Death of a Gigolo Read online

  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

  DEATH OF A TROPHY WIFE

  GINGERBREAD COOKIE MURDER

  PAMPERED TO DEATH

  DEATH OF A NEIGHBORHOOD WITCH

  KILLING CUPID

  DEATH BY TIARA

  MURDER HAS NINE LIVES

  DEATH OF A BACHELORETTE

  DEATH OF A NEIGHBORHOOD SCROOGE

  DEATH OF A GIGOLO

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  A Jaine Austen Mystery

  DEATH OF A GIGOLO

  LAURA LEVINE

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  HEADLINES IN THE NEWS

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 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.

  Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2019940170

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

  ISBN: 978-1-4967-0852-6

  First Kensington Hardcover Edition: October 2019

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4967-0854-0 (ebook)

  eISBN-10: 1-4967-0854-7 (ebook)

  Prologue

  The Los Angeles morning fog was rolling in, thick as whipped cream on a Mocha Frappuccino. But inside my bedroom it was bright and sunny, a Technicolor world with Disney bluebirds chirping at my shoulders.

  The reason for all this sunshine and light?

  I’m thrilled to report that Cupid, who’d been snubbing me for years, had suddenly come flying into my life, pinging me with his arrow of love.

  Thanks to the wonders of Internet dating, I’d reconnected with my ex-husband, formerly known as The Blob, now known as the Most Wonderful Man in the World. Or, as it appeared on his driver’s license, Dickie Elliott.

  True, our marriage had been a disaster—littered with forgotten birthdays, serial unemployment, and toenail clippings in the kitchen sink. (His, not mine.)

  But over the years we’d been apart, Dickie had changed.

  Gone was the slacker in flip-flops, rooted to the sofa watching Beavis and Butt-Head reruns. My former Dufus Royale now had a steady job as a graphic artist and a condo in Venice with a spectacular view of the Pacific.

  I’d been seeing him for a while (six weeks, three days, and fourteen and a half hours—but who’s counting?), and had rediscovered the sweet, sensitive artist I’d fallen in love with when I’d first met him.

  Yes, Cupid was certainly zinging his arrow my way, and for that I was supremely grateful.

  I was lying in bed that morning, Cinderella in a GOT CHOCOLATE? sleep tee, trying to ignore my cat, Prozac, clawing me for her breakfast, when my cell phone buzzed.

  Eagerly, I reached for it.

  “Morning, sweetie.”

  Do you hear angels singing? I did. It was him!

  “See you tonight?” he asked, his voice like warm velvet.

  “My place at seven,” I managed to say after my heart stopped ricocheting in my chest.

  “Miss you,” he cooed.

  “Miss you more.”

  “No, miss you more.”

  “No, miss you more.”

  “No, miss you—”

  By now Prozac was thumping her tail in disgust.

  Any more of this goo, I’m gonna hurl a hairball.

  After a volley of kissy noises with Dickie, I hung up to face Prozac’s wrath.

  Sad to say, my kitty was not on board my love train. She sensed that this was something serious. And she didn’t like it. Not one bit. No way was she about to relinquish her title as my Significant Other.

  I’d tried my best to explain to her that there was plenty of room in my heart for her and Dickie, but she was having none of it. Every time he stopped by my apartment, she was a hissing, scratching bundle of hostility.

  But I didn’t have time to worry about Prozac. I had to shower and dress for a very important job interview.

  Yes, it seemed that love had entered my life in more ways than one. That very morning I was headed off to apply for a job co-authoring a romance novel!

  My neighbor, Lance Venable, who, as a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus, fondles the tootsies of the one-percenters, had set me up with one of his mega-wealthy customers, a would-be romance novelist by the name of Daisy Kincaid.

  Admittedly I had zero qualifications to write a romance novel, having spent the past several years writing ads for low-rent clients like Toiletmasters Plumbers (In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters!), Fiedler on the Roof roofers, and Tip Top Cleaners (We Clean For You! We Press For You! We Even Dye For You!).

  But the recent reappearance of Cupid in my life had inspired me to take on the challenge. (Not to mention the $10,000 Daisy was paying.)

  I’d sent her a writing sample, a seven-page mini-romance I’d managed to dash off about a man and a woman in the same apartment building who fall in love when they keep getting each other’s mail by mistake.

  It wasn’t exactly Wuthering Heights, but I thought it was cute. I only hoped Daisy would like it and offer me the job.

  Breakfast duly scarfed down, I was gazing at a framed photo of Dickie on my coffee table, daydreaming about my possible new life as a romance novelist—and, not incidentally, the whipped cream on a Mocha Frappuccino—when I realized if I didn’t hurry I’d be late for my interview.

  After a quickie shower, I popped into my official job interview outfit—skinny jeans, silk blouse, and blazer—accessorized with silver hoop earrings and my one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks.

  A dash of lipstick, a crunch of my curls, and I was set to go.

  “Wish me luck,” I called out to Prozac as I grabbed my car keys.

  But she was too busy hissing at Dickie’s picture to even glance my way.

  Chapter 1

  The first thing I noticed as I drove up to Daisy Kincaid’s estate was a brass plaque at the foot of her driveway, engraved with the words LA BELLE VIE.

  Thanks to Mrs. Wallis, my French teacher at Hermosa High (Bonjour, Mme. Wallis! ), I knew that la bel
le vie meant “beautiful life.”

  No kidding, I thought, as I wended my way up to Daisy’s villa—a castle-like affair with arched colonnades, enough balconies to house a troupe of Rapunzels, and a gurgling fountain out front.

  Think Downton Abbey with palm trees.

  I parked in the circular gravel driveway, and after a quick inspection of my curls in my rearview mirror, I trotted over to ring the doorbell.

  Deep chimes reverberated within the house, and seconds later, the front door was opened by a svelte young blonde, her hair coiled in a chignon. So elegant did she look that for an instant I thought she was Daisy Kincaid. But then I realized she was wearing a crisp, white maid’s uniform.

  “Ms. Austen?” she asked.

  “That’s me.”

  “Come right in. Ms. Kincaid is expecting you.”

  I followed her through a foyer the size of a hotel lobby into a living room littered with priceless bibelots and centuries-old antiques.

  “Have a seat,” she said. “Ms. Kincaid will be right with you.”

  With that, she left me to marvel at the gewgaws strewn around me. I was looking at the painting hanging over the fireplace (signed by a fellow named Picasso) when I smelled a blast of tea rose perfume.

  I turned to see a short marshmallow of a woman with a wide smile and neon red pixie hairdo. She floated toward me in a turquoise caftan—turquoise necklace nestled in her ample bosom, turquoise bracelets jangling from her arms, and a honker of a turquoise ring on her pinkie.

  “Jaine, dear,” she trilled, extending her bejeweled hand. “So lovely to meet you. Do have a seat.”

  I parked my fanny on a sofa no doubt once owned by Louis XIV as Daisy plunked herself down on an equally posh armchair.

  “Lance has told me so much about you! I can’t believe you’re the one who wrote In a rush to flush? Call Toiletmasters! I see it on bus benches all over town.”

  I put on my best aw shucks smile.

  “And to think! You’re an Emmy-winning TV writer, too.”

  Darn that Lance. He’s always making up the most outrageous lies. True, I once worked on a long-forgotten TV sitcom and had another gig on an equally forgettable reality show, but the closest I ever came to an Emmy was seeing one on TV.

  “I’m afraid I didn’t really win an Emmy,” I admitted, hoping it wasn’t going to cost me the job. “Lance must have gotten his facts mixed up.”

  “Oh well. No matter,” Daisy replied with a sweep of her turquoise sleeve. “I was very impressed by the little story you wrote. Romance at the Mailbox. So precious.”

  “I’m glad you liked it.”

  “Liked it? I loved it! I just know we’re going to make a terrific writing team.”

  “Does that mean I get the job?”

  “Indeed you do!”

  Yes! I got the job!

  “Do you want to hear my story idea?” she asked, eyes twinkling with excitement.

  “Absolutely!”

  “I’m calling it Fifty Shades of Turquoise!”

  Whoa, Nelly. Suddenly I saw a Cease & Desist order from E. L. James’s attorneys winging our way.

  “Are you sure you can use that name? It’s awfully similar to Fifty Shades of Grey.”

  “Oh, poo! Grey is so blah, and turquoise is so much more fun. I just adore the color!”

  No surprise there, I thought, taking in her caftan, jewelry, and assorted turquoise throw pillows strewn among the antiques.

  “Our book won’t be at all like that dreary little grey series.”

  That only sold about a gazillion books.

  “So what’s the story line?” I asked, praying it didn’t involve handcuffs and chains.

  As luck would have it, it did not involve any handcuffs or chains.

  In fact, it had no plot whatsoever.

  “I haven’t exactly worked out the details yet,” Daisy confessed. “I thought you could do that. You’ll sketch out the story, and I’ll do the fine-tuning. All I know is that I want there to be a fifty-room mansion with every room painted a different shade of turquoise, and that somehow the heroine winds up making love to the hero in every one of those rooms.”

  Sex in fifty turquoise rooms? Suddenly my confidence as a romance writer plummeted. No way was I going to be able to write this bilge.

  “So what do you think?” Daisy asked with an eager smile. “Are you on board?”

  Absolutely not. I had to steer clear of this train wreck of a novel before it took off.

  “As I told Lance,” Daisy reminded me, “the salary will be ten thousand dollars.”

  “When do we start?”

  What can I say? I’ve got the backbone of a Slurpee.

  “Just sign right here,” she said, whipping out a contract from the pocket of her caftan.

  Thrilled to see all the zeroes on my salary, I signed on the dotted line.

  “Let’s start right now,” Daisy said. “I hope you don’t mind working here at the house. That way it will be easier for us to collaborate.”

  “I don’t mind a bit,” I assured her. Working there would be like working at the Four Seasons. Besides, I was getting tired of Prozac stomping on my keyboard in one of her anti-Dickie meltdowns.

  Daisy led me to her office, a spacious room at the rear of the house—which I was relieved to see was not painted turquoise. Instead, it was bright white, with a wood beamed ceiling and French doors providing a breathtaking view of a pool and tennis court beyond.

  One wall featured an ornately carved bookcase filled with thick, leather-bound volumes; another wall adorned with what looked like a genuine Renoir.

  Two antique desks were face-to-face in the middle of the room, topped with twin laptops and Villeroy & Boch mugs filled to capacity with sharpened pencils. Seated at one of the desks was a sturdy thirtysomething gal with Harry Potter glasses and a mop of sandy hair even curlier than mine.

  “Jaine, I’d like you to meet Kate, my personal assistant. You two will be sharing the office.”

  “Welcome aboard!” Kate said, shooting me a friendly smile.

  “You can use my desk while you’re working here,” Daisy said. “And here’s your laptop.” She pointed to a shiny silver beauty on my desk. “I bought it especially for our little project.”

  Holy moly! The woman bought a brand-new computer for one file. I was in the land of the one-percenters, all right.

  “I’d better scoot along now so you can get started.”

  And with a flash of her turquoise ring, Daisy waved good-bye and sailed out of the room.

  The minute she was gone, Kate shot me a pitying gaze.

  “So you’re the poor soul who got saddled with Fifty Shades of Turquoise. What a clunker, huh?”

  “It does seem a bit far-fetched,” I said, trying to be tactful as I settled down at my desk.

  “Oh, well. At least you’re getting ten thousand bucks out of the deal.”

  I guess she could see the look of surprise on my face when she mentioned my salary, because she hastened to explain, “I do Daisy’s books and keep track of all her expenses. So I pretty much know what she’s paying for everything.

  “Daisy’s an utter doll to work for,” she added, slinging her Nikes on her desk. “The pay is great, and rumor has it, she’s left all her employees a generous chunk of change in her will.”

  Talk about your job perks.

  “And as if all that weren’t enough, the food’s terrific, too. Raymond, her chef, used to work at some fancy French restaurant. And the freezer is stocked with Dove Bars, Eskimo Pies, and whatever flavor ice cream you like. My favorite is Chunky Monkey.”

  “You’re kidding. So’s mine!”

  “It’s a good thing I wear elastic waist pants,” she said, “otherwise I’d never make it out of here alive.”

  “You wear elastic waist pants?”

  Elastic waist pants just happen to be a staple of my wardrobe, second only to my CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS T-shirts.

  “Can’t live without ’em.�
�

  “Me too!” I marveled. “It’s unbelievable. Curly hair. Chunky Monkey. Elastic waist pants. I think we may have been separated at birth.”

  We spent the next several minutes chatting about curl definers, curl shapers, curl straighteners, and our mutual adulation of Ben & Jerry. I could’ve gone on yakking like this for hours, anything to avoid facing Fifty Shades of Turquoise, but Kate was made of sterner stuff.

  “I’d better get back to work,” she said. “Just ask if you need anything.”

  With no more diversionary tactics left, I opened a Fifty Shades of Turquoise file on Daisy’s brand-new laptop and stared at the blank screen in front of me.

  And kept on staring.

  Not a single idea popped into my cranium.

  Filled with a growing sense of panic, wondering how I was ever going to wrangle my heroine into fifty shades of turquoise lovemaking, my eyes wandered to a framed photo on my desk—of a middle-aged man in a business suit, with a toddler on his lap.

  Kate looked up from her Excel spreadsheet and saw me staring at the photo.

  “That’s Daisy with her dad,” she explained. “He died when Daisy was very young and left Daisy a fortune. From what I gather, her mom wasn’t exactly a model parent, foisted her off on a bunch of nannies. When she was in her twenties, Daisy got married, but it was total bust, lasted less than a year. After that, she became a recluse.”

  “Daisy, a recluse?”

  I couldn’t picture the bubbly redhead I’d just met walled off from the world.

  “I know. It’s hard to believe, but for decades she lived with only a companion, dividing her time between her Connecticut mansion and her country home in Tuscany, never socializing and rarely leaving the house except for an occasional nature walk.”