By Laura Levine
La freelance author Jaine Austen accompanies her good friend Neiman Marcus shoe guru Lance to the Beverly Hills property of 'Marvellous Marv, the bed King' because the man's spouse is his top purchaser. despite the fact that, Bunny is nasty to everybody together with Jaine, yet quickly after sipping her martini she falls to the floor lifeless. a person positioned cyanide in Bunny's martini. because the queen of suggest used to be universally loathed, there are many suspects. even if, the Beverly Hills police hone in on Lance who has an extra purpose - he inherits the victim's Maserati. Jaine is familiar with Lance wouldn't kill a big client so having luck in fixing homicides earlier than; she investigates and reveals a number of doable suspects amidst the nuclear family contributors.
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Extra resources for Death of A Trophy Wife (Jaine Austen Mysteries)
Instead I just stood in the midst of the chattering guests, the party's designated wallflower. So much for me and Lance hanging out together and counting facelifts. By now he was cozily ensconced on a sofa, sandwiched between Bunny and Fiona, no doubt engaged in heavy-duty fashion chat. And then I saw a sight that warmed my heart--Lupe circulating with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. " I cried, weaving my way to her side. " "Fine, Ms. Jaine," she replied, with a timid smile. My eyes zeroed in on her tray and saw one lone rumaki, a plump bacon-wrapped beauty with my name on it.
I'm serving dirty martinis, and I've even hired a fortune-teller! I've got her reading palms in the den. What a hoot, huh? C'mon, honey. " With that, she linked her arm through his and whisked him away, leaving me alone on the doorstep. Lance shot me an apologetic look and shrugged helplessly, trapped in her vise-like grip. I followed them into Casa Extravaganza's cavernous living room and saw about a dozen of "the best people" milling around. The gals were anatomically correct Barbies, complete with surgically tightened faces, man-made boobs, and clothes so trendy they practically had expiration dates.
And why was his shirt only half-tucked in his pants? Enquiring minds wanted to know. "Hi, Owen," I said, blocking his path. " He took one look at me and practically jumped out of his skin. Jaine," he said, blushing furiously. " Oh, yeah? Then where were they? I sure didn't see any papers. "Gotta run," he muttered, brushing past me. And as he hurried by I got a whiff of perfume. Not just any perfume. I'd recognize that scent anywhere. It was Bunny's designer fragrance, the stuff she splashed between her cleavage with wild abandon.