Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery)

by Laura Levine

  “What a coincidence,” I started to say. “Why, just a little while ago—”

  “You won’t believe how wonderful he is,” Lance said, plopping down on my sofa and grabbing a Snickers from the bag on the coffee table. “So warm and friendly. The minute I met him, I felt like we’d known each other in a former life. There was something about him, a certain aura . . .”

  I nodded, on autopilot, still fighting that yawn. These paeans of his could go on forever. I watched as he unwrapped his Snickers, marveling at his ability to chow down on chocolate and still maintain his sylphlike figure. I’m guessing his secret is the ninety-seven hours a week he spends at the gym.

  “And he’s so good-looking,” Lance was blathering. “Tall and lanky, with a fabulous smile and the most amazing cleft in his chin.”

  Whoa, Nelly!

  “Cleft in his chin?” I piped up.

  “Yes. Isn’t that heavenly?”

  “Yeah, swell. Look, your dreamboat doesn’t happen to be Peter Connor, does it? The guy who just moved in up the street?”

  “My God, Jaine. You’re positively psychic! Isn’t it fabulous? The man of my dreams—just five houses away! What’s wrong? You look like you just swallowed a lemon.”

  “For your information,” I said, the merest hint of frost in my voice, “Peter Connor happens to be my dream man.”

  “Oh, please,” Lance said with a dismissive wave. “Peter couldn’t possibly be interested in you.”

  “Why on earth not?”

  “Aside from all the obvious reasons,” he said, shooting a none-too-subtle glance at my thighs, “Peter happens to be gay.”

  “Oh, really? How can you be so sure?”

  “My gaydar,” he boasted, his perfectly toned pecs swelling with pride, “is infallible.”

  In Lance’s world, any guy who isn’t surgically attached to a woman is gay. Really. According to Lance, notable gays of history have included Napoleon, Trotsky, and Homer Simpson.

  “Peter didn’t seem the least bit gay when I was talking to him a little while ago,” I said. “On the contrary, I got the distinct impression he was flirting with me.”

  “Flirting? With you?” This accompanied by a most annoying chorus of giggles. “Jaine, sweetheart,” he said, taking my hands in his, “you know I adore you, but I have to be honest. Peter was probably just being kind. No doubt he took one look at your elastic-waist pants, imagined your lonely Saturday nights with just a cat and a pizza for company, and decided to brighten your day with a little ego boost. It was obviously a charity flirt.”

  “A charity flirt?”

  Of all the nerve!

  I sprang from the sofa, grabbing the bag of Snickers.

  “For your information, I do not need charity flirts! That flirt was for real, and I say Peter Connor is straight.”

  “Well, I say he’s gay,” Lance snapped.

  “I say you’re wrong,” I snapped right back.

  “Wanna bet on it?” he asked, a malicious glint in his eye.

  “Absolutely. Game’s on.”

  “Whoever loses has to buy the winner dinner at the restaurant of his choice.”

  “Of her choice, you mean.”

  “We’ll see who Peter goes out with first,” Lance said.

  “Yes, I’ll let you know how it went. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some important work to attend to.”

  “Yeah, right,” Lance said, eyeing my bag of Snickers. “Just don’t eat them all in one sitting.”

  I was an idiot to make that bet with Lance. For all I knew, Peter Connor marched in the gay pride parade with a tattoo of Judy Garland on his chest. But Lance’s “charity flirt” crack got my dander up.

  Now, however, I was having second thoughts. Maybe Lance’s gaydar was right. Maybe Peter was just being friendly with me and I’d misinterpreted it as flirty. He probably flashed his cleft chin to everybody he met, an equal-opportunity cleft flasher.

  These were the thoughts flitting through my mind that night as I drove over to meet my friend Kandi for dinner. Kandi Tobolowski and I met years ago at a UCLA screenwriting course, where we bonded over bad vending machine coffee and our mutual dislike for the pompous jerk teaching our class.

  Kandi had gone on to a high-paying job as a staff writer on Beanie & The Cockroach, a Saturday morning cartoon popular with insect-loving toddlers, while I made my way in the far less lucrative field of freelance advertising, writing copy for clients like Toiletmasters Plumbers (In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters!), Ackerman’s Awnings (Just a Shade Better), and Fiedler on the Roof Roofers.

  Kandi was already seated when I showed up at Paco’s Tacos, our favorite Mexican restaurant, where the margaritas are to die for and the burritos are the size of cruise missiles. Heading into the dining room, I saw her sitting by the restaurant’s tropical fish tank. I could tell she was upset by the mopey way she was nibbling on a corn chip.

  True, Kandi always nibbles at her food—one of the reasons she’s an enviable size six, while I, who have been known to swallow Oreos in a single gulp, am a size none-of-your-business.

  But I could tell something was bothering her.

  “Hi, honey!” I said, sliding into the seat across from her.

  She smiled vaguely in my direction and then turned her attention back to the fish tank.

  “Have you ever wished you were a fish?” she asked, staring at the guppies zipping by.

  “Not particularly,” I said, grabbing a handful of chips.

  “What a life,” she sighed. “Swim a few laps, eat some fish food, watch people get drunk on Jose Cuervo. No heartaches. No aggravations. No disappointments.”

  Yes, there was something on her mind, all right.

  “Okay, Kandi. What’s the matter? Tell Auntie Jaine.”

  “The most depressing news ever. I went out on a blind date last night.”

  “So what else is new?”

  Kandi happens to be a kamikaze dater, leaving no frog unkissed in her search for her prince charming. The woman has Speed Dated, MatchDotCommed, E-Harmonied, and gone on enough blind dates to qualify for honorary membership in the Braille Institute. So I couldn’t understand why she was so upset.

  “He didn’t attack you or anything?” I asked, beginning to get alarmed.

  “Oh, no. Leonard was a perfectly pleasant if somewhat boring accountant from Pasadena.”

  “Then what was so depressing?”

  “From the minute we met,” she said, nibbling another millimeter off her chip, “there was something familiar about him. He said the same about me. And then, when he ordered us blueberry pie for dessert, I remembered how we knew each other. He was my very first blind date when I first moved to L.A. ten years ago. That’s what he ordered ten years ago.”

  “Wow, what a coincidence.”

  “A coincidence? It’s a tragic commentary on my life. Don’t you see? Leonard’s been married and divorced twice since our date. And I still haven’t been anywhere near an altar. I’ve made absolutely no progress in ten whole years of dating. I’m back to square one.”

  “Yes, but on the plus side,” I reminded her, “you had blueberry pie for dessert.”

  “Jaine, please!” she said, shooting me a wounded look.

  “Oh, honey,” I said, reluctantly abandoning the chips to take her hand, “you mustn’t let it get to you.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she sulked. “At least you’ve been married.”

  “To The Blob? That hardly counts. The man—and I use the term loosely—showed up at our wedding in flip-flops and watched ESPN during sex—with himself.”

  Our waiter, a skinny guy with enormous brown eyes, who had sidled up to take our orders, tsked in sympathy.

  I get that a lot when people hear about The Blob.

  “What’ll it be, señoritas?” he asked.

  We ordered our usual: tostada salad for Kandi, chicken chimichangas with refried beans and rice for moi.

  “Look, Kandi,” I said as the waiter walked off
. “You try harder than anyone I know to get out there and make things happen. I’m certain that someday you’re going to meet your special somebody.”

  “That’s exactly what Madame Vruska said.”

  For the first time since I’d walked into the restaurant, I saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

  “Madame Vruska?”

  “The most amazing new psychic I went to. I drove past her place on my way home from my date with Leonard. There was her sign, right next to the place where I get my nails done. Madame Vruska, Palm Reader. Like a beacon shining in the wasteland of my dating life. The very next day, I went in for a consultation.”

  “What did she say?”

  “First, how much she loved my nails. And then she read my palm and told me I’d soon be meeting the love of my life. Someone in the arts. Oh, Jaine!” she said, licking a grain of salt from the rim of her margarita glass. “Doesn’t that sound exciting? A painter or a musician. Or maybe a tango dancer. I’ve always wanted to date a tango dancer.”

  And just like that, she sloughed off her depression and took a whole bite of her chip.

  That’s what makes Kandi a kamikaze dater. No matter how many knocks she takes, she’s constantly rising from the ashes of her bad dates, ready once again to meet Mr. Right.

  The woman can go from storm clouds to silver linings in the time it takes me to polish off a bowl of chips. Which by now I had pretty much done.

  “So what’s new with you, hon?” she asked.

  I told her about Peter Connor and my bet with Lance.

  “I thought Peter was flirting with me, but Lance is probably right. Chances are, Peter’s gay.”

  “Don’t be silly. Lance thinks everyone’s gay. Didn’t he once say Karl Marx was gay?”

  “No, Groucho.”

  “Whatever. Lance has no idea what he’s talking about. I’ll bet Peter was flirting with you. Now you just have to be cute and flirty right back at him.”

  Sad to say, Cute and Flirty are subjects I flunked long ago in adolescence. (Although I did get outstanding grades in Awkward and Tongue Tied.)

  “Next time you see him,” Kandi said, “you’re going to be a lean, mean flirting machine.”

  “Right.” I nodded absently, my eyes riveted on the two golden chimichangas, smothered with guacamole and sour cream, that our waiter had just set down before me.

  Kandi eyed them with alarm.

  “Take back those chimichangas!” she cried. “She’ll have a salad instead.”

  “Touch that plate,” I told him, “and you’re a dead man.”

  Sensing I meant business, he skittered off in a flash.

  “Jaine!” Kandi tsked. “How can you possibly eat those fattening chimichangas at a time like this?”

  “Like I always do,” I said, reaching for my fork. “With extra sour cream.”

  And without any further ado, I dug right in.

  YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Halloween Happenings

  Hi, sweetheart,

  Just got the cutest sweatshirt to wear to the annual Tampa Vistas Halloween party! Bright orange, with a sequined ghost that says, “Got Candy?” Leave it to the Shopping Channel to come up with such a clever idea for only $32.44 plus shipping and handling!

  Meanwhile, Daddy’s been glued to the television, watching all those god-awful horror movies they show at this time of the year. I swear, if I hear one more person being hacked to death with a chainsaw, I’m going to throw away the remote.

  And you’re not going to believe this, but Daddy’s entering the Halloween Lawn Decorating Contest. Again. You’d think after five consecutive years of losing, he’d give up. But no, Daddy is convinced this year he’s going to win first prize with some lawn ornament he ordered from an infomercial. I just pray it’s not as bad as those dreadful remote-controlled rats he ordered last year. He had the ghastly creatures running up and down our front path for weeks. Practically gave poor Edna Lindstrom next door a heart attack.

  Gotta go, honey. The UPS man is here with Daddy’s lawn ornament.

  Keep your fingers crossed it’s not too awful.

  XOX

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: The Worst Ever!

  I just saw the lawn ornament. It’s Daddy’s worst ever!

  Your miserable,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: The Best Ever!

  Exciting news, Lambchop! My Halloween lawn ornament just showed up and it’s my best ever! An animated Count Dracula, complete with his own private crypt! Who says you can’t get quality products from Ulan Bator?

  I can’t wait to assemble it!

  Love ’n’ hugs from,

  Daddy

  To: Jausten

  From: Shoptillyoudrop

  Subject: Keep Your Fingers Crossed

  I do not exaggerate when I say that this year’s Halloween lawn ornament is a new low in bad taste. Not just for Daddy. But possibly for all mankind.

  It’s a hideous vampire with fangs like chopsticks and a cheesy black cape that looks like it’s made from Hefty bags. To top it off, it sits up and down in its own life-sized coffin. Oh, dear. Can you imagine? A coffin on our front lawn! Here in a retirement community? What will the neighbors say?

  Just keep your fingers crossed that—like nine out of ten idiotic contraptions Daddy orders—he won’t be able to put it together.

  Your slightly frantic,

  Mom

  To: Jausten

  From: DaddyO

  Subject: Fang-Tastic!

  You’ll be happy to know I assembled Count Dracula without any problems, Lambchop. Easy-sneezy. He’s out on the lawn right now, and all I can say is, he’s fang-tastic!

  Never has Tampa Vistas seen such a display of Halloween artistry. I’m a shoo-in for first prize at the Tampa Vistas Halloween Lawn Decorating Contest.

  Love ’n’ hugs from

  Your proud,

  Daddy

  Chapter 3

  Nine out of ten nutritionists say the worst way to start the day is to skip breakfast.

  Nine out of ten nutritionists are wrong.

  The worst way to start the day is to open an e-mail from my parents.

  Although sweetie pies of the highest order, they are inevitably the bearers of distressing news. That is because they are bona fide disaster magnets. No matter where they go or what they do, catastrophe is never far behind.

  Daddy is the main culprit. He can take an ordinary day and turn it into a headline on the evening news. And Mom is not without her quirks. She’s the one who insisted they move three thousand miles across the country to Tampa Vistas, Florida, to be close to the Home Shopping Channel, in the mistaken notion that she’d get her packages faster that way.

  In the words of the late great Henny Youngman: They don’t have ulcers. They’re just carriers.

  So when I opened my e-mails the next morning and read about Daddy’s “fang-tastic” Dracula, I smelled trouble ahead. What kind of trouble remained to be seen, but something told me I had not heard the last of the animated vampire on their front lawn.

  Just as I was deleting a far less stressful e-mail offering to increase the size of my penis by several inches, the phone rang.

  “Jaine, cookie!” A voice boomed over the line.

  It was one of my clients, Marvin Cooper, aka Marvelous Marv of Mattress King Mattresses. For years, Marvin had been starring in his own commercials, sitting on a throne in a paper mache crown and ermine robe, yakking about his mattresses and closing with his tag line: “If you can find a cheaper mattress anywhere, I’ll eat my crown.”

  “I’ve got a job for you, cookie.”

  Always music to my ears.

  “I’ve decided to dump Eat My Crown and go in a whole different direction.”

  Not a moment too soon, in my humble op.

&
nbsp; “I want to run some spots about how Mattress King mattresses are good for your back.”

  At last. A sensible approach.

  “And I’ve got a great idea on how to go!”

  Uh-oh. Sound the Bad Idea Alarm. Marvin’s ideas, to put it as gently as possible, suck. After all, this is a man who’s been offering to eat a paper mache crown for the past twenty years.

  “I’m thinking we should have a character named Larry. Larry Lumbar. A guy with a bad back who goes around searching for a good night’s rest. Sorta like Goldilocks. Only hip and edgy.”

  A hip and edgy Goldilocks with a bad back? Suddenly that paper mache crown didn’t seem so bad.

  “How’s that sound, cookie?”

  Somehow I managed to croak, “Marvelous, Marv.”

  “Call me when you’ve got something.”

  “Will do.”

  I hung up and, after fortifying myself with coffee and a bagel, spent the next several hours working on the adventures of Larry Lumbar. After I’d roughed out a few spots, I decided to take a break with a nice, invigorating run.

  Okay, so it wasn’t a run. If you must know, it was a walk. A half a block down the street to the corner Starbucks for a giant chocolate chip muffin.

  Scarfing down my muffin on the way back home, I glanced up and saw Cryptessa’s house, her DO NOT TRESPASS sign hulking on her lawn. Still feeling guilty about the demise of her beloved parakeet—and not exactly eager to get back to Larry Lumbar—I decided to pay her a condolence call.