Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 10

After several more d.a.m.ning paragraphs, I checked my watch and saw it was close to eleven p.m.

Oh, foo. Looked like the party was over.

It was great fun while it lasted, but now I had to write the real stuff.

So I knuckled down and spent the next several hours churning out the adulatory copy Joy was paying me to write, regurgitating all her pap about how matchmaking was in her blood and how it was her life mission to connect soul mates. I wrote about her fict.i.tious track record of successful hookups. And about her equally fict.i.tious gifts of empathy, sensitivity, and compa.s.sion. All of which combined to make her a matchmaker par excellence, a caring cupid with a heart of gold.

When I was finished, I practically needed a diabetes shot.

It was way over the top, but I knew Joy would eat it up. Worse, she'd probably believe it.

By now it was after two a.m. Beyond exhausted, I didn't even bother to run a spell check. I just popped it off in an e-mail, thrilled to be rid of it.

And so it was with happy heart that I toddled off to bed, blissfully unaware of the p.o.o.p that was waiting in the wings, about to hit my fan.

Chapter 9.

Valentine's Day dawned bright and sunny, the birds chirping merrily outside my window.

(It was easy for them to be merry. They didn't have to haul their sorry fannies to Joy's party that night.) What with all the hoo-ha of working for Joy, I'd been sadly neglecting my household ch.o.r.es, so I spent the entire day dusting, vacuuming, and catching up on my laundry.

And if you believe that, I've got some shares in Enron I'd like to sell you.

I'm not ashamed to confess I lolled around in my pj's the entire day, doing the New York Times crossword puzzle and leafing through the Fudge of the Month catalog.

It was heaven, sheer heaven.

But eventually, it was time to get dressed for Joy's Valentine's mixer.

Grudgingly I hauled myself to my closet and tossed on some slacks and a sweater. Gray, to match my mood. And in an act of defiance, I chose a pair of slacks with an elastic waist. Worn out elastic, at that.

So there, Joy Amoroso!

Other than a splash of lipstick, I didn't bother with makeup, and corralled my mop of curls into a messy ponytail.

Tossing Prozac some Hearty Halibut Guts for her dinner, I carefully refrained from chowing down on some leftover pot stickers that were sitting in the refrigerator, calling my name. (Okay, so I ate one, but that's all. I swear. Okay, two, if you must know.) I intended to stuff myself silly with hors d'oeuvres at the mixer, determined to make Joy pay in some small way for all the aggravation she'd put me through.

Checking my watch, I saw it was 7:45. The party started at eight, and I planned on getting there late. The less time I had to spend with Joy, the happier I'd be. So to kill time, I decided to read over the brochure copy I'd e-mailed Joy the night before.

I clicked on the file and cringed to read my gloppy words of praise. If anyone on the planet didn't deserve them, it was Joy. I was about to log off when suddenly I noticed a splotch of color down at the bottom of the page.

I scrolled down, and to my horror, I saw the puffy-cheeked face of Elmer Fudd!

OmiG.o.d! I'd been in such a rush last night, I never deleted the joke copy I'd originally written, the zinger-laden manifesto where I'd called Joy a "Psycho Cupid."

If Joy saw this, I could kiss my paycheck good-bye.

No doubt about it. My p.o.o.p had landed. And I was knee deep in the stuff.

I drove over to the party like Dale Earnhardt on uppers, my heart racing almost as fast as my engine. I prayed that Joy hadn't yet read my e-mail and that Travis would know her pa.s.sword so that I could delete it.

The mixer was well under way when I showed up at the Dates of Joy photo studio, now festooned with streamers and discount balloons. Desperate singles were wandering around with glazed looks in their eyes, wondering no doubt what happened to all the stunning people they'd seen in Joy's date book.

Ca.s.sie, her purple hair striped red for the occasion, was working the room as a waitress, serving hors d'oeuvres from a tray. Travis, in a white shirt and bow tie, stood behind a makeshift bar, pouring phony Dom Perignon into champagne gla.s.ses.

I was just about to hurry to his side when Joy came bursting out from the kitchen, dressed head to toe in Valentine's red: Red tent dress, red designer shoes, even a red bow in her hair. Pinned to her ample bosom was a huge b.u.t.ton that read I ME.

At last. Truth in advertising.

She took one look at me and came charging at me like a rhino in Jimmy Choos.

d.a.m.n. It was too late. She'd read my e-mail.

I braced myself for the volcano that was about to erupt.

"Where the h.e.l.l have you been?" she hissed. "I've been looking all over for you. The idiotic caterer didn't bring any waitstaff, and I need you to help Ca.s.sie serve the hors d'oeuvres."

Thank heavens! I was safe! For the time being, anyway.

"Of course, Joy. Anything you say."

She sent me to the kitchen, where her caterer, a burly guy named Carl, handed me an ap.r.o.n emblazoned with the logo FRUGAL FIXIN'S. Carl took great pride in informing me that he was the former executive chef at Coach.e.l.la Prison. Although, as Ca.s.sie had said, he did indeed look like he could have been one of the inmates.

"Here you go," he said, handing me a tray of delicious stuffed mushrooms. I happened to know they were delicious, because I popped one in my mouth as I headed back to the party.

I hadn't taken two steps into the room when suddenly Joy materialized at my side.

"No eating on the job!" she snapped.

So much for my plan to snack my way through her party.

But who cared? Just as long as I was able to delete that dratted e-mail.

I wandered around with my tray, waiting for my opportunity to approach Travis and ask him for Joy's pa.s.sword. But Joy was eyeing me like a hawk. If she saw me standing around talking to Travis, she'd be on me like hot fudge on a potato chip.

(You've never tried it? It's delicious.) Not even the arrival of Tonio was enough to distract Joy. Clad in his usual tight leather pants and chest-baring shirt, Tonio sidled over to give Joy a peck on her cheek. Much to my surprise, I saw her body stiffen. Through gritted teeth, she said something to him-something that made his face turn ashen. Then she turned and stalked off in a huff.

Uh-oh. I smelled trouble in paradise.

By now the room was crowded with lonely singles, still looking in vain for the gorgeous soul mates Joy had promised them.

"Where are all the handsome men I saw on her Web site?" I heard one mousy brunet moan to another.

"Omigosh," her friend replied. "Here's one of them now!"

I followed her gaze.

Standing in the doorway was Greg Stanton, the hunkalicious artist I'd seen at Simon's Steak House. Slim and tan in jeans and a turtleneck, his sun-bleached hair bringing out the deep blue of his eyes, he was a stunner of the highest order.

Once again I wondered why a guy like Greg needed Joy's services.

Joy was instantly at his side, linking her elbow in his in a viselike grip.

"Greg, my deah!" she squealed in Queen Mum mode. "How veddy lovely to see you!"

Gazing up at him and batting her eyelashes coquettishly, she was-at last-distracted.

Taking advantage of the moment, I dashed over to the bar where Travis was busy trying to keep the phony Dom Perignon labels from slipping off their bottles as they sloshed around in the ice bucket.

"Hey, Jaine!" he said, catching sight of me. "What can I get you?"

"Joy's pa.s.sword."

"Huh?"

"It's a long, awful story, Travis, but I wrote some horrible things about Joy and sent them to her by mistake. Now I need to get into her e-mail. I'm just praying you know her pa.s.sword."

"Yeah, sure. Of course. It's CuteCupid."

"Oh, gaak."

"My sentiments, exactly."

Filled with grat.i.tude, I slipped Travis a Frugal Fixin's mushroom cap.

Now all I had to do was dash across the reception area to Joy's inner office.

But how? Joy had relinquished her grip on Greg, who was now surrounded by a gaggle of admirers. Which meant Joy was back on patrol duty, eyes in the back of her head on high alert. I couldn't risk having her see me put down my tray and leave the room.

I continued to perform waitress duty for the next half hour or so. Every time I looked over at Joy, I saw her glaring at me.

Good Lord, did she have nothing better to do than make sure I didn't eat one of her precious hors d'oeuvres?

I was beginning to think I'd never escape her eagle eyes when at last I got a break.

Having run out of hors d'oeuvres, I went to the kitchen to get a refill. But Carl was running behind, and the latest batch of goodies-spinach and cheese-filled filo dough-was still baking.

When Joy saw me coming out from the kitchen with an empty tray, she went ballistic.

"What the h.e.l.l is wrong with that guy?" she exploded. "That's the last time I ever hire an ex-con to cater a party."

So Ca.s.sie was right. Carl was an ex-con!

As Joy took off to the kitchen to give him h.e.l.l, I threw my empty tray down on the bar and charged out past the reception area into Joy's office.

I practically wept with relief at the sight of her laptop on her desk.

Plopping my f.a.n.n.y in her antique desk chair, I typed her pa.s.sword into her e-mail account.

Bingo! I was in.

With trembling fingers, I clicked onto her e-mails. There it was. My Dates of Joy brochure.

I opened the e-mail and scrolled down to see E. Fudd, H. Lecter, and the rest of the gang smiling up at me.

"Sorry, guys," I muttered. "You're history."

And then, with the greatest of pleasure, I zapped my slanderous brochure to oblivion.

Mission accomplished.

True, I would have to face the wrath of Joy for not getting the brochure in on time, but that was a small price to pay. In fact, if I hurried home from the party and re-sent the e-mail later that night, she'd probably never even know the difference.

I sat back, limp with relief, when I noticed Joy's prized G.o.divas on her desk. I was just about to do the unthinkable and reach for one when I heard footsteps thundering toward Joy's office.

Oh, crud. They sounded an awful lot like Jimmy Choos on a rampage.

"Shut up, Tonio!" cried an unmistakable voice.

It was Joy, all right.

I looked around for a place to hide and saw absolutely nothing.

So I hurled myself under Joy's desk. Thank heavens it had a blocked front.

Curled up with my knees rammed into my chest, I looked around and saw that I was surrounded by dust bunnies the size of Chihuahuas-not to mention a moldy pair of slippers and an old M&M's wrapper.

There I was, cowering amid the dust bunnies, breathing in the heady aroma of Joy's foot funk, when the door banged open.

"Joy, honey!" Tonio was wailing. "I can explain everything."

"Forget it, Tonio," I heard Joy snarl in reply. "I know what you did, and I'm turning you in to the authorities."

"But, sugarplum!"

"Don't sugarplum me, you low-life greaseball!"

As I listened avidly to this heated exchange, wondering what on earth Tonio had done to stir up Joy's wrath, I suddenly felt my nose begin to itch. Oh, h.e.l.l. I was going to sneeze!

d.a.m.n those dust bunnies!

Quickly I pressed my finger under my nose, trying desperately to stem the explosion that was building up inside.