Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) (16 page)

“Hi, there,” he said, holding out a bottle of wine. “For you.”

Whatever semblance of calm I’d been able to work up was gone with the wind.

“Um, thanks,” I managed to say, with all the grace and vivacity of a robot on downers.

Prozac, who had been napping on the sofa, resting up from her playdate with the cheese ball, now sat up, giving Peter the once-over.

Hubba hubba, hot stuff!

Like a flash, she was off the sofa and rubbing herself shamelessly against his ankles.

“Who do we have here?” Peter said, bending down to scratch her under the chin.

Your future love slave, if you play your cards right.

She tore her eyes away from him long enough to look in my direction.

Forget what I said about getting me a kid. I want one of these!

“Make yourself comfy on the sofa,” I said to Peter, “while I get the hors d’oeuvres.”

I hurried to the kitchen and grabbed my cracker ball from the fridge, then tossed it on a plate with a handful of crackers. Opening the bottle of cabernet Peter had brought over, I poured out two glasses and put everything on a tray.

When I came out from the kitchen, I found Prozac in Peter’s lap, behaving in a most disgraceful manner. I won’t go into details, but let’s just say that if she’d been wearing a G-string, Peter would’ve been slipping a twenty-dollar bill in it.

“Don’t let her get her paws on this,” I warned as I set the cracker ball down on the coffee. “She’ll destroy it in no time.”

“Not this little angel?” Peter asked in disbelief.

Prozac looked up at him with big green eyes.

Don’t listen to a word she says. I went nowhere near that cheese ball. That pecan in my tail has been there for weeks!

“You’ve got such a nice place here,” Peter said as I joined them on the sofa.

“Thanks,” I said, surreptitiously snatching up a glob of cheese from a throw pillow and wrapping it in a cocktail napkin.

“Here’s to good neighbors,” he said, clinking his glass against mine. “And good times,” he added, with a most appealing grin.

I took a healthy slug of my cab, which slid down my throat like velvet. Yum!

“So how did you get that fabulous cleft in your chin and would you mind awfully if I kissed it?”

Okay, so I didn’t really say that. Two drinks later I might have, but not then. Instead I just asked him how he was liking his new house, and he said he was liking it very much indeed.

We started chatting about this and that; I think Peter was talking about his job and the difference between New York and L.A., but I can’t really swear to it; I was too busy trying not to stare at his chin.

By now, thanks to my good friend, Mr. Cabernet, I was feeling quite mellow, snuggled on the sofa, Peter just inches from my thighs.

I was beginning to think the evening might be a success after all, when I was jolted from my dreamy state by a loud knocking on the door.

I’d know that knock anywhere.

“Yoo hoo! Jaine! It’s me! Lance!”

“Aren’t you going to get it?” Peter asked as I sat there, praying Lance would give up and go away.

With a sigh, I got up and opened the dratted door to find Lance standing there, all spiffed up and moussed to perfection.

“Why, Jaine!” he cried in mock surprise. “I had no idea you had company!”

Oh, please. He probably had his ear glued to the wall for the past fifteen minutes.

“Yes, indeed. I do have company,” I said, resolutely blocking his path.

But that wasn’t about to stop him.

“Hi, Peter!” he said, shoving me aside and barging into the room. “What are you doing here?”

“Jaine invited me for dinner.”

“Jaine? Making dinner?” Lance said with a most annoying trill of laughter. “The woman who needs MapQuest to find her kitchen? What’s she making? Reservations?”

“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.