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
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A Jaine Austen Mystery
DEATH BY TIARA
LAURA LEVINE
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Books by Laura Levine
Title 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
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Copyright Page
DEDICATION
In loving memory of
Mark Lacter
1954-2013
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, a big thank you to my editor extraordinaire, John Scognamiglio, for his unwavering faith in Jaine—and for coming up with the idea of sending Jaine to a beauty pageant. (I tried to get him to write the whole book, but for some crazy reason, he expected me to do it.)
Thanks also to my ever-empathetic agent, Evan Marshall, for his ongoing guidance and support.
Thanks to Hiro Kimura, who so brilliantly brings Prozac to life on my book covers. To Lou Malcangi for another eye-catching 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 each year.
Special thanks to Frank Mula, man of a thousand jokes. And to Mara and Lisa Lideks, authors of the very funny Forrest Sisters mysteries.
Extra hugs to Joanne Fluke, who takes time out from writing her own bestselling Hannah Swensen mysteries to grace me with her insights and friendship—not to mention a cover blurb to die for.
Thanks to John Fluke, product placement guru. To Mark Baker, my Ultimate Frisbee technical advisor. And to Jamie Wallace (aka Sidney’s mom), the genial webmeister at Laura LevineMysteries.com.
A loving thanks to my friends and family. And a special shout out to all my readers and Facebook friends who’ve taken the time to write me and/or show up at my book signings. You guys are the greatest!
And finally, a note of remembrance about my late husband, Mark Lacter, an award-winning journalist in his own right, who supported me every step of the way on my journey with Jaine and Prozac, who held my hand through good times and bad, and who didn’t mind (well, not much, anyway) when I interrupted his football games to ask him if he liked my jokes.
I miss him every day.
Prologue
It’s ironic, really, when I think of how optimistic I was when this whole mess began—how rosy everything seemed, how rife with possibilities.
I lay in bed that sun-kissed morning, listening to the sweet sounds of the birds chirping, the bees buzzing, and Mrs. Hurlbutt hollering at Mr. Hurlbutt across the street to move his fanny and take out the trash.
I was convinced that I was about to start a whole new chapter in my life. After years of toiling away as a freelance writer, churning out ads for Toiletmasters Plumbers, Fiedler on the Roof Roofers, and Tip Top Dry Cleaners, I was about to become a professional songwriter!
Just a few days earlier I’d answered an ad on Craigslist from someone Seeking Songwriter to Write Lyrics for an Industry Star.
This was the gig for me! What fun it would be to write lyrics for a famous singer.
Maybe I’d get to travel the world, staying in fancy hotels and showing up at the Grammys in a limo and slinky dress. Maybe this songwriting gig would lead to a career on Broadway, where I’d show up for the Tonys with an even bigger limo and slinkier dress. (And maybe I’d lose enough weight to actually fit into one of those slinky dresses.)
True, the only lyrics I’d written up to that point in my life had been a little ditty for the Toiletmasters Christmas party. Which went something this:
When your toilet’s on the blink
And you’ve clogged your kitchen sink
When hairs stuff up your shower drain
And when you bust a water main
When life is filled with plumbing disasters
Just call the guys at Toiletmasters!
We’ll snake your pipes and have you humming
And when we’re through, we’ll do some plumbing!
Okay, so I’m no Cole Porter. But the guys at the Toiletmasters Christmas party seemed to like it a lot. And so did Heather Van Sant, the gal who placed the ad on Craigslist. Not a half hour after I sent her my lyrics I got an email from her, saying she was eager to meet me and introduce me to her client.
Yes, I was in a great mood as I stretched out in my bed, my cloud of bliss punctured only by my cat, Prozac, who sat on my chest clawing me for her breakfast.
Ever at her command, I hopped out of bed and headed for the kitchen. Soon I was sloshing Minced Mackerel Guts in Prozac’s bowl and nuking myself a cinnamon raisin bagel. With a dab of butter. And the teensiest bit of strawberry jam. (Okay, it wasn’t so teensy.)
After a quick shower, I dressed with care, donning my best elastic-waist jeans along with a white silk blouse and faux suede jacket. I finished off my ensemble with a brand new pair of knee-high boots, hoping to impress the music industry mogul I’d be meeting with.
I twirled around in front of the sofa, where Prozac was giving herself her morning gynecological exam.
“So, Pro? How do I look?”
She gazed up from her privates and eyed my boots with interest.
Oh, goodie. A new chew toy.
Making a mental note to keep the boots on the very top shelf of my closet, I grabbed my car keys and headed for the door.
This was a red letter day, all right. I could feel it in my bones. I was walking out the door as a freelance writer, but I’d be coming back as a star!
Which just goes to show how little my bones know.
As things turned out, I’d be coming back as a murder suspect.
Stick around, and I’ll tell you how it all went down.
Chapter 1
I should have known something was amiss when I checked the address Heather had given me and saw she lived in Orange County.
Now there’s nothing wrong with Orange County if you happen to like oranges and Disneyland and shopping plazas the size of third-world countries. But it’s not exactly Nashville.
Why would a music industry star be living so far from the action, I wondered, as I made my way south along the 405 freeway. And I had plenty of time to wonder. After slogging along in traffic for almost an hour, I finally ar
rived at the town I shall call, for purposes of this narration, Alta Loco—a quaint conglomeration of gated communities and tanning salons nestled among the freeway off-ramps.
Driving past a succession of residential enclaves, each with a name more aristocratic than the next—Coventry Hills, Pembroke Gardens, Buckingham Villas—I finally arrived at the gated entry of Alta Estates, where a grizzled guard sat in a booth, reading USA Today.
Squinting down at my ancient Corolla, he growled:
“Deliveries through the back entrance.”
“I’m not making a delivery,” I huffed. “I’m here to see one of your residents, Heather Van Sant.”
Eyeing me like I was a cockroach on a BLT, he picked up a phone and dialed. Soon I heard him saying, “Good morning, Ms. Van Sant. You expecting some gal in a crappy Corolla?”
Okay, so what he really asked was, “Are you expecting a guest?” But I knew what he was thinking. And I didn’t like it one bit.
Having received permission to let me in, he grudgingly opened the gates and gave me directions to Heather’s house.
Once inside Alta Estates, I drove past one cookie-cutter McMansion after another, all painted in various shades of beige, dotted with balconies and palm trees and gurgling fountains out front.
I found Heather’s house and parked my Corolla, the only car on the street except for a gardener’s truck. After fluffing my curls in my rearview mirror and checking to make sure there was no lipstick on my teeth, I made my way up a path past the requisite gurgling fountain to Heather’s front door.
The doorbell set off a series of musical chimes, and seconds later I heard the sounds of clacking heels. The door swung open to reveal a statuesque beauty in tight capris and even tighter tank top. Raven hair extensions tumbled down past her shoulders, and surgically enhanced breasts stood at attention in her push-up bra.
Her face, with its pinched nose and pouty lips, had the slightly sandblasted look of someone who’d spent many a happy hour at her dermatologist’s.
“You must be Jaine,” she said, taking in my on-sale-at-Nordstrom outfit. I only hoped she couldn’t see through my blazer and silk shirt to the elastic clinging to my waist.
“I’m Heather Van Sant,” she said, holding out a ninety-dollar manicure for me to shake. “C’mon in.”
I followed her along gleaming hardwood floors into a hangar-sized living room furnished all in white. The only pops of color were some hot pink throw pillows and a huge portrait hanging over the fireplace—of a younger Heather, wearing a tiara.
“That’s me,” she said, following my gaze, “when I was crowned Queen of the Gilroy Garlic Festival.” Her eyes misted over at the memory. “That was the happiest day of my life,” she sighed.
Then, snapping out of her reverie, she said, “Have a seat, won’t you?”
I headed for an enormous white sectional and was just about to sit down on what I thought was a furry white throw pillow when suddenly the pillow let out a ferocious yap. Yikes. The little thing was a dog!
Sure enough, it suddenly sat up, barking furiously.
“Oh, hush, Elvis,” Heather said, scooping him up in her arms. “Be nice to Ms. Austen.
“I think he likes you!” Heather beamed, oblivious to the death glare her doggie was shooting my way.
Making sure there were no other living critters nesting there, I lowered my fanny onto the sectional.
“Snack?” Heather pointed to a platter of supremely unappetizing celery and carrot sticks on her coffee table. With nary a dollop of dip in sight. How utterly depressing.
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
“I absolutely loved your plumber’s song,” Heather gushed, plucking a carrot stick, “and I just know you’re going to write something fantabulous for Taylor.”
Taylor? Good heavens! Was it possible that Taylor Swift had moved to Orange County with a former garlic festival queen and a dog named Elvis?
“Taylor, sweetheart!” Heather trilled. “Come downstairs and meet Ms. Austen!
“You’re going to adore Taylor.” Heather beamed at me. “She just oozes talent. Doesn’t she, snookums?”
This last question was directed at Elvis, who replied with a mighty yawn.
“You’re just oozing talent, too, aren’t you, darling Elvis? Let’s do a trick for Ms. Austen and show her how talented you are.”
She plopped him on the floor and commanded, “Sit, Elvis! Sit! Sit!”
But the little devil just shot her a defiant glare and proceeded to take a poop.
“Oh, well,” Heather said, staring ruefully at the tiny mess. “He was just one letter off.”
With a weary sigh, she got up and headed for her kitchen. Seconds later she was back with paper towels to clean up the mess. When she’d disposed of Elvis’s little present and there was still no sign of Taylor, Heather’s brow furrowed in annoyance.
“Taylor!” she screeched at full throttle. “Get down here this minute!”
The screeching seemed to do the trick.
Soon a tiny slip of a teenaged girl came slouching into the room, clad in baggy sweats and carrying a book. Her dark hair was caught up in a messy ponytail, and a pair of round tortoiseshell glasses were perched on her nose.
Her feet slapped in flip-flops as she walked across the hardwood floor.
This was the “industry star” I was supposed to be writing for?
As if reading my mind, Heather piped up, “Taylor hasn’t exactly been discovered yet, but she will be. Just as soon as she wins the Miss Teen Queen America pageant.”
“Miss Teen Queen America?”
“It’s a national competition for teens across the country. As I’ve been trying to explain to Taylor, beauty pageants are a gateway to a fabulous career as a model or show business performer. Or, as in my case, a very financially rewarding marriage.”
She glanced down with pride at a diamond on her finger the size of a grapefruit.
Taylor plopped down into an armchair and opened her book. Which I now saw was Hermann Hesse’s Siddhartha. Most unusual fare for an Orange County teenager.
“Mom,” she groaned, “how many times do I have to tell you, I don’t want to be in this stupid contest?”
“Of course you do, sweetheart. You just don’t realize it. Some day when you’re singing to a sold-out audience at Caesars Palace, you’ll thank me. And in the meanwhile,” she added, eyeing Siddhartha with disgust, “will you please stop reading that silly book?
“She’s always got her nose in a book,” she confided to me with motherly dismay. “If she insists on ruining her eyes, I don’t understand why she can’t read something useful like Vogue.”
Taylor slammed the book shut and glanced over at the plate of celery sticks.
“Veggies again? Can’t I ever have something decent to eat around here?”
“Not if you want to be a size zero for the contest.”
“I don’t care about being a size zero. You’re the one who wants me to be skinny.”
“Anyhow,” Heather said, ignoring Taylor and turning to me, “Taylor’s going to compete in the local division of the Miss Teen Queen America pageant this weekend, and I need you to write her some snappy lyrics.”
“This weekend?” I said. “That doesn’t give me much time.”
“Yes, I know it’s awfully short notice. But at the last minute I decided to go with original lyrics to make Taylor stand out from the crowd. She’s already got the most magnificent gowns.... Wait! I’ll go get them!”
As Heather rushed off to get Taylor’s pageant outfits, Taylor turned to me with a hopeful smile.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to eat?” she asked. “I’m dying for something sweet and sugary with no nutritional value whatsoever.”
“One of my favorite food groups,” I assured her.
I fished around in my purse and pulled out a package of M&M’s I’d brought to keep me company on the drive down to Alta Loco.
“Help yourself,” I said, handi
ng them over. “I ate most of the red ones.”
“You’re an angel,” she said, grabbing a handful. “My mom’s driving me crazy with this silly contest. I’ll never win the darn thing.”
I wasn’t so sure about that. Behind those tortoise shell glasses was a most appealing doll-like face.
“And besides, I don’t want to be a beauty queen. I want to be a writer like you.”
“Like me?” I beamed with pride.
“Well, not exactly like you. I don’t want to wind up writing jingles for plumbers’ Christmas parties. But I still think it’s cool that you’re a writer.”
Just then we heard Heather’s footsteps. Taylor quickly stashed the M&M’s in her pants pocket as Heather returned with two gowns.
“What do you think?” she asked, holding out one of them, a bedazzling ice-blue beaded number. “Vera Wang. Fifteen hundred dollars.”
Holy moly! Fifteen hundred dollars for a dress for a teenager to wear to a contest she didn’t even want to enter? And people say I’m crazy for spending money on the Fudge of the Month Club.
“It’s beautiful,” I managed to sputter.
“And look at this one.” She held up a neon Carmen Miranda extravaganza, complete with spiraling headdress made of plastic fruit.
(Class assignment: For those of you too young to remember Carmen Miranda, go watch one of her movies. Right now. No excuses. Pop quiz to follow at a future date.)
“Taylor’s going to wear it for the talent competition,” Heather said, ruffling the dress’s tiered flounces. “Fantabulous, huh?”