Jaine Austen 1 - This Pen for Hire by Laura Levine Read Free Book Online Page A

breathed a sigh of relief. A cooperative suspect. Definitely a good sign.
    “Are we still on for the movies?” he asked.
    “If your alibi checks out.”
    We both laughed. He was kidding. I wasn’t.
    I hung up and called San Francisco.
    “Union Street Inn,” a woman answered briskly. “Ann Garrity speaking.”
    “This is Detective Austen of the LAPD,” I said, with as much authority as I could muster.
    “Really?” she asked, curious. “How can I help you?”
    “I’m checking on the whereabouts of one of your guests, a Mr. Cameron Bannick, on the night of February fourteenth.”
    “Oh, he was here at the Inn.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “Yes, we had a special Valentine’s dinner, and I remember seeing him at a table all by himself, and wondering why a handsome man like Mr. Bannick was alone on Valentine’s Day.”
    “So you can say with utter certainty that Cameron Bannick was at your hotel having dinner at 8 P.M . on the fourteenth?”
    “Yes, I can.”
    “Thank you so much.”
    “My pleasure. May I send you one of our brochures? We have a midweek special, only $89 per night, double occupancy, with complimentary breakfast and afternoon wine bar.”
    “Sure. Why not?” I gave her my address. Who knew? Maybe some day I’d actually have someone to share a double occupancy with.
    I hung up and scooped Prozac into my arms. “Cameron has an alibi, darling! He isn’t a murderer, after all!”
    Prozac shot me one of her know-it-all looks, as if to say, “Sounds like you’ve really fallen for this guy.”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I huffed, dumping her unceremoniously on the sofa. “My feelings for Cameron Bannick are strictly platonic. I realize he’s undoubtedly gay and couldn’t possibly return my affections. Surely you don’t think I’d be foolish enough to fall for him, do you?”
    She didn’t deign to answer this one. We both knew very well just how foolish I was capable of being.
     
    After my tête-à-tête with Prozac, I decided to pay a visit to the LA Sports Club, hoping to get a chance to talk to Stacy’s ex-best friend Iris or Violet or Hyacinth.
    I was heading down the path to my car when my neighbor Lance Venable, he of the x-ray hearing, sprang from his front door. Obviously he’d been sitting at his window, just waiting to pounce.
    “Oh, Jaine!” he called out.
    “Hi, Lance. How’s it going?”
    Why do I even bother to ask? With Lance, nothing’s ever going right.
    “Look, I hate to complain….”
    No, you don’t, I thought. You love to complain. You majored in complaining at Yenta U.
    “…But your cat’s been pissing on my impatiens again.”
    It’s true. Every once in a while Prozac sneaks out of my apartment for the sole purpose, it seems, of pissing on Lance’s impatiens. I think she knows it drives him nuts.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “You should be. There’s such a thing as a leash law, you know.”
    “I think that’s for dogs.”
    “Well, it should be for cats, too.” His blond curls shook indignantly. “So the next time you’re having one of your heart-to-heart talks with your cat, tell her to quit pissing on my impatiens, okay?”
    I swear, the guy must spend his entire life with his ear glued to my wall.
     
    The LA Sports Club is a block-long monument to the Body Beautiful, a Taj Mahal with StairMasters. All marble and brass and gleaming wood, it’s light-years removed from my usual house of exercise, the fungus-infested YMCA.
    Most of the members are reed-thin model types who haven’t had a hot fudge sundae in decades. (Or if they have, they’ve promptly barfed it back up.)
    Actually, I don’t think they let you in if you’re bigger than a size twelve. But somehow I managed to suck in my gut and make it past a receptionist with a tony British accent, to the office of Wendy Northrop, Membership Counselor. Or as I came to know her, “Wendy Northrop, Barracuda Saleslady.”
    Wendy was a haughty brunette, forbiddingly thin. Think