Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) by Laura Levine Page B

had been quite the Valentine’s Day Crime Wave, n’est-ce pas?
    First, Joy got bumped off. Then three thousand miles away, Mom’s “diamond” ring disappeared into thin air. (Was it possible that Lydia Pinkus, model citizen and Tampa Vistas social doyenne, had stolen it?)
    Of course, the shenanigans at Tampa Vistas paled in comparison to Joy’s murder.
    According to the Los Angeles Times, which I read the next morning as I scarfed down my cinnamon raisin bagel, Joy’s final Godiva had been laced with cyanide. And according to Cassie, who’d overheard two cops talking when they came to cart the body away, whoever killed Joy had tossed the twelve missing chocolates out Joy’s window into the alley below. Probably to make sure she ate the poisoned one right away.
    A memorial service, the Times noted, was planned for later in the week.
    Who on earth, I wondered, could have killed her?
    Immediately I thought of Alyce, the client with a grudge. Hadn’t she told Joy she was going to put a stop to her? Had she lived up to her threatening words with a poisoned chocolate?
    And what about Tonio? Joy had been about to turn him over to the authorities. Had Tonio killed her to shut her up?
    I was pondering these questions, and whether or not I should nuke myself another bagel, when I heard Lance’s familiar knock.
    “Omigosh!” he cried when I let him in. “I just heard the news. What a tragic loss. I don’t know how I’m going to cope.”
    “But you hardly knew her.”
    “Knew who?”
    “Joy Amoroso.”
    “Joy? I wasn’t talking about Joy. I was talking about the tanning parlor that closed over on Robertson Boulevard.”
    “That’s a tragedy, all right. My heart breaks to think of all those poor, needy people running around West Hollywood without a tan.”
    “Scoff if you must. But if God wanted us to be pale, He would have never invented thong bikinis.
    “So,” he said, swiping the last bite of bagel from my plate. “What happened to Joy?”
    “She’s dead. Killed with a poisoned Godiva.”
    He rolled his eyes in disbelief.
    “Please tell me you were nowhere near the scene of the crime.”
    “As a matter of fact, I was.”
    “Jaine, Jaine, Jaine!” he cried. “What is it with you? Everywhere you go, dead bodies seem to pop up.”
    It’s true, I’m afraid. I’ve seen more than my fair share of corpses in my day. (All of which you can read about in the titles listed at the front of this book.)
    “Do the police have any idea who did it?” Lance asked.
    As it turned out, they did have a person in mind.
    Namely, me.

    Indeed, it was at that very moment that I heard a knock at my door. I opened it to find two men standing on my doorstep in ill-fitting suits, looking none too chirpy. One was a scrawny guy with an Adam’s apple the size of a golf ball; the other, a beefier, refrigerator-sized chap with a military buzz cut.
    “Are you Jaine Austen?” asked the Refrigerator.
    I nodded, my throat suddenly dry.
    “LAPD Homicide,” the Refrigerator said as he and his partner flashed their badges. “May we come in?”
    “Sure,” I gulped, leading them inside.
    “Guess I’d better be going,” Lance said, jumping up from where he’d been sitting on my sofa.
    He took my hands in his, a soulful look on his face.
    “Remember, Jaine. I’m here for you whenever you need me. Except tonight. Donny and I are going to the movies. And tomorrow night we’re hiking in Griffith Park. And Thursday we’re having a picnic at the beach. Isn’t that romantic?”
    “Very,” I said, icicles dripping from my voice.
    “So if you need anything, anything at all, I’m thinking maybe you should call your parents.”
    And with those words of undying support, he went sailing out the door.
    “Won’t you sit down?” I said, turning to the detectives.
    They plopped down on the sofa, still warm from Lance’s tush.
    “Can I get you anything?” I asked, hoping I could win them over with refreshments. “Juice? Coffee?