Death by Tiara by Laura Levine Page A

told you we shouldn’t have come here,” she said, plopping down next to us in the front row. “What if I gave Bethenny a concussion?”
    “Oh, please,” Heather said with an airy wave. “She doesn’t have a concussion. Not with that thick skull.”
    After a brief intermission while Amy got Bethenny an ice pack, the chatter about Taylor’s flying peach finally died down and the show continued to drag on, one quirky performance after another. I have to admit my mind wandered a tad, checking for texts from Scott, and still wondering what important thing it was I’d forgotten to do.
    “And now,” Eddie was saying, “performing Cleopatra’s soliloquy from Antony and Cleopatra , here’s Gigi Summers.”
    Clearly Luanne had spared no expense on Gigi’s act. Two burly stagehands wheeled in a huge chaise longue littered with cushions. Stretched out among them in her Cleopatra outfit was Gigi, staring dramatically off into space.
    When the stagehands had gone, she sprang to life and began reciting the speech we’d heard in the makeup room.
     
Give me my robe, put on my crown! I have
Immoral longings in me. Now no more
The juice of Egypt’s grape shall moist this lip:
Yeah, yeah, good Iris; quick.
     
    Now she cupped her hand to her ear as if listening to something in the distance.
     
Methinks I hear Anthony call!
     
    At which point, a loud meow filled the air.
    A very familiar meow.
    Oh, lord. Could it be? Was it possible?
    Indeed it was.
    Before my horrified eyes, Prozac wandered out from behind one of the chaise longue cushions.
    And at long last I remembered the important thing I’d forgotten to do: I failed to put the D O N OT D ISTURB sign on my door when I’d left my room. When the maid came to clean, Prozac had undoubtedly bolted.
    Now she blinked out into the audience.
    Anybody seen the complimentary breakfast buffet?
    “Prozac!” I cried.
    “What’s this cat doing here?” Candace asked, her voice hard as steel.
    In fact, she’d just begun examining her privates.
    “She’s mine!” I admitted. “I’m so sorry.”
    But just as I was about to go to get her, a white ball of fur whizzed past me up to the stage. It was Elvis, undoubtedly miffed that another four-legged creature was hogging the spotlight.
    He raced over to where Prozac was lolling on Cleopatra’s chaise and started barking furiously.
    If he thought he was going to intimidate Prozac, he was sadly mistaken.
    On the contrary, Prozac looked down at him and sniffed.
    Hey, I’ve smelled you before. You’re the one Jaine’s having an affair with!
    And without any further ado, she leaped down off the chaise, lunging at poor Elvis, who—suddenly terrified—came skittering off the stage as fast as his little legs could carry him.
    Prozac, hot on Elvis’s heels, now began chasing him up one aisle and down another, both of them yapping and meowing at the top of their lungs.
    Wasting no time, I charged after them, and after what seemed like a small eternity, I finally managed to catch Prozac, scooping her up in my arms before any fur could fly.
    Heather came racing over to rescue Elvis, who began baring his teeth most ferociously once he was safe in her arms.
    The next thing we knew, Luanne was at our side.
    “You!” she shouted at Heather. “You sabotaged my daughter’s act with your accomplice’s cat!”
    “I did no such thing!” Heather insisted.
    “She had nothing to do with this,” I said. “It’s all my fault.”
    “Look who’s talking about sabotage,” Heather huffed at Luanne. “You’re the one who stole my daughter’s Vera Wang gown.”
    “Don’t be absurd! I didn’t go anywhere near your silly gown.”
    “Silly gown? It’s a work of art compared to that chintzy Cleopatra outfit your daughter’s wearing. She looks like a hooker at Caesars Palace.”
    “Well, at least my daughter has talent. She doesn’t sing like a leaky balloon.”
    “Leaky balloon?” Heather sputtered, her face a fiery red.
    I just