Killer Cruise Read online

  Outstanding praise for Laura Levine’s

  Jaine Austen mysteries!

  KILLER CRUISE

  “Get ready to enjoy another wickedly witty, quick-paced and fun-filled mystery. A great addition to this mystery series!”

  Fresh Fiction

  “Once again, Levine has written a book where the laughs never stop. This is one delightful read.”

  Romantic Times

  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 the 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

  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

  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 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

  “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, CA)

  “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

  KILLING BRIDEZILLA

  CANDY CANE MURDER

  KILLER CRUISE

  DEATH OF A TROPHY WIFE

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  A Jaine Austen Mystery

  Killer Cruise

  Laura Levine

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  For Ben, who first suggested it,

  and Mark, who convinced me to take this cruise.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks, as always, to my editor John Scognamiglio for his ongoing faith in Jaine, and to my agent Evan Marshall for his valued guidance and support. Thanks to Hiro Kimura whose covers never fail to delight me. And to Joanne Fluke, who takes time out from writing her own bestselling Hannah Swensen mysteries to share her insights and her brownies. Thanks to Mark Baker, who was there from the beginning. And to Rocky Stickel of Scuba House and Ann Zeller, for filling me in on the facts about scuba diving (any mistakes are mine, not theirs).

  Thanks to my friends and family for always being there for me. And to the wonderful readers who’ve taken the time to write me. Your e-mails truly brighten my day. Finally, a loving thanks to my most loyal fan and ardent supporter, my husband Mark.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  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 a two-for-one 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 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 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, good-bye 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 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 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 crossword 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 into the trunk and got behind the 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.

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

  Smuggle Prozac on board.

  “Okay, kiddo,” 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 me 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 promptly shoved her back down again.

  “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 asked, 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 would go off and I’d 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.

  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 an
other 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 at 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 into my tote for my passport.

  Operation Stowaway was a success!

  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.

  According to my ticket, my cabin was on the Dungeon Deck. Okay, technically, it was called the Paradise Deck, but it was so deep in the bowels of the ship, I practically got the bends riding down in the elevator.

  But I didn’t care. I was thrilled to have made it past security.

  I was making my way along the corridor, looking for my cabin, when Prozac, clearly irritated at having been cooped up in a tote bag with nothing for company but my hair dryer, sprang out of the bag and began prancing down the corridor.