Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(59)

“Now it’s your turn to get it,” she smirked.

My jaw clenched in annoyance, I ran over to her and picked it up. I was standing so close to her when I tossed it back, she had no choice but to catch it.

“Okay,” I grunted, “now throw it back.”

I’d had gum surgery more fun than this.

Then, to my surprise, she flung her arm back and hurled the frisbee with decathlon force. I watched as it sailed into the ocean.

204

Laura Levine

“Your turn to get it,” she trilled.

For a minute I was tempted to let it float out to sea, but that’s just what the little brat wanted.

So I took off my shoes, rolled up my jeans and waded out into the surf. The ocean was rough, and for a minute it looked like the frisbee was a goner, but then I saw it drifting back toward the shoreline.

I raced over and snatched it out of the water, holding it aloft in triumph.

So there, you little monster!

I stood at the shoreline, waving the frisbee at Angel and savoring my victory. Which was a major mistake. If I hadn’t been standing there flapping that damn frisbee, I would’ve seen the wave that was about to break right behind me. And break it did, with a big wet thud against my fanny. The next thing I knew, I was sopping wet and dripping with seaweed.

I looked over at Angel. For the first time all day, she was smiling.

I checked my watch, and to my dismay, I saw that we’d been at the beach for little more than an hour. Funny, it felt like decades. I’d planned on spending the whole afternoon with her, but I simply could not face five more minutes with this brat.

“C’mon,” I said, yanking her by the elbow. “Time to go home.”

“Fine with me,” she snapped, and we trudged back together in icy silence to my car.

I dried myself off as best I could with a mildewy beach towel from the trunk of my car, then sped back to Angel’s apartment with my foot on the accelerator, cursing every red light in our path.

At last, we pulled up in front of her building and got out of the car.

“So,” she said, as we headed to the rickety metal staircase, “you taking me to the L.A. Girlfriends Christmas party?”

THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

205

Was she crazy? Not if my life depended on it. I didn’t care how nice Tyler was. Or what sort of job Sister Mary Agnes might offer me. Never in a million years was I seeing this spawn from hell again.

“Probably not. I think I’m going to be out of town on a business trip.”

Was it my imagination, or did I see a flicker of disappointment in her eyes?

“Who cares?” she said, with an exaggerated shrug. “I didn’t want to go anyway. I bet it’s just a bunch of dorks standing around drinking punch.”

And then, out of nowhere, she started gasping for air.

“Angel, what’s wrong?”

She shook her head, unable to speak, and groped around in her purse. Finally she found what she was looking for. An inhaler. She clamped her lips around it and began pumping intently.

After a few terrifying seconds, she began breathing normally again. “Quit worrying,” she said, seeing the fear in my eyes. “It’s nothing. Just asthma. I’ve had it since I was a little kid.” She tossed the inhaler back her purse. “Well, see ya round.”

Then she started up the steps to her apartment, her bony shoulders stiff with pride.

As I watched her pathetic leopard skin purse flap against her hip, I was suddenly overcome with guilt. This poor kid was not only motherless, she had a debilitating illness. What sort of cold-hearted bitch was I to bail out on her after just one hellish date?

“Wait a minute,” I called out.

She stopped in her tracks and turned to look at me.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“That business trip. I think I maybe be able to get out of it.”

“Don’t do me any favors. You just feel sorry for me because I’ve got asthma.”

206

Laura Levine

“That’s not true,” I lied. “I really think I can make it.”

She shot me a skeptical look.

“Honest.” By now I was begging. “I really want to go.”

“Well, okay,” she said, clomping back down the steps to my side. “And in case you decide to bring me a gift, here’s what I want.” She thrust an ad torn from a newspaper into my hand.

The kid never gave up, did she?

Then she tore up the steps to her apartment and began banging on the door with the relentless drive of a jackhammer.

“Pop!” she shrieked. “Open up!”

Kevin Cavanaugh opened the door, his face crumpling at the sight of her.

“Back so soon?” he called out to me over the roar of the freeway.

I pretended I didn’t hear him and, with a merry wave, dashed off to the sanctuary of my Corolla.





Chapter


! Seven #

Iwoke up the next morning, still recuperating from my encounter with Angel Cavanaugh (or, as I was now calling her, Rosemary’s Other Baby).

I’d staggered home from our date, damp and shivering, and spent the next hour or so soaking in the tub, Prozac gazing down at me from her perch on the toilet tank.

I told you you should’ve stayed home and scratched my back.