Laura Levine - Death of A Trophy Wife (Jaine Austen Mysteries)

As always, I am enormously grateful to my editor John Scognamiglio for his unwavering faith in Jaine, and to my agent Evan Marshall for his valued guidance and support. Thanks to Hiro Kimura and Lou Malcangi, whose covers never fail to make a terrific first impression. And to "Vegas" Bob Kastner, my unofficial proofreader.

Special thanks to Joanne Fluke, who takes time out from writing her own bestselling Hannah Swensen mysteries to grace me with her insights and her brownies--not to mention a blurb to die for. And to John Fluke, product placement guru and all-around great guy.

Thanks to Mark Baker, who was there from the beginning. And to my wonderful readers who've taken the time to write me. Your e-mails truly brighten my day.

Finally, a loving thanks to my friends and family for hanging in with me all these years. And to my most loyal fan and sounding board, my husband Mark. I couldn't do it without you.

I t was Sunday morning and all across Los Angeles, the sun was shining, palm trees were swaying, and birds were tweeting their little hearts out. Yes, it was a picture perfect day in L.A. Except for one tiny part of town where storm clouds had descended and showed no signs of dissipating:

My apartment.

Here at Casa Austen, it was definitely monsoon season.

If, as my good buddy Siggy Freud once said, the two most important things in life were work and love, I was in deep doo doo. It had been weeks since my last freelance writing assignment. And the only men in my life were my longtime companions, Ben & Jerry, who were, in fact, keeping me company that very moment as I soaked in the tub.

With a sigh, I reached for a towel to wipe the fog from my sunglasses.

Why, you ask, was I wearing sunglasses in the tub? It's a long, ghastly story (one you can read all about in Killer Cruise , now available wherever fine paperbacks are sold), but thanks to a recent visit from my parents, my walls were painted a hideous shade of Tropical Orange.

Oranges are an excellent source of vitamin C, but trust me, you don't want them on your walls. And in the confines of my tiny bathroom, they were particularly blinding. I yearned to hire a painter to get rid of the mess, but no way was that going to happen, not with my checkbook on life support.

I gazed up at my cat, Prozac, who was sprawled out on the toilet tank.

"Oh, Pro," I moaned. "Life stinks."

"Cheer up, kiddo."

These comforting words did not come from Prozac, who was engrossed in a thorough examination of her privates, but from my next door neighbor Lance. Lance and I share a 1940s duplex, a modest little place with antique plumbing and walls the consistency of Kleenex. Due to these flimsy walls--and the fact that Lance can hear toilets flushing in San Diego--Lance is practically my roommate.

"Get out of that tub, lazybones!" he shouted. "I'm taking you to brunch."

"But, Lance," I said, eyeing the remains of my Chunky Monkey breakfast, "I just ate."

"That never stopped you before."

"Forget it. I am not about to stuff myself right after breakfast."

"I'll pick you up in five minutes."

"Make it ten," I sighed, unable to resist the lure of free calories.

I dragged myself out of the tub and threw on some elastic-waist jeans and a T-shirt. An outfit that failed to impress when Lance showed up at my apartment.

"My god, Jaine!" he gasped. "I've seen homeless people in nicer clothes."

Of course he has. Lance works as a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus in the heart of Beverly Hills, where even the homeless wear designer labels.

"Thanks," I snapped. "You look lovely, too."

And in fact, he did look rather spiffy in perfectly creased chinos and a country club sports jacket, his tight blond curls gleaming with expensive goop.

"Sweetie," he chided, "you can't wear that outfit to The Four Seasons."

"The Four Seasons? But that place is nosebleed expensive."

"Not to worry, hon. My treat. I've been racking up sales like crazy lately. Neiman's is even talking about making me a buyer."

"Congratulations!" I said, happy that at least one of us was doing well.

"C'mon." He marched me to my bedroom. "Let's find you something decent to wear. You can't be seen in public in that outfit. Or in private, for that matter."

For some insane reason, Lance is convinced I am fashion-challenged, insisting that moths come to my closet to commit suicide.

"Gaaack!" he cried, holding up a perfectly serviceable polka dot polyester dress. "I may go blind!"

Ignoring my dagger glares, he rifled through my hangers and handed me a pair of simple gray slacks.

"But, Lance, they don't have an elastic waist."

"So?"

"I can't wear a set-in waist to brunch. How am I supposed to go back for seconds?"

"You're not. Put 'em on. And this blouse, too."

I stomped off to the bathroom, where I donned my Lance-approved outfit.

"Much better," he said when I presented myself for inspection.

"Thank you, your grace."

"Of course your hair's a mess," he said, eyeing my mop of curls swept up in a scrunchy, "but I don't have the energy to deal with that now."

Thank heavens for small favors.

"Let's go," he said, leading the way to the living room.

"Bye, honey," I called to Prozac, who had resumed her perusal of her privates on the sofa. "We're off to brunch."

She looked up at me in that loving way of hers that could mean only one thing:

Bring back crab cakes.

Then I grabbed my purse and headed out the door on that glorious Sunday morning, little dreaming that my personal storm cloud was headed straight for Lance.

B runch at The Four Seasons is like the Garden of Eden with mimosas.

Tucked away in a lushly landscaped courtyard, the restaurant is cut off from most mere mortals by a carefully tended jungle of tropical vines and gaspworthy prices.

Lance and I had been seated at a cozy table for two and were now sipping mimosas in the dappled sun, breathing in the heady aroma of gardenias.

Maybe life wasn't so bad after all.

"Ready to hit the buffet table?" Lance grinned.

When it comes to buffet tables, I'm always ready.

We got up from our seats and headed inside, where a lavish feast was laid out. Lord, what a spread. It was probably a good thing Lance made me leave my elastic-waist pants at home. I really couldn't afford to pig out. I'd just take some fruit and a blueberry muffin. And a smidgeon of lobster frittata. And maybe a tad of ham. And a dab of hash. And gosh, those omelettes looked good-

You can see where this is going, can't you?

When I was all done, I practically needed a forklift to carry my plate.

Needless to say, Mr. Goody Two Shoes had just an omelette and a few shards of fruit. Which, if you ask me, was a ridiculous waste of money. I mean, why pay a small fortune for an all-you-can-eat brunch when you're hardly going to eat anything?

"Hey, look," he said as we headed back outside with our plates. "There's one of my customers."

"Where?"

"Over there. The gal at the corner table." He nodded to a primo table, where a striking redhead was engrossed in conversation with a tubby bald guy. Something about the guy looked familiar, but I couldn't quite place him.