Read Online Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire by Laura Levine - Free Book Online

old leotard that I’d bought for a yoga class at the Y. I’d gone to the class only twice. Unfortunately, I had to drop out to cope with an ever-expanding workload. (Okay, so I dropped out to watch Seinfeld reruns.)
    I was on my way out the door when the phone rang. I let the machine take it. It was an angry client, wondering whatever happened to the brochure I was supposed to be writing for his company (“E-Mail Etiquette and You”). Just one of several projects I’d been neglecting lately. I vowed to myself I’d work on it as soon as I got back from the aerobics class.
    I strapped myself into my Corolla and made my way over to the Sports Club, wishing I’d had time for a cup of coffee and a liposuction. I dreaded having to expose my flab to an aerobics class full of Barbies and Kens.
    Miraculously, I made it to the club with five minutes to spare. I showed my Guest Pass to the receptionist with the snooty British accent and girded my loins for the humiliation that was sure to befall me in Advanced Aerobics.
    The less said about the whole ordeal the better. I was straining and puffing like I’d never strained and puffed before. And that was just getting my leotards on over my hips.
    Jasmine Manning was an exotic beauty with olive skin, startling green eyes, and a waterfall of chestnut curls cascading down her back. It was hard to believe Stacy could have stolen a man away from her.
    Jasmine led the class with unbounded energy—part cheerleader, part Marine drill sergeant. My fellow classmates, with their washboard abs and buns of steel, had no trouble keeping up with her. I, on the other hand, with my jello thighs and marshmallow tummy, felt like every breath might possibly be my last. The only parts of my body I managed to move with ease were my eyelids.
    Trust me. It was not a pretty picture. My thighs were rubbing together so badly, I was afraid they were going to set my leggings on fire.
    But eventually the torture ended, and I hobbled over to Jasmine. I was sweating like a pig, and she was fresh as a daisy, smelling softly of jasmine. How clever of her, I thought, to smell like her name.
    “Great class,” I managed to gasp.
    “Are you all right?” she asked, eyeing me with concern. “Can I get you a glass of water?”
    “No, no, I’m fine,” I assured her, wondering if I’d ever be able to breathe normally again.
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes. I’m fine. Really. But I need to talk to you.”
    “Sure.” She flashed me a bubbly smile. “About what?”
    “Stacy Lawrence.”
    Suddenly the bubbles went flat.
    “What about her?”
    “You know she was murdered?”
    “Yeah,” she said, not exactly grief-stricken.
    “I need to ask you a few questions.”
    “Are you from the police?”
    “No, I’m an attorney.” I liked being an attorney with Wendy, the Barracuda Saleslady, so I thought I’d try it again. “I represent Clive Murdoch.”
    “Who’s that?”
    A person I just made up. But, hey. She didn’t know that.
    “The father of the young man who was arrested for Stacy’s murder. Mr. Murdoch believes that his son has been falsely arrested and has hired me to try and find out who committed the crime.”
    “I’m sorry,” she said coolly, “but I really can’t help you.”
    She tossed her curls and turned to go.
    “Mr. Murdoch is a very rich man,” I called after her. “He’s offering a reward of $100,000 for any information leading to the arrest of the real murderer.”
    She stopped in her tracks.
    “Let’s go have a smoothie,” she said.
    The bubbles were back.
     
    Every muscle of my body screeching in protest, I somehow managed to hoist myself onto a stool at the Smoothie Bar. Jasmine slid onto hers like syrup on a stack of pancakes. Throwing calorie caution to the winds, I ordered a thick concoction of bananas, yogurt, and chocolate syrup called a Banana Blast. Jasmine ordered a strawberry smoothie, which she sipped one milligram at a time.
    “So,” I said, after I’d sucked