Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 5

Joy now released his hand and segued into Business Mode.

"Members.h.i.+p fees start at fifty thousand dollars," Joy blithely lied. "But because I'm so very fond of you, Lance, I'll make it twenty-five. How would you care to pay? Cash? Check? Credit card? Stock options?"

"Oh." Lance pursed his lips in a tiny moue of concern. "I'm afraid I don't have that kind of money available right now. All my a.s.sets are tied up in a pesky trust fund."

Joy's smile was rapidly fading.

"But I should be getting it at the end of next month," he a.s.sured her.

"Why don't we wait until then," Joy said, sliding the cover back on her G.o.diva box, "before we get started?"

Aha! I knew she wouldn't buy it!

But I'd underestimated Lance. Just when I thought the game was over, he struck back.

"Oh, foo. I was so looking forward to getting started. I guess I'll just have to sign up with Carson Hendrick over at the Billionaire Boys Club. He's been positively hounding me to join."

"Carson Hendrick?" Joy scoffed. "That hack?"

I could see Lance had got her where he wanted her. Joy was torn. On the one hand, she could sign him up now and risk getting stiffed, or she could let him go and risk seeing a compet.i.tor get all his dough.

And that's when Lance went in for the kill.

"I've got an idea," he said. "Until my inheritance comes through, I'll get you all the designer shoes you want with my Neiman Marcus thirty percent employee discount."

"Thirty percent, huh?"

"It can go up as high as eighty percent during special sales events."

That did it. She was hooked.

"Welcome, darling Lance," she said, throwing out her arms, "to Dates of Joy! Normally I'd have Travis take your picture for our date book, but I know Donny's going to love you. Leave your contact information with Ca.s.sie at the front desk, and I'll have him call you."

"Super!" Lance said, leaping up. "Can't wait to meet him. In the meanwhile, is it all right if I steal Jaine away for lunch? I promised I'd take her for a bite at the Jonathan Club."

"Of course, hon. Anything you say. Ta ta, darlings."

She dismissed us with her Queen Mum wave, and Lance herded me out the door, but not before swiping another chocolate from Joy's G.o.diva box.

"You don't mind, do you, darlin'?" he cooed.

No doubt about it. It looked like Joy had at last met her match in the Monumental Chutzpah Department.

Chapter 5.

The Jonathan Club happens to be one of the most exclusive joints in L.A., where the one percent meet to steer clear of the rest of us 99ers.

Needless to say, Lance did not take me there for lunch.

Instead he opted for the slightly less prestigious Der Wienerschnitzel, where we dined al fresco on chili cheese dogs and fries, taking in the scenic view of the gas station across the alley.

Of course, Lance would spend at least 347 hours at his gym burning off Der Wienerschnitzel's industrial-strength calories. I, on the other hand, have a "live and let live" policy where calories are concerned, and planned to let them settle merrily alongside the others nestled on my thighs.

"Why, I do declayah!" Lance said, after tucking into his chow. "This wiener is divine!"

"Enough with the accent, Lance. Any minute now you'll be calling for your mammy and putting on your gown for the barbecue at Twelve Oaks."

"I've always pictured myself a modern day Ashley Wilkes," Lance drawled, a faraway look in his eyes. "Brooding, sensitive, and secretly in love with Big Sam."

"Do you actually plan to keep talking like this on your date with Donny Johnson?"

"Sho 'nuff."

"And by the way, I sincerely doubt Donny's an heir to the Johnson & Johnson fortune. Joy's almost as big a faker as you are. You'll be lucky if he can afford to pick up the check at Der Wienerschnitzel."

"Oh, don't be such a buzz kill," Lance pouted. "It's possible Donny might be filthy rich and insanely handsome."

"Dream on," I said, inhaling the last of my chili cheese dog.

Boy, that sure went down fast, didn't it?

"So what's with the makeover?" Lance eyed my new haircut. "You look great."

"Thanks. You're not the only one going on a Date of Joy. Joy's fixing me up with somebody, too."

Lance's eyes lit up.

"That's wonderful, Jaine! I bet this time you're going to meet your prince charming!"

Then his brow furrowed with concern.

"But whatever you do, promise me you won't wear elastic waist pants on your date."

For some reason, Lance is convinced I've got no fas.h.i.+on sense. He says moths come to my closet to commit suicide. Which is perfectly absurd, as anyone who's ever seen my vintage collection of CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS T-s.h.i.+rts will be the first to tell you.

"Did you hear me, Jaine?" Lance was waving a fry in my face. "No elastic waist pants."

"But I like elastic waist pants. They're so comfortable."

"So are granny nightgowns. But you wouldn't wear one on a date, would you ...? Well? Would you?"

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking. With the right elastic waist pants, it might not look so bad."

"No more fries." He slapped my hand away from his plate. (I'd long since finished my own and had started filching his.) "Unless you promise. No elastic waists."

"Oh, all right," I sighed. "No elastic waists."

Having overturned the lone obstacle to my finding true love, Lance resumed waxing euphoric.

"Oh, Jaine! I have good vibes about all this. Something tells me we're going to meet the men of our dreams!"

As you've no doubt already figured out, Lance's imagination tends to run on overdrive-especially when it comes to romance.

"Wouldn't it be great," he was saying, Disney stars practically twinkling in his eyes, "if we both wound up falling madly in love and had a double wedding?"

"Lance," I gently reminded him, "we haven't even met the guys yet. Don't you think you're getting a little ahead of yourself planning our weddings?"

"You're right, sweetie. Of course. First we've got to plan our bachelor and bachelorette parties! I'm thinking Vegas!"

I didn't even try to talk sense into him. Instead I did the only thing possible under the circ.u.mstances: Finish his fries.

Chapter 6.

Feeling guilty about all those chili cheese dog calories nestling on my thighs, I took a twenty-block walk when I got home that night. Okay, so it was ten blocks. Okay, six, if you must know. Which is about five and a half more than I'd walk if left to my own devices.

By the time I got back to my apartment, I was ready to eat the wallpaper.

And I wasn't the only one feeling peckish.

The minute I walked in the door, Prozac started weaving in and out around my ankles in her patented Feed Me dance.

Do you realize it's been a whole two and a half hours since my last snack? If I don't eat soon, I may faint.

"Oh, don't be such a drama queen," I said, trying to make my way to the kitchen without tripping over her.

I was just slos.h.i.+ng some Hearty Halibut Guts into her bowl, debating whether to order Chinese or pizza for my own dinner, when Joy called.

It turns out I was about to meet the man of my dreams a lot sooner than I thought.

"Fabulous news, Jaine!" Joy's voice came braying across the line. "I've just worked another dating miracle and fixed you up with one of L.A.'s most eligible bachelors!"

Ten to one, it was Barry the pocket protector guy.

"He's six feet tall, with blond hair, blue eyes, and homes in Malibu, Maui, and Palm Beach."

That sure didn't sound like Barry. Was it possible that for once in her life Joy had actually come through with a decent date?

"His name is Skip Holmeier III, and he's picking you up in half an hour."

A measly half hour? Well, that ruled out any last-minute liposuction.

"Now remember," Joy was saying. "My reputation is on the line here. You need to make a good impression. So whatever you do, don't wear elastic waist pants."

Oh, h.e.l.l. She must have been talking to Lance.

After a.s.suring her I would not leave the house with elastic clinging to my waist, I dashed into the shower to prep myself for my date with one of L.A.'s most eligible bachelors. I have to confess I was more than a tad excited. I stood under the shower spray, my cute new coif stuffed into a shower cap, trying to remember the few attractive male clients I'd seen on Joy's database and whether any of them had houses in Maui and Palm Beach. But my mind was a blank. Oh, well. I'd find out who he was soon enough.

Finished with my shower, I slipped on my undies and hurried to my closet, where I reached for a pair of nonelastic waist charcoal gray skinny pants I'd picked up half price at Nordstrom. Somehow I managed to close the b.u.t.ton on its set-in waist, and put on a red merino wool tunic, some sterling silver dangly earrings, and my one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks.

Unfortunately I was unable to replicate Ca.s.sie's fabulous makeup job, so I just scrunched my curls, slapped on some lipstick and a bit of mascara, and hoped for the best.

"What do you think?" I asked, modeling my outfit for Prozac, who was stretched out on the living room sofa, giving herself one of her hourly gynecological exams.

She yawned a cavernous yawn.

I think it's time for a belly rub.

But there was no time for belly rubs. Because just then there was a knock on the door.

Omigosh. It was him! My Most Eligible Bachelor!

I took a deep breath and walked to the door.

And that's when I made my first mistake: I opened it.

Standing there was Skip Holmeier III.

How foolish I'd been to think Joy would actually come through for me.

True, he was six feet tall. And true, he had blond hair and blue eyes.

But I'm guessing he'd had those baby blues of his for at least seventy-five years. And that blond hair sitting on top of his head like a yellow bird's nest was most definitely a toupee.

For a crazy instant I allowed myself to hope that he was Skip's elderly chauffeur.

But, alas, that was not to be.

"Jaine!" he cried, his blue eyes twinkling through his cataracts. "I'm Skip Holmeier. What a pleasure to meet you!"

"Likewise, I'm sure," I gulped.

"For you, my dear," he said, handing me a nosebleed expensive bouquet of long-stemmed roses.

"Thanks so much," I managed to stammer. "Come on in, while I put these in water."

He stepped inside, and as he did, he suddenly clutched his chest.