Part 24 (1/2)

A merest hint of hesitation before she said, ”Oh, I've seen it a million times in those corny ads of hers.”

But there was something in that beat of hesitation before she answered, like someone who'd just steadied herself before tripping, that made me wonder if she'd seen that Cupid up close and personal-perhaps on the night of the murder, while she was slipping her niece a poisoned chocolate.

”So what do you think?” she asked, holding up the zipper earrings.

Oh, h.e.l.l. We were back to the jewelry again. Why did I tell that stupid ”I want to buy jewelry” lie in the first place? Why couldn't I have told her my other stupid lie about doing a story for the L.A. Times?

”Just twenty-five bucks,” she cooed.

I wasn't about to spend twenty-five dollars on a pair of zipper earrings. No way. No how. Never in a zillion years.

I'd simply tell Faith I thought her jewelry was lovely but I'd take a pa.s.s. That would be it, clean and simple.

”Do you take personal checks?” were the words that actually came out of my mouth.

What can I say? She was so d.a.m.n proud of her wacky jewelry, I couldn't say no.

I've actually wound up wearing the earrings a few times. They look sort of cute. Especially with my toothbrush bracelet.

Chapter 21.

You know how it is when you think you've finally gotten over a terrible cold and you hop out of bed, ready to rejoin the land of the living, and then you feel that annoying tickle in the back of your throat and let out a whopper of a sneeze and realize the cold you thought had gone away has come back?

Well, that's the way it was with Skip Holmeier. Like a nasty virus, he just wouldn't go away.

When I got home from my visit to Faith that afternoon, the phone was ringing.

I picked it up, blissfully unaware of the virus on the other end.

”h.e.l.lo, Jaine? It's me. Skip Holmeier III.”

Oh, gaak.

”I got your letter,” he said, ”and I accept the fact that our relations.h.i.+p is over.”

Our relations.h.i.+p? What relations.h.i.+p? One bar fight with a blind jazz singer, and lunch at his mother's grave?

”All I ask is that we get together one more time so I can have closure.”

”Really, Skip. I don't think that's such a good idea.”

Silence on the other end of the line. For a second, I allowed myself to hope that he'd hung up.

No such luck.

”I just came back from my doctor,” he finally said with a catch in his voice. ”He told me my toe fungus wasn't looking good.”

Oh, please. He was playing the toe fungus card! How low could he go?

”In some cases,” he whimpered, ”it can be fatal.”

”I'm sorry, Skip. But my answer is still no.”

”If you go out with me, I'll bring pie.”

”What day works for you?”

Can you believe it? I pimped myself out for a measly pie!

I was thoroughly disgusted with myself. I should have asked for ice cream, too.

Skip told me he'd pick me up the next morning at ten a.m., and indeed at the crack of ten, there he was on my doorstep, dressed in a nautical blue blazer and white slacks, his toupee peeking out from under a perky sailor's cap.

I had been tempted to dress for the occasion in funereal black (to match my mood) but instead opted for elastic waist pants, I MY CAT T-s.h.i.+rt, and sweats.h.i.+rt hoodie.

”How adorable you look!” he cried.

Needless to say, he was not talking to me, but to Prozac.

”Here's your pie.” He handed me a large bakery box. ”I brought you chocolate cream, just like you requested. Heavy on the whipped cream.”

Eagerly accepting my bribe, I trotted off to the kitchen to put it in the fridge. I couldn't wait for this date to end so I could dig into it. Skip had made me promise not to eat the pie in front of him so he wouldn't have to watch me ”poisoning” my body.

”I've packed us a delicious picnic basket,” he announced when I got back from the kitchen.

I groaned at the thought.

”Are we having lunch at the cemetery again?”

”No, of course not. We're going to Naples.”

”Italy??”

No way was I jetting off to Europe with this guy, not without an armed chaperone.

”Naples, California,” he corrected me with a hearty chuckle. ”It's a charming little cl.u.s.ter of islands just south of Long Beach. We're going to take a gondola ride along the ca.n.a.ls.”

”Sounds like fun.”

And it did. If only I weren't going with Skip.

I grabbed my purse and started for the door when Skip said, ”Don't forget Prozac!”

”Prozac?”

”She's coming, too!” he beamed. ”I made special arrangements.”