Death of a Bachelorette Page 3

  Oh, dear. I didn’t like that look in her eyes. Not one bit.

  Chapter 3

  The door to Manny Kaminsky’s office was open when I got there, and he motioned me in as he talked on the phone.

  A barrel-chested guy straining the seams of his loud Hawaiian shirt, he sat behind a massive teak desk, a cigar clamped in his hammy fist. His dyed black hair perched in a thinning nest on the top of his head, cemented in place by buckets of industrial-strength hair spray.

  “I want that pastrami as lean possible!” he was barking into the phone. “No fat like the last time or I’m sending it back.”

  He gestured for me to sit down in a seat across from him as he wrapped up his pastrami negotiations.

  Settling my tush into a down-filled cushion, I took a look around me.

  The office was at least three times the size of my attic hovel, decorated in island-style teak furniture, with an impressive mini-fridge tucked in the corner, sweeping views of the front grounds, and A/C blasting from overhead vents.

  The tile floors were polished to glossy perfection; no waterbug would dare make an appearance here.

  But the undeniable centerpiece of the office was an elaborate aquarium on the far side of the room. Furnished with grottos and reefs, a rainbow of fish frolicked in its pristine aqua water.

  I only wished my accommodations were half as nice.

  Having issued his final order to his pastrami purveyor, Manny hung up and turned his attention to me.

  “Welcome, my dear,” he said, with an expansive wave of his cigar, “to Casa Kaminsky. You all settled in your cell?”

  Okay, so he said “room,” but I’m trying my best to stick to the truth here.

  “Still haven’t quite finished construction up there,” he said. “People in Paratito work on ‘island time.’ Takes forever to get anything done. So there’s no A/C up there yet, but if you open your window, you should get a delightful breeze.”

  “The room’s lovely,” I lied.

  “Your cat settled in?”

  “Absolutely,” I assured him, my fake smile firmly in place.

  “Hope you don’t mind my cigar,” he said, twirling the fat roll of tobacco lovingly with his fingers.

  “Not at all,” I said, trying not to choke on its foul smell.

  “These babies cost fifty bucks a pop, straight from Havana.”

  Omigod. Fifty dollars for a cigar! Couldn’t he have just traded in a few cases for A/C on the top floor?

  “So glad you’re able to join our little team!” he beamed.

  “I’m thrilled to be here,” I said. And I wasn’t lying. In spite of my lousy accommodations, I was happy to be earning some decent bucks.

  “I suppose you know about all the shows I’ve produced,” he said, chest puffed with pride.

  Indeed I did. First thing after I got the job, I’d raced to my computer and Googled Manny. (Technically, the second thing. First thing was to celebrate with a wee bit of Chunky Monkey.)

  I’d soon discovered that Manny had produced a rash of low-rent reality shows—clunkers like Ping Pong with the Stars, America’s Funniest Instagrams, and Say Yes to the Muumuu.

  But I didn’t care how crappy his shows were. If he was paying, I was on board.

  “And if I do say so myself,” he said, waving his stink bomb of a cigar, “I think I’ve outdone myself with Some Day My Prince Will Come. Thirteen gorgeous gals duke it out to win the hand of a charming British royal, Spencer Dalworth VII, Earl of Swampshire, eighty-seventh in line to be king of England.”

  (Before you go racing to Google it, there is no actual Swampshire. It’s a name I made up to protect the innocent—namely moi—from a lawsuit.)

  “Of course, as Polly has probably already told you,” Manny was saying, “ten of the gals have already been eliminated, and we’re down to the final three.”

  “Yes, I’ve already met them. They seemed quite nice.”

  “Bunch of raging bitches,” he said, dismissing my lie with a flick of his cigar ash. “But the bitchier they are, the higher the ratings.”

  Alas, he spoke the truth.

  “All you have to do is punch out some dialogue for Spencer and the gals on his three remaining dates. Tomorrow he’s got a picnic with Dallas, then a romp in the Grand Paratito Waterfall with Brianna, and the next day a parachute jump with Hope.

  “Get started on the picnic scene as soon as you can. We’ll be shooting on the back lawn tomorrow morning, with a picnic basket of champagne and caviar.

  “I’m afraid Spencer’s not much of a talker. Most of his vocabulary seems to consist of ‘eh, what?’ and ‘brilliant.’ The other writers haven’t had much luck with him, but I’m hoping you’ll be able to do better.”

  “I’ll certainly try, sir.”

  “I’d like to get him to say an actual sentence or two in these last pivotal scenes of the series. So just rough out some snappy patter for him. Anything, just so long as he doesn’t come across as a prize idiot—

  “Ah, Spencer my boy, we were just talking about you!”

  I looked up and got my first glimpse of Spencer Dalworth VII. And I must admit, standing there in the doorway, he was quite a royal specimen. Tall and rangy, with deep blue eyes and a crop of thick tawny hair. Think early Hugh Grant, with a soupçon of Jude Law.

  If he’d heard Manny calling him an idiot, Spencer gave no indication of it. In fact, one of the first things I noticed about him was the amazingly vacant look in his beautiful blue eyes.

  “Come in, my boy!” Manny beamed. “This is our new writer, Jaine Austen.”

  “Brilliant!” Spencer said, his vocabulary living up to its reputation. “Love your books. Well, I haven’t actually read them, but I’ve heard they’re jolly good reads.”

  “I’m not that Jane Austen. She’s been dead two hundred years.”

  “Good thing you’re not her, then. Eh, what?”

  He strolled into the room in miraculously unwrinkled linen trousers and Hawaiian shirt. Unlike Manny’s seam-straining version, Spencer’s shirt draped loosely on his slim frame.

  Settling down into an easy chair, he crossed one long, linen-clad limb over the other, a man completely at ease, if not aware, in the world.

  “So, Spencer,” Manny asked, “have you decided who’s going to get the royal lei tomorrow night?”

  “The royal what?” I asked.

  “Garland of flowers,” Manny explained. “Every elimination, Spencer hands out a lei to the bachelorettes he wants to keep on the show. The one who fails to get a lei goes home.

  “So,” he said, turning back to Spencer, “have you made up your mind?”

  Spencer blinked a few times, letting the question register.

  “The lei? Oh, right. First have to discuss it with Mummy, of course.”

  “Of course, of course,” Manny said in the kind of soothing voice one hears in a kindergarten class. “You talk it over with Mummy and get back to me.”

  “Brilliant!” Spencer said, breaking out in what I must admit was a most engaging grin.

  “See you later, Jaine,” he said to me as he unwound himself from his easy chair. “Glad you’re not the dead one.”

  And with those words of endearment, he loped out of the room.

  Manny shook his head in disgust.

  “The guy can’t make a single decision without discussing it with his mummy. Talk about an umbilical cord that needs cutting.

  “Well,” he said, hauling himself up from behind his desk, “if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to feed my little darlings.”

  With that, he opened a flap on the top of his aquarium and sprinkled in some food.

  “Such beautiful fish,” I said, as they flocked to the food in a frenzy.

  “You’ve got to be very careful with fish,” Manny said. “Some of the most beautiful fish in the world are predators. You put them in your tank, and before you know it, your other fish are dead and gone.

  “Yep,” he said, taking a pensive puff of
his cigar, “you gotta watch out for the predators.”

  Words to live by, as I would soon discover, here on Paratito Island.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: SirLancelot

  Subject: A Fab Job

  Hi, hon—

  By now you must be in glorious Paratito, basking in the sun and the cool ocean breezes. And, as promised, I’m doing a fab job of watching your apartment. While taking in your mail this morning, I discovered a coupon for Senor Picasso’s One-Day Auto Paint Job. Only $39.99, plus free floor mats!

  Nothing personal, sweetie, but your dumpmobile could sure use a bit of freshening up. So I drove it right over to Senor Picasso’s. (What a stroke of luck that you left me your car keys in case of an emergency!) I’m having it painted a glorious sunshine yellow. So bright and cheerful, just what you need to liven up your drab little life. No need to thank me. That’s what friends are for. You can pay me back when you get home.

  Ciao for now!

  Lance

  PS. Met the most adorable man, Brett, working the reception desk at Senor Picasso’s. Quel cutie! I’m going to turn on the charm full force when I go back to get your Corolla this afternoon. With any luck, I’ll be picking up your car—and a hot date!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Evening in Paris

  Hello, sweetheart!

  Hope you and your precious Zoloft are having the best time ever at your fabulous new job in the South Pacific! I’m so proud of you, honey! My daughter, the TV writer!!

  Meanwhile, everyone here in Tampa Vistas is all abuzz with preparations for our annual Evening in Paris gala. I’m sure I’ve told you about it. We take over the clubhouse dining room and turn it into a boulevard in Paris, complete with a seven-foot papier-mâché Eiffel Tower, lots of French flags, and Edna Lindstrom’s magnificent replica of the Arch of Triumph made out of egg salad. The menu is all French, and so is the music. In other words, c’est magnifique! (Which I’m fairly certain means “magnificent” and not “magnifying glass,” but I’ve never been good with languages, so I can’t really be sure.)

  Lydia Pinkus, our beloved president of the Tampa Vistas Homeowners Association, is in charge of the event, and with Lydia at the helm, it’s sure to be a roaring success. She’s always so good at organizing things.

  And as if running the gala weren’t enough, Lydia has been hard at work planning a trip to Colonial Williamsburg. She knows all about American history and has prepared several lectures to deliver. She’s such a brilliant speaker; it should be absolutely fascinating! Edna Lindstrom and some of the other gals are going, and I’m going to try to talk Daddy into signing up, too.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Dreaded Time of Year

  Dearest Lambchop—

  It’s that dreaded time of year—time for the annual Tampa Vista’s Evening in Paris gala. You wouldn’t believe the fuss people make about having dinner with a papier-mâché Eiffel Tower and Edna Lindstrom’s silly egg salad Arch of Triumph. What a snoozefest!

  What’s worse, Mom’s trying to get me to go off on Lydia Pinkus’s tour of Colonial Williamsburg. As if that’s gonna happen. I may have to sit through the stupid Evening in Paris, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to listen to that gasbag Pinkus yammer on about American history for seven mind-numbing days.

  Ooops. Gotta run. Someone’s at the door.

  Love ’n’ hugs from

  DaddyO

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: So Darn Excited!

  Guess who just stopped by? Lydia Pinkus, with the most wonderful news! She’s hired a professional dancer to teach five lucky Tampa Vista couples to dance the waltz to “I Love Paris” at our Evening in Paris gala. And the best news of all: she’s chosen Daddy and me as one of the couples! I’m so darn excited! I thought for sure Daddy would be his usual grouchypants self and nix the idea, but much to my surprise, he’s all for it.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Dancing Feet

  Good news, Lambchop. It looks like the Evening in Paris gala won’t be a total bust after all. Apparently Lydia (“The Battleaxe”) Pinkus has hired a dance instructor to teach us the waltz, and your mom and I have been tapped to perform at the gala. I’m not one to brag, Lambchop, but I happen to be a superb dancer. Did I ever tell you I once won a free case of beer in a limbo contest? It’s true! Can’t wait to wow the neighbors with my dancing feet!

  Love ’n’ cuddles from

  DaddyO

  (aka the Fred Astaire of Tampa Vistas)

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: The Fred Astaire of Tampa Vistas

  Oh, brother! Now Daddy’s running around the house calling himself the Fred Astaire of Tampa Vistas. All because he once won a limbo contest. Which, by the way, isn’t even an actual dance. I’ve been dancing with Daddy for the past forty years, and I can assure you the only Fred he resembles is Flintstone. And he absolutely refuses to go on Lydia’s tour of Colonial Williamsburg. For some reason, Daddy’s always had it in for poor Lydia. I can’t imagine why. She’s such a delightful woman. Anyhow, I’m hoping if I leave a few tour brochures around the house, he might change his mind.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: SirLancelot

  Subject: Minor Hiccup

  Just got back from Senor Picasso’s, and honestly, Jaine, I think I’m in love. Remember Brett, the cutie at the reception desk? Well, it turns out this auto-painting gig is only his day job; he’s really a playwright. So intelligent, and sensitive, with biceps to die for. And the best news is: I’m pretty sure the feeling was mutual. I definitely felt sparks. Brett never did ask me out, but luckily I’ll get another chance to work my magic charms when I go back to Senor Picasso’s to get your car. It wasn’t ready today. It seems the painters got a tiny spot of sunshine yellow paint on your windshield, and they’ve got to get rid of it. Just a minor hiccup. Nothing to worry about.

  Chapter 4

  Back in my room, which I’d now dubbed Sauna Central, I found Prozac sacked out, snoring on my bed. Oh, how I envied her, lost in oblivion.

  I sat at my card-table desk and opened my laptop with every intention of working on Spencer’s upcoming picnic scene with Dallas. But alas, I made the foolish mistake of reading my emails. Instantly my blood pressure shot up into the stratosphere. Can you believe Lance, having my car painted sunshine yellow? Who did he think I was—a taxi driver?

  After dashing off three texts and an angry email, demanding he have the Corolla restored to its original grungy white and reminding him to mist my Boston fern, I perused the notes from my parents, always a source of mental indigestion. My parents are absolute angels, sweeties of the highest order, but somehow they have a knack for creating drama wherever they go. Daddy is the main culprit. The man attracts trouble like my thighs attract cellulite. Somehow Mom has managed to put up with his foibles all these years with strength, forbearance, and a healthy supply of Oreos. I just hoped Daddy would waltz through the Evening in Paris gala without stepping on too many toes.

  As distracting as they were, I could not allow myself to fester over my emails, not with that picnic scene to write. I barely managed to open a “Picnic Scene” file on my laptop, however, when I felt my eyelids grow heavy. Exhausted from my long flight and the oppressive heat blanketing the air, I put my head down on the desk to close my eyes for just a few minutes.

  The next thing I knew, I was awakened by the sound of knocking on my door.

  Akela, the maid, poked her head in, eyeing Prozac with undisguised terror, and announced that dinner would be served on the back patio in five minutes.

  I looked out the window and realized it was dark outside. I’d slept away the entire afternoon.


  “Food for cat,” Akela said, dropping a plate on the floor and scooting off.

  I stumbled out of bed and checked out Prozac’s dinner—chunks of moist, char-grilled white fish.

  Normally I’m not much of a fish fan, but this stuff looked pretty darn delicious. I was tempted to grab a tidbit, but Prozac was already at my ankles, demanding to be fed. I didn’t dare snitch a piece in front of her. Not unless I wanted a souvenir scar to mark the occasion.

  Reluctantly abandoning the fish, I hurried to the bathroom and splashed tepid water on my face. Then I slapped on some lipstick and left Prozac inhaling her food.

  They probably served all sorts of fresh fish and fruits here on the island, I thought, as I headed downstairs. What a wonderful health bonus. Thousands of miles away from the nearest Ben & Jerry’s, I’d be sure to lose scads of weight in no time. Picturing myself frolicking in a bikini with nary a love handle in sight, I skipped out to the patio, my appestat set for a yummy seafood platter.

  * * *

  Two tables were set on the mansion’s spacious patio, with lovely china and fine cutlery, under a night sky bedecked with stars, the air thick with the hum of cicadas and the lush scent of gardenias.

  Talk about dinner in paradise.

  Manny sat at the head of what was clearly the “A” table, his nest of hair firmly cemented in place. Spencer sat across from him down at the foot of the table, Dallas and Hope cozied up on either side of the would-be prince. Brianna was sitting next to a young guy with a headful of curls even sprongier than mine. And sitting across from them was Polly, who’d saved a seat for me between her and Manny.