Candy Cane Murder (Hannah Swensen #9.5)(76)

I scraped it off and looked down at the remains of a chocolate éclair on my fingers. And my cashmere sweater. And my beautiful suede boots. Which, needless to say, weren’t so beautiful anymore.

Angel’s smirk had now blossomed into a malicious grin.

I marched back to the dessert table, determined to wipe it off her face, and grabbed an éclair.

“You wouldn’t dare hit a kid,” Angel sneered, as I held it aloft.

I hated to admit it, but she had a point. I was a grown 258

Laura Levine

woman. I wasn’t actually going to demean myself by getting into a food fight with a twelve-year-old, was I?

Apparently, yes.

Because the next thing I knew I was smushing that éclair in Angel’s face. And loving every minute of it.

“Hah!” I cried.

Actually, I only got as far as “H—” Because just then, she lobbed me in the mouth with a double fudge brownie. (Which, I might add, was quite delicious.) But for once I did not take time to savor my chocolate. I lobbed her right back with a wedge of pumpkin pie, and she zapped me with a fistful of mocha mousse. I retaliated with a volley of Christmas trifle, and she let me have it with a hunk of marshmallow-studded Jell-O.

I don’t know how long we continued in this disgraceful vein. All I know is she’d just dumped the entire contents of an eggnog bowl over my head when I heard: “Jaine, what’s going on here?”

Wiping eggnog from eyes, I looked up and saw Tyler in the doorway, staring at us, aghast.

“She attacked me!” Angel said, suddenly the wide-eyed innocent.

“She started it!” I cried.

“She squished an éclair in my face,” Angel sniffled, summoning fat tears to her eyes.

Man, this kid deserved an Oscar.

“Did you actually hit her with an éclair?” Tyler asked me, radiating disbelief.

“Only because she hit me first!”

“And then she threw pumpkin pie at me. And trifle, too!”

Angel moaned piteously, channeling Orphan Annie, Little Eva, and Tiny Tim all in one.

Tyler’s disbelief had turned to disgust.

“How could you, Jaine? She just a little girl.”

“Oh, no, Tyler. That’s where you’re wrong. She’s not a little girl. She’s the devil’s spawn. Five minutes with this kid is THE DANGERS OF CANDY CANES

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like a year in Guantanamo. I drove two hours in freeway traffic to buy her a pair of $80 jeans and had to fight Ms.

Fireplug all because I thought she had asthma which was a total lie, and I don’t care if I did find Garth’s killer at the mall, she got the inhaler from the garbage!”

Okay, so I was rambling a tad. I was upset.

“Killer? What killer?” Tyler asked. “And who’s Garth?”

I never got to answer his questions because just then we were joined by another visitor.

“What on earth is happening in here?”

Tyler gulped. “Sister Mary Agnes!”

I looked over at the stumpy woman standing in the doorway, and blinked in disbelief.

Omigosh.

It was Ms. Fireplug!

Whatever happened to the good old days when nuns wore wimples and long black robes so you knew they were nuns and didn’t wind up wrestling them to the floor for a pair of Hot Stuff jeans?

I mean, really, if I’d had any idea that Ms. Fireplug was a nun that afternoon, I would’ve handed over the jeans, wished her a Merry Christmas, and trotted off to the food court to drown my frustrations in a frozen yogurt.

“I knew she was trouble the minute I saw her,” she now said to Tyler.

“Do you two know each other?” he asked.

“We’ve met,” I managed lamely.

“She stole my wallet.”

“That’s not true!” I protested. “She dropped it and I was returning it to her.”

Tyler stared at me, slack jawed, disillusionment oozing from every pore. Whatever spark I’d felt between us had been stomped to oblivion.

“It’s no use trying to explain,” I sighed. “I’ll just go.”

“Maybe you’d better,” he said softly.

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By now a gaggle of L.A. Girlfriends had gathered around the pantry door, whispering among themselves.

With as much dignity as I could muster under the circumstances, I plucked a piece of fudge brownie off my fanny and walked past the gauntlet of their disapproving glares.

Outside the church, I passed a statue of Philomena, the patron saint of lost causes. She seemed to be gazing down at me, pity in her eyes.

Sorry, kiddo, I could almost hear her saying. Wish I could help, but you’re too much of a lost cause, even for me. Try Bernadette over at Lourdes.

Then I trudged to my car and drove home in a cloud of humiliation and assorted desserts, leaving chocolate stains on the seat of my Corolla that I have to this day.





Chapter


! Thirteen #

For two blissful seconds the next morning I had no memory of the Girlfriends debacle, but then it all came rushing back to me like an overflowing septic tank.

What was wrong with me, getting into a food fight with a twelve-year-old? I was a failure as a volunteer and a disgrace to freelance writer/private eyes everywhere.