Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) (7 page)

I was
this close
to hurling a few colorful four-letter words of my own in her direction when Cryptessa’s balding nephew came hurrying up the front path.

“Aunt Eleanor! What’s going on?”

“Look, Warren!” Emmeline wailed, showing him the chocolate box. “She ate my chocolates!”

“Oh, no,” he said, shaking his head. “Not again.”

“She’s done this before?” I whispered.

“Don’t ask.” Warren shook his head, exasperated. “Last time it was a Junior’s cheesecake.”

Excited to see a new face in the crowd, Lana let out a welcoming yip.

“If that mongrel barks at me one more time,” Cryptessa snarled, “I’m calling animal control.”

“Go ahead,” Emmeline said, sweeping Lana up in her arms. “Call them. And I’ll call the FBI. For your information, eating somebody’s mail happens to be a federal offense!”

“I’m so sorry,” Warren said to Emmeline. “We’ll buy you another box.”

“Oh, we will, will we?” Cryptessa whirled on her nephew with fire in her eyes. “The last time I checked, buster, you were dead broke. I’m the one with the bucks around here, not you. And if you think I’m giving you money to buy that falafel franchise you wanted, forget about it. Not when you keep siding with my enemies.”

With that, she turned on her heels and stomped into the house.

“Aunt Eleanor!” Warren cried, running after her, tiny beads of sweat sprouting on his brow. “Let’s not be hasty!”

The door slammed behind them, leaving me alone with Emmeline. I watched as she led her dog over to the D
O
N
OT
T
RESPASS
sign.

“Go ahead, darling,” she prompted.

Eager to please, Lana squatted down and left her calling card.

“Good girl!” Emmeline said, her eyes beaming pure malice.

Nope, there was just no making peace with a woman like Cryptessa.

Chapter 7

“O
migod!” Lance said, surveying the backseat of my Corolla. “So this is where old fast-food wrappers come to die.”

Lance and I were headed over to Hollywood to rent costumes for Peter’s Halloween party. I’d offered to drive, and already I was beginning to regret it.

“My car’s not so bad,” I said.

“Are you kidding? I think I see a ketchup packet from King Tut’s Tomb.”

“Okay, so it’s been a while since I’ve cleaned. I’ve been very distracted. I’ve had a lot of things on my plate.”

“Most of them with fries,” he said, holding up an empty McDonald’s bag.

“Hardy-har-har,” I said, my voice dripping icicles.

“Lucky for me, I never travel without moist towelette sanitizers.”

I reined in my annoyance as Lance ripped open a towelette and made a big show of sanitizing his hands.

“So how’d Peter like your ‘library’?” I asked, determined to get off his car cleanliness kick.

“Slight snafu,” he sighed. “Unfortunately, the only books my set decorator friend could get a hold of were a bunch of medical texts. In German. So if Peter ever asks, remember: I went to medical school in Heidelberg and dropped out to pursue my love of fashion.”

Oh, man, this guy deserved the Pulitzer Prize in Whoppers.

“It was a magical evening,” Lance gushed. “I looked divine, if I do say so myself. And I was the perfect host. I served Brie and crackers, washed down with a 1989 Châteauneuf-du-Pape.”

“Châteauneuf-du-pape? Doesn’t that stuff cost an arm and a leg?”

“Technically, it was Two Buck Chuck, but I put it in a Châteauneuf-du-Pape bottle I bought at a thrift shop years ago. That bottle’s come in so handy. I don’t think Peter knew the difference.”

“So how did this magical evening end? Did Peter ask you out?”

“Not exactly, but I can tell he’s on the brink. There was something in his eyes that told me he was interested in me.” Lance patted my arm in that maddeningly patronizing way of his. “I’m so glad you listened to reason and gave up your foolish dreams of dating the guy.”

“Actually, I’m back in the dating game. Peter stopped by to return my brownie plate the other day, and there was something in his eyes that told me he was interested in
me
.”

“You mustn’t confuse interest with pity, hon.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, barely restraining myself from bopping him over the head with a stray Slurpee cup.

The rest of the trip passed in an icy silence. Well, I was the icy one. I doubt Lance even noticed. He was too busy sanitizing my dashboard with his moist towelettes.

At last we arrived at the costume rental place Lance had picked out.

“It’s where all the Hollywood costume designers go!” he gushed.

“Estelle’s Costumes and Beauty Supplies?” I said, eyeing the tiny storefront whose window was jammed with an eclectic mix of costumes and cosmetics.

“It’s much bigger than it looks,” Lance assured me.

And indeed it was. A long narrow space, it boasted endless racks of costumes, not to mention a back wall crammed with beauty supplies.

I stood there, breathing in the heady aroma of old clothes and hairspray, while Lance sprang into action, in full-tilt kamikaze shopper mode, flipping past costumes with lightning speed.

“Omigosh, hon!” he called out, holding up a huge puke green outfit. “This one’s perfect for you.”

“Forget it, Lance. I’m not going as Mrs. Shrek.”

“How about this?” he asked, holding up a pink monstrosity.

“Or the Michelin Man.”

“Spoilsport,” he pouted.

“Why don’t you just concentrate on getting your own costume, okay?”

Lance reluctantly agreed to go our separate ways, and before long he’d picked out a svelte werewolf-in-a-tux ensemble for himself.

“It’s you, Lance,” I said, nodding in approval. “Armani with hairy knuckles.”

Meanwhile, I made my way down the racks, flipping past a white, plunging “Marilyn” dress, a Marie Antoinette extravaganza, and a Madonna outfit with bra cups pointy enough to drill holes in a two-by-four.

Then I spotted it: a saucy lace flapper dress, complete with a feather headband. I tried it on in Estelle’s cramped dressing room. The outfit reeked of cleaning fluid, but it looked adorable, and I was thrilled to see it camouflaged the dreaded hip-tush zone quite nicely. (True, it was a little clingy around my tummy, but if I sucked in my gut and didn’t eat a thing the night of the party, I’d be fine.)

Costumes in hand, we headed over to the counter where Estelle, a fiftysomething woman with neon-green hair and enough rings to stock a display case at Nordstrom, took our deposits.

“I’ll be back on Halloween,” Lance told our green-haired friend, “to pick them up.”

“I still don’t understand why we can’t rent the costumes the day of the party,” I said.

“Are you nuts? We have to reserve them now. All the good ones will be gone by Halloween.”

My flapper ensemble was $49.99 more than I could afford to spend, but I kept my eye on the prize (Peter) and figured it was worth it.

“Beautiful choice,” Estelle assured me with a nicotine-stained smile.

“What’s this?” Lance asked, picking up a large plastic skeleton’s skull from a display on the counter.

“It’s a bumper decoration for your car,” Estelle enthused. “Only nine ninety-nine. And the skeleton’s eyes light up.” She flipped a switch on the back of the skull, and indeed, its eye sockets lit up in bright red.

“I love it!” Lance exclaimed. “I’ll take two.”

“Two?” I asked. “Why do you need two?”

“One for me and one for you.”

“I don’t want a skeleton’s skull.”

“Of course you do, Jaine. If any car was screaming out for a skull, it’s your Corolla. It’s practically haunted by the ghosts of dearly departed Quarter Pounders.”

And before I could stop him, he was buying the darn things.

“C’mon,” he said when we got out to the parking lot. “Let’s put one on your car.”

“I am not putting a skeleton skull on my car.”

“What’s wrong with you, Jaine?” He tsked in disapproval. “Where’s your Halloween spirit?”

“Oh, all right,” I caved.

Maybe it would be fun to get into the Halloween spirit for a change. And besides, it was actually sort of sweet of Lance to buy it for me.

He clamped the skull onto my front bumper and turned on its blinking red eye sockets. It was beyond tacky, but what the heck? When it comes to gifts, it’s the thought that counts.

I got in the car in a much better mood than when we started out.

“Thanks for the ride, hon,” Lance said as we pulled out of the parking lot.

“And thanks for the skeleton skull.”

“Oh, it was nothing. That’s what friends are for. You can pay me back when we get home.”

“Pay you back??”

“Omigod!” he gasped. “Is that a pizza crust in your glove compartment?”

And out came the moist towelette.

I squeezed the steering wheel as hard as I could, pretending it was Lance’s neck.

Still fuming over my “gift” from Lance, I stomped into my apartment.

Talk about no good deed going unpunished. Here I’d been kind enough to drive him across town in LA traffic and what did I get for it? A tacky skeleton skull, hurtful slurs about my trusty Corolla, and a massive dose of moist towelettes.

Of course, he had a point about the Corolla. Maybe my car did need a bit of a pick-me-up. So as much as I hated to admit he might be right, after a calming dose of Reese’s Pieces, I headed back outside to clean up the litter.

I’d parked my car in front of the Hurlbutts’ house, and as I walked across the street, I saw Mrs. Hurlbutt out on her front lawn, hacking away at her flower bed with a hoe.

“Damn that Harold,” she was muttering. “He never turns the soil right. Does a lick and a promise and then it’s back to the Weather Channel.”

“Hi, Mrs. Hurlbutt,” I called out.

“Oh, hello, Jaine.” She eyed my trash bag. “Come to clean out your car? It’s about time, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Of course, I did mind her saying so, but I just slapped on a phony smile and restrained myself from telling her that her rusty old Camry with the Garfield bobblehead in the backseat was not exactly a painting in the Louvre.

“So are you going to Peter’s Halloween party?” she asked, her eyes lighting up with excitement.

“Yes, I’m going as—”

“That Peter!” she gushed, clearly not interested in my choice of costume. “What a looker! If I were twenty years younger . . .” She sighed with longing.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Was there no one on the block who
didn’t
have a crush on the guy?

But then Mrs. Hurlbutt forgot all about Peter.

“Goddamn slugs!” she shouted, glaring down at the upturned earth at her feet. “Stop eating my impatiens!”

And with that, she took her hoe and began stabbing at the critters with a vengeance.

Leaving her to her killing spree, I returned to the chore at hand and began cleaning out my car.

I must say I was quite surprised to see how quickly my few measly wrappers managed to fill up a rather large trash bag.

On the plus side, I found an earring I thought I’d lost two years ago.

I had just finished tossing the trash into the garbage can when my cell phone rang. It was Kandi.

“Meet me for lunch at Century City,” she said without preamble. “I’ve got the most amazing news.”

No way could I meet Kandi for lunch. I’d already wasted the morning at the costume shop, and I really had to finish those Larry Lumbar spots.

“Sorry, honey. No can do. I’m swamped with work.”

“I’m thinking a Fuddruckers burger,” she said. “With extra cheese.”

“See you in a half hour,” I said, reaching for my car keys.

What can I say? Apparently I’ve got tapioca where my spine should be.

A half hour later, I was parking my Corolla in the Century City Mall parking lot. As I got out of the car, I noticed a teenaged boy gazing at me in unabashed admiration.

Whaddaya know
, I thought, with a carefree toss of my curls.
I’ve still got it.

“It’s neat,” the kid said, “the way the eyes blink.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake. He was talking about the stupid skeleton skull.

“Thanks,” I replied with a weak smile, and headed up to the food court.

It was a beautiful California day. The early morning fog had burned off and the sun was shining its little heart out. The food court was filled with the usual weekday assortment of retirees, shopaholics, and bizpeople from the nearby Century City law firms.

Kandi had nabbed a table on the outdoor terrace.

“Over here!” she called out, waving to me.

She was dressed in her “work” clothes, which in Hollywood means designer jeans, T-shirt, and blazer.

“Hi, sweetie!” She got up to give me a hug. “I ordered your lunch!”

I looked down at the table, expecting to see a Fuddruckers burger bursting with extra cheese. Instead, all I saw was a depressing plate of chopped vegetables.

“What happened to my burger with extra cheese?”

“You don’t really want a fattening burger, do you, hon?”

“Yes, I do want a fattening burger.”

“Well, too bad. I got you a lovely chopped vegetable salad. Now eat it. It’s good for you.”

Sometimes Kandi labors under the illusion that she is my mother.

I picked away at the shards of lettuce, trolling for croutons, while Kandi told me her amazing news.

“Remember Madame Vruska, my psychic?” she asked.

“Indelibly,” I assured her.

“The woman is a genius! One of the things she predicted was that I would come into unexpected riches. And I did!”

“Really?”

“Yes, I was in Bloomie’s just now, trying on a blazer, and guess what I found in the pocket?”

“What?”

“A dollar!”

She whipped out a dollar bill from her purse and waved it in triumph.

“Kandi, hon,” I pointed out, “a dollar isn’t exactly ‘riches.’ ”

She graced me with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “Must you be so literal? It’s the principle of the thing.”

“Did you buy the blazer?” I asked, eyeing a shopping bag at her feet.

“Yes,” she admitted.

“How much was it?”