Laura Levine - Shoes To Die For (A Jaine Austen Mystery)

OUTSTANDING PRAISE FOR LAURA LEVINES JAINE AUSTEN MYSTERIES

SHOES TO DIE FOR

Laura Levines acerbic comedy-writing skills give a cutting edge to her series.

The New York Times Book Review

You will love itLevine is a funny lady.

The Kingston Observer

KILLER BLONDE

Levines series gets smarter with each book. Her dialogue is realistic yet hilarious, and her vivid characters jump off the page.

Romantic Times

The identity of the real killer comes as a smart surprise.

Publishers Weekly

LAST WRITES

Last Writes is sprightly and entertaining. I commend it to the attention of anyone wishing to be entertained.

Robert B. Parker, New York Times bestselling author

Hilarious and an absolute delight. I highly recommend this book if you want to laugh and enjoy a good read.

I Love a Mystery

THIS PEN FOR HIRE

Jaine has a sassy attitude and I look forward to her new adventures.

Deadly Pleasures

A fluffy, fun and fast read.

Library Journal

Laura Levines hilarious debut mystery, This Pen for Hire , is a laugh a page (or two or three) as well as a crafty puzzle. Sleuth Jaine Austens amused take on life, love, sex and LA will delight readers. Sheer fun!

Carolyn Hart

A cute premisea spunky heroinelots of smart-mouthing.

The Contra Costa Times

This Pen for Hire is as much about Jaine herself as about the mystery. Fans of Janet Evanovichs Stephanie Plum series will want to check her out.

The Mystery Reader

Books by Laura Levine

THIS PEN FOR HIRE

LAST WRITES

KILLER BLONDE

SHOES TO DIE FOR

THE PMS MURDER

Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

A J AINE A USTEN M YSTERY

Shoes to Die For

LAURA LEVINE

KENSINGTON BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

For Gracie,
and all the other treasured ladies
in my life.

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my editor extraordinaire, John Scognamiglio, for coming up with such a nifty title and murder weapon. To my agent Evan Marshall, for always being there when I need him. To Joanne Fluke, author of the delicious Hannah Swensen mysteries, for her many acts of kindness and generosity. To Carlos Marrero, for yet another eye-catching cover. To my wonderful husband Mark, for putting up with me all year. And finally, thanks to my cat, Mr. Guy, because he refuses to get off my computer until I thank him.

Contents

Chapter 1

T here are two kinds of people in L.A. Those who do lunch. And those who eat lunch. Those who do lunch talk to their agents and order things like ahi tuna and Chinese chicken salad. Those who eat lunch talk to a clown and order extra ketchup for their fries.

I am definitely one of the eat-lunchers, as anyone can tell from the impressive collection of fast food wrappers in my garbage can.

But on the day my story begins, I had broken ranks with my fellow slobs and was heading across town to do lunch with my neighbor Lance. It was warm and hazy, and as I drove east toward La Brea Avenue I could almost make out the Hollywood sign behind a curtain of smog.

La Brea Avenue is a hotbed of hipness in midtown Los Angeles. A onetime industrial street, its now dotted with boutiques and restaurants so cool they dont bother with signs out front. And it was to one of those restaurants, a place called Caf Ennui, that I was headed. Only I was having a hell of a time finding it.

Id driven up and down the stretch between Wilshire and Melrose at least three times and was about to give up when I saw a funky restaurant with a fifties diner table in the window. This must be it, I thought, as I parked my Corolla a few doors down. By now I was a good fifteen minutes late. I dashed into the restaurant, only to find that Lance wasnt there. I figured he was tied up with a demanding customer. Lance is a salesman at Neiman Marcus, in the designer shoe department. Or as Lance likes to say, I work in high heels.

I took a seat at the table in the window and glanced around the restaurant. The place was an eclectic mix of funky tables and chairs. I was surprised to see I was the only customer.

A skinny guy with a shaved head stood behind a counter and shot me an icy stare. Not exactly service with a smile. I waved him over. Reluctantly, he got off his stool and started across the room.

Hi, I chirped, trying my best to ignore his look of disdain. Do you think I could see a menu?

Sweetie, he snipped, this isnt a restaurant.

It isnt?

No, its a furniture store.

I looked around and for the first time noticed price tags dangling from the tables and chairs.

This isnt Caf Ennui?

Nooo, its not, he said slowly, as if talking to a three-year-old.

Then I guess you wont be getting a tip, I said, with a feeble smile.

He was not amused.

Caf Ennui is over there.

He pointed a bony finger across the street to a store-front with blackened windows. No wonder Id missed it. The place looked like it had gone out of business decades ago.

I slid out of my chair and, under the withering glare of my petulant furniture salesman, dashed across the street.

As it turns out, Caf Ennui was anything but abandoned. Behind the blackened windows sat a gaggle of people who looked like theyd just stepped out of a Banana Republic ad, sipping mineral water and nibbling on various forms of lettuce. The average waist-line hovered somewhere in the low twenties.

I looked around and spotted Lance. It was hard to miss him, with his headful of tight blond curls and lime green T-shirt. I hustled over to where he sat at a tiny table for two.

Sorry Im late, I said, plopping down into an uncomfortable metal chair, but I couldnt find the place. Do you realize the sign out front is the size of a postage stamp?

I know. They try to keep it exclusive. Even their phone number is unlisted.

Welcome to La La Land, where colonic irrigation parlors take out full-page ads in the Yellow Pages, but restaurants are unlisted.

Lance shot me a disapproving look.

Jaine, honey. Do you realize youre the only person in the restaurant wearing elastic-waist pants?

He was right, of course. The place was filled with perfect bodies in low-rider jeans and tank tops, slender midriffs exposed. And those were just the guys.

So what? I said, reaching for the menu. Am I going to be arrested by the pants police?

He shook his head and sighed.

I sighed, too, when I checked out the menu. What a disaster. All I saw was arugula and radicchio and baby vegetables. Not a calorie in sight. The most interesting thing on the menu was an old coffee stain.

Just when I was wondering if I could possibly convince Lance to ditch this place for a restaurant that served actual food, a sultry waitress with huge eyes and tiny boobs slithered up to us.

What can I get you today? she asked, with a brittle smile.

How about something from McDonalds?

No, I didnt really say that. What I said was: Got any burgers?

Weve got the ahi tuna burger with carmelized fennel.

Sounds mighty tempting, but Ill pass.

There was no way out of it. Id have to order a salad.

Ill have the turkey cobb.

Free-range turkey or regular? asked Ms. Sultry.

Regulars okay.

What kind of dressing? Raspberry vinaigrette, balsamic vinaigrette, or kiwi vinaigrette?

Surprise me, I said, throwing caution to the wind.

Ms. Sultry, who looked like her last lunch had been a line of cocaine, took Lances order and slinked away.

Really, Jaine, Lance said, eyeing my Dukakis for President T-shirt. Youre so hopelessly out of date. Dont you want to be hip?