Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla

Outstanding praise for Laura Levine’s
Jaine Austen mysteries!

KILLING BRIDEZILLA

“A fun romp . . . a murder mystery filled with laughs and a surprising ending.”

ReviewingTheEvidence.com

“A humorous mystery.”

Romantic Times

DEATH BY PANTYHOSE

“Fun . . . Jaine’s dogged sleuthing and screwball antics will entertain fans of this fizzy series.”

Publishers Weekly

THE PMS MURDER

“This is a perfect book for the beach, breezy, and laugh-out-loud funny.”

The Kingston Observer

“Jaine can really dish it out.”

The New York Times Book Review
SHOES TO DIE FOR

“A lively sense of humor and an ear for the absurd help Jaine overcome any number of setbacks and a host of fashion no-nos.”

Kirkus Reviews

“The ideal beach read.”

Publishers Weekly

Please turn the page for more outstanding praise
for Laura Levine!

KILLER BLONDE

“The identity of the real killer comes as a smart surprise.”

Publishers Weekly

“Levine’s series gets smarter with each book. Her dialogue is realistic yet hilarious, and her vivid characters jump off the page.”

Romantic Times

LAST WRITES

“
Last Writes
is sprightly and entertaining. I commend it to the attention of anyone wishing to be entertained.”

Robert B. Parker,
New York Times
bestselling author

“Hilarious and an absolute delight. I highly recommend this book if you want to laugh and enjoy a good read.”

I Love a Mystery

“The wisecracks and puns again fly fast and thick.”

Publishers Weekly

THIS PEN FOR HIRE

“Humor is the key ingredient in this slick debut . . .

the story zips along to an action-filled and surprising climax. Levine delivers the goods and readers who appreciate self-deprecating humor will hope Jaine soon gets caught up in another murder.”

Publishers Weekly

“This book is laugh out loud funny. Laura Levine skewers the L.A. scene with wit and panache. A real winner!”

Laurien Berenson, author of
Doggie Day Care Murder

“This will turn out to be a long series . . . likely to be compared to Janet Evanovich for its humor.”

I Love a Mystery

“Laura Levine’s hilarious debut mystery, THIS PEN

FOR HIRE, is a laugh a page (or two or three) as well as a crafty puzzle. Sleuth Jaine Austen’s amused take on life, love, sex and L.A. will delight readers.

Sheer fun!”

Carolyn Hart, author of the Death on Demand and Henrie O mysteries

“Jaine has a sassy attitude and I look forward to her new adventures.”

Deadly Pleasures

“Thank you, Laura Levine. Instead of painful crunches, I can give my abs a workout just by reading your laugh-out-loud funny book.”

Leslie Meier, author of
Mother’s Day Murder

“A lot of laughs.”

Star-News
(Pasadena)

“This is classic stuff: a wisecracking L.A. gal detec

tive who solves a heinous crime and is also concerned about her thighs and personal relation

ship issues. I read it happily before bedtime for a week and had vivid dreams about convertibles and palm trees and blondes.”

Garrison Keillor

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

Published by Kensington Publshing Corporation A Jaine Austen Mystery

Killing Bridezilla

Laura Levine

KENSINGTON BOOKS

www.kensingtonbooks.com

For Mark

Acknowledgments

Many thanks, as always, to my editor John Scognamiglio for his unwavering faith in me and Jaine, and to my agent Evan Marshall for his valued guidance and support. Thanks also to Hiro Kimura, whose nifty covers never fail to bring a smile to my face. And to Joanne Fluke, who takes time out from writing her own bestselling Hannah Swensen mysteries to share her insights and her brownies. To Mark Baker, for being there from the beginning. And to R. T. Jordan, because he is a good friend, and because I want to plug his Polly Pepper mysteries.

A special thanks to the wonderful readers who’ve taken the time to write me. And to my friends and family for putting up with me while I’m wrangling with a plot. Finally, a loving thanks to my most loyal fan and ardent supporter, my husband Mark.

Chapter 1

Some people look back on their high school days fondly, lost in happy memories of pep rallies and senior proms. And then there are the other 98% of us. For us, high school was hell with acne, a blistering nook of inferno Dante neglected to mention, where we first discovered that life isn’t fair and blondes really do have more fun.

Which is why I cringed when I first got that call from Patti Marshall. In the Dante-esque world of high school, Patti was Satan’s ringmaster.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up and set the scene.

I’d just come home from the vet, where I’d taken my cat Prozac for her annual checkup.

You’ll be happy to learn Prozac was in perfect health. The vet, however, required several stitches and a trip to the emergency room.

“How could you attack poor Dr. Graham like that?” I scolded as I let her out of her cage.

I warned her to stay away from my privates.

“I still can’t believe you bit her in the arm.”

Me neither. I was aiming for her face.

I poured myself a wee tankard of Chardonnay 2

Laura Levine

to recuperate and was reaching for a restorative dose of Oreos when the phone rang.

Too wiped out to answer, I let the machine get it.

“Jaine, it’s Patti Marshall.”

I froze in my tracks. Patti had been the queen bee of my alma mater, Hermosa High, a social despot who ruled her subjects with a fine-tuned cruelty and a flawless complexion.

Her voice drifted from the machine, the same nasal whine that had delivered so many devastating zingers in the girls’ locker room.

“I heard you’re a writer now. Give me a call, okay? I think I may have some work for you.”

My palms turned clammy. Patti represented everything I’d loathed about high school. I could just picture her sitting at her throne at the Popular Table in the cafeteria, eyeing the Unpopulars with undisguised disdain and leading her Bitches in Waiting in a chorus of derisive giggles.

I would’ve liked nothing more than to zap her message to oblivion. But she’d said the magic word—work—a commodity I’m chronically short of.

I turned to Prozac who was sprawled out on the sofa, licking her prized privates.

“What do you think, Pro? She’s a world-class rat, but I really need the money. What should I do?”

She looked up at me with big green eyes that seemed to say,
It’s always about you, isn’t it? What
about me? When do I eat?

Which goes a long way toward explaining why man’s best friend has never been the cat.

Oh, well. I really needed the dough, so I took a bracing gulp of Chardonnay and forced myself to give Patti a call.

KILLING BRIDEZILLA

3

“Hi, Jaine!” she trilled when she came on the line. “How’ve you been?”

Somewhat stunned by the friendly lilt to her voice, I mumbled, “Um. Fine.”

“Listen, I’ve got great news. I’m getting married.”

“Congratulations.”

I didn’t envy the poor guy headed down that aisle.

“Anyhow, I need somebody to write my wedding vows. I heard you’re a writer now, and I thought it’d be great to work with an old friend.”

An old friend? The woman was clearly smoking something illegal.

“So what have you written? Anything I’ve heard of?”

As a matter of fact, I had written an ad she might very well have heard of. Or at least seen; it’s been on bus stops all over town. But it wasn’t exactly the kind of ad that leaves people awestruck.

“I wrote
In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters.
”

I waited for Patti’s patented,
Ewww, gross!
, the line with which she tarred many a fragile ego at Hermosa High, but instead, I heard:

“Really? I saw that in the Yellow Pages. It’s very cute!”

Alert the media. A compliment. From Catty Patti.

“So how about it, Jaine? You think you’d be interested?”

“Well—”

“I was thinking of paying somewhere in the neighborhood of three thousand dollars.”

Call the movers. That was my kind of neighborhood.

4

Laura Levine

“That sounds terrific, Patti. I’d love to do it.”

“Wonderful!” she gushed. “I know we’re going to have so much fun!”

We agreed to meet the next day and I hung up, not quite believing what had just happened.

This certainly wasn’t the same Queen of Mean I’d known in high school. Was it possible Patti had changed over the years? Why not? People changed all the time. I had to stop being such a cynic and give her the benefit of the doubt.

Somewhere along the line Patti Marshall had obviously morphed into a decent human being.

And more important, a decent human being who was willing to enrich my bank balance by three grand.

And so I embarked on my new assignment filled with hope and good cheer—much like I imagine Dr. Graham must have felt before reaching for Prozac’s privates.

Chapter 2

Iarranged to meet Patti the next day at her parents’ home in Bel Air.

Back in Hermosa, Patti had lived in a fabulous beachfront house, a gleaming white affair with unobstructed views of the Pacific. A house, needless to say, I’d never been invited to.

As nice as Patti’s Hermosa house had been, it was a virtual shack compared to her new digs in Bel Air. As I drove up the leafy pathway to the estate—a sprawling manse with more wings than a condo complex—I could practically smell the scent of freshly minted money in the air.

I parked my ancient Corolla in the “motor court” and checked my reflection in the rearview mirror. It was a glorious day, sunny and clear, and I was grateful that my hair—which usually turns to Brillo at the first sign of humidity—was mercifully frizz-free. I fluffed it into what I hoped was a Sarah Jessica Parker-ish nimbus of curls, then sucked in my gut and headed for the front door.

A Hispanic maid in a starched white apron answered the bell.

“I’m here to see Patti,” I said. “I’m Jaine Austen, her writer.”

6

Laura Levine

“Another one?”

She rolled her eyes and ushered me into a foyer bigger than my living room, complete with double marble staircase and a crystal chandelier the size of a Volkswagen.

“Ms. Patti,” she called up the steps, “the writer lady is here.”

Patti’s voice drifted from above. “I’ll be right down.”

“Good luck.” The maid shot me a sympathetic smile and scurried away.

I was standing there, counting the crystals in the chandelier, when I heard the clack of heels on the marble stairs.

I looked up and there she was, Patti Marshall, Hermosa High’s very own Cruella De Vil. I’d been hoping she’d put on a few pounds since high school like the rest of us mere mortals. But if anything, she’d lost weight. Life sure isn’t fair, isn’t it?

Unlike most high school prima donnas, Patti had never been a conventional beauty. Her face was a little too long, her eyes just a little too close together. But there was something about the way she carried herself, the way she looked at you through those close-set eyes, that had you convinced she was a stunner.

She made her grand entrance now, sweeping down the stairs in body-hugging capris and a tank top. Her gleaming blond hair, always her best feature, was caught up in a careless ponytail that swished from side to side as she walked.

In the crook of her arm, she carried what at first looked like a large cotton ball, but when the cotton ball started yapping, I realized it was a dog.