Part 24 (2/2)
”Not a good idea, Skip. Prozac's impossible in a car. I can't even imagine what chaos she'd unleash on a gondola.”
Prozac looked up from where she was hard at work shredding my throw pillow to ribbons.
Hey, who are you calling impossible?
Skip turned to me, devastated.
”Please let her come. You'll behave in the car, won't you, Prozac?”
But Prozac was too busy destroying my throw pillow to give him the time of day.
”I've brought caviar for my little princess,” he crooned in her ear.
I swear, that cat understands English, because suddenly she forgot about the throw pillow and practically hurled herself into his arms.
Let's get this party started!
Normally the minute you put Prozac in a car, she starts doing the cha-cha around the foot pedals, causing near-fatal accidents. And if she's locked in her carrier, she's been known to wail at the top of her lungs for as long as five and a half straight hours. (If you don't believe me, just ask Virgin Airlines.) But that day, with the thought of caviar at the end of her rainbow, she was a perfect angel. A regular Emily Post with retractable claws. She trotted into her carrier with nary a whimper, and when I let her out in Skip's Bentley, she sat in my lap, gazing up at Skip with seductive green eyes.
”Love me, snook.u.ms?” he crooned.
You bet, Denture Breath. With us it was love at second sight. At first sight, I didn't realize you were loaded.
Naples is normally about a forty-minute drive from L.A. But of course with Skip behind the wheel, it took us close to two agonizing hours.
I figured I might as well take advantage of our alone time to ask a few questions about the murder. Maybe Skip saw something at the party that would lead me to the killer.
”I still can't get over the way Joy was poisoned,” I said.
”A terrible tragedy,” Skip clucked. ”Are you sure Prozac's comfortable? I've got a down pillow in the back seat, if you think she'd like it.”
”She's fine. Getting back to Joy ...” I prompted.
”Such a lovely lady,” Skip reminisced. ”Always so kind to me. And to Miss Marple-petting her and playing with her and giving her all those goodies to eat.”
”I don't suppose you saw anyone sneaking into her office the night of the party?”
”People were coming and going all night, but I wasn't paying attention to anyone. Except you. I thought I saw you dash across the hall to her office.”
”I didn't kill Joy,” I hastened to a.s.sure him.
”Of course not!” he said. ”n.o.body who owns a cat as wonderful as Prozac could ever be a killer.”
Wow. What a glowing character endors.e.m.e.nt.
The rest of the trip pa.s.sed in an uneventful silence broken only by the curses of our fellow motorists, a tad miffed at Skip for going thirty-five miles an hour in the fast lane of the freeway.
At last we arrived at the gondola dock.
It was a glorious day, just a few cotton-puff clouds in a turquoise sky.
Skip parked his Bentley and took out his picnic basket from the trunk.
With Prozac safely back in her carrier, we walked along a pier of weathered wooden planks.
”Did you remember to bring an extra sweater?” Skip asked. ”It can get a little chilly out on the ca.n.a.ls.”
”Yes, I've got one right here.”
”No, I meant for Prozac.”
”I'm sure she'll be fine.”
”No matter. I brought an ermine shawl she can use.”
A slim athletic fellow in a blue and white striped s.h.i.+rt and straw hat greeted us at the end of the pier with a friendly ”Buongiorno!”
From his bright red hair and freckles, I guessed he probably wasn't Italian.
”Welcome to the Mona Lisa,” he said, gesturing to a sleek black gondola straight out of the ca.n.a.ls of Venice. ”My name is Kevin, and I'll be your gondolier on your romantic gondola getaway.”
Whoa, Nelly! Did I just hear the word ”romantic?”
”Just FYI, Kevin,” I piped up. ”This is going to be a strictly platonic gondola ride. Right, Skip?”
”If you say so, my dear,” he said with a most infuriating wink.
Kevin helped us aboard the narrow craft, and we settled down onto a wooden bench seat that had been lined with plump pillows and blankets to lay across our laps.
I made a point of putting my sweater between Skip and me, just in case he got any ideas.
”And who do we have here?” Kevin asked, peering into Prozac's carrier.
”My cat, Prozac.”
By now Prozac was meowing at the top of her lungs, eager to get out and join the party.
A twinge of panic clutched my heart as I opened the latch; heaven only knew what Prozac would do once she was let loose on the Mona Lisa. I just prayed she wouldn't dive overboard at the sight of a juicy fish swimming by.
Gingerly I took her out.
”Buongiorno, Prozac!” Kevin greeted her.
She eyed his straw hat with interest. For a minute I feared it was a goner. But then, no doubt remembering the caviar to come, she restrained herself and curled up in a ball on my lap.
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