LITMIR.BIZ

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the sound of the word “ghostwriter,” my enthusiasm came to a screeching halt. In my experience, people who are looking for ghostwriters often fall into the “mentally unstable” category. These are people who want to tell the world about how they were abducted to the planet Clorox and forced to have sex with spatulas. Or people who believe that they’re the love child of Wayne Newton and Golda Meir.

      SueEllen Kingsley left her number on my machine. For a minute I considered not returning the call. But then I remembered a few pesky facts of life, like my rent and my Visa bill and my impossible-to-kick Ben & Jerry’s Chunky Monkey habit.

      Reluctantly, I hauled myself out of the tub and into a worn chenille bathrobe. Then I shuffled over to the phone and dialed.

      If I’d known what I was getting into, I would’ve stayed up to my eyeballs in soapsuds.

      Chapter One

      SueEllen Kingsley answered the phone, her voice as gooey as melted Velveeta. “Ms. Austen,” she oozed, “can you hustle your fanny over to my house in an hour?”

      I assured her I was an expert at fanny-hustling, and she gave me the directions to her house. Which turned out to be more like a castle. A vintage Spanish estate nestled in one of Beverly’s niftiest Hills, the house was a showstopper. Its arches and balustrades and red tile roof glistened in the midafternoon sun. The whole thing was so Spanish manorish, I almost expected to see Zorro leap onto one of the many balconies with a rose in his teeth. But there was no sign of Zorro. The only Hispanic in sight was a gardener pruning the bougainvillea.

      I drove up a circular driveway and parked my humble Corolla next to a gleaming Bentley. Then I checked my teeth in my rearview mirror for any stray pieces of lettuce left over from the Jumbo Jack I’d picked up on my way over. Satisfied that all was clear on the dental front, I gave myself a quick blast of Binaca and tugged a few unruly curls back into my ponytail.

      Finally, plucking a stray french fry from my lap, I got out of the Corolla and looked around. What a palace. The kind of place God would build if He had money.

      I was beginning to regret my decision to wear my usual work outfit of jeans and a blazer. A place like this called for something a lot fancier. Like the British crown jewels and a blazer.

      Why the heck was a woman with SueEllen’s money calling a writer from the Yellow Pages? I’d checked her out on Google before I left my apartment, and found her name scattered on the society pages of the Los Angeles Times. SueEllen was apparently a partygiver and fund raiser par excellence. Surely she had access to scads of well-known writers. So why, I asked myself again, had she called anonymous old me? Oh, well. Who cared why she called? Just as long as her check didn’t bounce. And from the looks of the place, I was sure it wouldn’t.

      I headed up the front path, and rang the bell.

      Now I don’t know if they have a doorbell at Versailles, but if they do, I’ll bet it sounds just like the Kingsleys’. A series of mellifluous bongs resonated from inside the house. Seconds later the door was opened by a timid Hispanic maid holding a bottle of Windex.

      “Hi,” I smiled. “I’m Jaine Austen. I have an appointment with Mrs. Kingsley.”

      “Sí,” she said, eyes lowered, clutching her Windex to her chest. She spoke softly, in a heavily accented voice. “Mrs. Kinglsey’s having her massage. She wants you to wait in the living room.”

      I followed her as we hiked across the foyer. A wide curving staircase with gleaming mahogany banisters ascended to the floor above. I almost expected to see Scarlett O’Hara come skipping down the steps, twirling her parasol.

      The living room was huge, with hardwood floors, an exposed wood beam ceiling, and a fireplace as big as my kitchen. I took a seat in one of the many overstuffed armchairs dotted throughout the room. The maid asked me if I wanted anything to drink, and seemed relieved when I said no.

      As she skittered away, presumably to do battle with dirty windows, I glanced down and saw a grease stain on my blouse. Probably from the french fry that dropped in my lap. Oh, great. Now I’d have to spend the entire interview with my blazer buttoned. Which wasn’t going to be easy, since I’d bought the blazer two sizes too small. It was on sale at Ann Taylor, the only one they had left, reduced seventy percent. I went ahead and bought it, figuring I’d never have to button the damn thing.

      Now I sucked in my gut, and was struggling with the buttons when I heard:

      “You’ll never last a week.”

      I looked across the room and for the first time I noticed a young girl nestled in an armchair underneath a huge bay window.

      She was a chubby kid, about fifteen, with soft brown eyes and an old fashioned Dutch Boy haircut. Something about her looked vaguely familiar. And then I realized—Good heavens, she was me—at fifteen. Not that I have brown eyes; mine are green. And when I was fifteen, I wasn’t quite as chunky as this girl. But there was something about her that reminded me of the young Jaine Austen. Maybe it was the book she was reading. Stiff Upper Lip by the British humorist P.G. Wodehouse. When I was a teenager, I was crazy about his books. In fact, I still am. But it’s not every day you see a teenager reading Wodehouse.

      “Nobody ever lasts a week,” she said, looking up at me from under her thick bangs. “Sooner or later, they all quit.”

      So that’s why SueEllen was willing to hire a writer from the Yellow Pages. No reputable writer would work for her.

      “She’s nice at first, but then she turns mean. You’ll see.”

      “So your mom’s tough to work for, huh?”

      The kid looked at me as if I’d just offered her a worm for lunch.

      “SueEllen isn’t my mother,” she said with all the warmth of Christina Crawford talking about Joan. “She’s my stepmother. My real mother’s dead.”

      “I’m sorry.”

      “Yeah,” she said. “Me, too.”

      And with that she picked up her book and began reading. Conversation terminated.

      “Miss Austen?”

      The Hispanic maid was at the door, still clutching her Windex. I only wished she had some stain remover for the grease spot on my blouse.

      “Mrs. Kingsley will see you now,” she said.

      I got up to go. I tried to button my blazer, but it was no use. SueEllen Kingsley would have to accept me as I was, grease stain and all.

      “Nice meeting you,” I said to the kid in the chair.

      “Whatever,” was her jolly reply.

      I followed the maid up a flight of stairs and down what seemed like an endless hallway. If I’d known how big this place was, I would’ve worn hiking shoes.

      Halfway down the corridor, we ran into a bubbly blonde carrying a portable massage table. She weighed about as much as my right leg.

      “Hi, Conchi,” she said to the maid. Then she turned to me, beaming me an impossibly white smile. “I’m Larkspur O’Leary, SueEllen’s masseuse.”

      Larkspur O’Leary? And I thought my mom was bad naming me Jaine Austen.

      “You must be the new writer,” she said.

      “No, not exactly. I’m just here for an interview. I haven’t got the job yet.”

      “Oh, you will. You look very capable. And besides, SueEllen’s desperate.”

      She beamed me another smile, almost blinding me in the process.

      “Here’s my card.” She handed me a pastel pink business card, with her name printed in a flowery script. “I use a special method of massage that breaks down the fat cells and gets rid of cellulite.” She let her glance linger on my thighs, which, I have to admit, are home to a happy colony of fat

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