Jaine Austen 8 - Killer Cruise
Read Jaine Austen 8 - Killer Cruise Online
Authors: Laura Levine
Outstanding praise for Laura Levine’s
Jaine Austen mysteries!
KILLER CRUISE
“Get ready to enjoy another wickedly witty, quick-paced and fun-filled mystery. A great addition to this mystery series!”
Fresh Fiction
“Once again, Levine has written a book where the laughs never stop. This is one delightful read.”
Romantic Times
KILLING BRIDEZILLA
“A fun romp…a murder mystery filled with laughs and a surprising ending.”
ReviewingTheEvidence.com
“A humorous mystery.”
Romantic Times
DEATH BY PANTYHOSE
“Fun…Jaine’s dogged sleuthing and screwball antics will entertain fans of this fizzy series.”
Publishers Weekly
THE PMS MURDER
“This is the perfect book for the beach, breezy, and laugh-out-loud funny.”
The Kingston Observer
“Jaine can really dish it out.”
The New York Times Book Review
SHOES TO DIE FOR
“A lively sense of humor and an ear for the absurd help Jaine overcome any number of setbacks and a host of fashion no-nos.”
Kirkus Reviews
“The ideal beach read.”
Publishers Weekly
KILLER BLONDE
“The identity of the real killer comes as a smart surprise.”
Publishers Weekly
“Levine’s series gets smarter with each book. Her dialogue is realistic yet hilarious, and her vivid characters jump off the page.”
Romantic Times
LAST WRITES
“
Last Writes
is sprightly and entertaining. I commend it to the attention of anyone wishing to be entertained.”
Robert B. Parker,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Hilarious and an absolute delight. I highly recommend this book if you want to laugh and enjoy a good read.”
I Love a Mystery
THIS PEN FOR HIRE
“Humor is the key ingredient in this slick debut…the story zips along to an action-filled and surprising climax. Levine delivers the goods and readers who appreciate self-deprecating humor will hope Jaine soon gets caught up in another murder.”
Publishers Weekly
“This will turn out to be a long series…likely to be compared to Janet Evanovich for its humor.”
I Love a Mystery
“Laura Levine’s hilarious debut mystery, THIS PEN FOR HIRE, is a laugh a page (or two or three) as well as a crafty puzzle. Sleuth Jaine Austen’s amused take on life, love, sex and L.A. will delight readers. Sheer fun!”
Carolyn Hart
“Jaine has a sassy attitude and I look forward to her new adventures.”
Deadly Pleasures
“Thank you, Laura Levine. Instead of painful crunches, I can give my abs a workout just by reading your laugh-out-loud funny book.”
Leslie Meier, author of
Mother’s Day Murder
“A lot of laughs.”
Star-News
(Pasadena, CA)
“This is classic stuff: a wisecracking L.A. gal detective who solves a heinous crime and is also concerned about her thighs and personal relationship issues. I read it happily before bedtime for a week and had vivid dreams about convertibles and palm trees and blondes.”
Garrison Keillor
Books by Laura Levine
THIS PEN FOR HIRE
LAST WRITES
KILLER BLONDE
SHOES TO DIE FOR
THE PMS MURDER
DEATH BY PANTYHOSE
KILLING BRIDEZILLA
CANDY CANE MURDER
KILLER CRUISE
DEATH OF A TROPHY WIFE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
A Jaine Austen Mystery
Killer Cruise
Laura Levine
KENSINGTON BOOKS
For Ben, who first suggested it,
and Mark, who convinced me to take this cruise.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks, as always, to my editor John Scognamiglio for his ongoing faith in Jaine, and to my agent Evan Marshall for his valued guidance and support. Thanks to Hiro Kimura whose covers never fail to delight me. And to Joanne Fluke, who takes time out from writing her own bestselling Hannah Swensen mysteries to share her insights and her brownies. Thanks to Mark Baker, who was there from the beginning. And to Rocky Stickel of Scuba House and Ann Zeller, for filling me in on the facts about scuba diving (any mistakes are mine, not theirs).
Thanks to my friends and family for always being there for me. And to the wonderful readers who’ve taken the time to write me. Your e-mails truly brighten my day. Finally, a loving thanks to my most loyal fan and ardent supporter, my husband Mark.
Contents
Chapter 1
T
he good news about my cruise is, I didn’t get seasick. The bad news is, I almost got hacked to death by a raving loony. But, hey. Life’s funny that way. My life, that is. Just when I think things are going smoothly someone comes along and tries to eviscerate me.
But let’s rewind to the day it all began, shall we?
My neighbor Lance was stretched out on my bed, watching me as I raced around tossing clothes into a suitcase.
“I still can’t believe you’re going on a cruise by yourself,” he said, shaking his blond curls in disbelief.
Yes, it’s true. I, Jaine Austen, a woman whose idea of a Mexican vacation is a two-for-one Burrito Day at Taco Bell, was about to head off on my first cruise to Mexico. Or, as we cognoscenti say,
Me-hi-co!
And the best thing was, it was absolutely free!
I’d answered an ad in the
L.A. Times
from a cruise company looking for lecturers, and much to my surprise and delight, they’d hired me. All I had to do was teach a few lessons on Writing Your Life Story, and the generous folks at Holiday Cruise Lines were picking up my tab.
“But, Jaine,” Lance pointed out, “the average age on these cruises is dead. How do you expect to meet anybody?”
“I’m not going on the cruise to meet anybody. I’m going for the adventure, the scenery, the Latin culture.”
Oh, who was I kidding? I was going for the twenty-four-hour buffet. Imagine! Dessert on tap any time day or night. Talk about heaven.
“Gaack! You can’t possibly be taking that,” Lance said, pointing to a perfectly serviceable
Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs
T-shirt. “They’ll make you walk the plank in that thing.”
“This happens to be a collector’s item,” I sniffed.
“A garbage collector’s,” he sniffed right back.
Some people just don’t appreciate kitsch.
“I’m sorry I can’t take you to the pier like I was supposed to,” he said, grimacing at a pair of my elastic-waist shorts, “but I’ve got to be at work in a half hour.”
“That’s okay. It’s not your fault I’m running so late,” I said, eyeing my cat, Prozac, who was perched atop my dresser. “A certain someone took a tinkle on my open suitcase this morning. Which meant I had to run out and buy a new suitcase and do an emergency load of laundry, which slowed me down a good hour or three.”
Prozac glared down at me through slitted eyes that seemed to say:
You’re lucky it was just a tinkle.
“Poor thing is upset that you’re going away,” Lance tsked.
“Upset? That’s putting it mildly. Think King Kong with hairballs. I don’t see why you’re making such a fuss, Pro. After all, Grandma and Grandpa are flying in all the way from Florida to take care of you.”
Her tail twitched the way it always does when she’s on the warpath.
Your parents are
not
my “grandma” and “grandpa.” And if your mother tries to put a bow in my hair like she did the last time, I won’t be held responsible for the consequences.
“Hey, I’d better get going,” Lance said, springing up from my bed, “or I’ll be late for work. Which reminds me, we’re having a sale on Jimmy Choo. Want me to pick up a pair for you?”
Lance, who is gainfully employed as a shoe salesman at Neiman Marcus, can never seem to remember that the only thing I can afford from Jimmy Choo is his box.
“No, thanks.” I smiled wanly.
“Well, good-bye then,” he said, taking me in his arms for a farewell hug. “Have fun on the poop deck, whatever the heck that is.”
After Lance left to fondle rich ladies’ feet at Neiman’s, I finished packing, all the while dreaming of seven days lolling in a deck chair and soaking up the sun. When I was done, I turned to Prozac, who was still glaring at me from her perch atop my dresser.
“So long, sweetheart,” I said, scooping her in my arms. “You be good now, hear?”
Yeah, right. Whatever.
Wriggling free from my grasp, she leapt onto my bedspread, which she began clawing with a vengeance. I’d be surprised if it was still in one piece when I got back.
I picked up my bags and headed out to the living room, fighting back waves of guilt. In spite of Prozac’s abominable behavior, I felt bad about leaving her. What can I say? When it comes to my cat, I’m a hopeless sap, mere putty in her paws.
Oh, well. I couldn’t fret. Prozac would be fine. My mother would stuff her with human tuna and spoil her rotten.
I took one last look around my apartment, bidding farewell to my overstuffed sofa and my straggly philodendron plant, then headed outside.
It was a glorious day, complete with crayon-blue skies, fluffy white clouds, and palm fronds rustling in the breeze. What perfect weather to set sail for the high seas. Luckily I’d nabbed a parking spot in front of my duplex. I loaded my suitcase and tote bag in the trunk of my car and was just about to shut the lid when I realized I’d forgotten to pack my
Giant Book of New York Times Crossword Puzzles
, which I intended to work my way through during my seven days at sea, a succession of free strawberry smoothies at my side.
With a sigh of impatience, I dashed back to my apartment and into my bedroom, where Prozac had abandoned my bedspread and was now busily attacking my pillow. I could’ve sworn I’d left the crossword book on my night table, but it wasn’t there.
I looked in the living room, the bathroom, and kitchen, and was about to give up when I finally saw it peeking out from under the living room sofa. No doubt Prozac had hidden it there—just her thoughtful way of saying “bon voyage.”
I grabbed it and raced back out to the Corolla, where I tossed it into the trunk and got behind the wheel, excitement mounting. At last I was headed off for a fabulous week of cruising!
