Laura Levine - Killer Blonde (Jaine Austen Mysteries)

DEATH BY BUBBLE BATH

But you cant quit, Heidi said. When will I see you?

We can meet after school.

What happens when you get another job?

She had me there.

Cant you stay a little while longer, until I get used to this stick up for myself thing?

The thought of one more day on that toilet bowl made me cringe, but Heidi looked so vulnerable, I couldnt say no.

Okay, I sighed. But just for a few more weeks.

As it turned out, I didnt even have to stay a few more hours. Because when I walked into the bathroom to report for work, the first thing I saw was SueEllen floating face down in the bathtub.

SueEllen? I called out, hoping maybe she was doing some new age water aerobics.

But she didnt answer.

At first I thought it was an accident; maybe SueEllen slipped in the tub. But then I saw something floating alongside SueEllens loofa sponge and triple-milled French soap: A hair dryer. Plugged into an electrical outlet.

SueEllen had been electrocuted!

I managed to keep my cool for a whole three and a half seconds. After which I went screaming down the hallways like an extra in Nightmare on Elm Street.

Books by Laura Levine

THIS PEN FOR HIRE

LAST WRITES

KILLER BLONDE

SHOES TO DIE FOR

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

A Jaine Austen Mystery

Killer Blonde

Laura Levine

KENSINGTON BOOKS

KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

For Mark

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to my editor, John Scognamiglio, for believing in Jaine Austenand for thinking up such a nifty title. To my agent, Evan Marshall, for being such a good listener and advice-giver extraordinaire. Thanks also to Joanne Fluke, author of the deliciously clever Hannah Swensen mysteries, for her much-appreciated generosity. And to Carlos Marrero for his terrific cover art. A special thanks to my family and friends, for their love and support. And, finally, because I know hell be impossible to live with if I dont mention him, thanks to the cat in my life, Mr. Guy.

Contents

Prologue

M y name is Jaine, and Im a bathaholic.

Yes, its true. I like nothing better than to tear off my clothes in the middle of the afternoon and leap into a hot bubble bath. So its lucky Im a freelance writer. While other working stiffs are trapped in offices, chained to their computers, I can hop into the tub any time I please.

Which is what I was doing the day SueEllen Kingsley first called me. Id just finished writing a slogan for a new client, Tip Top Dry Cleaners (Well clean for you. Well press for you. Well even dye for you.) , and I was relaxing in a marvelous haze of strawberry-scented bubbles. The mirrors were fogged over. The radio, if I remember correctly, was playing a soulful Diana Krall love song. And my cat Prozac was perched on top of the toilet tank, licking her privates, visions of fish guts dancing in her head.

It was one of those blissful moments I often experience after Ive finished a writing assignment, basking in the glow of a job well done (or done, anyway), until it dawns on me that now that the assignment is over, Im out of work again.

I was still in the bask-in-the-glow stage when the phone rang. I let the machine get it.

Ms. Austen. A syrupy, southern-accented voice drifted out from the machine. SueEllen Kingsley here. I saw your ad in the Yellow Pages

Yippee! A prospective client!

And Im calling because I need a ghostwriter to help me write a book.

At the sound of the word ghostwriter, my enthusiasm came to a screeching halt. In my experience, people who are looking for ghostwriters often fall into the mentally unstable category. These are people who want to tell the world about how they were abducted to the planet Clorox and forced to have sex with spatulas. Or people who believe that theyre the love child of Wayne Newton and Golda Meir.

SueEllen Kingsley left her number on my machine. For a minute I considered not returning the call. But then I remembered a few pesky facts of life, like my rent and my Visa bill and my impossible-to-kick Ben & Jerrys Chunky Monkey habit.

Reluctantly, I hauled myself out of the tub and into a worn chenille bathrobe. Then I shuffled over to the phone and dialed.

If Id known what I was getting into, I wouldve stayed up to my eyeballs in soapsuds.

Chapter One

S ueEllen Kingsley answered the phone, her voice as gooey as melted Velveeta. Ms. Austen, she oozed, can you hustle your fanny over to my house in an hour?

I assured her I was an expert at fanny-hustling, and she gave me the directions to her house. Which turned out to be more like a castle. A vintage Spanish estate nestled in one of Beverlys niftiest Hills, the house was a showstopper. Its arches and balustrades and red tile roof glistened in the midafternoon sun. The whole thing was so Spanish manorish, I almost expected to see Zorro leap onto one of the many balconies with a rose in his teeth. But there was no sign of Zorro. The only Hispanic in sight was a gardener pruning the bougainvillea.

I drove up a circular driveway and parked my humble Corolla next to a gleaming Bentley. Then I checked my teeth in my rearview mirror for any stray pieces of lettuce left over from the Jumbo Jack Id picked up on my way over. Satisfied that all was clear on the dental front, I gave myself a quick blast of Binaca and tugged a few unruly curls back into my ponytail.

Finally, plucking a stray french fry from my lap, I got out of the Corolla and looked around. What a palace. The kind of place God would build if He had money.

I was beginning to regret my decision to wear my usual work outfit of jeans and a blazer. A place like this called for something a lot fancier. Like the British crown jewels and a blazer.

Why the heck was a woman with SueEllens money calling a writer from the Yellow Pages? Id checked her out on Google before I left my apartment, and found her name scattered on the society pages of the Los Angeles Times. SueEllen was apparently a partygiver and fund raiser par excellence. Surely she had access to scads of well-known writers. So why, I asked myself again, had she called anonymous old me? Oh, well. Who cared why she called? Just as long as her check didnt bounce. And from the looks of the place, I was sure it wouldnt.

I headed up the front path, and rang the bell.

Now I dont know if they have a doorbell at Versailles, but if they do, Ill bet it sounds just like the Kingsleys. A series of mellifluous bongs resonated from inside the house. Seconds later the door was opened by a timid Hispanic maid holding a bottle of Windex.

Hi, I smiled. Im Jaine Austen. I have an appointment with Mrs. Kingsley.

S , she said, eyes lowered, clutching her Windex to her chest. She spoke softly, in a heavily accented voice. Mrs. Kinglseys having her massage. She wants you to wait in the living room.

I followed her as we hiked across the foyer. A wide curving staircase with gleaming mahogany banisters ascended to the floor above. I almost expected to see Scarlett OHara come skipping down the steps, twirling her parasol.

The living room was huge, with hardwood floors, an exposed wood beam ceiling, and a fireplace as big as my kitchen. I took a seat in one of the many overstuffed armchairs dotted throughout the room. The maid asked me if I wanted anything to drink, and seemed relieved when I said no.

As she skittered away, presumably to do battle with dirty windows, I glanced down and saw a grease stain on my blouse. Probably from the french fry that dropped in my lap. Oh, great. Now Id have to spend the entire interview with my blazer buttoned. Which wasnt going to be easy, since Id bought the blazer two sizes too small. It was on sale at Ann Taylor, the only one they had left, reduced seventy percent. I went ahead and bought it, figuring Id never have to button the damn thing.