Death by Smoothie

Book 19: Jaine Austen Mystery

by Laura Levine

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Animal Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

Freelance writer and long‑time Ben & Jerry’s addict Jaine Austen uncovers murderers on the mean streets of Beverly Hills, with a little help from her snarky cat, Prozac, in this witty mystery series from acclaimed TV comedy writer and novelist Laura Levine—a lighthearted treat for cat cozy fans and readers of Joanne Fluke, Miranda James, and Laura Childs.

The Bewitched knockoff I Married a Zombie may have flopped in its day, but it’s got a devoted cult following. Jaine is delighted when one of those rabid fans hires her as script doctor for his new play based on the show—until she reads the awful script and meets Misty, the actress who’ll be playing Cryptessa’s role. Misty has Audrey Hepburn’s doe eyes but not a smidgen of her ability. Yet she can certainly act the diva, demanding a special smoothie every day at 3pm. Meanwhile, Jaine is grappling with another spoiled female—her uncooperative cat, Prozac, who’s refusing to be wrangled into a kitty harness for outside walks.
 
When someone spikes Misty’s signature drink with a fatal shot of rat poison, the cast of suspects extends far beyond the theater. What Misty lacked in talent she made up for in enemies. Everyone Jaine talks to maintains their innocence, but one of them is clearly only playing the part. And it’s up to Jaine to figure out who, before a killer schedules an encore performance . . .
 

Release date: November 29, 2022

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Of course, I had no idea of the disasters looming ahead when I drove over to meet the play’s producers, Becca and David, a few days later. They’d read my sitcom script and liked it, and now they’d summoned me to meet them at the theater for an interview.

My destination turned out to be a slightly rundown venue on the outskirts of Hollywood whose marquee promised:

COMING SOON! I MARRIED A ZOMBIE!

The front doors were open, so I let myself in, walking past a dimly lit lobby to the auditorium. There I saw two people sitting in the audience as a pretty blonde looked over some script pages onstage.

I figured the duo in the audience were Becca and David, and that I’d caught them in the middle of an audition. So I slid onto a rumpsprung seat a few rows behind them.

“Ready to start?” David called up to the blonde.

“You bet!” she said, beaming a radiant smile.

With that, she started reading from the script as David fed her lines from his seat.

It was the scene where the play’s leading character, Cryptessa Muldoon, freshly undead, bumps into a red-blooded young guy named Brad Abercrombie. He takes one look at her, and it’s love at first sight. She tells him she can’t possibly date him, that she’s a zombie. But Brad, in a spate of Hallmark-inspired dialogue, insists he doesn’t care, that love conquers all, and that somehow they’ll make it work.

The young woman onstage was doing a terrific job delivering her syrupy lines.

When she was through reading, David asked her to sing a song from the play. She belted it out in a sweet clear voice:

Ouch. Somewhere Oscar Hammerstein was rolling over in his grave.

But in spite of the godawful lyrics, the actress still managed to pump some life into them.

“Great!” David called out to her when she was through.

“She’s the best Cryptessa we’ve seen yet,” I heard Becca whisper.

“We’ll definitely be in touch,” David said.

The blonde came down the stairs into the audience, thanking them profusely, and headed for the exit, beaming.

It was then that Becca turned and saw me.

“Hi. You must be Jaine. I’m Becca. And this is my partner, David.”

They stood up to greet me, two uber-nerds in matching I Married a Zombie T-shirts.

Becca’s tee clung to her generous hips, her lanky hair pooling on her shoulders, a fringe of bangs threatening to obscure her vision. In contrast to Becca’s soft curves, David was painfully thin, a bundle of nervous energy, with taped-together glasses and a mop of wiry Brillo hair.

“David’s not only producing the show,” Becca said proudly, “he’s also the director, writer, and leading man.”

Talk about your renaissance geeks.

“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” David said, getting down to business. “We’re just wrapping up auditions. I think we should hire this last one,” he said to Becca. “Katie Gustafson.”

“Agreed,” Becca said, making a note on a clipboard.

At which point, the door to the theater opened with a bang, and a spritely young thing came racing down the aisle.

“I hope I’m not too late to audition,” she said.

David was staring at her, rapt.

And I could see why. She was one heck of a cutie-pie. Enormous Audrey Hepburn eyes, glossy brown hair pulled up into a high ponytail. With her elfin bod in leggings and a slouchy off-the-shoulder top, she was the very definition of adorable.

“No, you’re not too late,” David gulped, his eyeballs practically spronging from their sockets.

Becca eyed him warily. And I didn’t blame her. If I had a boyfriend look at another woman the way David was looking at this cutie, I’d be wary, too.

“I’m Misty,” the cutie said.

“Nice to meet you, Misty,” Becca replied with a stiff smile. “Do you have a headshot and résumé for us?”

“Afraid not,” the sprite shrugged. “I’ve never actually performed onstage before. But I’ve done plenty of acting as a waitress, pretending to like my customers.”

“We were hoping for someone with a bit more experience,” Becca started to say.

“But we’re happy to have you read,” David interrupted, handing Misty some script pages.

As she skittered up the steps to the stage, David’s eyes were riveted on her perky little tush.

“Let’s start from where Cryptessa meets Brad in the graveyard, the line where she says, ‘Do you come here often?’”

“Okey doke,” Misty said, and launched into her reading.

“Smiling coyly, do you come here often?”

“No,” David said. “Smiling coyly is a stage direction. You’re not supposed to read it out loud. You’re just supposed to smile coyly when you say your line.”

“You mean like this?”

She shot David a very coy smile indeed. Coy bordering on pole dancer.

“Right,” David gulped, his Adam’s apple working overtime. “Like that.”

Next to him, Becca’s jaw clenched.

Misty proceeded to read her lines woodenly, mispronouncing words, utterly devoid of talent.

But David was staring at her, mesmerized.

Then it came time for her to sing.

It wouldn’t seem possible, but her singing was even worse than her acting. I’d heard car alarms that sounded better than Misty.

When she was finished, a blessed silence descended on the auditorium.

“So how did I do?” Misty asked, looking directly at David.

“You stunk up the room faster than a rabid skunk.”

Of course, no one said that. But I sure was thinking it.

“Uh . . . we’ll get back to you,” Becca managed to pipe up when she’d finally recovered her powers of speech.

“No need,” says David. “You were fantastic!”

Huh?

“You’re hired!”

“I am?” Misty beamed at David. “That’s super!”

“How can we reach you?” he asked, a little too eagerly.

“Here’s my phone number.” Misty fished a lipstick from her purse and wrote her number in hot pink on the back of a crumpled Sephora receipt.

Then she flitted off, still beaming at David, totally ignoring me and Becca.

Once she was gone, Becca whirled on David.

“Are you crazy? She was awful!”

How true. Our little Misty had all the acting chops of a store mannequin.

“She’s just unpolished,” David said. “Nothing a good director can’t fix.”

A good director? Hah. Billy Wilder, Martin Scorsese, and Kathryn Bigelow rolled up in one couldn’t turn Misty into an actress.

“David, you’ve never directed anything before. What makes you think you’ll be able to wring a performance out of her?”

“I’ve never directed anything,” David said, with a definite edge to his voice, “but I know I’ll be good at it. Besides, we both agreed: I’m bankrolling this project, so I’ve got final say.”

He seemed more than a tad ticked off.

“Of course, honey,” Becca said, anxious to appease him. “I’m sure you’ll be a great director.”

Then they turned their attention, finally, to me.

But I could see both of them were distracted—David lost in what I was certain was a Misty-centric fog, Becca’s eyes clouded over with worry.

“We really liked your sitcom script,” Becca said, “and we’d love to work with you.”

I have to confess I was having some doubts. From the little I’d heard, the dialogue was awful. And Misty in the lead was even worse. But then David said the magic words.

“How does $5,000 sound?”

Like music to my ears.

“I’m in!” I exclaimed.

“That’s wonderful,” Becca said. “I was afraid you’d be like the others.”

“Others?’

“We’ve met with a few other writers,” David confessed, “but none of them were available to take the job.”

Okay, so what if I wasn’t their first choice? And so what if every reputable writer in town had turned them down? A job was a job!

“Here’s a copy of the script,” Becca said. “It’s running about fifteen minutes long, so we need you to make some cuts.”

“Don’t trim too much, though,” David warned, clearly not thrilled at the prospect of losing any of his precious syllables.

I assured him I’d treat the script with kid gloves.

Then I practically skipped out of the theater, fueled by the thought of five thousand smackeroos headed for my checking account.

I got in my car, still riding high over that five grand. Then, in the It Never Rains But Pours department, I checked my phone and saw a message from the Pasadena Historical Society, a prestigious bunch of old-money bluebloods. I’d applied for a job writing press releases for them months ago and had forgotten all about it. Now they’d texted me, wanting to set up a Zoom interview.

Would my good luck never end? Of course it would. But don’t skip ahead any chapters to find out how. That’s cheating.

Anyhow, I was a happy camper as I drove home that day, stopping off at the pet store to buy a present for Prozac. Fed up with my fractious fur ball dashing out the front door to wreak havoc on the neighbors, I’d decided to buy her a cat harness and take her for walks. This way she’d get to spend the time outdoors she so clearly craved, only I’d be there to make sure she didn’t get into any mischief.

A rather brilliant plan, if I do say so myself.

“Hey, Pro!” I cried when I got home. “Look at this nifty cat harness! Now we can go on fun walks together!”

She glared at me from where she’d been snoring on the sofa.

Do you mind? I happen to be in the middle of a very important nap.

Okay, so she wasn’t into it now, but she’d be very grateful once she was frolicking in the great outdoors.

As she rolled over and resumed her nap, I headed for my bedroom to freshen up. I had a dinner date that night with my BFF and loyal dining companion, Kandi Tobolowski.

Kandi and I met years ago at a UCLA screenwriting course, where we bonded over our mutual dislike of the instructor—a pompous blowhard who took far too much pleasure in trashing his students’ scripts—and have been best friends ever since.

Soon I was tootling over to our favorite restaurant, Paco’s Tacos, known throughout West L.A. for their homemade tortillas and burritos the size of the Goodyear Blimp.

My favorite dish on their menu was their chicken chimichangas—crispy deep-fried tortillas, bursting with tender chicken, topped with a dollop of sour cream and guacamole—all nestled on a bed of black beans and refried rice.

Absolute heaven!

Kandi was already at the restaurant when I showed up, ensconced at a cozy table for two, checking her phone and nibbling on a chip. She’s one of those size 6 gals who can make a chip last ten minutes. Not only that, she has silky chestnut hair that never frizzes in the rain.

But I love her anyway.

“Hi, honey!” she cried, catching sight of me. “I ordered you a margarita.”

Sure enough, a bathtub-sized margarita, rimmed with salt, was waiting for me.

“Muchas gracias,” I said, sitting across from her and taking a grateful sip. “So what’s new?”

“The cockroach is in rehab again,” she sighed.

The cockroach to whom she referred was a voice-over actor in the highly successful animated series Beanie and the Cockroach, where Kandi has been gainfully employed as a staff writer for the past several years.

“That guy has been in rehab so many times, they’re going to name a wing after him.”

A soft-spoken waiter appeared at our table just then, pad in hand, ready to take our orders.

“What’ll it be, senoritas?”

“She’ll have the tostada salad,” Kandi said, “dressing on the side.”

Was she out of her mind? No way was I having a salad for dinner.

“Only kidding,” Kandi said, winking at me. “She’s having the chicken chimichangas. I’m having the tostada salad with dressing on the side.”

Of course she was. Which is why she was able to tuck her blouse in her jeans without emergency liposuction.

“So what’s new with you?” she asked, still nibbling on the same chip she’d been nibbling on when I walked in the door.

(Meanwhile, I’d already polished off half the basket.)

I told her about my gig with I Married a Zombie.

“That’s great,” she said, raising her margarita glass in a toast. “Here’s to your exciting new career in the theater!”

And with that, at long last, she finally finished her chip.

“I’ve got even more good news!” she said, eyes aglow. “We’re about to meet the men of our dreams!”

“And just how is that going to happen?”

“My boss gave me two tickets to a bachelor auction. We get to bid on dates with L.A.’s most eligible bachelors!”

“Are you nuts? No way am I about to pay for a date.”

“But they’re the city’s most eligible bachelors!”

“Kandi, this is Los Angeles. They don’t call it Tinseltown for nothing. L.A.’s most eligible bachelors date models and actresses, not freelance writers in elastic-waist pants.”

“You’ve got to stop being such a negative nelly. My boss went to the auction last year, and now she’s engaged! It could happen to us!”

This was so typical of Kandi. An incurable romantic, she’s always been willing to kiss a swampload of frogs in her search for Mr. Right.

I, on the other hand, after a disastrous marriage to a goofball extraordinaire whom I not so lovingly call “The Blob,” am more than a tad jaded when it comes to romping in the minefields of romance.

“Sorry, Kandi,” I said, slugging down some margarita. “Not gonna happen.”

“But all the money goes to charity. You’ll be doing a good deed.”

“Tell me the name of the charity, and I’ll write them a check.”

Which I could afford to do now that I had that five grand waiting in the wings.

“Jaine Austen, you are such a party pooper. Why can’t you ever think positive?”

“Because, as you well know, my dating karma stinks. I’ve had enough dates go up in flames to start a forest fire.’

“Everyone has bad dates. But that shouldn’t stop you. You’ve got to look on the bright side and start visualizing what you want in life. It really works.”

“Yeah, right,” I replied with a cynical eye roll.

But Kandi wasn’t about to give up.

“I want you to close your eyes this minute and visualize the man of your dreams.”

I closed my eyes and gave it a shot.

“So?” she asked when I opened my eyes again. “What did you see?”

“Our waiter with my chimichangas.”

Kandi groaned.

“Do you really want to go through life with your cat as your significant other?”

“Absolutely.” I sat up straight, proud of my life as a singleton. “I don’t need a man to complete me. Like Gloria Steinem said, ‘A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.’ ”

“Really? The same Gloria Steinem who’s dated some of the world’s most eligible bachelors?”

“Only because she’s as pretty as a model or an actress. Sorry, Kandi. I’m hanging tough on this one.”

“So am I,” she said, . . .