Murder Has Nine Lives by Laura Levine

bug scampering up her wall.
    â€œDamn the House of Wonton and their miserable cockroaches!”
    She reached into her purse and pulled out a can of Raid, blasting the critter to oblivion.
    When my heart finally stopped fibrillating, I thanked Deedee for her time and headed out to my Corolla. It wasn’t until I was back in the bright light of day that I realized the significance of what I’d just seen.
    Deedee carried around a can of Raid in her purse! If she was the killer, maybe she didn’t even need the Raid in the studio kitchen.
    Maybe she came prepared with her very own murder weapon.

Chapter 11
    â€œP rozac, honey. I’m begging you. Just have a teeny bite.”
    I was sitting in bed with Prozac later that afternoon, trying to hand-feed her freshly sautéed chicken tenders. But she was lost in another world.
    â€œFatty.” He called me “fatty.” I may never eat again.
    â€œYou’ve got to eat something, honey. Or you’ll waste away.”
    If only I had a working index finger, I could be a bulimic.
    â€œYummy chicken!” I crooned, taking a bite. “Yummy, yummy, yummy!”
    And indeed it was yummy. Before I knew it, I’d scarfed down three tenders.
    Roused from her reverie, Prozac lobbed me a look of stern disapproval.
    Clearly, I’ve learned all my bad eating habits from you.
    Turning away, she gazed at the TV just in time to see a cat food commercial. She watched in disgust as a computer-generated cat did the cha-cha.
    Feh. You call that acting?
    â€œOh, Pro,” I moaned. “What am I going to do with you?”
    I’d called Dr. Madeline earlier that afternoon, thinking maybe she’d give Prozac a kitty antidepressant. But Dr. M. explained that antidepressants are used to treat anxiety in animals, not depression. So there’d be no Prozac for Prozac.
    Dr. M. advised me to lavish Prozac with even more attention than I was already giving her, which hardly seemed possible. That cat gets more attention than a stripper at a bachelor party.
    Now I thought about Emmy, Deedee’s Reiki healer. Deedee said she worked with animals. I sincerely doubted Prozac would respond to any New Age mumbo jumbo, but I had nothing to lose. Besides, it would be a good excuse to meet Emmy and check out Deedee’s alibi.
    I made a mental note to call her and was just about to bite into another chicken tender when there was a knock on my door.
    Leaving Prozac glaring at the TV, I shuffled off to get it.
    It was Lance, who came sailing in like an extra from West Side Story , in tight jeans and a black leather jacket.
    â€œWhat do you think?” he asked, whirling around. “I’m going for the bad boy look.”
    â€œIf you’re going for bad boy, I’d lose the ascot.”
    â€œDon’t be silly, Jaine,” he said, fluffing a foulard ascot around his neck. “I’m a bad boy with impeccable taste. I thought I’d wear this outfit to Mamie’s Brad Pitt movie audition. I have a feeling Brad is into black leather.
    â€œI can see it now,” he said, gazing off into an imaginary future. “I walk into the room, and Brad and I lock eyeballs. Cupid shoots his arrow, and before you know it, it’s pffft to ‘Brangelina’ and hello to ‘Brance’!”
    â€œI hate to bust your bubble, Lance, but Brad Pitt isn’t gay.”
    â€œMaybe not in your fantasies.”
    â€œAnd besides,” I pointed out, “he probably won’t even be there.”
    â€œDon’t be such a Debbie Downer. Even if Brad doesn’t show up, you never know who will be there. I’ve always wanted to date someone in the movies. Other than an usher, of course. And who knows? Maybe I’ll get discovered. Frankly, I’ve always thought I’d make a fabulous actor.”
    The next thing I knew, he’d be nominating himself for an Academy Award.
    â€œI saw Deedee today,” I said, trying to