Jaine Austen 7 - Killing Bridezilla (27 page)

Soon Emily is accepting Graham’s invitations to every social event on the ship, even though her nephews and Ms. Nesbitt clearly don’t approve.

And when the bubbly couple announces their engagement just two nights later, no one is more surprised than Graham’s longtime girlfriend Lorna. But the news is quickly overshadowed the 280

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next morning by the discovery of Graham’s body with an ice pick protruding from his chest . . .

The captain is quick to accuse Lorna, but Jaine suspects there are more sharks in the water. Was money-hungry Kyle protecting his inheritance?

Perhaps Ms. Nesbitt was attempting to regain control over Emily’s life? Or could the notorious lothario have fallen to one of his many paramours? And what about Ryan? Although Jaine finds herself falling for him, she can’t help but wonder if he’s been completely honest with her.

Between hiding a furry fugitive, flirting with Ryan, and baiting the hook for a clever murderer, Jaine is about to dive into her most dangerous case yet . . .

Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
KILLER CRUISE

coming next month!

Chapter 1

The good news about my cruise is I didn’t get seasick. The bad news is I almost got hacked to death by a raving loony. But, hey. Life’s funny that way. My life, that is. Just when I think things are going smoothly, someone comes along and tries to eviscerate me.

But let’s rewind to the day it all began, shall we?

My neighbor Lance was stretched out on my bed, watching me as I raced around, tossing clothes into a suitcase.

“I still can’t believe you’re going on a cruise by yourself,” he said, shaking his blond curls in disbelief.

Yes, it’s true. I, Jaine Austen, a woman whose idea of a Mexican vacation is 2-for-1 Burrito Day at Taco Bell, was about to head off on my first cruise to Mexico. Or, as we cognoscenti say,
Me-hi-co
! And the best thing was—it was absolutely free!

I’d answered an ad in the
L.A. Times
from a cruise company looking for lecturers, and much to my surprise and delight, they’d hired me. All I had to do was teach a few lessons on Writing 282

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Your Life Story, and the generous folks at Holiday Cruise Lines were picking up my tab.

“But, Jaine,” Lance pointed out, “the average age on these cruises is Dead. How do you expect to meet anybody?”

“I’m not going on the cruise to meet anybody. I’m going for the adventure, the scenery, the Latin culture.”

Oh, who was I kidding? I was going for the twenty-four-hour buffet. Imagine! Dessert on tap any time day or night. Talk about heaven.

“Gaack! You can’t possibly be taking that,”

Lance said, pointing to a perfectly serviceable

“Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs” T-shirt. “They’ll make you walk the plank in that thing.”

“This happens to be a collector’s item,” I sniffed.

“A garbage collector’s,” he sniffed right back.

Some people just don’t appreciate kitsch.

“I’m sorry I can’t take you to the pier like I was supposed to,” he said, grimacing at a pair of my elastic-waist shorts, “but I’ve got to be at work in a half hour.”

“That’s okay. It’s not your fault I’m running so late,” I said, eyeing my cat Prozac who was perched atop my dresser. “A certain someone took a tinkle on my open suitcase this morning.

Which meant I had to run out and buy a new suitcase and do an emergency load of laundry which slowed me down a good hour or three.”

Prozac glared down at me through slitted eyes that seemed to say:
You’re lucky it was just a
tinkle.

“Poor thing is upset that you’re going away,”

Lance tsked.

“Upset? That’s putting it mildly. Think King KILLER CRUISE

283

Kong with hairballs. I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss, Pro. After all, Grandma and Grandpa are flying in all the way from Florida to take care of you.”

Her tail twitched the way it always does when she’s on the warpath.

Your parents are NOT my “grandma” and “grandpa.” And if your mother tries to put a bow in my hair
like she did the last time, I won’t be held responsible for
the consequences.

“Hey, I’d better get going,” Lance said, springing up from my bed, “or I’ll be late for work.

Which reminds me, we’re having a sale on Jimmy Choo. Want me to pick up a pair for you?”

Lance, who is gainfully employed as a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus, can never seem to remember that the only thing I can afford from Jimmy Choo is his box.

“No, thanks.” I smiled wanly.

“Well, goodbye then,” he said, taking me in his arms for a farewell hug. “Have fun on the poop deck, whatever the heck that is.”

After Lance left to fondle rich ladies’ feet at Neiman’s, I finished packing, all the while dreaming of seven days lolling in a deck chair and soaking up the sun. When I was done, I turned to Prozac, who was still glaring at me from her perch atop my dresser.

“So long, sweetheart,” I said, scooping her in my arms, “you be good now, hear?”

Yeah, right. Whatever.

Wriggling free from my grasp, she leapt onto my bedspread, which she began clawing with a vengeance. I’d be surprised if it was still in one piece when I got back.

I picked up my bags and headed out to the 284

Laura Levine

living room, fighting back waves of guilt. In spite of Prozac’s abominable behavior, I felt bad about leaving her. What can I say? When it comes to my cat, I’m a hopeless sap, mere putty in her paws.

Oh, well. I couldn’t fret. Prozac would be fine.

My mother would stuff her with human tuna and spoil her rotten.

I took one last look around my apartment, bidding farewell to my overstuffed sofa and my straggly philodendron plant, then headed outside.

It was a glorious day, complete with crayon-blue skies, fluffy white clouds, and palm fronds rustling in the breeze. What perfect weather to set sail for the high seas. Luckily, I’d nabbed a parking spot in front of my duplex. I loaded my suitcase and tote bag in the trunk of my car, and was just about to shut the lid when I realized I’d forgotten to pack my
Giant Book of New York Times
Sunday Crossword Puzzles,
which I intended to work my way through during my seven days at sea, a succession of free strawberry smoothies at my side.

With a sigh of impatience, I dashed back to my apartment and into my bedroom, where Prozac had abandoned my bedspread and was now busily attacking my pillow. I could’ve sworn I’d left the cross word book on my night table, but it wasn’t there.

I looked in the living room, the bathroom, and kitchen, and was about to give up when I finally saw it peeking out from under the living room sofa. No doubt Prozac had hidden it there—

just her thoughtful way of saying, “Bon voyage.”

I grabbed it and raced back out to the Corolla, where I tossed it in the trunk and got behind the KILLER CRUISE

285

wheel, excitement mounting. At last I was headed off for a fabulous week of cruising!

Bidding adieu to the cares and woes of my workaday life, I took off with a smile on my lips and a song in my heart.

And—what I didn’t know at the time—a cat in the trunk of my car.

Chapter 2

Prozac, the little devil, had undoubtedly slipped out of my apartment while I was dashing around looking for my crossword puzzle book.

Like an idiot, I’d left the front door open.

Now as I opened the trunk of my car in the pier’s parking lot, she sauntered out from where she’d been hiding behind my suitcase, and looked up at me in triumph.

Anchors aweigh!

Oh, Lord. Fifteen minutes till final boarding.

There was no way I could possibly get her back to my apartment. And they’d never let me on board with a cat.

Of course, I could always come clean and confess all. But I wasn’t about to give up my free cruise. Not to mention my chances of ever working for Holiday Cruise Lines again. Here was my golden opportunity to wow them with my lecture skills and line up a whole roster of glam cruises around the Pacific. I’d already mentally booked a twenty-one-day excursion to Tahiti. I simply couldn’t give all that up and spend the next seven days back in my apartment watching The Weather Channel with my parents.

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No, there was only one sensible thing to do under the circumstances:

Smuggle Prozac on board.

“Okay, kid,” I said, plopping her into my tote bag, “you’re about to become a stowaway.”

I zipped up the bag, leaving it open just enough so that she’d get some air.

“And if you don’t want grandma putting bows in your hair for the next week,” I hissed as I made my way to the embarkation area, “then stay put and be quiet.”

My palms were sweaty as I handed over my suitcase to a burly baggage handler. I prayed Prozac wouldn’t blow it and start wailing from the tote. But Prozac had obviously gotten the message and was keeping her mouth shut.

Once my suitcase was loaded onto a dolly, I headed inside a cavernous barn of a building where passengers were chattering happily, waiting on line to get through security.

I quickly called Lance on my cell and left a message on his voice mail, telling him what happened and asking him to please tell my parents I had Prozac with me. Then I took my place at the end of the line, behind a couple with a toddler in a stroller.

All was going according to plan as we inched our way to the security scanner. Nary a peep from the tote bag. I was beginning to think I was going to get away with my stowaway scheme when the toddler in front of my shrieked:

“Kitty cat. Kitty cat!”

I looked down and to my horror, I saw that Prozac had wriggled her head out of the tote and was looking around, surveying the scene. I quickly shoved her back down again.

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“Mommy! Mommy! Kitty cat!”

The kid tugged at his mother’s jeans, getting her attention. She turned around, a harried brunette with an armful of tour books.

“What is it, Devon?”

“Kitty cat!” he screeched at the top of his lungs, in case anybody didn’t hear it the first seven times.

“A cat?” his mom said, looking around.

“Where?”

“Oh, that was Snuffles,” I said with a moronic giggle. “My stuffed animal. I never go anywhere without Snuffles. It’s a security thing. I’m working on it in therapy. My therapist says I’m making very good progress, especially with my new meds. . . .”

I tend to babble when I’m nervous.

“Now, Devon,” the kid’s mother murmured, wheeling the stroller as far away from me as possible, “don’t bother the crazy lady.”

Okay, so she didn’t call me crazy, but I could tell she was thinking it.

By now we’d reached the security scanner.

Holding my breath, I put my tote bag on the conveyor belt.

I cringed as I saw it moving from within. I fully expected a zillion alarms to go off and be arrested as a cat-smuggling terrorist. But thankfully, nobody else seemed to notice.

Now it was my turn to walk through the human scanner. I pasted a sickly smile on my face and stepped inside, my heart racing at Indy 500 speed, guilt oozing from every pore.

But the security guy just waved me through with a bored flap of his hand.

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My heartbeat returned to normal as I retrieved my tote bag and headed outside. I was just about to cross the threshold to freedom when I felt someone clamp my arm in an iron grip.

“Just a minute, miss.”

I whirled around to face another security guard, a beefy Brunhilde of a woman with biceps the size of volleyballs.

The jig was clearly up. Man overboard. Time to walk the plank.

“You forgot your crossword puzzles,” she said, handing me my
Giant Book of New York Times Crossword Puzzles.

I took it from her, my hands trembling with relief.

“Have a good trip,” she said with a big-toothed smile.

“Thanks so much,” I managed to sputter.

Then I stepped outside to the dock, where I got my first glimpse of the
Holiday Festival,
a sparkling white behemoth of a ship trimmed with gleaming wood railings and lavish balconies.

Wow, I thought, gazing up a the beautiful vessel. This was the life!

Down below I could see workers loading crates of food supplies. I only hoped some of them contained chocolate.

I headed for the gangplank where two ship’s officers, handsome Scandinavians clad in white, wanted to see my passport. It was my one final hurdle, and I passed it with flying colors, if you don’t count the nasty scratch Prozac gave me when I reached in my tote for my passport.

Operation Stowaway was a success!

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At last, my carefree vacation at sea about to begin, I scooted up the gangplank.

Of course, if I’d known the hell that was in store for me, I would’ve scooted right back down again.

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

850 Third Avenue

New York, NY 10022

Copyright © 2008 by Laura Levine All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

ISBN: 0-7582-4313-8

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