Read Online Death by Tiara by Laura Levine - Free Book Online Page B

to grab a fork and dive into the stuff, but first I had to get some food for my hungry princess.
    I was just wrapping some ham in a paper napkin when Taylor came sidling up to me, flip-flops clopping, her hair in giant rollers.
    “Skip the ham, Jaine,” she whispered, “and get me a sticky bun. All my mom let me have for breakfast was some crummy wheat bran cereal.”
    “Actually,” I said, “the ham’s not for you. It’s for my cat.”
    “Your cat?” She blinked in surprise. “I didn’t see a cat in your room last night.”
    “She came after you left.”
    At which point Heather came sweeping over to us, clad in a body-hugging jog suit, diamond bangles dripping from her wrist. The only place she was jogging to in that getup was Van Cleef & Arpels. In her arms she held Elvis, who wore a baby blue T-shirt with the words P AGEANT D OG emblazoned across his tiny chest in rhinestones.
    “Whatever you do, Jaine,” she said, glaring at her daughter, “don’t let Taylor have a sticky bun. Can you believe she wants to eat pastry less than an hour before the swimsuit competition?”
    “It’s not fair,” Taylor pouted. “Even Elvis got to eat bacon!”
    “You’ll thank me when you’re wearing that tiara,” Heather said, oozing motherly righteousness.
    “Which reminds me, Jaine,” she added, turning to me, “when you’ve got a few minutes, would you mind tapping out an acceptance speech for Taylor to deliver when she wins the contest?”
    “But the contest hasn’t even started yet,” Taylor protested. “How can you be so sure I’ll win?”
    “Because you’re the prettiest, most talented girl in the hotel. Don’t forget,” said the former Gilroy Garlic Queen. “You’ve got pageant genes in your blood.”
    Then Heather caught sight of the ham in my napkin.
    “They’ve got plates for the food, you know. Right over there, at the end of the buffet.”
    “It’s for her cat,” Taylor said.
    “Your cat?”
    “My friend was supposed to watch her this weekend, but an emergency came up and he dropped her off at the hotel.”
    “Isn’t that nice, Elvis?” Heather cooed. “A kitty for you to play with.”
    Elvis, clearly not eager to make friends, just bared his tiny fangs.
    “And I just found out,” I said, inwardly cringing, “that the hotel charges an extra fifty dollars a night for pets.”
    “Not a problem, hon.” Heather smiled brightly.
    Thank heavens she wasn’t angry.
    “I’ll just deduct it from your paycheck.”
    Double damn that Lance!
    I headed back upstairs with Prozac’s breakfast, and as I was about to let myself into my room, I realized I’d forgotten to put out the D O N OT D ISTURB sign. Major mistake. Experience has taught me it’s always best to keep Prozac away from a maid with a cart full of freshly cleaned towels.
    I made a mental note to put the sign on when I left again.
    Back inside, Prozac was hard at work scratching the Amada Inn’s rickety chest of drawers.
    “Prozac!” I cried. “What on earth are you doing?!”
    She looked up from her endeavors with pride.
    I like to think of it as Post Abstract Impressionism.
    Snatching her up in my arms, I wondered how much extra I was going to be charged for room damages.
    Then I fed her the ham—which she gulped down in no time—and left some water in a cereal bowl I’d nabbed from the buffet line.
    Before hustling out the door, I gave her a stern talking-to, and I’m proud to say that when I left the room, she wasn’t clawing the chest of drawers anymore.
    Now she was the clawing the bedspread.
     
    I was standing in the hallway, hoping the Amada Inn’s only working elevator would actually show up, when I saw Bethenny, the former teen queen, tottering toward me on impossibly high heels, her curvaceous body jammed into a slinky black dress. Frankly, she looked less like a pageant queen than a call girl cruising for a john.
    I thought back to yesterday’s Mocktail Hour, when I’d seen her playing footsies with