Read Online Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) by Laura Levine - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Levine
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whatever you do, stay away from Joy Amoroso, the Psycho Cupid of Beverly Hills. The woman is to dating what Hitler was to Bar Mitzvahs....
My fingers flew over the keyboard as I spilled the beans about how Joy charged outrageous membership fees for services rarely rendered, how she padded her database with phony pictures of actors and models, how she browbeat her employees, and worst of all, how after nearly two weeks of working with her, she hadn’t offered me a single chocolate!
I read my copy out loud to Prozac, who looked up from where she was sprawled on the sofa and gave me an encouraging thump of her tail.
You go, girl!
Okay, all she really did was yawn, but it seemed like an enthusiastic yawn.
Then I had a great idea. I’d add pictures to my copy!
Ladies, I wrote, here’s the kind of guy you can expect to meet at Dates of Joy.
With the help of my good buddies at Google Images, I was soon adorning my brochure with pictures of Norman Bates, Hannibal Lecter, and Elmer Fudd.
And guys, just check out these nifty gals in Joy’s dating file.
Here I pasted pictures of The Bride of Frankenstein, Lizzie Borden, and Honey Boo Boo.
After several more damning paragraphs, I checked my watch and saw it was close to eleven p.m.
Oh, foo. Looked like the party was over.
It was great fun while it lasted, but now I had to write the real stuff.
So I knuckled down and spent the next several hours churning out the adulatory copy Joy was paying me to write, regurgitating all her pap about how matchmaking was in her blood and how it was her life mission to connect soul mates. I wrote about her fictitious track record of successful hookups. And about her equally fictitious gifts of empathy, sensitivity, and compassion. All of which combined to make her a matchmaker par excellence, a caring cupid with a heart of gold.
When I was finished, I practically needed a diabetes shot.
It was way over the top, but I knew Joy would eat it up. Worse, she’d probably believe it.
By now it was after two a.m. Beyond exhausted, I didn’t even bother to run a spell check. I just popped it off in an e-mail, thrilled to be rid of it.
And so it was with happy heart that I toddled off to bed, blissfully unaware of the poop that was waiting in the wings, about to hit my fan.
Chapter 9
V alentine’s Day dawned bright and sunny, the birds chirping merrily outside my window.
(It was easy for them to be merry. They didn’t have to haul their sorry fannies to Joy’s party that night.)
What with all the hoo-ha of working for Joy, I’d been sadly neglecting my household chores, so I spent the entire day dusting, vacuuming, and catching up on my laundry.
And if you believe that, I’ve got some shares in Enron I’d like to sell you.
I’m not ashamed to confess I lolled around in my pj’s the entire day, doing the New York Times crossword puzzle and leafing through the Fudge of the Month catalog.
It was heaven, sheer heaven.
But eventually, it was time to get dressed for Joy’s Valentine’s mixer.
Grudgingly I hauled myself to my closet and tossed on some slacks and a sweater. Gray, to match my mood. And in an act of defiance, I chose a pair of slacks with an elastic waist. Worn out elastic, at that.
So there, Joy Amoroso!
Other than a splash of lipstick, I didn’t bother with makeup, and corralled my mop of curls into a messy ponytail.
Tossing Prozac some Hearty Halibut Guts for her dinner, I carefully refrained from chowing down on some leftover pot stickers that were sitting in the refrigerator, calling my name. (Okay, so I ate one, but that’s all. I swear. Okay, two, if you must know.)
I intended to stuff myself silly with hors d’oeuvres at the mixer, determined to make Joy pay in some small way for all the aggravation she’d put me through.
Checking my watch, I saw it was 7:45. The party started at eight, and I planned on getting there late. The less time I had to spend with Joy, the happier I’d be. So to kill time,
My fingers flew over the keyboard as I spilled the beans about how Joy charged outrageous membership fees for services rarely rendered, how she padded her database with phony pictures of actors and models, how she browbeat her employees, and worst of all, how after nearly two weeks of working with her, she hadn’t offered me a single chocolate!
I read my copy out loud to Prozac, who looked up from where she was sprawled on the sofa and gave me an encouraging thump of her tail.
You go, girl!
Okay, all she really did was yawn, but it seemed like an enthusiastic yawn.
Then I had a great idea. I’d add pictures to my copy!
Ladies, I wrote, here’s the kind of guy you can expect to meet at Dates of Joy.
With the help of my good buddies at Google Images, I was soon adorning my brochure with pictures of Norman Bates, Hannibal Lecter, and Elmer Fudd.
And guys, just check out these nifty gals in Joy’s dating file.
Here I pasted pictures of The Bride of Frankenstein, Lizzie Borden, and Honey Boo Boo.
After several more damning paragraphs, I checked my watch and saw it was close to eleven p.m.
Oh, foo. Looked like the party was over.
It was great fun while it lasted, but now I had to write the real stuff.
So I knuckled down and spent the next several hours churning out the adulatory copy Joy was paying me to write, regurgitating all her pap about how matchmaking was in her blood and how it was her life mission to connect soul mates. I wrote about her fictitious track record of successful hookups. And about her equally fictitious gifts of empathy, sensitivity, and compassion. All of which combined to make her a matchmaker par excellence, a caring cupid with a heart of gold.
When I was finished, I practically needed a diabetes shot.
It was way over the top, but I knew Joy would eat it up. Worse, she’d probably believe it.
By now it was after two a.m. Beyond exhausted, I didn’t even bother to run a spell check. I just popped it off in an e-mail, thrilled to be rid of it.
And so it was with happy heart that I toddled off to bed, blissfully unaware of the poop that was waiting in the wings, about to hit my fan.
Chapter 9
V alentine’s Day dawned bright and sunny, the birds chirping merrily outside my window.
(It was easy for them to be merry. They didn’t have to haul their sorry fannies to Joy’s party that night.)
What with all the hoo-ha of working for Joy, I’d been sadly neglecting my household chores, so I spent the entire day dusting, vacuuming, and catching up on my laundry.
And if you believe that, I’ve got some shares in Enron I’d like to sell you.
I’m not ashamed to confess I lolled around in my pj’s the entire day, doing the New York Times crossword puzzle and leafing through the Fudge of the Month catalog.
It was heaven, sheer heaven.
But eventually, it was time to get dressed for Joy’s Valentine’s mixer.
Grudgingly I hauled myself to my closet and tossed on some slacks and a sweater. Gray, to match my mood. And in an act of defiance, I chose a pair of slacks with an elastic waist. Worn out elastic, at that.
So there, Joy Amoroso!
Other than a splash of lipstick, I didn’t bother with makeup, and corralled my mop of curls into a messy ponytail.
Tossing Prozac some Hearty Halibut Guts for her dinner, I carefully refrained from chowing down on some leftover pot stickers that were sitting in the refrigerator, calling my name. (Okay, so I ate one, but that’s all. I swear. Okay, two, if you must know.)
I intended to stuff myself silly with hors d’oeuvres at the mixer, determined to make Joy pay in some small way for all the aggravation she’d put me through.
Checking my watch, I saw it was 7:45. The party started at eight, and I planned on getting there late. The less time I had to spend with Joy, the happier I’d be. So to kill time,
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