Jaine Austen Mystery: Killing Cupid Part 9

Wearily, I trotted over to answer it.

I did not think it was possible for my spirits to sink any lower, but the voice at the other end of the line sent them plummeting.

"h.e.l.lo, sweetheart." Oh, gaak. It was Skip Holmeier. "How's my favorite green-eyed gal?"

"My eyes are hazel."

"Actually I was talking about Prozac."

"Oh. She's fine."

"So glad to hear it! She's such an adorable kitty! Give her my love-and kisses, too."

"Will do," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Anyhow, I'm calling because"-here he paused for a phlegm-filled clearing of his throat-"I was wondering if you wanted to see me again."

Only from a Hubble telescope.

"I was thinking next Thursday? For lunch?"

Ordinarily under these circ.u.mstances I'd make up a tiny fib and tell him I was moving to Tasmania or had just fallen in love with the woman of my dreams. But if you recall, I'd sold my soul to Joy for an extra five hundred bucks and had agreed to her Three Date rule.

"Um, sure," I said, with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

"Wonderful! I'll pick you up around one."

Oh, well, I told myself as I hung up. I had to think positive thoughts. Maybe the date would be fun. Maybe I'd gain new insights on the elderly. Maybe I'd be able to sneak in a b.u.t.ter pat on my steamed veggies.

I was headed for the kitchen to pour myself a wee bit more chardonnay when I heard Lance banging at my front door.

Like a fool, I opened it.

"It's official!" Lance cried, sailing in on Cloud Nine. "I'm in love! My date with Donny Johnson was absolutely divine!" He grabbed my wine and took a healthy slug. "You'll never guess what we did!"

"If it involves handcuffs and whipped cream, I don't want to hear about it."

He shot me a wounded look.

"Jaine, please. Our date was perfectly innocent. Donny and I went for a long walk on the beach, then stopped off for dinner at an intimate little Italian restaurant, where they played old Dean Martin records and Donny wrote I Love You on the tablecloth with his ziti. Isn't that the most romantic thing you ever heard?"

"Yes, nothing says love like pasta on a tablecloth."

"And look what Donny gave me!" he said, ignoring my snippet of sarcasm.

He held out his wrist, revealing a magnificent stainless steel watch dotted with what looked like diamonds. "A genuine Rolex. It had to cost at least five grand!"

"Wow, it's gorgeous!"

Lance grinned in triumph. "And you said he wasn't a real millionaire!"

Was it possible? Was Lance the first person in Dates of Joy history to have actually gone on a date of joy?

"And what about you?" Lance asked. "How did your date go?"

"An utter disaster," I sighed. "The guy was not only old enough to be Methuselah's grandfather, he drove his Bentley two miles an hour, made me eat a veggie plate at a steak restaurant, and picked a fight with a blind piano player."

"He drives a Bentley? How divine!"

"Have you not listened to a word I've just said? The guy's an old fart vegan nutcase!"

"With a Bentley! Really, Jaine. Some day you must learn to get your priorities straight!"

I grabbed my wine back and finished it in one exasperated gulp.

"Would you look at the time?" Lance cried, flashing his Rolex in my face. "Must dash to get dressed for my date with Donny. He's taking me to the ballet. You know how I adore the ballet."

"Drooling over men in tights does not make you a ballet lover, Lance."

"Oh, my. Somebody woke up on the b.i.t.c.hy side of the bed this morning. But don't worry, sweetie," he said as he headed for the door. "I forgive you. You're just jealous because I found true love, and you got stuck with a loony old fart."

I stuck out my tongue at his retreating back.

I hate it when he's right.

Chapter 8.

The next few days pa.s.sed in an aggravating blur as Joy got ready for her annual Valentine's Singles Mixer.

Or as she so modestly put it, "The singles party of the year!"

In full-tilt tyrant mode, Joy proceeded to drive Ca.s.sie and Travis crazy, barking orders at them as they transformed the Dates of Joy photo studio into a party venue.

After cramming all the photo equipment into the small kitchen adjacent to the studio, Travis and Ca.s.sie got up on ladders to string crepe paper across the room. A job that would normally take about a half hour took forever as Joy shrieked conflicting directions at them.

"Higher! No, lower! Now just a bit to the right! No, no! To the left! No, to the right again!"

Through it all, I sat at a computer in the reception area, banging out phony dating profiles.

When the crepe paper was finally hung, Ca.s.sie spent hours on the phone, trying to line up discount balloons and making arrangements with the caterer, a guy Joy dug up on Craigslist.

"He told Joy he was the former executive chef at Coach.e.l.la Prison," Ca.s.sie whispered to me. "Frankly, I suspect he was an inmate."

Meanwhile, Travis was hard at work at his computer, making counterfeit copies of Dom Perignon champagne labels.

"Joy buys the cheapest champagne she can find," he explained, "and then has me paste on phony labels."

I shook my head in disbelief.

The woman never ceased to amaze me.

Finally Friday rolled around, the day before Joy's Valentine's Day Singles Mixer.

I'd just wrapped up my final fict.i.tious dating profile for a male model I'd dubbed Anton Zeller (a Santa Barbara native who, when not running his highly successful chain of teeth whitening salons, loved surfing, motorbiking, and Charlotte Bronte novels).

I could not wait to go home and spend the next few hours-if not the entire weekend-soaking in a hot tub, washing away the stress of these past few days.

I was just packing up my things when Joy swooped down on me, noshing on a chocolate from her G.o.diva box.

"By the way, Jaine, I expect you to be at the mixer tomorrow night."

Oh, no. No way. This was not going to happen.

"Honestly, Joy. I've got more than enough material for the brochure. I don't think I need to be at the party."

"Well, I think you do. So be there. And if anyone asks, you're a satisfied client."

Her one and only.

"And speaking of the brochure," Joy added, a nasty glint in her eye, "I expect your copy on my desk tomorrow morning."

"You need the brochure copy tomorrow? Sat.u.r.day?"

"Yes. You have a problem with that?"

"I haven't had time to even start the brochure. I've been too busy writing your blankety-blank bios."

This is a family novel, so I am sparing you the actual blankety-blank words involved. But I can a.s.sure you, they were pretty ripe.

"Well, better get cracking." She popped another G.o.diva in her mouth. "I need it on my desk tomorrow."

Grrr. I came thisclose to ramming her with Travis's stapler. But I didn't want to waste the staples.

Knowing Joy, she'd charge me for them.

"That G.o.dawful woman!" I cried, stomping into my apartment. "Taking up weeks of my life with her stupid dating profiles, and then just when I thought I could sit back and relax for five minutes, she gives me less than a day to write a sixteen-page brochure!"

Prozac leaped down from the sofa where she'd been snoring and hurried to my side.

Yeah, right. Whatever. Do I smell shrimp with lobster sauce?

Indeed she did. I'd stopped off for Chinese take-out on my way home. And now Prozac was practically bonding herself to my ankles, yowling to be fed.

I gave up any hope of getting her to eat the Savory Salmon Entrails I'd been planning to feed her, and instead sloshed some shrimp into her bowl.

Gone in sixty seconds.

It didn't take me too much longer to polish off my chow.

Around about now, if there were any justice in this world, I'd be sinking down into a strawberry-scented bubble bath, listening to the mellow sounds of Diana Krall and throwing mental darts at Joy Amoroso.

But life is not just. (As anyone who's ever been on a blind date with Skip Holmeier can well attest.) I had no time for soaking in tubs. Not with a sixteen-page brochure to write.

Pouring myself an eensy gla.s.s of wine-okay, so it wasn't so eensy-I sat down at my computer and stared at the blank screen.

Oh, what I'd give to write the truth about Joy, about what a double-dealing, low-life excuse for a human being she was.

And before I knew it, that's exactly what I was doing.

I don't know what came over me. Maybe it was my long simmering anger, my sense of outraged injustice. Probably it was just the chardonnay.

But suddenly I was writing the truth.

And it went something like this:

Are you looking for the love of your life? A warm, supportive mentor to guide you through the minefields of dating? Then whatever you do, stay away from Joy Amoroso, the Psycho Cupid of Beverly Hills. The woman is to dating what Hitler was to Bar Mitzvahs....

My fingers flew over the keyboard as I spilled the beans about how Joy charged outrageous membership fees for services rarely rendered, how she padded her database with phony pictures of actors and models, how she browbeat her employees, and worst of all, how after nearly two weeks of working with her, she hadn't offered me a single chocolate!

I read my copy out loud to Prozac, who looked up from where she was sprawled on the sofa and gave me an encouraging thump of her tail.

You go, girl!

Okay, all she really did was yawn, but it seemed like an enthusiastic yawn.

Then I had a great idea. I'd add pictures to my copy!

Ladies, I wrote, here's the kind of guy you can expect to meet at Dates of Joy.

With the help of my good buddies at Google Images, I was soon adorning my brochure with pictures of Norman Bates, Hannibal Lecter, and Elmer Fudd.

And guys, just check out these nifty gals in Joy's dating file.

Here I pasted pictures of The Bride of Frankenstein, Lizzie Borden, and Honey Boo Boo.