Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) (6 page)

Never in my life have I been so outraged!

The only reason “Stinky” Pinkus wants me to turn down the volume on my Dracula is to sabotage my chances of winning the contest. She knows her silly “Ghost Moat” doesn’t stand a chance against my Fang-tastic vampire and will stop at nothing to shut me down.

But I’ll go to my own grave before I let them tamper with The Count! There is nothing, I tell you, nothing that will make me change my mind!

Hugs ’n’ cuddles from
Your outraged,
Daddy

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: No Meatloaf!

Lydia Pinkus just stopped by and asked Daddy in the nicest possible way to turn down his Dracula. You would’ve thought she’d asked him to drown a litter of kittens, the fuss that man made.

Honestly, I wanted to wring his neck. The minute Lydia left, I told Daddy if he didn’t turn the sound down, there’d be no meatloaf and mashed potatoes on his dinner plate tonight.

Your disgusted,
Mom

PS. He’s out front right now, adjusting the volume.

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Fascist Machinations

Dearest Lambchop,

Due to the fascist machinations of your mother, I have reluctantly agreed to lower Dracula’s volume. I’m wounded to the core that my own wife would side with Stinky Pinkus against me, but such is life.

Yet even with his volume muted, I’m happy to report that my fang-tastic Dracula is by far the most creative lawn ornament in Tampa Vistas. I’ve checked out the competition, and it’s safe to say no one has anything remotely like it.

I can practically feel the winner’s trophy in my hands!

Love ’n’ hugs from
Daddy

Chapter 6

I
woke up the next morning, Prozac snoring on my stomach, an ice cream spoon clutched in my fist. An empty carton of Chunky Monkey, scraped clean of all contents, lay abandoned on its side on my night table—a souvenir of the torrid encounter I’d had last night with the two most important men in my life—Ben and Jerry.

Licking the dried remains of ice cream from my spoon, I shuddered at the memory of Peter’s housewarming.

Like clips from my own personal horror movie, I replayed my fight with Cryptessa. I saw the sneer on her face when she called me “thunder thighs.” I saw my brownies land frosting-side down on Peter’s beautiful white rug. I saw everyone looking at me, aghast.

Worst of all, I saw my chances with Peter flying out the window.

But I couldn’t let it get me down. We Austens are made of sterner stuff. When poop hits our fan, we get out our pooper scoopers and start shoveling.

So what if I’d lost Peter? There were still roses to be smelled, books to be read, pizzas to be ordered. Life went on and I intended to go along with it. Today was a clean slate, a whole new beginning, the first day of the rest of my life—

My cavalcade of clichés was interrupted just then by a loud knocking at my front door.

Dislodging Prozac from her perch on my tummy, I threw on my robe and hurried to the door, where I found a guy in a shiny brown suit standing on my doorstep.

Oh, dear. I just hoped he wasn’t from some wacko religious sect hoping to make me a convert.

“Are you Jaine Austen?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied warily, looking to see if he had any pamphlets up his sleeve.

He had no pamphlets. But he did have something worse. Far worse.

“You’re being served.”

I got the distinct impression he wasn’t talking about breakfast.

“Summons to appear in small claims court,” he said, slapping some official-looking papers in my hand.

Uh-oh. Looked like the first day of the rest of my life was getting off to a less-than-spectacular start.

“Have a good one,” my friendly process server said, before trotting off to bring misery into some other poor sap’s life.

By now Prozac was up and about, howling for her breakfast. Tossing the summons onto a pile of junk mail on my dining room table, I shuffled off to the kitchen to open a can of Hearty Halibut Guts.

“Dammit, Pro,” I moaned. “Mommy has to go to small claims court.”

She swished an impatient tail.

You’re not my mommy, and hurry up with those halibut guts.

I fed my demanding princess her halibut glop and had just finished nuking myself a cup of Folgers’ finest when there was another knock on my door.

This time, it was Lance, looking annoyingly chipper in cutoffs and a tank top.

“Morning there, sleepy head!”

“I’m not talking to you,” I snarled.

“I come bearing jelly donuts!” He held up a big paper bag, dotted with grease and faint red spots where the jelly was oozing through.

“If you think you can worm your way into my apartment with a measly bag of jelly donuts—you know me only too well,” I said, snatching the bag from his hand. “But I’m still mad at you.”

“Why?” All wide-eyed and innocent.

“As if you didn’t know.” I began mimicking his simpering patter from the housewarming. “Jaine writes the cutest toilet bowl ads.” “Why doesn’t chubby Jaine sit on the sofa so she can be closer to the brownies?” “Jaine makes a fool of herself at parties all the time.”

“I’m sorry, hon. I admit I played dirty. But all’s fair in love and
Celebrity Apprentice
.”

“Oh, well,” I sighed. “After yesterday’s brownie fiasco, I don’t stand a chance with Peter anyway.”

“Honey, you never did. I’m telling you. My gaydar is infallible.”

Conceding defeat, I nuked Lance a cup of coffee, and we sat on my sofa, scarfing down the jelly donuts. Okay, I did most of the scarfing. Lance ate a calorie-conscious half a donut and spent the rest of the time commiserating with me over my upcoming lawsuit.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he assured me. “The judge will take one look at that psycho gleam in Cryptessa’s eyes and dismiss the case before you know it.”

That’s the thing about Lance. One day he sabotages you over the man of your dreams. And the next day he’s offering comfort and jelly donuts in your hour of need. It’s why I can never stay mad at him for very long.

“Thanks for the donuts,” I said, as he got up to leave.

“All is forgiven?”

“All is forgiven.”

“Good. Because I have a wee little favor to ask.”

Uh-oh. I should have known there was a string attached to those donuts.

“What do you want?”

“Your books,” he said, pointing to my floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. “I invited Peter over to see my library, and now I need a library. So how about it, hon? Can I borrow your books?”

“No, you may not borrow my books! You want to impress Peter? Buy your own darn books!”

“I understand,” he said, patting my hand in a most patronizing manner. “You’re feeling hurt and depressed by your public humiliation and that hunk of brownie that was stuck between your teeth all afternoon. And you’re taking your anger out on me.” Then, with a smile worthy of Stella Dallas in one of her braver moments, he added, “Not to worry. I have a friend who’s a set decorator at one of the studios. He can loan me the books.”

“Goodie for you.”

“But how about your bookcase? Can I borrow that?”

“No, you may not borrow my bookcase!”

“Okay, okay. Don’t get your panties in an uproar.”

Then, as he scooted out the door, he called out over his shoulder, “Talk to you later, hon. And don’t forget. As soon as I land my date with Peter, you owe me dinner at the restaurant of my choice.”

I slammed the door behind him so hard I’m surprised it didn’t come off the hinges.

Can you believe the nerve of that guy? Inviting Peter over to see his library and expecting
me
to provide the library?

I stomped around in a snit for a while, muttering curses and rinsing out the coffee mugs.

And I was just about to head off to the shower when there was yet another knock on my door.

Oh, hell. Probably Lance again. What did he want now? My kidneys?

“What?” I snapped, hurling the front door open.

But it wasn’t Lance.

It was Peter, the cleft in his chin looking more kissable than ever.

“You forgot this,” he said, holding out my brownie plate.

He was dressed for work, looking marvelously spiffy in a navy suit and celadon silk tie that brought out a hint of hazel in his eyes.

I, on the other hand, looked like Cryptessa’s younger sister in my coffee-stained chenille robe, my hair a mop of untamed curls. For all I knew, I had a big hunk of jelly stuck between my teeth.

What did it matter, anyway? The Peter Wars were over and done with. I’d already lost to Lance.

“Thanks for bringing it by,” I said with a feeble smile.

“No problem.”

“I want you to know that I feel terrible about that scene at your housewarming.”

“Please don’t feel bad. Nothing livens up a party like a good fight.” He shot me a mischievous smile. “To tell the truth, the housewarming was a bit of a snore till you showed up.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that?”

“I swear on a stack of brownies.”

“But I ruined your carpet.”

“You didn’t ruin it. I got most of the stains out with club soda. And I was going to send it out to the cleaners anyway.”

“Well, I insist on paying the bill.”

“There’s no need for that. But there is one thing you can do for me.”

“Anything,” I said.

“You can come to my Halloween party.”

And with that, he flashed me a smile with enough wattage to light up the Hollywood Bowl.

I didn’t care what Lance’s gaydar said. Peter was flirting with me. I may be packing a few extra pounds in the hip-thigh area, but I know when I’m being flirted with. And I was definitely the designated flirtee in this little tête-à-tête.

“I’d be happy to come,” I said, melting in the warmth of his smile.

We bid each other a fond adieu, and I floated off to the shower on cloud nine.

It looked like The Peter Wars weren’t over yet.

Not by a long shot.

Having showered and dressed, I tootled over to my office (otherwise known as my dining room table) to read my e-mails. Poor Mom. Daddy would drive her and the neighbors nuts before Halloween was over. But I couldn’t worry about the Curse of the Fang-Tastic Dracula. Lest you forget, I still owed Marvin Cooper a bunch of commercials. I reached for my Mattress King file, fully intending to get some work done on Larry Lumbar, when I noticed my summons to appear in small claims court.

In the excitement of Peter’s visit, I’d forgotten all about it. But now I saw it staring up at me from where I’d tossed it on top of a Chinese takeout menu.

With a shudder, I saw that I was scheduled to be tried in a court of law for the wrongful death of Eleanor Jenkins’s beloved parakeet, Van Helsing.

And I almost fainted when I read that Cryptessa was suing me for five thousand dollars!

No way could I afford to fork over five grand to that nutcase. Or any other nutcase for that matter. In fact, five grand exceeded my “disposable income” limit by about four thousand nine hundred and eighty-nine dollars.

Surely there had to be some way to make amends with Cryptessa and get her to drop the case.

Popping an Altoid and plastering a smile on my face, I headed up the street to do some serious groveling.

I’d simply tell Cryptessa how dreadfully sorry I was for everything that had gone down between us, that I’d be more than happy to “bake” her some more brownies or plant some more petunias, that there had to be some way we could mend our fences without involving the courts.

I was in the middle of rehearsing my humble apologies when suddenly I heard voices being raised.

“Get off my property!” I recognized Cryptessa’s shriek right away.

“Not until you pay me for my chocolates!” That sounded like Emmeline.

And indeed, as I walked up the path to Zombie-land, I saw Cryptessa standing out on her front steps, yelling at Emmeline, who was yelling right back, her fluffball dog yapping at her ankles.

“If you and your dog aren’t off my property in three minutes,” Cryptessa cried, shaking her fist, “I’m calling the police.”

“Good!” said Emmeline. “I’ll tell them how you ate my chocolates!

“Look, Jaine!” she cried, spotting me. “Look what this miserable woman did.”

She held out a Godiva candy box, and when I looked inside, I saw that there was a bite missing from every single piece.

“My son sent these to me for my birthday, and the UPS man left them at Cryptessa’s house by mistake. She had the nerve to return them to me this morning. Like this!”

Once again, she thrust the half-eaten candy in my face.

“Can you believe it?”

I was outraged, of course, as any true chocoholic would be. I was also tempted to try one of the remaining morsels, a goody with a pecan stuck in its center.

“Have you ever seen anything so outrageous?” Emmeline sputtered.

As much as I would have liked to chime in with a few harsh words of disapproval, I was there to make peace with Cryptessa. I could not afford to pass judgment.

So instead I merely smiled weakly and said, “Happy belated birthday, Emmeline.”

Not exactly thrilled with my reply, she turned back to Cryptessa. “I’ve had it up to here with you. And so has Lana Turner!”

An angry bark from the fluffball.

“I didn’t eat your stupid chocolates,” Cryptessa insisted.

“Liar!” cried Emmeline. “I can see the chocolate on your chin.”

And indeed there was a faint swath of chocolate across Cryptessa’s chin.

“Oh, go fly a kite,” Cryptessa snapped, swiping at her chin with the back of her hand.

Okay, that’s not what she really said, but this is a family novel so I’ll spare you the real four letter words involved. “How do you know it wasn’t a possum who ate the chocolates? How do you know it wasn’t your dog?” She pointed at me and added, “How do you know it wasn’t
her
? I wouldn’t put anything past her. She killed my bird, you know.”