Death by Pantyhose Read Free

amazement, Stan started
the engine, gave a friendly wave to the valet, and
drove off.
    What on earth was he doing? And then it
dawned on me.
    Stan McCormick had just stolen my car!
     

Chapter 3
    ' If course, the man who stole my car wasn't
really Stan McCormick. The man who stole
my car, as the cops pointed out when they
showed up at the restaurant, was an opportunistic car thief who'd pulled this let's-take-your-carto-lunch scam many times before.
    Like an idiot, I'd unwittingly given him all
the information he needed. He'd overheard
both my name and Stan's name while I was rehearsing in the lobby. And then, on the elevator,
I'd told him I was a writer coming in for a job interview. I'd practically handed him my car keys.
    The cop who wrote up the police report offered little-to-no-hope of my car being recovered.
    "We'll call you if we find it," he said, "but it's
probably on its way to a chop shop as we speak."
    Oh, crud. That meant I was probably going to
have to buy a car. Even with the money I got
from my insurance company, it was still going to
cost a fortune.
     
    I might not have been strapped for cash that
morning, but I was now. I needed that job with
Rubin-McCormick, and I needed it badly. So as
soon as the cops left, I got out my cell phone
and called the real Stan McCormick.
    Unfortunately, the real Stan McCormick did
not believe my story about meeting the phony
Stan McCormick in an elevator and driving off
to lunch with him. He thought I was just another
airhead who'd slept through her interview. It
didn't help that I was babbling while I told it to
him. (You see, he was wearing an expensive cashmere
blazer and 1 just assumed he was you, especially when
he waved to the receptionist, and of course, he already
knew your name because he'd overheard me talking to
the elevator doors....
    "I would've respected you a lot more," the
real Stan McCormick said, "if you'd just told the
truth and admitted you screwed up."
    And then, before I knew it, I was babbling to
a dial tone.
    I snapped my phone shut, on the verge of
tears.
    I guess Phineas could see how upset I was, because at that very moment, he rallied to my side
with a cup of coffee and a bill for $76.23.
    "I already added in the tip," he said, "in case
it slipped your mind."
    What a 'thoughtful fellow.
    "Will there be anything else?" he asked.
    I sure hoped not.
    Ten minutes later, I was standing outside the
restaurant when my best friend, Kandi To-
bolowski, came roaring up in her Miata. The cops had offered to give me a lift, but I needed a
shoulder to cry on, so I'd called Kandi, whose
shoulder is always available for weeping and
wailing.
     
    "You poor thing!" she said, wrapping me in a
hug as I sunk in the Miata. "Tell Kandi all about
it.
    "I will, but first, you've got to drive me over
to Crazy Dave's."
    "Crazy Dave's?"
    "A car rental place on Pico and Cloverfield."
    While waiting for Kandi to show up, I'd called
my trusty insurance company, whose motto is:
When Trouble Strikes, Don't Come Whining to Us.
The helpful claims lady told me that I was entitled to the princely sum of fifteen dollars a day
to rent a car. She had to be kidding. I could
barely rent a bicycle for fifteen bucks a day.
    Which is why I'd decided to rent a car from
Crazy Dave's Rent-A-Wreck. I'd driven past
Crazy Dave's lot many times and remembered a
sign out front claiming: My Cars Are So Cheap, Its
CRAZY! The price seemed right to me.
    "Okay," Kandi said, swerving out into traffic
and barely missing a bus. "Now tell me everything that happened."
    And I did.lI told her how I ran into the
phony Stan McCormick and how he figured out
I was going on a job interview and stole my car
and stuck me with the bill for two steak sandwiches and a tiramisu.
    "I don't believe it!" she said when I was finished.
    "I know. It's incredible, isn't it?"
    "You had a steak sandwich and tiramisu for
lunch? Do you realize how many calories you ate? Not to