history. Joan of Arc, Mother Teresa, Donald Trump’s ex-wives, to name just a few.
But in my book, they all pale in comparison to Normalynne, the girl who dared defy Patti Marshall.
Even more than her bravery, though, I was touched by her kindness. I’ll never forget Linda’s look of gratitude as she headed to the center of the room to stand with Normalynne.
Now, remembering Normalynne’s kindness, I thought about calling her and offering to do some investigating on her behalf. Solving murders happens to be a hobby of mine—a dangerous hobby, I know, but one that sets my corpuscles racing. It’s all very exhilarating, and—if you ask me—not nearly as terrifying as a bikini wax.
But for all I knew, Normalynne had a perfectly competent attorney who’d already hired a P.I. And for all I knew, Part 2, Normalynne really did sabotage that balcony. No, best not to get involved.
Instead, I started work on an assignment that had been phoned in the other day, a resume for a slacker whose biggest skill seemed to be napping on the job. It was a low-bucks gig, but low bucks were better than no bucks, so I set to work drumming up euphemisms for “college dropout.”
But my thoughts kept drifting back to Normalynne. What if she needed me? What if she couldn’t afford proper legal representation? Judging from the frayed cutoffs and drugstore flip-flops she’d worn to the wedding, I had a hunch she wasn’t exactly rolling in dough. What if her 110
Laura Levine
attorney was some court-appointed dufus who didn’t know a tort from a tart?
After a dozen false starts, I finally abandoned the resume and called information for Normalynne’s number. All the operator had was an N. Butler in El Segundo. When I tried the number, a machine picked up, and a robotic voice instructed me to leave a message after the beep.
I left my name and phone number and offered my investigative services, then hung up, feeling a lot better.
Who knew if I’d reached the right N. Butler?
And if I did, if I’d ever hear from her? But at least I’d offered to help.
My conscience clear, I breezed through the resume and faxed it off to my client, then spent the rest of the afternoon industriously vacuuming and paying bills.
Okay, so I spent the rest of the afternoon doing the crossword puzzle and soaking in the tub. I deserved it after putting up with Patti for so long.
Prozac, meanwhile, had been following me around all day, weaving in and out of my ankles, begging for love, as she so often does when she senses I’m miffed.
“Forget it, Pro,” I finally told her. “I’m mad at you.”
Moi? Enormous green eyes. What did I do?
“You know what you did. I don’t know how exactly, but you instigated that whole garbage romp with Mamie.”
More big eyes.
“Quit it, Pro. I’m not buying the Little Orphan Annie act.”
KILLING BRIDEZILLA
111
I extricated her from my ankles and plopped down on the sofa, where I started leafing through a pile of the catalogues that seem to grow like mushrooms in my mailbox.
Prozac came trotting after me.
Okay, okay. So I did it. We’re better off without her, aren’t we?
Then she leaped in my lap and offered me her belly.
Now that that’s settled, how about you scratch my belly for the next four or five hours?
“There’ll be no belly rubs for you, young lady.
No way. No how. It’s never gonna happen. So just forget it.”
Okay, so I caved and gave her the belly rub.
Pathetic, aren’t I?
It wasn’t until later that night when we were in bed together watching All About Eve that the phone rang and a timid voice came on the line.
“Is this Jaine Austen?”
“Yes.”
“The same Jaine Austen who fell in Principal Seawright’s lap at the prom?”
Would I never live that down?
“Yes,” I sighed.
“It’s me. Normalynne. Oh, Jaine,” she wailed.
“I’m in trouble.”
Tell me something I didn’t already know.
I drove down to Normalynne’s apartment in El Segundo, a
But in my book, they all pale in comparison to Normalynne, the girl who dared defy Patti Marshall.
Even more than her bravery, though, I was touched by her kindness. I’ll never forget Linda’s look of gratitude as she headed to the center of the room to stand with Normalynne.
Now, remembering Normalynne’s kindness, I thought about calling her and offering to do some investigating on her behalf. Solving murders happens to be a hobby of mine—a dangerous hobby, I know, but one that sets my corpuscles racing. It’s all very exhilarating, and—if you ask me—not nearly as terrifying as a bikini wax.
But for all I knew, Normalynne had a perfectly competent attorney who’d already hired a P.I. And for all I knew, Part 2, Normalynne really did sabotage that balcony. No, best not to get involved.
Instead, I started work on an assignment that had been phoned in the other day, a resume for a slacker whose biggest skill seemed to be napping on the job. It was a low-bucks gig, but low bucks were better than no bucks, so I set to work drumming up euphemisms for “college dropout.”
But my thoughts kept drifting back to Normalynne. What if she needed me? What if she couldn’t afford proper legal representation? Judging from the frayed cutoffs and drugstore flip-flops she’d worn to the wedding, I had a hunch she wasn’t exactly rolling in dough. What if her 110
Laura Levine
attorney was some court-appointed dufus who didn’t know a tort from a tart?
After a dozen false starts, I finally abandoned the resume and called information for Normalynne’s number. All the operator had was an N. Butler in El Segundo. When I tried the number, a machine picked up, and a robotic voice instructed me to leave a message after the beep.
I left my name and phone number and offered my investigative services, then hung up, feeling a lot better.
Who knew if I’d reached the right N. Butler?
And if I did, if I’d ever hear from her? But at least I’d offered to help.
My conscience clear, I breezed through the resume and faxed it off to my client, then spent the rest of the afternoon industriously vacuuming and paying bills.
Okay, so I spent the rest of the afternoon doing the crossword puzzle and soaking in the tub. I deserved it after putting up with Patti for so long.
Prozac, meanwhile, had been following me around all day, weaving in and out of my ankles, begging for love, as she so often does when she senses I’m miffed.
“Forget it, Pro,” I finally told her. “I’m mad at you.”
Moi? Enormous green eyes. What did I do?
“You know what you did. I don’t know how exactly, but you instigated that whole garbage romp with Mamie.”
More big eyes.
“Quit it, Pro. I’m not buying the Little Orphan Annie act.”
KILLING BRIDEZILLA
111
I extricated her from my ankles and plopped down on the sofa, where I started leafing through a pile of the catalogues that seem to grow like mushrooms in my mailbox.
Prozac came trotting after me.
Okay, okay. So I did it. We’re better off without her, aren’t we?
Then she leaped in my lap and offered me her belly.
Now that that’s settled, how about you scratch my belly for the next four or five hours?
“There’ll be no belly rubs for you, young lady.
No way. No how. It’s never gonna happen. So just forget it.”
Okay, so I caved and gave her the belly rub.
Pathetic, aren’t I?
It wasn’t until later that night when we were in bed together watching All About Eve that the phone rang and a timid voice came on the line.
“Is this Jaine Austen?”
“Yes.”
“The same Jaine Austen who fell in Principal Seawright’s lap at the prom?”
Would I never live that down?
“Yes,” I sighed.
“It’s me. Normalynne. Oh, Jaine,” she wailed.
“I’m in trouble.”
Tell me something I didn’t already know.
I drove down to Normalynne’s apartment in El Segundo, a
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