Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery)

by Laura Levine

  Daddy took one look at those layers of whipped cream and pound cake and strawberries and bananas and couldn’t resist. He told me that all he intended to eat was just one spoonful. Well, one spoonful led to another and the next thing you know, he was sitting in Lydia’s living room recliner, with the trifle bowl in his lap.

  What Daddy didn’t realize, of course, was that the trifle was loaded with rum. By the time he got to the bottom layer, he was out like a light.

  And that’s how we found him when we came home from the movies. Stretched out on the recliner in Lydia’s brand new pink charmeuse robe, the bowl of trifle in his lap, whipped cream on his nose, snoring like a foghorn.

  Honestly, honey, I thought I’d die!

  And things only got worse, because just then the police showed up. Apparently Lydia’s neighbor saw Daddy breaking into the town house buck naked and called them.

  Lydia was an angel and declined to press charges. But I wasn’t nearly so gracious.

  “What on earth were you thinking?!” I screeched the minute the police had gone.

  “I came to search for your best friend’s dead body,” Daddy said, scowling at Lydia.

  Lydia blinked in amazement. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “You can’t fool me, Stinky—I mean, Lydia. I saw you sneak out of your house the other night with that duffel bag. The Nose knows. You were getting rid of the murder weapon!”

  “That duffel bag was Irma’s!” Lydia said. “It contained all her prescription medications. She left in such a hurry to visit her sick aunt over in Sarasota, she forgot to take it. She called me in a panic when she realized she didn’t have it, so I got in the car and brought it over to her.”

  A perfectly logical explanation. But was Daddy satisfied? Of course not.

  “A likely story,” he sneered.

  Just when I was ready to bop him over the head with the trifle bowl, the doorbell rang. And guess who it was?

  Irma Decker! In the flesh.

  The crisis with her sick aunt had passed and she’d come back to resume her stay with Lydia. You’d think Daddy would have the good grace to be embarrassed, but no, he actually asked Irma for a photo ID!

  Before he could humiliate me any further, I grabbed him by the belt of Lydia’s pink charmeuse robe and dragged him right out of there.

  I may never speak to him again.

  Your furious,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: A Slight Glitch

  I suppose Mom told you what happened last night at Lydia’s house. Due to a slight glitch, my search effort didn’t go exactly as planned.

  What a fuss everybody made just because I happened to have a bite or two of Lydia’s English trifle. You would’ve thought I’d just stolen the British crown jewels.

  It turned out Lydia didn’t kill her friend, after all. Not this time, anyway. But I wouldn’t put anything past old Stinky. She’s trouble with a Capital T.

  Speaking of trouble, I’m in a bit of hot water with your mom right now. Time to woo my way back into her good graces.

  More later—

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Sweet as Pie

  You’ll never guess what Daddy just sent me. A dozen of the most beautiful roses! He’s been as sweet as pie all morning. And tonight he’s taking me out to dinner at Le Chateaubriand, my favorite restaurant, for a steak dinner!

  And best of all, he put that awful Dracula creature away in the garage.

  Daddy may be impossible at times, but when all is said and done, he can be awfully charming when he wants to be.

  XOXO,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Out of the Doghouse

  Well, Lambchop, I’m happy to report I’m out of the doghouse with Mom. Roses and a steak dinner did the trick.

  Your mom really is a wonderful woman. I know sometimes I can be a bit of a handful, and she’s an angel for putting up with me.

  Love ’n’ snuggles from,

  Daddy

  PS. Just sent away for the most amazing Thanksgiving centerpiece: A Pooping Turkey! You just press down on the turkey’s tail feathers, and out pops a Tootsie Roll! Isn’t that a hoot? I can’t wait to see the look on your mom’s face when she sees it for the first time!

  Chapter 28

  I woke up the next morning feeling perky and refreshed, and—after removing Prozac’s tail from my nose—ready to face the day.

  Not even the news about Daddy’s disastrous visit to Lydia Pinkus’s town house could dampen my spirits.

  I was in the middle of a nutritious cold chow mein breakfast when I heard Lance’s familiar knock on my front door.

  “Jaine! It’s me. You’ve got to let me in.”

  With a sigh, I got up to open the door.

  “Have you heard?” he cried, rushing in. “The Moores have been arrested!”

  “I know all about it, Lance. They pushed me into an open grave. I was the one who filed the assault charge.”

  “But that’s not all!” His blue eyes grew wide with excitement. “They’ve just been charged with killing Cryptessa! It’s on TV right now!”

  We raced into my bedroom and turned on the news.

  A smiling picture of Matt and Kevin, taken in happier days, was in the top right corner of the screen as a toothy anchorette breathlessly reported, “Test results just released by the police department show Matt Moore’s fingerprints on the murder weapon, a Do Not Trespass sign.”

  Over footage of Matt and Kevin in handcuffs, being marched to a police van, the anchorette informed us, “Kevin Moore, Mr. Moore’s wife, has also been arrested as an accessory to the murder. Police are speculating that the Moores plotted the murder of the faded sitcom actress to gain access to oil rights on her property.”

  Yippee! I’d told the cops my theory about the murder, and they’d obviously taken me seriously.

  “Police say they owe their break in the case to one of the Moores’ neighbors.”

  How nice of them. They were going to give me credit.

  “Yes,” said the anchorette, “according to the police, a Mrs. Helen Hurlbutt alerted the authorities when she saw the Moores assaulting a woman who’d previously been a suspect in the case.”

  Of all the nerve! Here I solved the murder for them, and the cops were still referring to me as a former suspect.

  Now Mrs. Hurlbutt was on the screen, talking to an on-the-spot reporter.

  “It was nothing, really,” she said, gloating into the camera. “I just did what any concerned citizen would do.”

  I clicked off the TV in disgust.

  “I’m the one who found the killers, and she’s getting all the credit!”

  “Life’s just not fair, hon,” Lance said, lying back on my bed with a pained sigh.

  I knew that sigh only too well. I felt a sob story coming on.

  “My heart’s been broken in a million pieces,” he said, blinking back non-existent tears. “That’s what I came to tell you yesterday.”

  “Oh?”

  “My date with Peter was an unmitigated flop. I took him to Il Cielo on Beverly Boulevard. The place with the strolling violinist and gorgeous moonlit patio. It was the perfect setting for a love connection. But I could sense Peter wasn’t interested in me romantically.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I sort of got the hint when he said, ‘Lance, you’re a very nice guy but I’m not interested in you romantically.’ ” Another pained sigh. “I was so upset, I could hardly finish my penne with arugula.”

  Penne with arugula? What sort of nut goes to an Italian restaurant and orders pasta with lettuce???

  But I digress. Back to our stirring adventure . . .

  “I guess I liked him so much,” Lance was saying, “I talked myself into thinking he liked me, too.”

  This time there actuall
y was a tear glistening in his eye.

  And in spite of what a rat he’d been, I felt sorry for him.

  “Oh, who cares about Peter?” I said.

  If truth be told, I did. Especially now that I knew things were kaput between him and Lance.

  “Anyhow,” Lance said, “I’m sorry for all the dirty tricks I played on you—renting that ape suit and barging in on your dinner and sending you on that wildgoose chase out to Malibu.”

  “That’s okay, Lance. I forgive you.”

  “I fought the valiant fight,” he said with a brave smile. “But it’s all over now. You win, Jaine. I get the strong feeling that Peter might be interested in you.”

  “Me?” I asked, trying to act as if I hadn’t been praying for that very turn of events. “What makes you say that?”

  “I just looked out the window and saw him walking up to your front door. I bet he’s going to knock any second.”

  And indeed, at that very moment, there was a knock on my door.

  I tried not to look too jubilant as I raced to get it.

  There was Peter standing on my doorstep, in chinos and an oxford blue shirt.

  “Hi,” he smiled, looking every bit as adorable as the day I’d first seen him when I’d come back from burying Van Helsing. “Mrs. Hurlbutt told me what happened to you at the cemetery yesterday, and I stopped by to see how you were doing.”

  “Great. Just great.”

  Now that you’re here.

  “I guess I’ll be running along.” I turned to see Lance standing behind me. In the excitement of finding Peter on my doorstep, I’d forgotten all about him.

  “See you later, guys,” he said.

  He and Peter gave each other an awkward nod as Lance headed out the door.

  “Wait!” I followed Lance outside and mouthed, “How do I look?”

  “Fine,” he mouthed back, “except for this.”

  With that, he plucked a chow mein noodle from the collar of my robe.

  Honestly, one of these days I’m going to have to buy myself a bib.

  Back in the living room, Prozac, the little hussy, was hurling herself at Peter’s ankles like a vixen in Cats Gone Wild.

  “What a doll,” he said, picking her up.

  She gazed up at him with sultry green eyes.

  Aren’t I, though?

  Then he turned to me. “I suppose Lance told you about our dinner the other night?”

  I nodded.

  “For some crazy reason, he thought I was gay. Kept talking about his infallible gaydar.”

  “So you’re not gay?” I asked, determined to clear things up once and for all.

  “No, I most definitely am not.”

  Hallelujah. Somewhere out there angels were singing.

  “In fact, that’s really why I stopped by. I wanted to invite you over for dinner tonight. Hopefully,” he added, taking a step closer, “a romantic dinner.”

  Gulp. I felt my knees turn to Jello.

  Now he leaned in even closer. I thought for sure he was going to kiss me. But no, he just plucked another noodle from my lapel.

  “So how about it?” Peter asked. “Are we on?”

  “For all eternity.”

  Okay, so what I really said was, “Yes.”

  “My place at seven?”

  I nodded mutely.

  The minute he left, I broke into a happy dance, skipping around the room like a crazed go-go dancer.

  “He’s interested! He’s interested! He’s interested!”

  Prozac looked up lazily from where she’d stretched out on the sofa.

  I know. I had him at “meow.”

  I continued to whirl around in a blissful glow, overjoyed at the prospect of my First Official Date with Peter. But then suddenly I remembered a tiny obstacle standing in the way of my happy ending.

  That damn Buddha.

  If Peter and I were going to be lifelong soul mates, he could never know that I was the kind of woman who went around decapitating valuable Limoges figurines with her Tummy Tamer.

  That had to be my sacred secret forever.

  Some time during our dinner, I absolutely, positively had to replace the beheaded Buddha with the one I’d bought from Ms. Jaguar.

  Only then could Peter and I live happily ever after.

  Or at least until Official Date Number Two.

  Chapter 29

  I showed up at Peter’s that night, coiffed and spritzed for the occasion, the replacement Buddha tucked away in my purse.

  It had taken me at least twenty minutes to blow out the curls in my unruly mop, secretly hoping that they might spring to life again in the steam of Peter’s embrace.

  “Hello, there!” He grinned when he saw me, the cleft in his chin looking more kissable than ever. “Come on in.”

  I took one sniff and swore I’d died and gone to culinary heaven.

  “Is that roast lamb I smell?” I asked, my salivary glands doing the cha-cha.

  “Studded with garlic slivers,” he nodded. “And cheddar cheese mashed potatoes.”

  Note to self: Marry this man.

  He ushered me over to one of the twin sofas that flanked his fireplace. Logs were blazing cozily in the hearth, and a glorious hunk of Brie, surrounded by a circle of crackers, awaited me on the coffee table.

  This was my kind of love nest.

  “Can I get you some wine?” Peter’s brown eyes shone in the glow of the flames.

  “Yes, please,” I managed to gulp.

  “Red or white?”

  “White.”

  No way was I going to risk spilling red wine on his white flokati rug. Not after my flying brownie debacle.

  “Be back in a sec,” he said, heading off to the kitchen

  I sank back into his luxurious leather sofa, and—eager to pass myself off as a dainty eater—resolved not to touch a morsel of the cheese and crackers until Peter returned.

  A resolve that lasted all of about seven seconds.

  Alas, I couldn’t resist the lure of the Brie and spread a glorious glob of the stuff on a cracker.

  Bliss. Sheer bliss.

  “Comfy?” Peter asked, returning with two glasses of white wine.

  “Very, thanks.”

  That’s what I meant to say, but due to the cheese and crackers in my mouth, it came out sounding like, “Ferry, wanks.”

  Way to go, Jaine.

  He handed me my wine and joined me on the sofa, thighs just inches from mine, sending my heart rate soaring.

  “A toast,” he said, holding his glass aloft. “To Jaine Austen, Neighborhood Crimefighter.”

  We clinked glasses and sipped.

  Dee-lush! What a step up from my usual Chateau Costco.

  “And another toast,” he added. “To the fabulous Marissa Rothman.”

  “Marissa Rothman?”

  Who the hell was she? And what was she doing barging in on our romantic dinner à deux?

  “Marissa’s my agent at ICM,” he explained. “And I’ve got fabulous news! After years of editing other writers’ novels, I’ve finally sold one of my own. Marissa just closed the deal today. A six-figure advance!”

  “Wow! That’s wonderful, Peter!”

  Indeed it was. Now we could afford that honeymoon in Tahiti I’d been fantasizing about.

  “I couldn’t think of a nicer person to share my good news with than you,” he said, clinking my glass again.

  Aw, what a sweetie. I just hoped he had more than news he wanted to share.

  And it looked like he did, because just then he began moving closer to me.

  I checked my chest for cracker crumbs, wondering if he was about to flick some away. But—hallelujah!—he was not on crumb patrol. No, he was zeroing in for a long-awaited kiss!

  Then, just as his lips met mine, I realized something had come between us.

  Namely, my purse. With my replacement Buddha inside. I’d plopped it on the sofa next to me when I sat down. Oh, hell. What if Peter locked me in a passionate embrace and th
e Buddha shattered from the crush of our bodies?

  In a panic, I managed to wrest the purse out from between us, but I was so busy worrying about that darn Buddha, I missed all the fun of the kiss. Before I knew it, it was over.

  Damn!

  Off in the kitchen, a timer dinged.

  “Oops,” Peter said, jumping up. “Gotta go mash my potatoes. Wanna watch?”

  Under normal circumstances, I would be happy to watch this guy mash anything his little heart desired, but not then. Not when I had a Buddha to replace.

  “Actually, I think I’ll just freshen up in your bathroom, okay?”

  “Fine. It’s down the hall to your left.”

  I knew only too well where it was, still cringing at the memory of my wrestling match with the Tummy Tamer.

  Naturally, I did not go to the bathroom. Instead I waited until I saw Peter disappear into the kitchen, and then, purse in hand, I tiptoed down the hall to his office.

  Dashing to the bookshelf, I checked behind the thesaurus where I’d hidden the beheaded Buddha, happy to see it hadn’t been moved.

  With trembling hands, I unwrapped the replacement Buddha.

  At last the Fates were with me.