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
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A Jaine Austen Mystery
DEATH OF A NEIGHBORHOOD SCROOGE
LAURA LEVINE
KENSINGTON BOOKS
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
Epilogue
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2018 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: 2018932861
Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-0849-6
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: October 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0851-9
eISBN-10: 1-4967-0851-2
Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2018
For my readers,
XOXO
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, a big shout out to my editor extraordinaire, John Scognamiglio, for his unwavering faith in me and Jaine—and for his never-ending supply of terrific story ideas.
And kudos to my rock of an agent, Evan Marshall, for always being there for me with his guidance and support.
Thanks to Hiro Kimura, who so brilliantly brings Prozac to life on my book covers each year. To Lou Malcangi for another super 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.
Special thanks to comedy maven Frank Mula, for his treasured friendship, jokes, pretzels, and Dewar’s on the rocks. To Mara and Lisa Lideks, authors of the very funny Forrest Sisters mysteries. And to Vic at Big Security for his words of wisdom about video security systems.
To Joanne Fluke, author of the bestselling Hannah Swensen mysteries, for her many kindnesses (not to mention a cover blurb to die for). To John Fluke, product placement guru at Placed for Success. And to the resilient Mark Baker, who’s been there from the beginning.
Major hugs to my family and friends—both old and new—for your much-appreciated love and encouragement.
And finally, a heartfelt thank you to all my readers and Facebook friends. You’re the best!
Prologue
I blame Connie Van Hooten for everything. If she hadn’t packed up her staff and gone yachting in the Mediterranean, I would’ve never spent that cursed Christmas as a murder suspect.
At first, it had all seemed like a dream come true.
I remember the exact moment my neighbor, Lance Venable, came rushing into my apartment with the good news.
“Guess what we’re going to be doing this holiday season?” he said, excitement oozing from every pore.
“Binge watching 30 Rock? That was my plan.”
“No! We’re going to be spending two glorious weeks in Bel Air. One of my customers at Neiman’s has hired us to house-sit her fabulous home over the holidays!”
The Neiman’s to which Lance was referring was, of course, the famed department store, where Lance works as a shoe salesman, fondling the tootsies of the rich and famous.
“Not only that,” Lance was babbling, “Connie’s paying us each a thousand bucks!”
Good news indeed. Not only would we get to stay at a ritzy estate in Bel Air, we’d be getting paid for the privilege—money that would come in especially handy during the holiday season when my writing assignments usually dry up like a snow cone in the Sahara.
“Lance, that’s wonderful!”
“You should see the place. It’s got so many valuables, it’s practically a museum!”
Lance went on to explain that because of the museum-quality trinkets in her mansion, Connie Van Hooten had a strict No Pets policy. Instead, that generous woman had offered to put up my cat, Prozac, along with Lance’s adorable pooch, Mamie, at the Fur Seasons Pet Hotel, a five-star getaway for L.A.’s most pampered furballs.
Like I said, it all seemed like a dream come true.
Except for one furry fly in the ointment.
My cat, Prozac.
She knew something was afoot the minute she saw me start to pack.
In spite of the gobs of praise I’d been heaping on the Fur Seasons, yakking about their luxurious accommodations, I could tell Prozac was not happy about her upcoming stay. Tiny little clues. Like the way she hissed whenever I went near my suitcase. Or the damp surprises I was finding in my slippers in the morning. But I kept telling myself that once she got settled in her new digs, she’d be fine.
Then came the day of our departure.
Lance had already dropped off Mamie at the pet hotel and was en route to Casa Van Hooten. I, however, was running late, due to a tiny temper tantrum from my beloved kitty as I tried to get her into her cat carrier.
Trust me. Daniel had an easier time in the lions’ den.
At last I’d managed to get her in the carrier and set off for the hotel, Prozac wailing nonstop every minute of the way.
Once inside the Fur Seasons—a bubblegum pink building in one of the trendier sections of West Hollywood—Prozac grudgingly settled down in my arms, glaring at Kathy, the perky concierge who was showing us around the joint.
“Here’s our pet spa,” Kathy said, as we passed a lavender-scented retreat filled with pampered pets on grooming tables, paying more for their haircuts than I do.
“And our media center,” she said, leading us into a room with a theater-sized screen and a showroom’s worth of overstuffed armchairs.
Pets were sprawled on the chairs, some snoozing, some playing with squeaky toys, others gazing at a nature video on the screen, no doubt dreaming of their future directorial debuts.
“And finally,” Kathy said, leading us down a pristine hallway, “here’s Prozac’s bedroom.”
She pointed to a cute little haven of a room, its twin bed covered in a dow
ny duvet, with matching drapes and sixty-inch flat-screen TV.
“So what do you think?” Kathy asked.
“I think I want that TV,” I said.
Nestled in my arms, Prozac gave a disdainful sniff.
Smells like Cat Chow and Mr. Clean to me.
“I’m sure your darling Prozac will adore it here,” Kathy gushed. “Won’t you, Pwozie-Wozie?”
A menacing hiss from Prozac.
You call me Pwozie-Wozie one more time, lady, and your pinkie is history.
Well, this was it. Time to say good-bye.
Giving her one last hug, I plopped Prozac on her downy bed.
And suddenly I felt a stab of remorse. Was I doing the right thing? After all, this would be our first Christmas apart. I tried to tell myself Prozac wouldn’t know Christmas from any other day in the year, but that cat can sniff out any holiday that involves presents or drumsticks.
No, I assured myself, Prozac would be fine. Just fine. This place was the epitome of deluxe. Heck, I’d be happy to stay there if they had Chinese food and Chunky Monkey.
“Bye, darling. I promise I’ll stop by on Christmas Day and bring you a great big present.”
She shot me one of her pitiful Little Orphan Annie looks.
Go ahead. Leave me all alone in the hands of perfect strangers. Break my heart. Desert me in my hour of need—Hey, do I smell salmon?
Indeed, she did.
For at that moment a Fur Seasons attendant came bustling into the room with a bowl of charbroiled salmon.
“Bye, Pro!” I called out, as she swan dived into the stuff.
She glanced up at me vacantly.
Yeah, right. Whatever.
So much for broken hearts.
Chapter 1
“What a palace!” I said, surveying Connie Van Hooten’s hangar-sized living room, with its limestone fireplace, triple crown moldings, and cathedral-quality stained glass windows.
“Isn’t it fab?” Lance gushed. “And check this out!”
He gestured to a wall-length étagère filled with Lalique crystal, Fabergé eggs, and other priceless doodads.
“Good Lord. It’s like I’m standing in a branch of the Louvre.”
“This vase,” Lance said, picking up a blue and white porcelain beauty, “is Ming Dynasty. Fourteen grand.”
“Holy cow!” I cried. “No wonder Mrs. Van Hooten didn’t want any pets around.”
I shuddered to think what havoc Prozac would have wreaked on that étagère.
“I’m thinking we’ll put up a Christmas tree right here,” Lance said, pointing to a space between the limestone fireplace and what looked like a Rodin sculpture.
“We can’t put up a tree, Lance. What if we spill pine needles on the rug?”
I pointed to the heirloom Persian rug beneath our feet.
“Don’t be silly,” Lance said. “We’ll put a lining under the tree and be super careful. You know how meticulous I am.”
He was right about that.
From his headful of perfectly groomed blond curls down to his spotless white Reeboks, Lance was the poster boy for meticulous. I mean, this was a guy who ironed his undies.
“I brought all my favorite Christmas ornaments,” he was saying, “and I found a fabulous article in Martha Stewart Living about ornaments we can make by hand. Pine cone Santas. Acorn garlands. Pipe cleaner elves. Won’t that be fun?”
Oh, groan. There’s nothing more exhausting than Lance in the throes of one of his creative jags.
“C’mon, let me show you to your room,” he said, grabbing my suitcase and leading me up a flight of stairs straight out of Downton Abbey. I followed him up the steps, desperately trying to figure a way to get out of any future arts and crafts projects.
Upstairs, he ushered me down a hallway past a massive master suite to my room.
“Voila!” he said, showing me inside. “I gave you the room with a view of the garden.”
I looked out the window at “the garden,” a patch of green the size of a soccer field. Off in the distance, I could make out a pool and tennis courts.
“Isn’t it stunning?” Lance asked, gesturing around the room.
Indeed it was: sumptuous down bedding, quilted silk headboard, thick-as-a-cloud carpeting, all done up in pale peach and dotted with antique furniture.
“That chair over there,” Lance said, pointing to a delicately carved beauty, “is an authentic Queen Anne. And so is the matching dressing table.”
I looked at the slender legs of the chair and thought how much Prozac would have loved using them as scratching posts.
Yes, it was all for the best that I’d brought Pro to the Fur Seasons.
And yet, I still couldn’t help but feel a tad guilty about leaving her there.
True, she’d seemed perfectly content when I’d last seen her chowing down on her charbroiled salmon.
But what would happen tonight at bedtime? I suddenly pictured her all alone on her Fur Seasons bed, her big green eyes wide with fear. How would she ever drift off to sleep without my neck to nuzzle into?
How would I drift off to sleep, for that matter?
“Get your stuff unpacked,” Lance said, “while I go downstairs to whip up a batch of hot mulled cider. Won’t that be nice? Warming up with a glass of mulled cider on a nippy December day?”
“Lance, this is L.A. The Santa Anas are blowing in from the desert. It’s eighty-one degrees.”
“Oh, well. I’ll just pump up the A/C and soon we’ll have Jack Frost nipping at our noses!”
And off he dashed to run up Connie Van Hooten’s electricity bill.
After stashing my things in my walk-in closet (bigger than my bedroom at home), I headed back downstairs, where Lance was waiting for me in the living room with the promised mulled cider.
“I just know this is going to be the most fantabulous Christmas ever!” Lance said, as we settled across from each other on two down-filled sofas flanking the fireplace.
“By the time our stay here is over, I’ll forget that Justin ever existed. Yes, indeed,” he said, sipping at his cider, “this is the perfect place to mend a broken heart.”
“Lance, if I remember correctly, you and this Justin guy were dating for a grand total of three weeks.”
“Yes, Jaine, but a lot of strong emotional ties can develop in three weeks, something you’d know if you’d had even a scrap of a love life of your own.”
“Hey,” I protested. “I’ve had my share of romance.”
“A paltry dollop or two, but you’ve never experienced the depth of true love as I have,” he sighed, plastering a soulful expression on his face, Romeo in Reeboks.
And he was off and running, yammering about his love affair gone awry.
As I often do when Lance goes rambling down romance lane, I quickly tuned out, my thoughts drifting back to Prozac, alone and lonely in her room at the Fur Seasons.
“Hey, what’s with you?” Lance asked after a while, busting into my reverie. “You forgot the world revolves around me, me, me—and haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said.”
Okay, so he didn’t say the part about the world revolving around him, but I bet my bottom Pop-Tart he was thinking it.
“I’m worried about Prozac,” I confessed. “I’m afraid she’s going to be miserable without me.”
“Nonsense! I’m sure Pro has made a million kitty friends by now. If I know that cat, she’s probably leading them in a conga line.”
Lance continued to assure me that Prozac would be absolutely fine and ordered me to stop worrying. And somewhere in the middle of my second mulled cider, I did.
Lance was right. Prozac would survive perfectly well without me.
She was probably having the time of her life letting Lance’s dog, Mamie, sniff her tush as she watched Animal Planet on her sixty-inch TV.
I was finally beginning to relax when the sonorous chimes of Mrs. Van H’s doorbell filled the air.
“I’ll get it,” Lance said, springing u
p to answer the door.
“Jaine!” he called out after a few seconds. “It’s for you.”
I walked out into the grand foyer and saw the attendant from the Fur Seasons, the one who’d brought Prozac her charbroiled salmon, standing in the doorway holding Prozac’s carrier.
Inside the cage, Pro was wailing like a banshee.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Austen,” the attendant said, “but we cannot keep your pet any longer.”
“Why on earth not?” Lance asked, as I scooped Pro out of the carrier and put an end to her wails.
“I’m afraid she attacked Kathy, our concierge.”
“Oh, no!” I gasped.
“In fact, Kathy’s in the emergency room right now, having surgery on her pinkie finger.”
Lolling in my arms, not the least bit ashamed of what she’d done, Prozac gave a complacent thump of her tail.
I warned her not to call me Pwozie-Wozie.
Chapter 2
“Prozac, how could you?” I cried, after the Fur Seasons gal had gone.
The little devil looked up from where she was nestled in my arms.
It was easy. I just chomped down on her pinkie and took a bite.
“Well, we certainly can’t keep Prozac here,” I said, thinking of the Ming vase and the Persian carpet and the Queen Anne furniture. “She’s bound to break, scratch, or tinkle on something.”
