and never notice it,
but when it comes to a tiny speck of gravy on a
hibiscus leaf, suddenly he's got X-ray vision.
When I think of that twenty dollars I spent for the
shirt! Not to mention the $39.99 (plus shipping
and handling!) I spent on those Vita-Mans. Oh,
well. At least I did a good deed for Everett, the
homeless fellow. Which is some small consolation.
As for Daddy, I give up. There's nothing else I
can do except hope that this foolishness will
pass. I can't wait till they let him back in the clubhouse. At least that will be a distraction.
Meanwhile, I've convinced him to go to the
movies this afternoon. Anything to get him out of
his darn recliner!
Hope you're a lot less stressed than I am, darling.
All my love-
Mom
Chapter 10
.'m happy to report there were no wet spots in
-my slippers the next morning. There was,
however, a hairball the size of a cannoli on my
dining room table.
But I had to count my blessings. At least I wasn't
in Florida buying shirts from the homeless.
"Thanks loads," I said to Prozac, as I scooped
up the hairball with a paper towel.
Don't mention it. She swished her tail and
sashayed over to her food bowl.
"You're a spoiled brat; you know that, don't
you?"
Can we skip the chatter and go straight to the main
course?
I slopped some Luscious Lamb Guts into her
bowl. She arched her back for her breakfast
back rub, but she arched in vain. Two could
play at this cold shoulder game.
I'd just finished washing up the remains of
her hairball when I glanced down at yesterday's
mail, still on the dining room table where I'd tossed it. And there on the top of the pile was
the letter from Gustavo Mendes-according to
Lance, L.A.'s hottest new hairstylist.
I picked up the letter and read it again. The
stationery was impressively thick and creamy.
And there, printed in a tasteful calligraphic
typeface, was Gustavo's invitation to come in for
a free hair styling.
Normally I tend to shy away from fancy salons
where a cut and color costs more than a Kia. But
the operative word here was free. Wouldn't it be
nice to show up for my date with Andrew with
spectacular hair?
What the heck, I thought, picking up the
phone. I'd give them a call. Maybe they could
squeeze me in.
But then as I dialed, I remembered it was Saturday. It had to be their busiest day of the week.
They'd never be able to schedule me on such
short notice.
But to my surprise, when I gave my name to
the receptionist, she said, "Oh, Ms. Austen.
What a pleasure. Yes, Gustavo will take you himself. How's three o'clock?"
Gustavo obviously had me confused with
some other writer, someone vastly more important than the author of In a Rush to Flush? Call
loiletmasters! And I wasn't about to straighten
him out. The only thing I wanted straightened
were my unruly curls.
I quickly accepted the appointment before
they could figure out the truth, and-thrilled at
the prospect of a Fabulous Hair Day-ran to my
closet and started trying on outfits for my date
with Andrew.
I was standing there, trying to cram myself into a way-too-tight skirt I'd bought in a moment of optimistic madness, when I remembered Dorcas festering in jail.
Some private eye I was. (I bet Philip Marlowe
never wasted valuable crime-solving time trying
on outfits.) I promised Dorcas I'd find Vic's
killer. Andrew or no Andrew, I had to live up to
my promise and stay focused on the case.
Guiltily I wriggled out of the skirt and changed
into elastic-waist jeans and a T-shirt. Then I looked
up Vic's number in the phone book. His address was listed, just as Dorcas said it would be.
I grabbed my car keys and headed for the
door.
"Bye, Pro," I called out to Prozac. But she didn't
even bother to look up from the armchair she
was clawing.
Minutes later, I was strapped in Wheezy
lurching out to the Venice bungalow Vic had
shared with Allison.
In other words, the scene of the crime.
Allison's house was on a
but when it comes to a tiny speck of gravy on a
hibiscus leaf, suddenly he's got X-ray vision.
When I think of that twenty dollars I spent for the
shirt! Not to mention the $39.99 (plus shipping
and handling!) I spent on those Vita-Mans. Oh,
well. At least I did a good deed for Everett, the
homeless fellow. Which is some small consolation.
As for Daddy, I give up. There's nothing else I
can do except hope that this foolishness will
pass. I can't wait till they let him back in the clubhouse. At least that will be a distraction.
Meanwhile, I've convinced him to go to the
movies this afternoon. Anything to get him out of
his darn recliner!
Hope you're a lot less stressed than I am, darling.
All my love-
Mom
Chapter 10
.'m happy to report there were no wet spots in
-my slippers the next morning. There was,
however, a hairball the size of a cannoli on my
dining room table.
But I had to count my blessings. At least I wasn't
in Florida buying shirts from the homeless.
"Thanks loads," I said to Prozac, as I scooped
up the hairball with a paper towel.
Don't mention it. She swished her tail and
sashayed over to her food bowl.
"You're a spoiled brat; you know that, don't
you?"
Can we skip the chatter and go straight to the main
course?
I slopped some Luscious Lamb Guts into her
bowl. She arched her back for her breakfast
back rub, but she arched in vain. Two could
play at this cold shoulder game.
I'd just finished washing up the remains of
her hairball when I glanced down at yesterday's
mail, still on the dining room table where I'd tossed it. And there on the top of the pile was
the letter from Gustavo Mendes-according to
Lance, L.A.'s hottest new hairstylist.
I picked up the letter and read it again. The
stationery was impressively thick and creamy.
And there, printed in a tasteful calligraphic
typeface, was Gustavo's invitation to come in for
a free hair styling.
Normally I tend to shy away from fancy salons
where a cut and color costs more than a Kia. But
the operative word here was free. Wouldn't it be
nice to show up for my date with Andrew with
spectacular hair?
What the heck, I thought, picking up the
phone. I'd give them a call. Maybe they could
squeeze me in.
But then as I dialed, I remembered it was Saturday. It had to be their busiest day of the week.
They'd never be able to schedule me on such
short notice.
But to my surprise, when I gave my name to
the receptionist, she said, "Oh, Ms. Austen.
What a pleasure. Yes, Gustavo will take you himself. How's three o'clock?"
Gustavo obviously had me confused with
some other writer, someone vastly more important than the author of In a Rush to Flush? Call
loiletmasters! And I wasn't about to straighten
him out. The only thing I wanted straightened
were my unruly curls.
I quickly accepted the appointment before
they could figure out the truth, and-thrilled at
the prospect of a Fabulous Hair Day-ran to my
closet and started trying on outfits for my date
with Andrew.
I was standing there, trying to cram myself into a way-too-tight skirt I'd bought in a moment of optimistic madness, when I remembered Dorcas festering in jail.
Some private eye I was. (I bet Philip Marlowe
never wasted valuable crime-solving time trying
on outfits.) I promised Dorcas I'd find Vic's
killer. Andrew or no Andrew, I had to live up to
my promise and stay focused on the case.
Guiltily I wriggled out of the skirt and changed
into elastic-waist jeans and a T-shirt. Then I looked
up Vic's number in the phone book. His address was listed, just as Dorcas said it would be.
I grabbed my car keys and headed for the
door.
"Bye, Pro," I called out to Prozac. But she didn't
even bother to look up from the armchair she
was clawing.
Minutes later, I was strapped in Wheezy
lurching out to the Venice bungalow Vic had
shared with Allison.
In other words, the scene of the crime.
Allison's house was on a
Similar Books
