Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) (21 page)

“Great name, huh?”

“Peachy.”

“I knew you’d love it. Anyhow, the deal is that Bernie’s living the life of luxury in some poor sap’s mattress, and then everything falls apart when his mattress is replaced by a brand-new Mattress King mattress. Dynamite idea, huh?”

“Dynamite,” I agreed lamely, wishing I could shove a stick of the stuff up Sid’s meddling fanny.

“Can you get me the spots by tomorrow?”

“Sure thing, Marvin.”

I hung up with a sigh and shuffled over to my computer.

To think that Lance had a date with the man of my dreams while I was stuck with Bernie the Bedbug.

As Daddy would say, what a travesty of justice.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Hot on Stinky’s Tail

I’m kicking myself for not following Stinky Pinkus on her secret “duffel bag” mission the other night. I could’ve taken a cell phone picture of her dumping the murder weapon and gone straight to the police. But, confidentially, Lambchop, I still haven’t quite figured out how to take a picture with my cell phone. And besides, I wanted to make it to the market for my Rocky Road before they closed.

But fear not! I’ve been making up for my missed opportunity. Big-time. Today I tailed Stinky to Macy’s where, hiding behind a display of Martha Stewart quilts, I watched her buy a thick woolen blanket.

Lesser minds might not have figured it out, but I knew right away why she was buying it. To wrap the corpse, of course!

Elementary, my dear Lambchop!

Love ’n’ hugs from
The Nose

PS. I’m off to Stinky’s backyard to see if I can find evidence of a freshly dug grave!

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Distressing Phone Call

Oh, dear. I just got the most distressing phone call from Lydia Pinkus. She looked out her window a few minutes ago and saw Daddy peeking over her back fence, staring into her yard. When she asked him what he was doing, he said he was looking for a lost golf ball!

Did you ever hear of anything so preposterous? The golf course is at the other end of Tampa Vistas. (Although the way Daddy plays, I guess it’s not all that impossible.)

What poor Lydia must think of us!

I only wish I knew what she was doing with that duffel bag in the middle of the night.

Your anxious,
Mom

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: The Case Against Stinky P

Slowly but surely, Lambchop, I am building my case against Stinky Pinkus. Guess what I saw in her backyard this afternoon? A shovel! Propped right up against her back door. She hasn’t dug the grave yet, but she’s going to. Any day now.

The body’s got to be in her town house somewhere. Which leaves me no other alternative.

I’m going to have to break in and find it!

Your intrepid,
Daddy

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Gals’ Night Out

I’m off for a gals’ night out at the movies with Lydia and Edna. I don’t know how I’ll be able to look Lydia in the face, what with Daddy peeking over her fence this afternoon. When he got home, he confessed he’d been looking for signs of a freshly dug grave!

I read him the riot act and told him he couldn’t possibly go around looking for graves in my best friends’ backyards. I expected him to put up a fight, but for once, he behaved like a normal human being and promised to put an end to his investigation. I guess he finally realized how silly he was being.

Still on his best behavior, he didn’t make any fuss about my leaving him alone tonight with a Hamburger Helper casserole for dinner. Just told me to go out and enjoy myself.

I’d better sign off and get dressed before the girls show up. It looks like it’s going to rain any minute. A perfect opportunity to wear my new water-resistant suede boots with faux fur trim. (Just $59.66 from the shopping channel, with FREE shipping and handling!)

Want me to send you a pair, hon? They’re sold out of tan, but they’ve got a darling Electric Blue color that should look so cute in Los Angeles. How about it, sweetheart?

Love and kisses,
Mom

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Tonight’s the Night!

Tonight’s the night, Lambchop! Your mom’s just left for the movies with Lydia and Edna. Leaving the coast clear for me to spring into action and find Lydia’s hidden corpse!

While I was at Stinky’s this afternoon, I very cleverly pretended Mom wanted to borrow one of her recipes. And while she was in the kitchen getting it, I dashed upstairs to her bedroom and unlocked the sliding door to her balcony.

That’s how I’m going to let myself in!

Yes, tonight, I will shimmy up the drainpipe of Stinky Pinkus’s town house, swing onto the balcony, and slip in through the sliding door, no one the wiser. I know Stinky’s got a corpse hidden somewhere, and I’ll leave no knickknack unturned in my relentless quest to find it!

Oops. I’d better hurry. Looks like it’s about to rain.

Love ’n’ hugs,
Daddy

Chapter 23

S
ee? I told you Daddy was nuts. What sort of crazy person runs around investigating murders without a license or even an iota’s worth of training?

Oops, wait. That’s what I do, isn’t it?

But at least I started out my investigation with a dead body. The closest Daddy got to a corpse was that Fang-tastic Dracula out on his lawn.

I checked out my parents’ e-mails the next morning, shuddering at the thought of Daddy breaking into Lydia Pinkus’s town house. I had no idea what Lydia had been doing with that duffel bag the other night, but I sincerely doubted she’d been toting around a murder weapon.

Shoving Daddy to the dusty corner of my brain reserved for root canals and Tummy Tamers, I decided to buckle down and get to work on Bernie the Bedbug.

I’d meant to tackle Bernie last night, but you know how it is with work assignments: one minute you’re sitting in front of your computer, clear-eyed and brimming with determination, and the next you’re sprawled in bed with your cat on your stomach, sucking down a carton of Chunky Monkey and watching re-runs of
Everybody Loves Raymond
.

But now, armed with a steaming cup of Folgers, I was up for the job. At this stage of the game, I was an old pro at mattress-dwelling insects, and so a scant five hours later (I took a few
Raymond
breaks) I finished the spots with Bernie’s immortal last words: “Holy Innersprings! It’s Mattress King! I’m doomed!”

(Hey, I never said I was Shakespeare.)

I’d just faxed them off to Marvin when the UPS guy came knocking on my front door with a package. A glance at the return address told me it was my replacement Buddha.

Eagerly I tore it open, digging out my treasure from the Styrofoam peanuts.

My face froze in dismay at the sight of the thing.

It was nothing like the one I’d ordered. A snow-white cherub with wide blue eyes, it looked like the Pillsbury Doughboy in a kimono.

I quickly dashed off an irate note to the e-tailer who’d sold it to me. He replied that he’d already sold the figurine I’d ordered and took the liberty of sending me this one because it was “practically identical” to my original choice.

I informed him in no uncertain terms that he needed to get his eyes examined and demanded a refund. After which I bid the doughboy a fond farewell and packed him back up in his peanuts.

Then I slumped down on my sofa with a sigh.

Maybe I should just tell Peter the truth and fess up that I’d broken his Buddha. No, it was bad enough I’d gotten brownie stains all over his rug. I couldn’t possibly own up to this blunder, too.

I may have lost the Peter Wars, but Peter was still my neighbor, one who might possibly publish my Great American Novel someday, if I ever got around to writing it, and I didn’t want him to think I was a complete nitwit.

So I went back online, determined to find a genuine replacement.

At first my Web search yielded nada. But then Lady Luck, who up till then had clearly been vacationing in the Bahamas, made a surprise re-entrance into my life. On the umpteenth page of Google listings, I came across what looked like an exact replica of the Buddha I’d decapitated.

Even better, it was right here in Los Angeles, at an antique shop over in West Hollywood.

Like a flash, I was on the phone with Gary of Gary’s Fine Antiques, confirming that he did indeed have a genuine Limoges Buddha figurine just like the one I’d broken.

Gary assured me his Buddha did not bear the slightest resemblance to the Pillsbury Doughboy, and I told him to hold on to it for dear life.

“Whatever you do,” I told him, “don’t sell it. My name is Jaine Austen and I’ll be right over!”

Seconds later, I was zooming out the door.

I stopped zooming, however, when I hit Olympic Boulevard, which was clogged worse than the toilets on yesterday’s condo tour.

Teeth grinding, I inched along in traffic until I eventually made it to Gary’s shop on a tiny street in West Hollywood. After pulling into the narrow parking lot at the side of the shop, I leaped out of my car, rushing past a sleek brunette reeking of money and designer perfume.

Gary’s Fine Antiques turned out to be a dusty joint crammed with what I suspected were not actual antiques but upscale thrift shop offerings.

“Are you Gary?” I asked a pale bespectacled guy behind the counter.

“That’s me,” he nodded.

“I’m Jaine Austen, the woman who called about the Buddha.”

“Sorry,” he said with a careless shrug. “I just sold it to another lady.”

“But I told you to hold it for me.”

“Listen, hon. If I held everything for everybody who said they’d stop by and never showed, this would be a warehouse and not an antique store. So unless you give me your credit card number over the phone, it’s up for grabs.”

Damn!

I guess he could tell by the string of colorful curses I was muttering just how upset I was.

“Maybe the other lady will sell it to you. If you hurry, you can catch her. She’s probably still in the parking lot.”

I raced outside just in time to see the sleek brunette driving off in a hunter green Jaguar.

I waved at her frantically, but she was yakking on her Bluetooth and, totally oblivious to my antics, just kept going. Lord only knew where I’d find another Buddha, and I was determined to get my hands on this one. Jumping back into my Corolla, I started to follow her.

It turned out Ms. Jaguar was quite the kamikaze driver, weaving in and out of traffic with the ease of a Hollywood stuntman.

My idea of speeding is going 56 in a 55 mile zone, but I screwed up my courage and tried my best to keep up with her, coming perilously close to several fender benders in the process. At one rather harrowing point, I was almost rear-ended by a beige Camry behind me.

It was when we were driving north on Doheny that I caught a lucky break. Ms. Jaguar was stopped at a red light and, cutting in front of an irate Jeep driver, I managed to pull up beside her. Immediately I started honking my horn, gesturing for her to pull over. But that irritating woman was still yakking on her phone, still oblivious.

We continued this crazy car chase for a few miles until we were on Sunset Boulevard, driving out toward the ocean.

For a while I’d managed to stick right behind her, but now she was several cars ahead of me. As we headed west, I saw her turning right on Mandeville Canyon, a very tony enclave of town, favored by people with multiple brokerage accounts.

Speeding for all I was worth, I followed her up the winding canyon road until I saw the Jaguar pull into a huge gated estate.

By the time I got there, the gates had swung shut and Ms. Jaguar was heading up the path to her front door.

Then, in the distance, I heard the sounds of sirens wailing. Oh, rats. I hoped it wasn’t the cops out to arrest me for speeding.

I rang the buzzer on the gate, but there was no answer.

That was ridiculous. I knew Ms. Jaguar was home. I just saw her walk into the house.

I rang the buzzer again. Still no reply.

By now the sounds of the sirens were coming closer. I wondered if someone here in The Land of the Rich was having a medical emergency.

I was about to ring the buzzer for the third time when suddenly what seemed like a whole platoon of police and private security cars came bombing up the hill and screeched to a halt around my Corolla.

“Don’t move!” shouted one of the cops, a tanned tree trunk of a man. “Or we’ll shoot!”

Holy Moses. What the heck was this all about?

“Hey, I know I was speeding, but this is America. We don’t shoot people for that.”

“We’ve got a report that you’ve been terrorizing the resident of this house,” the tree trunk said.

“Me? No, I was just trying to buy her Buddha.”

“Her what?”

I calmly and rationally explained how I had been following Ms. Jaguar in the hopes of buying her Buddha figurine.

Okay, so maybe I wasn’t so calm. Or rational. Maybe I babbled just a tad. To the best of my recollection, what I said went something like this:

“It all started when I decapitated Peter’s Buddha, trying to cut myself out of my Tummy Tamer, and sent away for a replacement from eBay but when it showed up this morning it was the Pillsbury Doughboy so I raced out to Gary’s Fine Antiques, only to discover that Gary had already sold it to Ms. Jaguar even though I expressly told him to hold it for me, which is why I’ll never be going back
there
again, and surely you can understand that I had to follow the Jaguar and get the Buddha so Peter could publish my Great American Novel.”