waiting for me, a repentant look in his big brown eyes. The last I had seen of Horatio was his extremely plump behind as he headed to the door while I was being choked by Mister Size Twenty. I am not a bitter sort of gal, but I did contemplate the disloyalty of this. I was slinging hamburgers to serve up Horatioâs daily caloric intake, and he disappears in my hour of need? That notwithstanding, he was my best friend, and I really, really wanted him back home.
But when I peered over the steering wheel and squinted at the front door, it was devoid of white hairy masses.
The police vehicles were long gone. So was the cleanup van.
Finally, I had to face facts. I was sitting in my car because I dreaded going into the condo. Maybe I could just sleep in my car. Maybe I could find an all-night supermarket and climb into a freezer for a nice numbing nap. Instead, I pulled out my cell and called Mitzi. Maybe I could crash at her luxury condo tonight. The hour was outrageous, but so was Mitzi. She sometimes went for days without a wink of sleep, then zonked out in a marathon nap to make up for it.
Her recorded message cut in with admonishments to leave a name and number. I didnât want to say much for the posterity of an answering machine recording, so left a tasteful minimalist message.
âHi, Mitzi. Itâs Lu.â I hung up before my long, shuddering breath turned into a blubber or a blabber.
Where could I go? My old friend Jerome had given me his house keys so I could collect his mail while he was in Alaska, working on his thesis, but the keys were in my condo. If I had to go back into my condo to get the keys, I might as well stay there.
I stared at the phone and thought about the nearest Holiday Inn. Oh, how lovely it would be to go to a nice hotel room, with clean sheets and no unhappy murder scenes in its immediate history. Unfortunately, this would require a credit card, and I was pretty sure I had just maxed mine out with the cleanup crew.
Come on, Lulu. Some day you will be cast in a murder mystery and give a brilliant performance because you have been there, honey. So open the car door and use this for life experience. Just what they used to tell you back in acting school. Way back when, in the days when you thought about art, not royalties.
I forced myself and the car into the garage, then went up the walk by my little lonesome, my head turning constantly like a certain character in The Exorcist . I forced myself to stand for a moment and scan the adjoining yards and walkways, praying for the sighting of a large white mass. Nothing. I let myself in, and stood for a moment in the darkness.
âAnybody there?â I said sweetly. Merciful silence.
I turned on the dim entrance light. The skinny kid and the fire hydrant had done a pretty good job, although the loveseat was still damp. They had left a note on it: This is what you get at discount prices, cheapskate . As soon as possible, that loveseat was going to be history, out in the lane behind the condo complex for some undiscriminating dumpster diver. I took a few moments to wonder how many of my carefully acquired items might have a distasteful provenance, then decided against exploring that topic any further.
I avoided looking at the area of the loveseat and the jardinière (which smelled slightly of disinfectant), deadbolted the door, and went to my den.
I turned on my iMac and checked my e-mail, first deleting all the invitations to try out Viagra. I then spent another few moments chucking the invitations to invest in business plans from around the world. I saved two solicitations from charities (just in case I won the lotto in the next month), deleted five annoying inspirational e-mails from acquaintances so dumb they thought I might be interested in spending half an hour reading lame-brained clichés on improving your life and becoming a perfect and wonderful person. Finally I got down to the few useful and interesting e-mails. Mitzi
But when I peered over the steering wheel and squinted at the front door, it was devoid of white hairy masses.
The police vehicles were long gone. So was the cleanup van.
Finally, I had to face facts. I was sitting in my car because I dreaded going into the condo. Maybe I could just sleep in my car. Maybe I could find an all-night supermarket and climb into a freezer for a nice numbing nap. Instead, I pulled out my cell and called Mitzi. Maybe I could crash at her luxury condo tonight. The hour was outrageous, but so was Mitzi. She sometimes went for days without a wink of sleep, then zonked out in a marathon nap to make up for it.
Her recorded message cut in with admonishments to leave a name and number. I didnât want to say much for the posterity of an answering machine recording, so left a tasteful minimalist message.
âHi, Mitzi. Itâs Lu.â I hung up before my long, shuddering breath turned into a blubber or a blabber.
Where could I go? My old friend Jerome had given me his house keys so I could collect his mail while he was in Alaska, working on his thesis, but the keys were in my condo. If I had to go back into my condo to get the keys, I might as well stay there.
I stared at the phone and thought about the nearest Holiday Inn. Oh, how lovely it would be to go to a nice hotel room, with clean sheets and no unhappy murder scenes in its immediate history. Unfortunately, this would require a credit card, and I was pretty sure I had just maxed mine out with the cleanup crew.
Come on, Lulu. Some day you will be cast in a murder mystery and give a brilliant performance because you have been there, honey. So open the car door and use this for life experience. Just what they used to tell you back in acting school. Way back when, in the days when you thought about art, not royalties.
I forced myself and the car into the garage, then went up the walk by my little lonesome, my head turning constantly like a certain character in The Exorcist . I forced myself to stand for a moment and scan the adjoining yards and walkways, praying for the sighting of a large white mass. Nothing. I let myself in, and stood for a moment in the darkness.
âAnybody there?â I said sweetly. Merciful silence.
I turned on the dim entrance light. The skinny kid and the fire hydrant had done a pretty good job, although the loveseat was still damp. They had left a note on it: This is what you get at discount prices, cheapskate . As soon as possible, that loveseat was going to be history, out in the lane behind the condo complex for some undiscriminating dumpster diver. I took a few moments to wonder how many of my carefully acquired items might have a distasteful provenance, then decided against exploring that topic any further.
I avoided looking at the area of the loveseat and the jardinière (which smelled slightly of disinfectant), deadbolted the door, and went to my den.
I turned on my iMac and checked my e-mail, first deleting all the invitations to try out Viagra. I then spent another few moments chucking the invitations to invest in business plans from around the world. I saved two solicitations from charities (just in case I won the lotto in the next month), deleted five annoying inspirational e-mails from acquaintances so dumb they thought I might be interested in spending half an hour reading lame-brained clichés on improving your life and becoming a perfect and wonderful person. Finally I got down to the few useful and interesting e-mails. Mitzi
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