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How Sexy is Your Detective?

pic_selleck (1)The detective who’s been investigating the entirely accidental death of my uncle Myron Xavier Schwartz is a little cute. I don’t know if I ever mentioned that.

The detective who questioned me about the supposed poisoning of Sabina is, on the other hand, so unattractive that each time I see him, I think I’m meeting him for the first time.

Finally, the detective who questioned me about the insider trading case is ethnic.

My future ex-husband and I are finally on speaking terms again. It took a while after I punched him the face – and I admit it’s a relief since Daddy isn’t speaking to me either after the initial evidence implicates me of poisoning his fiance. Even my stalwart Charles hasn’t returned my last two phone calls and Mother is on a cruise somewhere with fjords. With a little luck, Nonna Pessia hasn’t died and I still have one ally.

You want to hear something weird? The only person who doesn’t seem to be angry at me or avoiding me is Elvis, Sabina’s ten-year-old son. He calls me at least once a day to tell me something banal, like how much he loves the fish robots he got for Christmas or how his mother is walking again. Perhaps Daddy and Sabina are sheltering him from the charges against me. Or maybe he simply doesn’t believe them. Either way, I don’t get his angle.

It would be a stretch to say that I’m starting the New Year with a clean slate, so instead I’ll just say that I hope to be cleared of all pending charges against me in 2014. Of course, I’d still like to break up the relationship between Sabina and my father, but I’ll have to put that on the back burner for now. She’s still using a walker, so I can’t imagine there’s any rush there.

Meanwhile, while I was in an Opana Xanax haze, Elvis somehow convinced me to take him to the movies, which I am going to do now. Chow, darlings.

in Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, Elvis, future ex-husband, Jasmine's Father, Jasmine's Mother, Sabina | Read full story · | Comments { 5 }

How I Punched My Future Ex-Husband in the Face

As my readers know, my future ex-husband has been spending time in a place called Queens. He goes there to visit an old girlfriend of mine named Lysette who just had a baby. He claims that when he enters her apartment, he feels a sense of calm he’s never felt before.

Some women might be insulted by this situation, but personally I’m more mystified than anything. Why would a person willingly subject themselves to spending time with something that spits up when they could be eating foie gras brule at Jean Georges?

No, it’s not these baffling excursions that got to me.

It’s also not the fact then whenever he returns from visiting Lysette, he starts talking about wanting a baby of his own. When he and I met, he was even more virulently against children than I was. It’s one of the qualities that attracted me in the first place. What woman wouldn’t fall for that?

No, readers. None of these infractions put me over the edge. It’s that when he got home, I told him about the phone call I’d just had with Daddy, how he’d accused me of poisoning Sabina, and how my Opana Xanax cocktail wasn’t working anymore.

I also told him that the detective in charge of the investigation into uncle Myron’s death left a message to tell me that a new piece of evidence was discovered and that he needed to schedule a meeting with me and my lawyer right away.

Finally, I told him that Charles called and told me that something unthinkable had happened to my portfolio and could I please come to see him tomorrow. I begged him to tell me, but he just said I should stop being histrionic in spite of my Levantine blood.

I told him all this. And do you know what he said to me? Go ahead. Take a guess.

“Mercury is in retrograde, Jasmine.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” I said.

“Just lay low for another day,” he said. “It will all be over soon.”

And that’s how it happened. I punched my future ex-husband in the face. I know any of you would have done the same.

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Sycophants and Hostile Doormen

Never fight with your doorman. That’s the lesson I learned today after he let Elvis up to the penthouse.

Yes, you read it right. After weeks of calls and emails and text messages, that little runt managed to get to my front door. I knew what he wanted, which is why I’ve been avoiding him, but then there he was and as he’s only ten I could hardly punch him in the face without risking yet another law suit.

“Your Dad bought the ring!” he said. “They’re officially engaged now!”

“Go away,” I said. “I’m not hungover but I will be soon.”

“Let’s make them a party together!” he said. “We’ll have it here! Your house is so big.”

What a brown-nosing little sycophant.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks to pretend this conversation never happened. I’ll give you a thousand if you can break them up.”

“I’ll start buying decorations!” he said, grabbing the C-note. “You can make the invitation list.”

Oddly, the trait of ignoring some questions while answering the ones you expected to be asked is a trait that my father has mastered. Which means my father may like this dreadful person.

“He’s horrible,” I said after I finally got Elvis to leave. “Everything is horrible. How am I going to stop this marriage?”

“The primary cause of unhappiness is never the situation but the thoughts about the situation,” my future ex-husband said. He was on the couch reading a book, and I think he was actually quoting from it. It was one of the books that Lysette gave him. I think they’re meeting secretly.

“It’s not a secret,” he said, reading this post over my shoulder. “I told you at least a dozen times. Besides, Lysette is pregnant. And what about all your drunken binges with Charles? I never ask you about those.”

Now I’m planning an engagement party for my father and that Kosovan, gold-digging dye-job Sabina. My badly-ageing literary agent Elaine Totsky wants to have a meeting with me – she says she has news. And I still haven’t found a good lawyer to represent me in the murder case. On top of it all, I’m out of Opana. A package was supposed to arrive yesterday, but, as I mentioned, my doorman is currently hostile. What should I buy him? I need my special cocktail now more than ever – All advice is welcome.

in Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, Elvis, future ex-husband, Jasmine's Father, Literary Agent Elaine Totsky, Lysette, Myron Xavier Schwartz., Sabina | Read full story · | Comments { 2 }

Nonna Pessia

If one more person says they’re surprised when they discover that I have a living grandmother, I swear to god I’ll punch them in the face.

Nonna Pessia came to visit me yesterday. It was a real honor because the rumor is that she’s more loaded than anyone in the family.

“Yasmine,” she said before her gloves had come off. “Who is representing you?”

“An associate of Charles Endicott’s,” I told her.

“Get rid of him,” she said. “Call Stanley.”

“He’s dead, Nonna,” I reminded her.

“Then call Myron.”

“Dead,” I said.

She exhaled from exasperation.

“You are going to end up in prison, Yasmine. This is very serious. Who is this man in the kitchen?”

“That’s just Mark. He’s renovating the bedroom. Supposedly.”

Mark approached my grandmother but she put her hand up to stop him.

“I stay out of Chelsea,” she hissed to me. “Why does he have to come to the Upper East Side?”

“Please, Nonna. I won’t go to jail. Anyway the real issue is Daddy. He’s going to marry that horrible woman. Can’t you talk to him?”

“We haven’t spoken for twelve years,” she said. “I’m not sure this is a good enough reason to start now.”

“Oh forget it,” I said. “Let’s just go to lunch.”

You see? There’s nothing as frustrating and disappointing and complicated as family. You can wish you were adopted all you want, but in the end, if you have a grandmother who can get a table at Jean Georges just by walking in, then order the foie gras brule and count your blessings.

in Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, Gay Men, Jasmine's Father, Mark | Read full story · | Comments { 0 }

Marrying and Divorcing Rich – and my guest post for M.J. Kane

As my readers know, amateur sleuth Melissa Morris is based on a real person – an old girlfriend of mine named Lysette. She used to do some work for the Mossad until she got tired of seducing Syrian businessmen in cheap East European hotels. She drifted for years. I urged her to give up and marry rich, but Lysette made the too-common error of ignoring my advice and now she’s living in Queens.

It’s a real shame because, like any attractive woman, Lysette could have married and divorced someone wealthy by now. Instead she has to work for a living, as a social worker no less, and she’s a vegan. It’s a tragedy, no matter how you look at it…

Read more of this guest post on M.J. Kane’s website. M.J. Kane? She’s a stay-at-home mom turned Amazon bestseller. Her words inspire, encourage and bring hope, so really, we have very little in common. Still, hop on over and check her out…

in Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, Crime Fiction, Dalmore, Lysette, Mossad, Myron Xavier Schwartz. | Read full story · | Comments { 0 }

The Last Anti-Semite on Wall Street Part Deux

“The trouble with you people, Jasmine, is that you always want more.”

These frequently italicized words were spoken to me recently by Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, the hardworking, white Protestant financial advisor who has served the Schwartz family for three generations.

“Take me,” said Charles. “I’m rich as Croesus and you don’t see me striving.”

As usual, we were getting tanked on Dalmore and, according to the security tape, I began to cry.

The police have reopened the investigation into uncle Myron’s death,” I said, weeping on his strong shoulder. “And they want to question me again. Why me? Why not Milagros? She’s his daughter! She was at the ski resort when it happened.”

“As were you,” said Charles. “But you’re straying from the point, Jasmine. Why can’t you people ever be happy with what you have?”

Don’t get me wrong. Charles was sympathetic. But after we reach the lower depths of the Dalmore bottle, he’ll generally start focusing on my Jewessness. It’s one of the reasons I respect him so much. Charles doesn’t follow fleeting social whims like some of the other old school financial advisors. He believes what he believes, and he’s too rich to ever be seriously challenged.

“What are you saying, Charles?” I said, dabbing my eyes dry. “That it’s because of striving that Myron is dead?”

“Don’t put words into my mouth, Jazz. I’m just pointing out that one of you probably killed him for his money. Isn’t that right?”

“Oh Charles,” I said, fresh tears appearing. “Is this your last bottle of Dalmore, or what?”

What would I do without Charles? Now that my future ex-husband has become unhinged, Charles is my rock and my savior. Let’s take a moment out of our day to pay tribute to these unsung heroes of our generation, the Wall Street financial billionaires, without whom we’d all be lost.

Ok, did everyone fall silent? No? Never mind. A shout out, then, to Dee Doanes, who is not a Wall Street financial anything, but a writer, and so presumably not in the one percent, although who knows what the New Year will bring? She outs herself as a trekkie and a stiletto addict in this whimsical post. She also mentions me, which is always fabulous.

in Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, Dalmore, future ex-husband, Myron Xavier Schwartz. | Read full story · | Comments { 2 }

THE LAST ANTI-SEMITE ON WALL STREET

I always say, it’s important to be open-minded.

For three generations, the Schwartz family finances have been managed by a capital market firm with a history as old as Wall Street itself. It’s a proud tradition that has ensured the members of our family the maximum amount of income with the minimum amount of work. I’m sure we can all agree that this is a huge component of the American dream.

And who do we have to thank? The hardworking white, Protestant men who took on our family’s portfolio back in the 1920s in spite of their traditional aversion for Semites. Sure, my father could have ditched them years ago, but what would be the point? As long as we’re talking about the American dream, then surely, at its spiritual center, is not the notion that one ethnicity will love the other, but that a people might overlook that queasy feeling that comes with making contact with those you find revolting, when the shared end goal is profit. Yes, I think that everything we’ve learned about America in recent years has confirmed this thesis.

I realize I’m getting a little high fallutin’, but I’m still on a high after my meeting yesterday with our family’s financial advisor, Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, the fourth Endicott to condescend to serve the Schwartzs. We had a ball, and more importantly, a bottle of Dalmore.

“The problem with you people,” Chuck said after he started to slur, “is that you make it all too obvious.”

“C-Corn in the house,” I said. “C-Corn in the house.”

“It’s better to have money than to chase it, Jasmine. Although I must compliment you on your cleavage today. Absolutely astonishing.”

“I just get so worried,” I told him, bursting into tears. “What if…”

“What is it Jasmine? You can tell me, if it’s not too personal.”

“What’s that?”

“That? Oh, it a toy helicopter. I can make it fly with my phone. Let me show you.”

Do you see why I will never abandon this man? In a way, it’s my most loyal relationship. Future ex-husbands come and go, parents are generally horrible, but financial advisors? They’re the ones who will stand by us, for all equity.

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