Laura Levine - This Pen For Hire: A Jaine Austen Mystery (Jaine Austen Mysteries)

Thanks to my agent, Evan Marshall, and my editor, John Scognamiglio, for their faith and guidance. Thanks to my husband, Mark Lacter, for cheering me every step of the way. And finally, thanks to Mr. Guymy cat, and technical adviserwho saw to it that no cats were harmed in the writing of this novel.

W hen I wrote that letter for Howard, I hoped it would get him a date. I never dreamed it would get him arrested for murder.

I suppose I should tell you how Howard and I first met.

Id just stepped out of the shower one unseasonably warm February day, when I heard a soft scratching at the front door, like a dog pawing to be let in. I slipped into my pink silk kimono and padded across the living room, fluffing my hair en route.

I opened the door and saw that it was not a dog, but a human being. One of my clients. A first timer. This one was a geeky guy with slicked-down hair and white socks, a veritable poster boy for pocket protectors.

He stared down at my welcome mat, clearly embarrassed.

Its fifty dollars an hour, right?

Thats right, I said.

Ive never done anything like this before, he mumbled.

Thats okay, I said, ushering him inside. Theres nothing to be ashamed of. Take off your jacket and relax.

No, Im not a prostitute. Im a writer, which in Los Angeles is often the same thing. My name is Jaine Austen (my mother is an Anglophile, and a bad speller), and I run a writing service out of my apartment called This Pen for Hire. Catchy, isnt it? I used to come up with catchy names all the time back when I worked in advertising, before I woke up one morning and decided I no longer wanted to spend the rest of my life writing stories that ended in the words void where prohibited by law.

I write resumes. Letters. Brochures. And Personals ads. Lots of Personals ads. Maybe youve read my latest? Rap Papa Seeks Acrobatic Mama.

I dont usually greet clients in a kimono, but Howard Murdoch was a full hour early for his appointment. Hed called me that morning, having read my ad in the Yellow Pages. He told me that he needed me to write a letter.

I left him perched on the edge of a chair in the living room while I went to change into my official work clothes: elastic-waist pants and a T-shirt.

I came out from my bedroom to find him still precariously balanced at the edge of the chair. One stiff wind and hed be history.

Cmon, I said, leading him into my office suite, otherwise known as my dining room.

Have a seat, I said, gesturing to the dining table. Howard started for a chair, and I screeched in dismay.

Hey! Dont sit on my Prozac.

I scooped my cat Prozac off the chair Howard was about to sit in and tossed her in the kitchen. She glared at me balefully, then got revenge by leaping on top of the dryer, onto a pile of freshly folded laundry.

I turned to Howard and smiled my most encouraging smile.

So. You said over the phone that you wanted me to write a letter for you?

He blinked, as if hearing this news for the first time.

You did want me to write a letter, didnt you?

He picked at a scab on his knuckle. Thats right.

What kind of letter? A consumer complaint? The airlines lose your luggage? (I get a lot of those.)

No. He was staring down at my hardwood floors, avoiding my glance.

Look, Howard. I cant write a letter for you if you dont tell me what its about.

He mumbled something to one of the grooves in my hardwood floor. It sounded something like luvveter.

What?

At last, he looked up at me.

A love letter. I want you to write a love letter.

The words You have a girlfriend? shot out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I mean, you have a girlfriend! How nice! I added quickly, hoping he hadnt noticed my momentary lack of couth.

Not exactly.

Oh. Is it a boyfriend? Nothing wrong with that. Not at all.

No, no. Its a girl. Its just that shes not my girlfriend. In fact, Ive never actually spoken to her. But I know that I love her. With all my heart and soul.

Oh, jeez. I smiled woodenly. My first stalker.

So. Tell me. Who is she, this love of yours?

He whipped out a ragged newspaper clipping from his wallet and thrust it at me.

Her name, he said reverently, is Stacy.

I looked down at a picture of a lethal blonde in a black leotard. The caption read, S. Lawrence Named New Sports Club Aerobics Instructor.

She teaches aerobics at my gym.

Guys are amazing, arent they? You take your average geeky woman. Sure, she may fantasize about Tom Cruise, but does she actually expect to wind up dating him? Of course not. She knows shes going to wind up with a guy named Norm with love handles and hairy knuckles. Men, on the other hand, are totally delusional. Ill bet there are thousands of short, fat, bald guys convinced they could be dating Heather Locklear if only they knew her phone number.

I looked down at the blonde in the clipping, with her hard-as-nails eyes, deep tan, and perfect body. Poor Howard didnt stand a chance.

Look, Howard. Im not so sure its a wise idea to write a love letter to someone you dont even know.

It doesnt have to be a love letter, exactly. I want you to write her something that will make her want to date me.

You want a miracle? I thought. Go to Lourdes.

How about I write you a resume instead? You happy at your job?