Writer-for-hire Jaine Austen, living in L.A. with her cat, Prozac, appreciates one of the perks of working freelance—a wardrobe that’s heavy on elastic waists. But her BFF, Lance, has a makeover in mind, and it’s about to lead to murder . . .
Uber-stylist Bebe Braddock plans to juice up her Instagram feed, and thinks Jaine would make a perfect “Before & After” model. At Lance’s insistence Jaine is ushered into Bebe’s sprawling Brentwood spread to await her transformation. Yet, while the surroundings are glamorous, the atmosphere is toxic as Bebe bullies her team of assistants, and even her husband, into obeying her every whim.
Having earned the wrath of everyone in her orbit, few are shocked when Bebe is found strangled with one of her detested wire hangers. But Jaine’s prints are all over the murder weapon, making her a prime suspect. The police, however, aren’t the only ones showing interest in her—so is Justin, Bebe’s very cute, very young personal assistant. While Jaine navigates a cougar-style romance, Prozac is mistakenly hailed as a feline hero and catapults into internet fame. Still, there are more urgent matters at hand than Prozac’s swelling ego. Because unless Jaine can track down Bebe’s killer and clear her own name, the only new outfit she’ll be modeling is an orange prison jumpsuit. . .
Release date:
September 28, 2021
Publisher:
Kensington Books
Print pages:
240
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A few days later, I set out from my duplex on the low-rent fringes of Beverly Hills and tootled over to Bebe’s spread in the posh neighborhood of Brentwood. It was a sprawling, cottage-like affair with a gabled roof and dormer windows, and its velvety lawn was abloom with roses, hydrangeas, and peonies the size of volleyballs.
All surrounded by a quaint picket fence.
Think Ozzie and Harriet on steroids.
Unlatching the picket gate, I made my way up a brick pathway to the front door, past a battalion of security signs warning would-be burglars of surveillance cameras and armed guards on call.
Awash in the scent of freshly mowed grass and newly minted money, I rang the bell, and seconds later, the door swung open to reveal a perfectly coiffed young guy in spotless jeans and a satin bomber jacket.
“Hi! You must be Jaine Austen. I’m Justin, Bebe’s personal assistant.”
Gaak! What a cutie. True, he was young enough to be my much younger and undoubtedly gay brother, but I couldn’t help noticing his full lips, luminous brown eyes, and a most captivating dimple on his left cheek.
“Bebe’s waiting for you out back in her studio,” he said, flashing me his dimple.
As I followed him inside past a huge living/dining/great room area, I saw the words TEAM BEBE embroidered on the back of his bomber jacket.
At last, we reached a Cordon Bleu–quality kitchen and headed outside into another floral wonderland.
“Hey, Felipe.” Justin waved to a gardener bent over a rosebush.
The gardener waved back with a grin, and Justin continued to lead me along a flagstone path to a studio at the back of the property.
We entered through a pair of open French doors into what I can only describe as an oversized walk-in closet—the walls lined with shelves, the shelves lined with designer purses, shoes, and accessories—and racks of dresses scattered everywhere.
Seated in the middle of it all at a sleek white desk was Bebe Braddock, a size-zero blonde, weighed down by a boatload of hair extensions.
Her face was flushed with anger as she shrieked into the phone.
“I’m tired of your excuses. Either pay me what you owe me or I’m going to sic a collection agency on you so fast your head will spin! Understood? . . . Okay. Bye, Mom.”
Wait, what? She was talking to her mother? What a dreadful woman!
She slammed down the phone, then lit up with pleasure at the sight of me.
“You’re Lance’s friend, Judy?”
“Actually, it’s Jaine.”
“Whatever. You’re perfect! Absolutely perfect!”
With that, she jumped up from her desk and gave me a hug, enveloping me in a cloud of industrial strength, migraine-inducing designer perfume—a cross between freesia and lemon-scented Pine-Sol.
“So lovely to meet you!” she gushed, gracing me with a big smile.
Maybe I’d misjudged her. Maybe she wasn’t so dreadful.
“Lance told me you were a fashion disaster, but I never dreamed you’d be this bad.”
Wait. What?
“I’ve seen actual train wrecks that look better than you!” she cackled.
Nope, she was dreadful, all right.
“And that hideous T-shirt! What does it say?”
“Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs,” I replied with as much dignity as I could muster.
Lance told me to dress casually. I’d debated between my I ♥ MY CAT T-shirt and CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS. But Cocoa Puffs won out in the end.
“This T-shirt happens to be a collector’s item.”
“Only if you’re a trash collector. Quick, Justin,” she said, snapping her fingers. “Take some ‘Before’ pictures!”
Justin whipped out his cell phone to snap some pictures.
Justin was finally through snapping pictures when Bebe declared, “If I have to look at that T-shirt one more minute, I may go blind.”
And before I knew it, she’d whipped off my precious tee, leaving me standing there in front of Justin in my bra. Which, I noticed with a gulp, had a rather large chocolate stain on one of the cups.
(I really had to stop eating ice cream in my underwear.) How mortifying, I thought, sneaking a peek at Justin. Thank heavens he was gay.
“Burn it,” Bebe said, tossing him my T-shirt.
“Hey, you can’t do that!” I protested, as he scooted out of the studio.
“Some day you’ll thank me,” Bebe said, with a most patronizing smile.
“Here.” She reached into a cardboard box on the floor and pulled out a TEAM BEBE bomber jacket. “Put this on.”
Then she pressed an intercom button on her desk and barked: “Heidi! Get in here! Stat!”
I was on the verge of telling Bebe exactly where she could shove her makeover when she yanked something from one of the clothing racks and held it out to me.
“This might work,” she mused.
It was a pale blue cashmere tunic, with tiny seed pearls at the neckline. I reached out to touch it. Never had I felt anything so soft.
“Naturally, I’ll have to special-order it in your size. I don’t have anything larger than a four here in the studio.”
“Yes, please! Order it!” I said, overcome with cashmere lust.
I was standing there, thinking how cute my new sweater would look with skinny jeans when a plump, rosy-cheeked gal, clad in bib overalls and a TEAM BEBE bomber jacket, came rushing into the room.
“There you are, Heidi!” Bebe said. “It’s about time. Fashion emergency! Can you possibly do anything with this ghastly mop?”
She poked at my curls with a bony finger.
“Absolutely,” Heidi said, shooting me a sympathetic smile. “She’s got great hair. Nice and thick.” Her own glossy brown hair was cut in a perfect, shoulder-length bob. “What about makeup?”
“Try to highlight her cheekbones if you can find them. And get rid of that ugly brown mole on her chin.”
“That’s not a mole,” Heidi said, peering at my chin. “I think it’s chocolate.”
Bebe rolled her eyes in disgust. Before she could shoot me another zinger, a heavyset delivery guy came lumbering into the studio with a bunch of dresses in plastic wrap.
“Here’s your dry cleaning,” he announced.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Put it away.”
The delivery guy started hanging the dresses on one of the racks when Bebe shouted:
“How many times have I told you? No wire hangers!”
Holy moly. Joan Crawford was alive and well in Brentwood.
“Okay, honey,” he said, “just give me a minute, and I’ll switch ’em to wooden hangers.”
Honey? The dry cleaning guy called Bebe honey?
I waited for Bebe to lash out at him, but instead all she said was, “Miles, this is Jaine, that reclamation project I was telling you about. And Jaine, this is my husband, Miles.”
Huh? This mountain man was Bebe’s husband? Somehow I’d just assumed she’d be married to a Calvin Klein underwear model.
“Nice to meet you,” Miles said, reaching out to shake my hand.
“Watch out for chocolate!” Bebe warned. “She’s covered in it. The woman’s a total mess.”
“Don’t mind Bebe,” Miles said to me. “Good manners aren’t her strong suit.”
Bebe whirled on him, fire in her eyes.
“Well, excuse me. Sorry if my manners aren’t up to snuff. I didn’t get a chance to work on them while my house was being bombed in Bosnia. Or when my family came to America with nothing but the clothes on our backs, our valuables sewn into the lining of my mom’s coat. Or when I worked my tail off building my business into what it is today.”
“Don’t blow a gasket, Bebe,” Miles said with a sigh.
But Mount Bebe was still erupting.
“Good manners don’t pay the bills. I do. And don’t you forget it, mister!”
“No worries about that,” he said bitterly. “You never let me forget who wears the pants around here.”
Yikes. This was a marriage in serious need of counseling.
“When you’re through hanging up those dresses,” Bebe snapped, “get started on dinner. And don’t overcook the pork chops like you did last time.”
“Your wish is my command,” Miles said, his voice dripping sarcasm.
“Remember,” Bebe barreled on, oblivious to his snark. “Not too much olive oil in the salad dressing, absolutely no garlic, no onions, no salt—Omigod, Lacey! How wonderful to see you!”
Dinner prep suddenly forgotten, Bebe was beaming at a gorgeous young thing standing in the doorway.
I recognized the gorgeous young thing right away. It was Lacey Hunt, an up-and-coming movie star whose latest release had garnered rave reviews and an adoring audience. With her red hair, green eyes, and splash of freckles across her pert little nose, Lacey had the kind of innocent girl next door look so appealing to the much sought after 18 to 24 horny young guy demographic.
“Lacey, darling!” Bebe cooed. “Come in.”
“Hope I’m not too early for my fitting,” Lacey said with a shy smile.
“No, of course not. The others were just leaving.”
Then she turned to us, shouting, “Everybody out! Now!”
I was only too happy to oblige, scooting out the door with Heidi and Miles.
As far as I was concerned, my makeover was history.
No way was I about to join the wretched ranks of Team Bebe.
As Miles shuffled off to the kitchen to get started on his de-flavorized pork chops, Heidi took my arm in hers.
“Let’s go to my office and pick out a hair style.”
“I don’t think so,” I demurred. “I can’t go through with this makeover. To be perfectly honest, I hate Bebe.”
“Don’t let that stop you. Everybody does. And besides, I was so looking forward to working with your hair. I love your curls!”
I was flattered that she liked my curls, given that I’d spent half my life trying to tame them into submission.
“C’mon,” Heidi urged. “It’ll be fun.”
What the heck? I figured it couldn’t hurt to look at a few hair styles.
Heidi led me to her tiny cell of an office, furnished with only a desk and folding metal chairs. Above the desk was a framed poster of Bebe in designer togs, her hair extensions fanning out behind her, no doubt powered by an unseen wind machine.
“That thing is bolted to the wall,” Heidi said, following my gaze. “Impossible to take down. And believe me, I’ve tried.
“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to one of the metal chairs as she eased her tush onto the other.
“Is Bebe always this bad?” I asked.
“Actually, today’s one of her good days.”
“You’re kidding! How do you stand it?”
“Daily affirmations and fistfuls of Valium.”
“Have you ever thought of looking for another job?”
“All the time. In fact, just last week I was offered a terrific studio job, working on an A-list movie. It’s a dream come true. I begged Bebe to let me out of my contract, but she won’t let me go.”
“You’re under contract to her?”
“Ironclad,” Heidi sighed. “Two years ago, when Bebe offered me the job, I was struggling to pay my rent. So when she dangled a five-year contract in front of me, I jumped to sign it. The pay wasn’t great, but I was thrilled to have job security. Little did I know that Bebe wanted to lock me into a contract because no other hair and makeup artist in town would work with her.
“So here I am, stuck with Queen Bebe. In lieu of decent pay, she gives all her employees these stupid bomber jackets and expects us to be over the moon with joy.”
With that, she shrugged out of her jacket and tossed it on the back of her chair.
“And every time I hear her yap about how she came to this country as a kid with nothing but the clothes on her back, I want to upchuck. Lord only knows how many people she trampled on her way to the top.
“But enough about Bebe,” she said with a grin. “Let’s look at some hair styles.”
Heidi downloaded a picture of me from my cell phone onto a special software program on her laptop that let us magically see how I was going to look in any given hair style. We spent a highly enjoyable fifteen minutes or so checking out hair styles until we found one we both loved—a shoulder-length bob with beachy waves.
I floated out of Heidi’s office on Cloud Nine, imagining myself in my new blue cashmere sweater and beachy hairdo, when I suddenly remembered something that sent me plummeting back down to earth:
My CUCKOO FOR COCOA PUFFS T-shirt!
What if Justin had followed Bebe’s orders and burned it? What if my treasured tee was nothing but a heap of ashes?
I had to find him—and fast!
Fortunately, Justin’s office was right next to Heidi’s, another sparsely furnished cell with a poster of Bebe above his desk. He was working on his laptop when I came charging into the room.
Thank heavens I didn’t smell burnt polyester.
“Where’s my T-shirt?” I blurted out.
He looked up at me with his luminous brown eyes, and for a minute, I got sidetracked by how cute he was.
But then I forced myself back to the topic at hand.
“You didn’t burn it, did you?”
“Nope, I didn’t burn it.”
That was the good news.
Then the bad news came skipping out from where it had been waiting in the wings.
“I gave it to Felipe, the gardener.”
“You did what?”
“Bebe would’ve killed me if she found out I’d returned it to you. So I gave it to Felipe. He said something about using it as a rag to clean his lawnmower.”
“A rag? To clean his lawnmower?” I blanched in horror.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how much the shirt meant to you. He’s already left for the day, but I’ll call him right now.”
He made a quick call to Felipe, who, in a blessed stroke of good luck, had not yet doused my T-shirt in WD-40. Even better, Felipe promised to hold it for me until I stopped by to get it.
I was weak with relief as Justin gave me Felipe’s address.
My beloved T-shirt had been saved!
“I feel so bad about this,” Justin said, awash in guilt.
“That’s okay.”
“No, it’s not okay. Let me make it up to you by taking you out.”
This accompanied by a most appealing flash of his dimple.
“Out? Like on a date?”
“Yes. On a date.”
Yikes. This cutie patootie, at least ten years younger than me, was asking me out. I must admit I was a tad stunned. I’d just assumed that, with his taut trim bod, job in the fashion industry, and dimple that broke the needle on the adorable-o-meter, Justin was of the gay persuasion.
Apparently I’d assumed wrong.
“So how about it?” Justin asked.
Absolutely not. No way. He was far too young for me. I had to ignore the sparkies igni. . .
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