Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) (17 page)

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.

“Falafel is the fast food of the future!” he informed me with pride.

I sincerely doubted that a deep-fried chickpea patty was going to give Mickey D’s any serious competition, but I smiled and nodded as if I believed him.

“I’m going to have chicken falafels. Steak falafels. And instead of wrapping them in pita bread, I’m thinking of putting them in waffles. And calling it a Waffle Falafel. How does that sound?”

Like something destined for a barf bag.

But of course I did not tell him that. Instead I just forced out a pallid, “Dee-lish.”

Eventually I managed to escape from his side when I volunteered to sort through the things in Cryptessa’s bedroom.

Like every other closet in her house, the one in her bedroom was stuffed to the gills. But I was surprised to discover that most of the clothing was beautiful. True, it was decades old, but I could see it had cost a bundle in its day. How sad to think Cryptessa spent her last years in that dreadful ketchup-stained sweat suit when she had all these lovely outfits.

“Help yourself,” Warren said, creeping up behind me. “If you see anything you like, take it.”

“Thanks, that’s very kind, but I don’t think so.”

I was sorely tempted by a chic little black cocktail dress, but Cryptessa had been such an unhappy soul, I was afraid of catching her bad karma.

While Warren started bagging Cryptessa’s clothing, I nipped over to her night table, still hoping to find a clue. But all I unearthed were some long-expired prescription drugs and a stash of mini vodka bottles.

“Hurray! Something I can use!” Warren had once again snuck up on me and was now jamming the vodka bottles in his pockets.

I managed a quick glimpse in Cryptessa’s lingerie drawer (always a favorite hiding place) but found nothing but raggedy panties and more vodka bottles.

In the top drawer of her dresser, I came across a faded fabric jewelry box. Most of the pieces inside looked like they’d come from the bottom of a Cracker Jack box—junky stuff whose mystery metals had long ago turned green. But lying amid the dross was a shiny gold locket. I turned it over and saw the inscription:

To Eleanor with Undying Love
XOXO

At last, I’d found someone who’d liked Cryptessa. Loved her, actually.

I was glad she’d had that in her life.

“Most of it looks like junk to me,” Warren said, peering over my shoulder into the jewelry box. “But I’ll take it to an appraiser just in case.”

Finished in the bedroom, we hit the kitchen, plowing our way through mismatched dishes, burned pot holders, and drawers stuffed with a colorful assortment of plastic forks.

I was hoping to get a chance to look through Cryptessa’s desk drawers in the den, but Warren beat me to it, sweeping all her papers into a trash bag.

“This might be worth something,” he said, pointing to Cryptessa’s old Underwood typewriter. I thought of Emmeline next door and how happy she’d be to have it silenced forever.

In the hall closet, we found a vintage camera with a telephoto lens, as well as a stack of old
I Married a Zombie
scripts, which Warren eagerly put aside, hoping to sell them on eBay.

The scripts, the camera, the jewelry and typewriter—not to mention the mini vodka bottles—those were the items Warren kept.

Everything else was either bagged for Goodwill or earmarked for the trash. Warren and I made endless trips to the garbage cans out back, hauling Hefty bags bursting with the detritus of Cryptessa’s life, careful not to step in the gardener’s oil slicks.

By now I was kicking myself for volunteering to help. With Warren practically glued to my side, I hadn’t been able to unearth a single clue. And why the heck was he so reluctant to let me out of his sight anyway? Was he afraid I’d find something connecting him to Cryptessa’s murder?

We were tossing our last load into the garbage when I saw that Warren was about to get rid of Cryptessa’s scrapbook, along with Bela the Bat.

“You’re throwing these out?” I asked, remembering how fond she’d been of both mementos of her long-ago career.

“Yeah,” he shrugged. “Who on earth would want a scrapbook and a moldy old bat?”

“I’ll take them.”

“They’re all yours.”

I cringed at the thought of keeping a stuffed bat in my apartment but didn’t feel right about tossing Bela into the dumpster. Maybe I’d give it to Lance for his birthday. He deserved it, after the way he’d horned in on my dinner with Peter.

Finally the last piece of trash was tossed and the last Goodwill box was taped shut. My ordeal was over. I felt like I’d just spent the past several hours moonlighting on a Viking slave ship.

I was beyond exhausted, and so hungry I was ready to eat the wallpaper.

“Thanks so much for all your help,” Warren said, his bald head glistening with sweat.

“My pleasure,” I lied.

“Can I buy you some lunch? I know a great falafel joint over in Westwood.”

“Thanks, but I’ll grab a bite at home.”

I left him on the phone, calling a camera store, asking how much he could get for Cryptessa’s vintage camera.

He sure wasn’t wasting a second cashing in on her estate, was he?

Chapter 18

I
t’s me or the bat!

I’d just walked in the front door with Bela, and Prozac was having a full-fledged hissy fit. Tail swishing, teeth bared, eyes blazing—the whole enchilada.

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” I said, shoving Bela out of sight on the top shelf of my hall closet. “There.” I slammed the closet door shut. “You can’t see it anymore. Happy now?”

Are you mad? Don’t you realize the minute we’re asleep, it’s going to creep out and start sucking our blood?

She followed me as I headed for the kitchen, practically glued to my heels, yowling with disapproval.

I refuse to live under the same roof as that moldy creature! I intend to fight this, I tell you! All the way to the Supreme Court if need be. Nothing will stop me! Absolutely nothing! —Hey, is that Luscious Lamb Guts in Savory Sauce?

It was indeed. In times of kitty crisis, I find lamb guts are often the answer.

Bela totally forgotten, Prozac was now rubbing against my ankles in a feeding frenzy.

Don’t be stingy with the savory sauce!

Seconds later, her little pink nose was buried in lamb guts while I scarfed down extra-chunky peanut butter straight from the jar.

It’s a toss-up as to which of us inhaled our food faster.