Laura Levine - Death By Pantyhose (Jaine Austen Mysteries)

A Jaine Austen Mystery

Death by Pantyhose

Laura Levine

KENSINGTON BOOKS

http: //www.kensingtonbooks. com

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

Copyright 2007 by Laura Levine Al rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews. Al Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

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Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off. ISBN-13: 9 78-0-75 82-0 78 6-9 ISBN-10: 0-7582-0786-7 First Kensington Hardcover Printing: June 2007 First Kensington Mass Market Paperback Printing: May 2008 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3

2 1 Printed in the United States of America In loving memory of Mr. Guy, the sweetest guy in "Guy Land. "

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I'm so grateful, as always, to my editor John Scognamiglio and my agent Evan Marshal for their valued guidance and support. Thanks to Hiro Kimura for his nifty cover art. And to Joanne Fluke, who takes time out from writing her own bestsel ing Hannah Swensen mysteries to share her insights and her brownies. A special thanks to the wonderful readers who've taken the time to write me. And to my friends and family for putting up with me while I'm wrangling with a plot.

And to al of you who've battled Los Angeles traffic to show up at my book signings, I owe you one!

Final y, a loving thanks to my most loyal fan and ardent supporter, my husband Mark.

---Ever have one of those days where everything seems to go your way, where the gods smile on your every move and good luck fol ows you around like an eager puppy?

Neither have I.

No matter how great things start out in my life, sooner or later something is guaranteed to hit the fan.

Take the day the whole pantyhose mess began. It started out smoothly enough. My cat, Prozac, waited until the civilized hour of 8 A.M. before swan diving on my chest to wake me up.

"Morning, pumpkin," I murmured, as she nuzzled her furry head under my chin.

She looked at me with big green eyes that seemed to say, You're my favorite human in al the world. (Wel , not exactly.

What they real y seemed to say was, When do we eat? But I knew deep down, she loved me.)

When I looked out the window, I was happy to see that the early morning fog that hovers over L.A. for months on end had final y taken a powder. The sun was back in action, shining its little heart out.

Things got even better when I discovered a free sample of Honey Nutty Raisin Bits with my morning newspaper, which meant I didn't have to nuke one of the petrified Pop-Tarts in my freezer for breakfast.

After feeding Prozac a bowl of Moist Mackerel Guts and inhaling my Honey Nutty Raisin Bits straight from the box, I did the crossword puzzle (with nary a trip to the dictionary) and spent the rest of the morning polishing my resume for an upcoming job interview. And not just any job interview. I, Jaine Austen, a gal who normal y writes toilet bowl ads for a living, had a meeting lined up that very morning at RubinMcCormick, one of L.A.'s hottest ad agencies.

And so it was with a spring in my step and Honey Nutty Raisin Bits on my breath that I headed off to the bedroom to get dressed for my interview. I took out my one and only Prada suit from my closet, pristine clean in its drycleaning bag. No unsightly ketchup stains ambushed me at the last minute, like they usual y do. I checked my one and only pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes. Not a scuff mark in sight. I checked my hair in the mirror. No crazy cowlicks or Bril o patches in my natural curls. Like I said, the gods were smiling on me.

And that's when I saw it: a At on my chin the size of a smal Aleutian island.

Now I've got nothing against the Aleutian Islands. I'm sure they're quite scenic. But not on my chin, s'il vous plait.

I was surveying the disaster in the mirror when the phone rang. I let the machine get it.

Hi! A woman's eager voice came on the line. I saw your ad in the Yel ow Pages, and I'm cal ing to see if you write comedy material. I'm a stand-up comic, and everyone says I'm hilarious.

Uh-oh. My Bad Job Antenna sprang into action. People who say they're hilarious are usual y about as funny as leftover meatloaf.

I need someone to write some new jokes for my act. Your ad said your rates were reasonable. I sure hope so. I was thinking maybe five bucks a Joke. Six or seven if they're real y funny.

Five bucks a joke? Was she kidding? Court jesters were making more than that in the Middle Ages.

Give me a cal if you're interested. My name is Dorcas. Oh, and by the way, you can catch my act at the Laff Palace on open-mike nights. I'm the one who throws my pantyhose into the audience.

Did I hear right? Did she actual y say she threw her pantyhose into the audience? Sounded more like a stripper than a comic to me.

Needless to say, I didn't write down her number. In the first place, I wasn't real y a comedy writer. And in the second place, even if I was a comedy writer, the last thing I wanted to do was write jokes for a pantyhose-tossing comic. And in the third and most important place, for once in my life, I wasn't desperate for money.

Yes, for the past several months, my computer had been practical y ablaze with writing assignments: I'd done a freelance piece for the L.A. Times on 24-hour Botox centers.

A new brochure for Mel's Mufflers (Our Business Is Exhausting). And to top it off, I'd just finished an extensive ad campaign for my biggest client, Toiletmasters Plumbers, introducing their newest product, an extra large toilet bowl cal ed Big John. Al of which meant I had actual funds in my checking account.

What's more, if my job interview today went wel , I'd be bringing home big bucks from the Rubin-McCormick ad agency. I'd answered their ad for a freelance writer, and much to my surprise Stan McCormick himself had cal ed me to set up an appointment. Who knows? Maybe he'd seen my Botox piece in the L.A. Times. Or maybe he was the proud owner of a Big John. I didn't care why he wanted to see me; al I knew was that I had a shot at a job at one of L.A.'s premiere ad agencies.

Which was why that At on my chin was so annoying. But with diligent effort (and enough concealer to caulk a bathtub), I eventual y managed to camouflage it.

After I finished dressing, I surveyed myself in the mirror. If I do say so myself, I looked nifty.

My Prada suit pared inches from my hips (which needed al the paring they could get). My Manolos gave me three extra statuesque inches. And my frizz-free hair was a veritable shinefest.

I headed out to the living room, where I found Prozac draped over the back of the sofa.

"Wish me luck, Pro," I said, as I bent down to kiss her goodbye.

She yawned in my face, blasting me with mackerel breath.

Hurry back. I may want a snack.

"I love you, too, dol face."

Then I headed outside to my Corol a, where the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and the grass was growing greener by the minute.