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

ago,” I said. “On the contrary, I got the distinct impression he was flirting with me.”
    “Flirting? With you?” This accompanied by a most annoying chorus of giggles. “Jaine, sweetheart,” he said, taking my hands in his, “you know I adore you, but I have to be honest. Peter was probably just being kind. No doubt he took one look at your elastic-waist pants, imagined your lonely Saturday nights with just a cat and a pizza for company, and decided to brighten your day with a little ego boost. It was obviously a charity flirt.”
    “A charity flirt?”
    Of all the nerve!
    I sprang from the sofa, grabbing the bag of Snickers.
    “For your information, I do not need charity flirts! That flirt was for real, and I say Peter Connor is straight.”
    “Well, I say he’s gay,” Lance snapped.
    “I say you’re wrong,” I snapped right back.
    “Wanna bet on it?” he asked, a malicious glint in his eye.
    “Absolutely. Game’s on.”
    “Whoever loses has to buy the winner dinner at the restaurant of his choice.”
    “Of her choice, you mean.”
    “We’ll see who Peter goes out with first,” Lance said.
    “Yes, I’ll let you know how it went. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some important work to attend to.”
    “Yeah, right,” Lance said, eyeing my bag of Snickers. “Just don’t eat them all in one sitting.”
     
    I was an idiot to make that bet with Lance. For all I knew, Peter Connor marched in the gay pride parade with a tattoo of Judy Garland on his chest. But Lance’s “charity flirt” crack got my dander up.
    Now, however, I was having second thoughts. Maybe Lance’s gaydar was right. Maybe Peter was just being friendly with me and I’d misinterpreted it as flirty. He probably flashed his cleft chin to everybody he met, an equal-opportunity cleft flasher.
    These were the thoughts flitting through my mind that night as I drove over to meet my friend Kandi for dinner. Kandi Tobolowski and I met years ago at a UCLA screenwriting course, where we bonded over bad vending machine coffee and our mutual dislike for the pompous jerk teaching our class.
    Kandi had gone on to a high-paying job as a staff writer on Beanie & The Cockroach , a Saturday morning cartoon popular with insect-loving toddlers, while I made my way in the far less lucrative field of freelance advertising, writing copy for clients like Toiletmasters Plumbers ( In a Rush to Flush? Call Toiletmasters! ), Ackerman’s Awnings ( Just a Shade Better ), and Fiedler on the Roof Roofers.
    Kandi was already seated when I showed up at Paco’s Tacos, our favorite Mexican restaurant, where the margaritas are to die for and the burritos are the size of cruise missiles. Heading into the dining room, I saw her sitting by the restaurant’s tropical fish tank. I could tell she was upset by the mopey way she was nibbling on a corn chip.
    True, Kandi always nibbles at her food—one of the reasons she’s an enviable size six, while I, who have been known to swallow Oreos in a single gulp, am a size none-of-your-business.
    But I could tell something was bothering her.
    “Hi, honey!” I said, sliding into the seat across from her.
    She smiled vaguely in my direction and then turned her attention back to the fish tank.
    “Have you ever wished you were a fish?” she asked, staring at the guppies zipping by.
    “Not particularly,” I said, grabbing a handful of chips.
    “What a life,” she sighed. “Swim a few laps, eat some fish food, watch people get drunk on Jose Cuervo. No heartaches. No aggravations. No disappointments.”
    Yes, there was something on her mind, all right.
    “Okay, Kandi. What’s the matter? Tell Auntie Jaine.”
    “The most depressing news ever. I went out on a blind date last night.”
    “So what else is new?”
    Kandi happens to be a kamikaze dater, leaving no frog unkissed in her search for her prince charming. The woman has Speed Dated, MatchDotCommed, E-Harmonied, and gone on enough blind dates to qualify for