Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) (10 page)

“Yes!” I cried, remembering Mr. Tarzan. “Someone saw me. One of the other guests at the party. He was waiting to use the bathroom when I first got trapped inside the Tummy Tamer.”

Thank heavens! I had an eyewitness who could back up my story. I’d be exonerated in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.

“Was this someone,” he asked, consulting his notes, “a Mr. Tim Rogers?”

“Tim Rogers?”

“A man in a loincloth. Dressed as Tarzan.”

“Yes, Tarzan! That’s him.”

“According to Mr. Rogers, when he knocked on the bathroom door, you were behaving most suspiciously. And then when he ran into you some twenty minutes later, you seemed equally uneasy. Twenty minutes during which you could have been across the street murdering your neighbor. The same neighbor who was suing you in small claims court for killing her bird, Van Helsing.”

No, this conversation was not going well at all.

“Several witnesses,” he said, flipping through some more pages, “have confirmed that you and Cryptessa had quite a nasty run-in at Mr. Connor’s housewarming party. Involving fudge brownies.”

“Okay, so we weren’t on the best of terms.”

“You were quoted as saying,
Something’s got to be done about you, Cryptessa. And I just might be the one to do it.
”

“I may have said something along those lines. But I swear I didn’t kill her.”

He grunted a most unpleasant grunt.

How on earth could I have ever thought he looked like a leprechaun? The more I looked at him, the more he looked like the sadistic prison warden in
Cool Hand Luke
.

“Just don’t leave town,” he warned.

I got up to go, and as I walked out of the room, I could practically hear a jail cell door slamming shut behind me.

I was heading up the path to my apartment when Lance came racing out from his apartment.

“Omigosh!” he cried. “You’re free. Mrs. Hurlbutt told me they carted you off to jail.”

“That’ll come any day now, I’m sure. But for tonight, all they did was question me.”

“Oh, Jaine! Why did you do it?” he tsked. “You should have come to me. I would’ve talked you through your anger management issues.”

“But, Lance—”

“Fear not, sweetheart. I’ve got everything under control. I’ve already lined up one of the finest lawyers in L.A. to defend you.”

“But you don’t understand—”

“We’ll plead insanity—diminished capacity due to your pernicious addiction to Chunky Monkey. It’ll go down in legal history as the Chunky Monkey Defense!”

“But—”

“I’ll handle everything!” he said, his eyes shining with anticipatory zeal.

Ten to one he was planning what to wear to his first press conference.

“I hate to rain on your parade, Lance,” I finally managed to break in, “but I didn’t kill Cryptessa.”

“You didn’t?”

Did I detect a scintilla of disappointment in his voice?

“But Mrs. Hurlbutt told me the killer was wearing an ape suit.”

Wearily I told him how I’d taken off the cursed costume and left it on Peter’s bed.

“So someone else put it on and killed Cryptessa?” he asked.

“That’s the plot as I see it.”

“Do you have any idea who could have done it?”

“I figure it’s got to be one of our neighbors. None of Peter’s friends even knew Cryptessa. Did you notice anyone leaving the party after 8:30?”

“Sorry, hon,” he shrugged. “The only one I know who left the party was me.”

“You?”

“Peter ran out of ice and I drove over to the supermarket to get some. By the time I got back, Cryptessa was already dead. I’m furious I missed all the action. But on the plus side, Peter was really grateful to me for getting the ice. You should’ve seen the smile he gave me when he thanked me. Did you ever notice how white his teeth are? And did he or did he not look hot in those jeans?”

“Lance!” I snapped my fingers. “Let’s focus, shall we? The topic under discussion is me and the murder charge looming over my head.”

“Not to worry, sweetie,” he said, reluctantly tearing himself away from his Prince Charming. “Like I said, I’ve already lined up an attorney for you. Raoul Duvernois is a legal mastermind. Why, he once got me two grand when I slipped on an anchovy at the California Pizza Kitchen!”

“I don’t need a personal injury lawyer, Lance. I need someone who handles murder charges.”

“Oh, Raoul does everything. Personal injury, traffic tickets, murder. It says so on all his bus posters.”

“Oh, what’s the use? I can’t afford an attorney anyway.”

“No problem, honey. Raoul said he’d take your case pro bono.”

For free? The price was sure right.

“Now let Uncle Lance make you a nice cup of hot chocolate,” he said, leading me into his apartment, “and I’ll tell you about all the fun I had helping Peter clean up after the party.”

“Why on earth would I want to sit around and listen to you blather about Peter?”

“I’ll throw in some extra marshmallows.”

“Okay,” I sighed. “Start blathering.”

YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Travesty of Justice!

Dearest Lambchop,

Can you believe those idiots on the judging committee gave the Halloween Decoration Trophy to Stinky Pinkus and her idiotic “Ghost Moat”? What a travesty of justice!

I can only conclude that the contest was rigged. Lydia seemed awfully chummy with those judges.

Needless to say, I maintained my composure and conceded defeat graciously, but inside, Lambchop, I was steaming.

Your outraged,
Daddy

PS. I’m not the only one who suspected something fishy was going on. The gal who’s staying with Lydia, her old pal from Minnesota, seemed very upset. I saw the two of them exchanging words over by the punch bowl. It can’t be pleasant to discover that your old childhood chum is a decorating cheat.

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Poor Sport

After all Daddy’s fussing and strutting over his silly vampire, guess who won the Halloween decorating contest? Lydia Pinkus. Just like I said she would. The judges thought her “Ghost Moat” was adorable.

Daddy was a dreadful sport about it, grumbling to anyone who’d listen that the contest had been “fixed.” The way he was carrying on, you’d think he’d just lost an Oscar.

I pretended I didn’t know him and mixed and mingled. I got to meet Lydia’s old childhood friend from Minnesota who’s staying with her for the week. Irma Decker. Such a lovely woman. She baked the most wonderful strudel for the party. Put my poor sugar cookies to shame.

Anyhow, after a while Daddy calmed down and managed to get through the night without an argument, so I guess you can say that all’s well that ended well.

Must run now, darling. Off to the clubhouse to play Scrabble.

Oodles of love from,
Mom

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Foul Play

Just got back from playing Scrabble at the clubhouse. I would’ve won, too, if your mom hadn’t gotten the Q and the Z and both blanks. (Frankly, Lambchop, I think she marks the tiles.)

While we were there, we ran into Stinky Pinkus. I expected her to be her usual insufferable self, gloating about winning the trophy. But she was surprisingly quiet. Uneasy, even.

And then I noticed she was alone. No sign of Irma, her houseguest. When I asked where Irma was, Stinky got all shifty-eyed and mumbled something about how she got called away on a family emergency.

And right away I got suspicious. I remembered how the two of them were arguing at the punchbowl last night. And today, Irma’s gone. Just like in
Rear Window
when Raymond Burr argues with his wife. And in the next scene, he’s carting her chopped-up body to the East River in his valise!

Frankly, Lambchop, I suspect foul play.

Love ’n’ hugs from,
Daddy

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Unbelievable!

You’re never going to believe this, sweetheart.

It seems that Lydia Pinkus’ houseguest was called away on a family emergency, and now Daddy suspects “foul play.” As in murder!

He swears he saw the two of them arguing last night, and he actually thinks Lydia may have done away with her best friend.

I knew Daddy would be mad about losing the Halloween decorating contest. I even expected him to accuse Lydia of cheating. But murder? That’s a bit over the top. Even for Daddy.

Honestly, I blame it all on those horror movies he’s been glued to. After weeks of watching people being hacked, stabbed, and chainsawed to death, his imagination has gone haywire!

I need to get Daddy an appointment with a good psychotherapist ASAP.

Your frantic,
Mom

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Ridiculous!

Your mom wants me to have my head examined! Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous? She can have my head examined by all the doctors she wants. And you know what they’ll find up there? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!

XOXO,
Daddy

Chapter 10

I
t’s never a good sign when your attorney’s office is above a massage parlor.

And indeed, that’s where I found Raoul Duvernois, Esq—right above Erotica Massages. (“Where fantasies come true for only $25 an hour!”)

Both Raoul and the gang at Erotica were located in one of the seedier parts of Hollywood. I drove over at around ten the next morning and, after parking my car between two hookers, one of whom assured me she swung both ways, made my way to the address Lance had given me.

At first all I saw was the massage parlor and wondered if Lance had somehow screwed up. But then I stood back and saw a window on the second floor etched with the words, R
AOUL
D
UVERNOIS
, A
TORNEY
AT
L
AW
.

(A second sign you’re in trouble is when your lawyer spells attorney with only one “t.”)

A flight of shabbily carpeted stairs took me past Erotica to Raoul’s second-floor “suite.” His receptionist, a perky sprite of a thing, sat in a tiny anteroom, engrossed in a copy of
Cosmo
, her lips moving as she read “How to Keep Your Man Happy in Bed.”

(I didn’t need
Cosmo
to tell me the answer to that one: Give him the remote.)

“Ahem.” I cleared my throat to catch her attention.

“Oh, hi!” she said, looking up at me with enormous blue eyes. “May I help you?”

“I’m Jaine Austen. I have an appointment to see Mr. Duvernois.”

“Right!” Beaming me a wide smile, she popped up from her desk with a tape measure. “Let me measure you for your neck brace.”

“Neck brace? Why would I need a neck brace?”

“For your whiplash.”

“But I don’t have whiplash.”

“You will,” she giggled. “Sooner or later, all Raoul’s clients wind up with whiplash.”

A broad wink accompanied the quote marks she made when she said “whiplash.”

Ah, it was good to know integrity was alive and kicking above Erotica Massages.

After having my neck measured, I was ushered to a plastic waiting chair and spent the next several minutes scratching a rash that seemed to have developed on my left forearm. Probably an allergic reaction to that damn ape suit.

As I sat there scratching, I pondered the e-mails from my parents I’d been foolish enough to read earlier that morning.

I was not at all surprised Daddy suspected Lydia Pinkus of foul play. Over the years, Daddy had accused the poor woman of everything from cheating at shuffleboard to rigging homeowner association elections. It was only a matter of time before he upped the ante to murder.

And not for one minute did I think Mom would get Daddy to see a shrink. Not after what happened the last time she tried. After just one session, high doses of sedatives were required. For the shrink, that is. Daddy just drove off to the Dairy Queen and had a banana split.

In the midst of my musings, Raoul Duvernois’s door swung open and the great man himself came sweeping out from his office to greet me. A grand entrance if I ever saw one.

“Bonjour, Mamselle Austen!” he gushed, reeking of aftershave.

Lithe and rail thin, his black hair slicked back to a patent-leather shine, he looked like he should’ve been dancing the tango with a rose clenched between his teeth.

His offices may have been in one of the seedier sections of Los Angeles, but Raoul certainly hadn’t stinted on his clothing budget, clad in a designer suit and silk tie that no doubt cost more than my Corolla.

I guess the wages of whiplash really paid off.

“What a pleasure to meet you!” he said, tucking my arm into his and ushering me into his office.

He must’ve run out of money when he finished buying his tie, because his office looked like it came straight from the Goodwill—with a battered desk, corroding metal file cabinet, and two upholstered visitors’ chairs, both sporting a dubious assortment of brownish stains.

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to one of the chairs.

He nimbly sprinted behind his desk and lowered himself into a swivel chair that had probably last been used by Clarence Darrow.

I sat down on what I fervently hoped was not a wad of chewing gum, and glanced around. Over in the corner I noticed a pile of neck braces and, on Raoul’s desk, a pile of Handicapped automobile placards. Peeking out from under a stack of papers was a copy of the
Daily Racing Form
.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, shooting me an oily smile.