Free Death of a Neighborhood Witch (Jaine Austen Mystery) by Laura Levine

Frankenstein.
    “Don’t come whining to me when your dentures come loose,” I heard Mrs. Hurlbutt tsk as Mr. H. scarfed down some candy corn.
    Next I spotted Kevin and Matt Moore, the His ’n’ Hers realtors, dressed as a pair of pirates, handing out their business card to a guy in a Tarzan loincloth.
    As I glanced around, I was dismayed to see that half the people weren’t even in costume. Indeed, there was little Amy Chang, the grad student, looking way too fetching in Capri jeans and a ruffled tee. If I’d known people were going to show up in street clothes, I never would’ve worn my ghastly ape suit.
    Which, after only two minutes at the party, was beginning to get awfully warm.
    And I couldn’t help noticing that as I made my way through the crowd, people were giving me a wide berth.
    “P.U.!” I heard Kevin say as I walked by, wrinkling her nose. “Something smells like mothballs.”
    Why did I get the feeling I wasn’t about to be the life of the party?
    Lance had Peter cornered over by the fireplace, and as I approached, I could hear him yakking about Thomas Mann and Marcel Proust as if he’d actually read a syllable more than their reviews on Amazon.
    I lifted my ape head to wave at Peter, who was decked out in tight jeans and a T-shirt, a sign around his neck reading N UDIST O N S TRIKE.
    What a clever way of wearing a costume without wearing a costume. Why the heck didn’t I think of something like that?
    “Hey, Jaine!” he said, spotting me. “So glad you could make it. Great costume!”
    “I picked it out!” Lance had the nerve to say.
    I hoped he choked on his martini olive.
    “But getting back to Proust,” Lance went on, blocking me from Peter’s view, “I just love the way he wrote about Madeleine. She was such an interesting character.”
    A madeleine is a lemon cookie, you twit, I felt like saying.
    But of course, I did not help him out with that useful tidbit of info.
    Instead I put on my ape head and wandered aimlessly for a while, reeking of mothballs, the designated party pariah.
    I stopped to look at some of Peter’s photos on an end table, hoping to get a clue about his sexuality. My heart sank when I saw him grinning into the camera, his arm slung around the shoulders of another guy. Then it soared when I saw another picture of him with a woman. Then it sank again when I realized she was an amazingly attractive woman.
    Oh, well. Time to lift my spirits with some chow. And some spirits.
    I headed for the buffet table in Peter’s dining room, where Cryptessa’s maid Rosita was busy replenishing a platter of cold cuts.
    “Hi, there,” I said, lifting up my ape head. “I didn’t realize you worked for Mr. Connor.”
    “He just hired me for tonight. Please don’t tell Cryptessa,” she said, her eyes darting about in fear, as if she expected Cryptessa to pop up from behind Peter’s china cabinet. “She’d have a hissy fit if she found out.”
    “It doesn’t take much to get her hissy, does it?” I asked.
    “No.” She shook her head ruefully. “I’m afraid not.” Then, remembering her duties, she added, “Have some cold cuts. They’re delicious.”
    She didn’t have to ask me twice.
    I rustled up a corned beef and Swiss on rye, a wee bit o’ chardonnay, and a Bloodshot Eyeball Cookie for dessert.
    If I couldn’t have fun with Peter, I might as well have fun with some corned beef.
    I found a secluded seat in the corner, and with my ape head nestled on the floor beside me, I was just about to chow down when I heard—
    “Jaine, honey!” It was Lila Wood, the neighborhood politico. “How wonderful to see you!”
    At last. Someone who didn’t mind the smell of mothballs.
    It was not my company Lila sought, however, when she plopped down on the seat next to me, but rather the opportunity to go over her campaign platform. In excruciating detail. Before I knew it, she was rambling on about what a fantastic job she’d do as president of the Neighborhood Council,