Part 17 (2/2)

With a sigh, I went to get it, afraid it was Lance hoping to mooch a free meal.

But it wasn't Lance. It was someone worse.

Much worse.

Standing on my doorstep was Skip Holmeier III. All spiffed up in a seersucker suit and polka dot tie (the latter coordinating quite nicely with his liver spots).

Oh, groan.

”Skip!” I forced a smile. ”What brings you here?”

”Don't you remember? We have a date. We're supposed to have lunch today.”

Yikes. I suddenly remembered that he had indeed called and asked me out. But that had been days before Joy died, and-bound by Joy's five-hundred-dollar bribe-I'd been forced into saying yes.

In all the hoo-ha of the murder, I'd forgotten all about it.

And now here he was, the world's least eligible bachelor, ready to take me to lunch.

”I hope we're still on,” he said, with a pathetically eager smile.

I wracked my brain, frantically trying to think of a way out of this. Maybe I could tell him I was sick with the flu. Better yet, I'd tell him I'd contracted a tiny case of malaria. But then I saw that pathetic smile of his, and I just couldn't do it. The guy had driven all the way from Malibu (at twenty miles per hour, no doubt). It wouldn't kill me to have lunch with him, would it?

”Sure,” I said. ”We're still on. I'm just running a little late.”

”That's wonderful!” he beamed. ”I was afraid you were going to make up some lie and tell me you had the flu.”

”Ha ha, what a crazy idea!”

”So how's my precious angel?” he asked.

”She's on the sofa, examining her privates.”

Love light gleaming in his cataracts, he rushed over to my couch and swept Prozac up in his arms.

”You go get dressed,” he said to me, kissing Prozac on the nose. ”Prozac will keep me entertained. Won't you, darling?”

Wriggling uncomfortably in his arms, Prozac shot me a warning look.

Just FYI. He wears dentures. And they're loose.

I hurried off to get dressed, thinking longingly of my jumbo cheese burrito. Heaven only knew what kind of ghastly organic glop Skip would try to foist on me for lunch. I made up my mind that this time, no matter where Skip took me, I was going to order something decent to eat, preferably something with a side of fries.

After throwing on a pair of jeans and a cashmere sweater, I slapped on some lipstick, corralled my curls into a ponytail, and headed back out to the living room where Skip had Prozac trapped in his lap, gazing down at her like a lovesick teenager and making obnoxious kissy noises.

She glared up at me in high dudgeon.

If he pats my f.a.n.n.y one more time, I'm calling Gloria Allred.

Somehow I managed to drag him away from his beloved, and we headed outside to his mammoth Bentley.

”By the way,” he said as we strapped ourselves in, ”I thought it would be fun if I took you to meet Mother.”

”We're having lunch with your mother?”

”She's dying to meet you,” he nodded, inching out from the curb. ”I've been telling her so much about you.”

Good heavens. Skip was old enough to be my grandfather. His mother had to be pus.h.i.+ng 100. Oh, well. At least with his mother at the table, there'd be no chance of him trying to play kneesies.

Soon we were on the road, Skip driving at a maddening twenty miles an hour. Which was bad enough on surface streets, but a nightmare on the freeway. People all around us were honking and cursing and giving us the finger, but Skip just kept on driving along, humming off-key, oblivious to the world.

Skip finally exited the freeway and was enraging the drivers on surface streets when suddenly we came upon a vast expanse of green on our right.

I looked up and saw a large sign that informed me we had arrived at: MALIBU HILLS CEMETERY.

To my utter shock, Skip pulled in.

”What are we doing here?”

”Like I told you,” he grinned, flas.h.i.+ng his loose dentures. ”We're meeting Mom.”

Holy Moses! This nutcase was taking me to meet his dead mother!

He meandered along the cemetery's winding roads, then pulled into a parking spot and popped open the Bentley's trunk.

”I had my housekeeper pack us a nice organic picnic lunch,” he said, hauling out a huge picnic basket.

Imagining the vegetarian nightmare lurking inside, I thought longingly of my jumbo burrito, oozing cheese.

Life can be so cruel sometimes, can't it?

With heavy steps, I followed Skip as he led me to an ornate headstone in a prized location under a shady elm tree. There he pulled out a blanket from the picnic basket and spread it out on the gra.s.s at the foot of his mother's headstone.

”Have a seat,” he said, gesturing to the blanket.

I squatted on the itchy wool, feeling the cold ground beneath my jeans.

”Isn't this cozy?” Skip asked.

”Very,” I said, watching some grave diggers prepping a final resting place in the distance.

”Hi, Mom!” he chirped to his mother's headstone. ”I brought Jaine!”

Then he turned to me.

<script>