Killing Bridezilla Read online

  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 detective who solves a heinous crime and is also concerned about her thighs and personal relationship 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

  CANDY CANE MURDER

  KILLER CRUISE

  DEATH OF A TROPHY WIFE

  GINGERBREAD COOKIE MURDER

  PAMPERED TO DEATH

  DEATH OF A NEIGHBORHOOD WITCH

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  A Jaine Austen Mystery

  Killing Bridezilla

  Laura Levine

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Praise

  Books by Laura Levine

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Teaser chapter

  Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Laura Levine’s next Jaine Austen mystery - DEATH OF A NEIGHBORHOOD WITCH

  Copyright Page

  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 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 som
e 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 Unpopu-lars 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.

  “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.

  “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

  I arranged 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.”

  “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.

  “Jaine, sweetie!” she beamed. “It’s so good to see you again.”

  As she wrapped me in a bony one-armed hug, her dog began licking my face with all the abandon of a coed gone wild.

  “Mamie really likes you, Jaine!”

  Either that, or she smelled the Quarter Pounder I’d had for lunch.

  “It’s time you two were properly introduced.”

  She held out the dog, and I now saw that they were wearing matching pink tank tops, embroidered with the logo I’m Cute. Buy Me Something.

  “Jaine, say hello to Mamie.” She smiled at me expectantly.

  Oh, good heavens. She actually wanted me to say hello to her dog.

  “Um, hello, Mamie.” I managed a feeble smile.

  Mamie, having clearly decided I was her new best friend, squirmed in Patti’s arms, eager to unleash her salivary glands on me.

  “I hardly ever let anybody do this,” Patti intoned with all the solemnity of King Arthur bestowing a knighthood, “but you can hold her.”

  With that, she thrust the dog in my arms, and within seconds I was covered in an aromatic layer of dog spit.

  “Let’s go out to the patio, and I’ll tell you all about your assignment.”

  She guided me past a maze of impeccably decorated rooms and then out through French doors to a bit of paradise that would give the Garden of Eden a run for its money.

  I gazed in awe at the plushly furnished patio (complete with built-in Viking BBQ), the olympic-caliber lap pool, and the tennis courts in the distance—all of it surrounded by velvety green lawns, exquisitely tended flower beds, and a small forest of trees.

  “Want something to eat?” Patti asked, plopping down onto a chaise longue. “I’m starved.”

  “Sure,” I said, hoping for something whose main ingredient was chocolate.

  “Hey, Rosa,” she barked into an intercom on an end table. “Bring us some Evian and carrot sticks.”

  Oh, foo. Not exactly the snack I’d been hoping for.

  “So what happened to your house in Hermosa Beach?” I asked, easing myself into a pillowy armchair, still holding Mamie, who was now busy nibbling on my ears.

  “Oh, Mom sold it when she married
Connie.”

  “Connie?”

  I blinked in surprise. I remembered Patti’s mom, a va-va-va voom blonde with a nipped-in waist and man-made bosoms, and somehow I couldn’t picture her hooked up with someone of the female persuasion.

  “Short for Conrad. Conrad Devane. My stepfather.”

  “Where’s your dad?”

  “Oh, Daddy died about ten years ago. Guess he figured it was easier than living with Mom. He wasn’t dead in his grave two weeks before Mom sank her claws into Connie. She knows how to sniff out the rich ones. Not that it mattered to me. Daddy left me a bundle.”

  She smiled proudly as if inheriting money was a major life accomplishment.

  “Anyhow, we decided to have the wedding here at the house. It’s so much cozier than a hotel, don’t you think?”

  Was she kidding? This place was a hotel.

  “We’ll have the ceremony out on the lawn. It should be utterly glorious.”

  She stretched out on the chaise, then shrieked, “Hey, Rosa! Where the hell’s our food?—Oh, there you are. It’s about time.”