Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) (22 page)

Eventually the cops were able to make sense of my story.

“So you followed this lady home,” the tree trunk said, “hoping to buy her figurine.”

“Right. But I don’t understand why she called the police. I don’t exactly look dangerous, do I?”

“No, but your car does.”

He gestured to my Corolla.

And then I saw it. That damn Halloween skull! It was still clamped to the front of my car. I never did get around to taking it off. What’s worse, in my bumpy car chase, somehow the skull’s eyes had started blinking rather maniacally.

No wonder Ms. Jaguar had been scared.

The cops told Ms. Jaguar my story and, convinced that I was harmless, she came out to the front gate with the Buddha. I was thrilled to see it was the exact same figurine as the one I broke.

Taking pity on me, the generous woman let me have it for a mere hundred dollars more than she paid for it.

I wrote her a check, praying it wouldn’t bounce, and then headed home, my prized Buddha nestled in bubble wrap on the passenger seat.

It wasn’t until I was heading east on Olympic that I noticed the beige Camry behind me. How odd. It looked like the same Camry that had almost rear-ended me earlier that day. I squinted in my rearview mirror, trying to get a good look at the person behind the wheel.

Good heavens. It was Mr. Hurlbutt!

While I’d been busy chasing Ms. Jaguar, had Harold Hurlbutt been following me?

But that was absurd. There were zillions of beige Camrys all over town. I couldn’t be sure that the one following me now was the same one that had almost rear-ended me.

Maybe Mr. Hurlbutt had been nowhere near me earlier and was behind me now simply because he lived on the same block I did and happened to be driving home at the same time I was. That had to be it. Chances are, he’d been out at the market, buying groceries for Mrs. Hurlbutt.

I turned onto my street and parked my car. Seconds later, Mr. Hurlbutt made the turn and pulled up in front of his house.

I sat locked in my car and watched as he got out of his Camry.

Not a grocery bag in sight.

It still didn’t mean he was following me.

And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder. Now that I knew about the incriminating picture of him and Amy, he had the perfect motive for wanting me out of the way.

Maybe Mr. Hurlbutt was the one who’d killed Cryptessa.

And maybe he’d been on my tail today, looking for an opportunity to do the same to me.

Chapter 24

N
ever underestimate the calming powers of a hot bath and a cold chardonnay.

Honestly, sometimes I think if all the world leaders would just hop in a giant bubble bath with a glass of wine, there’d be peace in our time.

Early that evening, I was soaking in a mountain of strawberry-scented bubbles, sipping at a glass of chardonnay and thinking how crazy I’d been to worry about Mr. Hurlbutt. If he’d really been tailing me, would he have been foolish enough to stay right behind me where I could see his face in my rearview mirror? Of course not! Mr. Hurlbutt was a mild-mannered milquetoast who couldn’t even talk back to his wife, let alone harm anyone. I’d been absolutely nuts to think otherwise. Clearly my imagination had been on overdrive, but that was all over now. I was calm. I was relaxed. I was—

Oh, gaaak!

I bolted up in the tub at the sound of a thunderous pounding at my front door.

Omigod! It was that demon Mr. Hurlbutt, come to do me in, once and for all!

So much for the curative powers of bubble baths and wine.

“Who is it?” I called out in a shaky voice.

“It’s me!” I breathed a sigh of relief to hear Lance’s voice. “Let me in! It’s a matter of life and death.”

Good heavens. Was Mr. Hurlbutt trying to kill Lance, too?

I leaped out of the tub and threw on my robe, leaving a trail of water and bubbles behind me as I raced to open the front door.

“My God, Lance. What’s wrong?”

I looked around outside, grateful to see no signs of any would-be assassins lurking in the bushes.

“I need your advice, hon,” Lance said, breezing into my apartment, carefree as can be, holding out two shirts on hangers for my inspection.

“Which shirt should I wear on my date with Peter tonight? The celadon check? Or the blue stripe?”

I could feel my blood pressure soaring.

“Are you mad?” I snapped. “Getting me out of the tub to look at your
shirts
? I thought this was a matter of life and death.”

“Well, it is to me,” he sniffed. “I want to make a good impression on my future soul mate, don’t I?”

I shot him what I hoped was a withering glare.

“I do not care what you wear on your date with your future soul mate. And I highly resent your rubbing said date in my face when you know I have the warmies for that very same soul mate. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a hot date with a bubble bath.”

I turned to stomp off, but he latched on to my elbow.

“Aw, Jaine. I’m sorry if I seemed insensitive. I didn’t mean to upset you. Really.” He put on his most innocent puppy dog face. “And besides, I came to tell you something you might find interesting.”

“And what might that be? What cologne you’ve decided to wear?”

“No, honey. I wanted to tell you that they’re having a memorial service for Cryptessa tomorrow. Eleven a.m. at Hollywoodland Cemetery. I thought you’d want to know about it.”

He was right. I made a mental note to be there and observe the mourners.

“I wish I could go myself,” he said, “but I’ll be working.” Then another puppy dog look. “So are you still mad at me?”

“Yes, I’m still mad at you. But thanks,” I added grudgingly, “for letting me know about the memorial service.”

“Are you sure you won’t tell me which shirt you like better?” He held up both shirts to his face. “I think the green goes better with my tan, but the blue brings out the blue in my eyes.”

What the heck? He looked so desperate for my advice, I gave it to him.

“I like the blue.”

“Great. Then I’ll go with the green.”

“What??”

“C’mon, sweetie. If you like it, it’s
got
to be the wrong fashion choice.”

“Lance!”

I can’t swear to it, but I’m guessing tiny wisps of steam were coming out of my ears.

“You know what I always say: Moths come to your closet to commit suicide.”

“Out!” I shrieked! “Out!”

And off he scooted.

“I’ll let you know how things go with Peter,” he called out as he sprinted back to his apartment.

Swallowing my irritation, I stomped back to the tub, but of course, by then it was cold. And I did not have the energy to drain it and start all over again. So I rinsed off in the shower and spent the next ten minutes mopping up the puddles of water I’d left when racing to answer the door.

Damn that Lance. Crowing about his date with Peter when he knew how much I liked him. And then literally adding insult to injury with his crack about moths coming to my closet to commit suicide.

When I thought of how he’d barged in on my dinner with Peter, I had a good mind to turn the tables and do the same thing to him. Yes, it would give me great pleasure to pop in on them at that restaurant in Malibu. Oh, how I’d love to see the look on Lance’s face as I drew up a chair at their table and reached for a dinner roll.

But, of course, I could never stoop that low. After all, I was an Austen. I had my pride. I had my dignity.

And for some strange reason, I had my best cashmere sweater in my hand.

What the heck was it doing there? And why was I putting on makeup? And my good Eileen Fisher slacks? And my one and only pair of Manolo Blahniks?

Somehow another Austen—one with no pride, no dignity, and a burning thirst for revenge—had taken over my body.

Which is the only explanation I can offer for why, twenty minutes later, I was dressed to the nines and roaring out to Malibu.

It was cold and raw in Malibu that night, an icy wind blowing in from the Pacific. Belle Reve’s famed outdoor patio, with its spectacular view of the ocean, was deserted—save for one hardy couple huddled together under a heat lamp.

I hurried past them and went inside the restaurant, a warm oasis of candlelit tables. Across the room, a fire blazed in a stone fireplace, and over the sound system, Ella Fitzgerald was crooning about love gone wrong.

I scanned the restaurant but saw no signs of Lance and Peter. Maybe they were still at Peter’s place having cocktails. I could just picture Lance, the little phony, sipping a martini and yakking about his med school days in Heidelberg.

“May I help you?”

I looked up to see a gorgeous young thing behind the hostess podium. Impossibly tall and blond, no doubt killing time as a hostess until her first movie role came along.

“I . . . um . . . I’m waiting for my party to show up.”

“Do you have reservations?” she asked.

In fact, I was beginning to have quite a few, wondering if perhaps I’d been a tad hasty in my decision to crash Lance’s date with Peter. But then I thought of Lance getting me out of the tub to look at his stupid shirts, and I got angry all over again.

“Yes, we have reservations,” I said. “Under the name of Lance Venable. Or Peter Connor. Party of two, but I want to change that to a party of three.”

She checked the reservations book and shook her fabulous blond head.

“Sorry, I don’t seem to have anything.”

“Do you have anything for a
Doctor
Venable?”

“No, nothing.”

Looking around the restaurant, I noticed quite a few empty tables. Lance probably hadn’t bothered to make a reservation. At this time of the year, with this kind of weather, the beach wasn’t all that popular a destination.

“Would you care to wait for your party at the bar?” the hostess asked, indicating a sleek marble-topped bar off to the side of the room.

“Thanks, I will.”

At the bar, I hoisted myself up on a barstool, never a graceful proposition. As I struggled, I was aware of an old coot down at the end of the bar, giving me—or I should say, my tush—the eye.

“Can I get you something?” a stunning hunk of a bartender asked. The hostess’s acting partner, no doubt. He beamed me a high-wattage smile, just in case I was somebody who could get him a part.

One look at their wine prices, and I knew what my choice would be.

“Just a water, please.”

With a curt nod, he sloshed some water into a glass and shoved it at me.

Well! I sure wouldn’t be going to any of
his
movies.

Suddenly I smelled a blast of peppermint breath on my neck.

I whirled around to see that the old coot at the end of the bar had sidled next to me.

For an old coot, he sure moved fast.

Silver-haired and blue-eyed, he’d clearly been a handsome man at one time, but he was decades beyond his sell date. The man had liver spots the size of quarters and rather frightening white teeth that I suspected had been purchased online.

“Come here often, honey?” he asked with a most unappetizing wink.

“Only when my hepatitis is acting up,” I replied with a wink of my own.

Like I said, for an old guy, he sure could move fast. Like that, he was back at the other end of the bar.

I spent the next few minutes staring at the entrance, waiting for Peter and Lance to show up, practicing what I was going to say. (
Oh, hello, you two! What a surprise running into you like this! Nice shirt, Lance, honey, but I’m not sure green’s really your color. And I see you finally got your watch back from the pawnshop!
)

When staring at the entrance did not make them materialize, I turned my attention to the other diners, most of whom seemed to be couples in love, or at least, lust. Everywhere I looked, I saw lots of hand-holding and smoldering smiles.

When was I ever going to get in on any of this action? I wondered. When would it be my turn to fall madly, deeply, insanely in love?

As the gods would have it, just two seconds later—when I saw a waiter coming out from the kitchen with the most amazing basket of crispy golden fries.

Yes, it was love at first sight as I watched the shimmering beauties sail past me.

I hadn’t had any time for dinner and I was starving.

I summoned my actor/bartender with a wave.

“How much are your fries?” I asked when he finally bothered to saunter over.

“Eight dollars.”

Forget it! Absolutely not! No way was I spending eight bucks on fries. Heck, I could get a whole meal for eight bucks.

You know where this is going, right?

“I’d like them extra crispy, please.”

He nodded, this time gracing me with a glimmer of a smile, sensing there might be a tip at the end of his rainbow.

Minutes later, he came trotting out from the kitchen with a heaping basket of golden beauties. I couldn’t wait to dive into them.

I just hoped Peter didn’t walk in and catch me stuffing my face.

No danger of that. Because just as I was about to chomp down on my first fry, the stunning hostess drifted over to my side with a piece of paper in her hand.

“Are you Jaine Austen?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I just found this message for you buried under the reservation book.”

She handed me one of those pink phone message slips.

It’s a good thing I wasn’t actually eating when I read it or I would’ve choked on my fry for sure.

I still seethe when I think about what it said:

Jaine, sweetie—

I knew you’d try something like this. Which is why I sent you to the wrong restaurant.

Love and kisses,