Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) Read Free Page A

hurricane erupted from Joy’s office.
    Joy came storming out into the middle of the reception area, tottering on her tiny heels, her face purple with rage.
    “Who ate my chocolate?” she screeched, holding out her box of Godivas.
    The remaining models looked at each other, unnerved.
    “One of them is missing!” Joy stomped around the room, shoving the box under everyone’s nose. The models. Cassie. Travis. And moi, her gaze lingering for an uncomfortable beat on my thighs.
    “Which one of you took it? Huh? Huh? Huh?”
    At this point one of the models, a skittish young thing in leather pants and a tank top, grabbed his portfolio and scooted out the door.
    “If I find out you did it, you’ll be in big trouble!” Joy shouted out after him.
    “There were six chocolates in the box,” she said, turning back to the rest of us. “And now there are only five! See?”
    She started counting out the chocolates in the box.
    “One ... two ... three ... four ... five ...”
    Then she looked down and saw what we all saw: The sixth chocolate.
    You’d think she would have been embarrassed. But no. Hurricane Joy, having spent all her venom, just shrugged and said, “Never mind.”
    As she tottered back into her office, the models broke out in a chorus of nervous whispers. But Travis and Cassie just rolled their eyes.
    “This happens all the time,” Cassie said with a shrug.
    Holy mackerel. And I thought I was a chocoholic.
     
    I trudged up the path to my duplex in the slums of Beverly Hills, a modest pocket of no-frills dwellings far from the mega-mansions north of Wilshire Boulevard. I was still shuddering at the memory of Hurricane Joy when Lance came bounding out from his apartment.
    “So did you get the job?” he asked, his eyes lighting up at the sight of me.
    “Yeah, I got it,” I sighed.
    “Great!” he beamed, ignoring the cloud of gloom hovering over my head. “Now you can have Joy fix me up on a date.”
    “Forget it, Lance. The woman is a crook. She pads her client list with models and actors who don’t even belong to the club. Most of the guys who do belong are a lot older and paunchier than you. I saw a grand total of five attractive male clients on her active client list, only one of whom was gay. And he lived in Rancho Cucamonga with six cats and a Maserati.”
    “A Maserati, huh? Works for me! So set me up with an appointment ASAP.”
    “I’m not setting you up with an appointment. Joy’s fees start at ten grand a year, and there’s no way you can afford that.”
    “We’ll see about that.”
    And with a sly look, a lot like Prozac’s just before she’s about to pounce on a cashmere sweater, he trotted off into the night.
    Back in my apartment, I checked my messages, praying that an assignment had come in from one of my regular clients. Eagerly I scanned my e-mails for a note from Toiletmasters ( Flushed with Success Since 1995! ) or Tip Top Cleaners ( We Clean for You. We Press for You. We Even Dye for You!) or Ackerman’s Awnings ( Just a Shade Better ). But alas, my in-box was depressingly devoid of job orders.
    For the time being, it looked like I was stuck with the Godiva Godzilla.

    YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
    To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Exciting News!
     
     
    Exciting news, honey! I just ordered the most adorable Georgie O. Armani jacket from the shopping channel. Lipstick red with white piping. It’ll be perfect for Valentine’s Day. Daddy is taking me to dinner at Le Chateaubriand, Tampa Vistas’s most elegant restaurant. Daddy promised he’d make the reservations today. He’s probably getting me what he always gets me for Valentine’s Day: a dozen roses and a bottle of Jean Naté. I’m getting him something he saw on an infomercial, some crazy gadget called a Belgian Army Knife. I wanted to buy him a watch from the shopping channel, but no, he had to have that silly Belgian Army Knife. He insists he can’t live without it.
     
    But enough about Daddy. Here’s the