Death of a Trophy Wife
Read Death of a Trophy Wife Online
Authors: Laura Levine
Books by Laura Levine
THIS PEN FOR HIRE
LAST WRITES
KILLER BLONDE
SHOES TO DIE FOR
THE PMS MURDER
DEATH BY PANTYHOSE
KILLING BRIDEZILLA
KILLER CRUISE
DEATH OF A TROPHY WIFE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
For Ben, again
As always, I am enormously grateful to my editor John Scognamiglio for his unwavering faith in Jaine, and to my agent Evan Marshall for his valued guidance and support. Thanks to Hiro Kimura and Lou Malcangi, whose covers never fail to make a terrific first impression. And to “Vegas” Bob Kastner, my unofficial proofreader.
Special thanks to Joanne Fluke, who takes time out from writing her own bestselling Hannah Swensen mysteries to grace me with her insights and her brownies—not to mention a blurb to die for. And to John Fluke, product placement guru and all-around great guy.
Thanks to Mark Baker, who was there from the beginning. And to my wonderful readers who’ve taken the time to write me. Your e-mails truly brighten my day.
Finally, a loving thanks to my friends and family for hanging in with me all these years. And to my most loyal fan and sounding board, my husband Mark. I couldn’t do it without you.
I
t was Sunday morning and all across Los Angeles, the sun was shining, palm trees were swaying, and birds were tweeting their little hearts out. Yes, it was a picture perfect day in L.A. Except for one tiny part of town where storm clouds had descended and showed no signs of dissipating:
My apartment.
Here at Casa Austen, it was definitely monsoon season.
If, as my good buddy Siggy Freud once said, the two most important things in life were work and love, I was in deep doo doo. It had been weeks since my last freelance writing assignment. And the only men in my life were my longtime companions, Ben & Jerry, who were, in fact, keeping me company that very moment as I soaked in the tub.
With a sigh, I reached for a towel to wipe the fog from my sunglasses.
Why, you ask, was I wearing sunglasses in the tub? It’s a long, ghastly story (one you can read all about in
Killer Cruise
, now available wherever fine paperbacks are sold), but thanks to a recent visit from my parents, my walls were painted a hideous shade of Tropical Orange.
Oranges are an excellent source of vitamin C, but trust me, you don’t want them on your walls. And in the confines of my tiny bathroom, they were particularly blinding. I yearned to hire a painter to get rid of the mess, but no way was that going to happen, not with my checkbook on life support.
I gazed up at my cat, Prozac, who was sprawled out on the toilet tank.
“Oh, Pro,” I moaned. “Life stinks.”
“Cheer up, kiddo.”
These comforting words did not come from Prozac, who was engrossed in a thorough examination of her privates, but from my next door neighbor Lance. Lance and I share a 1940s duplex, a modest little place with antique plumbing and walls the consistency of Kleenex. Due to these flimsy walls—and the fact that Lance can hear toilets flushing in San Diego—Lance is practically my roommate.
“Get out of that tub, lazybones!” he shouted. “I’m taking you to brunch.”
“But, Lance,” I said, eyeing the remains of my Chunky Monkey breakfast, “I just ate.”
“That never stopped you before.”
“Forget it. I am not about to stuff myself right after breakfast.”
“I’ll pick you up in five minutes.”
“Make it ten,” I sighed, unable to resist the lure of free calories.
I dragged myself out of the tub and threw on some elastic-waist jeans and a T-shirt. An outfit that failed to impress when Lance showed up at my apartment.
“My god, Jaine!” he gasped. “I’ve seen homeless people in nicer clothes.”
Of course he has. Lance works as a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus in the heart of Beverly Hills, where even the homeless wear designer labels.
“Thanks,” I snapped. “You look lovely, too.”
And in fact, he did look rather spiffy in perfectly creased chinos and a country club sports jacket, his tight blond curls gleaming with expensive goop.
“Sweetie,” he chided, “you can’t wear that outfit to The Four Seasons.”
“The Four Seasons? But that place is nosebleed expensive.”
“Not to worry, hon. My treat. I’ve been racking up sales like crazy lately. Neiman’s is even talking about making me a buyer.”
“Congratulations!” I said, happy that at least one of us was doing well.
“C’mon.” He marched me to my bedroom. “Let’s find you something decent to wear. You can’t be seen in public in that outfit. Or in private, for that matter.”
For some insane reason, Lance is convinced I am fashion-challenged, insisting that moths come to my closet to commit suicide.
“Gaaack!” he cried, holding up a perfectly serviceable polka dot polyester dress. “I may go blind!”
Ignoring my dagger glares, he rifled through my hangers and handed me a pair of simple gray slacks.
“But, Lance, they don’t have an elastic waist.”
“So?”
“I can’t wear a set-in waist to brunch. How am I supposed to go back for seconds?”
“You’re not. Put ’em on. And this blouse, too.”
I stomped off to the bathroom, where I donned my Lance-approved outfit.
“Much better,” he said when I presented myself for inspection.
“Thank you, your grace.”
“Of course your hair’s a mess,” he said, eyeing my mop of curls swept up in a scrunchy, “but I don’t have the energy to deal with that now.”
Thank heavens for small favors.
“Let’s go,” he said, leading the way to the living room.
“Bye, honey,” I called to Prozac, who had resumed her perusal of her privates on the sofa. “We’re off to brunch.”
She looked up at me in that loving way of hers that could mean only one thing:
Bring back crab cakes.
Then I grabbed my purse and headed out the door on that glorious Sunday morning, little dreaming that my personal storm cloud was headed straight for Lance.
B
runch at The Four Seasons is like the Garden of Eden with mimosas.
Tucked away in a lushly landscaped courtyard, the restaurant is cut off from most mere mortals by a carefully tended jungle of tropical vines and gaspworthy prices.
Lance and I had been seated at a cozy table for two and were now sipping mimosas in the dappled sun, breathing in the heady aroma of gardenias.
Maybe life wasn’t so bad after all.
“Ready to hit the buffet table?” Lance grinned.
When it comes to buffet tables, I’m always ready.
We got up from our seats and headed inside, where a lavish feast was laid out. Lord, what a spread. It was probably a good thing Lance made me leave my elastic-waist pants at home. I really couldn’t afford to pig out. I’d just take some fruit and a blueberry muffin. And a smidgeon of lobster frittata. And maybe a tad of ham. And a dab of hash. And gosh, those omelettes looked good—
You can see where this is going, can’t you?
When I was all done, I practically needed a forklift to carry my plate.
Needless to say, Mr. Goody Two Shoes had just an omelette and a few shards of fruit. Which, if you ask me, was a ridiculous waste of money. I mean, why pay a small fortune for an all-you-can-eat brunch when you’re hardly going to eat anything?
“Hey, look,” he said as we headed back outside with our plates. “There’s one of my customers.”
“Where?”
“Over there. The gal at the corner table.” He nodded to a primo table, where a striking redhead was engrossed in conversation with a tubby bald guy. Something about the guy looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him.
“That’s Bunny and Marvin Cooper,” Lance said as we took our seats. “They’re swimming in money. He owns a chain of mattress stores.”
“Wait a minute,” I said, squinting at the guy. “Isn’t he Marvelous Marv, the Mattress King?”
“None other.”
No wonder he looked familiar. I’d seen him in dozens of tacky late-night commercials, wearing a crown and hawking his line of mattresses “fit for a king.”
“He and Bunny got married last year. It was the Go To wedding on the Beverly Hills party circuit.”
“Isn’t she a little young for him?” I asked.
Indeed, Marvin had to be pushing sixty, while Bunny couldn’t have been more than thirty. Tops.
“Trophy wives usually are,” Lance said, checking out his reflection in a shiny Four Seasons silver knife. “It’s a classic Rags to Bitches story. Struggling actress auditions for cheesy mattress commercial. Mattress mogul falls head over heels in love and dumps his wife of thirty years to marry her. Struggling actress now performing nightly on Mattress King mattress.”
Men are such idiots,
n’est-ce pas?
I’d bet dollars to donuts Marvin Cooper had left a perfectly lovely woman, all for a pair of perky Double D’s.
“Bunny and I met about a month ago,” Lance said, spearing a piece of honeydew, “when she came to Neiman’s to buy a pair of shoes. We bonded over a pair of Manolos, and now she’s my best customer. We’ve even gone shopping together a couple of times. Her taste is a bit Frederick’s of Hollywood for me, but it’s fun tooling around in her Maserati. Anyhow, she’s the reason my sales are going through the roof.”
“Here’s to Bunny,” I said, lifting my glass in a toast. “Long may she buy.”
“To Bunny,” Lance said, clinking my glass.
“Oh, look, she sees you.”
Indeed Bunny had spotted Lance and was now jumping up from her seat and heading in our direction.
Showgirl tall with a hubba-hubba bod, she was poured into designer jeans and a tank top so tight I could practically read the washing instructions on her bra. Her flaming red hair tumbled down past her shoulders in a cascade of carefully tousled extensions. Every eye on the patio was on her as she sashayed toward us on her seven hundred dollar Manolos.
Lance got up to greet her.
“Bunny, sweetheart!” he cooed, giving her an air kiss.
“Lance, darling! How’s my favorite shoe guru? How much fun to run into each other like this! You look fab, as usual.”
“You too, doll.”
“Really? You don’t think the bracelet’s too much?” she asked, waving a mineful of diamonds on her wrist.
“On you, anything looks good.”
“You shameless flatterer! That’s why I love you, darling.”
For the first time, she turned to look at me, hitting me with a blast of designer perfume.
“Who’s your friend?”
“Bunny, this is my next door neighbor Jaine.”
“She sure does eat a lot, doesn’t she?”
Okay, so she didn’t really say that, but I could tell that’s what she was thinking by the way she was eyeing my plate.
“Jaine’s a writer.”
“Really?” Her eyes lit up, impressed. Most people are impressed when they learn I’m a writer.
“Yes, she wrote
In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters!
”
That’s usually when people stop being impressed.
But Bunny didn’t seem to mind that my creative muse came from a commode.
“I’ve seen that in the Yellow Pages. It’s very cute.”
I smiled modestly.
“It just so happens my husband is looking for someone new to write his commercials. You think you’d be interested?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why don’t you two drop by the house this afternoon, and I’ll introduce you.”
“That’s awfully nice of you.”
“It is, isn’t it?” she said, with a toss of her fabulous mane. “Well, must dash. You know the address, Lance, honey. Oh, and don’t forget to bring your bathing suits. We’ll be hanging out at the pool.”
Bathing suits? My fork froze en route to my mouth. If there are two things in this world I don’t do, it’s rice cakes and bathing suits.
“Sure thing, Bunny,” Lance cried, as she skipped off.
“Forget it, Lance,” I said the minute she was gone. “I’m not going. No way are me and my thighs appearing in public in a bathing suit.”
“Okay, just tell her you forgot to bring one. But you’ve got to go. You can’t afford to pass up the Mattress King account.”
He was right, of course. At this point, I couldn’t afford to pass up anything with a paycheck at the end of the rainbow.
We finished the rest of our meal in the sun-dappled splendor of the patio, chatting about this and that. Frankly, I can’t remember much of what we said; I was too busy inhaling my mushroom and cheese omelette. In the end, though, I couldn’t plow my way through everything on my plate and wound up taking my food home in a doggie bag.
And Lance’s, too, if you must know.
Still feeling the glow from our heavenly brunch, Lance and I headed back to our duplex to get ready for Bunny’s pool party.
The minute I walked into my apartment, Prozac leaped up from where she’d been napping on my computer keyboard and raced to my side.
“Miss me, honey?”
As if. Where’s my crab cake?
I know how much she likes them, so I’d nabbed her one and now crumbled the fishy treasure into her bowl.
She sniffed at it disdainfully.
What—no tartar sauce?
“Oh, stop being such a darn fussbudget and eat it.”
Which she proceeded to do with impressive speed, sucking it up like a Hoover on overdrive.
Free at last from Lance’s critical gaze, I changed into a pair of comfy thigh-hiding shorts and my “good” T-shirt, an Eileen Fisher number, reduced from an exorbitant seventy-five dollars to an overpriced thirty-nine.
“Those shorts better not have an elastic waist,” Lance said when he picked me up a few minutes later.
“Of course not.”
And with that lie firmly planted on my lips, I set off with Lance for our poolside adventure.
