Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) (6 page)

Chapter 8

T
he next few days passed in an aggravating blur as Joy got ready for her annual Valentine’s Singles Mixer.

Or as she so modestly put it, “
The
singles party of the year!”

In full-tilt tyrant mode, Joy proceeded to drive Cassie and Travis crazy, barking orders at them as they transformed the Dates of Joy photo studio into a party venue.

After cramming all the photo equipment into the small kitchen adjacent to the studio, Travis and Cassie got up on ladders to string crepe paper across the room. A job that would normally take about a half hour took forever as Joy shrieked conflicting directions at them.

“Higher! No, lower! Now just a bit to the right! No, no! To the left! No, to the right again!”

Through it all, I sat at a computer in the reception area, banging out phony dating profiles.

When the crepe paper was finally hung, Cassie spent hours on the phone, trying to line up discount balloons and making arrangements with the caterer, a guy Joy dug up on Craigslist.

“He told Joy he was the former executive chef at Coachella Prison,” Cassie whispered to me. “Frankly, I suspect he was an inmate.”

Meanwhile, Travis was hard at work at his computer, making counterfeit copies of Dom Pérignon champagne labels.

“Joy buys the cheapest champagne she can find,” he explained, “and then has me paste on phony labels.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

The woman never ceased to amaze me.

Finally Friday rolled around, the day before Joy’s Valentine’s Day Singles Mixer.

I’d just wrapped up my final fictitious dating profile for a male model I’d dubbed Anton Zeller (a Santa Barbara native who, when not running his highly successful chain of teeth whitening salons, loved surfing, motorbiking, and Charlotte Brontë novels).

I could not wait to go home and spend the next few hours—if not the entire weekend—soaking in a hot tub, washing away the stress of these past few days.

I was just packing up my things when Joy swooped down on me, noshing on a chocolate from her Godiva box.

“By the way, Jaine, I expect you to be at the mixer tomorrow night.”

Oh, no. No way. This was
not
going to happen.

“Honestly, Joy. I’ve got more than enough material for the brochure. I don’t think I need to be at the party.”

“Well, I think you do. So be there. And if anyone asks, you’re a satisfied client.”

Her one and only.

“And speaking of the brochure,” Joy added, a nasty glint in her eye, “I expect your copy on my desk tomorrow morning.”

“You need the brochure copy tomorrow? Saturday?”

“Yes. You have a problem with that?”

“I haven’t had time to even start the brochure. I’ve been too busy writing your blankety-blank bios.”

This is a family novel, so I am sparing you the actual blankety-blank words involved. But I can assure you, they were pretty ripe.

“Well, better get cracking.” She popped another Godiva in her mouth. “I need it on my desk tomorrow.”

Grrr. I came
thisclose
to ramming her with Travis’s stapler. But I didn’t want to waste the staples.

Knowing Joy, she’d charge me for them.

 

“That godawful woman!” I cried, stomping into my apartment. “Taking up weeks of my life with her stupid dating profiles, and then just when I thought I could sit back and relax for five minutes, she gives me less than a day to write a sixteen-page brochure!”

Prozac leaped down from the sofa where she’d been snoring and hurried to my side.

Indeed she did. I’d stopped off for Chinese take-out on my way home. And now Prozac was practically bonding herself to my ankles, yowling to be fed.

I gave up any hope of getting her to eat the Savory Salmon Entrails I’d been planning to feed her, and instead sloshed some shrimp into her bowl.

Gone in sixty seconds.

It didn’t take me too much longer to polish off my chow.

Around about now, if there were any justice in this world, I’d be sinking down into a strawberry-scented bubble bath, listening to the mellow sounds of Diana Krall and throwing mental darts at Joy Amoroso.

But life is not just. (As anyone who’s ever been on a blind date with Skip Holmeier can well attest.)

I had no time for soaking in tubs. Not with a sixteen-page brochure to write.

Pouring myself an eensy glass of wine—okay, so it wasn’t so eensy—I sat down at my computer and stared at the blank screen.

Oh, what I’d give to write the truth about Joy, about what a double-dealing, low-life excuse for a human being she was.

And before I knew it, that’s exactly what I was doing.

I don’t know what came over me. Maybe it was my long simmering anger, my sense of outraged injustice. Probably it was just the chardonnay.

But suddenly I was writing the truth.

And it went something like this:

My fingers flew over the keyboard as I spilled the beans about how Joy charged outrageous membership fees for services rarely rendered, how she padded her database with phony pictures of actors and models, how she browbeat her employees, and worst of all, how after nearly two weeks of working with her, she hadn’t offered me a single chocolate!

I read my copy out loud to Prozac, who looked up from where she was sprawled on the sofa and gave me an encouraging thump of her tail.

Okay, all she really did was yawn, but it seemed like an enthusiastic yawn.

Then I had a great idea. I’d add pictures to my copy!

Ladies,
I wrote,
here’s the kind of guy you can expect to meet at Dates of Joy.

With the help of my good buddies at Google Images, I was soon adorning my brochure with pictures of Norman Bates, Hannibal Lecter, and Elmer Fudd.

And guys, just check out these nifty gals in Joy’s dating file.

Here I pasted pictures of The Bride of Frankenstein, Lizzie Borden, and Honey Boo Boo.

After several more damning paragraphs, I checked my watch and saw it was close to eleven p.m.

Oh, foo. Looked like the party was over.

It was great fun while it lasted, but now I had to write the real stuff.

So I knuckled down and spent the next several hours churning out the adulatory copy Joy was paying me to write, regurgitating all her pap about how matchmaking was in her blood and how it was her life mission to connect soul mates. I wrote about her fictitious track record of successful hookups. And about her equally fictitious gifts of empathy, sensitivity, and compassion. All of which combined to make her a matchmaker par excellence, a caring cupid with a heart of gold.

When I was finished, I practically needed a diabetes shot.

It was way over the top, but I knew Joy would eat it up. Worse, she’d probably believe it.

By now it was after two a.m. Beyond exhausted, I didn’t even bother to run a spell check. I just popped it off in an e-mail, thrilled to be rid of it.

And so it was with happy heart that I toddled off to bed, blissfully unaware of the poop that was waiting in the wings, about to hit my fan.

Chapter 9

V
alentine’s Day dawned bright and sunny, the birds chirping merrily outside my window.

(It was easy for them to be merry. They didn’t have to haul their sorry fannies to Joy’s party that night.)

What with all the hoo-ha of working for Joy, I’d been sadly neglecting my household chores, so I spent the entire day dusting, vacuuming, and catching up on my laundry.

And if you believe that, I’ve got some shares in Enron I’d like to sell you.

I’m not ashamed to confess I lolled around in my pj’s the entire day, doing the
New York Times
crossword puzzle and leafing through the Fudge of the Month catalog.

It was heaven, sheer heaven.

But eventually, it was time to get dressed for Joy’s Valentine’s mixer.

Grudgingly I hauled myself to my closet and tossed on some slacks and a sweater. Gray, to match my mood. And in an act of defiance, I chose a pair of slacks with an elastic waist. Worn out elastic, at that.

So there, Joy Amoroso!

Other than a splash of lipstick, I didn’t bother with makeup, and corralled my mop of curls into a messy ponytail.

Tossing Prozac some Hearty Halibut Guts for her dinner, I carefully refrained from chowing down on some leftover pot stickers that were sitting in the refrigerator, calling my name. (Okay, so I ate one, but that’s all. I swear. Okay, two, if you must know.)

I intended to stuff myself silly with hors d’oeuvres at the mixer, determined to make Joy pay in some small way for all the aggravation she’d put me through.

Checking my watch, I saw it was 7:45. The party started at eight, and I planned on getting there late. The less time I had to spend with Joy, the happier I’d be. So to kill time, I decided to read over the brochure copy I’d e-mailed Joy the night before.

I clicked on the file and cringed to read my gloppy words of praise. If anyone on the planet didn’t deserve them, it was Joy. I was about to log off when suddenly I noticed a splotch of color down at the bottom of the page.

I scrolled down, and to my horror, I saw the puffy-cheeked face of Elmer Fudd!

Omigod! I’d been in such a rush last night, I never deleted the joke copy I’d originally written, the zinger-laden manifesto where I’d called Joy a “Psycho Cupid.”

If Joy saw this, I could kiss my paycheck good-bye.

No doubt about it. My poop had landed. And I was knee deep in the stuff.

 

I drove over to the party like Dale Earnhardt on uppers, my heart racing almost as fast as my engine. I prayed that Joy hadn’t yet read my e-mail and that Travis would know her password so that I could delete it.

The mixer was well under way when I showed up at the Dates of Joy photo studio, now festooned with streamers and discount balloons. Desperate singles were wandering around with glazed looks in their eyes, wondering no doubt what happened to all the stunning people they’d seen in Joy’s date book.

Cassie, her purple hair striped red for the occasion, was working the room as a waitress, serving hors d’oeuvres from a tray. Travis, in a white shirt and bow tie, stood behind a makeshift bar, pouring phony Dom Pérignon into champagne glasses.

I was just about to hurry to his side when Joy came bursting out from the kitchen, dressed head to toe in Valentine’s red: Red tent dress, red designer shoes, even a red bow in her hair. Pinned to her ample bosom was a huge button that read I
ME
.

At last. Truth in advertising.

She took one look at me and came charging at me like a rhino in Jimmy Choos.

Damn. It was too late. She’d read my e-mail.

I braced myself for the volcano that was about to erupt.

“Where the hell have you been?” she hissed. “I’ve been looking all over for you. The idiotic caterer didn’t bring any waitstaff, and I need you to help Cassie serve the hors d’oeuvres.”

Thank heavens! I was safe! For the time being, anyway.

“Of course, Joy. Anything you say.”

She sent me to the kitchen, where her caterer, a burly guy named Carl, handed me an apron emblazoned with the logo
FRUGAL FIXIN’S.
Carl took great pride in informing me that he was the former executive chef at Coachella Prison. Although, as Cassie had said, he did indeed look like he could have been one of the inmates.

“Here you go,” he said, handing me a tray of delicious stuffed mushrooms. I happened to know they were delicious, because I popped one in my mouth as I headed back to the party.

I hadn’t taken two steps into the room when suddenly Joy materialized at my side.

“No eating on the job!” she snapped.

So much for my plan to snack my way through her party.

But who cared? Just as long as I was able to delete that dratted e-mail.

I wandered around with my tray, waiting for my opportunity to approach Travis and ask him for Joy’s password. But Joy was eyeing me like a hawk. If she saw me standing around talking to Travis, she’d be on me like hot fudge on a potato chip.

(You’ve never tried it? It’s delicious.)

Not even the arrival of Tonio was enough to distract Joy. Clad in his usual tight leather pants and chest-baring shirt, Tonio sidled over to give Joy a peck on her cheek. Much to my surprise, I saw her body stiffen. Through gritted teeth, she said something to him—something that made his face turn ashen. Then she turned and stalked off in a huff.

Uh-oh. I smelled trouble in paradise.

By now the room was crowded with lonely singles, still looking in vain for the gorgeous soul mates Joy had promised them.

“Where are all the handsome men I saw on her Web site?” I heard one mousy brunet moan to another.

“Omigosh,” her friend replied. “Here’s one of them now!”

I followed her gaze.

Standing in the doorway was Greg Stanton, the hunkalicious artist I’d seen at Simon’s Steak House. Slim and tan in jeans and a turtleneck, his sun-bleached hair bringing out the deep blue of his eyes, he was a stunner of the highest order.

Once again I wondered why a guy like Greg needed Joy’s services.

Joy was instantly at his side, linking her elbow in his in a viselike grip.

“Greg, my deah!” she squealed in Queen Mum mode. “How veddy lovely to see you!”

Gazing up at him and batting her eyelashes coquettishly, she was—at last—distracted.

Taking advantage of the moment, I dashed over to the bar where Travis was busy trying to keep the phony Dom Pérignon labels from slipping off their bottles as they sloshed around in the ice bucket.

“Hey, Jaine!” he said, catching sight of me. “What can I get you?”

“Joy’s password.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a long, awful story, Travis, but I wrote some horrible things about Joy and sent them to her by mistake. Now I need to get into her e-mail. I’m just praying you know her password.”

“Yeah, sure. Of course. It’s CuteCupid.”

“Oh, gaak.”

“My sentiments, exactly.”

Filled with gratitude, I slipped Travis a Frugal Fixin’s mushroom cap.

Now all I had to do was dash across the reception area to Joy’s inner office.

But how? Joy had relinquished her grip on Greg, who was now surrounded by a gaggle of admirers. Which meant Joy was back on patrol duty, eyes in the back of her head on high alert. I couldn’t risk having her see me put down my tray and leave the room.

I continued to perform waitress duty for the next half hour or so. Every time I looked over at Joy, I saw her glaring at me.

Good Lord, did she have nothing better to do than make sure I didn’t eat one of her precious hors d’oeuvres?

I was beginning to think I’d never escape her eagle eyes when at last I got a break.

Having run out of hors d’oeuvres, I went to the kitchen to get a refill. But Carl was running behind, and the latest batch of goodies—spinach and cheese-filled filo dough—was still baking.

When Joy saw me coming out from the kitchen with an empty tray, she went ballistic.

“What the hell is wrong with that guy?” she exploded. “That’s the last time I ever hire an ex-con to cater a party.”

So Cassie was right. Carl
was
an ex-con!

As Joy took off to the kitchen to give him hell, I threw my empty tray down on the bar and charged out past the reception area into Joy’s office.

I practically wept with relief at the sight of her laptop on her desk.

Plopping my fanny in her antique desk chair, I typed her password into her e-mail account.

Bingo! I was in.

With trembling fingers, I clicked onto her e-mails. There it was. My Dates of Joy brochure.

I opened the e-mail and scrolled down to see E. Fudd, H. Lecter, and the rest of the gang smiling up at me.

“Sorry, guys,” I muttered. “You’re history.”

And then, with the greatest of pleasure, I zapped my slanderous brochure to oblivion.

Mission accomplished.

True, I would have to face the wrath of Joy for not getting the brochure in on time, but that was a small price to pay. In fact, if I hurried home from the party and re-sent the e-mail later that night, she’d probably never even know the difference.

I sat back, limp with relief, when I noticed Joy’s prized Godivas on her desk. I was just about to do the unthinkable and reach for one when I heard footsteps thundering toward Joy’s office.

Oh, crud. They sounded an awful lot like Jimmy Choos on a rampage.

“Shut up, Tonio!” cried an unmistakable voice.

It was Joy, all right.

I looked around for a place to hide and saw absolutely nothing.

So I hurled myself under Joy’s desk. Thank heavens it had a blocked front.

Curled up with my knees rammed into my chest, I looked around and saw that I was surrounded by dust bunnies the size of Chihuahuas—not to mention a moldy pair of slippers and an old M&M’s wrapper.

There I was, cowering amid the dust bunnies, breathing in the heady aroma of Joy’s foot funk, when the door banged open.

“Joy, honey!” Tonio was wailing. “I can explain everything.”

“Forget it, Tonio,” I heard Joy snarl in reply. “I know what you did, and I’m turning you in to the authorities.”

“But, sugarplum!”

“Don’t sugarplum me, you low-life greaseball!”

As I listened avidly to this heated exchange, wondering what on earth Tonio had done to stir up Joy’s wrath, I suddenly felt my nose begin to itch. Oh, hell. I was going to sneeze!

Damn those dust bunnies!

Quickly I pressed my finger under my nose, trying desperately to stem the explosion that was building up inside.

“Can’t we please just talk this over?” Tonio pleaded.

“Too late. We’re through. Finito. You’ll never go shopping at Barneys again!”

“But, Joy—”

“I can’t waste any more time talking about this. I’ve got to get back to the party.”

I waited for the sounds of her designer-clad feet stomping out the door, but I waited in vain.

“No, wait,” she was saying. “I need an aspirin.”

An aspirin? Couldn’t she just suffer like everyone around her?

“Dealing with all those pathetic losers out there has given me a splitting headache.”

Then before I knew it, she was sitting at her desk, her Jimmy Choos just inches from my torturously itchy nose.

I sat there, crunched in a ball and staring at Joy’s toe cleavage as she rummaged around, slamming desk drawers, looking for her dratted aspirin.

By now the itch in my nose was unbearable.

Any minute now I’d be sneezing on her Jimmy Choos!

“Oh, here it is!” she finally said, music to my ears.

Rattling her aspirin bottle, she got up and headed for the door, but not before grabbing a Godiva for the road.

“Thank God for chocolate,” I heard her mutter, her mouth full of candy. “That’s one thing I can always count on.”

“But, honey bun,” Tonio cooed, “you know you can always count on me, too.”

“Don’t make me laugh.” Joy snorted.

And off she stomped, Tonio at her heels, begging for another chance to talk things over.

Finally, I was alone. Just me, the dust bunnies, and Joy’s stinky slippers.

I took my finger out from under my nose, prepared to let loose with a Vesuvius-sized explosion.

But wouldn’t you know?

Now that Joy was gone, I didn’t have to sneeze anymore.

 

After waiting a few minutes to make sure Joy and Tonio were not returning for an encore performance, I unfurled myself from my fetal position and crawled out from under the desk.

So eager was I to get the heck out of there that I foolishly raced into the reception area without checking to see if the coast was clear—only to bump smack dab into Greg Stanton.

Oh, foo. I couldn’t risk having him tell Joy I’d been skulking around in her office.

“Hi, there!” I chirped, trying my best to look wide-eyed and innocent. “I suppose you’re wondering what I was doing in Joy’s office.”

“Not really.”

“Just in case you were, I was looking for my purse. I thought I might have left it there. So that’s what I was doing. Just looking for my purse is all. You know how it is, you put your purse down one minute and the next you can’t remember where the heck it is. Then again, I guess you wouldn’t know. It’s a lady thing.”

I tend to babble when I’m nervous.

“Well, I hope you find it.”

“Find what?”

“Your purse.”

“Oh, right. My purse.”

He shot me a most skeptical look, and I could feel his gorgeous blue eyes boring into my back as I trotted off to the party.

In spite of my encounter with Greg, I returned to the mixer in remarkably high spirits.