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

reminding me how hard she’d fought for the sanctity of our neighborhood and what a fearless leader she’d been in the battle to keep a rapacious real estate developer named Ralph Mancuso from putting up a mini-mall at the end of our block.
    “Mancuso must be stopped!” she cried, thrusting some flyers into my hand.
    Which wasn’t easy to do, considering I was holding a corned beef sandwich at the time. But somehow she managed.
    “If he had his way, there’d be a yogurt parlor on every corner of Los Angeles.”
    Frankly, a yogurt parlor on every corner seemed like a pretty good idea to me, but I kept on nodding as if I agreed with her.
    She continued blathering away about Evil Ralph Mancuso as I polished off my sandwich and Bloodshot Eyeball Cookie.
    Through it all, the woman showed no signs of shutting up.
    There’s only so much a person can hear about corruption in the Beverly Hills Planning Commission before she goes stark raving bananas.
    “Oh, look,” I said in an effort to save my sanity. “The Hurlbutts! They told me earlier they wanted to talk to you.”
    “They did?” she said, perking up.
    I bet my bottom Pop-Tart she didn’t hear that very often.
    “Well, if you’ll excuse me—”
    God, yes!
    “—I’ll just run over and have a chat with them.”
    I breathed a sigh of relief as she bore down on the unsuspecting Hurlbutts.
    At the last minute, they saw her coming and tried to make a run for it, but with the skill of a seasoned politico, Lila backed them into a corner and launched into her campaign speech.
    I was free at last. And to celebrate, I went back to the buffet table for just one more Bloodshot Eyeball Cookie.
    (Okay, two more.)
     
    By now the interior of my ape suit had reached sauna-like proportions.
    I could stand it no longer. I decided to do what I should have done the moment I walked in the party and take the damn thing off.
    So I slipped out of the dining room and down a hallway to Peter’s bedroom. At least, I assumed it was his bedroom from the row of Brooks Brothers suits I was nosy enough to peek at in his closet.
    Wasting no time, I peeled out of my ape suit and tossed it onto Peter’s bed, where several coats had been slung. How wonderful it was to feel the clean, fresh, room-temperature air!
    And yet, although I was thrilled to be released from King Kong’s captivity, I was not a totally happy camper. Lest you forget, I was still wearing my Tummy Tamer, which by now had pretty much cut off all circulation from my belly button down.
    There was no doubt about it. That had to go, too.
    But I couldn’t risk getting undressed here in the bedroom. What if someone showed up to drop off a coat?
    So I headed back out into the hallway in search of a bathroom. I soon found one, across from a room that looked like Peter’s office.
    I slipped inside and, locking the door behind me, took off my jeans.
    Remembering my epic battle getting the Tummy Tamer over my hips, this time I decided to pull it up over my head.
    Major mistake.
    Because no sooner did I try to hoist the Tummy Tamer upward than the damn thing clamped around my chest like the jaws of death, pinning my arms to my sides.
    I twisted and turned, but to no avail.
    I was trapped in a spandex straightjacket, naked below the waist except for a pair of Bottoms Up! panties (a Shopping Channel gift from my mom).
    I considered yelling for help, but I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone—especially Peter—finding me like this.
    My only ray of hope was that my right hand was free. If I could just find a pair of scissors, maybe I could cut my way out.
    Frantically I searched Peter’s cabinets for something sharp, but all I found was an electric razor.
    Then I remembered the office across the hall. Maybe I’d find scissors there.
    So what if I was practically naked from the waist down? I had to make a break for it.
    With my free hand, I opened the bathroom door and peeked out.
    Damn. There was the guy in the Tarzan loincloth,