By Laura Levine
Wisecracking pen-for-hire Jaine Austen is back--and she's approximately to find that engaged on the set of a Hollywood sitcom is not any giggling topic. . .
Jaine nonetheless hasn't came across an outstanding man--or how to hold all these sugary snacks from going instantly to her hips. But--with a bit aid from her ally Kandi--she's eventually landed a gig as a sitcom author! actual, Muffy 'n Me (aka "Bewitched with Tits") isn't really going to win any Emmys. And her place of work at Miracle Studios wishes a bit sharpening up, and some dozen rat traps. however it definite beats writing dull brochures and undesirable resumes, so Jaine's now not complaining. till the plot thickens--with homicide. . .
Jaine figures the difficulty begun whilst Muffy 'n Me's preferred famous person, stunning Quinn Kirkland, seduced the pinnacle writer--whose husband additionally works at the exhibit. but if Quinn's stuck in mattress with the barely-legal actress who performs his niece, issues fairly warmth up--and his many jealous girlfriends begin to determine issues out. . .
So whilst the no-good heartthrob drops lifeless after nibbling a poisoned doughnut, Jaine is not extraordinarily shocked. yet who can have performed it? A aggressive co-star and 2 scorned fans best Jaine's record of suspects, however the police have zeroed in on her man-crazy buddy Kandi. She fell tough for Quinn--and approximately fell aside while she discovered of all his different ladies. Now Jaine has to determine who eventually stopped Quinn's cheatin' heart--before her ally finally ends up in the back of bars. . .
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Extra info for Last Writes (A Jaine Austen Mystery)
I lay there, my arms and legs spread out to the four corners of the bed, and sighed with pleasure. There were definite benefits to sleeping alone. And this was one of them. I spent the rest of the evening scraping the last shards of peanut butter from the bottom of a jar and watching an old Doris Day movie on AMC, Prozac napping on my belly. Absolute heaven. Who needed men, anyway? As somebody much smarter than me once said (it was either Gloria Steinem or Ethel Mertz, I forget who): Men are like Xerox machines.
But by now I was frozen with fear in my vermin-infested chair. “Come on, honey,” she said, prying me up. “It won’t be bad. ” Then she led me out the door, a Hollywood lamb to the slaughter. There are three things visitors to Los Angeles should avoid at all costs. Earthquakes. Freeways during rush hour. And the Miracle Pictures Studio Tour. A ninth-rate imitation of the Universal Studios Tour, the Miracle “tour” consisted of a ramshackle tram snaking its way past termite-ridden sets and an ancient roller coaster the Miracle bigwigs picked up cheap from a bankrupt amusement park.
And before I could stop her, she was sprinting across the room, leaving me stranded at the coffee urn. Everybody around me was chatting it up, oozing camaraderie, and I just stood there, stuffing my face with empty calories. It was my sophomore year in high school all over again. And then something happened that never happened in high school. A gorgeous guy walked up to me. Tall and rangy, with thick dark hair and startling green eyes. “Hi,” he smiled, revealing the most beautiful teeth I’d ever seen in my life.