Death of a Bachelorette Page 2

  And things brightened considerably when I checked out the guy behind the wheel—a handsome native dude with rippling muscles, jet black hair, and amazing brown eyes.

  “Jaine Austen?” he asked, hopping down from the Jeep in shorts and tank top, exposing thighs to die for. “I’m Tai, your driver.”

  He flashed me a megawatt smile, almost blinding me in the process.

  “So nice to meet you,” I managed to sputter, sucking drool back into my mouth.

  “Let me get your things,” he said, hoisting my suitcase onto the backseat of the Jeep.

  “And who’s this?” he asked, gazing at Prozac, still snoring and barely visible behind the mesh in her carrier.

  “It’s my cat. She’s exhausted after the flight.”

  “Poor little thing,” he tsked.

  Save your pity for me, I felt like saying, but instead offered up what I hoped was an incandescent smile.

  “Well, hop in,” he said, opening the passenger door of the Jeep for me.

  Oh, lord. Is there anything more awkward, more tush-exposing, than climbing into the front seat of a Jeep? Honestly, I bet pole dancers show less tush in their routines.

  I only hoped my fanny didn’t look too ginormous as I climbed on board.

  Tai handed me Prozac in her carrier, then hopped in beside me and took off.

  “How interesting that you have a cat,” he said as Prozac’s snores filled the air. “Cats have played a large part in my tribe’s cultural mythology.”

  “Is that so?” I said, eyeing his thighs and hoping my hair hadn’t mushroomed into too much of a frizzfest.

  “You must be a noble person to keep such a treasured animal in your life.”

  “Kinda sorta,” I said.

  After what I’d just been through on that plane, I was ready to nominate myself for sainthood.

  “Anyhow, welcome to Paratito Island,” Tai grinned. “Did you know that Paratito is Tahitian for ‘paradise’?”

  And indeed, as the roads wound away from the airport, the scenery had become lush and verdant, with swaying palms and bushes laden with a riot of brightly colored blossoms.

  “Yes,” I said, sneaking a peek at the muscles popping out from under Tai’s tank top. “It sure looks like paradise to me.”

  * * *

  We rode along for a while, me admiring the view, sometimes even the one out the window.

  “So do you work on Some Day My Prince Will Come?” I asked.

  “Part-time,” Tai replied. “I drop off and pick up things from the airport. Mainly I’m in charge of picking up Manny’s pastrami.”

  “Manny’s pastrami?”

  “Manny Kaminsky. The show’s executive producer. He has pastrami flown in fresh from New York every week.”

  “Wow, that must cost a fortune.”

  “Manny can afford it. Wait’ll you see his mansion where the show’s being shot. What a palace. We’re almost there now.”

  He turned off onto a pitted dirt road and began an ascent through dense brush dotted with run-down wooden cottages. I didn’t know what Tai’s idea of a mansion was, but these sure weren’t it.

  Then at the crest of the road, the mansion appeared—a sprawling extravaganza studded with Moorish archways, room-sized balconies, and a wide verandah—all set on a sea of velvet green grass.

  Tai drove up a circular driveway to the mansion’s front entrance and then hopped out from the Jeep, retrieving my suitcase from the backseat.

  “Well, it’s been fun talking,” he said, flashing me another toe-tingling grin. “Hope I’ll see you around.”

  With my usual cool and collected sangfroid, I shrieked, “Heck, yes! Me, too!”

  Then Tai hopped back in the Jeep, muscles rippling, and tore off down the driveway.

  And I couldn’t help thinking about that foolish writer urging me to go back to the States. What a ridiculous idea. If Tai was any indication of the working conditions here on Paratito Island, I was clearly in for the job of my dreams.

  I was standing there watching a butterfly flit from one hibiscus blossom to another, dreaming of moonlit kisses with my colorful native driver, when I heard:

  “You must be Jaine. Thank goodness you arrived in one piece!”

  I turned to see a wiry slip of a thing, her brown hair swept up in a ponytail, black-framed glasses slipping down the bridge of nose, her forehead obscured by a carpet of shaggy bangs.

  “I’m always afraid that codger of a pilot is going to crash the plane smack into the Pacific!”

  Clad in jeans and a T-shirt, she carried a clipboard clutched to her flat chest.

  “I’m Polly Reilly,” she said with a welcoming grin. “The show’s production assistant/slave laborer. Come on in.”

  I followed her onto the mansion’s verandah and past a massive front door into an open foyer with a view clear through to the other end of the house. Beyond the foyer was a spectacular living room furnished with designer sofas, island-themed knickknacks, and what looked like a couple of genuine Gauguins on the wall.

  Sliding glass doors at the far end of the living room revealed a patio, pool, and another vast green carpet of grass beyond. I stood there, gaping at the wonderfulness of it all.

  “It’s quite a place, isn’t it?” said Polly. “What God would build if He owned a hedge fund.”

  No doubt sensing she had arrived at deluxe accommodations, Prozac began meowing in her carrier, demanding to be set free.

  “This must be your cat,” Polly said. “Manny told me you’d be bringing her. Let’s get her out of that icky-smelling carrier.”

  So much for the Triple Strength Odor Eater potty liners I’d spent a fortune on.

  “Aren’t you the cutest thing ever?” Polly said, taking my pampered princess from her carrier.

  Prozac purred in ecstasy.

  I like to think so.

  “C’mon,” Polly said, handing Prozac to me and grabbing my suitcase. “Let me take you to your room.”

  With that, she led me to a grand staircase at the far end of the foyer.

  “It’s so sweet of you to carry my suitcase,” I said. “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Not a problem, hon. You must be exhausted from your flight.”

  “Yes, it was a bit trying,” I said, glaring down at Prozac.

  Who just glared right back up at me.

  I’ll say. I can’t take her anywhere.

  “There are only three bachelorettes left on the show,” Polly said as we started up the stairs. “All the others have been eliminated. You should have seen those gals go at each other. It was like World War III with push-up bras.”

  Following Polly, I came puffing up to the second floor, which seemed to stretch out as long as a hotel corridor, lined with rooms on each side and huge double doors at each end.

  “That’s Manny’s suite,” Polly said, pointing to the doors at the far end of the corridor. “And this suite,” she said, pointing to the double doors near us, belongs to the prince of Some Day My Prince Will Come. Who, by the way, isn’t really a prince. Spencer Dalworth VII is an earl from some county deep in the backwoods of Great Britain. But he’s eighty-seventh in line to inherit the throne, so I guess you could say he’s a prince-in-waiting.

  “The rest of the bedrooms belong to the bitch-lorettes. I mean, bachelorettes. Now that the others have gone, they each have a room to themselves. As long as we’re here, you may as well meet them.

  “Here’s Brianna’s room,” she said, turning into the first room along the corridor, a large bedroom with four single beds, bare mattresses on three of them. Only one of them was made up, and a statuesque redhead in a tank top and leggings sat on it, polishing her toenails. A tall drink of estrogen, with volleyball boobs and legs that went on forever, the woman was a Playboy centerfold come to life.

  A delicate blonde with her hair pulled back in a demure headband sat next to the redhead on the bed, an open yearbook between them. The blonde wore shorts and a halter top. Not a speck of fa
t visible on her. Or cellulite. Heck, I was having a hard time even finding a mole.

  I couldn’t help hating them both just a tad.

  “Hey, girls!” Polly said. “Say hello to Jaine Austen, the new writer. Jaine, this is Brianna Scott.”

  The redhead looked up from her toenails and lobbed me a weak smile.

  “And I’m Hope Harper!” the blonde chirped. “Great to have you on board! Oh, look!” she said, catching sight of Prozac. “A kitty! Isn’t she adorable!”

  Her little pink ears always on the alert for praise, Prozac preened in my arms.

  So I’ve been told.

  “I was just showing Brianna my yearbook,” Hope babbled on. “I was voted class president, treasurer, and the girl most likely to succeed!”

  She whipped her yearbook off the bed and proudly showed me her “Girl Most Likely to Succeed” photo. It was a younger version of her current self, but the eager smile and determined thrust of her pointy chin was still the same.

  “Very impressive,” I said.

  Brianna stifled a yawn.

  “Well, I’d better show Jaine to her room,” Polly broke in, cutting short our trip down high school memory lane.

  “I hope you brought plenty of bug spray” were Brianna’s parting words to me as we started for the door.

  How odd. First the fleeing writer. Now Brianna. Why were they warning me about bugs? It was delightfully air-conditioned here in the mansion, not a bug in sight.

  But before I got a chance to ask exactly why I’d need bug spray, all hell broke loose.

  A stunning brunette with lush chestnut hair cascading down her back came storming into the room, oozing fury from every pore.

  “Which one of you bitches stole my hair extensions?” she shrieked in a heavy Texan drawl.

  Why on earth this woman with a head full of shampoo-commercial hair would need hair extensions was beyond me. But apparently she needed them, and felt their absence strongly.

  “Jaine,” Polly broke in, eager to staunch any possible flow of blood, “meet Dallas, our third remaining bachelorette.”

  The brunette took a break to flash me a smile almost as dazzling as Tai’s, after which she returned to her tirade.

  “So who’s got my hair?” she demanded of her fellow contestants.

  “I have no idea what happened to your stupid extensions,” Brianna said, sploshing polish on her big toe.

  Dallas whirled on Hope.

  “I bet it was you, you calculating little twerp. You’d do anything to lure Spencer away from me. But it won’t work,” she added with a confident grin. “He already told me I’m the one he wants to marry.”

  A tremor of shock flitted across Hope’s face.

  “He did?” she asked.

  “He did!” Dallas crowed in triumph. “And stealing my hair extensions isn’t going to get him to change his mind. I’m beautiful with or without them.”

  Indeed she was.

  “But I’m warning you guys. When I find out who took them, there’ll be hell to pay.”

  Then she turned on her heel and marched out the door, her glossy hair bouncing with every angry stomp of her feet.

  “And this,” Polly whispered, “is one of the good days.”

  Chapter 2

  Bidding Hope, Brianna, and her nail polish adieu, I followed Polly up another flight of stairs to my room on the third floor.

  “Do you really think Spencer asked Dallas to marry him?” I asked, as we started up the steps.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. He seems gaga over her. Can’t say as I blame him. She’s a spoiled brat, but she’s the best of the lot. Hope is a conniving operator, and Brianna’s one G-string away from being a stripper.

  “Although why any of those gals would want Spencer,” Polly added, as she trudged along with my suitcase, “I’ll never know. From what I hear, he’s stone broke and lives with his mom in some dilapidated estate in the middle of nowhere. And ‘Mummy’ seems quite the tyrant, always chasing him down on his cell phone. Something tells me he’s a bit of a mama’s boy.”

  By now we’d reached the top floor of the mansion. I blinked in disbelief. Suddenly we’d gone from mansion to flophouse. Gone were the deluxe finishes. The place was barely dry-walled, with water stains on the ceiling and gaping holes where electrical outlets were supposed to have been installed.

  The first thing that greeted me when I set foot on the landing was an oppressive blast of heat. Holy mackerel. It was like a sauna up there.

  “I’m afraid there’s no air-conditioning on the third floor,” Polly said with an apologetic shrug.

  She led me along unfinished wood floors to a tiny cell of room whose décor I can only describe as Jailhouse Chic: Lumpy bed with a sliver of a pillow and ragged bedspread. Card table posing as a desk, accessorized with a gooseneck lamp and folding metal chair.

  The only thing missing was a urinal in the corner.

  But there was one bright spot. An overhead fan on the ceiling. With the window open and the fan running, maybe it wouldn’t be too hellishly hot in there, after all.

  “Thank goodness there’s a fan!” I said. “I’m sure going to need it.”

  Another apologetic look from Polly.

  “I’m afraid it doesn’t work, hon,” she said. “Manny never did finish the electrical work up here. But you’ve got an outlet for your gooseneck lamp,” she added with a hopeful smile.

  An electric lamp. Whoop dee doo.

  In my arms, Prozac thumped her tail in disgust.

  I demand an upgrade!

  I put her down, and after an imperious sniff at the unfinished floorboards, she hopped up on the bed, sprawling out on the bedspread.

  Wake me when it’s time to eat.

  She’d just assumed her perch there when I saw something big and black and shiny skittering out from under the bed. Yee-uck. A waterbug. On steroids. Never had I seen a bug that big. I swear, it was the size of a golf ball.

  At last I understood why my predecessor had tossed me the bug spray.

  But I wouldn’t need any insecticide. Not with Pro around. She’s a natural-born predator.

  “Go get that waterbug, Pro!” I commanded. “Sic ’im!”

  Pro looked at me with wide green eyes.

  Are you nuts? Did you see the size of that thing?

  By now she was practically hiding under the pillow.

  So, without any further ado, I whipped the insecticide out of my purse and gave the bug a blast.

  I waited for it to wither and die, but the darn critter just stood there, stunned for a beat, then trotted right off again. I could not believe my eyes. This thing was the Godzilla of waterbugs.

  “I’ll get it!” Polly said, running after it. She stomped at it with her foot, but missed, and Godzilla slithered away under a baseboard, disappearing without a trace.

  “Welcome to paradise,” Polly said, with a wry grin.

  Seeing the stricken look on my face, she added, “You think this is bad? You should see the cabins where the rest of us are staying. I’m lucky if I don’t wake up with a snake in my bed.

  “Gotta run, hon. After you get settled in, stop off and see Manny. His office is downstairs off the foyer. He wants to meet you and fill you in on your writing assignment. Basically, they’re hiring you to write chatter for Spencer. He’s a sweet guy. But dumb as an ox. It’s all that royal inbreeding, if you ask me.

  “Well, see you later.”

  And off she went, ponytail swaying, leaving me to fry in hell.

  * * *

  I was putting my clothes away in my cubbyhole of a closet, Prozac clawing at my already threadbare pillowcase, when I heard a soft knock on door.

  I opened it to find a timid island woman in a maid’s uniform. In her arms she carried a litter box and water bowl.

  “Hello,” she said with a shy smile. “I’m Akela, your maid.”

  A maid? For me? At last, a luxury!

  “I’m supposed to bring you these.” She held out Prozac’s
cat supplies.

  “Thanks so much,” I said, taking the pile from her. “I’m Jaine, and that’s my cat, Prozac.”

  I pointed to Pro, who, having conquered my pillow, was now snoring on top of it.

  The maid took one look at Prozac, and her eyes widened with fear.

  “No kitty! No kitty!” she cried.

  Oh, great. My maid was afraid of cats. Something told me that was the last I’d be seeing of her. So much for having my bed made in the morning. Or chocolates on my pillow at night.

  She raced off, and I looked for a place to put the litter box.

  When I opened what I thought was a closet door, I discovered a tiny en suite bathroom, consisting of a sink, commode, and a shower the size of a phone booth.

  I set down the litter box in the cramped space between the toilet and the phone booth shower.

  A small window above the sink let in the faintest waft of a breeze. I sucked at it eagerly, then turned on the water in the sink, desperate to splash my face and neck with cool water. But when I turned on the tap, all that came out was a blast of rust. Eventually it turned clear, and I started splashing. But the pipes must have been boiling. The water flowed out sluggish and tepid.

  After a few splashes, I felt about as refreshed as the limp towel hanging from my towel rack.

  Slapping on a bit of lipstick, I checked my hair in the tiny mirror above the sink and groaned to see that in this humidity it had now blossomed into the mother of all Brillo pads.

  Oh, well. There was nothing to be done about it.

  Gathering my courage and my laptop, I started off for my meeting with Manny.

  I took one last look at poor Pro, still spread-eagled on my pillow, limp as a wet rag. I felt terrible about leaving her in my sauna of a bedroom. I opened the bedroom window as wide as possible to let in the maximum breeze, grateful it was firmly screened in.

  “I’m so sorry I got us stuck in this horrible room,” I said to her as I started out the door.

  Stirring from her slumber, she looked up and shot me a baleful glare.

  Not half as sorry as you’re going to be.