Free Murder Has Nine Lives by Laura Levine

shipping and handling!) They had it in a beautiful fuchsia color, which might be fun for one of your L.A. cocktail parties. What do you think?
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    Oops. I hear Daddy at the front door. I’ll pretend I’m napping, in case he wants me to give him a spelling quiz. Oh, dear. Now he’s hollering about something. I’d better go see what’s wrong.
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    XOXO,
Mom
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    To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Infamy!
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    Today, Lambchop, is a day that will live in infamy!
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    My Lucky Thinking Cap is missing! And I know who took it. That snake in the grass, Lydia Pinkus. I saw her eyeing it when she was here earlier.
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    I foolishly left the door unlocked when I went to the market, and she must’ve snuck in while I was gone and stolen it in a scurrilous attempt to rob me of my mental acuity.
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    But her devilish plot will be foiled! I’ll get my cap back, if it’s the last thing I do.
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    Love ’n’ snuggles from
DaddyO
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    To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Oreo Therapy
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    Of all the idiotic nonsense. Daddy’s misplaced his “Lucky Thinking Cap,” and he’s convinced Lydia Pinkus stole it. How absurd. He’s out “casing her town house” for evidence right now.
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    Honestly, I bet that cap is sitting right here in the house somewhere. Although I must admit, I’ve looked everywhere and can’t find it.
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    Must run, honey. Am in desperate need of Oreo Therapy—
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    XOXO,
Mom

Chapter 8
    T he next few days passed by in a blur of grief. Not over Dean, of course. I barely knew the guy. And what little I knew, I sort of hated.
    No, I was mourning the loss of my five grand and all the goodies it would have bought. There’d be no new TV in my future. No new used car. No Platinum Level Fudge-of-the-Month Club.
    I returned to my old life with its anemic checking account, dreaming of things that might have been and wondering, not incidentally, why the heck I’d never heard from Phil Angelides’s cutie pie nephew, Jim.
    My life was in a sinkhole, all right. And I was not alone.
    I was certain Daddy would drive Mom crazy searching for his Lucky Thinking Cap. It was so typical of him to assume Lydia Pinkus had stolen it. Daddy has always had it in for Lydia, always ready to lay the blame for anything amiss in his life at Lydia’s size EEE feet.
    Something told me Mom was in for a whole lot more Oreo therapy in the days to come.
    Even worse was poor Prozac. Ever since the shoot she’d been moping around, in a deep funk over her aborted career as a TV commercial star. Never had I seen her so glum. Gone was the kitty who lived to claw my cashmere sweaters to shreds, to snag the pepperoni from my pizza, and to hog my pillow at night. In her place was a sluggish shell of a cat, lying listlessly on the sofa with soulful Brando eyes and piteous little mews that seemed to be saying: I coulda been a contenda .
    I only hoped she’d snap out of it eventually. In the meanwhile, I was spoiling her rotten with chicken tenders and belly rubs. (The latter received with none of her usual writhing in ecstasy—just a glazed look in her eyes and a dispirited thumping of her tail.)
    Dean’s murder, of course, had been all over the news.
    Toxicology tests had shown that he’d been poisoned with Fragrance-Free Raid. Apparently, the killer had given the Skinny Kitty a spritz of the stuff when Nikki left it unattended to grab a bite at the buffet.
    So far the police hadn’t named any suspects. But my mind was buzzing with them.
    First and foremost on my list was Deedee. Hadn’t she returned to the studio, boasting that she’d gotten rid of Dean forever? And what about Ian? He certainly had motive. Dean had been threatening to torpedo his career.
    And finally, there was Zeke. Anyone could see the young writer detested his cousin. With Dean out of the way, Zeke would have an unencumbered path to