Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) (3 page)

“A coincidence? It’s a tragic commentary on my life. Don’t you see? Leonard’s been married and divorced twice since our date. And I still haven’t been anywhere near an altar. I’ve made absolutely no progress in ten whole years of dating. I’m back to square one.”

“Yes, but on the plus side,” I reminded her, “you had blueberry pie for dessert.”

“Jaine, please!” she said, shooting me a wounded look.

“Oh, honey,” I said, reluctantly abandoning the chips to take her hand, “you mustn’t let it get to you.”

“Easy for you to say,” she sulked. “At least you’ve been married.”

“To The Blob? That hardly counts. The man—and I use the term loosely—showed up at our wedding in flip-flops and watched ESPN during sex—with himself.”

Our waiter, a skinny guy with enormous brown eyes, who had sidled up to take our orders, tsked in sympathy.

I get that a lot when people hear about The Blob.

“What’ll it be, señoritas?” he asked.

We ordered our usual: tostada salad for Kandi, chicken chimichangas with refried beans and rice for
moi
.

“Look, Kandi,” I said as the waiter walked off. “You try harder than anyone I know to get out there and make things happen. I’m certain that someday you’re going to meet your special somebody.”

“That’s exactly what Madame Vruska said.”

For the first time since I’d walked into the restaurant, I saw a glimmer of hope in her eyes.

“Madame Vruska?”

“The most amazing new psychic I went to. I drove past her place on my way home from my date with Leonard. There was her sign, right next to the place where I get my nails done.
Madame Vruska, Palm Reader
. Like a beacon shining in the wasteland of my dating life. The very next day, I went in for a consultation.”

“What did she say?”

“First, how much she loved my nails. And then she read my palm and told me I’d soon be meeting the love of my life. Someone in the arts. Oh, Jaine!” she said, licking a grain of salt from the rim of her margarita glass. “Doesn’t that sound exciting? A painter or a musician. Or maybe a tango dancer. I’ve always wanted to date a tango dancer.”

And just like that, she sloughed off her depression and took a whole bite of her chip.

That’s what makes Kandi a kamikaze dater. No matter how many knocks she takes, she’s constantly rising from the ashes of her bad dates, ready once again to meet Mr. Right.

The woman can go from storm clouds to silver linings in the time it takes me to polish off a bowl of chips. Which by now I had pretty much done.

“So what’s new with you, hon?” she asked.

I told her about Peter Connor and my bet with Lance.

“I thought Peter was flirting with me, but Lance is probably right. Chances are, Peter’s gay.”

“Don’t be silly. Lance thinks everyone’s gay. Didn’t he once say Karl Marx was gay?”

“No, Groucho.”

“Whatever. Lance has no idea what he’s talking about. I’ll bet Peter
was
flirting with you. Now you just have to be cute and flirty right back at him.”

Sad to say, Cute and Flirty are subjects I flunked long ago in adolescence. (Although I did get outstanding grades in Awkward and Tongue Tied.)

“Next time you see him,” Kandi said, “you’re going to be a lean, mean flirting machine.”

“Right.” I nodded absently, my eyes riveted on the two golden chimichangas, smothered with guacamole and sour cream, that our waiter had just set down before me.

Kandi eyed them with alarm.

“Take back those chimichangas!” she cried. “She’ll have a salad instead.”

“Touch that plate,” I told him, “and you’re a dead man.”

Sensing I meant business, he skittered off in a flash.

“Jaine!” Kandi tsked. “How can you possibly eat those fattening chimichangas at a time like this?”

“Like I always do,” I said, reaching for my fork. “With extra sour cream.”

And without any further ado, I dug right in.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL!

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Halloween Happenings

Hi, sweetheart,

Just got the cutest sweatshirt to wear to the annual Tampa Vistas Halloween party! Bright orange, with a sequined ghost that says, “Got Candy?” Leave it to the Shopping Channel to come up with such a clever idea for only $32.44 plus shipping and handling!

Meanwhile, Daddy’s been glued to the television, watching all those god-awful horror movies they show at this time of the year. I swear, if I hear one more person being hacked to death with a chainsaw, I’m going to throw away the remote.

And you’re not going to believe this, but Daddy’s entering the Halloween Lawn Decorating Contest. Again. You’d think after five consecutive years of losing, he’d give up. But no, Daddy is convinced this year he’s going to win first prize with some lawn ornament he ordered from an infomercial. I just pray it’s not as bad as those dreadful remote-controlled rats he ordered last year. He had the ghastly creatures running up and down our front path for weeks. Practically gave poor Edna Lindstrom next door a heart attack.

Gotta go, honey. The UPS man is here with Daddy’s lawn ornament.

Keep your fingers crossed it’s not too awful.

XOX
Mom

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: The Worst Ever!

I just saw the lawn ornament. It’s Daddy’s worst ever!

Your miserable,
Mom

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: The Best Ever!

Exciting news, Lambchop! My Halloween lawn ornament just showed up and it’s my best ever! An animated Count Dracula, complete with his own private crypt! Who says you can’t get quality products from Ulan Bator?

I can’t wait to assemble it!

Love ’n’ hugs from,
Daddy

To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Keep Your Fingers Crossed

I do not exaggerate when I say that this year’s Halloween lawn ornament is a new low in bad taste. Not just for Daddy. But possibly for all mankind.

It’s a hideous vampire with fangs like chopsticks and a cheesy black cape that looks like it’s made from Hefty bags. To top it off, it sits up and down in its own life-sized coffin. Oh, dear. Can you imagine? A coffin on our front lawn! Here in a retirement community? What will the neighbors say?

Just keep your fingers crossed that—like nine out of ten idiotic contraptions Daddy orders—he won’t be able to put it together.

Your slightly frantic,
Mom

To: Jausten
From: DaddyO
Subject: Fang-Tastic!

You’ll be happy to know I assembled Count Dracula without any problems, Lambchop. Easy-sneezy. He’s out on the lawn right now, and all I can say is, he’s fang-tastic!

Never has Tampa Vistas seen such a display of Halloween artistry. I’m a shoo-in for first prize at the Tampa Vistas Halloween Lawn Decorating Contest.

Love ’n’ hugs from
Your proud,
Daddy

Chapter 3

N
ine out of ten nutritionists say the worst way to start the day is to skip breakfast.

Nine out of ten nutritionists are wrong.

The worst way to start the day is to open an e-mail from my parents.

Although sweetie pies of the highest order, they are inevitably the bearers of distressing news. That is because they are bona fide disaster magnets. No matter where they go or what they do, catastrophe is never far behind.

Daddy is the main culprit. He can take an ordinary day and turn it into a headline on the evening news. And Mom is not without her quirks. She’s the one who insisted they move three thousand miles across the country to Tampa Vistas, Florida, to be close to the Home Shopping Channel, in the mistaken notion that she’d get her packages faster that way.

In the words of the late great Henny Youngman: They don’t have ulcers. They’re just carriers.

So when I opened my e-mails the next morning and read about Daddy’s “fang-tastic” Dracula, I smelled trouble ahead. What kind of trouble remained to be seen, but something told me I had not heard the last of the animated vampire on their front lawn.

Just as I was deleting a far less stressful e-mail offering to increase the size of my penis by several inches, the phone rang.

“Jaine, cookie!” A voice boomed over the line.

It was one of my clients, Marvin Cooper, aka Marvelous Marv of Mattress King Mattresses. For years, Marvin had been starring in his own commercials, sitting on a throne in a paper mache crown and ermine robe, yakking about his mattresses and closing with his tag line: “If you can find a cheaper mattress anywhere, I’ll eat my crown.”

“I’ve got a job for you, cookie.”

Always music to my ears.

“I’ve decided to dump
Eat My Crown
and go in a whole different direction.”

Not a moment too soon, in my humble op.

“I want to run some spots about how Mattress King mattresses are good for your back.”

At last. A sensible approach.

“And I’ve got a great idea on how to go!”

Uh-oh. Sound the Bad Idea Alarm. Marvin’s ideas, to put it as gently as possible, suck. After all, this is a man who’s been offering to eat a paper mache crown for the past twenty years.

“I’m thinking we should have a character named Larry. Larry Lumbar. A guy with a bad back who goes around searching for a good night’s rest. Sorta like Goldilocks. Only hip and edgy.”

A hip and edgy Goldilocks with a bad back? Suddenly that paper mache crown didn’t seem so bad.

“How’s that sound, cookie?”

Somehow I managed to croak, “Marvelous, Marv.”

“Call me when you’ve got something.”

“Will do.”

I hung up and, after fortifying myself with coffee and a bagel, spent the next several hours working on the adventures of Larry Lumbar. After I’d roughed out a few spots, I decided to take a break with a nice, invigorating run.

Okay, so it wasn’t a run. If you must know, it was a walk. A half a block down the street to the corner Starbucks for a giant chocolate chip muffin.

Scarfing down my muffin on the way back home, I glanced up and saw Cryptessa’s house, her D
O
N
OT
T
RESPASS
sign hulking on her lawn. Still feeling guilty about the demise of her beloved parakeet—and not exactly eager to get back to Larry Lumbar—I decided to pay her a condolence call.

Licking muffin crumbs from my fingers, I trotted up the crumbling flagstone path to her front door—a once glorious hunk of wood with Spanish carvings, now pitted with wood rot. I rang the bell but heard no chimes inside.

I was about to give the heavy metal knocker a clang when someone called out behind me, “Hello, Jaine!”

The voice was pleasant, so I knew it couldn’t be Cryptessa.

I turned to see Cryptessa’s neighbor, Emmeline Owens, a white-haired wisp of a gal, heading up her front path with her fluffball pooch, Lana Turner.

“Oh, hi, Emmeline. How’s Lana today?”

It was well known on the block that Emmeline doted on her bichon frise; rumor had it the dog had her own closet.

Today Lana sported a pink bow in her hair, along with a matching pink cashmere sweater.

“Lana’s just fine,” she said, swooping the dog up in her arms, “no thanks to that witch Cryptessa. Did you know she tried to kill my little angel?”

“Really?” I asked. “What happened?”

But I was not about to find out because just then Lana began yapping impatiently. “Oops.” Emmeline said. “Must run. It’s time for
The View
, and Lana never misses that show. Lana just loves Barbara Walters! Well, nice talking to you, Jaine.”

And with that, she scooted into her house.

Musing over Emmeline’s accusation of attempted doggie-cide, I gathered my courage and knocked on Cryptessa’s door.

“Hold your horses,” came Cryptessa’s unmistakable snarl. “I’m coming.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said, when she saw me.

She wore the same ketchup-stained sweats she was wearing the day before, her stringy hair having been nowhere near a shower—or a brush—in the last twenty-four hours.

Hanging in the foyer behind her was a full-length portrait of Cryptessa from her glory days—her hair thick and lustrous, her eyes shining, her pale complexion luminescent against the deep black of her boob-baring dress.

What a contrast to the crone she had become, I thought, looking at her now-gaunt face, crosshatched with wrinkles, a road map of disappointment.

For a minute I figured she was going to slam the door in my face; after all, I had disobeyed the Do Not Trespass rule. But to my surprise, she flung open the door and said, “Don’t just stand there. C’mon in.”

She led me past her portrait into a spacious but dimly lit living room, furnished in very Early Munster, with a hectic jumble of Victorian settees, fringed lamps, and ornately carved chairs and end tables.

Sticking out like a sore thumb amid all this Victorian kitsch was a nubby oatmeal recliner into which she plopped down with a sigh, leaving me to park my fanny on a stiff chair that felt like it had been upholstered in sandpaper.

“Rosita!” she shrieked.

Seconds later a slim Hispanic woman, holding a dust rag, came hurrying into the room. “Yes, Miss Eleanor?”

After all these years thinking of my nasty neighbor as Cryptessa, I’d almost forgotten her real name was Eleanor Jenkins.

“Bring me a Coke.” Then she turned to me. “You want one? I’m afraid I’m on a bit of a budget, so I’m gonna have to charge you for it.”

Yes, you read that right. She actually wanted to charge me for a Coke.

“That’s okay. I’m good.”