Part 32 (2/2)

As much as I hated the idea, I knew I'd have to give Skip a call.

Back in my apartment, after fortifying myself with an Oreo or three, I took a deep breath and dialed his number.

He picked up on the first ring. I could just picture him hovering over the phone.

”Jaine, how lovely to hear from you! But why haven't you returned my calls, you naughty girl?”

I haven't mentioned this until now because I wanted to spare you the gooey awfulness of it all, but Skip had been bombarding me with messages, most of them in baby talk, asking Prozac to come over for a play date.

”Sorry, Skip, but I've had a lot on my plate.”

”All of it organic, I hope. Ha ha.”

”Ha ha,” I echoed, forcing a chuckle, and then got down to business.

”I've got something very important I need to ask you about Joy's murder.”

”Of course, my dear. I'll be happy to answer your question.”

”Great. I need to know-”

”But only in person.”

”What?”

”I have to see you and your darling Prozac one more time. I've been missing you both so very much.”

”I already told you, Skip. Prozac's not for sale.”

Prozac looked up from where she was lounging on my computer keyboard.

I could be for rent, if the price is right.

”Just let me see her this one last time,” Skip pleaded, ”and I'll answer anything you want to ask.”

”Okay,” I grudgingly replied. ”But promise me. No caviar for Prozac.”

”You have my word of honor. No caviar.”

Then he urged me to hurry on over.

”I can't wait to see my favorite gal,” he gushed. ”And you, too, Jaine.”

I hung up, dreading the thought of taking Prozac with me to Skip's Malibu manse. It seemed as if she'd finally forgiven me for the whole Diamond Collar Affair, and I didn't want him to do anything to spark her sulk cycle all over again.

But on the plus side, at least the visit would give me a chance to return the collar.

I'd thought about mailing it to him, but was leery about trusting such a valuable bauble with the United States Postal Service, the same folks who've been known to deliver my Christmas cards some time around Flag Day.

I headed to my bedroom closet and reached up to the shelf where I'd hidden the Tiffany box behind a blanket.

Alarm bells started ringing when I saw the blanket had been moved.

Pawing behind the blanket, I found the top of the box. Then the bottom. But no collar.

Frantically I raced to the kitchen for my stepladder to do a thorough search of the shelf. Standing on the ladder, I tossed down every blanket, every sweater, and every shoe box in sight. But the diamond collar was nowhere to be found.

Dammit. Prozac had struck again.

She hadn't forgiven me for taking away her collar. h.e.l.l, no. She'd been gloating because she filched the d.a.m.n thing!

No doubt she'd stashed it away in a hiding spot of her own.

”Prozac!” I cried, storming out into the living room, waving the empty Tiffany box. ”Where the heck is the collar??”

She gazed up lazily from where she was lounging on my keyboard.

That's for me to know and you to find out.

I spent the next forty-five minutes ransacking my apartment, checking under pillows and seat cus.h.i.+ons, inside old boots, behind P. G. Wodehouse, even raking through Prozac's litter box.

All the while Prozac was following me around, delighted at my antics.

This is way better than The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

Finally, in a fit of frustration, I whirled on her.

”If you don't show me where you hid that collar, I swear you'll never get another pizza anchovy as long as you live!”

She could tell I meant business.

After shooting me a filthy look, she led me into the kitchen and plunked herself down next to the trash can.

Of course! The trash can! Prozac's holy grail of leftovers-thanks to my landlord's refusal to fix my garbage disposal. Home of old pizza crusts, moo shu pork slivers, and tuna shards. I can't count the times I'd come home to find the trash can on end, Prozac sniffing around, trolling for snacks.

She'd probably hidden the collar there among her prized pizza crusts.

In a flash I was scrounging around in the garbage, plowing through each and every piece of trash. But, alas, I came up empty-handed. (If you don't count a free cereal sample I'd thrown out by mistake.) I was sitting there, feeling quite dejected, trying to get up the energy to wash my hands so I could eat my free cereal, when suddenly I heard the sound of a truck coming down the street.

Not just any truck. The garbage truck.

Omigos.h.!.+ It was garbage day. And suddenly I wondered: What if Prozac hid the collar in a bag of garbage I'd already brought out to the curb?

I had to stop the truck before they carted it away!

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