Killing Cupid (A Jaine Austen Mystery) (18 page)

“It’s my flavor injector. You can buy it at any cooking supply store. It’s how I injected the poison in Joy’s chocolate. I used it today to stuff the tofu balls with carrot puree. Now, of course, it’s filled with cyanide.”

He started slowly toward me, his flavor injector aimed straight at my gut.

Oh, how I wanted to shove him aside and make a run for it! But I couldn’t risk getting stabbed.

Then I realized I was still carrying my purse. Reaching inside, I felt around for my Aqua Net, prepared to zap Skip in the eyes and render him helpless. But when I pulled out the can, I realized it wasn’t hair spray—but Squirrel-B-Gone, the stuff I’d used to ward off Rocky and Bullwinkle. I just prayed it would work on humans, too. Aiming straight for his eyes, I gave it a spritz.

And out came ... nothing.

Dammit. The plastic safety guard was still on!

Why do they make these things so hard to open, anyway? Don’t the people at Squirrel-B-Gone realize their customers might someday find themselves face to face with a geriatric maniac?

With no time to fiddle with the safety guard, I simply lobbed the can of Squirrel-B-Gone at Skip’s head.

The bad news is I missed. But the good news is he was so startled, he dropped his flavor injector.

My cue to get the hell out of there.

Wasting no time, I went charging out into the hall.

And that’s when fate stepped in and slipped me a knuckleball.

I hadn’t taken two steps when I tripped over one of Skip’s precious Persian rugs.

Dammit.

The next thing I knew I was sprawled on the floor, Skip straddling my chest, pinning my arms to my sides with his legs. For a skinny guy, he felt awfully heavy.

Then, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I saw his flavor injector peeking out from his shirt pocket.

“Look, Skip. There’s no need to kill me. Honest. I swear I won’t tell a soul that you killed Joy. I hated her, too. It’ll be our little secret.”

“Sorry, Jaine. I can’t take that chance. And besides, I really do want Prozac, and I don’t think I’ll get her unless you’re out of the picture.”

“So,” he said, baring his dentures in a feral grin, “I’ll just kill two birds with one flavor injector.”

He took it out of his pocket with a flourish.

Squirming mightily, I tried to free my arm to punch him in the groin, but he was a lot tougher than he looked.

As much as I struggled, I couldn’t break free.

Now I cringed to see the syringe coming closer and closer. Skip was aiming it straight for my neck.

He was
thisclose
to plunging it in when suddenly a giant furball with lobster breath came hurtling through the air and sank her teeth into Skip’s hand.

Thank heavens! My darling Prozac had come to my rescue!

That’s what I’d like to think, anyway. Frankly, I suspect she was just trying to snag lobster bits from Skip’s fingers.

Whatever the reason, Skip dropped the flavor injector, yowling in pain. At last I managed to free my arms and gave him that punch in the groin he so richly deserved.

Shoving him off me, I left him doubled over, clutching his privates. Then I grabbed the flavor injector and raced back to Miss Marple’s room.

I scrambled to pick up my cell phone from where Skip had hurled it behind the scratching post. Not only was it still working, but an operator had actually come on the line and heard Skip confessing to Joy’s murder.

I quickly gave her Skip’s address and minutes later heard the wail of police sirens. Soon the cops were storming in the front door. After kindly fixing Skip an ice pack for his groin, they carted him off to the Crazy Old Coot wing of the county jail.

The minute he was gone, I turned to Prozac and gathered her in my arms.

“Thank you, my precious angel, for saving my life!” She gazed up at me with wide, adoring eyes.

Okay, so technically, she jumped down and trotted back to the den to lick the last of the lobster from the bowl.

But a cat owner can dream, can’t she?

Epilogue

S
kip Holmeier fans will be happy to learn that, thanks to a successful insanity plea, he is now residing at a luxury sanitarium for the criminally cuckoo. Last I heard, he’d fallen madly in love with the sanitarium cat, Irving, whom he insists on calling Miss Marple.

I never did get to cash in on my Tiffany collar. When I brought it in to be appraised, it turned out to be a fake! To think that I almost swan dived into a garbage truck to rescue that thing. Oh, well. Lesson learned, class. Never accept jewelry from a tofu-eating homicidal maniac.

The police dropped all charges against Lance once they realized Donny had been acting alone in his kleptomania. Stinging from yet another romance gone bad, Lance swore off men forever. A vow he kept for a whole three and a half days, before falling head over heels for a guy he met at a “Who Needs Men, Anyway?” workshop.

Business is booming for Travis, the computer nerd-turned-matchmaker. In a stroke of marketing genius and/or generosity, he fixed up all Joy’s unhappy clients with free dates, which generated so much goodwill, he wound up with tons of new referrals. Now he has fancy new offices just off Rodeo Drive, where he always keeps an open box of Godiva chocolates for his clients to enjoy.

Greg Stanton fessed up about his Uncle George’s paintings and spent three months in prison for art fraud. While serving time, he penned his memoirs, which are now being made into a major motion picture starring George Clooney as Greg and Sean Connery as “Uncle George.”

And Barry, the fountain pen nerd? You’re not going to believe this (I sure didn’t), but he’s engaged to Albany, the model, whom he bumped into at a fountain pen collectors convention. It turns out Albany is a fountain pen fanatic, just like Barry. They plan to name their first child Parker Esterbrook.

In other romance news, Alyce Winters is seeing a guy she met on Travis’s Web site, an orthodontist from Encino. And rumor has it that Cassie is dating Carl, the ex-con from Frugal Fixin’s.

As for Aunt Faith, she opened a jewelry shop in Santa Monica, where her wacky baubles soon became all the rage. She’s now selling her stuff on the Home Shopping Channel.

My mom is one of her biggest customers.

And you’ll never guess who pushed those shopping carts at me at Pet Palace. Muriel, the clerk! Turns out she had some pretty serious anger management issues. But after months of therapy, she’s much better. Last I heard, she’s working at the post office.

Prozac’s the same as ever, the queen of all she surveys. I finally weaned her off caviar and lobster tails. Now she’s into baby lamb chops.

Oh, and one more thing. I got the craziest letter in the mail the other day. I thought I’d die when I read it. Here’s what it said:

That’s right. It was from Detective Adam’s Apple (aka Scott Willis)! When he showed it to me for my approval, I assumed he was going to send it to a petite blonde he’d met online. But no, the gal he’d fallen for was not some petite blonde, but moi!

Oops. There’s the doorbell. That’s him now.

Wish me luck!

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

 

Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018

Copyright © 2014 by Laura Levine

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

 

 

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Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2013950843

ISBN: 978-0-7582-8503-4

First Kensington Hardcover Edition: January 2014

 

eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-8505-8
eISBN-10: 0-7582-8505-1
First Kensington Electronic Edition: January 2014