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
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A Jaine Austen Mystery
PAMPERED to DEATH
LAURA LEVINE
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
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
Epilogue
Copyright Page
For my darling Gracie, in memory of her beloved “Vegas” Bob Kastner—IOV both forever.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I am enormously grateful to my editor John Scognamiglio for his unwavering faith in Jaine, and to my agent Evan Marshall for his valued guidance and support. Thanks to Hiro Kimura for making Prozac such a fabulous cover girl, and to Lou Malcangi for his eye-catching dust jacket.
Special thanks to Frank Mula, man of a thousand jokes. To Maxine Skolnick, for launching DaddyO’s political career. And to Joanne Fluke, who takes time out from writing her own bestselling Hannah Swenson mysteries to grace me with her insights and her brownies—not to mention a blurb to die for.
Thanks to Marshall Field and Amie “Simone” Norden, at the beautiful Burke Williams Spa in Santa Monica, whose seaweed wrap is sheer heaven and not the least bit fatal. To Leslee Matsushige at the Scripps Institute of Oceanography, for supplying me with fun facts about kelp. And to Mike Gargano at the Beverly Hills Country Club, for showing me how a “Fat Vat” works and who is in no way responsible for any errors I may have made in describing it.
To Ky and Jennifer at Bristol Farms in Westwood, two of the world’s finest (and friendliest) supermarket checkers. To Mark Baker, who was there from the beginning. And to John Fluke, product placement guru and all-around great guy.
A loving thanks to my friends and family for hanging in with me all these years. And a special shout out to all the readers who’ve taken the time to write me and/or show up at my book signings. Muchas, muchas gracias!
And finally, to my most loyal fan and sounding board, my husband Mark. I couldn’t do it without you.
Chapter 1
Driving with my cat Prozac gives new meaning to the words “hell on wheels.” On the day my story begins, she was at her very worst—crouched in her travel carrier on the passenger seat of my car, wailing at the top of her lungs.
Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?
Are we there yet?
And I hadn’t even put the key in the ignition.
“Can’t you please be quiet?” I begged.
She glared up at me from her deluxe sherpa-lined carrier and erupted in a fresh batch of wails.
This screeching would go on for hours, but I could not afford to let Prozac out of her carrier, not unless I was prepared to have her pee on the upholstery and do the cha cha on the gas pedal. I have learned from bitter experience—and near-fatal accidents—never to allow my frisky feline to roam free in a moving vehicle.
I did my best to tune her out as I started the car and focused on my destination. Believe it or not, I, Jaine Austen—a gal whose idea of a spa treatment is a soak in the tub with my good buddy Mr. Bubble—was headed up the California coast to The Haven, a swellegant spa for the rich and pampered.
This fabulous treat was a gift from my next door neighbor, Lance Venable. Mind you, Lance does not normally go around showering me with expensive gifts (or any gifts for that matter), but this was his way of thanking me for getting him off the hook for murder (a fascinating tale, which you can read all about in Death of a Trophy Wife, now available in paperback at all the usual places).
Not only did Lance foot the bill for an all-expenses-paid week at The Haven, he’d also forked over extra bucks so Prozac could stay with me.
A gesture I sorely wished he hadn’t bothered to make.
Still trying to tune out her piercing wails, I thought back to the day Lance had given me my gift.
We were sitting on his living room sofa, sipping Diet Cokes and snacking on corn chips.
“I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you to stop by,” he said.
“You got something stuck in your garbage disposal, and you want me to put my hand down to find it?”
One of his favorite requests.
“No, silly. I bought you a present!”
He reached behind a sofa cushion and took out a beautifully wrapped gift box. “Just a little something for saving my life.”
“You shouldn’t have, Lance,” I demurred. Of course I didn’t mean it. If it hadn’t been for me, he’d be sitting in jail in a most unflattering orange jumpsuit.
Eagerly I clawed at the box’s silk ribbons, hoping for a pair of dangly earrings or maybe a bottle of fancy perfume. Ripping it open, I peeked inside.
“Oh.” My smile froze. “A piece of paper. How nice.”
“Read it,” he said. “It’s a gift certificate to The Haven!”
“The Haven? Wow, that’s fabulous, Lance. Just terrific.”
“You have no idea what The Haven is, do you?”
“No,” I confessed.
“It’s only one of the most exclusive spas in the country. You’re going to spend an entire week lolling in the lap of luxury, having each and every one of your clogged pores deep-cleaned.”
I wasn’t so sure about the pore cleaning thing, but a week of lolling sounded darn good to me.
“Oh, Lance! How can I ever thank you?”
“You can start by passing me the chips.”
I passed him the bowl of of reduced-sodium, low-fat card-board posing as corn chips. Lance insists on eating all sorts of ghastly low-cal food, an enthusiasm I do not share. When it comes to calories, my motto has always been The More, the Merrier.
Eventually we polished off our Diet Cokes and I bid him a fond farewell.
“Next time I see you,” I promised, “I’ll have the cleanest pores in all of Los Angeles.”
And now, just days later, I was on my way to The Haven.
True, Prozac continued to whine nonstop for the next two hundred and thirty-seven miles. But I didn’t care. I was about to spend a week luxuriating in manis, massages, and poolside margaritas.
Or so I thought.
Little did I know that also on the schedule was a little thing called murder.
Chapter 2
At first glance, The Haven was indeed quite haven-ly. A sprawling Spanish style hacienda with red tile roof and magnificent arched windows, it stood beneath a canopy of pines, high in the hills of a rusti
c town on the central coast of California.
It was smaller than I’d expected, more like a private residence than a resort hotel.
But that made it all the more charming.
I pulled my Corolla into a gravel parking lot at the side of the house, and for the first time in hours, Prozac finally stopped wailing.
“We’re here, honeybunny!”
She glared up at me from her carrier.
I want a divorce.
With no parking attendant in sight, I grabbed Prozac’s carrier and my suitcase and made my way to the front door, stepping into a soaring two-story reception area. An elaborate wrought iron staircase wended its way to the second floor.
Nestled in a nook beside the staircase was the spa’s receptionist, a middle-aged woman who wore her graying blond hair in a thick braid down her back.
She was on the phone as I walked in, but mouthed that she’d be right with me.
“Our spa package starts at $400 a day,” she was saying to her caller, “depending on your accommodations.”
Four hundred bucks day? I almost fainted dead on the spot.
Apparently so had the caller.
“Yes, I know it’s a little high, but it’s well worth it . . . No, I’m afraid we don’t offer AARP discounts.”
While the receptionist yakked about shiatsu massages and aromatherapy, I took a look around. To my left was a dining room, set with crisp white linens, and to my right a spacious lounge with an exposed wood-beam ceiling and a fireplace big enough to park my Corolla.
“Well, give us a ring when you’re ready to make a reservation,” the receptionist said as she wrapped up her call, clearly unhappy to have let a customer slip through her fingers. Probably worked on commission.
Then she turned to me with a bright smile, the kind they teach you in Bed and Breakfast school.
“Welcome to The Haven!” When she got up to shake my hand, I saw she was nearly six feet tall, with the shoulders of a Valkyrie, a middle-aged poster girl for Triumph of the Will.
“I’m Olga Truitt, owner and proprietor.”
How odd that the owner was manning the reception desk. At a ritzy joint like this, I’d expect her to have minions aplenty to answer the phone.
“You must be Jaine. I recognized you from your Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs T-shirt. The fellow who made your reservations told me about your appalling taste in clothes.”
Okay, so she used the word eccentric instead of appalling, but I knew darn well what Lance must have told her. For some insane reason, Lance insists moths come to my closet to commit suicide.
“This must be your kitty,” she said, kneeling down to get a better look at Prozac. “Let’s get her out of that cage.”
“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I warned as Olga reached for the latch on the carrier. “I’m afraid she’s a little cranky right now.”
Which was, of course, the understatement of the millennium. At that moment Prozac was a cross between Godzilla and a Real Housewife of New Jersey.
“Don’t be silly,” Olga said, flipping open the latch.
I cringed in dismay as she reached inside, imagining her chiseled cheekbones criss-crossed with bloody scratches.
But Prozac, as she often is with strangers, was a perfect angel. She leaped into Olga’s arms like her long-lost daughter and stared up at her lovingly.
Thank heavens you’ve rescued me. You can’t imagine how this dreadful woman mistreats me.
“Somebody here could stand to lose a few pounds,” said Olga, bouncing her in her arms.
You’re telling me. You should see how she eats between meals. I’m surprised she can still fit into her elastic waist jeans.
“Let me show you to your room.” Olga lifted my heavy suitcase as if it were a feather duster.
With Prozac nestled in one arm and my suitcase in the other, she led the way down a hallway to a series of bedrooms at the rear of the house.
Once more I was puzzled. Since when do owners of fancy-dancy spas have to tote their guests’ suitcases? Don’t they have bellhops for stuff like that? And as we walked down the corridor, I couldn’t help but notice that the walls could have used a touch of fresh paint.
“We pride ourselves on a very intimate atmosphere here at The Haven,” Olga said, “catering to just a handful of guests.”
She stopped at one of the carved wooden doors along the hallway and opened it with an old fashioned key.
“Here we are,” she said, ushering me inside.
Aside from a slightly threadbare bedspread, it was a beautiful high-ceilinged room with a four-poster bed and antique armoire. A bowl of fresh-cut flowers graced a dresser, and gorgeous French doors led out to a screened-in patio.
“So what do you think of your home away from home?” Olga asked Prozac, plopping her down on the floor.
Prozac took an exploratory sniff or two, then looked up at the bed inquisitively.
What? No chocolates on the pillow?
Okay, I have no idea if that’s what Prozac was thinking, but I sure was. I happen to like the whole chocolate-on-the-pillow thing when I travel. It’s so much nicer than those silly free shower caps they give you that never even begin to cover your hair.
“Her litter box is out on the patio,” Olga informed me, “and her food and water bowls are in the bathroom. Why don’t you get settled, and then I’ll take you on a tour of the facilities. After that, it’s cocktail hour!”
She marched off with a cheery wave, her Valkyrie braid bouncing in her wake.
After she left, I checked out the bathroom, impressed with its mosaic tiles and claw footed bathtub. There, as promised, next to a pedestal sink, were a pair of earthenware bowls for Prozac.
Lance had assured me The Haven would provide the best in chow for both me and my hungry roommate.
And by now I was starving. I’d wanted to stop off for a burger on the drive up, but couldn’t possibly prolong the agony of Prozac’s wails.
I thought longingly of the gourmet food sure to come. I couldn’t wait to dig into the hors d’oeuvres at cocktail hour. What’s more, The Haven was a mere grape’s throw from the central California wineries, so I eagerly awaited a glass of nerve-soothing chardonnay to accompany my snacks.
After hanging my clothes in a closet that smelled of lavender and mothballs, I left Prozac sunning herself on the screened-in patio and set off for a tour of the facilities, counting the milliseconds till cocktail hour.
“This is my pride and joy!”
Olga and I were standing in the middle of a large vegetable garden at the back of the house.
“Aren’t they beautiful?” she asked, gazing lovingly at the beds of lettuce, carrots, zucchini, tomatoes, and herbs at her feet.
Not nearly as beautiful, in my humble op, as a sausage pizza dripping with cheese, but I nodded in agreement, faking a nature-loving smile.
“All the produce on our menu comes from right here in this garden.” She kneeled down to fondle a tomato. “It’s all organic of course. Nothing toxic ever goes near my little angels.”
She squeezed a leaf, and held it under my nose. A pungent aroma assaulted my nostrils.
“Cilantro. Isn’t it heavenly?”
Frankly, I’d smelled sweat socks with a nicer bouquet. But I forced another nature-loving grin.
Shooting one last tender glance at her “angels,” she resumed our tour, leading me out of the garden to the pool area at the rear of the house.
The pool was a vintage beauty, a turquoise gem bordered with vibrant Mexican tiles. Nearby, beneath the shade of a towering pine, a jacuzzi sent plumes of steam into the cool afternoon air.
Olga eyed a faded blonde who sat on a chaise reading a copy of People magazine, and said to me, “So far you and Ms. Kane are the only guests who’ve checked in. Let me introduce you.
“Hello, Cathy,” she called out, leading me over to my spamate, who looked up from her People with pale blue eyes. From the extra padding she sported around her hip/thigh zone, I figured she
was a fellow member of the Ben & Jerry Fan Club.
“I’d like you to meet our new arrival, Jaine Austen. This is Jaine’s first trip to The Haven.”
Cathy’s eyes lit up.
“Really? Me, too! I’ve been dreaming about coming here for years, and at last I finally made it!” She gazed in awe at her bucolic surroundings. “You’re going to just love everything, Jaine! Olga took me on the tour earlier. It’s all so fabulous!”
At four hundred bucks a day, I thought, it darn well better be.
“See you later for cocktails, Cathy,” Olga said. “Time to finish showing Jaine around.”
And she was just about to lead me away, when a breathy voice trilled out behind us, “Yoo hoo! Olga, honey!”
We turned to see a stunning tawny-haired woman sweeping down the path with what looked like a fur muffler in her arms.
“Omigosh!” Cathy gasped, fanning herself with her People . “Isn’t that Mallory Francis, the movie star?”
Olga’s face clouded over.
“Well, she’s not exactly a star,” she muttered. “The woman hasn’t been in a hit film in years.”
True, but thanks to a series of high profile divorces and a centerfold in Playboy, Mallory Francis had been constant tabloid fodder and the star of many a Lifetime movie, not to mention her own highly-rated reality show, Mad About Mallory .
Like Cathy, I’d recognized her right away.
Now she came gliding over, a vision in tight white jeans and halter top, her creamy skin spray tanned to perfection.
Perched in the crook of her arms was not a muffler, after all, but a wiry Pekinese whose huge brown eyes glittered with malice.
“Olga, honey,” Mallory cried. “So wonderful to see you! Armani,” she prompted her pooch, “give Olga-Wolga a gweat big kiss.”
The peke let out an ominous growl, baring a set of rather terrifying little fangs.
“Bad doggie,” Mallory chided, her mouth puckered in mock disapproval.
Stifling what I was certain was a growl of her own, Olga managed a stiff smile. “Welcome back to The Haven, Mallory.”
