Killer Blonde

A Jaine Austen Mystery

For Mark

Many thanks to my editor, John Scognamiglio, for believing in Jaine Austen—and for thinking up such a nifty title. To my agent, Evan Marshall, for being such a good listener and advice-giver extraordinaire. Thanks also to Joanne Fluke, author of the deliciously clever Hannah Swensen mysteries, for her much-appreciated generosity. And to Carlos Marrero for his terrific cover art. A special thanks to my family and friends, for their love and support. And, finally, because I know he’ll be impossible to live with if I don’t mention him, thanks to the cat in my life, Mr. Guy.

M
y name is Jaine, and I’m a bathaholic.

Yes, it’s true. I like nothing better than to tear off my clothes in the middle of the afternoon and leap into a hot bubble bath. So it’s lucky I’m a freelance writer. While other working stiffs are trapped in offices, chained to their computers, I can hop into the tub any time I please.

Which is what I was doing the day SueEllen Kingsley first called me. I’d just finished writing a slogan for a new client, Tip Top Dry Cleaners
(We’ll clean for you. We’ll press for you. We’ll even dye for you.)
, and I was relaxing in a marvelous haze of strawberry-scented bubbles. The mirrors were fogged over. The radio, if I remember correctly, was playing a soulful Diana Krall love song. And my cat Prozac was perched on top of the toilet tank, licking her privates, visions of fish guts dancing in her head.

It was one of those blissful moments I often experience after I’ve finished a writing assignment, basking in the glow of a job well done (or done, anyway), until it dawns on me that now that the assignment is over, I’m out of work again.

I was still in the bask-in-the-glow stage when the phone rang. I let the machine get it.

“Ms. Austen.” A syrupy, southern-accented voice drifted out from the machine. “SueEllen Kingsley here. I saw your ad in the Yellow Pages—”

Yippee! A prospective client!

“And I’m calling because I need a ghostwriter to help me write a book.”

At the sound of the word “ghostwriter,” my enthusiasm came to a screeching halt. In my experience, people who are looking for ghostwriters often fall into the “mentally unstable” category. These are people who want to tell the world about how they were abducted to the planet Clorox and forced to have sex with spatulas. Or people who believe that they’re the love child of Wayne Newton and Golda Meir.

SueEllen Kingsley left her number on my machine. For a minute I considered not returning the call. But then I remembered a few pesky facts of life, like my rent and my Visa bill and my impossible-to-kick Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey habit.

Reluctantly, I hauled myself out of the tub and into a worn chenille bathrobe. Then I shuffled over to the phone and dialed.

If I’d known what I was getting into, I would’ve stayed up to my eyeballs in soapsuds.

S
ueEllen Kingsley answered the phone, her voice as gooey as melted Velveeta. “Ms. Austen,” she oozed, “can you hustle your fanny over to my house in an hour?”

I assured her I was an expert at fanny-hustling, and she gave me the directions to her house. Which turned out to be more like a castle. A vintage Spanish estate nestled in one of Beverly’s niftiest Hills, the house was a showstopper. Its arches and balustrades and red tile roof glistened in the midafternoon sun. The whole thing was so Spanish manorish, I almost expected to see Zorro leap onto one of the many balconies with a rose in his teeth. But there was no sign of Zorro. The only Hispanic in sight was a gardener pruning the bougainvillea.

I drove up a circular driveway and parked my humble Corolla next to a gleaming Bentley. Then I checked my teeth in my rearview mirror for any stray pieces of lettuce left over from the Jumbo Jack I’d picked up on my way over. Satisfied that all was clear on the dental front, I gave myself a quick blast of Binaca and tugged a few unruly curls back into my ponytail.

Finally, plucking a stray french fry from my lap, I got out of the Corolla and looked around. What a palace. The kind of place God would build if He had money.

I was beginning to regret my decision to wear my usual work outfit of jeans and a blazer. A place like this called for something a lot fancier. Like the British crown jewels and a blazer.

Why the heck was a woman with SueEllen’s money calling a writer from the Yellow Pages? I’d checked her out on Google before I left my apartment, and found her name scattered on the society pages of the
Los Angeles Times.
SueEllen was apparently a partygiver and fund raiser par excellence. Surely she had access to scads of well-known writers. So why, I asked myself again, had she called anonymous old me? Oh, well. Who cared why she called? Just as long as her check didn’t bounce. And from the looks of the place, I was sure it wouldn’t.

I headed up the front path, and rang the bell.

Now I don’t know if they have a doorbell at Versailles, but if they do, I’ll bet it sounds just like the Kingsleys’. A series of mellifluous bongs resonated from inside the house. Seconds later the door was opened by a timid Hispanic maid holding a bottle of Windex.

“Hi,” I smiled. “I’m Jaine Austen. I have an appointment with Mrs. Kingsley.”

“
Sí
,” she said, eyes lowered, clutching her Windex to her chest. She spoke softly, in a heavily accented voice. “Mrs. Kinglsey’s having her massage. She wants you to wait in the living room.”

I followed her as we hiked across the foyer. A wide curving staircase with gleaming mahogany banisters ascended to the floor above. I almost expected to see Scarlett O’Hara come skipping down the steps, twirling her parasol.

The living room was huge, with hardwood floors, an exposed wood beam ceiling, and a fireplace as big as my kitchen. I took a seat in one of the many overstuffed armchairs dotted throughout the room. The maid asked me if I wanted anything to drink, and seemed relieved when I said no.

As she skittered away, presumably to do battle with dirty windows, I glanced down and saw a grease stain on my blouse. Probably from the french fry that dropped in my lap. Oh, great. Now I’d have to spend the entire interview with my blazer buttoned. Which wasn’t going to be easy, since I’d bought the blazer two sizes too small. It was on sale at Ann Taylor, the only one they had left, reduced seventy percent. I went ahead and bought it, figuring I’d never have to button the damn thing.

Now I sucked in my gut, and was struggling with the buttons when I heard:

“You’ll never last a week.”

I looked across the room and for the first time I noticed a young girl nestled in an armchair underneath a huge bay window.

She was a chubby kid, about fifteen, with soft brown eyes and an old fashioned Dutch Boy haircut. Something about her looked vaguely familiar. And then I realized—Good heavens, she was me—at fifteen. Not that I have brown eyes; mine are green. And when I was fifteen, I wasn’t quite as chunky as this girl. But there was something about her that reminded me of the young Jaine Austen. Maybe it was the book she was reading.
Stiff Upper Lip
by the British humorist P.G. Wodehouse. When I was a teenager, I was crazy about his books. In fact, I still am. But it’s not every day you see a teenager reading Wodehouse.

“Nobody ever lasts a week,” she said, looking up at me from under her thick bangs. “Sooner or later, they all quit.”

So that’s why SueEllen was willing to hire a writer from the Yellow Pages. No reputable writer would work for her.

“She’s nice at first, but then she turns mean. You’ll see.”

“So your mom’s tough to work for, huh?”

The kid looked at me as if I’d just offered her a worm for lunch.

“SueEllen isn’t my mother,” she said with all the warmth of Christina Crawford talking about Joan. “She’s my stepmother. My real mother’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”

And with that she picked up her book and began reading. Conversation terminated.

“Miss Austen?”

The Hispanic maid was at the door, still clutching her Windex. I only wished she had some stain remover for the grease spot on my blouse.

“Mrs. Kingsley will see you now,” she said.

I got up to go. I tried to button my blazer, but it was no use. SueEllen Kingsley would have to accept me as I was, grease stain and all.

“Nice meeting you,” I said to the kid in the chair.

“Whatever,” was her jolly reply.

I followed the maid up a flight of stairs and down what seemed like an endless hallway. If I’d known how big this place was, I would’ve worn hiking shoes.

Halfway down the corridor, we ran into a bubbly blonde carrying a portable massage table. She weighed about as much as my right leg.

“Hi, Conchi,” she said to the maid. Then she turned to me, beaming me an impossibly white smile. “I’m Larkspur O’Leary, SueEllen’s masseuse.”

Larkspur O’Leary? And I thought my mom was bad naming me Jaine Austen.

“You must be the new writer,” she said.

“No, not exactly. I’m just here for an interview. I haven’t got the job yet.”

“Oh, you will. You look very capable. And besides, SueEllen’s desperate.”

She beamed me another smile, almost blinding me in the process.

“Here’s my card.” She handed me a pastel pink business card, with her name printed in a flowery script. “I use a special method of massage that breaks down the fat cells and gets rid of cellulite.” She let her glance linger on my thighs, which, I have to admit, are home to a happy colony of fat cells.

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Well, see ya,” she said. Then she started down the hallway, swinging her massage table as if it were a bag of Fritos. For a tiny thing, she was awfully strong.

“Oh, and good luck,” she called back. And then she added, with a wink, “You’re going to need it.”

I smiled weakly and followed Conchi down the endless hallway. At last we reached our destination. Conchi opened the door to a bathroom straight out of
Architectural Digest,
gleaming with marble, gold fixtures and light streaming in from overhead skylights. At first I thought she’d taken leave of her senses. Why on earth would she be bringing me to the bathroom? Clearly the woman had been sniffing too many Windex fumes.

“Ms. Austen, I presume?”

I looked over and saw my prospective employer, SueEllen Kingsley, stretched out in a tub so big, it could hold the entire cast of
Friends,
and still have room left over for Drew Carey.

The first thing I noticed about SueEllen were her boobs. Two perfect pink globes, bobbing in the water like cantaloupes. Later I would notice her tawny hair, her tiny waist, and her fine-boned face with an unlikely smattering of freckles on her nose. But not at first. No, all I saw at first were those incredible boobs.

“Like ‘em?” Sue Ellen asked, following my gaze. “They’re a birthday gift from my husband.”

Talk about a gift for the gal who has everything.

“Hal’s a plastic surgeon. All the stars go to him. He gives great liposuction,” she added, taking a none too discreet glance at my thighs.

I was getting a bit miffed at the way everybody seemed to be taking potshots at my thighs. Okay, so I’m no supermodel, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have feelings.

“That’ll be all, Conchi,” SueEllen said, waving the maid away with her loofa sponge.

Conchi scurried out of the room, like an infantryman trying to stay out of the line of fire.

“Have a seat,” SueEllen said, gesturing to the toilet bowl. I sat down on the toilet lid, crossing my arms over my chest to hide the grease spot on my blouse, and trying not to look as uncomfortable as I felt.

“I hope you don’t mind my interviewing you in the bathroom,” SueEllen said.

“Not at all,” I lied.

“But this is where I work,” she said, washing between her toes. “I get my best ideas in the bathtub.”

“Me, too, actually. It’s where I thought up the slogan for one of my biggest clients, Toiletmasters Plumbers.”

Okay, so Toiletmasters wasn’t exactly a Fortune 500 company. But at the moment, it was the shining star on my résumé.

“In a rush to flush? Call Toiletmasters!
You thought of that?”

I nodded modestly; the woman was actually impressed.

“That’s wonderful, honey. I can see you’re just oozing with talent. Have you ever ghostwritten a book?”

“Yes,” I said. “Once.”

“What was it about?”

“Uh, it was sort of a…memoir.”

Please don’t let her ask me what it was called.

“What was it called?”

I took a deep breath, and spat it out. (Sensitive readers may want to skip the following sentence.)

“I Was Henry Kissinger’s Sex Slave.”

“Really?” SueEllen said. “So was I!”

“What?”

“Only kidding,” she said, laughing at her own gag, her incredible breasts bouncing like buoys in the ocean.

“Ha ha,” I managed weakly.

“I suppose you want to know what my book is about.”

“Of course.”

“It’s about entertaining.”

I smiled a genuine smile of relief, grateful that there were no space aliens involved.

“Sounds great.”

“Oh, it will be,” she said, sudsing a long lean cellulite-free thigh. “I don’t know if you’ve ever seen my name in the papers, but I’m just about the most popular hostess on the Beverly Hills party circuit. People kill for invitations to my parties. So now I’m going to share my entertaining secrets with the public. I’ll give recipes and talk about how to hire a caterer and tell all sorts of marvelous anecdotes from my past. I’ve led a very colorful life, you know.”

I didn’t doubt that for a minute.

“So how about it,” she said. “You interested?”

“What exactly did you have in mind as a salary?”

“Three thousand.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Three thousand dollars isn’t much. After all, the book will take months to write.”

“Not three thousand for the whole book, silly. Three thousand a week.”

Suddenly, the toilet didn’t seem so uncomfortable after all.