by Laura Levine
And speaking of happy couples, you’ll never guess who kissed and made up on the flight back home to Seattle? That’s right, Nancy and David—the battling Bickersons from my class. David wrote me a letter of apology for yelling at me at the pier in Puerto Vallarta. He said that, thanks to having aired their repressed resentments in my class, he and Nancy are now happier than ever.
(What’s more, he’s actually proud of the fact that Kenny’s YouTube video of their fight has scored over two million hits.)
As for Irritating Rita? She really did try to sell my autographed cocktail napkin on eBay—and had the nerve to start the bidding at fifty cents! There was only one bidder, some sap who wound up paying three bucks. I should be getting it in the mail any day now.
On the home front, you’ll be happy to know that Ricardo did a very nice job painting my apartment. True, my first choice in colors would not have been “Tropical Orange,” but I’ve cleverly toned it down by wearing sunglasses indoors.
Lance is dating Jean-Paul, the baker he met while planning “our” wedding. I sure hope it lasts. The guy’s éclairs are to die for.
For some insane reason, despite phone calls and e-mails to the contrary, Mom refuses to believe that Lance is really gay. According to her, it’s just a phase. Having convinced herself that we’re bound to eventually tie the knot, she went ahead and ordered me a wedding dress from The Shopping Channel. It’s a genuine Vera Wang knockoff. Only $89.95 plus shipping and handling.
Of course, you’re probably wondering whatever happened to my relationship with Robbie. Me, too. I haven’t seen him since the cruise. It turns out that his little surfboard business isn’t so little after all. It’s what you (and Fortune magazine) might call one of California’s most successful privately owned corporations.
One week after we got back from the cruise he took off to oversee the opening of his new San Diego offices and wound up staying there for three months. He finally got back last week and called me.
The good news is, I’m seeing him tomorrow. The bad news is, we’re going snorkeling.
Well, gotta run. Her royal highness needs her back scratched.
Catch you next time.
PS. You’re not going to believe this, but Samoa’s book actually got published! According to the New York Times Book Review, Do Not Distub is “a classic example of absurdist literature at its most absurd.” What’s more, it’s soon to be a major motion picture, starring Antonio Banderas as Samoa Huffington III.
Freelance writer Jaine Austen is moving on up! A cushy new advertising gig promises champagne wishes and caviar dreams, but Jaine soon discovers she’s not the only one in town who’s making at killing…
Without a job or a date in sight, Jaine is equally out of luck in finance and romance. So when her friend Lance offers to treat her to brunch at the Four Seasons, Jaine leaps at the chance like a fashionista at a pair of half-price Louboutins. They’ve barely made it through the menu when Lance spots his friend Bunny. Dressed like a million bucks—and probably worth twice that—Bunny is the new trophy wife of mattress maven Marvin Cooper.
When Bunny generously offers Jaine a gig writing Marv’s new advertising campaign, Jaine accepts the job and an invitation to her upcoming soirée. But at the party Bunny cruelly rules the Cooper mansion with a fist full of martinis, abusing terrified staff and her browbeaten husband alike. It seems like this society girl could use a good kick in the assets. Indeed, before the evening is over, someone poisons the D-cup diva. Dead must be the new black.
The police arrest Lance, but Jaine knows his murderous urges end at her closet door. She sets out to clear his name and discovers a list of suspects longer than Bunny’s credit card bill. Did Mattress Marv get tired of his little bunny hopping into another man’s bed, or did a jealous boy toy fix her a fatal cocktail? Marv’s ex-wife Ellen has plenty of motives for murder, as does Bunny’s harassed maid Lupe. Or was it Bunny’s seething stepdaughter who sent her to that Great Shopping Mall in the Sky?
Jaine is running out of time. Jobless, Lance is losing his mind and taking it out on Jaine’s apartment, wardrobe, and indignant cat Prozac. And before Jaine can say 9021-Oh-no, someone else is murdered. Between a house guest that won’t leave, a suitor-turned-stalker, and a killer on the loose, Jaine’s jackpot may turn out to be fool’s gold.
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
DEATH OF A TROPHY WIFE
Coming in May 2010!
Prologue
It was Sunday morning and all across Los Angeles, the sun was shining, palm trees were swaying, and birds were tweeting their little hearts out. Yes, it was a picture-perfect day in L.A. Except for one tiny part of town where storm clouds had descended and showed no signs of dissipating:
My apartment.
Here at Casa Austen, it was definitely monsoon season.
If, as my good buddy Siggy Freud once said, the two most important things in life were work and love, I was in deep doo doo. It had been weeks since my last freelance writing assignment. And the only men in my life were my longtime companions, Ben and Jerry, who were, in fact, keeping my company that very moment as I soaked in the tub.
With a sigh, I reached for a towel to wipe the fog from my sunglasses.
Why, you ask, was I wearing sunglasses in the tub? It’s a long, ghastly story (one you can read all about in Killer Cruise, now available wherever fine paperbacks are sold), but thanks to a recent visit from my parents, my walls were painted a hideous shade of Tropical Orange.
Oranges are an excellent source of Vitamin C, but trust me, you don’t want them on your walls. And in the confines of my tiny bathroom, they were particularly blinding. I yearned to hire a painter to get rid of the mess, but no way was that going to happen, not with my checkbook on life support.
I gazed up at my cat Prozac who was sprawled out on the toilet tank.
“Oh, Pro,” I moaned. “Life stinks.”
“Cheer up, kiddo.”
These comforting words did not come from Prozac, who was engrossed in a thorough examination of her privates, but from my next door neighbor Lance. Due to our paper-thin walls, and the fact that Lance can hear toilets flushing in Pomona, Lance is practically my roommate.
“Get out of that tub, lazybones,” he shouted. “I’m taking you to brunch.”
“But, Lance,” I said, eyeing the remains of my Chunky Monkey breakfast, “I just ate.”
“That never stopped you before.”
“Forget it. I am not about to stuff myself right after breakfast.”
“I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”
“Make it ten,” I sighed, unable to resist the lure of free calories.
I dragged myself out of the tub and threw on some elastic-waist jeans and a T-shirt. An outfit that failed to impress when Lance showed up at my apartment.
“My god, Jaine!” he gasped. “I’ve seen homeless people in nicer clothes.”
Of course he has. Lance worked as a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus in the heart of Beverly Hills, where even the homeless wear designer labels.
“Thanks,” I snapped. “You look lovely, too.”
And in fact, he did look rather spiffy in perfectly creased chinos and a country club sports jacket, his tight blond curls gleaming with expensive goop.
“Sweetie,” he chided, “you can’t wear that outfit to The Four Seasons.”
“The Four Seasons? But that place is nosebleed expensive.”
“Not to worry, hon. My treat. I’ve been racking up sales like crazy lately. Neiman’s is even talking about making me a buyer.”
“Congratulations!” I said, happy that at least one of us was doing well.
“C’mon.” He marched me to my bedroom. “Let’s find you something decent to wear. You can’t be seen in public in that outfit. Or in private, for that matter.”
For some insane reason, Lance is convinced I am fashion-challenged, insisting that moths come to my closet to commit suicide.
Gaaack!”
he cried, holding up a perfectly serviceable polka-dot polyester dress. “I may go blind!”
Ignoring my dagger glares, he rifled through my hangers and handed me a pair of simple gray slacks.
“But it doesn’t have an elastic waist.”
“So?”
“I can’t wear a set-in waist to brunch. How am I supposed to go back for seconds?”
“You’re not. Put ’em on. And this blouse, too.”
I stomped off to the bathroom, where I donned my Lance-approved outfit.
“Much better,” he said, when I presented myself for inspection.
“Thank you, your grace.”
“Of course your hair’s a mess,” he said, eyeing my mop of curls swept up in a scrunchy. “But I don’t have the energy to deal with that now.”
Thank heavens for small favors.
“Let’s go,” he said, leading the way out to the living room.
“Bye, honey,” I called to Prozac who had resumed her perusal of her privates on the sofa. “We’re off to brunch.”
She looked up at me in that loving way of hers that could mean only one thing:
Bring back crab cakes.
Then I grabbed my purse and headed out the door on that glorious Sunday morning, little dreaming that my personal storm cloud was headed straight for Lance.
Chapter 1
Brunch at the Four Seasons is like the Garden of Eden with mimosas.
Tucked way in a lushly landscaped courtyard, the restaurant is cut off from most mere mortals by a carefully tended jungle of tropical vines and gaspworthy prices. Tables are set with white linens and silver fit for a bridal registry. Stunning actor-waiters flit about refilling coffee cups as well-modulated birds chirp soothingly in the trees.
Lance and I had been seated at a cozy table for two, and were now sipping mimosas in the dappled sun, breathing in the heady aroma of gardenias.
Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all.
“Ready to hit the buffet table?” Lance grinned.
When it comes to buffet tables, I’m always ready.
We got up from our seats and headed inside, where a lavish feast was laid out. Lord, what a spread. It was probably a good thing Lance made me leave my elastic-waist pants at home. I really couldn’t afford to pig out. I’d just take some fruit and a blueberry muffin. And a smidgeon of lobster frittata. And maybe a tad of ham. And a dab of hash. And gosh, those omelettes looked good—
You can see where this is going, can’t you?
When I was all done, I practically needed a forklift to carry my plate.
Needless to say, Mr. Goody Two Shoes had just an omelette and a few shards of fruit. Which, if you ask me, was a ridiculous waste of money. I mean, why pay a small fortune for an all-you-can-eat brunch when you’re hardly going to eat anything?
“Hey, look,” he said as we headed back outside with our plates. “There’s one of my customers.”
“Where?”
“Over there. The gal at the corner table.” He nodded to a primo table, where a striking redhead was engrossed in conversation with a tubby bald guy. Something about the guy looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.
“That’s Bunny and Marvin Cooper,” Lance said as we took our seats. “They’re swimming in money. He owns a chain of mattress stores.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, squinting at the guy. “Isn’t he Marvelous Marv, the Mattress King?”
“None other.”
No wonder he looked familiar. I’d seen him in dozens of tacky late-night commercials, wearing a crown and hawking his line of mattresses that were “fit for a king.”
“He and Bunny got married last year. It was the go-to wedding on the Beverly Hills party circuit.”
“Isn’t she a little young for him?” I asked.
Indeed, Marvin had to be pushing sixty, while Bunny couldn’t have been more than thirty. Tops.
“Trophy wives usually are,” Lance said, checking out his reflection in a shiny Four Seasons silver knife. “It’s a classic rags to bitches story. Struggling actress auditions for cheesy mattress commercial. Mattress mogul falls head over heels in love and dumps his wife of thirty years to marry her. Struggling actress now performing nightly on Mattress King mattress.”
Men are such idiots, n’est-ce pas? I’d bet dollars to donuts Marvin Cooper had left a perfectly lovely woman, all for a pair of perky double D’s.
“Bunny and I met about a month ago,” Lance said, spearing a piece of honeydew, “when she came to Neiman’s to buy a pair of shoes. We bonded over a pair of Manolos, and now she’s my best customer. We’ve even gone shopping together a couple of times. Her taste is a bit Fredericks of Hollywood for me, but it’s fun tooling around in her Maserati. Anyhow, she’s the reason my sales are going through the roof.”
“Here’s to Bunny,” I said, lifting my glass in a toast. “Long may she buy.”
“To Bunny,” Lance said, clinking my glass.
“Oh, look, she sees you.”
Indeed, Bunny had spotted Lance and was now jumping up from her seat and heading in our direction.
Showgirl tall with a hubba-hubba bod, she was poured into designer jeans and a tank top so tight I could practically read the washing instructions on her bra. Her flaming red hair tumbled down past her shoulders in a cascade of carefully tousled extensions. Every eye on the patio was on her as she sashayed toward us in her $700 Manolos.
Lance got up to greet her.
“Bunny, sweetheart!” he cooed, giving her an air kiss.
“Lance, darling! How’s my favorite shoe guru? How much fun to run into each other like this! You look fab as usual.”
“You too, doll.”
“Really? You don’t think the bracelet’s too much?” she asked, waving mineful of diamonds on her wrist.
“On you, anything looks good.”
“You shameless flatterer! That’s why I love you, darling.”
For the first time, she turned to look at me, hitting me with a blast of designer perfume.
“Who’s your friend?”
“Bunny, this is my next door neighbor Jaine.”
“She sure does eat a lot, doesn’t she?”
Okay so she didn’t really say that, but I could tell that’s what she was thinking by the way she was eyeing my plate.
“Jaine’s a writer.”
“Really?” Her eyes lit up, impressed. Most people are impressed when they learn I’m a writer.
“Yes, she wrote In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters!”
That’s usually when people stop being impressed.
But Bunny didn’t seem to mind that my creative muse came from a commode.
“It just so happens my husband is looking for someone new to write his commercials. You think you’d be interested?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why don’t you two drop by the house this afternoon, and I’ll introduce you.”
“That’s awfully nice of you.”
“It is, isn’t it?” she said, with a toss of her fabulous mane. “Well, must dash. You know the address, Lance, honey. Oh, and don’t forget to bring your bathing suits. We’ll be hanging out at the pool.”
Bathing suits? My fork froze en route to my mouth. If there are two things in this world I don’t do, it’s rice cakes and bathing suits.
“Sure thing, Bunny,” Lance cried, as she skipped off.
“Forget it,” I said the minute she was gone. “I’m not going. No way are me and my thighs appearing in public in a bathing suit.”
“Okay, just tell her you forgot to bring one. But you’ve got to go. You can’t afford to pass up the Mattress King account.”
He was right. At this point, I couldn’t afford to pass up anything with a paycheck involved.
Of course, if I’d known there was going to be a dead body involved, too, I would’ve stayed home and hopped right back in the tub.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
> 119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2009 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.
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ISBN: 978-0-7582-5769-7
