Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) (23 page)

Lance

Why, that bum! Sending me here on a wild goose chase. I was so darn angry I totally lost my appetite.

For about three and a half seconds.

Then, as it often does, it came roaring back with a vengeance.

“Ketchup!” I shouted to the bartender, who, seeing the bloodlust in my eyes, promptly scooted over with a bottle of the stuff.

I poured myself a generous pool and proceeded to dunk each and every fry, inhaling them with gusto.

As I ate, I looked around the room at the lovebird diners, so smug in their togetherness. I fervently hoped they all got into knock-down, drag-out fights before the night was over.

I was just licking the last dollop of ketchup from my fingers when I happened to glance outside at the couple I’d passed on the patio when I first showed up. They were still there, huddled together under the heat lamp. The man, a squat fireplug of a guy, was nuzzling the neck of his date, a chunky brunette.

Wait a minute! I knew that chunky brunette. It was Lila Wood, my neighborhood politico!

My mind boggled at the thought of Lila as a love object.

But what almost knocked me off my barstool was her partner in whoopie. When he finally came up for air, I got a good look at his face and recognized him right away from the flyers Lila had given me the day I ran into her in the supermarket.

The nuzzler in question was none other than Ralph Mancuso, the evil developer Lila had sworn to oppose with her dying breath.

But Lila was putting up no resistance now as he leaned in to land a smacker on her lips. Yikes. It looked like Lila Wood was having an affair with her sworn enemy!

And suddenly I remembered Cryptessa’s penchant for poking her nose into other people’s business. Had she somehow found out about Lila’s clandestine affair?

Had she threatened to expose her and destroy her political campaign?

And had Lila stabbed her in the heart to stop her?

These are all questions I pondered as I paid my bill and drove over to the nearest McDonald’s.

(You didn’t really think I was going to have fries without a burger, did you?)

Chapter 25

I
was nuking myself a cup of coffee the next morning, still haunted by the image of Lila locking lips with Ralph Mancuso. Not the most pleasant image on an empty stomach, I can assure you. Just as I was reaching into the freezer for a cinnamon raisin bagel, I heard Lance banging on my front door.

“Jaine. It’s me. I need to talk to you.”

“Go away!”

The last thing I wanted to do was talk to that miserable traitor.

“I’m sorry I sent you out to Belle Reve last night,” he called out. “I just wanted to be alone with Peter.”

“Good. You got your wish. Now go away.”

I popped my bagel into the microwave.

“Can’t we please talk?”

“Nope.”

“I brought cheese Danishes,” he crooned.

Usually a surefire way back into my heart, but not that morning.

“Forget it, Lance.”

“I’ll come back later, sweetie, when you’re in a better mood.”

“Try some time next decade.”

If he thought I was going to sit there and hold his hand while he oohed and aahed about Peter, he was nuts. Honestly, the guy had all the sensitivity of a bath mat. He’d blab on and on about how cute he’d looked on his dinner date, expecting me to be his cheerleading squad, never once considering my broken heart.

No, I was in absolutely no mood to put up with Lance’s nonsense.

On the other hand, I couldn’t just sit around and let my resentments fester. Not for more than a half hour anyway. After all, if Lance hadn’t sent me on that wild goose chase to Malibu, I would’ve never discovered Lila’s secret affair with Ralph Mancuso.

Indeed, it was a most valuable lead, one I intended to pursue just as soon as I finished scarfing down my cinnamon raisin bagel.

Lila lived up at the other end of the block, in a cute little California bungalow, painted lemon yellow with a bright red door and clusters of lush pink roses peeking out through a white picket fence.

Such a sweet house for such a tough cookie.

Birds chirped merrily in her magnolia tree as I rang her bell and waited for her to come to the door. Which she did, still in her bathrobe, her hair tousled from sleep, pillowcase creases on her cheek.

“Oh, hello, Jaine,” she said, rubbing sleep gunk from her eyes. “Excuse my appearance. Usually I’m dressed by now, but I slept in today. I was up really late last night.”

I just bet she was.

“Come in, hon,” she said, waving me inside, all smiles.

I looked around for signs of a steamy sexcapade—Ralph’s socks balled up on the floor, maybe, or his tie hurled over a lampshade—but I saw nothing that indicated a man’s presence in the house.

“So you’ve decided to work on my campaign!” Lila beamed.

Uh-oh. Time to nip that idea in the bud.

“I just got a bunch of flyers in from the printers,” she was saying, “and now you can help me hand them out.”

She shoved a glossy flyer into my hands. Lila’s face beamed up at me from the cover, photoshopped to within an inch of its life. All wrinkles, jowls, and burgeoning double chins had been magically banished to Uglyland.

“So how many flyers do you think you can hand out? Two hundred? Three?”

“Actually, I’m a bit tied up with work right now.”

“You mean, you can’t work on my campaign?”

Eagle-eyed investigator that I am, I couldn’t help but notice a blip of annoyance flit across her face.

“Afraid not,” I said with an apologetic shrug.

Then what the hell are you doing here?
were the words I could tell she was dying to utter. But the woman was running for political office. So instead she swallowed her irritation and plastered on a phony smile.

“Well, I’m so happy you could drop by to say hi. And I certainly hope I can count on your vote. Remember. A Vote for Wood is a Vote for Good!”

Just the opening I was waiting for.

“I’m not so sure about that. I’m thinking maybe a vote for Wood is a vote for Ralph Mancuso.”

“How can you say that?” she said, suddenly flushing. “You know I’m staunchly opposed to Mr. Mancuso.”

“It didn’t look like you were all that opposed to him last night at Belle Reve.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Her phony smile had long since bit the dust.

“It’s no use, Lila. I saw you two on the patio, playing kissy face.”

“That’s an outrageous lie! And if you repeat it to anybody, I’ll deny it. After all,” she huffed, “it’s your word against mine.”

“Not really,” I said. “I happen to have a photo of you and Mr. Mancuso in a very compromising position. Some might even call it X-rated.”

Of course I had no such photo, but she didn’t know that.

“I found it among Cryptessa’s possessions.”

At this, she lost any remaining shred of composure.

“Why, that bitch!” she bellowed. “I paid her a thousand bucks to destroy that picture. I had a feeling she’d try to double-cross me.”

So I was right! Cryptessa
had
been poking her nose into Lila’s life.

“Is that why you killed her?”

By now, Lila’s face had turned a most unbecoming shade of puce.

“You’re crazy, Jaine. I had nothing to do with Cryptessa’s death. And if you tell anyone I did, you’ll be extremely sorry.”

Suddenly I felt a frisson of fear.

Lila’s fists were clenched into angry balls; the veins on her neck stuck out like lanyards. If she’d killed Cryptessa to shut her up, who’s to say she wouldn’t do the same to me?

Slowly she forced her face back into a semblance of a smile.

“Okay, I admit I’ve been having an affair with Ralph. And no, I haven’t exactly been honest with the neighbors about his mini-mall. You know how people are. Nobody wants commercial property near their houses. So I pretended to be opposed to the project, hoping to change their minds once I was in office. And yes,” she sighed, “Cryptessa was blackmailing me. But I swear I had nothing whatsoever to do with her death.”

By now the anger had drained from her face, and all I saw in her eyes was weariness.

Was it possible she was telling the truth?

Perhaps.

But remember, class. Lila was a politician.

So we can’t really trust her, can we?

Chapter 26

B
idding Lila adieu, I headed home to get dressed for Cryptessa’s memorial service.

I was almost tempted to wear a stained sweat suit in her honor, but in the end good taste prevailed and I put on a simple black slacks-and-sweater outfit. Thus appropriately clad, I drove over to the Hollywoodland Cemetery, Cryptessa’s final resting place.

Boasting the famous Hollywood sign as its backdrop, Hollywoodland has long been known as the “in” cemetery for showbiz luminaries. An “A” list roster of actors, directors, and even a few lowly writers are buried in its hallowed grounds.

At last, after decades of obscurity, Cryptessa would be back in the business.

It was an overcast day in the middle of the week, and the place was pretty much deserted when I got there. So I had no trouble finding a parking spot.

As I got out of my Corolla, I noticed a bright orange Falafel Land van parked directly in front of the chapel.

It looked like Warren’s new business was up and running.

I made my way into the small chapel and saw that only a handful of people had shown up for the service. There was Warren, of course, sitting in the front pew, looking suitably mournful in an ill-fitting suit. Mr. and Mrs. Hurlbutt sat behind him, Mrs. Hurlbutt craning her neck, checking out the mourners. The Town Crier was not about to miss a beat of the action.

I cringed to see Matt and Kevin Moore, decked out in their Gucci/Armani/Louboutin togs. I just hoped they wouldn’t pull out condo spec sheets in the middle of the eulogy.

A couple of weirdo fans dressed à la Cryptessa in long black wigs and slinky satin dresses sat in the back row. (Which wouldn’t have looked quite so weird if they hadn’t been guys.)

Rounding out the mourners was a family of tourists—Mom, Dad, and teenaged son—dressed in jeans and I ♥ L.A. sweatshirts. As I slid into the pew behind them, I could hear the son, a sullen teen with floppy hair, whining:

“Why are we here? And who the heck is this Cryptessa lady anyway?”

“Can’t you stop complaining for one minute, Kyle?” sighed his mother, a harried woman with aggravation lines deeply etched into her face. “Cryptessa is the lady who used to star in
The Munsters
.”

The poor thing was having a rough day, so I didn’t bother to correct her.

“I hate
The Munsters
,” Kyle muttered.

“Well, I don’t,” snapped his mother. “And besides, my feet are killing me and I need to rest for a while.”

“I think I once saw her in a toilet bowl commercial,” Dad chimed in.

“Oh, God,” moaned Kyle. “Even the La Brea tar pits were better than this.”

Like Kyle, I was beginning to wonder what I was doing at Cryptessa’s memorial service. Exactly what did I expect? That the killer would show up and be so moved by the eulogies that she (or he) would leap up and confess?

Damned unlikely. Especially since my hottest new suspect, Lila Wood, wasn’t even there.

Waiting for the service to begin, I looked around the chapel, with its white plaster walls, Moorish arches, and intricately carved wooden pews. In a small alcove beyond the minister’s podium, an ornate fountain was tinkling softly. It was all very Hacienda Exotica—all except for the giant flat-screen TV mounted at the front of the room.

Part of the shtick at Hollywoodland was that you got to make a video before you died so that your loved ones could have something to remember you by. The fact that Cryptessa had no loved ones hadn’t stopped her from making a video, as we would all soon discover.

Right now, the rent-a-reverend Warren had hired stepped up to the podium.

A tall, thin, lugubrious guy, looking for all the world like one of Cryptessa’s TV zombie relatives, he launched into a highly fictional speech about what a swell dame Cryptessa had been—“beloved by all who knew her, an actress whose comic performances will go down in the annals of television history.” (I later found out that the speech had been written by none other than Cryptessa herself, tucked away in her safe-deposit box in the event of her death.)

The whole thing would’ve been a lot more believable, I suspect, if the rent-a-rev hadn’t kept calling Cryptessa “Morticia.”

“And now,” he said, “a word from the dearly departed.”

With a click of a remote, Cryptessa suddenly came to life on the flat-screen TV. There she was, sitting in her living room in a slinky black dress, which, I couldn’t help noticing, was straining a bit at the seams. Her hair looked like it had been washed for the occasion and was lying in limp waves at her shoulders. Chalky powder coated her face, blood red lipstick seeping into the wrinkles around her mouth.

Behind her, Van Helsing was alive and chirping in his cage, and Bela the bat loomed over her shoulder on the fireplace mantel.

“First,” she said with a theatrical flourish, “I want to thank all my many fans for showing up at my final Bon Voyage party.”

I glanced at the three “fans” in the back of the chapel. Two of them were texting; the third was busy teasing his hair.

“We’ve come here today not to mourn my passing,” she intoned, “but to celebrate my life.”

She threw out her arms in a celebratory gesture, damn near splitting the seams on her dress.

“It all started on a small farm in Iowa where I was born . . .”

Cryptessa started yakking about her humble beginnings, milking cows and putting on plays for the farm animals. The next twenty minutes creaked along as she spun a stultifying tale of how she rose from obscurity to become the fourth most popular mom in sitcom history.