Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) (5 page)

“Yes, I’m head shoe buyer,” Lance said, giving himself a hefty promotion.

“Is that so?” Mr. Hurlbutt looked up from the nut bowl where he had been diligently rummaging for cashews. “I always thought you were a shoe salesman.”

Oh, darling Mr. Hurlbutt! I felt like throwing my arms around him and kissing the dear man.

“Not anymore,” Lance lied with the ease of a campaigning congressman. “I was promoted ages ago.”

“Peter,” Emmeline informed Lance, still agog at the news, “is a book editor!”

“So I’ve heard.” Lance turned to Peter, waxing euphoric.

“I just love to read! I mean, when I’m not working or volunteering with the homeless, I’m always reading. If there’s one thing I love, it’s literature!”

Oh, please. The only thing Lance ever read were his own tweets.

“How interesting you’re a book editor, Peter,” I horned in, determined to score a point for Team Jaine. “Actually, I’m a writer.”

“Yes,” Lance quickly interjected, “Jaine writes the quaintest toilet bowl ads. You can see them on bus stops all over town.”

By now I was ready to strangle the bronzed monster. I tuned out as he hogged the conversation, yammering on about his love of literature.

At last his monologue was interrupted when another neighbor showed up, a cute young gal in her twenties who lived in the duplex next to the Hurlbutts’. I didn’t know her name, but according to Lance, she was a graduate student at UCLA. Like Kevin Moore, she was a wispy size 2.

Most distressing.

“Welcome!” Peter said, jumping up to greet her and beaming her a smile just a little too friendly for my liking.

“I’m Amy Chang,” she said, smiling up at him from under a thick fringe of bangs. “Just dropped by to welcome you to the block.”

“Come in, come in!” he said, ushering her inside.

“Oh, don’t they make a cute couple,” Lila gushed.

Lance shot her an evil glare while I took the high road and merely pictured myself gagging her with her support hose.

Oh, well. At least Amy’s arrival put an end to Lance’s “I Love Literature” chat.

The Moores started telling Peter about the trendy new restaurants in the neighborhood, Mr. Hurlbutt told him where to get the best price on gas, and Emmeline once again offered to fix him up with her granddaughter.

“It’s great to have such nice neighbors,” he said as we pelted him with advice. “But I’ve got to ask. What about the lady across the street? The one with the Do Not Trespass sign on her front lawn?”

“Oh, Cryptessa.” Mrs. Hurlbutt rolled her eyes. “She’s impossible.”

A chorus of amens filled the air.

“Cryptessa?” Peter asked.

“Cryptessa Muldoon. From the old sitcom
I Married a Zombie
.”

“Really?” Peter’s eyes were wide with surprise. “Cryptessa Muldoon lives on our block?”

“Much to everyone’s regret,” Matt said.

“The last time I rang her doorbell to have her sign a petition,” Lila said, “the old hag had the nerve to slam the door in my face.”

“That’s nothing,” said Mrs. Hurlbutt. “I’m convinced Cryptessa was the one who dug up our tulips last year.”

“It could’ve been a squirrel,” said Mr. Hurlbutt.

“Oh, please, Harold. It wasn’t a squirrel. It was that godawful witch. She’s always been jealous of our front yard. The only things that ever take root in her garden are stinkweeds. Cryptessa killed our tulips. No doubt about it.”

“She’s a killer, all right,” Emmy chimed in. “ Last month, she tried to kill my darling Lana Turner.”

“Lana Turner’s her dog,” Lance explained to Peter, taking advantage of the opportunity to shoot him a sickeningly gooey smile.

“Poor Lana was out on the back deck, barking at a bird,” Emmy said, “and the next thing I knew, a big fat lemon came sailing over the fence from Cryptessa’s yard. It missed Lana by just inches. I swear, if it had hit her, she’d have been dead as a doornail.”

So that’s the story Emmeline had started to tell me when I ran into her the other day.

“That’s awful!” Amy gasped.

“Did you report her to the authorities?” Lila asked.

“Yes, I did, and she denied everything, of course. The woman is totally without scruples. What a curse it’s been,” she sighed, “having Cryptessa as a next door neighbor.”

“You’re telling us,” said Kevin. “One weekend when we were away on vacation, she had our hedges hacked off.”

“Said they were blocking her view of the sunset,” Matt explained.

“The nerve!” huffed Mrs. Hurlbutt.

“We were going to call the police,” Matt said, “but in the end we didn’t. She’s so pathetic, I guess we felt sorry for her.”

“I know the feeling,” I said. And then I told them about Van Helsing’s untimely demise and how pitiful Cryptessa had seemed when I’d paid my condolence call.

“Your cat killed her bird?” Mrs. Hurlbutt asked, aghast.

“No, of course not. Van Helsing just happened to drop dead as my cat was looking in the window.”

“Maybe it wasn’t Cryptessa who dug up our tulips,” I heard her whisper to Mr. Hurlbutt. “Maybe it was her cat.”

“It was sweet of you to pay that condolence call,” Peter said to me, a look of admiration in his soft brown eyes.

Score one for Team Jaine.

“It’s so important to be a caring person,” Lance piped up, not to be outdone by my act of kindness. “That’s why I work with the homeless at the Downtown Mission.”

Oh, for crying out loud. The closest Lance ever got to the Downtown Mission was on his way to the Ahmanson to see a revival of
Gypsy
.

“Yes,” I said, grabbing back the reins of the conversation, “when all was said and done, I just couldn’t help but feel sorry for Cryptessa.”

“I wouldn’t feel too sorry for her,” Kevin said. “Yesterday she told me she was going to sue you in small claims court for the wrongful death of her parakeet.”

“Why, that old crone!” I cried.

And at that very moment, the crone in question came storming into Peter’s living room.

Chapter 5

“Y
ou must be Peter Connor,” Cryptessa said, marching up to him in her ketchup-stained sweats. (Did she never take them off?)

“That’s me,” Peter said with a warm smile. “Welcome to my housewarming.”

“Hope you don’t my tagging along.” We all turned to see a short bald guy trailing behind Cryptessa. “I’m Eleanor’s nephew. Warren Jenkins.”

“I’m so glad you both could make it,” Peter replied, ever the gracious host.

But Cryptessa was in no mood for idle chitchat.

“I heard you’re a book editor.”

In her arms, she lugged a tattered manuscript box, tied shut with dirty twine.

“I’ve written a masterpiece,” she said, thrusting it into Peter’s hands.

I remembered the hernia-inducing novel she’d shown me on my condolence call. Some claptrap about a poodle from hell.

“I won’t take anything less than a million dollars for it,” she informed him. “I’m going to be the next Stephen King, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, thrusting her masterpiece right back at her, “but for legal reasons, I’m not allowed to read unsolicited manuscripts.”

“You’re not going to read it?” she asked, blinking in disbelief.

“Afraid not. But I wish you the very best of luck with it.”

“In that case,” she sniffed, “all I can say is, you’d better not throw any loud parties in this joint, because at the first hint of noise, I’m calling the police.”

“As a matter of fact,” Peter said with an unruffled smile, “I happen to be throwing a Halloween party next week, and you’re all invited.”

“Cryptessa can come as a witch,” I heard Emmeline mutter. “No costume required.”

“A party! Isn’t that nice, Aunt Eleanor?” said her nephew with a nervous smile.

“No, it is not nice, Warren. If you think I’m going to mix and mingle with a known bird killer”—this accompanied by a nasty glare at yours truly—“you are sadly mistaken.”

What a schizo! Just the other day she was practically weeping in my arms and today she was accusing me of parakeet-o-cide.

“I did not kill your ancient bird, who was on death’s doorstep anyway,” I cried, jumping up from the sofa.

“No, you had your demon cat do your dirty work for you.”

“And I can’t believe you’ve got the nerve to sue me after I planted all those petunias for you in the blazing sun.”

“Oh, boo hoo on you. So you planted a few petunias. It’s the least you could do. Besides, you were just being nice to me so I wouldn’t press charges. Bela told me that after you left the other day.”

“Your stuffed bat told you that?”

“Bela didn’t like you. Not one bit.”

Oh, boy. Somebody sure needed to switch her meds.

“Come, Warren,” Cryptessa said, her ketchup-stained chest puffed in indignation. “We’re leaving.”

But she did not leave, as promised. Not right away. After tossing her manuscript to her nephew, she made a detour to the coffee table to reach for one of my brownies.

“Not so fast,” I said, grabbing the plate. “I baked these brownies for Peter’s guests. Not for nervy ingrates who are suing me in small claims court.”

“Oh, please,” she sneered. “You didn’t bake these brownies. Anyone can see they’re from Mrs. Fields.”

“That’s what I thought,” Mr. Hurlbutt chimed in.

Then, in a surprise move, Cryptessa snatched the plate from my hands and started for the door.

My God. The woman had just hijacked my brownies!

“Aunt Eleanor!” her nephew cried, hurrying after her. “That isn’t very nice.”

But I was faster than Warren and got to the door before Cryptessa, blocking her exit.

“Give me those brownies,” I said in my best tough gal voice. “Or else.”

“Or else what? You’ll sic your cat on me? Step aside, thunder thighs!”

Did you hear that? She’d called me thunder thighs. In front of Peter. The blood was pounding in my ears, I was so mortified.

“Something’s got to be done about you, Cryptessa,” I hissed. “And I just might be the one to do it.”

And then, in a burst of fury, I yanked the plate from her hands.

A major mistake. Because, to my horror, the brownies went flying off the plate, landing—frosted side down, naturally—all over Peter’s lovely white flokati rug.

“Now look what you’ve done!” Cryptessa crowed before grabbing a handful of cashews and storming out the door, followed by her flustered nephew.

“I’m so sorry, Peter,” I said, now on my hands and knees, picking the chocolate goo from the rug.

“Jaine does stuff like this all the time,” Lance helpfully pointed out. “She once totally destroyed a guest bathroom in Beverly Hills.” (And it’s true, I’m afraid. You can read all about that humiliating escapade in
Death of a Trophy Wife
, now available in all the usual places.)

“Don’t worry about it,” Peter said, getting down on the rug with me. “I was going to have it cleaned anyway.”

I’d often pictured the two of us together on a rug, but alas, never like this.

After the brownies had been picked up, my cheeks burning with shame, I made my excuses and left—fairly certain I’d taken Cryptessa’s place as the hot topic of conversation.

Back home, I collapsed on my sofa.

“What a nightmare,” I wailed to Prozac, who was sprawled out next to me. “I dropped a whole plate of fudge brownies on Peter’s white rug.”

Ever the empathetic kitty, Prozac graced me with a cavernous yawn.

Yeah, right. Whatever. Did you bring back leftovers?

“Don’t you understand? It was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. I lost my temper with Cryptessa, ruined Peter’s carpet, and made an all-around fool of myself.”

Not only that, you’ve got a hunk of chocolate stuck between your teeth.

She didn’t really say that, of course.

But it was true. When I went to brush my teeth that night, there it was: A big hunk of brownie crammed between my two front teeth.

Way to go, Jaine.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: That Darn Dracula!

Daddy managed to assemble that darn Dracula and the cursed thing will be the death of me yet. It’s out on our front lawn, rising from its coffin, making the most godawful noises—moaning and groaning and singing, “Fangs for the Memories.”

I’ve gotten at least three phone calls from the neighbors, asking us to please turn down the volume. But Daddy refuses. Keeps yammering about Dracula’s inalienable right to Free Speech!

If Daddy thinks he’s got a snowball’s chance in hell of winning the decorating contest with that eyesore, he’s got another think coming. You should see what Lydia Pinkus has done with her front lawn. You remember Lydia, don’t you, darling? President of the Tampa Vistas Homeowners Association? Such a lovely woman. And so talented! She made the cutest ghosts, hand embroidered with smiley faces, and she’s got them lined up along a ditch her gardener dug for some new sprinkler pipes. She’s calling the whole thing a “Ghost Moat.”

How clever is that?

Next to the Ghost Moat, Daddy’s Dracula doesn’t stand a chance.

Oops. Must run. Someone’s at the door.

XOXO
Mom

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Insufferable Battle-axe

You’ll never guess who had the nerve to come knocking on our door just now. That insufferable battle-axe, Lydia “Stinky” Pinkus.

“As president of the Tampa Vistas Homeowners Association,” she said, standing on our doorstep like a one-woman execution squad, “I’ve come to request that you turn down the volume on that creature out there.”

Can you believe her nerve? Asking me to turn down the volume on my Dracula??? That’s like asking Leonardo da Vinci to wipe the smile off the
Mona Lisa
. I told her in no uncertain terms that I was not about to compromise my artistic integrity.

“I don’t have time to stand here arguing with you, Hank,” she sniffed in that snooty way of hers. “An old childhood friend is flying in from Minnesota to stay with me, and I’ve got to pick her up at the airport. So if you’re not going to cooperate, you leave me no other alternative than to call the police.”