Death by Pantyhose (29 page)

Which is why I cringed when I first got that
call from Patti Marshall. In the Dante-esque
world of high school, Patti was Satan's ringmaster.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me back
up and set the scene.

I'd just come home from the vet, where I'd
taken my cat Prozac for her annual checkup.
You'll be happy to learn Prozac was in perfect
health. The vet, however, required several stitches
and a trip to the emergency room.

"How could you attack poor Dr. Graham like
that?" I scolded as I let her out of her cage.

I warned her to stay away from my privates.

"I still can't believe you bit her in the arm."

Me neither. I was aiming for her face.

I poured myself a wee tankard of chardonnay
to recuperate and was reaching for a restorative
dose of Oreos when the phone rang.

Too wiped out to answer, I let the machine
get it.

jaine, it's Patti Marshall."

I froze in my tracks. Patti had been the queen
bee of my alma mater, Hermosa High, a social
despot who ruled her subjects with a fine-tuned
cruelty and a flawless complexion.

Her voice drifted from the machine, the
same nasal whine that had delivered so many
devastating zingers in the girls' locker room.

"I heard you're a writer now. Give me a call,
okay? I think I may have some work for you."

My palms turned clammy. Patti represented
everything I'd loathed about high school. I could
just picture her sitting at her throne at the Popular Table in the cafeteria, eyeing the Unpopulars
with undisguised disdain and leading her Bitches
in Waiting in a chorus of derisive giggles.

I would've liked nothing more than to zap her
message to oblivion. But she'd said the magic
word-work-a commodity I'm chronically short
of.

I turned to Prozac who was sprawled out on
the sofa, licking her prized privates.

"What do you think, Pro? She's a world-class rat,
but I really need the money. What should I do?"

She looked up at me with big green eyes that
seemed to say, It's always about you, isn't it? What
about me? When do I eat?

Which goes a long toward explaining why
man's best friend has never been the cat.

Oh, well. I really needed the dough, so I took
a bracing gulp of chardonnay and forced myself
to give Patti a call.

"Hi, Jaine!" she trilled when she came on the
line. "How've you been?"

Somewhat stunned by the friendly lilt to her
voice, I mumbled, "Um. Fine."

"Listen, I've got great news. I'm getting married."

"Congratulations."

I didn't envy the poor guy headed down that
aisle.

"Anyhow, I need somebody to write my wedding vows. I heard you're a writer now, and I
thought it'd be great to work with an old friend."

An old friend? The woman was clearly smoking something illegal.

"So what have you written? Anything I've
heard of?"

As a matter of fact, I had written an ad she
might very well have heard of. Or at least seen; it's
been on bus stops all over town. But it wasn't exactly the kind of ad that leaves people awestruck.

"I wrote In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters."

I waited for Patti's patented, Ewww, gross!, the
line with which she tarred many a fragile ego at
Hermosa High, but instead, I heard:

"Really? I saw that in the Yellow Pages. It's
very cute!"

Alert the media. A compliment. From Catty
Patti.

"So how about it, Jaine? You think you'd be
interested?"

"Well-"

"I was thinking of paying somewhere in the
neighborhood of three thousand dollars."

Call the movers. That was my kind of neighborhood.

"That sounds terrific, Patti. I'd love to do it."

"Wonderful!" she gushed. I know we're
going to have so much fun!"

We agreed to meet the next day and I hung
up, not quite believing what had just happened.

This certainly wasn't the same Queen of
Mean I'd known in high school. Was it possible
Patti had changed over the years? Why not? People changed all the time. I had to stop being such
a cynic and give her the benefit of the doubt.

Somewhere along the line Patti Marshall had
obviously morphed into a decent human being.
And more important, a decent human being
who was willing to enrich my bank balance by
three grand.

And so I embarked on my new assignment
filled with hope and good cheer-much like I
imagine Dr. Graham must have felt before
reaching for Prozac's privates.

arranged to meet Patti the next day at her
-parents' home in Bel Air.

Back in Hermosa, Patti had lived in a fabulous beachfront house, a gleaming white affair
with unobstructed views of the Pacific. A house,
needless to say, I'd never been invited to.

As nice as Patti's Hermosa house had been, it
was a virtual shack compared to her new digs in
Bel Air. As I drove up the leafy pathway to her
parents' estate, I could practically smell the scent
of freshly minted money in the air. A sprawling
manse with more wings than a condo complex,
the place gave Buckingham Palace a run for its
money.

I parked my ancient Corolla in the "motor
court" and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. It was a glorious day, sunny and clear,
and I was grateful that my hair-which usually
turns to Brillo at the first sign of humidity-was
mercifully frizz-free. I fluffed it into what I hoped
was a Sarah Jessica Parker-ish nimbus of curls, then sucked in my gut and headed for the front
door.

A Hispanic maid in a starched white apron
answered the bell.

"I'm here to see Patti," I said. "I'm Jaine
Austen, her writer."

"Another one?"

She rolled her eyes and ushered me into a
foyer bigger than my living room, complete with
double marble staircase and a crystal chandelier
the size of a Volkswagen.

"Ms. Patti," she called up the steps, "the
writer lady is here."

Patti's voice drifted from above. "I'll be right
down. "

"Good luck." The maid shot me a sympathetic smile and scurried away.

I was standing there, counting the crystals in
the chandelier, when I heard the clack of heels
on the marble stairs.

I looked up and there she was, Patti Marshall,
Hermosa High's very own Cruella De Vil. I'd
been hoping she'd put on a few pounds since
high school like the rest of us mere mortals. But
if anything, she'd lost weight. Life sure isn't fair,
isn't it?

Unlike most high school prima donnas, Patti
had never been a conventional beauty. Her face
was a little too long, her eyes just a little too
close together. But there was something about
the way she carried herself, the way she looked
at you through those close-set eyes, that had you
convinced she was a stunner.

She made her grand entrance now, sweeping
down the stairs in body-hugging capris and tank
top. Her gleaming blond hair, always her best feature, was caught up in a careless ponytail that
swished from side to side as she walked.

In the crook of her arm, she carried what at
first looked like a large cotton ball, but when
the cotton ball started yapping, I realized it was
a dog.

' Jaine, sweetie!" she beamed. "It's so good to
see you again."

As she wrapped me in a bony one-armed hug,
her dog began licking my face with all the abandon of a coed gone wild.

"Mamie really likes you, jaine!"

Either that, or she smelled the Quarter Pounder
I'd had for lunch.

"It's time you two were properly introduced."

She held out the dog, and I now saw that they
were wearing matching pink tank tops, embroidered with the logo I'm Cute. Buy Me Something.

`jaine, say hello to Mamie." She smiled at me
expectantly.

Oh, good heavens. She actually wanted me to
say hello to her dog.

"Um, hello, Mamie." I managed a feeble smile.

Mamie, having clearly decided I was her new
best friend, squirmed in Patti's arms, eager to
unleash her salivary glands on me.

"I hardly ever let anybody do this," Patti intoned with all the solemnity of ]King Arthur bestowing a knighthood, "but you can hold her."

With that, she thrust the dog in my arms, and
within seconds I was covered in an aromatic
layer of dog spit.

"Let's go out to the patio, and I'll tell you all
about your assignment."

She guided me past a maze of impeccably
decorated rooms and then out through French doors to a bit of paradise that would give the
Garden of Eden a run for its money.

I gazed in awe at the plushly furnished patio
(complete with built-in Viking BBQ), the
Olympic-caliber lap pool, and the tennis courts
in the distance-all of it surrounded by velvety
green lawns, exquisitely tended flower beds,
and a small forest of trees.

"Want something to eat?" Patti asked, plopping down onto a chaise lounge. "I'm starved."

"Sure," I said, hoping for something whose
main ingredient was chocolate.

"Hey, Rosa," she barked into an intercom on an
end table. "Bring us some Evian and carrot sticks."

Oh, foo. Not exactly the snack I'd been hoping for.

"So what happened to your house in Hermosa Beach?" I asked, easing myself into a pillowy armchair, still holding Mamie, who was
now busy nibbling on my ears.

"Oh, Mom sold it when she married Connie."

"Connie?"

I blinked in surprise. I remembered Patti's
mom, a va-va-va voom blonde with a nipped-in
waist and man-made bosoms, and somehow I
couldn't picture her hooked up with someone
of the female persuasion.

"Short for Conrad. Conrad Devane. My stepfather."

"Where's your dad?"

"Oh, Daddy died about ten years ago. Guess
he figured it was easier than living with Mom.
He wasn't dead in his grave two weeks before
Mom sank her claws into Connie. She knows
how to sniff out the rich ones. Not that it mattered to me. Daddy left me a bundle."

She smiled proudly as if inheriting money
was a major life accomplishment.

"Anyhow, we decided to have the wedding
here at the house. It's so much cozier than a
hotel, don't you think?"

Was she kidding? This place was a hotel.

"We'll have the ceremony out on the lawn. It
should be utterly glorious."

She stretched out on the chaise, then
shrieked, "Hey, Rosa! Where the hell's our
food?-Oh, there you are. It's about time."

I looked up to see the harried maid scurrying
to our side, with two frosty bottles of Evian and
carrot sticks, beautifully arranged in a cut glass
bowl.

Patti grabbed an Evian from the tray and
pouted.

"Yuck, Rosa. This water's too cold. How many
times do I have to tell you, I want it chilled, not
icy?"

"Shall I bring you another, Ms. Patti?" Rosa
asked through gritted teeth.

"Oh, forget it," Patti said, with an irritated
wave. `Just go."

More than happy to escape, Rosa scooted
back into the house.

As I watched her retreating figure, it occurred
to me that perhaps I'd been a tad optimistic thinking that Patti had miraculously morphed into a
sweetheart since high school.

"Like I said on the phone," she said, reaching
for a carrot stick, "I need somebody to help me
write my wedding vows. You wouldn't believe
how many writers I've been through."

After the little scene I'd just witnessesed, I
had no trouble believing it. None whatsoever.

"I'm counting on you, Jaine, to come through
for me."

The look in her eyes told me it wasn't so
much a wish as a royal edict.

"What sort of vows were you thinking of?"

"I've had the most fabulous idea." Her eyes lit
up. "Instead of a traditional ceremony, I've decided to re-enact the balcony scene from Romeo
and Juliet. "

Huh ?

"Only this time, with a happy ending!"

For a minute I wondered if Mamie's spit in
my ear had affected my hearing.

"I'll be up on that balcony." She pointed to an
elaborate wrought iron balcony on the second
story of the house. "My fiance will stand below and
when I ask him to `deny thy father and refuse thy
name,' he's going to say `okey doke,' and then
instead of all that gloomy-doomy suicide stuff,
I'll come down and marry him. See? A happy
ending! "

By now, even Mamie's jaw was hanging open
with disbelief.

And for the first time it hit me that Patti Marshall was an idiot. All those years at Hermosa
High, we were terrorized by a prized num-num.

"It's really a very simple assignment, Jaine. All
you have to do is-"

"Rewrite William Shakespeare."

"Yes! Make it hip and modern! Isn't that the
best idea ever?"

Compared to what? The Spanish Inquisition?

"C'mon," she said, jumping up from the
chaise, "let's go up to the balcony. Once you see
how gorgeous it is, it'll put you in the mood to
write."