Murder Has Nine Lives Page 2

  Prozac yawned, clearly unimpressed.

  Yeah, but can he cough up a hairball the size of a S’more?

  And Mr. Jingles wasn’t the only talent in the room. All around me, perfectly groomed cats were doing clever tricks and heeding their owners’ every word.

  Meanwhile, in my lap, Prozac was busy hissing at a nearby philodendron.

  Once again, I felt hope ebbing away. Compared to her competition, Prozac didn’t stand a chance.

  I was just about to pack it in and go home when Deedee came sailing into the waiting room, bangles jangling and chopsticks poking out from her bun.

  Her eyes lit up at the sight of Prozac.

  “Jaine, dear! I’m so happy you made it!” she cried, sitting down next to me in a cloud of patchouli. “I just know Prozac’s going to run away with this part.”

  “But, Deedee. All these other cats are trained professionals. Prozac’s never performed before in her life.”

  “Yes, but I doubt any of these other cats can eat like Prozac. Never have I seen a cat suck up food with such gusto. And that’s just what they’re looking for.”

  “You really think she stands a chance?”

  “Absolutely!” Deedee assured me.

  “That cat over there,” I said, pointing to Mr. Jingles, “can give his owner a high five.”

  “Really?” Deedee eyed Mr. Jingles as he struck a few chords on his toy piano.

  “Not to worry, hon. I’ll take care of him.”

  “What a darling kitty!” she exclaimed, jumping up and making a beeline for the piano-playing prodigy. “Mind if I pet him?”

  “Not at all,” Mr. Jingles’ trainer replied. “He loves attention.”

  Deedee crouched down, her back to the redheaded trainer, blocking her view of Mr. Jingles. Then, in a move so fast I almost missed it, I saw her slipping Mr. Jingles a kitty treat. Which he gobbled up eagerly.

  Her job done, Deedee got back on her feet.

  “Such an angel!” she cooed to the redhead. “Best of luck to you, hon!”

  Then she trotted back to me, a sly grin on her face.

  “What on earth did you give him?” I whispered

  “The teensiest dose of kitty Valium,” she whispered back. “He’ll be out like a light in minutes.”

  Indeed, as I looked over at Mr. Jingles, he was curling up into a ball, his eyes narrowed into sleepy slits.

  “Mr. Jingles!” the redhead chided. “What’s got into you? This is no time to be napping. We need to rehearse your piano routine!”

  Next to me, Deedee was smiling smugly.

  “See? I told you I’d take care of him.”

  “But, Deedee—”

  “No need to thank me, hon. That’s what agents are for!”

  * * *

  I was still reeling over Deedee’s duplicity when a door at the far end of the waiting room opened and a pale woman in jeans and a T-shirt consulted a clipboard and called my name.

  Gathering Prozac, I hurried to her side.

  “Knock ’em dead, hon!” Deedee shouted out after me.

  I just prayed she wouldn’t be doing the same out in the waiting room.

  “Hi,” said the clipboard gal as she led me down a short hallway. “I’m Linda Oliver. I’ll be producing the commercial.”

  Wow. She sure had me fooled. With no makeup, unflattering harlequin glasses, and her hair scraped back in a headband, she looked like a secretary on a really tight budget, not an advertising bigwig.

  Now she opened the door to a conference room and ushered me inside. A large mahogany table dominated the room, a handful of people sitting at the far side.

  “I’d like you to meet my husband, Dean,” Linda said, “the inventor of Skinny Kitty.”

  A handsome guy with jet-black hair and what looked like a freshly sprayed tan, Dean sat at the head of the table, rifling through kitty head shots. He looked up and nodded at me curtly, and I couldn’t help wondering what a slick dude like him was doing with a mouse like Linda.

  “And this is our director, Ian Kendrick.” Next to Dean sat a sixty-something man clad in a black turtleneck and jeans jacket, his thinning silver hair in a scrawny ponytail.

  “Hello, love,” he said, in a plummy British accent. Then he reached for a Starbucks thermos and took a swig.

  “And finally,” Linda said, “this is Zeke, our writer.” She pointed to a lanky young guy in horn-rimmed glasses.

  Zeke managed a faint smile, but his eyes were riveted on Linda.

  “Everybody,” Linda announced, “this is Jaine Austen and her cat, Prozac.”

  Dean looked up from the kitty head shots.

  “Prozac, eh? Unusual name. Guess she’s a real calming influence, huh?”

  I figured it was wise not to mention that Prozac was about as calming as a ride through downtown Beirut, so I just stood there and nodded weakly.

  “Let’s get started, shall we?” Linda said.

  “All your cat needs to do for this commercial,” said the director, “is eat and sleep.”

  Bingo! Two of her specialties.

  “Put your cat down here, please.” Linda pointed to the foot of the conference table. “I’ll just give her some Skinny Kitty to see how she likes it.”

  Over on a sideboard were a couple of packages of the dry kitty treats Deedee had fed Prozac in Dr. Madeline’s office, as well as several cans of wet cat food. Now Linda popped open a can of wet food, plunked the contents into a bowl, and set it down before Prozac.

  I prayed the little rascal liked the wet food as much as the dry snacks.

  And I’m happy to say my prayers were answered. Prozac plunged into the stuff like an Olympic diver going for the gold.

  Dean put down his kitty head shots and sat up, interested.

  “My God, I’ve never seen a cat inhale food like that.”

  Indeed, everyone around the table was gazing at my chow hound, impressed.

  “She’s like a four-legged vacuum cleaner!” Zeke cried.

  “Very good, Prozac!” Linda said.

  “Wonderful!” added the director. “Now it’s time for her to take a nap.”

  “Right now?” I asked.

  “Yes. In the commercial she’s going to have to nap on command.”

  Oh, hell. Prozac never did anything on command. It’s one of her major principles in life.

  Once again, I saw her show biz career going up in smoke.

  But then, in a moment of what I’ll always think of as divine inspiration, I got an idea.

  “Oh, Prozac!” I whispered in her ear. “I’ve had the most horrible day. Let me tell you all about it!”

  And sure enough, my ever-empathetic kitty did what she’s done countless times in my moments of need. The minute she heard my plea for a shoulder to cry on, she was out like a light. Snoring like a buzz saw.

  “Very impressive,” said Dean, his head shots now totally forgotten.

  The others nodded in assent.

  “We have several other cats to interview,” Linda said, “but you’re definitely a front runner. We’ll call your agent by the end of the day.”

  With a song in my heart, and a few gobs of Skinny Kitty on my sweater, I made my way across the corridor to the waiting room.

  Deedee pounced the minute I entered.

  “So? How did it go?”

  “They seemed to like her. Linda said I’m a front-runner.”

  “See?” Deedee said. “I told you everything would work out just fine.”

  And it had. For me and Prozac, anyway.

  The last thing I heard as I walked out the door was the redhead crying plaintively, “Wake up, Mr. Jingles! Wake up!”

  * * *

  Deedee and I rode down in the elevator together, Deedee kitchy-kooing over Prozac, babbling about how she was going to be a superstar.

  “Bigger than Garfield, bigger than Marmaduke, bigger than King Kong!”

  I refrained from pointing out that none of these stars were actual animals, afraid to burst h
er bubble of enthusiasm.

  “Au revoir, mes enfants!” she cried, getting off at the lobby and waving good-bye with wrists ajangle.

  Prozac and I proceeded down to the lower parking level, where Prozac had a joyous reunion with her good buddy Mr. Gas Pedal. So grateful was I for her bravura performance at the audition that I hardly even minded when she began bouncing around my feet like an errant pinball.

  Yes, I was pulling out of the parking lot in the rosiest of moods, wondering exactly how much star kitties got paid, when I happened to look across the street and saw Deedee getting on a bus.

  I blinked in surprise. She’d told me she was getting off at the lobby because she’d found a parking space on the street. Obviously, she’d been fibbing.

  “That’s odd, Pro,” I mused aloud. “Why isn’t an agent to the animal stars driving a fancy foreign car with vanity plates? Why on earth is she taking the bus?”

  But my frantic feline was too busy shredding the floor mats to give the matter much thought.

  Chapter 3

  My heart always swells with pride when I show up at the headquarters of Toiletmasters Plumbers.

  There, painted on the front wall of the building, next to a caricature of a plumber brandishing two plungers like six-shooters, is my slogan In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters!

  True, the building is located in one of the San Fernando Valley’s seedier enclaves, and my slogan is now festooned with several X-rated works of graffiti, but I still get a kick out of seeing my words splashed across the wall.

  And that afternoon was no exception as I pulled into the lot to meet up with Phil Angelides and his Touch-Me-Not commode.

  I found Phil in his back office, his battered desk drowning in a sea of papers and assorted wrenches. Sitting amid the clutter was a supersized jar of hand sanitizer.

  “Great to see you, Jaine!” Phil said, leaping up to greet me as I walked in the door.

  A mountain of a guy with hair everywhere on his body except his head, Phil’s got the personality of a Labradoodle, happy and slurpy and bursting with enthusiasm.

  He gave my hands an eager squeeze, almost breaking a knuckle or two in the process. Then, the minute he let go, he proceeded to douse his hands with sanitizer.

  It never ceases to amaze me that Phil, who still goes out in the field and sticks his hands in God knows what, is worried about catching my germs.

  “Wait’ll you see the Touch-Me-Not!” he gushed, leading me out to his showroom. “You’re gonna flip over it! But first, you gotta see what I just bought for my collection.”

  The collection to which Phil referred was his stockpile of celebrity commodes.

  Yes, you read that right. The guy collects toilet bowls of the rich and famous.

  Whenever he learns of a celebrity home demolition, he’s the first on the scene to pick up the commodes. Apparently, there’s a market for this stuff. He’s even been known to bid on toilets from overseas. The crown in his collection is a nondescript white porcelain number that used to belong to Johnny Carson, which he has proudly dubbed Johnny’s Johnny. He claims to own commodes used by Winston Churchill, Cary Grant, and J. K. Rowling (Potter’s Potty).

  “Look!” he said, pointing to an old-fashioned toilet with a wooden seat and a pull chain. “Queen Elizabeth’s toilet from Windsor Castle! “Just think!” he beamed. “I own the queen’s other throne!”

  After several minutes of oohing and aahing over the royal toilet, Phil finally got down to business.

  “Time to see the Touch-Me-Not,” he said, heading over to his display of toilets for us mere mortals.

  “Here she is,” he said, pointing with a flourish to a sleek white toilet.

  The guy was so darn proud, I almost expected to hear a fanfare of trumpets blaring in the background.

  “I just hold my hand over the tank,” he said, placing his hammy palm over a small round sensor atop the tank, “and like magic, the toilet flushes.”

  Of course, the sample we were looking at did not flush, since it wasn’t hooked up to any actual plumbing, but Phil assured me it worked like a charm.

  “Isn’t it great?” he said, waxing euphoric. “Fewer germs to pick up or leave behind!”

  He grinned at me expectantly, waiting for me to be amazed.

  “It’s a miracle!” I cried, fearing I might be overdoing it just a tad.

  But if I was overdoing it, Phil didn’t seem to notice.

  “You’re going to have so much fun writing the brochure,” he said. “C’mon back to my office and I’ll give you the specs.”

  Back in his office, Phil started rooting around the papers on his desk, looking for the info on the Touch-Me-Not.

  “By the way,” he said, tossing aside a stray Danish, “I hope you can make it to the Fiesta Bowl.”

  No, Phil was not inviting me to a football game. The Fiesta Bowl to which he referred was Toiletmasters’ annual employees bash, held at Phil’s house out in Tarzana.

  It’s usually a rather raucous affair, featuring lots of beer, hot dogs, and plumbing jokes. Not exactly Noel Coward territory, but who was I to turn down a free hot dog?

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I assured him.

  “Aw, honey, you’re the best!”

  By now Phil had dug up the Touch-Me-Not info and handed it to me in a manila folder dusted with Danish crumbs.

  “I can always count on my Jainie, can’t I?” he said, giving me a loving pinch on my cheek and then immediately splorting his hands with sanitizer. “One more thing,” he added. “I almost forgot. My nephew Jim just moved to town and started working for me. He’s a great guy, and I thought maybe you might want to go out with him.”

  He shot me his Labradoodle smile, eager and hopeful.

  A blind date? Wasn’t gonna happen.

  Blind dates are God’s way of telling you that nuns don’t have it so bad, after all.

  No way was I subjecting myself to a torturous evening with some goofball with whom I was certain to have nothing in common and who would at the end of the night no doubt whip out a calculator to figure out my share of the bill. Don’t shake your head like that. If I had a calculator for every time that happened to me, I’d own IBM.

  And Phil’s nephew? I could just imagine what he’d look like. Phil’s a darling man, but he’s got enough hair in his ears to stuff a throw pillow. And his nephew was a plumber, to boot. Call me shallow, but I didn’t want to date a guy who spent his days elbow deep in poo. I wanted someone creative—a writer, a musician, an artist! Someone intelligent and sensitive, with impeccably clean fingernails.

  “So, Jaine? How about it?” Phil asked. “Are you up for a date with my nephew?”

  Not if he were the last plumber on earth and I needed my shower snaked.

  Time to haul out my imaginary boyfriend.

  “Thanks so much for thinking of me, Phil, but actually, I’m seeing someone.”

  “You are??”

  He needn’t have sounded so surprised. I mean, it’s not that impossible, is it?

  “Yes, Collier and I have been dating for a couple of months.”

  I’ve always wanted to date a guy named Collier.

  “Aw, that’s too bad. I was hoping you and Jim might hit it off.”

  “Sorry, Phil,” I shrugged, trying to look disappointed.

  I gathered my purse and was just getting up to leave when the door to Phil’s office opened and in walked the Collier of my dreams, a studmuffin of the highest order—tall and rangy, with a fab bod, streaky surfer-blond hair, and blue eyes no doubt reincarnated from the late Paul Newman.

  “Speak of the devil,” Phil said. “Jaine, meet my nephew Jim.”

  This hunkalicious piece of hubba hubba was Phil’s nephew? I simply could not believe that these two guys swam in the same gene pool.

  “Jim, I wanted to set you up with Jaine.”

  “That would have been really nice,” said Mr. Incredible, revealing another weapon in his arsenal of good looks—a megawatt g
rin.

  Suddenly dating a plumber seemed like a Must Do on my bucket list.

  “But, unfortunately,” Phil said, “Jaine has a boyfriend.”

  “That’s too bad,” Mr. Incredible said, with what looked like genuine regret.

  Why on earth had I told that ridiculous lie? Why couldn’t I be one of those people who always say Yes to life? Why did I have to be the eternal pessimist, certain that any blind date of mine would inevitably turn out to be a loser and/or serial killer? If only I hadn’t invented that stupid imaginary boyfriend!

  “Actually,” I said, “my boyfriend and I aren’t all that close. In fact, last night Curtis and I had a bit of a spat.”

  “I thought his name was Collier,” Phil said.

  “It is. It’s Collier-Curtis. Hyphenated. He’s a Brit.”

  By now Phil was looking at me like I was nuts, but I plowed ahead.

  “So maybe we could meet up,” I said to Jim, “just to see how things work out.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly intrude on a relationship. I’d feel funny about seeing you when I know you’re involved with someone else.”

  “But we’re not involved. Not really. Collier-Curtis and I have always been more friends than boyfriend and girlfriend. Really, we’re just friends. Honest. I’d love to go out with you.”

  My God, have you ever seen such a disgusting display of groveling?

  “Well, if you’re sure you’re not in a relationship . . . ,” Jim said.

  “I’m positive.”

  “How about dinner?”

  “Sounds fab!”

  “I’ll give you a call, and we’ll set something up.”

  “Yes! Absolutely!”

  And with that, I waved good-bye and headed out the door, a new assignment in my hands, and not a shred of dignity to my name.

  Chapter 4

  That night I left my future star of stage, screen, and cat food commercials waging her unending war against my throw pillows and drove off to meet my good buddy and longtime dining companion, Kandi Tobolowski, for an early dinner.

  Kandi and I have been friends ever since we met at a screenwriting class at UCLA and bonded over bad vending machine coffee. Kandi has since clawed her way to the middle in the ranks of show biz, with a lucrative career writing for the Saturday morning cartoon, Beanie & the Cockroach (while I, alas, still toiled in the fields of Touch-Me-Not commodes).