Read Online Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) by Laura Levine - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Levine
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Joy dug up on Craigslist.
“He told Joy he was the former executive chef at Coachella Prison,” Cassie whispered to me. “Frankly, I suspect he was an inmate.”
Meanwhile, Travis was hard at work at his computer, making counterfeit copies of Dom Pérignon champagne labels.
“Joy buys the cheapest champagne she can find,” he explained, “and then has me paste on phony labels.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
The woman never ceased to amaze me.
Finally Friday rolled around, the day before Joy’s Valentine’s Day Singles Mixer.
I’d just wrapped up my final fictitious dating profile for a male model I’d dubbed Anton Zeller (a Santa Barbara native who, when not running his highly successful chain of teeth whitening salons, loved surfing, motorbiking, and Charlotte Brontë novels).
I could not wait to go home and spend the next few hours—if not the entire weekend—soaking in a hot tub, washing away the stress of these past few days.
I was just packing up my things when Joy swooped down on me, noshing on a chocolate from her Godiva box.
“By the way, Jaine, I expect you to be at the mixer tomorrow night.”
Oh, no. No way. This was not going to happen.
“Honestly, Joy. I’ve got more than enough material for the brochure. I don’t think I need to be at the party.”
“Well, I think you do. So be there. And if anyone asks, you’re a satisfied client.”
Her one and only.
“And speaking of the brochure,” Joy added, a nasty glint in her eye, “I expect your copy on my desk tomorrow morning.”
“You need the brochure copy tomorrow? Saturday?”
“Yes. You have a problem with that?”
“I haven’t had time to even start the brochure. I’ve been too busy writing your blankety-blank bios.”
This is a family novel, so I am sparing you the actual blankety-blank words involved. But I can assure you, they were pretty ripe.
“Well, better get cracking.” She popped another Godiva in her mouth. “I need it on my desk tomorrow.”
Grrr. I came thisclose to ramming her with Travis’s stapler. But I didn’t want to waste the staples.
Knowing Joy, she’d charge me for them.
“That godawful woman!” I cried, stomping into my apartment. “Taking up weeks of my life with her stupid dating profiles, and then just when I thought I could sit back and relax for five minutes, she gives me less than a day to write a sixteen-page brochure!”
Prozac leaped down from the sofa where she’d been snoring and hurried to my side.
Yeah, right. Whatever. Do I smell shrimp with lobster sauce?
Indeed she did. I’d stopped off for Chinese take-out on my way home. And now Prozac was practically bonding herself to my ankles, yowling to be fed.
I gave up any hope of getting her to eat the Savory Salmon Entrails I’d been planning to feed her, and instead sloshed some shrimp into her bowl.
Gone in sixty seconds.
It didn’t take me too much longer to polish off my chow.
Around about now, if there were any justice in this world, I’d be sinking down into a strawberry-scented bubble bath, listening to the mellow sounds of Diana Krall and throwing mental darts at Joy Amoroso.
But life is not just. (As anyone who’s ever been on a blind date with Skip Holmeier can well attest.)
I had no time for soaking in tubs. Not with a sixteen-page brochure to write.
Pouring myself an eensy glass of wine—okay, so it wasn’t so eensy—I sat down at my computer and stared at the blank screen.
Oh, what I’d give to write the truth about Joy, about what a double-dealing, low-life excuse for a human being she was.
And before I knew it, that’s exactly what I was doing.
I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was my long simmering anger, my sense of outraged injustice. Probably it was just the chardonnay.
But suddenly I was writing the truth.
And it went something like this:
Are you looking for the love of your life? A warm, supportive mentor to guide you through the minefields of dating? Then
“He told Joy he was the former executive chef at Coachella Prison,” Cassie whispered to me. “Frankly, I suspect he was an inmate.”
Meanwhile, Travis was hard at work at his computer, making counterfeit copies of Dom Pérignon champagne labels.
“Joy buys the cheapest champagne she can find,” he explained, “and then has me paste on phony labels.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
The woman never ceased to amaze me.
Finally Friday rolled around, the day before Joy’s Valentine’s Day Singles Mixer.
I’d just wrapped up my final fictitious dating profile for a male model I’d dubbed Anton Zeller (a Santa Barbara native who, when not running his highly successful chain of teeth whitening salons, loved surfing, motorbiking, and Charlotte Brontë novels).
I could not wait to go home and spend the next few hours—if not the entire weekend—soaking in a hot tub, washing away the stress of these past few days.
I was just packing up my things when Joy swooped down on me, noshing on a chocolate from her Godiva box.
“By the way, Jaine, I expect you to be at the mixer tomorrow night.”
Oh, no. No way. This was not going to happen.
“Honestly, Joy. I’ve got more than enough material for the brochure. I don’t think I need to be at the party.”
“Well, I think you do. So be there. And if anyone asks, you’re a satisfied client.”
Her one and only.
“And speaking of the brochure,” Joy added, a nasty glint in her eye, “I expect your copy on my desk tomorrow morning.”
“You need the brochure copy tomorrow? Saturday?”
“Yes. You have a problem with that?”
“I haven’t had time to even start the brochure. I’ve been too busy writing your blankety-blank bios.”
This is a family novel, so I am sparing you the actual blankety-blank words involved. But I can assure you, they were pretty ripe.
“Well, better get cracking.” She popped another Godiva in her mouth. “I need it on my desk tomorrow.”
Grrr. I came thisclose to ramming her with Travis’s stapler. But I didn’t want to waste the staples.
Knowing Joy, she’d charge me for them.
“That godawful woman!” I cried, stomping into my apartment. “Taking up weeks of my life with her stupid dating profiles, and then just when I thought I could sit back and relax for five minutes, she gives me less than a day to write a sixteen-page brochure!”
Prozac leaped down from the sofa where she’d been snoring and hurried to my side.
Yeah, right. Whatever. Do I smell shrimp with lobster sauce?
Indeed she did. I’d stopped off for Chinese take-out on my way home. And now Prozac was practically bonding herself to my ankles, yowling to be fed.
I gave up any hope of getting her to eat the Savory Salmon Entrails I’d been planning to feed her, and instead sloshed some shrimp into her bowl.
Gone in sixty seconds.
It didn’t take me too much longer to polish off my chow.
Around about now, if there were any justice in this world, I’d be sinking down into a strawberry-scented bubble bath, listening to the mellow sounds of Diana Krall and throwing mental darts at Joy Amoroso.
But life is not just. (As anyone who’s ever been on a blind date with Skip Holmeier can well attest.)
I had no time for soaking in tubs. Not with a sixteen-page brochure to write.
Pouring myself an eensy glass of wine—okay, so it wasn’t so eensy—I sat down at my computer and stared at the blank screen.
Oh, what I’d give to write the truth about Joy, about what a double-dealing, low-life excuse for a human being she was.
And before I knew it, that’s exactly what I was doing.
I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was my long simmering anger, my sense of outraged injustice. Probably it was just the chardonnay.
But suddenly I was writing the truth.
And it went something like this:
Are you looking for the love of your life? A warm, supportive mentor to guide you through the minefields of dating? Then
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