Death by Smoothie, page 1
Books by Laura Levine
THIS PEN FOR HIRE
LAST WRITES
KILLER BLONDE
SHOES TO DIE FOR
THE PMS MURDER
DEATH BY PANTYHOSE
CANDY CANE MURDER
KILLING BRIDEZILLA
KILLER CRUISE
DEATH OF A TROPHY WIFE
GINGERBREAD COOKIE MURDER
PAMPERED TO DEATH
DEATH OF A NEIGHBORHOOD WITCH
KILLING CUPID
DEATH BY TIARA
MURDER HAS NINE LIVES
DEATH OF A BACHELORETTE
DEATH OF A NEIGHBORHOOD SCROOGE
DEATH OF A GIGOLO
CHRISTMAS SWEETS
MURDER GETS A MAKEOVER
DEATH BY SMOOTHIE
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
DEATH BY SMOOTHIE
LAURA LEVINE
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Epilogue
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2022 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.
The K and Teapot logo is a trademark of Kensington Publishing Corp.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2022940966
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2816-6
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: December 2022
ISBN: 978-1-4967-2818-0 (ebook)
In Loving Memory of Benjamin Levine and Frank Mula
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As always, I am beyond grateful to my editor, John Scognamiglio, for his unwavering faith in Jaine. To my rock of an agent, Evan Marshall. To Hiro Kimura, whose cover art never fails to make me smile. To Lou Malcangi for another eye-catching dustjacket design. And to the rest of the gang at Kensington who keep Jaine and Prozac coming back for murder and minced mackerel guts each year.
A great big XOXO to my readers. You guys are the best (really!), and I’m grateful for every single one of you.
Finally, a special acknowledgement goes out to my best buddy, the late Frank Mula. Not only was Frank a sounding board for story ideas, he was a sounding board in real life, holding my hand and walking me through life’s most difficult plot twists.
Whenever I got stuck on a joke, Frank (a two-time Emmy winner for his work on “The Simpsons”) would come up with ten or fifteen others in the time it took me to run to the refrigerator for a work-avoidance snack.
His presence in my life—and my books—was a blessing, one I will always treasure and sorely miss.
Prologue
“Prozac Elizabeth Austen!” I cried as my cat dashed out my front door. “Get back here right now!”
The little devil had been pretending to be asleep on the sofa, but the minute I opened the door to get my mail, she bolted out like a shot. Lately, she’d developed a bad case of kitty cabin fever, eager to bust out of my apartment and wreak her special brand of havoc on my neighbors.
I was hot on her heels as she zoomed across the street.
Drat! She was heading up the Hurlbutts’ driveway.
For some reason, Prozac seemed to be fascinated by Mr. and Mrs. Hurlbutt’s house, scooting over there whenever possible to poop on their lawn and dig up Mrs. Hurlbutt’s prize petunias.
Now I watched in dismay as she vaulted through their open kitchen window.
I caught up with her just in time to see her chowing down on a roast chicken Mrs. Hurlbutt had been foolish enough to leave out on her kitchen table.
“Prozac,” I hissed. “Stop eating that chicken leg!”
Ever obedient, she stopped eating the leg and started in on the breast.
I was just about to climb in after her when Mrs. Hurlbutt, a plump sixty-something gal in a BEST GRANDMOTHER EVER sweatshirt, came puffing into the kitchen, aghast at the sight of Prozac demolishing her chicken.
“Why, you little fracker!” she said, snatching Prozac away from the chicken and practically hurling her into my arms.
(To be perfectly accurate, the “f” word she used wasn’t “fracker.” But I’m keeping things clean for your delicate ears.)
As it turned out, the Best Grandmother Ever had one heck of a potty mouth.
After a string of expletives that would make a rapper blush, she proclaimed, “That little monster of yours has got to be the world’s most infuriating cat!”
In my arms, Prozac belched proudly.
I try.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Hurlbutt. I’ll get you another chicken at the market.”
“If you don’t keep that she-devil under control,” Mrs. Hurlbutt threatened, her arms crossed firmly over her ample bosom, “I’m reporting her to the authorities.”
I had no doubt she would. I could easily picture Prozac’s face on the FBI’s Most Wanted list. I left in a flurry of apologies and shuffled back home with Prozac in my arms.
“I can’t believe you ate that chicken not fifteen minutes after scarfing down your Minced Mackerel Guts. How can one cat pack away so much food?”
Another satisfied belch.
It’s a gift.
I was walking up the front path of my duplex on the low-rent outskirts of Beverly Hills when I ran into my neighbor, Lance Venable, dressed for work in a designer suit and tie, his blond curls moussed to perfection. As Lance would be the first to tell you, he’s one of the top-ranking women’s shoe salesmen at Beverly Hills Neiman Marcus.
“I’ve got great news for you, Jaine!” he cried, following me into my apartment. “I’m in love!”
Oh, yawn. Lance falls in love about as often as most people change their sheets.
Now he was blathering on about his latest crush, an actor named Aidan, about how cute he was, how smart and funny.
“All that,” he said, eyes shining, “and buns of steel!”
“Congratulations, Lance. But I fail to see how that’s great news for me.”
“I haven’t gotten to that part yet.”
“Get to it, please, sometime before I reach menopause.”
As usual, my sarcasm went sailing over his blond curls.
“Aidan’s just landed a part in a play, and they’re looking for a writer to do punch-ups on the script. I told him about your many show biz credits, and he’s recommending you for the job.”
“Many show biz credits? What are you talking about? I wrote exactly one sitcom. And that was ages ago. I know nothing about writing plays.”
“Neither do the producers. They’re utter amateurs. So you’ll fit right in.
“Anyway, you’ll never guess what play they’re doing. Remember the old sitcom I Married a Zombie?”
Of course I remembered. The actress who played the lead in that sitcom had lived up the street from us—a major league grouchpot, aggravating everybody with her nonstop complaints—until the night she got murdered. A murder in which, I’m sad to say, I was one of the cops’ leading suspects. But that’s a whole other story, one you can read all about, in Death of a Neighborhood Witch, available wherever fine books (and mine, too) are sold.
“That sitcom was a monumental flop,” I said. “Who’d want to see a revival?”
“Apparently, it has a devoted cult following, and two of its biggest fans are producing it as a play. One of them won big money in the lottery. He and his girlfriend quit their IT day jobs and are using the lottery winnings to bankroll the production.”
After giving me the producers’ contact info and making me promise to send them my sitcom script, Lance air-kissed me goodbye and tootled off to fondle the tootsies of the rich and famous.
Somehow, I managed to ferret out my script in my c
Admittedly, it wasn’t much of a highlight, so my hopes were fairly low as I set out to buy Mrs. Hurlbutt her replacement chicken.
And yet, even though I knew it was a long shot, I couldn’t help but feel a ping of excitement at the prospect of a play-writing gig.
Just think! Me, Jaine Austen, working in the thea-tah! What a welcome change from writing about Toiletmasters’ double-flush commodes.
Suddenly, I had visions of living in some swank apartment in Manhattan, going to elegant opening-night parties, brunching with the stars, and soaking up the city’s many cultural treasures—the museums, the symphony, the Everything Bagel!
By the time I checked out of the market with a roast chicken and Oreos for Mrs. Hurlbutt (okay, the Oreos were for me), I was fervently praying the producers would choose me for the job.
And, in what turned out to be a stroke of the worst possible luck, they did.
Chapter One
Of course, I had no idea of the disasters looming ahead when I drove over to meet the play’s producers, Becca and David, a few days later. They’d read my sitcom script and liked it, and now they’d summoned me to meet them at the theater for an interview.
My destination turned out to be a slightly rundown venue on the outskirts of Hollywood whose marquee promised:
COMING SOON! I MARRIED A ZOMBIE!
The front doors were open, so I let myself in, walking past a dimly lit lobby to the auditorium. There I saw two people sitting in the audience as a pretty blonde looked over some script pages onstage.
I figured the duo in the audience were Becca and David, and that I’d caught them in the middle of an audition. So I slid onto a rumpsprung seat a few rows behind them.
“Ready to start?” David called up to the blonde.
“You bet!” she said, beaming a radiant smile.
With that, she started reading from the script as David fed her lines from his seat.
It was the scene where the play’s leading character, Cryptessa Muldoon, freshly undead, bumps into a red-blooded young guy named Brad Abercrombie. He takes one look at her, and it’s love at first sight. She tells him she can’t possibly date him, that she’s a zombie. But Brad, in a spate of Hallmark-inspired dialogue, insists he doesn’t care, that love conquers all, and that somehow they’ll make it work.
The young woman onstage was doing a terrific job delivering her syrupy lines.
When she was through reading, David asked her to sing a song from the play. She belted it out in a sweet clear voice:
Even though I was undead
I couldn’t bear to stay unwed
I just about flipped
When I stepped out of my crypt
And saw him standing there.
Never knew what I was missing
Until we started kissing
Things got hotter than hot
Then we tied the knot
Who would have thought a zombie
Would wind up Mrs. Brad Abercrombie?
Ouch. Somewhere Oscar Hammerstein was rolling over in his grave.
But in spite of the godawful lyrics, the actress still managed to pump some life into them.
“Great!” David called out to her when she was through.
“She’s the best Cryptessa we’ve seen yet,” I heard Becca whisper.
“We’ll definitely be in touch,” David said.
The blonde came down the stairs into the audience, thanking them profusely, and headed for the exit, beaming.
It was then that Becca turned and saw me.
“Hi. You must be Jaine. I’m Becca. And this is my partner, David.”
They stood up to greet me, two uber-nerds in matching I Married a Zombie T-shirts.
Becca’s tee clung to her generous hips, her lanky hair pooling on her shoulders, a fringe of bangs threatening to obscure her vision. In contrast to Becca’s soft curves, David was painfully thin, a bundle of nervous energy, with taped-together glasses and a mop of wiry Brillo hair.
“David’s not only producing the show,” Becca said proudly, “he’s also the director, writer, and leading man.”
Talk about your renaissance geeks.
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” David said, getting down to business. “We’re just wrapping up auditions. I think we should hire this last one,” he said to Becca. “Katie Gustafson.”
“Agreed,” Becca said, making a note on a clipboard.
At which point, the door to the theater opened with a bang, and a spritely young thing came racing down the aisle.
“I hope I’m not too late to audition,” she said.
David was staring at her, rapt.
And I could see why. She was one heck of a cutie-pie. Enormous Audrey Hepburn eyes, glossy brown hair pulled up into a high ponytail. With her elfin bod in leggings and a slouchy off-the-shoulder top, she was the very definition of adorable.
“No, you’re not too late,” David gulped, his eyeballs practically spronging from their sockets.
Becca eyed him warily. And I didn’t blame her. If I had a boyfriend look at another woman the way David was looking at this cutie, I’d be wary, too.
“I’m Misty,” the cutie said.
“Nice to meet you, Misty,” Becca replied with a stiff smile. “Do you have a headshot and résumé for us?”
“Afraid not,” the sprite shrugged. “I’ve never actually performed onstage before. But I’ve done plenty of acting as a waitress, pretending to like my customers.”
“We were hoping for someone with a bit more experience,” Becca started to say.
“But we’re happy to have you read,” David interrupted, handing Misty some script pages.
As she skittered up the steps to the stage, David’s eyes were riveted on her perky little tush.
“Let’s start from where Cryptessa meets Brad in the graveyard, the line where she says, ‘Do you come here often?’”
“Okey doke,” Misty said, and launched into her reading.
“Smiling coyly, do you come here often?”
“No,” David said. “Smiling coyly is a stage direction. You’re not supposed to read it out loud. You’re just supposed to smile coyly when you say your line.”
“You mean like this?”
She shot David a very coy smile indeed. Coy bordering on pole dancer.
“Right,” David gulped, his Adam’s apple working overtime. “Like that.”
Next to him, Becca’s jaw clenched.
Misty proceeded to read her lines woodenly, mispronouncing words, utterly devoid of talent.
But David was staring at her, mesmerized.
Then it came time for her to sing.
It wouldn’t seem possible, but her singing was even worse than her acting. I’d heard car alarms that sounded better than Misty.
When she was finished, a blessed silence descended on the auditorium.
“So how did I do?” Misty asked, looking directly at David.
“You stunk up the room faster than a rabid skunk.”
Of course, no one said that. But I sure was thinking it.
“Uh . . . we’ll get back to you,” Becca managed to pipe up when she’d finally recovered her powers of speech.
“No need,” says David. “You were fantastic!”
Huh?
“You’re hired!”
“I am?” Misty beamed at David. “That’s super!”
“How can we reach you?” he asked, a little too eagerly.
“Here’s my phone number.” Misty fished a lipstick from her purse and wrote her number in hot pink on the back of a crumpled Sephora receipt.
Then she flitted off, still beaming at David, totally ignoring me and Becca.
Once she was gone, Becca whirled on David.
“Are you crazy? She was awful!”
How true. Our little Misty had all the acting chops of a store mannequin.
“She’s just unpolished,” David said. “Nothing a good director can’t fix.”
