Read Online Murder is a Girl's Best Friend by Amanda Matetsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Amanda Matetsky
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of a brawny, bare-chested snake charmer, I immediately thought of Tony. I knew he would look cool in the costume.”
(Translation: She wanted to see him without any clothes on. Abby was the only person I knew who could call a purple diaper a costume, and still keep a straight face.)
“And he does, doesn’t he?” she added. “Look cool, I mean. The bongos are a stand-in for the snake basket. I’ll paint a turban on his head eventually, but I didn’t see any reason to make him actually wear one. Sitting cross-legged on the floor for three hours is enough punishment for one day, wouldn’t you say?”
“Uh . . . yes,” I said, feeling very uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to standing in front of a near-naked man and talking about him as if he weren’t there. (And trying, but failing, to keep my eyes off his bulging loincloth.)
“You know, I never even called the model agency this time,” Abby blithely continued. “I figured why hire a high-priced professional yo-yo when I can get the world’s hippest, sexiest baker to pose for free? Right, Tony?” Smiling from ear to ear, she gave me a knowing wink, then handed me my drink.
“Right!” Tony proudly replied, straightening his spine and expanding his brawny bare chest to the limit. Then, beating his fingers lightly over the bongos, he gazed deep into my eyes and sent me another mental message. This one said, “Whoever you are, please leave now. If you go home and leave us alone, I’m gonna get laid. I know it! I can feel it! Please don’t spoil it for me!”
I gazed at Abby for a second or two, wondering if she wanted me to stay or go, trying to gauge if she was feeling amorous or not. But I quickly realized what a silly waste of time that was. Abby was always feeling amorous. And as much as I wanted to tell her about everything that had happened to me that day, I did not want to tell the whole story—or even one itsy bitsy little part of it—to Tony Figaro.
“Cheers!” I said, throwing my head back and downing my frothy pink drink in two gulps. Licking the foam off my lips, I set the empty cocktail glass down on the kitchen table and began backing toward the still-open door. I was glad I hadn’t removed my coat. “Gotta go now, kids,” I warbled, backing all the way out into the hall. “Brought some work home from the office.” I gave the shoebox under my arm a meaningful little pat, waved a brisk bye-bye, then pushed the door closed, leaving Abby alone with Tony to rehearse his new snake-charming techniques.
BURSTING INTO MY OWN APARTMENT, I flipped on the lights, locked the door behind me, and set the shoebox down on my yellow formica kitchen table. I was eager to go through all the stuff in the box—to look at the diamonds again and find a good hiding place for everything—but I was in way too much physical discomfort to even consider it. My feet were cold and wet, my shoulders were drooping from the weight of my heavy coat, my head was spinning from the chug-a-lugged pink lady, and the starving animal in my stomach was growling louder than the MGM lion.
I had to feed it—fast.
Kicking off my soggy boots and tossing my hat and coat on the chair nearest the door, I darted into the kitchen half of my narrow living area and skimmed my stocking feet over the black-and-white-checked linoleum to the refrigerator. I opened the rounded door and peered inside. I was looking for a nice roast chicken, some cornbread stuffing with mushroom gravy, a crispy spinach and bacon salad, and a bottle of white wine. What I found was a wedge of cheddar cheese and a bottle of Dr. Pepper.
I took both items out of the refrigerator and put them on the kitchen table. A box of saltine crackers and a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle completed the menu. It was a feast fit for a Bowery bum, but I relished every salty, slurpy mouthful. And when I had finished eating, I felt like myself again. My usual frantic, screwball self.
Lighting a cigarette and taking a
(Translation: She wanted to see him without any clothes on. Abby was the only person I knew who could call a purple diaper a costume, and still keep a straight face.)
“And he does, doesn’t he?” she added. “Look cool, I mean. The bongos are a stand-in for the snake basket. I’ll paint a turban on his head eventually, but I didn’t see any reason to make him actually wear one. Sitting cross-legged on the floor for three hours is enough punishment for one day, wouldn’t you say?”
“Uh . . . yes,” I said, feeling very uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to standing in front of a near-naked man and talking about him as if he weren’t there. (And trying, but failing, to keep my eyes off his bulging loincloth.)
“You know, I never even called the model agency this time,” Abby blithely continued. “I figured why hire a high-priced professional yo-yo when I can get the world’s hippest, sexiest baker to pose for free? Right, Tony?” Smiling from ear to ear, she gave me a knowing wink, then handed me my drink.
“Right!” Tony proudly replied, straightening his spine and expanding his brawny bare chest to the limit. Then, beating his fingers lightly over the bongos, he gazed deep into my eyes and sent me another mental message. This one said, “Whoever you are, please leave now. If you go home and leave us alone, I’m gonna get laid. I know it! I can feel it! Please don’t spoil it for me!”
I gazed at Abby for a second or two, wondering if she wanted me to stay or go, trying to gauge if she was feeling amorous or not. But I quickly realized what a silly waste of time that was. Abby was always feeling amorous. And as much as I wanted to tell her about everything that had happened to me that day, I did not want to tell the whole story—or even one itsy bitsy little part of it—to Tony Figaro.
“Cheers!” I said, throwing my head back and downing my frothy pink drink in two gulps. Licking the foam off my lips, I set the empty cocktail glass down on the kitchen table and began backing toward the still-open door. I was glad I hadn’t removed my coat. “Gotta go now, kids,” I warbled, backing all the way out into the hall. “Brought some work home from the office.” I gave the shoebox under my arm a meaningful little pat, waved a brisk bye-bye, then pushed the door closed, leaving Abby alone with Tony to rehearse his new snake-charming techniques.
BURSTING INTO MY OWN APARTMENT, I flipped on the lights, locked the door behind me, and set the shoebox down on my yellow formica kitchen table. I was eager to go through all the stuff in the box—to look at the diamonds again and find a good hiding place for everything—but I was in way too much physical discomfort to even consider it. My feet were cold and wet, my shoulders were drooping from the weight of my heavy coat, my head was spinning from the chug-a-lugged pink lady, and the starving animal in my stomach was growling louder than the MGM lion.
I had to feed it—fast.
Kicking off my soggy boots and tossing my hat and coat on the chair nearest the door, I darted into the kitchen half of my narrow living area and skimmed my stocking feet over the black-and-white-checked linoleum to the refrigerator. I opened the rounded door and peered inside. I was looking for a nice roast chicken, some cornbread stuffing with mushroom gravy, a crispy spinach and bacon salad, and a bottle of white wine. What I found was a wedge of cheddar cheese and a bottle of Dr. Pepper.
I took both items out of the refrigerator and put them on the kitchen table. A box of saltine crackers and a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle completed the menu. It was a feast fit for a Bowery bum, but I relished every salty, slurpy mouthful. And when I had finished eating, I felt like myself again. My usual frantic, screwball self.
Lighting a cigarette and taking a
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