Playdate with Death (Mommy-Track Mysteries) - Hardcover

Waldman, Ayelet

3.57

660 ratings by Goodreads

9780425184738: Playdate with Death (Mommy-Track Mysteries)

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0425184730 ISBN 13: 9780425184738

Publisher: Berkley Hardcover, 2002

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No one ever said motherhood was a walk in the park, but Juliet Applebaum is doing her best. She's been showing up (more or less) on time to pick up her daughter from preschool. She's trying (in vain) to discourage her two-and-a-half-year-old sons's interest in firearms. And in between planning playdates and playing dress up, she's even managed to fit in some much-needed kid-free time, working out with a personal trainer at the local health club. It's going well. She's losing weight. She's even happy - until her trainer commits suicide.
A charming, cheerful aspiring actor, Bobby Katz seemed to have it all - and Juliet just can't believe he died at his own hand. She suspects that there's a much more sinister explanation - and that it may lie with Bobby's parents, who never told him he was adopted. Or with his grieving fiancee, a recovering addict who just fell off the wagon. Or with his birth mother, a woman he had recently started to look for - who had gone to great lengths to ensure that she would never be found. Always up for a task that will get her out of the house, Juliet keeps running down secrets - until, at last, she runs into the truth.

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About the Author:

Ayelet Waldman currently lives with her writer-husband Michael Chabon and four children.

Praise for the Mommy-Track Mysteries . . .

A PLAYDATE WITH DEATH

“Waldman is a master of smart, snappy repartee . . . funny tidbits about bringing up toddlers and the liberal mom’s dilemma over giving her kids toy guns to play with. Juliet’s got charm, spunk, and . . . a reason to get out of the house.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Witty and well-constructed . . . those with a taste for lighter mystery fare are sure to relish the adventures of this contemporary, married, mother-of-two Nancy Drew.”

—Publishers Weekly

“[A] deft portrayal of Los Angeles’s upper crust and of the dilemma facing women who want it all.”

—Booklist

THE BIG NAP

“Waldman treats the Los Angeles scene with humor, offers a revealing glimpse of Hasidic life, and provides a surprise ending . . . An entertaining mystery with a satirical tone.”

—Booklist

“Amusing but poignant . . . Waldman has given her heroine a compelling story befitting her intelligent, witty voice.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Juliet Applebaum is smart, fearless, and completely candid about life as a full-time mom with a penchant for part-time detective work. Kinsey Millhone would approve.”

—Sue Grafton

“Juliet is a modern heroine refusing to quit or take another snooze until she feels justice is properly served.”

—BookBrowser

NURSERY CRIMES

“[Juliet is] a lot like Elizabeth Peters’s warm and humorous Amelia Peabody—a brassy, funny, quick-witted protagonist.”

—Houston Chronicle

“Funny, clever, touching, original, wacky and wildly successful.”

—Carolyn G. Hart

“A delightful debut filled with quirky, engaging characters, sharp wit, and vivid prose. I predict a successful future for this unique, highly likable sleuth.”

—Judith Kelman, author of After the Fall

“A humorous tale . . . Juliet’s voice is strong and appealing, and the Hollywood satire is dead on.”

—Publishers Weekly

“Told with warmth and wicked humor, Nursery Crimes is a rollicking first mystery that will leave you clamoring for more. Ruby’s adorable and Juliet is the sort of outspoken and funny woman we’d all like as a best friend.”

—Romantic Times

“[Waldman] derives humorous mileage from Juliet’s ‘epicurean’ cravings, wardrobe dilemmas, night-owl husband, and obvious delight in adventure.”

—Library Journal

“Unique . . . will intrigue anyone who values a good mystery novel.”

—Pittsburgh Tribune-Review

“[Waldman is] a welcome voice . . . well-written . . . this charming young family has a real-life feel to it.”

—Contra Costa Times

A PLAYDATE
WITH DEATH

Ayelet Waldman

Acknowledgments

MANY thanks go to Susanna Praetzel who gave me critical information about Tay-Sachs disease; to Julie Barroukh, Sandra Braverman, Lauren Cuthbert, Ginny Dorris, Clare Duffy, Allison Kaplan Sommer, Carlie Masters William, Saundra Schwartz, and Karen Zivan for being ever-present companions and ever-useful sources of information; to Mary Evans, Jeff Frankel, and Sylvie Rabineau for working so tirelessly on my behalf; to Sue Grafton, an inspiration and a role model; and to Michael, my best friend.

Table of Contents

One

ISAAC shot me two times in the chest. With his toast.

“You’re dead,” my two-and-a-half-year-old son said, biting off a chunk of his Glock 9mm semiautomatic pistol.

“Mama doesn’t like that game, Isaac. You know that. Mama doesn’t like guns.” I ruffled his hair with my hand, planted a kiss on the top of his older sister’s head, and turned to my husband. “Don’t cut his bread on the diagonal anymore.”

“Why not?” Peter asked over the top of his coffee mug. His hair stuck out in wiry spikes and his gray eyes were bleary with exhaustion.

“Because he chews out the middle and turns the crust into a gun.”

“Maybe if he had a toy gun, he wouldn’t need to fashion weapons out of his breakfast.”

I gave my husband a baleful glare and poured my own coffee. I leaned against the kitchen table and slurped. Ruby turned to me with a conspiratorial air made only slightly ridiculous by the fact that her uncombed curls stood up all over her head. She looked like a dandelion puff.

“Isaac has been playing guns all morning, Mama. And Daddy let him.”

“Oh really?” I said.

“Don’t be a tattletale, Ruby,” Peter said.

He was right. Telling tales is a dreadful habit. Nonetheless, I was glad of an ally. I was becoming heartily sick of Isaac’s never-ending game of “bang bang you’re dead.” Honestly, what is it with boys? Before I had one of my own, I would have sworn up and down that gender differences were cultural constructs and that it was possible to raise a boy who defied stereotypes by being more interested in dolls than trucks and in arts and crafts than weapons. Then Isaac was born. And he was interested in dolls: Superman dolls. Batman dolls. And he loved painting and sculpture; they were wonderful tools with which to make the weapons I wouldn’t buy for him.

I took away the Play-Doh, the modeling clay, and all cylindrical objects. We stopped eating food that could be easily chewed into the shape of artillery. I banned all remotely aggressive videos and television, including most of the Disney movies the kids liked; Peter Pan spends way too much time sword-fighting and that Sea Witch would inspire anyone to violence. I refused to be swayed by the fact that Isaac was chafing under a diet of Teletubbies and Barney. Mindless pap was better than warfare any day. I bought him a succession of gender-neutral toys and videos, played house with him, changed his dolls’ diapers, and taught him every single Pete Seeger song I could remember. So far, my efforts had borne exactly no fruit.

My mother attributed Isaac’s gun obsession to the fact that I’d been shot the day I gave birth to him, but that’s just blaming the victim, as far as I’m concerned.

“What fabulous thing are you guys going to do today?” I asked. I’m afraid I didn’t do a terribly good job of concealing my glee at the thought of being excluded from my family’s plans for the morning. Peter, a screenwriter, had just finished two long months of shooting on his latest work of art, The Cannibal’s Vacation. The director had demanded his presence on the set, apparently worried that without Peter there to rewrite various exclamations of horror, the film would never wrap. To compensate me for having been alone with the kids while he lounged away the days and nights on Lomboc, a lesser-known tropical island in Indonesia, my husband had been doing solo kid duty for a week or so.

“We’re going fishing for dinosaurs,” Isaac announced.

“Really?” I asked.

“We are not going fishing.” Ruby reached across the table and pinched her brother, who squealed in protest. I inserted myself between them and frowned at her.

“Ruby, watch it, or you won’t be going anywhere,” I said.

“Yes I will. Because Daddy promised to take us to the La Brea Tar Pits, and you’re going to the gym, so I am too going.”

The mouth on that kid. But you couldn’t argue with her logic.

I didn’t bother answering her, just picked Isaac up and buzzed him with my lips. “I’m going to miss you guys today,” I lied.

“You could come if you want.” Peter’s voice was a hopeful squawk.

“No thanks. Ruby’s right, I’m going to the gym.”

I plopped Isaac on the floor and finished my coffee with a gulp. I took a Powerbar out of my stash hidden in the back of the pantry, waved gaily at my family, and headed out the door.

“I’m taking your car!” I shouted, all too happy to leave Peter with my station wagon bursting with car seats, baby wipes and broken toys, and haunted by a mysterious odor whose origin lay in some long-lost tube of fluorescent yogurt. I slipped into his pristine, orange, vintage BMW 2002, popped the car into gear, and zipped off down the street, reveling in my hard-won freedom.

I’m the first to admit that I’m a somewhat unwilling stay-at-home mom. Not that I didn’t choose the role. I did. Before I’d had my kids, I’d been a public defender representing indigent criminals in federal court. My particular specialties had been drug dealers and bank robbers, but I’d happily handled white-collar cases and even the odd assault on a national park ranger. I had never expected to leave work. I’d planned for a three-month maternity leave, imagining that I’d toss Peter the baby to take care of while I happily continued my twelve-hour-a-day schedule. I even tried it after Ruby was born. I went back to work when she was four months old, skipping off with my breast pump in one hand and my briefcase in the other. Ten months later, I was back home. I couldn’t stand being away from her for so much of the time. By the time I realized that I wasn’t any happier at home all day than I’d been at work all day, I was already pregnant with Isaac. That pretty much put the nails into my professional coffin. The past couple of years had passed in something of a blur, punctuated by car pool, endless loads of very small laundry, and the occasional murder.

I pulled into the parking lot of my gym and slipped into a spot. For my last birthday, Peter had given me a series of training sessions at a glitzy Hollywood health club. I had decided to view the gift not as a passive-aggressive comment on the magnitude of my ass but rather as the expression of a good-hearted wish to see me fit and healthy. I’d been having a terrific time, despite my usual loathing of all things physically active. There is something remarkably pleasurable about having your very own personal trainer hovering over you, expressing apparently sincere interest in your food intake and exercise concerns. I, like the majority of women I know, am certain that the rest of the world finds every detail of my calorie neuroses and body image obsession as scintillating as I do myself. I skipped into the gym, ready to confess to Bobby Katz the grim tale of the four Girl Scout cookies and half pound of saltwater taffy I’d eaten the night before.

Instead of the collection of almost familiar Hollywood faces in brightly colored Lycra, straining under Cybex machines and hefting free weights, I found an empty gym. There were no trainers shouting encouragement, no beautifully sculpted and perfectly made-up starlets grunting and groaning. The machines glinted forlornly in the sun shining through the windows, and the place echoed with a silence made all the eerier because I’d never before walked in without being subject to a blaring retro-disco beat.

It took me a few minutes to track down the denizens of my snazzy workout studio. They were huddled around the juice bar behind the locker rooms. The trainers, deltoids shining with carefully applied moisturizer and abdominal six-packs peeking from skintight tops cropped at the midriff, wept noisily. The clientele, a bit more concerned with the exigencies of eye makeup and foundation, dabbed their eyes with Kleenex. The owner of the gym, an oversized Vietnamese bodybuilder named Laurence, opened his arms to me and pressed me to his sweaty chest.

“Oh darling. You poor darling. You don’t even know, do you? You just came here to see him, and you don’t even know,” he wailed.

“Laurence, calm down. Tell me what’s happened,” I said as I attempted to extricate myself from his damp embrace. His nipple ring was poking me in the cheek.

“It’s Bobby. He’s dead. They found him this morning in his car. He shot himself.”

I gasped, and now leaned against Laurence despite myself. “What? What are you talking about?”

“Betsy just called. He didn’t come home last night, so she called the cops. They found his car parked on the PCH, just north of Santa Monica. Bobby was inside. Dead. He shot himself in the head.”

I led Laurence over to a stool and sat him down. Then I asked him, “How’s Betsy?”

“She’s a mess, of course. Oh my God, I can’t stand this, I can’t stand this,” Laurence wailed, burying his face in his hands.

“Oh for God’s sake, Laurence. Quit crying. This is not your opera, girlfriend.” I turned to Jamal Watson, one of the other trainers. He was dressed, as usual, in a vibrant shade of pink. His dark-brown leg muscles strained at his micromini shorts, and his top stopped a good six inches above his bellybutton. He looked back at me and said somewhat abashedly, “I mean, really, Bobby was my friend, too. Laurence here is acting like he’s the only one who’s devastated. We all are.”

I turned back to the weeping gym owner. “Laurence, honey. You’re upset. You should close up shop for the day.” The other trainers and clients began to protest. They were sad, very sad, but not quite sad enough to sacrifice a morning’s worth of crunches and leg lifts.

“No. No.” Laurence heaved himself off his stool with a sigh. “The show must go on. Back to work, all of you. Back to work. That’s what Bobby would have wanted.” He waved everyone onto the gym floor and turned back to me. “Shall I give you a referral? Luzette’s got some free slots, I think.”

“No, no, that’s okay. Maybe later. Can you give me Betsy’s address? I want to see if she needs some help or if she could use a shoulder to cry on.”

I could have used one myself. I’d been working out with Bobby Katz only for about six months, but in that short period of time, we’d gotten strangely close. Or maybe it wasn’t so strange, considering the fact that we spent three hours a week together, most of that time filled with intimate conversations about our lives, loves, and the shape of my thighs. As a teenager, Bobby had made the thirty-mile leap from Thousand Oaks in the Valley to Hollywood, convinced that his sparkling azure eyes, flaxen hair, and laser-whitened teeth would garner him instant fame. It hadn’t taken him long to realize that there were at least 7,200 other kids who looked just like him auditioning for all the same parts. He’d had some success. He’d gotten a couple of fast-food commercials and even a role in an Andrew Dice Clay movie. Unfortunately, his part in that work of cinematic genius was so small it could only be appreciated using the frame-by-frame viewing feature of a VCR.

He’d become a personal trainer as a way to supplement his acting income; it had soon become his career. And if I’m anything to go by, Bobby was good at what he did. I’d gained over sixty pounds with my second pregnancy, and despite the fact that Isaac was now well over two years old, before I met Bobby, I hadn’t managed to lose more than half of it. He’d put me on a kooky diet that involved eating a lot of egg-white omelets and set me on a workout program that was having remarkable results. I could actually see my feet if I looked down. And craned my neck. And leaned a bit forward. Anyway, it was working for me. But that’s not why I kept coming back. Before Bobby, I’d quit every exercise regime I’d ever begun, despite the...

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