, snapping up fish with the same lightning speed I snap up franks-in-a-blanket at a cocktail party.

  We were drifting along, the sun searing our backs, depopulating the water of its piscine contents when suddenly, with a sickening sensation, I realized my spear had made contact with something. Oh, yuck. I’d killed a fish.

  “It’s about time,” Suma sneered, watching me pull my harpoon out of the water. “You finally caught something.”

  “Groovy!” Konga said, beaming at me.

  But then, when I pulled my catch out of the water, I realized I had not killed any living critter. The creature at the tip of my harpoon was none other than my lunch, the same ghastly snotfish I’d thrown overboard.

  “Is that your lunch?” Konga asked

  “Yes,” I admitted. “I’m afraid I wasn’t very hungry.”

  “But you must have something to eat,” Konga said, eyes wide with concern. “Here,” he said, holding out some of the crunchy round things he’d been munching on earlier. “Have some deep-fried octopus glands. They’re very tasty.”

  “No, no,” I said, fighting a rolling wave of nausea. “I’m fine.

  If Suma was hoping Konga would be angry at me for tossing my food overboard, she was sadly mistaken. It only seemed to make him like me more.

  “Sweet little Jaine,” he said. “I’ve got to fatten you up.”

  I actually sort of treasured that moment, certain I’d never hear those words again in my lifetime.

  My uneaten lunch crisis having passed, we picked up our harpoons and resumed fishing. I was standing there, idly swishing my harpoon in the water, when from the corner of my eye I saw Suma’s arm reach out from behind and shove me. The next thing I knew, I was tumbling overboard and flailing about in the water with all those innocent little fishies.

  On the plus side, the water was a few degrees cooler than the air.

  But heaven only knew what kind of creatures were swimming alongside me. Maybe they weren’t so innocent.

  Images of crocodiles and electric eels suddenly flashed through my brain. And what if there were sharks in the water? Oh, God. Any minute now, some giant white shark would be snacking on my thighs!

  Frantically, I dog paddled over to the canoe and hoisted myself back on board. With absolutely no help from Suma, I might add.

  She was barely suppressing a round of giggles.

  Konga, on the other hand, was staring at me openmouthed.

  And then I felt it—something crawling on my shoulder.

  Oh, lord. It was probably a jellyfish or a venomous stingray. I stood totally rigid, waiting to be stung to oblivion.

  But when seconds passed and nothing happened, I looked down and saw a giant turtle.

  Konga’s eyes were wide with awe.

  “A sea turtle!” he cried, taking it in his hands. “And look how big it is!”

  Indeed, the sucker was huge.

  “Do you know, Jaine, that in the Paratitan culture, sea turtles are a sign of good luck? This creature is certain to bring us years and years of good fortune. What a wonderful gift you have given us! Isn’t this wonderful news, Suma?”

  Suma was fuming, her plan to humiliate me gone totally awry. I could tell she wanted nothing more than to whack me over the head with her harpoon.

  But instead she forced a grim smile.

  “Yes, Konga,” she managed to choke out. “It is good news, indeed.”

  “And to show my gratitude,” Konga said, “I give you this.”

  With that, he took off his rotting tooth necklace and put it around my neck. “A necklace made from my own teeth!”

  “Those are your teeth?”

  All along I’d just assumed they were from a dead animal.

  “Yes,” he nodded proudly. “All twenty-six of them.”

  Oh, hell. The last thing I needed was Konga’s decayed teeth as a fashion accessory.

  “I can’t take your teeth,” I said. “I wouldn’t feel right about it.”

  “I insist,” he said sternly.

  “Well, in that case, thanks so much. I’ll think of you whenever I wear it.”

  Which will be never in a zillion years were the words I judiciously did not add.

  Our harpooning adventure having come to a close, Suma and I rowed back to shore and toted the fish back to the village.

  Konga kissed my hand and wished me a fond farewell, urging me to wear his teeth in good health.

  Wearily I made my way over to the company Jeep I’d used to drive over to the village. Just as I was approaching the car, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned and saw Suma, harpoon in her hand, no longer trying to hide her rage. She stomped to my side, grabbing me by the wrist.

  “Give up Konga,” she hissed in my ear, “or I’ll make you wish you were never born.”

  With that, she took her harpoon and hurled it at a nearby tree, nearly splitting the trunk in half.

  Holy Moses. This was one angry cookie.

  “Honest, Suma,” I assured her. “I’m not interested in Konga. I swear on a stack of octopus glands. You’ll never see me here again.”

  “I’d better not,” Suma said. “Or who knows where my harpoon will land next?”

  And with those words of warning, she yanked her harpoon from the tree and waddled away.

  Wasting no time, I jumped in the Jeep and drove off—with fear in my heart, sweat in my armpits, and Konga’s teeth rotting around my neck.

  Like I said, the Tenth Circle of Hell.

  Chapter 20

  I returned to the mansion reeking of snotfish and turtle. And although I desperately needed a shower, there was only one thing on my mind:

  Food.

  Lest you forget, I hadn’t had a thing to eat since that cardboard corn muffin at breakfast.

  Stomping into the house, I’d planned to head straight for the basement vending machine. But then I passed Manny’s office and was thrilled to see he was nowhere in sight. Without thinking twice, I marched right in and made a beeline for his private fridge, where I helped myself to a Dove Bar. (Okay, two Dove Bars. And, if you must know, an onion bagel.)

  As brazen as could be, I plopped down in Manny’s office chair, my feet up on his desk, and began to eat.

  For once, I wasn’t my usual sniveling self, cowering at the thought of being caught trespassing. On the contrary. I was tough. I was fearless. I was totally unafraid. (Mainly because, as I was parking the Jeep, I’d seen Manny driving off in his monster van.)

  The coast, for all intents and purposes, was clear.

  So I ate with abandon.

  Oh, lord, those Dove Bars were divine. As was the onion bagel. All washed down with a vintage bottle of chocolate Yoo-hoo.

  Sheer heaven!

  When I was licking the last of the ba
gel crumbs from my fingers, I began to idly glance through the papers on Manny’s desk. I mean, what good was trespassing if I couldn’t do a little snooping, too?

  Riffling through the papers, I found receipts for cigars and pastrami, as well as a catalogue from the International Hair Club for Men.

  But what really caught my eye were the letters I saw from Lifetime, Bravo, and the CW—all rejecting Some Day My Prince Will Come.

  Wow. Manny sure was a master of hype. From the way he’d been talking about Some Day My Prince Will Come, no one would ever have guessed it had been rejected all over Hollywood.

  And then, among the rejection letters, I noticed a thick sheaf of papers. Pulling it out to examine it, I realized it was an insurance policy.

  Quickly I scanned it and saw that Manny had insured the production of Some Day My Prince Will Come for two million dollars! According to this document, if anything should happen to shut down production of the show, Manny had a two-million-dollar payday waiting in the wings.

  Which meant Manny had a very powerful motive to kill Hope.

  The most powerful motive of all: Money.

  What if Manny wasn’t nearly as rich as he claimed to be? What if his private plane was rented? What if the imported pastrami was from a cousin in the deli business?

  Maybe that’s why the third floor of the mansion was never completed, and why he served us discount airline food.

  Maybe he’d bet his life savings on Some Day My Prince Will Come and when he realized he had a dud on his hands, decided to stop production for a two-million-dollar insurance payoff.

  And there was no more certain way to stop production than to kill off his Number One bachelorette. Without Hope, the show was dead.

  And just like that, Manny catapulted to the top of my suspect list.

  * * *

  I was heading up to my room for that much-needed shower when I heard the unmistakable lilt of Spencer’s British accent coming from the living room.

  “Oh, darling,” he was cooing, “you’re such a beauty. Did you know that? Did you?”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. Spencer was supposed to be the bereaved fiancé, mourning Hope, and here he was, whispering sweet nothings to some other woman.

  Who could it be? Brianna? One of the crew? A nubile native lass?

  Burning with curiosity, I tiptoed into the living room, where I saw Spencer sitting on a sofa, his back to me, facing the window, with no sign of his paramour, who must have been stretched out on the sofa.

  “You like it when I touch you like that?” he was now saying.

  Now anyone with a sense of propriety would have turned right around and left the two lovebirds alone. But not moi. I simply had to know who he was talking to. As softly as possible, I crept closer to the sofa, eager to see who was sprawled out with Spencer Dalworth VII.

  I didn’t walk quite softly enough, though, because suddenly Spencer turned around and saw me.

  “Hello, Jaine,” he said, not a trace of embarrassment in his voice. “Look who I’ve been entertaining.”

  I took a step closer saw that his “lover” was none other than Prozac, the shameless hussy, who was writhing in ecstasy in Spencer’s lap as he scratched her belly.

  A little to the right. Now higher. Higher. To the left. Don’t stop!

  For crying out loud. She’d broken out of our room again!

  “Prozac!” I cried.

  She glared up at me, clearly irritated at the interruption.

  The Countess of Swampshire, to you.

  “She’s such a little angel,” Spencer was saying, making disgusting kitchy-koo noises.

  “Appearances can be deceiving,” I replied, slipping into a nearby armchair. I figured as long as I was there, I might as well question him about the murder.

  As I settled into the chair, Prozac shot me a filthy look.

  Hey, this is a private party. So beat it. Unless you want to find a little surprise in your slipper tonight.

  At which point, Spencer wrinkled his nose in distaste.

  “Do you smell something rancid?” he asked.

  Prozac lifted her little pink nose and sniffed.

  PU. Someone stinks worse than Manny’s cigars.

  “I’m afraid that would be me,” I said. “I was just harpoon fishing and fell into the water.”

  An imperious thump of Prozac’s tail.

  Okay then, run along and take a shower. Come back for me in about five hours.

  “Such a shame about Hope, isn’t it?” I said, ignoring her evil eye.

  For once, I was certain Spencer’s response wouldn’t be, “Brilliant!”

  And indeed, at the mention of Hope’s name, his eyes misted over with what looked like genuine tears.

  “I still can’t quite believe it,” he said, shaking his head. “Hope was so vibrant and full of life. In those last few minutes on the plane, she threw her arms around me and told me how much she loved me. Then I jumped, and that’s the last I saw of her.”

  By now, tears were running down his cheeks.

  “So sorry,” he said, taking out an immaculate hankie from his shirt pocket and wiping his eyes. “Shouldn’t cry. Bad form. Makes everyone so uncomfortable.”

  “No, no,” I said. “Cry all you want. It’s only natural.”

  I reached out to give him a comforting pat but was met with a menacing hiss from Prozac.

  Hands off, sister. He’s mine.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” I said, when Spencer had dried his tears, “but is it true what Dallas said, that you’d promised to marry her?”

  “I’m afraid I did,” he sighed, “but my heart wasn’t in it. The only reason I agreed to do the show was because Mummy was pressuring me to find a rich wife and save our estate. We owe a fortune in taxes, and Dallas seemed like the answer to our prayers. Her father practically owns the state of Texas. So I followed Mummy’s instructions and asked her to marry me. But all the while, I couldn’t help being attracted to Hope. She was so upbeat and positive.”

  I’d call it cloying and annoying, but to each his own.

  “Dallas was used to having her own way. And I felt certain that she’d be the kind of woman who’d lead me around by the nose, just like Mummy. But I knew Hope wouldn’t be that way, that she’d encourage my dreams and let me be free to be me.”

  Frankly, I wasn’t so sure about that. Hope seemed like quite the manipulator. If Spencer was like most other men on the planet, chances were he was just hot for her cute little bod and had rationalized this whole “free to be me” thing to get at her underlovelies.

  “And so for once in my life,” he was saying, “I defied my mother. And look what happened. It got poor Hope killed.”

  Another batch of tears erupted from his usually vacant blue eyes.

  He seemed to be truly grieving, and for what it’s worth, I believed him. He was way too bad an actor to be faking it.

  On his lap, Prozac wriggled her torso.

  Yeah, yeah. It’s a tragedy and all that. Boo hoo. Now rub my belly.

  “I don’t suppose you happened to see anybody heading off to the prop shed the morning of the murder?” I asked.

  “No, I was busy chatting with the crew and trying to get Kirk to sober up. He must have gone on quite a bender the night before. He was really out of it.”

  I remembered seeing Spencer chatting with Kirk, but of course, either one of them could have wandered off to the prop shed when the other wasn’t around.

  “Do you think Dallas did it?” I asked.

  “No, actually, I don’t. She’s a bit of a diva, but I don’t think she has the psychological makeup to be a killer.”

  Whaddaya know? Who woulda thunk Mr. “Brilliant!” capable of psychological insights? (Or even the word “psychological”?)

  “Any idea who the killer might be?”

  He paused as if deciding whether or not to speak.

  Finally, he said:

  “I hate to say it because I’m very fond of him, b
ut I think it could be Kirk. Hope told me she’d been his girlfriend, and that he was devastated when she broke up with him. I think in a moment of madness, he may have cut those cords. He had more access to the chutes than anyone else.”

  Made sense to me.

  I made a mental note to chat with the hunky propmaster ASAP.

  In the meanwhile, I really had to get back to Sauna Central and take that shower.

  “Well, I’d best be pushing off,” I said. “So very sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” he replied, offering up a wan smile.

  “C’mon, Prozac,” I said, scooping her up from Spencer’s lap.

  The way she was wailing, you would’ve thought I’d just spayed her without anesthesia.

  Wait a minute! He hasn’t finished my belly rub! We’re in love! Nothing can come between us, I tell you. Nothing!

  “Here,” I said, holding out a piece of ham I’d nabbed from Manny’s fridge. “If I give you this piece of ham, will you please stop wailing about Spencer?”

  Her little pink nose twitched in excitement.

  Spencer? Spencer who?

  What can I say? When it comes to food, she’s easily distracted.

  She takes after me that way.

  Chapter 21

  Back in my room, I didn’t even have the energy to read Prozac the riot act. Frankly, I didn’t blame her for breaking out of Sauna Central. I just wished I could figure out how she was doing it.

  The outside bolt had been locked. And the window screens securely fastened. I looked in the closet for a possible escape route I might have missed, like a trap door leading to the room next door, but found nada.

  “What’s your secret, Pro?” I asked, as she lay sprawled out on my bed, soaking up the breezes from the fan. “How’d you get to be such a smart cat?”

  She graced me with a mighty yawn.

  No exercise and plenty of naps.

  With a sigh, I stripped off my stinky clothes and put them in the bathroom sink to soak. Then I headed for the shower, where I opened the stall door and gasped to find Godzilla taking a leisurely stroll around the tiles.

  After my heart stopped fibrillating, I turned on the water, hoping to blast him down the drain. But alas, my shower in Sauna Central had zero water pressure, and the trickle that came out of the faucet didn’t even touch my slimy friend.