Killer Blonde Page 14

  If there was one thing I didn’t feel like doing that night, it was teaching my class. What if Mrs. Pechter told my students about my humiliating date at the restaurant? What if they thought I was the kind of person who dropped cockroaches into crème brulees to get a free meal?

  Reluctantly I strapped myself into the Corolla and headed over to Shalom, hoping to catch all the red lights. Anything to delay the inevitable. But wouldn’t you know, for one of the few times in my life as a Los Angeles driver, I positively whizzed along. Never have I seen so many green lights. Traffic was so snarl-free, I could’ve sworn I was in Omaha.

  Before I knew it, I was pulling into the parking lot at Shalom. Oh, well. There was no getting out of it. I gathered my courage and my Altoids (I’m afraid I still had pastrami on my breath), and headed inside to face my students.

  As it turned out, the last thing on my students’ minds was my social life. All they wanted to talk about was SueEllen’s murder.

  “Jaine, honey,” Mrs. Pechter said. “We saw in the paper that you found the body.”

  “That must’ve been horrible,” Mrs. Rubin said, clucking sympathetically.

  “What did she look like?” Mr. Goldman asked. “Were her eyes all buggy? Was her body blue? Did she have big bazooms?”

  “Oh, Abe. Stuff a sock in it.”

  “Hey, inquiring minds want to know.”

  “Actually, class,” I said, “I think we should get to our essays—”

  “Yes, let’s leave poor Jaine alone,” Mrs. Zahler piped up.

  “Poor Jaine?” Mr. Goldman sniffed. “If you ask me, we’re the ones who should be scared. Every time she shows up, somebody drops dead. Remember that actor she worked with on the TV show? He dropped dead. Then she works for this socialite dame, and she drops dead, too.”

  Then he turned to me.

  “With your track record, cookie, did you ever think maybe it’s not such a hot idea to be working at an old folks home?”

  Mrs. Pechter gave an aggravated humph.

  “Just take your blood pressure medication, Abe, and you’ll be safe.”

  “So,” I said, determined to get the class back on track, “who wants to read their essay?”

  Mrs. Zahler’s hand shot up. Thank heavens.

  “Mrs. Zahler?”

  “It says in the paper that Mrs. Kingsley’s husband is a plastic surgeon. You think she had a nose job?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Of course it was a nose job,” Mr. Goldman shouted.

  “How do you know, Mr. Smartie?” Mrs. Pechter challenged.

  “Yeah,” echoed Mrs. Rubin. “How do you know?”

  “I saw her picture. I know a nose job when I see one.” And then he threw out an intriguing challenge to the rest of the class. “You name a person, and I’ll tell you if they’ve had a nose job.”

  “Sounds like a fun game, Mr. Goldman,” I said. “Maybe you should play it after class. Right now, we’re going to read essays.”

  I was quite pleased with my authoritative tone.

  “Steve McQueen,” Mr. Goldman said, ignoring me. “He had a nose job.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Abe,” Mrs. Zahler groaned.

  “And Elizabeth Taylor.”

  “That’s absurd,” said Mrs. Pechter. “She’s had the same nose since she was a little girl in National Velvet.”

  Mr. Goldman glared at her over his bifocals. “Elizabeth Taylor. Sissy Spacek. And Ernie Borgnine.”

  “That’s crazy. Ernest Borgnine has a big nose.”

  “You should’ve seen it before his nose job.” Mr. Goldman nodded smugly.

  “Okay, class,” I said firmly. “No more nose jobs. I want to hear an essay. Who’s got one for me?”

  They could tell I meant business. Either that, or they were sick of listening to Mr. Goldman. Mrs. Rubin raised her hand.

  “Okay, Mrs. Rubin. Let’s hear it.”

  She cleared her throat and started reading.

  “My Trip to Great Britain, England.”

  And so began the story of Mrs. Rubin’s trip to “Great Britain, England.” It was a stirring saga, the highlights of which included a tour of Big Ben, the changing of the guards at Buckingham Palace (where Mrs. Rubin swore she saw Queen Elizabeth waving from the palace window) and finally, a trip to a genuine British pub for shepherd’s pie and fish and chips, followed by a trip to a genuine British drug store for emergency supplies of Kaopectate.

  So what if it wasn’t Frank McCourt? At least, we were back to reading essays.

  “Any comments?” I asked when Mrs. Rubin was through.

  Mr. Goldman’s hand shot up.

  “Yes, Mr. Goldman?”

  “Queen Elizabeth,” he said, nodding cryptically.

  “What about her?”

  “She had a nose job.”

  Somehow I managed to restrain myself from choking him.

  After slogging through a few more essays, it was finally time to call it a night. My students got up from their seats and started gathering their purses and back support cushions.

  “Mrs. Pechter,” I called out, “would you mind staying after class a minute?”

  The others exchanged curious glances and reluctantly filed out of the room as Mrs. Pechter waddled over to me.

  “Yes, darling? What is it?”

  I’d simply tell her that Tommy the Termite was not my boyfriend, and that I was open and available for dating her adorable grandson.

  “Actually,” I said, “I wanted to explain about the man you saw me with the other night in the restaurant.”

  “Oh. Your boyfriend.”

  “No, that’s what I want to tell you—”

  “Listen, honey. You don’t owe me any explanations. To each his own, that’s what I always say. You want to go out with a guy who keeps a cockroach in his coat pocket, that’s your decision. I’m just glad I’m not your mother.”

  “You don’t understand. That awful man isn’t my boyfriend. It was a blind date. A one-time mistake of horrendous proportions.”

  “A blind date? But when I asked if you’d like to meet my grandson Morris, you said you had a boyfriend.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I lied, because at the time I thought I wasn’t ready to date.”

  Mrs. Pechter blinked, puzzled.

  “If you weren’t ready to date, why did you go out on a blind date?”

  This wasn’t going to be quite as easy as I’d thought.

  “My girlfriend pressured me into it. I didn’t want to. Honest.”

  “Well, I certainly can see why you’re not ready to date, if that’s the kind of dates you go out on.”

  “Actually, Mrs. Pechter, I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, and I’ve decided that maybe I am ready to date. In fact, I would’ve never turned down a date with your grandson if I’d realized what a studmuf-fin he was.”

  Okay, so I didn’t really say that. What I said was: “In fact, your grandson seemed so nice, maybe I could give dating another try.”

  “No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “If you’re not ready to date, you’re not ready.”

  “But I am ready. Really.”

  “No, darling. Rose Pechter is not a pushy person. I know how things are. I watch Dr. Phil. You need your space.”

  “I’ve got plenty of space. I’m not feeling the least bit hemmed in emotionally. It might be the perfect time to start dating.”

  “You’re just saying that to be nice. You’re afraid I’m hurt because you turned down my Morris.”

  “I’m not just saying it to be nice. I swear. I’d be happy to go out with your Morris.”

  “He’s not a big time actor with insects in his coat pocket.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Here’s my number.” I thrust my business card into her hand. “Just give it to him. Please?”

  By now I was practically on my knees.

  “Okay, darling,” she shrugged. “Whatever you say.” Then she dropped my business card in her cavernou
s purse, and waddled out the room.

  I wiped the sweat from my brow, exhausted from all that grovelling. That had to have been one of the more humiliating experiences of my life. But, on the plus side, the adorable Morris might give me a call. I sincerely doubted it, but who knew? And even more important, at least Mrs. Pechter hadn’t told the class about my disastrous date with Tommy the Termite.

  Or so I thought.

  Because just then, Mr. Goldman popped his head in the door.

  “Hey, cookie,” he said with a wink. “Ate any good cockroaches lately?”

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Worse than ever

  Well, your father washed his toupee, and it’s worse than ever. All the little clumps of hair are matted together, like a squirrel on a bad hair day. And it still smells like tuna.

  This afternoon, I let Daddy talk me into going to the movies. As much as I hate to be seen in public with him, I really needed to get out of the house. Anyhow, there we were, watching the coming attractions, when someone behind us said, “Yuck. I smell rancid fish.”

  I was so humiliated, I couldn’t even enjoy the movie. I felt just like Earlene’s first husband Lester must have felt before he went to buy those Milk Duds and never came back.

  Honey, you’ve got to write to Daddy, and get him to stop wearing that toupee.

  Your desperate,

  Mom

  To: Shoptillyoudrop

  From: Jausten

  I’ve already tried, Mom. But you know how stubborn Daddy is. He won’t listen to me.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Well, I just don’t know what I’m going to do. I certainly can’t go on living with a man who wears a dead squirrel on his head. If he won’t give it up, I’ll have no choice but to move in with you for a while, honey.

  To: DaddyO

  From: Jausten

  Subject: If You Care Anything about Mom’s Feelings

  Daddy, if you care anything about Mom’s feelings, you’ll stop wearing that ridiculous toupee. Nobody, not even Uncle Fred who eats dinner with a shotgun in his lap, would buy a used toupee. Besides, you’re a very handsome man. You don’t need a toupee. Look at all the attractive balding men in the world. Sean Connery. Bruce Willis. Mr. Clean. They look great without hair, and so do you.

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: No Can Do

  Sorry, pumpkin. I’m not giving up my toupee. So what if it smells faintly of tuna? It’s a small price to pay for a thick luxurious head of hair.

  Your loving,

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Clear out some drawers

  Thanks for trying, honey, but your father still insists on wearing that damn toupee to Cousin Cindy’s wedding. My only hope is that the airport security people will detain him for wearing a dead animal on his head.

  In the meanwhile, clear out a few drawers for me. It looks like we’re going to be roomies.

  Your loving,

  Mom

  PS. You do get the shopping channel, don’t you? If not, please order it from your cable company right away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There are definite downsides to living in LA: the traffic, the smog, and the inordinate number of women running around in size 2 bikinis.

  But on the upside, there’s the beach. There’s nothing quite like driving west through Santa Monica, past tire shops and gas stations and taco stands, and then suddenly on the horizon, there it is, the Pacific Ocean, glistening in the sun.

  I took that drive the next morning, awed as always by the sight of the ocean, then headed south to the tiny beachside community of Ocean Park where Eduardo Jensen lived.

  Not that many years ago, Ocean Park was a blighted neighborhood. Its Main Street was a scary place where vagrants loitered in the doorways of industrial buildings. Now it’s a hip, trendy place where vagrants loiter in the doorways of latte shops.

  I was a half-hour early for my appointment with Eduardo, so I stopped off at one of the latte places and got myself a black coffee and plain bagel. (Okay, so it was a mocha cappuccino and a bagel with cream cheese. Extra cream cheese, if you must know.)

  The place was quiet and I nabbed myself a prime seat at the window. As I sat there munching my bagel, I couldn’t help worrying about my parents, what with Daddy heading off to Cousin Cindy’s wedding in his toupee from hell. But as I told Mom, compared to the rest of the Austen clan, Daddy was the picture of mental health.

  No, what really had me worried was the thought of Mom and me becoming “roomies.” Mom periodically threatens to move in with me when Daddy’s driving her nuts, but Daddy somehow always manages to worm his way back into her good graces. Nevertheless, I live in fear that one day she’s going to show up on my doorstep, suitcase in hand, expecting me to stay up all night ordering fake diamonds and polyester pantsuits.

  I was halfway through my bagel, wondering if I could fib and tell Mom my cable company didn’t carry Home Shopping, when I looked out the window and saw a shabby guy in tattered clothes staring at me. All his worldly possessions were piled into a supermarket cart. His long matted hair hadn’t seen a bottle of shampoo in years.

  I averted my eyes, and pretended to be looking for something in my purse, hoping that by the time I looked up again, he’d be gone. But, no. When I sneaked a peek out the window, he was still there, staring at me with the same intensity The Blob used to watch Saturday morning cartoons. Suddenly, I lost my appetite. This poor guy was probably starving. I remembered how I’d been mistaken for a vagrant myself the other night, and how miserable that felt. I wrapped up the other half of my bagel, and ordered another to go.

  The guy was still there when I got outside, still staring into the latte shop. I tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Here,” I said, holding out my care package, and trying to ignore his heady aroma of wine and urine.

  “What’s this?” he asked, eyeing me suspiciously.

  “Bagels with cream cheese. I thought you might be hungry.”

  He looked at me like I’d just handed him one of Tommy the Termite’s cockroaches.

  “Sorry,” he sniffed. “I don’t eat dairy products. Too many toxins.”

  Welcome to L.A., where even the vagrants eat organic. I swear, if the Statue of Liberty had been built in Los Angeles, its motto would have been: Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to eat a macrobiotically correct diet.

  Stowing the bagels in my purse, I bid my shabby friend a fond farewell, and headed north a few blocks to the address Eduardo had given me—a cute little $50,000 blue clapboard bungalow now worth close to a million in the maniacally inflated Westside real estate market.

  I walked past a picket fence into a tiny front yard and rang the bell. Eduardo answered the door wearing nothing but a towel draped around his waist.

  “Sorry,” he said, beaming a seductive smile. “I just got out of the shower.”

  Indeed, his fabulous body glistened with drops of water.

  “C’mon in.”

  He led me into a bright and airy living room. Sleek black-leather-and-chrome furniture stood out in contrast to the bungalow’s quaint architectural moldings.

  “Make yourself comfy while I get dressed,” he said, then padded off down a narrow hallway.

  Why did I get the feeling that it was no accident that he’d just stepped out of the shower, that this whole Fabio routine was a ploy to woo potential customers? I could easily picture SueEllen’s wealthy girlfriends forking over big bucks for Eduardo’s artwork when what they really wanted was his body.

  Minutes later he came back, in shorts and a tank top, still doing Fabio.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he asked. “I was just about to make myself a non-dairy tofu-carob-lecithin shake.”

  “No, thanks,” I said, thinking that the
bum down on Main Street would probably love some.

  He led me into his high tech kitchen, where he tossed a slimy white glob of tofu into a blender. Then he added a raw egg white, some grayish brown carob powder, and the contents of a vitamin capsule.

  If that’s what it takes to stay healthy, I’d rather die young.

  “Sure you don’t want some?” he asked, pouring the viscous mixture into a glass. “It’s delicious.”

  “Looks mighty tempting, but I’ll pass.”

  I shuddered as he drank the stuff down in a few gulps.

  “Say,” he said, wiping away his tofu mustache with the back of his hand, “you ever do any model-ing? I’d love to paint you some time.”

  He flashed me another megawatt smile.

  “The only thing I’ve ever posed for is the photo on my driver’s license.”

  “Maybe some day,” he said, huskily, “you’ll let me do you.”

  The guy was about as subtle as a bazooka.

  “In the meanwhile, how about we go out to the studio and take a look at my paintings?”

  “I can’t wait,” I lied.

  He led me outside past a flagstone patio to his studio, which was housed in a converted garage. Sunlight streamed in through an overhead skylight.

  “Voila!” he said, pointing to about a dozen paintings stacked up against the wall.

  Holy Moses. I thought I’d died and gone to hell. Every canvas was filled with scenes from your worst nightmare. Dismembered bodies. Fetuses on crucifixes. And a colorful assortment of maggot-ridden corpses. Anyone with a mind this sick, I thought, was capable of throwing a hair dryer into SueEllen’s tub.

  “So?” he asked. “What do you think?”

  I think I’m going to throw up, that’s what I think.

  “How interesting,” I finally managed to croak.

  “They make quite a statement,” he said.