Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery)

by Levine, Laura

“Oh. She’s fine.”

  “So glad to hear it! She’s such an adorable kitty! Give her my love—and kisses, too.”

  “Will do,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  “Anyhow, I’m calling because”—here he paused for a phlegm-filled clearing of his throat—“I was wondering if you wanted to see me again.”

  Only from a Hubble telescope.

  “I was thinking next Thursday? For lunch?”

  Ordinarily under these circumstances I’d make up a tiny fib and tell him I was moving to Tasmania or had just fallen in love with the woman of my dreams. But if you recall, I’d sold my soul to Joy for an extra five hundred bucks and had agreed to her Three Date rule.

  “Um, sure,” I said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

  “Wonderful! I’ll pick you up around one.”

  Oh, well, I told myself as I hung up. I had to think positive thoughts. Maybe the date would be fun. Maybe I’d gain new insights on the elderly. Maybe I’d be able to sneak in a butter pat on my steamed veggies.

  I was headed for the kitchen to pour myself a wee bit more chardonnay when I heard Lance banging at my front door.

  Like a fool, I opened it.

  “It’s official!” Lance cried, sailing in on Cloud Nine. “I’m in love! My date with Donny Johnson was absolutely divine!” He grabbed my wine and took a healthy slug. “You’ll never guess what we did!”

  “If it involves handcuffs and whipped cream, I don’t want to hear about it.”

  He shot me a wounded look.

  “Jaine, please. Our date was perfectly innocent. Donny and I went for a long walk on the beach, then stopped off for dinner at an intimate little Italian restaurant, where they played old Dean Martin records and Donny wrote I Love You on the tablecloth with his ziti. Isn’t that the most romantic thing you ever heard?”

  “Yes, nothing says love like pasta on a tablecloth.”

  “And look what Donny gave me!” he said, ignoring my snippet of sarcasm.

  He held out his wrist, revealing a magnificent stainless steel watch dotted with what looked like diamonds. “A genuine Rolex. It had to cost at least five grand!”

  “Wow, it’s gorgeous!”

  Lance grinned in triumph. “And you said he wasn’t a real millionaire!”

  Was it possible? Was Lance the first person in Dates of Joy history to have actually gone on a date of joy?

  “And what about you?” Lance asked. “How did your date go?”

  “An utter disaster,” I sighed. “The guy was not only old enough to be Methuselah’s grandfather, he drove his Bentley two miles an hour, made me eat a veggie plate at a steak restaurant, and picked a fight with a blind piano player.”

  “He drives a Bentley? How divine!”

  “Have you not listened to a word I’ve just said? The guy’s an old fart vegan nutcase!”

  “With a Bentley! Really, Jaine. Some day you must learn to get your priorities straight!”

  I grabbed my wine back and finished it in one exasperated gulp.

  “Would you look at the time?” Lance cried, flashing his Rolex in my face. “Must dash to get dressed for my date with Donny. He’s taking me to the ballet. You know how I adore the ballet.”

  “Drooling over men in tights does not make you a ballet lover, Lance.”

  “Oh, my. Somebody woke up on the bitchy side of the bed this morning. But don’t worry, sweetie,” he said as he headed for the door. “I forgive you. You’re just jealous because I found true love, and you got stuck with a loony old fart.”

  I stuck out my tongue at his retreating back.

  I hate it when he’s right.

  Chapter 8

  The next few days passed in an aggravating blur as Joy got ready for her annual Valentine’s Singles Mixer.

  Or as she so modestly put it, “The singles party of the year!”

  In full-tilt tyrant mode, Joy proceeded to drive Cassie and Travis crazy, barking orders at them as they transformed the Dates of Joy photo studio into a party venue.

  After cramming all the photo equipment into the small kitchen adjacent to the studio, Travis and Cassie got up on ladders to string crepe paper across the room. A job that would normally take about a half hour took forever as Joy shrieked conflicting directions at them.

  “Higher! No, lower! Now just a bit to the right! No, no! To the left! No, to the right again!”

  Through it all, I sat at a computer in the reception area, banging out phony dating profiles.

  When the crepe paper was finally hung, Cassie spent hours on the phone, trying to line up discount balloons and making arrangements with the caterer, a guy 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 dat
e 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 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

  Valentine’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, I decided to read over the brochure copy I’d e-mailed Joy the night before.

  I clicked on the file and cringed to read my gloppy words of praise. If anyone on the planet didn’t deserve them, it was Joy. I was about to log off when suddenly I noticed a splotch of color down at the bottom of the page.

  I scrolled down, and to my horror, I saw the puffy-cheeked face of Elmer Fudd!

  Omigod! I’d been in such a rush last night, I never deleted the joke copy I’d originally written, the zinger-laden manifesto where I’d called Joy a “Psycho Cupid.”

  If Joy saw this, I could kiss my paycheck good-bye.

  No doubt about it. My poop had landed. And I was knee deep in the stuff.

  I drove over to the party like Dale Earnhardt on uppers, my heart racing almost as fast as my engine. I prayed that Joy hadn’t yet read my e-mail and that Travis would know her password so that I could delete it.

  The mixer was well under way when I showed up at the Dates of Joy photo studio, now festooned with streamers and discount balloons. Desperate singles were wandering around with glazed looks in their eyes, wondering no doubt what happened to all the stunning people they’d seen in Joy’s date book.

  Cassie, her purple hair striped red for the occasion, was working the room as a waitress, serving hors d’oeuvres from a tray. Travis, in a white shirt and bow tie, stood behind a makeshift bar, pouring phony Dom Pérignon into champagne glasses.

  I was just about to hurry to his side when Joy came bursting out from the kitchen, dressed head to toe in Valentine’s red: Red tent dress, red designer shoes, even a red bow in her hair. Pinned to her ample bosom was a huge button that read I ME.

  At last. Truth in advertising.

  She took one look at me and came charging at me like a rhino in Jimmy Choos.

  Damn. It was too late. She’d read my e-mail.

  I braced myself for the volcano that was about to erupt.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she hissed. “I’ve been looking all over for you. The idiotic caterer didn’t bring any waitstaff, and I need you to help Cassie serve the hors d’oeuvres.”

  Thank heavens! I was safe! For the time being, anyway.

  “Of course, Joy. Anything you say.”

  She sent me to the kitchen, where her caterer, a burly guy named Carl, handed me an apron emblazoned with the logo FRUGAL FIXIN’S. Carl took great pride in informing me that he was the former executive chef at Coachella Prison. Although, as Cassie had said, he did indeed look like he could have been one of the inmates.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing me a tray of delicious stuffed mushrooms. I happened to know they were delicious, because I popped one in my mouth as I headed back to the party.

  I hadn’t taken two steps into the room when suddenly Joy materialized at my side.

  “No eating on the job!” she snapped.

  So much for my plan to snack my way through her party.

  But who cared? Just as long as I was able to delete that dratted e-mail.

  I wandered around with my tray, waiting for my opportunity to approach Travis and ask him for Joy’s password. But Joy was eyeing me li
ke a hawk. If she saw me standing around talking to Travis, she’d be on me like hot fudge on a potato chip.

  (You’ve never tried it? It’s delicious.)

  Not even the arrival of Tonio was enough to distract Joy. Clad in his usual tight leather pants and chest-baring shirt, Tonio sidled over to give Joy a peck on her cheek. Much to my surprise, I saw her body stiffen. Through gritted teeth, she said something to him—something that made his face turn ashen. Then she turned and stalked off in a huff.

  Uh-oh. I smelled trouble in paradise.

  By now the room was crowded with lonely singles, still looking in vain for the gorgeous soul mates Joy had promised them.

  “Where are all the handsome men I saw on her Web site?” I heard one mousy brunet moan to another.

  “Omigosh,” her friend replied. “Here’s one of them now!”

  I followed her gaze.

  Standing in the doorway was Greg Stanton, the hunkalicious artist I’d seen at Simon’s Steak House. Slim and tan in jeans and a turtleneck, his sun-bleached hair bringing out the deep blue of his eyes, he was a stunner of the highest order.

  Once again I wondered why a guy like Greg needed Joy’s services.

  Joy was instantly at his side, linking her elbow in his in a viselike grip.

  “Greg, my deah!” she squealed in Queen Mum mode. “How veddy lovely to see you!”

  Gazing up at him and batting her eyelashes coquettishly, she was—at last—distracted.

  Taking advantage of the moment, I dashed over to the bar where Travis was busy trying to keep the phony Dom Pérignon labels from slipping off their bottles as they sloshed around in the ice bucket.

  “Hey, Jaine!” he said, catching sight of me. “What can I get you?”

  “Joy’s password.”

  “Huh?”

  “It’s a long, awful story, Travis, but I wrote some horrible things about Joy and sent them to her by mistake. Now I need to get into her e-mail. I’m just praying you know her password.”

  “Yeah, sure. Of course. It’s CuteCupid.”

  “Oh, gaak.”

  “My sentiments, exactly.”

  Filled with gratitude, I slipped Travis a Frugal Fixin’s mushroom cap.