Shoes to Die For

Book 4: Jaine Austen Mystery

by Laura Levine

Genres: Amateur Sleuth; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

If clothes make the man, then what do Jaine Austen's elastic-waist pants and T-shirts make her? A fashion nightmare, according to her neighbor, Lance. She doesn't expect Lance—who works in the designer shoe department at Nieman Marcus—to understand . . . which is how she ends up visiting his favorite boutique, Passions. While the couture is definitely not for Jaine, the staff's gossip is. Tiny orange-haired clerk Becky starts complaining about her coworker Giselle—AKA "Frenchie"— a brittle blonde who, when she's not making fun of customers behind their backs, adds extra-marital notches to her Chanel belt. Though Jaine doesn't land a new look, she does land a new job when Passions' owner gives her a chance to write their new magazine ads.



But when Jaine arrives the next morning to pitch her ideas, she finds Frenchie pitched over, stabbed in the neck by one of her own stilettos. Now all Jaine has to do is figure out who hated Frenchie the most, in a case of death by designer knock-off . . .

Release date: May 14, 2013

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 273

Sample

There are two kinds of people in L.A. Those who do lunch. And those who eat lunch. Those who do lunch talk to their agents and order things like ahi tuna and Chinese chicken salad. Those who eat lunch talk to a clown and order extra ketchup for their fries.

I am definitely one of the eat-lunchers, as anyone can tell from the impressive collection of fast food wrappers in my garbage can.

But on the day my story begins, I had broken ranks with my fellow slobs and was heading across town to do lunch with my neighbor Lance. It was warm and hazy, and as I drove east toward La Brea Avenue I could almost make out the Hollywood sign behind a curtain of smog.

La Brea Avenue is a hotbed of hipness in midtown Los Angeles. A onetime industrial street, it’s now dotted with boutiques and restaurants so cool they don’t bother with signs out front. And it was to one of those restaurants, a place called Café Ennui, that I was headed. Only I was having a hell of a time finding it.

I’d driven up and down the stretch between Wilshire and Melrose at least three times and was about to give up when I saw a funky restaurant with a fifties diner table in the window. This must be it, I thought, as I parked my Corolla a few doors down. By now I was a good fifteen minutes late. I dashed into the restaurant, only to find that Lance wasn’t there. I figured he was tied up with a demanding customer. Lance is a salesman at Neiman Marcus, in the designer shoe department. Or as Lance likes to say, “I work in high heels.”

I took a seat at the table in the window and glanced around the restaurant. The place was an eclectic mix of funky tables and chairs. I was surprised to see I was the only customer.

A skinny guy with a shaved head stood behind a counter and shot me an icy stare. Not exactly service with a smile. I waved him over. Reluctantly, he got off his stool and started across the room.

“Hi,” I chirped, trying my best to ignore his look of disdain. “Do you think I could see a menu?”

“Sweetie,” he snipped, “this isn’t a restaurant.”

“It isn’t?”

“No, it’s a furniture store.”

I looked around and for the first time noticed price tags dangling from the tables and chairs.

“This isn’t Café Ennui?”

“Nooo, it’s not,” he said slowly, as if talking to a three-year-old.

“Then I guess you won’t be getting a tip,” I said, with a feeble smile.

He was not amused.

“Café Ennui is over there.”

He pointed a bony finger across the street to a storefront with blackened windows. No wonder I’d missed it. The place looked like it had gone out of business decades ago.

I slid out of my chair and, under the withering glare of my petulant furniture salesman, dashed across the street.

As it turns out, Café Ennui was anything but abandoned. Behind the blackened windows sat a gaggle of people who looked like they’d just stepped out of a Banana Republic ad, sipping mineral water and nibbling on various forms of lettuce. The average waistline hovered somewhere in the low twenties.

I looked around and spotted Lance. It was hard to miss him, with his headful of tight blond curls and lime green T-shirt. I hustled over to where he sat at a tiny table for two.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said, plopping down into an uncomfortable metal chair, “but I couldn’t find the place. Do you realize the sign out front is the size of a postage stamp?”

“I know. They try to keep it exclusive. Even their phone number is unlisted.”

Welcome to La La Land, where colonic irrigation parlors take out full-page ads in the Yellow Pages, but restaurants are unlisted.

Lance shot me a disapproving look.

“Jaine, honey. Do you realize you’re the only person in the restaurant wearing elastic-waist pants?”

He was right, of course. The place was filled with perfect bodies in low-rider jeans and tank tops, slender midriffs exposed. And those were just the guys.

“So what?” I said, reaching for the menu. “Am I going to be arrested by the pants police?”

He shook his head and sighed.

I sighed, too, when I checked out the menu. What a disaster. All I saw was arugula and radicchio and baby vegetables. Not a calorie in sight. The most interesting thing on the menu was an old coffee stain.

Just when I was wondering if I could possibly convince Lance to ditch this place for a restaurant that served actual food, a sultry waitress with huge eyes and tiny boobs slithered up to us.

“What can I get you today?” she asked, with a brittle smile.

“How about something from McDonald’s?”

No, I didn’t really say that. What I said was: “Got any burgers?”

“We’ve got the ahi tuna burger with carmelized fennel.”

“Sounds mighty tempting, but I’ll pass.”

There was no way out of it. I’d have to order a salad.

“I’ll have the turkey cobb.”

“Free-range turkey or regular?” asked Ms. Sultry.

“Regular’s okay.”

“What kind of dressing? Raspberry vinaigrette, balsamic vinaigrette, or kiwi vinaigrette?”

“Surprise me,” I said, throwing caution to the wind.

Ms. Sultry, who looked like her last lunch had been a line of cocaine, took Lance’s order and slinked away.

“Really, Jaine,” Lance said, eyeing my Dukakis for President T-shirt. “You’re so hopelessly out of date. Don’t you want to be hip?”

“I’ll settle for hippy.”

“Oh, c’mon. You’re not nearly the chubbette you think you are.”

“In a town where a six is considered a plus size, I’m a chubbette.”

“You happen to be a very attractive woman. All you need is a little fashion advice.” Then, as if he’d just thought of it, he said, “Hey, that’s not a bad idea. How about I give you a fashion makeover?”

And then it dawned on me. I knew what this was all about.

“You’re looking for a project, aren’t you? You’re bored and lonely and between boyfriends, and you want something to do.”

“That’s not true!”

But of course it was true. Ever since Lance discovered his last boyfriend was a married man, he’d been sulking around his apartment like a teenager with a rusted nipple ring.

I shot him a wilting look.

“Okay, so maybe it is true,” he confessed. “Maybe I am looking for a project. But that doesn’t change the fact that you’re in desperate need of a makeover.”

“Forget it, Lance. If God wanted me to wear low-rider jeans, he would’ve never invented fudge ripple ice cream.”

At which point, our waitress slithered back to our table with our lunches. We spent the rest of our meal trying to find actual food among our lettuce, and talking about what a rat Lance’s ex-boyfriend was. Every once in a while, Lance sneaked a peek at the guys in the room, while I sneaked a peek at the dessert menu. Nothing too exciting there. Just some nonfat sorbet, amaretto biscotti, and a flourless carrot cake. Lance and I shared the carrot cake, a tiny square of orange sludge with a sprig of mint on top.

We paid our bill and headed out into the hazy sunshine.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Lance said, “and burn off some calories.”

“What calories? There weren’t enough calories on that menu to feed an anorexic gnat.”

“Come on,” he said, grabbing my arm. “We could both use the exercise.”

So we strolled up the street, past one terminally trendy boutique after another.

“Look!” Lance said, stopping suddenly in front of a unisex clothing store. “Passions. My favorite clothing store. A friend of mine works here. Let’s stop in and say hi.”

But that whole surprise act wasn’t fooling me.

“We didn’t just happen to walk by this place, did we?” I said. “You had this all planned as part of your fashion makeover.”

“Okay,” Lance admitted, “so I had it planned. But I still want to say hi to my friend. Are you coming with me or not?’

Like a fool, I said yes.

And that’s how all the trouble started.

Passions was an uber-hip joint with gleaming hardwood floors, pulsating rock music, and fashions cut so small, for a minute I thought I was in a children’s clothing store.

Lance’s friend turned out to be a pixie in her twenties with Day-Glo orange hair that looked like it was styled with an eggbeater. Together with her big blue eyes and itsy-bitsy figure, she just about broke the needle on the cute-o-meter.

“Becky and I used to work together at Neiman’s,” Lance said, after he’d introduced us.

Somehow I couldn’t picture this elf, with her flaming hair and earrings the size of hula hoops, in the refined sales aisles of Neiman Marcus.

“My hair wasn’t orange back then,” she said, as if reading my mind. “I worked in ladies lingerie. Frankly it was a bit of a snore. It’s so much more fun here. I even get to do the windows.”

I glanced over at the window display, featuring a mannequin in thigh-high boots and thong underwear. Just what I always wanted. The sexy storm trooper look.

I picked up a tank top the size of a handkerchief.

“Just out of curiosity,” I asked, “do you have anything in a size large?”

“That is a size large.”

I rolled my eyes in disbelief.

“Jaine’s a writer,” Lance said. “She’s not really into the fashion scene.”

“A writer?” Becky asked, clearly impressed.

I nodded modestly.

And it’s true. I write resumes, personals ads, and industrial brochures. Perhaps you’ve read my blockbuster brochure for Toiletmasters Plumbers (In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters.)

“I adore writers!” Becky gushed. She blinked those big blue eyes of hers, and I couldn’t help wondering if she’d actually ever read a book.

“Tyler’s a writer, too.” She pointed to a salesman helping a customer in the men’s section. “He’s writing a novel.”

Lance eyed him with interest. And for good reason. Tyler was one eminently eyeable guy. Tall and slim, with an innocent face and a killer body, he managed to look both sweet and sexy at the same time.

“Forget it, Lance,” Becky said, following his hungry look. “He’s straight.”

“Are you sure about that? I don’t mind a challenge.”

“I’m sure, Lance. In fact, he used to date Frenchie.”

“Frenchie?”

“The blonde at the counter. Her real name is Giselle but everybody calls her Frenchie.”

We followed her gaze to a brittle blonde sitting at a stool in front of the register, talking into her cell phone. Her white-blond hair, pulled into a tight bun, contrasted sharply with her blood-red lipstick and fingernails. She wore a low-cut black dress and ridiculously high stiletto heels, which she tapped impatiently as she talked. Nestled in her cleavage was a gold Maltese cross. Yet somehow I didn’t figure her for much of a churchgoer.

“Where the hell is my pizza?” she shrieked. “I’ve been waiting over an hour!”

Her name may have been French, but her accent was strictly Brooklyn.

“A cutie like Tyler dated her?” Lance’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “Quelle bitch.”

“You know who she’s talking to on the phone?” Becky said.

“An unlucky pizza parlor?”

“Her husband. She bosses him around like a trained seal.”

“Don’t forget to pick up my dry cleaning,” Frenchie barked, before slamming down the phone.

“Wait a minute,” Lance said. “She dated Tyler, and she’s married?”

Becky rolled her eyes. “You wouldn’t believe how much she cheats on her husband. I’m surprised she hasn’t hit on the UPS man yet.”

Lance shook his head, baffled. “What was a cutie like Tyler doing with a bitch like her?”

“Oh, Frenchie can be charming when she wants to be. But eventually Tyler realized how awful she was and dumped her.”

“I wish you wouldn’t say nasty things about Frenchie.”

I turned around to see a mousy woman in a tweed suit and sensible low-heeled pumps. Her brown hair formed a frizzy halo around her head. She looked as out of place in this joint as I did.

“Frenchie is a very nice person when you get to know her,” the mouse said reprovingly, then scurried away toward the back of the store.

“That’s Maxine, the bookkeeper,” Becky said. “Poor thing. She’s got a mad crush on Frenchie. Frenchie barely gives her the time of day, but Maxine still worships her.”

“Hello, Frenchie,” Maxine said, waving shyly as she passed Frenchie.

Frenchie gave her a faint smile and went back to examining her cuticles. Then the phone rang, and she answered it.

“Passions,” she said, dropping her voice an octave, like a phone sex operator. “How may I help you?” Suddenly, she was back to her Brooklyn roots. “Oh, for crying out loud, Owen! You’re still stuck in traffic? Just get here already; I’m starving.”

She slammed down the phone, her face clouded in anger. But in the very next instant the storm clouds disappeared and her face was wreathed in smiles.

“Mrs. Tucker!” she said, jumping off her stool and heading to the front door to greet a customer, clomping along in those ridiculous high heels of hers.

“Jimmy Choo knockoffs,” Lance said, following my gaze.

“Who’s Jimmy Choo?” I asked.

“Send this girl to fashion camp,” Lance said, rolling his eyes. “He’s only one of the world’s hottest shoe designers.”

Okay, so sue me if I happen to shop at Payless.

By now Frenchie was at the door, air-kissing her customer.

“How nice to see you, Mrs. Tucker,” she cooed.

“Mrs. Tucker’s one of our best customers,” Becky whispered. “Frenchie never lets her out of her sight.”

Mrs. Tucker was a woman in her fifties who dressed like a kid in her twenties. There was something creepy about the way she’d crammed her menopausal body into low-rider jeans and a midriff-baring tee. I’m no fashion expert, but I think its safe to say you should stop baring your midriff once it’s got liver spots.

“Love your outfit,” Frenchie gushed.

“You should, sweetie,” the older woman said. “You sold it to me.”

Frenchie laughed gaily. “So what can I show you today? We’ve got some fabulous new capri’s that’ll look just smashing on you.”

Like a blond hurricane, she swept through the racks, pulling out one item of clothing after the next. Mrs. Tucker’s eyes shone with anticipation. After Frenchie got her set up in a dressing room, she hurried over to where we were standing.

“What a silly old bat,” she said. “If I had a tummy as pouchy as hers, I’d shoot myself.

“Where the hell is the label thingie?” she asked, rummaging in a drawer behind the counter.

“It’s right here,” Becky said, handing her a device that looked like a stapler.

“Just watch,” Frenchie said, ripping out the size 8 label from a pair of sequinned capri’s. “She’s going to ask for these in a size 6. You’ll see.”

And as if on cue, Mrs. Tucker popped . . .