“I’m crazy about Laura Levine’s mystery series. Her books are so outrageously funny.” —Joanne Fluke   Freelance writer Jaine Austen is feeling festive about spending Christmas house-sitting at a posh Bel Air mansion, accompanied by her friend Lance and her cat, Prozac. But when a grumpy neighbor gets himself iced, she’ll have to find the culprit or she may spend the New Year in jail . . .   Scotty Parker is a former child star who once played Tiny Tim, but now he’s grown up into the role of neighborhood Scrooge. He cuts the wires on his neighbors’ Christmas lights and tells local kids that Santa had a stroke. And his miserly, bah-humbug attitude lasts year-round—a fact known all too well by his current wife, his ex-wife, his maid, and many more.   Scotty thinks he can stage a comeback with the screenplay he’s working on ( The Return of Tiny Tim: Vengeance Is Mine! ), and Jaine’s been reluctantly helping him edit it. So when Scotty is bludgeoned with a frozen chocolate yule log and the police start making a list of suspects and checking it twice, Jaine’s name is unfortunately included. True, she’s been under some stress, with Lance trying to set her up on dates and her fickle feline taking a sudden liking to someone else—but she’s not guilty of murder. Now she just has to prove it, by using her gift for detection and figuring out who committed this holiday homicide. “…a thoroughly enjoyable cozy with just the right balance of crime, humor, and holiday spirit.”  — Publishers Weekly, Starred Review LAURA LEVINE is a comedy writer whose television credits include The Bob Newhart Show , Laverne & Shirley , The Love Boat , The Jeffersons , Three’s Company , and Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman . Her work has been published in The Washington Post and The Los Angeles Times . She lives in Los Angeles, and is currently working on the next Jaine Austen mystery. Readers can reach her on Facebook (Laura Levine Mysteries), or her website: www.JaineAustenMysteries.com. Death of a Neighborhood Scrooge By LAURA LEVINE KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP. Copyright © 2018 Laura Levine All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4967-0849-6 CHAPTER 1 "What a palace!" I said, surveying Connie Van Hooten's hangar-sized living room, with its limestone fireplace, triple crown moldings, and cathedral-quality stained glass windows. "Isn't it fab?" Lance gushed. "And check this out!" He gestured to a wall-length étagère filled with Lalique crystal, Fabergé eggs, and other priceless doodads. "Good Lord. It's like I'm standing in a branch of the Louvre." "This vase," Lance said, picking up a blue and white porcelain beauty, "is Ming Dynasty. Fourteen grand." "Holy cow!" I cried. "No wonder Mrs. Van Hooten didn't want any pets around." I shuddered to think what havoc Prozac would have wreaked on that étagère. "I'm thinking we'll put up a Christmas tree right here," Lance said, pointing to a space between the limestone fireplace and what looked like a Rodin sculpture. "We can't put up a tree, Lance. What if we spill pine needles on the rug?" I pointed to the heirloom Persian rug beneath our feet. "Don't be silly," Lance said. "We'll put a lining under the tree and be super careful. You know how meticulous I am." He was right about that. From his headful of perfectly groomed blond curls down to his spotless white Reeboks, Lance was the poster boy for meticulous. I mean, this was a guy who ironed his undies. "I brought all my favorite Christmas ornaments," he was saying, "and I found a fabulous article in Martha Stewart Living about ornaments we can make by hand. Pine cone Santas. Acorn garlands. Pipe cleaner elves. Won't that be fun?" Oh, groan. There's nothing more exhausting than Lance in the throes of one of his creative jags. "C'mon, let me show you to your room," he said, grabbing my suitcase and leading me up a flight of stairs straight out of Downton Abbey. I followed him up the steps, desperately trying to figure a way to get out of any future arts and crafts projects. Upstairs, he ushered me down a hallway past a massive master suite to my room. "Voila!" he said, showing me inside. "I gave you the room with a view of the garden." I looked out the window at "the garden," a patch of green the size of a soccer field. Off in the distance, I could make out a pool and tennis courts. "Isn't it stunning?" Lance asked, gesturing around the room. Indeed it was: sumptuous down bedding, quilted silk headboard, thick-as-a-cloud carpeting, all done up in pale peach and dotted with antique furniture. "That chair over there," Lance said, pointing to a delicately carved beauty, "is an authentic Queen Anne. And so is the matching dressing table." I looked at the slender legs of the chair and thought how much Prozac would have loved using them as scratching posts. Yes, it was all for the best that I'd brought Pro to the Fur Seasons. And yet, I still couldn't help but feel a tad guilty about leaving her there. True, she'd seem