Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) (20 page)

I waited for her to offer me one, but I waited in vain.

“I guess I should be trotting along,” I said, eyeing the plate hungrily.

“Oh, go ahead,” Mrs. Hurlbutt grunted, following my gaze. “Take one.”

“If you insist.” I grabbed a muffin before she could change her mind. “Bye now.”

I started back across the street, and when I got to the other side, I turned around and saw Mrs. Hurlbutt giving Mr. Hurlbutt a peck on the cheek. He squeezed her hand in return.

In spite of their problems, it looked like they really did love each other.

The million dollar question was: Had Mr. Hurlbutt killed for that love?

Chapter 22

O
kay, class. Time for today’s real estate lesson. In most parts of the country, $400,000 will get you a really beautiful condo—granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, hardwood floors, walk-in closets—the works.

In West Los Angeles, $400,000 will get you granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, hardwood floors, and walk-in closets.

The rest of the condo, however, will cost you another $400,000.

I was about to discover the wildly overpriced West Los Angeles real estate market when Kevin Moore picked me up later that day in her shiny new BMW convertible.

“Wait’ll you see the first place,” she gushed as I got in the car. “It’s got a fabulous ocean view!”

At that point, I was a property virgin, not fluent in real estate speak, and actually believed her.

We took off in the convertible, Kevin’s blunt-cut blond bob miraculously not moving an inch in the wind. I, on the other hand, was a walking Brillo pad by the time we showed up at a distinctly seedy, semi-industrial section of Santa Monica, where graffiti sprouted like mushrooms on the building walls.

Kevin pulled into the parking area of what looked like a former Motel 6—a flimsy two-story stucco affair, painted an appalling shade of doggie doo brown.

“You’re going to love the neighborhood!” Kevin enthused, in full-tilt cheerleader mode. “It’s got such an eclectic mix of people!”

She did not lie. Winos of all races and creeds were loitering on the street around us.

I followed the fuchsia soles of her Christian Louboutins up a flight of rickety stairs to the second floor of the building.

“Here we are,” she said, swinging open the scuffed door to one of the units.

The first thing that hit me was the smell, a heady aroma of kitty piss and stale beer.

Whoever had lived there had already moved out, leaving a colorful assortment of stains on the carpet and nails in the walls. The stove in the “kitchenette” was crusted with grease dating back to the Pleistocene Era. And strands of what looked like dried spaghetti still clung to the ceiling.

“It just needs a little TLC,” Kevin pronounced.

True. If by TLC she meant “tear down, level, and condemn.”

“Here’s the living room.”

She gestured to the filthy cave next to the kitchenette, where empty beer cans had been piled high in a fake fireplace, then ushered me down a hallway where some imaginative child had drawn a series of swastikas in crayon.

“What do you think of this?” she said, opening the door to a dusty but rather large closet.

“A walk-in closet,” I murmured, trying not to stare at a suspicious brown blob on the carpet. “How nice.”

“Oh, this isn’t a closet, hon,” she trilled. “It’s the bedroom.”

“But there’s no window.”

“I know; it makes it nice and cozy, doesn’t it? Now let’s go see the master bath.”

She proudly showed me a mold-infested bathroom.

“As you can see,” she said, pointing to a gaping hole in the floor, “the previous owners took the toilet with them.”

What a fitting souvenir.

“I’ve been saving the best for last,” she now said, leading me back down Swastika Alley to the living room.

“Here it is. The pièce de résistance. Your ocean view.” She pulled aside the rotting drapes at the window.

“Voilà!” She waved outside with a flourish. “Isn’t it impressive?”

“Very,” I nodded. “Over 200 billion sold.”

“No, hon. Behind the McDonald’s sign. If you crane your neck, you can see the ocean.”

I craned my neck.

“That’s another billboard. With a picture of the ocean.”

“It’s not the real ocean?” she asked, squinting into the distance.

“Afraid not.”

“Damn. I’ve really got to get my contacts checked. Oh, well. It’s still a lovely billboard, isn’t it?”

Somehow I managed to nod yes.

“So,” she chirped, her Ultra Brite smile beaming in the dingy room. “What do you think?”

I thought I’d rather live at the McDonald’s.

“If you like it, you’ll have to act fast. This one won’t last.”

I’ll say. I gave it fifteen minutes before it collapsed.

“I’m afraid it really isn’t for me.”

“Not a problem!” she said, still beaming. “I’ve got plenty more properties to show you.”

Indeed she did. She proceeded to drag me to a series of run down apartment-turned-condos last seen on a SWAT team drug bust. Kevin, however, oohed and aahed at each property, as if she’d just unveiled the Hope Diamond. For every flaw, she had a positive spin.

I’ll spare you the ugly details of my House Tour from Hell, but here are a few snippets from our conversation, featuring Kevin in advanced spinmeister mode:

ME: Isn’t that a hole in the wall?

KEVIN: A perfect spot for a planter!

ME: Omigosh. The basement is flooded.

KEVIN: The current owners are using it as a koi pond!

ME (SHOUTING OVER ROARING TRAFFIC): But the building’s right next to the freeway.

KEVIN: I know. It’s a commuter’s dream!

We were driving home from our last stop (The Freeway Special), my mind still reeling at the hovels selling for four hundred grand. Alongside me, after two hours of architectural atrocities, Kevin’s smile was undiminished.

“So what did you think of the last one?” she asked.

“I don’t think I want to live so close to the freeway. The noise out on the balcony was pretty bad.”

The balcony in question had been a perilously narrow affair with a wobbly railing and rusted hibachi.

“All you need are a few plants to baffle the sound and you’d never even know you were next to a freeway.”

Oh, come off it. The only thing that would baffle the sound of that freeway was a nuclear bomb.

“Matt could help you do some landscaping,” Kevin chirped, oblivious to my glaring lack of enthusiasm. “My hubby’s got a fabulous green thumb. He did our own yard. And Cryptessa’s, too.”

“Cryptessa’s?” I asked, happy to talk about something—anything—other than me forking over four hundred grand I didn’t have for a hovel I didn’t want.

“After the old witch had our hedges cut down, she had the nerve to ask Matt to help her plant some rosebushes.”

“No!” I said, pretending to be outraged.

“But Matt, pussycat that he is, went ahead and did it. With Cryptessa standing over him the whole time, barking orders like a marine drill sergeant.”

“That’s exactly what she did to me!”

Eagerly I told her the saga of my adventures in Cryptessa’s backyard, burying Van Helsing and planting petunias. I chattered on about how I broiled in the sun, broke my nails, and ruined my shoes in the gardener’s oil slicks.

With any luck, I could keep this conversational ball bouncing and distract Kevin from the topic of me buying a condo.

“Would you believe she made me dig a grave three feet deep for a teeny tiny parakeet?”

“Bummer. So about those properties, hon? Which one do you feel like writing an offer on?”

So much for distraction.

I had to be firm and simply tell her I wasn’t interested, that I’d rather move to a Siberian gulag.

“I’m afraid none of them really appealed to me.”

Good. It was over. Now she’d leave me alone and I’d never have to look at grout mold again.

But like I said, I was a property virgin. Little did I realize that this was just the beginning.

“Not a problem,” she chirped. “I’ll just line up a whole bunch more.”

Oh, foo. I had to put a stop to this. I couldn’t possibly waste any more of her time or mine. Why on earth had I made up that stupid lie about being in the housing market in the first place? I didn’t have the money to buy a welcome mat, let alone a condo.

I had to think of a way out of this.

And then an idea came to me. Not a particularly good one. But it was the best I could think of at the time, and I ran with it.

“Oops. My phone,” I said, reaching into my purse.

“I didn’t hear it ring.”

“It’s on vibrate.”

“You can feel your phone vibrating through your purse?”

“Absolutely. It’s a very strong vibration. Practically shiatsu.”

I flipped my phone open and began my little charade.

“Hello? . . . Oh, hi, Uncle Willie. How’s everything going?. . . You’re out of the hospital? . . . They found a cure for your rare blood disease? Oh, that’s wonderful. How fantastic. Look, I’m with someone else right now. Let me call you the minute I get home.”

I flipped my phone shut.

“You’ll never guess who that was!”

“Your uncle Willie.”

“Right. And you’ll never guess what happened.”

“They cured his rare blood disease.”

“We all thought poor Uncle Willie was a goner. But it turns out he’s going to live. Isn’t that wonderful news?”

“Swell,” she said, faking a perky smile, undoubtedly calculating her commission from my would-be condo purchase.

“Which means I won’t be getting my inheritance,” I said.

“Oh?”

“And sadly, I won’t be able to buy a condo at this time.”

Now she snapped to attention.

Her smile went bye-bye and anger flashed in her eyes. For a minute, I was afraid she was going to stop the car and make me walk the rest of the way home.

“Do you realize I’ve just wasted two hours of my life showing you crappy condos?”

Okay, she didn’t really say that, but trust me. That’s what she was thinking.

We drove the rest of the way home in an icy silence.

Which was awkward, of course. But definitely worth it. From the look on her face, I knew I wouldn’t be hearing from Kevin Moore any time soon.

I was walking up the path to my apartment—a virtual palace compared to the hellholes I’d just seen—when Lance came bounding out from his front door.

“I won!” he gloated.

“You won what?”

“Our bet. About Peter! It’s official. He’s gay! I’ve got a date with him tomorrow night. Dinner for two at Belle Reve out in Malibu.”

I knew of the joint, one of those dimly lit love nests with candles on the table and the surf pounding outside the window. I’d been there years ago with my ex-husband, The Blob.

And it had indeed been a most romantic evening. For The Blob, anyway. He got our waitress’s phone number while I was in the ladies’ room.

“Peter actually asked you out?”

“Technically I may have done the asking,” Lance conceded, “but he said yes.”

“Maybe Peter agreed to go out with you as a friend.”

“Oh, please. We’re going to a restaurant Zagat calls one of the most romantic places west of the Rockies. It’s got to mean something.”

Alas, I feared it did.

Oh, well. I should’ve known Peter was gay all along. I mean, how many straight guys have Limoges figurines on their bookshelves?

“Have a nice time,” I said feebly.

“I will. For sure!” Lance gushed with a most annoying wink. “And I’ll let you know where I want you to take me for
our
dinner.”

“What dinner?”

“The one you’re going to buy me now that I’ve won the bet. Remember? Loser has to buy the winner dinner.”

Oh, foo.

“Don’t worry, hon. I won’t choose anything expensive. Not very, anyway.”

Cursing myself for making that silly bet, I let myself into my apartment, where my phone was ringing.

Prozac glanced up from where she was sprawled out on the couch.

Answer that, will you? I’m in the middle of a very important nap.

Ever her faithful servant, I hurried to get it.

It was Marvelous Marv, the Mattress King.

I prayed my Danny Dustmite spots had gone over well. I think we can all agree I was due for some good news.

“Great job with the Danny Dustmite spots!” Marvin boomed.

“So glad you liked them!” I said, visions of a nice fat check winging my way.

And then came those four little words I’d learned to dread:

“Just one little tweak.”

Oh, hell.

“I need you to dump Danny Dustmite.”

“What??”

“My research team tells me the dustmite approach is passé.”

Damn his brother-in-law Sid!

“The hottest thing in mattress marketing is bedbugs. Everybody’s scared of ’em. So I’ve decided to offer an exclusive Bedbug Protection Kit, free with every Mattress King mattress. And instead of Danny Dustmite, I want you to write a bunch of spots featuring a bedbug named Bernie.”

“Bernie the Bedbug?”