Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 8

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: A New Leaf

I've been giving it some thought, Lambchop, and I may have overreacted just a tad the other day at the clubhouse. Mom insists that all Lester was doing was giving her a palm reading, and I'm inclined to believe her. After all, your mother is a woman of sterling moral values. And Lester may be an insufferable gasbag, but he couldn't possibly have the gall to make a pa.s.s at Mom, especially in a community like Tampa Vistas, where gossip travels at the speed of light. I guess I was rather foolish to overreact. Must make a note to turn over a new leaf and rein in my emotions in the future.

Oops. Gotta run. Your mom's calling me.

Love 'n' hugs from,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: The Gasbag Romeo Strikes Again!

You won't believe what your mom just found on our doorstep: Two dozen pink roses. The card said, "Happy Valentine's Day from Your Secret Admirer."

Well, we all know who that is. The gasbag Romeo has struck again! If he thinks I'm going to sit by quietly as he flirts with your mother, he's got another think coming!

Your outraged,

Daddy

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: My Secret Admirer

Omigosh, honey. Somebody just left two dozen of the most glorious pink roses on our doorstep. The card was signed, "From Your Secret Admirer." There was no florist's name on the card, so we have no way of finding out who sent them. Daddy's convinced they're from Lester Pinkus.

Oh, heavens. Could Daddy possibly be right?

Does Lester Pinkus have a secret crush on me?

Love and x.x.x

From your very rattled,

Mom

Chapter 7.

I must admit I was a tad shocked to read my parents' e-mails the next morning. I'd thought for sure Lester Pinkus's "crush" on Mom was all a figment of Daddy's imagination. But now I had my doubts.

Did Lester actually send Mom those two dozen roses? Was he her Secret Admirer? Would Daddy make it through the day without challenging him to a duel?

Only time-and the next couple of chapters-will tell.

All thoughts of my parents' love triangle vanished into the ether, however, when I showed up at the office and found Joy in the middle of a major meltdown.

It seems her sapphire earrings, the ones I'd seen her wearing at Simon's the other night, had gone missing. And now Joy was stomping around the office, curses flying, ready to call in Scotland Yard to nab the thieves. If you asked me, she probably misplaced them. But Joy was only too happy to pin the blame on someone else. Anyone else. The plumbers who'd come to her condo to fix a leak. Her weekly maid service. Even poor Travis came under suspicion, having been unlucky enough to have delivered some dry cleaning to her condo the previous afternoon.

After much deliberation, she decided the culprits were the gals at Mighty Maids Maid Service.

"I'm going to sue those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds for every cent they're worth!" she said, getting on the phone with her attorney.

I wisely spent the day trying to stay under her radarscope, working on fict.i.tious dating profiles. At around five p.m. I made a break for it, whispering my good-byes to Ca.s.sie and Travis.

Out in the hallway I sprinted for the elevator and waited impatiently for it to come. It finally showed up, and I was just about to step inside when I heard Joy's familiar screech: "Yoo hoo, Jaine! Hold that elevator!"

Oh, groan. For an instant I debated pretending I didn't hear her. But, coward that I was, I didn't have the nerve. So I held open the elevator doors as she came puffing to join me. I rode down with her, listening to her blather about the evil vixens at Mighty Maids, all the while inhaling the asphyxiating scent of her designer perfume.

When at last the doors opened and we made our way to the small parking lot out back, I gulped the fresh air gratefully.

"Those thieving maids will rot in h.e.l.l when I'm through with them!" Joy was ranting when suddenly an older-model Mercedes came roaring into the lot and, with a squeal of brakes, lurched to a stop in front of us.

A tall, raven-haired gal emerged from the car, her animal-print dress pulled tight around her stick-thin frame. She tossed her great mane of ebony tresses-most of which I suspected were extensions-and planted herself in front of us.

Up close I could see her skin had been pulled tauter than a snare drum, her eyebrows immovable as Mount Rushmore. Clearly she'd put some lucky plastic surgeon's kids through college, and probably grad school.

"Why the h.e.l.l haven't you returned my calls?" she asked Joy, her eyes flas.h.i.+ng anger.

"Do I know you?" Joy replied in her snootiest Queen Mum voice.

"Yes, you know me. I'm one of your clients. Alyce Winters."

"The name sounds familiar," Joy conceded.

"It should. I've been leaving you messages every day for the past two weeks."

"I've been busy," Joy replied with a careless shrug.

"Six months ago I forked over ten grand for your so-called dating service. You promised you'd introduce me to my choice of millionaires, and so far I've had exactly one date-with a dumpy insurance salesman from Downey who spent half the date trying to sell me a term life policy."

If you expected Joy to be contrite, think again. Never an empathetic soul on the best of days, Joy was now in an especially foul Mighty Maids-induced mood.

With all the tact and sensitivity of a rabid pit bull, she snarled, "Hey, honey. In case you haven't noticed, you're not exactly a painting in the Louvre."

Alyce gasped.

"You're not fooling anyone with those hair extensions and that bargain-bas.e.m.e.nt facelift. I'm a matchmaker, not a miracle worker. The insurance salesman was the best I could do for a Botoxed old bag like you."

I'm sure Alyce's face would have been contorted with rage if her muscles hadn't been frozen solid.

There was, however, no mistaking the fire burning in her eyes.

"How dare you?" she managed to sputter.

"This is how," said Joy.

With that, she gave her a powerful shove, which sent Alyce reeling up against a nearby Camry.

"Get lost, loser!" Joy screeched. "And don't bother me again. You're officially banned from Dates of Joy!"

Alyce and I watched in stunned disbelief as Joy marched over to her silver Jaguar, flung herself inside, and zoomed away.

"Never in my life has anyone ever talked to me like that." Alyce's lips somehow managed to bust through her filler and began trembling.

"I'm so sorry," I tsked. "Would you like an Almond Joy?" I started fis.h.i.+ng around in my purse for a bar I'd been snacking on earlier that afternoon. "I'm afraid I may have already taken a bite or two, but you can eat it from the other end."

The offer of chocolate, usually a foolproof antidepressant, failed to cheer her up.

"No, thanks," she said woodenly, brus.h.i.+ng herself off and heading for her Mercedes.

As she walked away, I couldn't help noticing she was crying.

The rest of her facial muscles may have been Botoxed to oblivion, but her tear ducts were working just fine.

I drove home, unable to forget those tears rolling down Alyce Winters's cheeks. How could Joy have treated her so cruelly? The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. By the time I got back to my apartment, I'd decided to quit my gig with Dates of Joy.

Yes, my mind was made up. And it stayed that way for a whole thirteen and a half seconds-until I saw the small mountain of unpaid bills piled up on my dining room table.

Oh, dear. As much as I wanted to, I simply could not afford to walk away from Joy Amoroso.

After slos.h.i.+ng some Minced Mackerel Guts into Prozac's dinner bowl, I made a beeline for the fridge to pour myself a much-needed gla.s.s of chardonnay. I had just taken a few sips (okay, gulps) when the phone rang.