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

“They look delicious.”
    And so did he, with that amazing cleft in his chin.
    Slipping off the plastic wrap, Peter set the brownies down on the coffee table.
    “You made these?” Mr. Hurlbutt asked, eyeing them suspiciously.
    “Um. Yes,” I said, beginning to sweat just a tad.
    “Looks like Mrs. Fields to me,” he said, chomping down on one with gusto.
    For a minute I was tempted to confess all and admit that the closest I ever come to baking is heating my undies in the oven when my dryer is busted.
    But I decided to hang tough.
    “Well, I made them,” I insisted, with as much bravado as I could muster.
    “Sit down, won’t you, Jaine?” Peter patted the empty chair next to him, and I slid down into it gratefully.
    Still stinging from Mr. Hurlbutt’s accusation, I was relieved to see Matt Moore beaming me a broad smile.
    “If you’re looking to buy or sell,” he said, reaching over from the sofa and handing me a business card, “give us a call.”
    I glanced down at the card, a glossy affair with the Moores smiling up at me, their whiter-than-white smiles assuring me that they were two of Beverly Hills’ top-selling realtors.
    “Actually, I just rent.”
    “Oh,” Matt said, his smile fading. “You must live in one of those duplexes down at the end of the street.”
    “Yes,” I confessed, “I’m in the renter’s gulag.”
    And I couldn’t even afford to live there, if it weren’t for the fact that my duplex has not been updated since the Coolidge administration. My landlord’s helpful motto has always been, “When trouble strikes, any time, day or night—don’t come whining to me.”
    It’s funny, I thought as I looked around the room, how Los Angeles real estate made strange bedfellows. People like Emmeline and the Hurlbutts, who’d bought their houses decades ago, could probably never afford to buy them now. And there they were, living side by side with upward strivers like the Moores. And, apparently, Peter. Buying or renting a place like this couldn’t have been cheap.
    “These sure taste like Mrs. Fields’s brownies,” Mr. Hurlbutt piped up again.
    Jeez, couldn’t he just let it go?
    “So, Peter,” I said, eager to get away from the blasted brownies, “what sort of work do you do?”
    “Actually, I’m a book editor. Just moved out here from New York.”
    “How exciting!” Emmeline’s eyes lit up, impressed. “You’re going to have to meet my granddaughter, Becca. She majored in English in college! You’ll have so much in common. And she’s beautiful, too. She put herself through Stanford by working as a swimsuit model.”
    “Hey, can the granddaughter pitch, willya, Emmy? I saw him first.”
    Okay, so I didn’t really say that. But I was thinking it as I shoved a brownie in my mouth.
    And it was at that moment, just as I was chowing down on Mrs. Fields’s finest, that Lance made his grand entrance.
    He told me he’d be coming straight from work, having arranged to get off early from his shift at Neiman’s. But clearly he’d made a pit stop at a tanning parlor. The guy was bronzed to within an inch of his life. Clad in immaculate khakis and a lime-green polo, he looked like he’d just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren photo shoot. In his hand he held the most elaborate white orchid I’d seen this side of a state funeral.
    “Hey, Petey,” he said with a tad too much familiarity, “I picked up a little something for your place.”
    “It’s beautiful!” Peter said, taking it from Lance.
    And indeed, everyone oohed and aahed in agreement as Peter set it on the mantel above his fireplace.
    “Have a seat,” he said to Lance, gesturing to one of the sofas.
    But Lance ignored his seating suggestion and, eyeing my prized position next to Peter, had the nerve to turn to me and say, “Jaine, hon, why don’t you scoot over to the sofa so you can be closer to the brownies?”
    “No thanks,” I replied stonily. “I’m fine here.”
    Shooting me a filthy look, he