Death by Pantyhose

"This sixth entry in the very entertaining Jaine Austen
series is the funniest yet. Levine is wickedly witty at all
times in this latest."-The Kingston Observer

"Another enjoyable comic mystery ... plenty of red
herrings for readers to puzzle over."-Romantic Times

`Jaine can really dish it out."
-The New York 'l'imes Book Review

"A lively sense of humor and an ear for the absurd
help Jaine overcome any number of setbacks and a
host of fashion no-nos."-Kirkus Reviews

"Levine's series gets smarter with each book. Her dialogue is realistic yet hilarious, and her vivid characters
jump off the page. "Romantic Times

"Last Writes is sprightly and entertaining. I commend it
to the attention of anyone wishing to be entertained."
-Robert B. Parker, New York Times bestselling author

"Hilarious and an absolute delight. I highly
recommend this book if you want to laugh and enjoy a
good read. "ILove a Mystery

"Laura Levine's hilarious debut mystery, This Pen for Hire,
is a laugh a page (or two or three) as well as a crafty puzzle. Sleuth Jaine Austen's amused take on life, love, sex,
and LA will delight readers. Sheer fun! "-Carolyn Hart

"This Pen for Hire is as much about Jaine herself as
about the mystery. Fans of Janet Evanovich's Stephanie
Plum series will want to check her out."
-The Mystery Reader

THIS PEN FOR HIRE

LAST WRITES

KILLER BLONDE

SHOES TO DIE FOR

THE PMS MURDER

DEATH BY PANTYHOSE

CANDY CANE MURDER

KILLING BRIDEZILLA

Laura Levine

KENSINGTON BOOKS
http: //www.kensingtonbooks. com

KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue New York, NY 10022

Copyright © 2007 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. All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit special needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager, Attn: Special Sales Department, Kensington Publishing Corp., 850 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10022. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off. ISBN-13: 9 78-0-75 82-0 78 6-9 ISBN-10: 0-7582-0786-7 First Kensington Hardcover Printing: June 2007 First Kensington Mass Market Paperback Printing: May 2008 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Printed in the United States of America

In loving memory of Mr. Guy,
the sweetest guy in "Guy Land. "

I'm so grateful, as always, to my editor John
Scognamiglio and my agent Evan Marshall for
their valued guidance and support. Thanks to
Hiro Kimura for his nifty cover art. And to Joanne
Fluke, who takes time out from writing her own
bestselling Hannah Swensen mysteries to share
her insights and her brownies. A special thanks
to the wonderful readers who've taken the time to
write me. And to my friends and family for putting
up with me while I'm wrangling with a plot. And
to all of you who've battled Los Angeles traffic to
show up at my book signings, I owe you one!

Finally, a loving thanks to my most loyal fan and
ardent supporter, my husband Mark.

---7 ver have one of those days where everything
seems to go your way, where the gods smile
on your every move and good luck follows you
around like an eager puppy?

Neither have I.

No matter how great things start out in my
life, sooner or later something is guaranteed to
hit 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. before
swan diving on my chest to wake me up.

"Morning, pumpkin," I murmured, as she nuzzled 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 seemed
to 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 a
powder. The sun was back in action, shining its
little heart out.

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

After feeding Prozac a bowl of Moist Mackerel Guts and inhaling my Honey Nutty Raisin
Bits straight from the box, I did the crossword
puzzle (with nary a trip to the dictionary) and
spent the rest of the morning polishing my resume for an upcoming job interview. And not
just any job interview. I, Jaine Austen, a gal who
normally writes toilet bowl ads for a living, had a
meeting lined up that very morning at RubinMcCormick, one of L.A.'s hottest ad agencies.

And so it was with a spring in my step and
Honey Nutty Raisin Bits on my breath that I
headed off to the bedroom to get dressed for
my interview. I took out my one and only Prada
suit from my closet, pristine clean in its drycleaning bag. No unsightly ketchup stains ambushed me at the last minute, like they usually
do. I checked my one and only pair of Manolo
Blahnik shoes. Not a scuff mark in sight. I checked
my hair in the mirror. No crazy cowlicks or Brillo
patches in my natural curls. Like I said, the gods
were smiling on me.

And that's when I saw it: a At on my chin the
size of a small Aleutian island.

Now I've got nothing against the Aleutian Islands. I'm sure they're quite scenic. But not on
my chin, s'il vous plait.

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 action. People who say they're hilarious are usually 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 Middle Ages.

Give me a call if you're interested. My name is Dorcas. 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 more
like a stripper than a comic to me.

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

Yes, for the past several months, my computer
had been practically ablaze with writing assignments: I'd done a freelance piece for the L.A.
Times on 24-hour Botox centers. A new brochure
for Mel's Mufflers (Our Business Is Exhausting). And to top it off, I'd just finished an extensive
ad campaign for my biggest client, Toiletmasters
Plumbers, introducing their newest product, an
extra large toilet bowl called Big John. All of
which meant I had actual funds in my checking
account.

What's more, if my job interview today went
well, I'd be bringing home big bucks from the
Rubin-McCormick ad agency. I'd answered their
ad for a freelance writer, and much to my surprise
Stan McCormick himself had called me to set up
an appointment. Who knows? Maybe he'd seen
my 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 I
had a shot at a job at one of L.A.'s premiere ad
agencies.

Which was why that At on my chin was so annoying. But with diligent effort (and enough
concealer to caulk a bathtub), I eventually managed to camouflage it.

After I finished dressing, I surveyed myself in
the mirror. If I do say so myself, I looked nifty.
My Prada suit pared inches from my hips (which
needed all the paring they could get). My Manolos gave me three extra statuesque inches. And
my frizz-free hair was a veritable shinefest.

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

"Wish me luck, Pro," I said, as I bent down to
kiss her good-bye.

She yawned in my face, blasting me with
mackerel breath.

Hurry back. I may want a snack.

"I love you, too, dollface."

Then I headed outside to my Corolla, where the birds were chirping, the sun was shining, and
the grass was growing greener by the minute.

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

I'm sure the gods had a hearty chuckle over
that one.

she Rubin-McCormick Agency was head- _ quartered in a high-rent business complex
in Santa Monica, a gleaming Mediterranean extravaganza with swaying palm trees and waterfalls out front. If you didn't know it was an office
building, you'd swear you were at a Ritz-Carlton.
I drove past the waterfalls to the impeccably
landscaped parking lot, thrilled to have landed
an interview in such august surroundings.