Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery)

by Laura Levine

  “Oh, Lance. How very droll. I’ve always loved that joke. Ever since I first heard it on my grandpappy’s knee.”

  Ignoring my jab, he sprinted over to the sofa and sat down next to Peter, the cushion no doubt still warm from my tush.

  “Isn’t Jaine’s place quaint?” he cooed. “Who says you can’t find stylish pieces at Goodwill?”

  I was thisclose to hurling my cracker ball at him, but my innate good manners (and poor aim) made me think better of it.

  Then Lance wrinkled his nose, sniffing.

  “Ick. What are you cooking? Old gym socks?”

  I had to admit, it did smell sort of funny. I couldn’t imagine why. I’d followed the Goof-Proof Meatloaf recipe to a tee. It was nothing, I assured myself. Lance was just trying to throw me off my game, and I couldn’t let him get away with it.

  “Get me a martini, will you, hon?” he now ordered, practically snapping his fingers. “Extra dry, with a twist.”

  Where did he think he was, anyway? The Algonquin Bar?

  “Come and help me make it, Lance dear,” I said, grabbing his elbow and hauling him off to the kitchen.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I hissed when we were alone.

  “Just popping by for a friendly visit.”

  “Well, you just pop on out again, mister.”

  “Try and make me,” he said with a taunting smile.

  And then, off my look of fury, he sailed back into the living room.

  Okay, he asked for it. This was war!

  I stomped back into the living room, just in time to see Lance cutting off a sliver of my cracker ball.

  “I simply must try some of this yummy cheese ball,” he said, snuggled on the sofa next to Peter. “Jaine is so clever in the kitchen. You should try her Hungry-Man dinners. Sometimes she even defrosts them. Hahahahaha!”

  Two could play at this game.

  “So sorry I can’t make you a martini, Lance. I’m out of gin. You must have finished it the last time you were on one of your benders.”

  Score one for Jaine.

  Making no effort to pour him some wine, I sat down in the armchair across from him and Peter.

  “So, tell us, Lance,” I said, a phony smile plastered on my face, “all about your med school days in Heidelberg.”

  I watched in delight as he squirmed in his seat.

  “Not much to tell,” he said with a nervous smile.

  “Don’t be modest,” Peter jumped in. “Lance told me he graduated first in his class.”

  “Oh, my! I never knew that. You must be fabulously fluent in German.”

  “Very,” Peter said. “He wrote his dissertation in German.”

  “Did he, now? Well, go ahead, Lance. Say something in German.”

  Lance’s eyes darted between us like a trapped rabbit.

  “Do you happen to speak German, Peter?” he finally managed to say.

  I could see the wheels spinning in his devious little brain. He was hoping against hope Peter spoke no German, so he could fake it.

  “Yes, I speak a little German. Our company has an office in Berlin.”

  Wunderbar!

  “How much fun!” I cried. “Now you and Lance can gab away! Go ahead, Lance.”

  His smile turned sickly.

  “Would you look at the time,” he said, shooting me a dagger look. “As much as I’d love to stick around and sprechen sie Deutsch, I really must be tootling.”

  “Must you?” I said with a fake moue of disappointment. “And I was so looking forward to hearing you sprechen.”

  “Yes, I must,” he said through clenched jaws.

  “Well, ta-ta!” I said, swallowing the urge to shove him out the door.

  “Good night, all!” Lance replied with a carefree wave for Peter and a snarl for me.

  After shutting the door firmly behind him, I returned to my perch on the sofa, feeling quite elated.

  The battle was over. And I had won!

  “So where were we?” I asked, plopping down on the sofa.

  In the middle of a very important belly rub. Prozac yawned. So hands off, sister.

  I flashed Peter what I hoped was a marginally seductive smile, but he was paying no attention to me.

  “Do you smell something burning?” he asked.

  And indeed I did.

  “Look!” he said, pointing to where smoke was billowing from the kitchen.

  Holy Moses! I raced to the kitchen and opened the oven door to see my meat loaf up in flames.

  In a moment of idiotic panic, I tossed my wine onto the fire, which just made it fan higher.

  Thank heavens Peter kept his cool in my culinary crisis and doused the flames with the sensible choice—water. When the fire was out, he reached into the oven with a pot holder and pulled out my “Goof-Proof” meatloaf, now blackened beyond recognition.

  (And what have we learned from this little episode, class? That’s right. In my hands, nothing is ever goof-proof.)

  I stared at my would-be entrée miserably as Peter threw the whole soggy mess into the sink.

  “Hey, what’s this?” he said, reaching back into the oven. I almost died of shame when he pulled out the charred remains of a pair of old gym socks.

  So Lance really had smelled gym socks burning! I suddenly flashed back to a day last rainy season when I got caught in a downpour and put my socks in the oven to dry. If only I’d used my oven once in a while like a normal person I would have discovered them ages ago.

  By now I had given up any and all attempts at impressing Peter. Not only had I set fire to my own kitchen, but now Peter knew I was the kind of woman who kept gym socks in her oven.

  He tossed the socks on top of the meat loaf in the sink.

  Prozac, who had been a happy witness to this whole ghastly affair, sniffed at the sodden mess in the sink, then gazed up at Peter.

  And this is one of her better meals.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: I Knew It!

  I knew there was something fishy going on with “Stinky” Pinkus and I was right!

  Last night I got the munchies for some rocky road ice cream, but all we had in the freezer was that low-fat ice milk your mom buys when she’s on a diet. So even though it was after midnight, I got in my car and headed over to the market.

  I hadn’t gone three blocks when who did I see but Stinky Pinkus creeping out from her house with a duffel bag! I pulled over and watched in amazement as she got into her car and sped away.

  I ask you, Lambchop, where was Stinky going with a duffel bag in the middle of the night?

  And what the heck was inside? I’ll tell you what was inside. The murder weapon! Maybe a fireplace poker. Or a butcher knife. Or a bloody ax! Clearly Stinky was on a mission to get rid of it.

  After years of honing my skills watching Law & Order, I’ve got a nose for sniffing out trouble. “The Nose” knows.

  Stinky Pinkus killed that friend of hers, all right. And I intend to prove it!

  Love and kisses from

  Your daddy,

  Hank “The Nose” Austen

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Upsetting News

  Most upsetting news, sweetheart. Last night Daddy went out on a midnight run for ice cream—although why he went out for ice cream when we had some perfectly delicious low-fat ice milk, I’ll never know—and he saw Lydia Pinkus getting into her car with a duffel bag.

  He insists she was getting rid of the murder weapon she used to kill her friend Irma. Which sounds absurd, of course.

  But I can’t help wondering. What was Lydia doing with a duffel bag after midnight? She’s usually asleep by 10:30 at the latest.

  Oh, dear. Daddy couldn’t possibly be right, could he?

  XOXO,

  Mom

  Chapter 17

  I stood in my robe and pj’s the next morning, staring bleary-eyed at the disaster area
formerly known as my kitchen, still cringing at the memory of last night’s Flaming Meatloaf Fiasco.

  “Oh, Pro,” I sighed. “How will I ever live this down?”

  She looked up from where she was inhaling her morning mackerel guts.

  You could always scratch my back for the next half hour or so. That should make you feel better.

  After putting out the fire, Peter had offered to take me to a restaurant for dinner, but I’d been way too embarrassed to accept. Instead I just mumbled my thanks and said something about having to stay home and scrub my oven.

  Of course, I had no intention of doing any oven scrubbing. Not then, anyway. Instead, I just swallowed my shame, along with a Mrs. Fields brownie or three, and trundled off to bed.

  Now, in the cold light of day, things looked even worse than they had the night before. There in my sink were the charred remains of my Goof-Proof Meatloaf, topped with my barbequed gym socks. Watching Peter fish those socks out of the oven last night had to have been one of my Top Ten Most Humiliating Moments ever.

  Clearly, I’d blown it with Peter. I’d simply have to cross him off my “To Marry” list and get on with my life.

  Starting with this godawful kitchen.

  So, after a nutritious breakfast of Folgers Crystals and brownie crumbs, I rolled up my pajama sleeves and spent the next hour scrubbing my oven and washing soot from my walls.

  When all evidence of last night’s disaster had been washed away, I nuked myself another cup of coffee and settled down to check the latest e-mails from my parents.

  I have to admit I was a tad taken aback. Was it possible that for once in his life Daddy was right? Was something fishy going on with the heretofore irreproachable Lydia Pinkus? Was it possible she had committed some deed of the dastardly order?

  But I couldn’t afford to spend valuable time worrying about Daddy’s would-be murder. Not when I had a very real one of my own to solve.

  Time to get back on track and focus on my investigation.

  So far, I’d talked to all the neighbors who were at Peter’s party. All except Amy, the shy grad student. So after hosing myself down in the shower, I trotted across the street to knock on her door.

  She answered it in jeans and a UCLA sweatshirt, her hair swept up in girlish pigtails, tortoise shell glasses perched on her tiny nose.

  “Hi, Amy!” I said in my perkiest voice. “Sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if we could have a little chat.”

  “About what?” she asked, blinking into the sunlight.

  For once I decided to stick with the truth.

  “Cryptessa’s murder.”

  “Gosh, that was awful!” she said, shaking her head. “I still can’t believe it happened here on our block. I told my parents, and now they want me to get an alarm system.”

  She leaned against the doorjamb, showing no intention of asking me in.

  “Would you mind if I came inside for a few minutes? It’s sort of awkward talking about it here on your front steps.”

  “Actually,” she demurred, “I’m right in the middle of studying for a big exam.”

  “It won’t take long. I promise.”

  “Well, okay.”

  I followed her into her living room, an Early Ikea affair, with cinder-block bookshelves, a futon, and two folding chairs as the only guest seating. Textbooks and papers were scattered on the futon, a laptop propped on a coffee table. Gazing around the room, I wondered how a student like Amy could afford the rent. True, we were on the cheaper end of the street, but still, one needed some sort of income to survive on this block. I figured her parents were probably footing the bills.

  “Have a seat,” she said, clearing away some papers from one of the folding chairs.

  She sat across from me on the futon, her legs tucked neatly under her. Next to her on an orange crate end table was a half-eaten English muffin. After my brownie crumb breakfast, it was all I could do not to reach out and grab it.

  But I had to forget about English muffins with butter melted in the nooks and crannies and concentrate on the task at hand.

  “How can I help you?” Amy asked.

  “I suppose you heard that the police questioned me about Cryptessa’s death.”

  “Yes, the Town Crier told me.”

  Okay, she didn’t actually call Mrs. Hurlbutt the Town Crier, but it’s such an accurate description, I thought I’d throw it in.

  “I’ve been doing some investigating on my own,” I said, “hoping to clear my name. And I was wondering if on the night of Peter’s party you saw anyone acting suspiciously.”

  “Gee, Jaine. It was a Halloween costume party. Lots of people were acting suspiciously. I saw at least three Draculas trying to bite their dates’ neck.”

  “Did you see anyone leave the living room to walk down the hallway?”

  “No, I only stayed at the party for about fifteen minutes. I chatted a bit with one of the gals from Peter’s office; then I grabbed a cookie and went home.”

  I had no doubt that all she grabbed was one measly cookie. But did Amy really go home? Or did she slip down the hall to put on my ape suit? And if so, why? As far as I knew, Cryptessa and Amy had virtually no dealings with each other.

  Or had they? Time to find out.

  “So did you know Cryptessa very well?” I asked as casually as I could.

  “Not at all,” she replied, just a tad too quickly. “We never even spoke.”

  Up until that moment, she’d been looking straight at me, but now she started fussing with some papers on the futon, avoiding eye contact.

  Amy may or may not have been an excellent student. But she was one heck of a rotten liar. She’d spoken with Cryptessa, all right. But about what?

  “I’m sorry,” she said, jumping up from the futon, “but I’ve really got to get back to my books.”

  Was that a flicker of fear I saw behind those tortoise shell glasses?

  “Sure, I understand. Thanks for your time.”

  Just as I got up to go, the phone rang. Amy let her machine get it, eyeing me nervously, eager for me to leave. Which made me all the more determined to stay.

  Heading for the door, I accidentally-on-purpose dropped my keys and then fumbled to pick them up, stalling for time, hoping to hear who was calling.

  My curiosity paid off. A man’s voice came on the line. From the sound of his voice, an older man.

  “Amy, babe,” I heard him say, “I’ll be over tonight at eight. Later, honeybun.”

  I looked over at Amy, who was blushing furiously.

  So shy little Amy had a boyfriend. And an older man at that. Very interesting.

  Little Amy was full of surprises, wasn’t she?

  What exactly had gone on between her and Cryptessa? Who the heck was Mr. Honeybun? And how on earth could she forget to finish an English muffin?

  I was heading down her path, pondering these questions (and whether to get Chicken McNuggets or a Quarter Pounder for lunch) when I looked up and saw a rusty old heap of a car pulling up in front of Cryptessa’s house.

  Seconds later, Cryptessa’s nephew Warren emerged from its depths.

  Wasting no time, I scooted over to join him.

  When last we saw Warren, if you recall, Cryptessa was threatening to cut off financing for some franchise he wanted to buy. And suddenly I wondered if he’d knocked her off before she got the chance.

  “Hey, Warren!” I called out, hurrying to his side.

  “Oh, hi!” he waved, his bald spot shining in the sun. “So good to see you again!”

  For someone who’d just lost a dearly departed relative, he was certainly in a chipper mood.

  “I just wanted to offer you my condolences.”

  “Right,” he said, suddenly solemn, as if remembering he was supposed to be in mourning.

  “Do the police have any idea who did it?” I asked, hoping he knew something I didn’t.

  “Last I heard, it was you.”

  The Town Crier strikes again.

>   “I can assure you it wasn’t.”

  “I believe you,” he said. “You look much too nice to be a killer.”

  He smiled broadly, revealing a most disconcerting gap between his two front teeth.

  “Any idea who could have done it?” I asked.

  “Take a number. My aunt spent her whole life making enemies.”

  “Do you suppose any of them were at Peter’s Halloween party?”

  “Beats me,” he shrugged. “I wasn’t even there.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that. After all, Warren had known about the party. Peter had invited him, along with Cryptessa, the day they stopped in at his housewarming. Maybe Warren had shown up in costume, unrecognized by anyone. Maybe he hadn’t even planned to kill his aunt that night. Maybe he’d just come for the free buffet. But then he’d seen my ape suit lying there and heard opportunity knocking.

  Maybe the reason he believed me when I said I didn’t kill Cryptessa was because he did.

  “Well, it’s been great talking to you,” he said, “but I’ve got to get started sorting through my aunt’s things. It’s going to be a nightmare. She’s got electric bills from the Eisenhower administration.”

  “Let me help,” I offered, hoping to find a clue to the killer among Cryptessa’s possessions.

  “Gee, that’s awfully nice of you,” he said, treating me to another glimpse of his gap-toothed grin.

  Sorting through Cryptessa’s stuff turned out to be a fairly hellish affair. Warren wasn’t kidding about those ancient utility bills. I was soon to discover that Cryptessa had been a world-class hoarder, every closet and drawer in her house jammed to capacity. And unfortunately I couldn’t do much snooping, since most of the time Warren insisted we work together side by side, the better to regale me with tales of the new business venture he was about to embark on—a fast-food franchise called Falafel Land.