Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery)

by Levine, Laura

  Surely I could live without white chocolate macadamia nut fudge.

  Couldn’t I?

  Oh, please. We all know the answer to that one.

  “So,” Joy asked, popping another chocolate in her mouth. “Is it a deal?”

  “It’s a deal.”

  And that, in a macadamia nutshell, was how I came to sell my soul to the Matchmaker from Hell.

  “You’ll start tomorrow at nine,” Joy commanded. “I want you to hang out at the office for a few days to get the picture of how I work.”

  I’d get the picture, all right.

  And trust me, it was not a pretty one.

  Riding up the elevator in Joy’s office building the next morning, I found myself elbow to elbow with a gal who looked like she just stepped out of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Pouty lips. Eensy waist. And boobs that made it onto the elevator a good thirty seconds before she did. Surely she wasn’t going to see Joy. A woman like that needed help finding a date like I needed help finding the cookie aisle in the supermarket.

  But much to my surprise, when she got out of the elevator, she trotted straight to Joy’s Pepto-Bismol door.

  I followed her inside and blinked in surprise to see the reception area was crammed with stunning guys and gals.

  “I’m here for the casting session,” Ms. Secret told Cassie, who was seated at her desk, a skull and crossbones barrette adorning her bright purple hair.

  A casting session, huh? I figured Joy was looking for models to use in her new brochure.

  “Take a seat in the photo studio,” Cassie told Ms. Secret, pointing to a large room adjacent to the reception area. I peeked inside and saw about a dozen other Beautiful People sitting around, chatting among themselves and gazing at their own head shots with unabashed admiration.

  “Hi, Jaine,” Cassie said, catching sight of me. “Joy will be tied up for a while. Until she’s free, she wants you to work with Travis.”

  She pointed to the bow-tied geek I’d noticed yesterday.

  “I’m supposed to show you our Web site,” he said, pulling up a chair for me next to his computer.

  “So what’s going on?” I asked with a nod to the beautiful people. “Is Joy casting models for the brochure?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He glanced at Joy’s door, as if to make sure she wasn’t listening.

  “Remember the date book you saw yesterday? With pictures of Joy’s clients? Well, hardly any of the people in that book are actual clients. Most of them are models or actors. Every once in a while Joy holds a phony casting session, pretending she’s going to shoot a TV commercial. All the models and actors leave their headshots, and then Joy puts them into her date book.”

  “No way!”

  “That’s how she reels in the new clients,” he nodded.

  “What about all her movers and shakers? And her celebrity clients?”

  Cassie, who had been listening in, now turned around, guffawing. “Are you kidding? The closest we ever got to a celebrity was when Reese Witherspoon’s maid came looking for Ellman’s Upholsterers next door.”

  “My job is to scan the headshots and put them on the Web site,” Travis explained. “And Joy wants you to write phony bios to go along with the pictures.”

  “Phony bios? She never told me about that yesterday.”

  “There’s lots of things Joy never tells you,” Travis said with a bitter laugh. “Like how she expects you to pick up her dry cleaning on weekends.”

  “Or get her Thai food at one in the morning,” Cassie chimed in.

  I bristled in annoyance.

  If Joy thought I was going to compromise my integrity by writing phony bios to lure in unsuspecting clients, she had another think coming. We Austens have our principles. I’d simply tell her it was no dice.

  But then I remembered the stack of unpaid bills multiplying like rabbits on my dining room table.

  Oh, well. What harm could it do to write a few teensy bios? After all, surely Joy had some legitimate clients, people whose lives she actually improved.

  “So where are Joy’s actual clients?” I asked.

  “Here they are,” Travis said, clicking open another file.

  Suddenly his computer screen was filled with real human beings, people with thinning hair and thick waists, with noses and breasts that had never seen a surgeon’s knife. All of them smiling into the camera with a look of hopeful desperation in their eyes.

  Travis was scrolling from one photo to the next when he stopped at a photo of a truly lovely woman. A fragile wisp of a thing with startling blue eyes and a nimbus of silken blond hair framing a perfectly chiseled Grace Kelly face.

  “Who’s she?” I asked, assuming she was a model mistakenly stuck in the Real People file.

  “She used to be a client,” Travis said.

  “What a beauty.”

  “She sure was,” Cassie echoed, swiveling around in her chair and staring down at Travis’s computer screen.

  “She dropped out of the club years ago,” Travis said. “But Joy keeps her photo on the site to lure in the new clients.”

  We continued scrolling through real clients, uncovering some genuinely attractive daters here and there, but they were few and far between.

  Meanwhile, the model/actors continued to stream in and out of Joy’s office, leaving their head shots with Cassie.

  “Ta ta!” Joy would trill in her phony British accent as each hopeful left. “I’ll let your agent know as soon as I make up my mind.”

  “As if that’s ever going to happen,” Travis muttered.

  “I don’t suppose Joy’s really British?” I asked after one particularly hammy “Ta ta!”

  Travis and Cassie had a hearty chuckle over that one.

  “Are you kidding?” Cassie smirked. “Her real name is Joy Woznowski. And she was born in the Bronx. Which I know for a fact because I’ve snooped at her passport.”

  Having exposed Joy for the utter phony she was, Cassie swiveled back to her desk, while Travis and I returned to the Web site. Travis was pointing out which bios Joy wanted me to write when suddenly what seemed like a minor hurricane erupted from Joy’s office.

  Joy came storming out into the middle of the reception area, tottering on her tiny heels, her face purple with rage.

  “Who ate my chocolate?” she screeched, holding out her box of Godivas.

  The remaining models looked at each other, unnerved.

  “One of them is missing!” Joy stomped around the room, shoving the box under everyone’s nose. The models. Cassie. Travis. And moi, her gaze lingering for an uncomfortable beat on my thighs.

  “Which one of you took it? Huh? Huh? Huh?”

  At this point one of the models, a skittish young thing in leather pants and a tank top, grabbed his portfolio and scooted out the door.

  “If I find out you did it, you’ll be in big trouble!” Joy shouted out after him.

  “There were six chocolates in the box,” she said, turning back to the rest of us. “And now there are only five! See?”

  She started counting out the chocolates in the box.

  “One ... two ... three ... four ... five ...”

  Then she looked down and saw what we all saw: The sixth chocolate.

  You’d think she would have been embarrassed. But no. Hurricane Joy, having spent all her venom, just shrugged and said, “Never mind.”

  As she tottered back into her office, the models broke out in a chorus of nervous whispers. But Travis and Cassie just rolled their eyes.

  “This happens all the time,” Cassie said with a shrug.

  Holy mackerel. And I thought I was a chocoholic.

  I trudged up the path to my duplex in the slums of Beverly Hills, a modest pocket of no-frills dwellings far from the mega-mansions north of Wilshire Boulevard. I was still shuddering at the memory of Hurricane Joy when Lance came bounding out from his apartment.

  “So did you get the job?” he asked, his eyes lighting up at the sight of me. />
  “Yeah, I got it,” I sighed.

  “Great!” he beamed, ignoring the cloud of gloom hovering over my head. “Now you can have Joy fix me up on a date.”

  “Forget it, Lance. The woman is a crook. She pads her client list with models and actors who don’t even belong to the club. Most of the guys who do belong are a lot older and paunchier than you. I saw a grand total of five attractive male clients on her active client list, only one of whom was gay. And he lived in Rancho Cucamonga with six cats and a Maserati.”

  “A Maserati, huh? Works for me! So set me up with an appointment ASAP.”

  “I’m not setting you up with an appointment. Joy’s fees start at ten grand a year, and there’s no way you can afford that.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  And with a sly look, a lot like Prozac’s just before she’s about to pounce on a cashmere sweater, he trotted off into the night.

  Back in my apartment, I checked my messages, praying that an assignment had come in from one of my regular clients. Eagerly I scanned my e-mails for a note from Toiletmasters (Flushed with Success Since 1995!) or Tip Top Cleaners (We Clean for You. We Press for You. We Even Dye for You!) or Ackerman’s Awnings (Just a Shade Better). But alas, my in-box was depressingly devoid of job orders.

  For the time being, it looked like I was stuck with the Godiva Godzilla.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Exciting News!

  Exciting news, honey! I just ordered the most adorable Georgie O. Armani jacket from the shopping channel. Lipstick red with white piping. It’ll be perfect for Valentine’s Day. Daddy is taking me to dinner at Le Chateaubriand, Tampa Vistas’s most elegant restaurant. Daddy promised he’d make the reservations today. He’s probably getting me what he always gets me for Valentine’s Day: a dozen roses and a bottle of Jean Naté. I’m getting him something he saw on an infomercial, some crazy gadget called a Belgian Army Knife. I wanted to buy him a watch from the shopping channel, but no, he had to have that silly Belgian Army Knife. He insists he can’t live without it.

  But enough about Daddy. Here’s the really exciting news. Guess who’s moved to Tampa Vistas. Lydia Pinkus’s brother, Lester. You remember Lydia Pinkus, don’t you, honey? One of my dearest friends and the president of the Tampa Vistas Homeowners Association. Anyhow, her brother is the most charming man, a retired physics professor, a world traveler, and a former amateur boxer. And so distinguished. He looks just like the doctor on the Lipitor commercials!

  He’s staying with Lydia until he can find a townhouse of his own. And today he’s taking me and Lydia and Edna Lindstrom to lunch at the clubhouse. Isn’t that the sweetest thing ever?

  Must run and get dressed.

  Love and XXX,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Horrible News!

  Horrible news, Lambchop. Lydia Pinkus’s brother, a retired physics professor, has moved to Tampa Vistas. What an insufferable gasbag. Yapping about black holes and antiquarks and bragging about how he used to be an amateur boxer. Big deal. I used to be on the varsity Ping-Pong team in college, but you don’t catch me bragging about it.

  It’s bad enough having to put up with that battle axe Lydia. Now I have to put up with her gasbag brother, too. He’s taking your mom and Edna Lindstrom to lunch at the clubhouse today. Thank God I don’t have to go, too. If I had to hear one more story about quantum chromodynamics or the time Lester sparred with Sugar Ray Leonard, I swear I’d conk out head first in my chicken noodle soup.

  But on the plus side, Lambchop, your mom is getting me a fantastic gift for Valentine’s Day. A genuine Belgian Army Knife. It’s just like a Swiss Army knife, only it comes with a built-in callus remover—and a free recipe for Belgian waffles!

  More later. Gotta call and make reservations for Valentine’s dinner at Le Chateaubriand. It’s Tampa Vistas’s most exclusive restaurant, you know.

  Love ’n’ hugs from,

  Daddy

  P.S. I think Lester Pinkus has a “thing” for your mom. I’ve caught him staring at her when he thought I wasn’t looking.

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Silliest Thing You Ever Heard

  Forgot to tell you, sweetheart. Daddy thinks Lester Pinkus has a crush on me. Isn’t that the silliest thing you ever heard?

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Gasbag Romeo

  Unsettling news, Lambchop. I just happened to be walking by the clubhouse restaurant a while ago, and you’ll never guess what I saw! Lester Pinkus holding hands with your mom! What did I tell you? I knew that gasbag Romeo was up to no good!

  Love ’n’ snuggles from

  Your very irate,

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: The Death of Me Yet

  I swear, honey, your father will be the death of me yet. He thinks Lester Pinkus and I were holding hands in the clubhouse dining room! Of all the absurd ideas! It turns out Lester studied palm reading in Nepal (such a multi-talented man!) and was giving us all palm readings. He told Edna she had an extra-long life line, and saw wonderful things in her future. She was so excited, she almost forgot to go back for seconds at the buffet. Anyhow, just as it was my turn to get my palm read, Daddy showed up. He claims he just happened to be walking by. Oh, puh-leese. I know your Daddy, and he was spying on us! Now he thinks Lester Pinkus was holding my hand!

  I can’t write any more now, darling. I’m way too upset.

  Yours, desperately in need of Oreos—

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Sadly Mistaken

  If Lester Pinkus thinks he can woo your mother away from me, he’s sadly mistaken. I still haven’t gotten around to making those reservations at Le Chateaubriand, but when I do, I’m going to get the best table in the house and show your mom what a true Romeo is made of.

  XXX,

  Daddy

  P.S. Did I tell you my Belgian Army Knife comes with built-in nose hair trimmers? Cool, huh?

  Chapter 3

  The Case of the Missing Godiva was just a taste of things to come. Life with Joy, as I was about to discover, was one constant hissy fit.

  Over the next few days I watched in dismay as she ran roughshod over her staff, screeching at Cassie for not answering the phone fast enough and bringing her Sweet’n Low instead of Splenda for her coffee. Afraid of identity theft, she was constantly changing her AOL password, and then screaming at Travis when she couldn’t remember it.

  But the minute a client walked through the door, she was sweet as pie, Mother Teresa in Manolos.

  My second day on the job, I got to see her in action with a new client.

  I was in Joy’s office, listening to her ramble on about her matchmaking triumphs and, not incidentally, thinking about the e-mails I’d received from my parents that morning.

  For those of you who haven’t already met them, you should know that my parents are disaster magnets of the highest order. Wherever they go, catastrophe seems to follow. Although Mom, a confirmed TV shopaholic, is not without her quirks, Daddy is the family’s designated crazymaker. I swear, he can take an ordinary day and turn it into a headline on the evening news. Poor Mom deserves a Congressional Medal of Honor for putting up with him all these years. I sincerely doubted Lester Pinkus had a crush on Mom. Just another case of Daddy’s imagination running wild.

  I was sitting there, hoping Daddy would come to his senses without too much collateral damage, when Cassie poked her head in the door.

  “Someone to see you, Joy. He says he’s interested in joining the club.”

  Immediately Joy morphed into Queen Mum mode.

  “How teddibly nice to meet you,” she said as Cassie ushered in a short, past
y-faced gnome of a guy, all spiffed up in brown shoes, white socks, and his Sunday best pocket protector.

  His name, embroidered on his company work shirt, was Barry.

  Joy sat him down in one of her fussy Marie Antoinette chairs.

  “So how can I help you ... Barry?” she asked, reading his name off his chest.

  Barry smiled shyly, revealing a most disconcerting gap between his two front teeth, then launched into a heartrending tale of his non-existent love life.

  “I haven’t had a date since high school,” he confessed, “when my mother made me take my cousin to the senior prom.”

  “You poor darling,” Joy tsked, fake empathy oozing from every pore.

  “I’ve tried all the online dating services, and never got chosen once, except by a woman named Brandy, who said she charged a hundred dollars an hour. But for me, two hundred.”

  “Why, that’s disgraceful!” The Queen Mum was outraged. “These online dating services are nothing but a waste of money. You don’t want a silly computer trying to find you a date. You need the personalized services of an expert matchmaker.” At which point she launched into her spiel about coming from a long line of matchmakers dating back to Charlemagne. (When last I’d heard that whopper, it was Henry VIII. Somehow she’d managed to add a few extra limbs to her family tree.)

  Barry sat there with his mouth open, entranced by her every word.