Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) (26 page)

“So you’re not gay?” I asked, determined to clear things up once and for all.

“No, I most definitely am not.”

Hallelujah. Somewhere out there angels were singing.

“In fact, that’s really why I stopped by. I wanted to invite you over for dinner tonight. Hopefully,” he added, taking a step closer, “a romantic dinner.”

Gulp. I felt my knees turn to Jello.

Now he leaned in even closer. I thought for sure he was going to kiss me. But no, he just plucked another noodle from my lapel.

“So how about it?” Peter asked. “Are we on?”

“For all eternity.”

Okay, so what I really said was, “Yes.”

“My place at seven?”

I nodded mutely.

The minute he left, I broke into a happy dance, skipping around the room like a crazed go-go dancer.

“He’s interested! He’s interested! He’s interested!”

Prozac looked up lazily from where she’d stretched out on the sofa.

I know. I had him at “meow.”

I continued to whirl around in a blissful glow, overjoyed at the prospect of my First Official Date with Peter. But then suddenly I remembered a tiny obstacle standing in the way of my happy ending.

That damn Buddha.

If Peter and I were going to be lifelong soul mates, he could never know that I was the kind of woman who went around decapitating valuable Limoges figurines with her Tummy Tamer.

That had to be my sacred secret forever.

Some time during our dinner, I absolutely, positively had to replace the beheaded Buddha with the one I’d bought from Ms. Jaguar.

Only then could Peter and I live happily ever after.

Or at least until Official Date Number Two.

Chapter 29

I
showed up at Peter’s that night, coiffed and spritzed for the occasion, the replacement Buddha tucked away in my purse.

It had taken me at least twenty minutes to blow out the curls in my unruly mop, secretly hoping that they might spring to life again in the steam of Peter’s embrace.

“Hello, there!” He grinned when he saw me, the cleft in his chin looking more kissable than ever. “Come on in.”

I took one sniff and swore I’d died and gone to culinary heaven.

“Is that roast lamb I smell?” I asked, my salivary glands doing the cha-cha.

“Studded with garlic slivers,” he nodded. “And cheddar cheese mashed potatoes.”

Note to self: Marry this man.

He ushered me over to one of the twin sofas that flanked his fireplace. Logs were blazing cozily in the hearth, and a glorious hunk of Brie, surrounded by a circle of crackers, awaited me on the coffee table.

This was my kind of love nest.

“Can I get you some wine?” Peter’s brown eyes shone in the glow of the flames.

“Yes, please,” I managed to gulp.

“Red or white?”

“White.”

No way was I going to risk spilling red wine on his white flokati rug. Not after my flying brownie debacle.

“Be back in a sec,” he said, heading off to the kitchen

I sank back into his luxurious leather sofa, and—eager to pass myself off as a dainty eater—resolved not to touch a morsel of the cheese and crackers until Peter returned.

A resolve that lasted all of about seven seconds.

Alas, I couldn’t resist the lure of the Brie and spread a glorious glob of the stuff on a cracker.

Bliss. Sheer bliss.

“Comfy?” Peter asked, returning with two glasses of white wine.

“Very, thanks.”

That’s what I meant to say, but due to the cheese and crackers in my mouth, it came out sounding like, “Ferry, wanks.”

Way to go, Jaine.

He handed me my wine and joined me on the sofa, thighs just inches from mine, sending my heart rate soaring.

“A toast,” he said, holding his glass aloft. “To Jaine Austen, Neighborhood Crimefighter.”

We clinked glasses and sipped.

Dee-lush! What a step up from my usual Chateau Costco.

“And another toast,” he added. “To the fabulous Marissa Rothman.”

“Marissa Rothman?”

Who the hell was she? And what was she doing barging in on our romantic dinner à deux?

“Marissa’s my agent at ICM,” he explained. “And I’ve got fabulous news! After years of editing other writers’ novels, I’ve finally sold one of my own. Marissa just closed the deal today. A six-figure advance!”

“Wow! That’s wonderful, Peter!”

Indeed it was. Now we could afford that honeymoon in Tahiti I’d been fantasizing about.

“I couldn’t think of a nicer person to share my good news with than you,” he said, clinking my glass again.

Aw, what a sweetie. I just hoped he had more than news he wanted to share.

And it looked like he did, because just then he began moving closer to me.

I checked my chest for cracker crumbs, wondering if he was about to flick some away. But—hallelujah!—he was not on crumb patrol. No, he was zeroing in for a long-awaited kiss!

Then, just as his lips met mine, I realized something had come between us.

Namely, my purse. With my replacement Buddha inside. I’d plopped it on the sofa next to me when I sat down. Oh, hell. What if Peter locked me in a passionate embrace and the Buddha shattered from the crush of our bodies?

In a panic, I managed to wrest the purse out from between us, but I was so busy worrying about that darn Buddha, I missed all the fun of the kiss. Before I knew it, it was over.

Damn!

Off in the kitchen, a timer dinged.

“Oops,” Peter said, jumping up. “Gotta go mash my potatoes. Wanna watch?”

Under normal circumstances, I would be happy to watch this guy mash anything his little heart desired, but not then. Not when I had a Buddha to replace.

“Actually, I think I’ll just freshen up in your bathroom, okay?”

“Fine. It’s down the hall to your left.”

I knew only too well where it was, still cringing at the memory of my wrestling match with the Tummy Tamer.

Naturally, I did not go to the bathroom. Instead I waited until I saw Peter disappear into the kitchen, and then, purse in hand, I tiptoed down the hall to his office.

Dashing to the bookshelf, I checked behind the thesaurus where I’d hidden the beheaded Buddha, happy to see it hadn’t been moved.

With trembling hands, I unwrapped the replacement Buddha.

At last the Fates were with me.

It was an exact match.

I slid it on the shelf with a sigh of relief. Mission accomplished. The Tahiti honeymoon could proceed as planned.

Then, just as I was stashing the broken Buddha into my purse, I happened to glance down at Peter’s desk. There, next to his computer, was a freshly printed manuscript.

Omigosh. This must be his novel. The one he sold for six figures.

I’d been yakking about writing a novel for years, but somehow there was always another toilet bowl ad or mattress commercial to distract me. But Peter had actually gone ahead and done it.

I admired him more than ever.

It was when I took a closer look and saw the title page, however, that everything fell apart.

There they were, six little words that would turn my world upside down:

THE DEVIL’S POODLE
by Peter Connor

The Devil’s Poodle?
Wait a minute. Wasn’t that the title of Cryptessa’s novel? The one she’d shown me the day I came to pay my condolence call for Van Helsing?

I remembered how Cryptessa had stormed into Peter’s housewarming party, demanding that he read her book. He’d turned her away, telling her he never read unsolicited manuscripts. Was it possible he’d read it after all, and liked it? Liked it so much he wanted to be its author?

Had Peter Connor killed Cryptessa to get his name on the best-seller list?

No, it couldn’t be. Not Peter. Not Mr. Right.

Besides, the Moores were the killers, weren’t they?

Or were they? Maybe all they were guilty of was plotting to defraud Warren of his rightful inheritance. Maybe they pushed me into that open grave to stop my snooping, afraid I’d discovered their plans. And maybe the only reason Matt’s fingerprints were on Cryptessa’s D
O
N
OT
T
RESPASS
sign was because he’d helped her nail the stake into the ground.

As much as it pained me, I feared Peter was the killer.

But how could I prove it? Right now it was my word against his. For all anyone knew, he’d thought up the idea for
The Devil’s Poodle
on his own.

In a desperate attempt to uncover some actual evidence, I began searching through his desk. I cringed to discover a cache of hard-core porn magazines in the top drawer, the kind of stuff that made me want to disinfect my eyeballs. I continued rifling through stacks of old bills, many stamped “second notice,” entertaining a faint hope that I wouldn’t find anything more damning. But then I found it, crammed in the back of the bottom drawer: Cryptessa’s battered manuscript,
The Devil’s Poodle
in ragged typeface on the title page.

“So you know my little secret.”

I whirled around to see Peter in the doorway, a butcher’s knife gleaming in his hand. I’d been so engrossed in my search, I hadn’t even heard him coming.

“Who would have thought Cryptessa’s book would be any good?” he said, strolling into the room. “Certainly not me. But she left it on my doorstep and I took a peek out of curiosity. Thought I’d die when I realized what a blockbuster it was. I knew it would sell for at least six figures. And that’s when I came up with my little plan. I was sick of seeing my authors get all the big bucks. Why couldn’t I get a piece of the action? So I paid Cryptessa a visit. Turned on the old charm. You know how good I can be at that.”

He flashed me that grin I once found so attractive. Now it made the bile rise in the back of my throat.

“When Cryptessa swore to me that no one had read her book, that she’d kept it under lock and key while she was writing it, the paranoid old crone signed her own death warrant.”

By now he was standing in front of me, the tip of his butcher knife just inches from my heart.

“And then you—sweet, silly Jaine—you gave me the perfect opportunity to kill her, the night of my Halloween party when I saw you taking off your ape suit. How easy it was to slip it on and blame the whole thing on you.”

And to think I’d wanted to marry this maniac.

“Anyhow, after I whacked Cryptessa, I ran down the street and then up the alley behind my house. I popped in my back door and hid the ape suit in a safe under the floorboards in my service porch—a memento of my very first murder.”

He giggled with pride.

“Then I hurried outside to join the crowd in front of Cryptessa’s house. No one any wiser. Until now, that is. Too bad you had to be such a nosy parker. I figured you’d be fun in between girlfriends.”

“In between girlfriends?”

He shot me an insolent smile. “I saw how crazy you were about me, figured I’d kill some time with you until somebody in my league came along.”

With that, something in me snapped. Suddenly I was flooded with rage. Rage for the way Peter tried to frame me, and use me, and most of all, for the way he killed a perfectly innocent albeit highly aggravating woman just to make it on the best-seller list. I wasn’t about to die at the hands of a bum like Peter. No way.

But what could I do with that damn knife only inches from my chest?

Then I had an idea. It was the oldest trick in the book, but maybe he’d fall for it.

“Mrs. Hurlbutt!” I cried out, looking over his shoulder. “Thank heavens you’re here!”

Luckily he took the bait.

He whirled around to see if the Town Crier was really at the door, and when he did, I grabbed his laptop and whacked him on the head as hard as I could.

Then I ran for my life.

Unfortunately, I did not get very far. I did not take two steps before I tripped over my own purse and went sprawling onto the floor.

And clearly I had not whacked Peter hard enough, because two seconds later he was on top of me, straddling my chest.

“Time to write ‘The End,’ Jaine,” he said, his hands inching up toward my neck. “Too bad you never got a chance to try my lamb. It’s really yummy.”

“Lance knows I’m here!” I cried out in desperation.

Which was a lie, of course. I hadn’t told Lance about my date with Peter. I didn’t want to make him feel bad. What a fool I’d been. If only I’d raced into his apartment and crowed in victory.

“When I’m missing,” I said, “you’ll be the first person they suspect.”

Peter looked down at me with that smile I’d come to loathe.

“But you never showed up for dinner. That’s what I intend to tell the cops, right after I dump your body in the nearest ravine.”

Before I knew it, his hands were around my neck.

“I thought about killing you with the butcher’s knife,” he said, still smiling that awful smile, “but on second thought, why get my carpet all bloody? Strangling’s so much tidier.”

Oh, God, I had to do something. I couldn’t let my life end at the hands of this miserable dirtbag.

And then I saw it. My salvation, peeking out from my purse:

The beheaded Buddha.

I reached out to grab it, but it lay maddeningly just beyond my grasp. Cursing myself for never taking a yoga stretch class, I reached out again, straining my arm till I thought it would come out of its socket. This time, I managed to grab hold of it.

And then, with every ounce of strength in my body, I pulled back my arm and plunged the Buddha’s jagged edge in Peter’s eye.

Bingo.

Yowling like a banshee, Peter released his hold on me to clutch his eye in agony.

Somehow I managed to shove him off me, and went hurtling through his house and out his front door, coughing and wheezing and hollering for help.

As I staggered down the street, I saw Lance rushing out from his apartment.

“Jaine, what’s wrong?” he asked, hurrying to my side.