by Laura Levine
Books by Laura Levine
THIS PEN FOR HIRE
LAST WRITES
KILLER BLONDE
SHOES TO DIE FOR
THE PMS MURDER
DEATH BY PANTYHOSE
CANDY CANE MURDER
KILLING BRIDEZILLA
KILLER CRUISE
DEATH OF A TROPHY WIFE
GINGERBREAD COOKIE MURDER
PAMPERED TO DEATH
DEATH OF A NEIGHBORHOOD WITCH
KILLING CUPID
DEATH BY TIARA
MURDER HAS NINE LIVES
DEATH OF A BACHELORETTE
DEATH OF A NEIGHBORHOOD SCROOGE
DEATH OF A GIGOLO
CHRISTMAS SWEETS
MURDER GETS A MAKEOVER
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
MURDER GETS A MAKEOVER
LAURA LEVINE
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2021 by Laura Levine
All 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.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2021936541
The K logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2813-5
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2813-0
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: October 2021
ISBN-13: 978-1-4967-2815-9 (ebook)
ISBN-10: 1-4967-2815-7 (ebook)
For Frank Mula,
my rescuing angel
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, major thanks to my editor, John Scognamiglio, for his unwavering faith in Jaine—and for coming up with both the title and the premise of this book. Merci beaucoup, John. You’re the best!
And kudos to my rock of an agent, Evan Marshall, for his much-appreciated guidance and support.
Thanks to Hiro Kimura, who so brilliantly brings Prozac to life on my book covers. To Lou Malcangi for another fantastic dust jacket design. And to the rest of the gang at Kensington who keep Jaine and Prozac coming back for murder and minced mackerel guts each year.
Special thanks to Frank Mula, treasured friend and man of a thousand jokes. To Mara and Lisa Lideks. And to Dorothy Howell, author of the very funny Haley Randolph mystery series, for her help wrangling Jaine’s parents in Tampa Vistas.
To Joanne Fluke for a killer blurb. To Mark Baker for sticking with me all these years. To my friends and family for your love and encouragement. And a great big XOXO to my readers. I’m grateful for every single one of you.
Finally, a heartfelt thanks to my amazing neighbors—Barbara Engel and Richard Thompson, Lauryn Saviero-Seibert, and Laura Burckhardt (and her roomies, Jen, Rachel, and Darby). I couldn’t have made it through the COVID pandemic without your extraordinary kindness and generosity. I hope by the time this book is in print, it will be safe to have you all over to my house for wine and fudge and socially un-distanced hugs!
Prologue
Sure, I’ve had my regrets:
My first (and only) bikini wax.
My first (and only) bikini.
Thinking a spin class would be fun.
Or hanging wallpaper would be easy.
Every blind date (and bathroom scale) I’ve ever been on.
All the naps I haven’t taken.
All the chocolate I haven’t eaten.
But they all pale in comparison to my disastrous decision to get a fashion makeover.
If only I’d stayed true to my elastic-waist pants and ketchup-stained sweats, I would never have wound up with a murder rap hanging over my head.
On the day it all began, I was at my computer, writing an ad for one of my biggest clients, Toiletmasters Plumbers, extolling the virtues of their double-flush commode. But it wasn’t easy. Not with my cat Prozac perched on my windowsill, hissing like an asthmatic radiator.
The object of her rancor was a particularly bushy-tailed squirrel scampering up my neighbor’s drainpipe. Prozac had been fixated on this critter for the past several days, going bonkers whenever she saw it.
“Prozac,” I snapped, after staring at the same sentence for fifteen minutes. “Stop that hissing right now!”
Ever cooperative, she stopped hissing. And started yowling instead.
“What is it with you?” I groaned. “It’s just a squirrel.”
She tore her eyes away from the window just long enough to shoot me a withering glare.
Just a squirrel? Can’t you see it’s an evil alien from the Planet Acorn, out to destroy democracy as we know it? Only I can save the world from total doom!
What can I say? My cat’s delusional. I didn’t name her Prozac for nothing.
So there I was, slaving away on Toiletmasters’ double-flush commode, wondering if I could trade in Prozac for a goldfish, when my neighbor Lance came knocking at my front door. I hustled him inside before Prozac had a chance to dash out and do battle with her acorn-loving nemesis.
“I’ve got fabulous news!” Lance gushed, sailing into my apartment in a designer suit, his blond curls moussed to perfection. “Bebe Braddock wants to give you a fashion makeover! ”
“Bebe who?”
“Bebe Braddock, stylist to the stars! She dresses all the A-list Hollywood celebrities, and she’s one of my most loyal customers at Neiman’s.”
The Neiman’s to which he referred was Neiman Marcus, the famed department store, where Lance is gainfully employed as a shoe salesman, fondling the tootsies of the rich and famous.
“Bebe wants to do a ‘Before & After’ makeover on her Instagram page, and I convinced her to use you! I told her what a fashion disaster you were!”
“Did you now? How very thoughtful.”
As usual, my sarcasm soared over his blond curls.
“No need to thank me, hon. That’s what friends are for. Anyhow, I showed her a picture of you in your CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS T-shirt, and she can’t wait to t
urn you from frumpy to fabulous.”
Frumpy? Who the heck was he calling frumpy?
“For your information, I happen to like the way I dress. It’s California Casual.”
“Only if you’re dumpster diving in Malibu. Seriously, Jaine. There are vultures circling over our duplex, waiting for your clothes to die.”
“Forget it. No way am I giving up my elastic-waist pants and cutting off the free flow of calories from my lips to my hips.”
Lance shook his head in disgust.
“I can’t believe you’re passing up this golden opportunity. Isn’t she crazy, Pro?”
Prozac, having abandoned her yowling to slither around Lance’s ankles, purred in agreement.
I’ll say. She doesn’t even believe in evil aliens from the Planet Acorn.
Lance took off in a cloud of disapproval, and the minute he was gone, Prozac jumped back up on the windowsill and resumed yowling.
Seeking refuge from the din, I headed out to the supermarket to stock up on fruits and vegetables. (Okay, peanut butter and Double Stuf Oreos.)
I drove over, still steaming at Lance. The nerve of that guy. Calling me a fashion disaster.
My thoughts about Lance were put on hold, however, when I pulled into the parking lot and saw a bunch of teenagers tossing empty soda cans into the trash. How irresponsible, when there was a clearly marked bin for recyclables right next to it.
Now I happen to care about the planet almost as much as I care about Double Stuf Oreos. So I marched over and started retrieving the cans from the trash.
Unfortunately, they were at the bottom of the bin, and I had to bend over quite a bit to reach them.
I was trying to fish them out when I felt someone tap me on the shoulder.
I turned around to see a distinguished old gent in tweeds and tasseled loafers.
“Here, my dear,” he said, holding out a twenty-dollar bill. “Use this to buy yourself something to eat. And bus fare to a homeless shelter.”
Good heavens! He thought I was homeless.
“No, no. You don’t understand, sir. I was trying to recycle.”
“This is no time for foolish pride, young lady. Just take the money and get yourself a hot meal. Maybe stop off at the Goodwill for a change of outfit, too.”
I stood there, dazed, as he walked away.
Then, for the first time that day, I took a good look at my outfit.
I flushed, ashamed, when I realized I could play connect-the-dots with the ketchup stains on my sweats.
Maybe Lance was right. Maybe it was time to update my look.
So I took out my cell and called him.
“Hey, Lance,” I said when he picked up. “It’s me, Jaine.”
And then I uttered those fateful words I’d soon live to regret:
“I think I’ll try that makeover after all.”
Chapter 1
A few days later, I set out from my duplex on the low-rent fringes of Beverly Hills and tootled over to Bebe’s spread in the posh neighborhood of Brentwood. It was a sprawling, cottage-like affair with a gabled roof and dormer windows, and its velvety lawn was abloom with roses, hydrangeas, and peonies the size of volleyballs.
All surrounded by a quaint picket fence.
Think Ozzie and Harriet on steroids.
Unlatching the picket gate, I made my way up a brick pathway to the front door, past a battalion of security signs warning would-be burglars of surveillance cameras and armed guards on call.
Awash in the scent of freshly mowed grass and newly minted money, I rang the bell, and seconds later, the door swung open to reveal a perfectly coiffed young guy in spotless jeans and a satin bomber jacket.
“Hi! You must be Jaine Austen. I’m Justin, Bebe’s personal assistant.”
Gaak! What a cutie. True, he was young enough to be my much younger and undoubtedly gay brother, but I couldn’t help noticing his full lips, luminous brown eyes, and a most captivating dimple on his left cheek.
“Bebe’s waiting for you out back in her studio,” he said, flashing me his dimple.
As I followed him inside past a huge living/dining/great room area, I saw the words TEAM BEBE embroidered on the back of his bomber jacket.
At last, we reached a Cordon Bleu–quality kitchen and headed outside into another floral wonderland.
“Hey, Felipe.” Justin waved to a gardener bent over a rosebush.
The gardener waved back with a grin, and Justin continued to lead me along a flagstone path to a studio at the back of the property.
We entered through a pair of open French doors into what I can only describe as an oversized walk-in closet—the walls lined with shelves, the shelves lined with designer purses, shoes, and accessories—and racks of dresses scattered everywhere.
Seated in the middle of it all at a sleek white desk was Bebe Braddock, a size-zero blonde, weighed down by a boatload of hair extensions.
Her face was flushed with anger as she shrieked into the phone.
“I’m tired of your excuses. Either pay me what you owe me or I’m going to sic a collection agency on you so fast your head will spin! Understood? . . . Okay. Bye, Mom.”
Wait, what? She was talking to her mother? What a dreadful woman!
She slammed down the phone, then lit up with pleasure at the sight of me.
“You’re Lance’s friend, Judy?”
“Actually, it’s Jaine.”
“Whatever. You’re perfect! Absolutely perfect!”
With that, she jumped up from her desk and gave me a hug, enveloping me in a cloud of industrial strength, migraine-inducing designer perfume—a cross between freesia and lemon-scented Pine-Sol.
“So lovely to meet you!” she gushed, gracing me with a big smile.
Maybe I’d misjudged her. Maybe she wasn’t so dreadful.
“Lance told me you were a fashion disaster, but I never dreamed you’d be this bad.”
Wait. What?
“I’ve seen actual train wrecks that look better than you!” she cackled.
Nope, she was dreadful, all right.
“And that hideous T-shirt! What does it say?”
“Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs,” I replied with as much dignity as I could muster.
Lance told me to dress casually. I’d debated between my I ♥ MY CAT T-shirt and CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS. But Cocoa Puffs won out in the end.
“This T-shirt happens to be a collector’s item.”
“Only if you’re a trash collector. Quick, Justin,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Take some ‘Before’ pictures!”
Justin whipped out his cell phone to snap some pictures.
I fumed as he snapped away.
“Great!” Bebe cried. “Make that ugly weasel face. It’s perfect! ”
Justin was finally through snapping pictures when Bebe declared, “If I have to look at that T-shirt one more minute, I may go blind.”
And before I knew it, she’d whipped off my precious tee, leaving me standing there in front of Justin in my bra. Which, I noticed with a gulp, had a rather large chocolate stain on one of the cups.
(I really had to stop eating ice cream in my underwear.) How mortifying, I thought, sneaking a peek at Justin. Thank heavens he was gay.
“Burn it,” Bebe said, tossing him my T-shirt.
“Hey, you can’t do that!” I protested, as he scooted out of the studio.
“Some day you’ll thank me,” Bebe said, with a most patronizing smile.
“Here.” She reached into a cardboard box on the floor and pulled out a TEAM BEBE bomber jacket. “Put this on.”
Then she pressed an intercom button on her desk and barked: “Heidi! Get in here! Stat!”
I was on the verge of telling Bebe exactly where she could shove her makeover when she yanked something from one of the clothing racks and held it out to me.
“This might work,” she mused.
It was a pale blue cashmere tunic, with tiny seed pearls at the neckline. I reached out to touch it. Never ha
d I felt anything so soft.
“Naturally, I’ll have to special-order it in your size. I don’t have anything larger than a four here in the studio.”
“Yes, please! Order it!” I said, overcome with cashmere lust.
I was standing there, thinking how cute my new sweater would look with skinny jeans when a plump, rosy-cheeked gal, clad in bib overalls and a TEAM BEBE bomber jacket, came rushing into the room.
“There you are, Heidi!” Bebe said. “It’s about time. Fashion emergency! Can you possibly do anything with this ghastly mop?”
She poked at my curls with a bony finger.
“Absolutely,” Heidi said, shooting me a sympathetic smile. “She’s got great hair. Nice and thick.” Her own glossy brown hair was cut in a perfect, shoulder-length bob. “What about makeup?”
“Try to highlight her cheekbones if you can find them. And get rid of that ugly brown mole on her chin.”
“That’s not a mole,” Heidi said, peering at my chin. “I think it’s chocolate.”
Bebe rolled her eyes in disgust. Before she could shoot me another zinger, a heavyset delivery guy came lumbering into the studio with a bunch of dresses in plastic wrap.
“Here’s your dry cleaning,” he announced.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Put it away.”
The delivery guy started hanging the dresses on one of the racks when Bebe shouted:
“How many times have I told you? No wire hangers!”
Holy moly. Joan Crawford was alive and well in Brentwood.
“Okay, honey,” he said, “just give me a minute, and I’ll switch ’em to wooden hangers.”
Honey? The dry cleaning guy called Bebe honey?
I waited for Bebe to lash out at him, but instead all she said was, “Miles, this is Jaine, that reclamation project I was telling you about. And Jaine, this is my husband, Miles.”
Huh? This mountain man was Bebe’s husband? Somehow I’d just assumed she’d be married to a Calvin Klein underwear model.
