death by pantyhose: a jaine austen mystery

8/13/2019 Death By Pantyhose: A Jaine Austen Mystery

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Chapter 1

E ver have one of those days where everythingseems to go your way, where the gods smile

on your every move and good luck follows youaround like an eager puppy?

Neither have I.No matter how great things start out in my

life, sooner or later something is guaranteed tohit the fan.

Take the day the whole pantyhose mess began.It started out smoothly enough. My cat, Prozac, waited until the civilized hour of 8 A .M. beforeswan diving on my chest to wake me up.

“Morning, pumpkin,” I murmured, as she nuz-zled her furry head under my chin.

She looked at me with big green eyes that seemed to say, You’re my favorite human in all the world . (Well, not exactly. What they really seemedto say was, When do we eat? But I knew deep down,she loved me.)

When I looked out the window, I was happy to see that the early morning fog that hovers



over L.A. for months on end had finally taken apowder. The sun was back in action, shining itslittle heart out.

Things got even better when I discovered afree sample of Honey Nutty Raisin Bits with my morning newspaper, which meant I didn’t haveto nuke one of the petrified Pop-Tarts in my freezer for breakfast.

After feeding Prozac a bowl of Moist Mack-erel Guts and inhaling my Honey Nutty RaisinBits straight from the box, I did the crosswordpuzzle (with nary a trip to the dictionary) andspent the rest of the morning polishing my re-sume for an upcoming job interview. And not just any job interview. I, Jaine Austen, a gal whonormally writes toilet bowl ads for a living, had ameeting lined up that very morning at Rubin-McCormick, one of L.A.’s hottest ad agencies.

And so it was with a spring in my step andHoney Nutty Raisin Bits on my breath that Iheaded off to the bedroom to get dressed formy interview. I took out my one and only Pradasuit from my closet, pristine clean in its dry-

cleaning bag. No unsightly ketchup stains am-bushed me at the last minute, like they usually do. I checked my one and only pair of ManoloBlahnik shoes. Not a scuff mark in sight. I checkedmy hair in the mirror. No crazy cowlicks or Brillopatches in my natural curls. Like I said, the gods were smiling on me.

And that’s when I saw it: a zit on my chin thesize of a small Aleutian island.

Now I’ve got nothing against the Aleutian Is-lands. I’m sure they’re quite scenic. But not onmy chin, s’il vous plaît.

10 Laura Levine



I was surveying the disaster in the mirror when the phone rang. I let the machine get it.

Hi! A woman’s eager voice came on the line.I saw your ad in the Yellow Pages, and I’m calling to see if you write comedy material. I’m a stand-up comic,and everyone says I’m hilarious.

Uh-oh. My Bad Job Antenna sprang into ac-tion. People who say they’re hilarious are usu-ally about as funny as leftover meatloaf.

I need someone to write some new jokes for my act.Your ad said your rates were reasonable. I sure hope so.I was thinking maybe five bucks a joke. Six or seven if they’re really funny.

Five bucks a joke? Was she kidding? Court jesters were making more than that in the Mid-dle Ages.

Give me a call if you’re interested. My name is Dor- cas. Oh, and by the way, you can catch my act at the Laff Palace on open-mike nights. I’m the one who throws my pantyhose into the audience.

Did I hear right? Did she actually say she threw her pantyhose into the audience? Sounded morelike a stripper than a comic to me.

Needless to say, I didn’t write down her num-ber. In the first place, I wasn’t really a comedy writer. And in the second place, even if I was acomedy writer, the last thing I wanted to do was write jokes for a pantyhose-tossing comic. Andin the third and most important place, for oncein my life, I wasn’t desperate for money.

Yes, for the past several months, my computerhad been practically ablaze with writing assign-ments: I’d done a freelance piece for the L.A.Times on 24-hour Botox centers. A new brochurefor Mel’s Mufflers (Our Business Is Exhausting ).

DEATH BY PANTYHOSE 11



And to top it off, I’d just finished an extensivead campaign for my biggest client, ToiletmastersPlumbers, introducing their newest product, anextra large toilet bowl called Big John. All of which meant I had actual funds in my checkingaccount.

What’s more, if my job interview today went well, I’d be bringing home big bucks from theRubin-McCormick ad agency. I’d answered theirad for a freelance writer, and much to my surpriseStan McCormick himself had called me to set upan appointment. Who knows? Maybe he’d seenmy Botox piece in the L.A. Times . Or maybe he was the proud owner of a Big John. I didn’t care why he wanted to see me; all I knew was that Ihad a shot at a job at one of L.A.’s premiere adagencies.

Which was why that zit on my chin was so an-noying. But with diligent effort (and enoughconcealer to caulk a bathtub), I eventually man-aged to camouflage it.

After I finished dressing, I surveyed myself inthe mirror. If I do say so myself, I looked nifty.

My Prada suit pared inches from my hips (whichneeded all the paring they could get). My Mano-los gave me three extra statuesque inches. Andmy frizz-free hair was a veritable shinefest.

I headed out to the living room, where Ifound Prozac draped over the back of the sofa.

“Wish me luck, Pro,” I said, as I bent down tokiss her good-bye.

She yawned in my face, blasting me withmackerel breath.

Hurry back. I may want a snack.“I love you, too, dollface.”Then I headed outside to my Corolla, where

12 Laura Levine



the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, andthe grass was growing greener by the minute.

Nothing, I thought, could possibly go wrongon such a spectacular day.

I’m sure the gods had a hearty chuckle overthat one.

DEATH BY PANTYHOSE 13

death by pantyhose: a jaine austen mystery

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