Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) Read Online Free PDF Page A

kitchen. I’d come up with a brilliant plan to impress Peter, and now was the time to put it in action.
    Earlier that morning, I’d zipped over to Mrs. Fields and bought a dozen fudge brownies. Now I nuked the brownies till they had that warm, fresh-from-the-oven smell, and arranged all eleven of them (okay, so I ate one) on a plate with a doily underneath.
    Voilà! Home-baked brownies.
    I must say, I was quite pleased with myself as I covered the plate with plastic wrap and then headed up the street to Peter’s house.
    Our block is a mix of single-family homes and duplexes, the humbler duplexes scattered at the southern end of the street where I live. Peter’s house was one of the upscale single-family residences, an English country Tudor with rustic wood beams adorning the facade.
    As I made my way up the path to his front door, I wondered how many people would show up for the housewarming. I wasn’t expecting much of a turnout. When it comes to neighborly spirit, our street is not exactly Wisteria Lane. We do not have block parties or backyard barbeques. Nobody runs next door to borrow a cup of sugar or a dose of Lipitor.
    And so I wasn’t surprised when I walked in the open front door and saw just a handful of people sitting in Peter’s living room (a tasteful Techno-Deco affair featuring lots of chrome and black leather, set off in sharp relief against a white flokati rug).
    I recognized Helen and Harold Hurlbutt, a middle-aged couple who lived across the street from me and whose high-decibel fights I’d been hearing for years. It was Mrs. Hurlbutt who did most of the yelling, Mr. H jumping in with only an occasional “For cripe’s sake, Helen. Put a sock in it!”
    Now they sat on one of two matching leather sofas that flanked a gorgeous brick fireplace, Mr. Hurlbutt loading up on cashews from a bowl of nuts on the coffee table in front of them.
    Sitting across from them on the other sofa was an upscale thirtysomething couple from here on the pricier end of the street, whom I’d occasionally seen zooming off to work in their matching His ’n’ Hers BMWs.
    Posed primly in an armchair next to them was Cryptessa’s white-haired neighbor, Emmeline Owens.
    And rounding out the crew was Lila Wood. Everybody on the block knew Lila, the neighborhood activist, always knocking on our doors with some petition or other to sign.
    “I think it’s imperative,” Lila was saying as I stepped into the room, “that we band together to keep our street safe from the hands of rapacious developers.”
    The others were nodding in that stupor people tend to fall into when Lila starts yapping.
    “Which is why,” she said, “I’m proud to announce I’m running for president of the neighborhood council. And I’m hoping I can count on all your votes.”
    The others murmured in tepid assent.
    “Jaine!” Peter jumped up at the sight of me, clearly grateful for the interruption, and motioned me over to join the others.
    “You know everybody here, don’t you?”
    “Not everyone,” I confessed, eyeing the yuppie couple.
    “We’re the Moores,” Mr. Yuppie said.
    He was a slim, slick guy with designer-cut hair; his wife, a perfect piece of arm candy—cool and blond and packaged to size 2 perfection.
    “I’m Matt, and this is my wife, Kevin.”
    “Kevin?” I said, gazing at the blond beauty. “What an unusual name for a woman.”
    “My mom was expecting a boy,” she explained, “and she wasn’t about to take no for an answer.”
    “Like mother, like daughter,” Matt said, putting a proud arm around his wife’s shoulder. “That’s what makes her such a fierce realtor.”
    And indeed, in Kevin’s otherwise lovely gray eyes, I could see the icy determination of a street fighter.
    “What’s this?” Peter asked, looking down at the plate in my hands.
    “I baked you some fudge brownies,” I announced with pride.
    “How very thoughtful!” He shot me a smile warm enough to melt the fudge clear off the plate.