Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 30

"Are you okay?" she asked, her brow furrowed in concern.

"I'm fine." Aside from the small matter of my heart almost bursting through my chest.

"Great!" she said. "Then you can sign this release form."

I now realized she was carrying a clipboard, which she thrust through my car window.

"Pet Palace is not responsible for any accidents in the parking lot," she informed me. "It says so on all the signs in the garage."

What a touching tableau, n'est-ce pas? Clearly the royal treatment at Pet Palace was not extended to humans.

I signed the release form and pulled out into the street.

"I hope your kitty likes her collar!" Muriel called out to me as I drove off.

Oh, well. At least she had some shred of empathy.

"Because it's not returnable!" she added with a jaunty wave.

I was sure that whoever hurled those carts at me was the killer, trying to put the fear of G.o.d in me.

And it worked.

I drove home, blood pressure soaring, knuckles white on the steering wheel, checking the rearview mirror every few seconds.

Before long I noticed a black Jeep on my tail. I tried to see the driver's face, but the Jeep was just far enough away to keep everything a blur. I was certain it was the killer, out to finish me off for good.

In a panic, I reached for my cell phone to call 911. But just then, the Jeep turned off onto a side street.

Thank heavens. A false alarm.

My blood pressure returned from its trip to the stratosphere, and I continued on my way home.

At last I arrived at my street. But as bad luck would have it, there were no parking s.p.a.ces near my duplex, so I had to park at the other end of the block.

When I got out of my car, I saw something that sent my blood pressure soaring again. I took a look at the car in front of mine and realized I was parked right behind a big black Jeep! For all I knew the killer had taken a shortcut and was lying in wait for me at this very minute.

My heart pounding, I sprinted as fast as could (which isn't saying much) back to my apartment, fully expecting someone to jump out from every pa.s.sing bush.

I puffed my way up to my front door and, with shaking hands, managed to let myself in.

Quickly flipping the deadbolt, I leaned against the door to catch my breath and then collapsed onto the sofa.

"Oh, Pro!" I moaned. "I just got attacked by a caravan of supermarket carts!"

She gazed down at me from her perch on the bookshelf.

Perhaps someone up there is punis.h.i.+ng you for taking away my diamond collar.

Oh, foo. In all the Sturm und Drang of my cart attack, I'd forgotten about Prozac's Kitty Katz Kollar and had left it in my car. No way was I about to go back outside and get it. What if the killer was lurking in my neighbor's azalea bush, just waiting to pounce?

"I bought you a new collar, Pro. Much nicer than that old Tiffany thing. And I'll give it to you first thing in the morning, I promise. But in the meanwhile, won't you please come down? I'll rub your belly for as long as you like. And I've got pepperoni on my breath," I added pleadingly. "You always like that."

But she just rolled over and showed me her tush.

With a weary sigh, I headed for my bedroom and got undressed. Then I brushed my teeth and climbed into bed, but not before checking to make sure all my windows were locked.

I tried watching TV, but even an ancient rerun of Ozzie and Harriet, usually a sure fire sleep aid, failed to quell my racing brain.

I couldn't stop thinking about the Attack of the Shopping Carts and wondering who was in that hoodie. It all happened so fast, I hardly even saw my attacker. As far as I knew, it could have been a man or a woman.

Was it Travis, Joy's database thief? Alyce or Barry, her disgruntled clients? Was it wacky Aunt Faith? Or Greg Stanton? Now that I knew about his true credentials as an "artist," had he made up his mind to scare me into silence so he could marry Lady Penelope Ashford?

And what about Ca.s.sie? She'd been wearing sweatpants when I stopped by to see her earlier that day. Had she shoved on a matching hoodie and been following me ever since?

But why? As far as I could see, Ca.s.sie simply didn't have a motive to kill Joy.

I turned out my bedside lamp and tried to go to sleep, but my cavalcade of suspects kept buzzing in my brain.

Just when I was convinced I was going to be tossing and turning all night, I looked down and saw a lithe little shadow creeping into the room.

Prozac!

My heart flooded with relief as she jumped up on the bed and nuzzled me under my chin.

"Oh, Prozac, honey, I knew you'd come through for me! Underneath your p.r.i.c.kly exterior you've got a heart of gold, after all!"

Yeah, right. Whatever. Where's that belly rub you promised?

She rolled over on her back to get her belly rub, but she couldn't fool me.

The little monster really did care about me.

Her belly rubbed to her satisfaction, she licked my cheek with her sandpaper tongue (no doubt hoping for a wayward sc.r.a.p of pepperoni), then curled up in a ball under my chin. Her soft fur was like Valium to my frenzied psyche.

At last I was able to relax.

As I lay there on the brink of sleep, I thought back to how it all began-my first day working at Dates of Joy. Random images flashed before my eyes: Joy on her Missing G.o.diva rant. All those models and actors waiting to interview for a nonexistent part. And Travis in his duct-tape gla.s.ses, showing me Joy's Web site- Omigosh. The Web site!

I sat up with a jolt.

Now I remembered where I'd seen that photo of Ca.s.sie's mother-on Joy's client database, when Travis was showing me the Web site.

I'd stopped to admire the photo of an ethereal blonde, a Grace Kelly look-alike, the same blonde I'd seen today in Ca.s.sie's bungalow.

Travis told me she'd been a client of Joy's. Had Joy treated her badly, like she'd done with Alyce and Barry? Had Ca.s.sie taken the job at Dates of Joy-not to escape the world of hairdressing-but to avenge whatever wrong Joy had done to her mom?

I remembered the tattoo I'd seen earlier on Ca.s.sie's shoulder. Ultio Dulcis Est.

At the time I'd thought it was a family motto.

Now I got out of bed and fired up my computer.

Seconds later I was typing Ultio Dulcis Est into a Google search.

The translation came up instantly: Revenge Is Sweet.

YOU'VE GOT MAIL!

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: In My Pocket All Along!

Guess what, darling! I was just cleaning out the pockets of my new Georgie O. Armani jacket before I put it in the wash (That's right, sweetheart! A designer original-and machine washable, too!) when I reached in my pocket and found my Valentine's ring! I must have put it there when I was was.h.i.+ng my hands in the ladies' room at Le Chateaubriand.

Which means the Pinkuses didn't steal it after all! Which means your daddy is marching over to Lydia's townhouse with Lester's ring, an apology, and a check for a new plate gla.s.s window.

XOXO,.

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: A Wee Bit Wrong

Well, Lambchop, it turns out I may have been a wee bit wrong about the Battleaxe stealing your mom's ring. It seems she and her gasbag brother are in the clear this time. But who knows what those two are capable of?

And if Mom thinks I'm going to pay a stranger good money to replace Lester's windowpane when I can do it myself with my Belgian Army Knife and a bit of putty, she's crazy.

I'll head over there tomorrow to take care of the job.

Love 'n' snuggles,

Daddy

Chapter 26.

The next morning, after reading about Mom's miraculous recovery of her Valentine's ring from her (machine washable!) Georgie O. Armani jacket, I made my way up the block to my Corolla.

In the bright light of day, my street seemed like a set out of Wisteria Lane. Lots of green gra.s.s and lilac bushes and birds chirping gaily in the trees. A far cry from the nightmare alley it had been less than twelve hours ago.

And you can imagine how foolish I felt when I saw a freckle-faced teenager getting into the black Jeep that had sent me running to my apartment in such a panic.

So much for the killer following me home.