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

leg?”
    “Technically, it was Two Buck Chuck, but I put it in a Châteauneuf-du-Pape bottle I bought at a thrift shop years ago. That bottle’s come in so handy. I don’t think Peter knew the difference.”
    “So how did this magical evening end? Did Peter ask you out?”
    “Not exactly, but I can tell he’s on the brink. There was something in his eyes that told me he was interested in me.” Lance patted my arm in that maddeningly patronizing way of his. “I’m so glad you listened to reason and gave up your foolish dreams of dating the guy.”
    “Actually, I’m back in the dating game. Peter stopped by to return my brownie plate the other day, and there was something in his eyes that told me he was interested in me .”
    “You mustn’t confuse interest with pity, hon.”
    “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, barely restraining myself from bopping him over the head with a stray Slurpee cup.
    The rest of the trip passed in an icy silence. Well, I was the icy one. I doubt Lance even noticed. He was too busy sanitizing my dashboard with his moist towelettes.
    At last we arrived at the costume rental place Lance had picked out.
    “It’s where all the Hollywood costume designers go!” he gushed.
    “Estelle’s Costumes and Beauty Supplies?” I said, eyeing the tiny storefront whose window was jammed with an eclectic mix of costumes and cosmetics.
    “It’s much bigger than it looks,” Lance assured me.
    And indeed it was. A long narrow space, it boasted endless racks of costumes, not to mention a back wall crammed with beauty supplies.
    I stood there, breathing in the heady aroma of old clothes and hairspray, while Lance sprang into action, in full-tilt kamikaze shopper mode, flipping past costumes with lightning speed.
    “Omigosh, hon!” he called out, holding up a huge puke green outfit. “This one’s perfect for you.”
    “Forget it, Lance. I’m not going as Mrs. Shrek.”
    “How about this?” he asked, holding up a pink monstrosity.
    “Or the Michelin Man.”
    “Spoilsport,” he pouted.
    “Why don’t you just concentrate on getting your own costume, okay?”
    Lance reluctantly agreed to go our separate ways, and before long he’d picked out a svelte werewolf-in-a-tux ensemble for himself.
    “It’s you, Lance,” I said, nodding in approval. “Armani with hairy knuckles.”
    Meanwhile, I made my way down the racks, flipping past a white, plunging “Marilyn” dress, a Marie Antoinette extravaganza, and a Madonna outfit with bra cups pointy enough to drill holes in a two-by-four.
    Then I spotted it: a saucy lace flapper dress, complete with a feather headband. I tried it on in Estelle’s cramped dressing room. The outfit reeked of cleaning fluid, but it looked adorable, and I was thrilled to see it camouflaged the dreaded hip-tush zone quite nicely. (True, it was a little clingy around my tummy, but if I sucked in my gut and didn’t eat a thing the night of the party, I’d be fine.)
    Costumes in hand, we headed over to the counter where Estelle, a fiftysomething woman with neon-green hair and enough rings to stock a display case at Nordstrom, took our deposits.
    “I’ll be back on Halloween,” Lance told our green-haired friend, “to pick them up.”
    “I still don’t understand why we can’t rent the costumes the day of the party,” I said.
    “Are you nuts? We have to reserve them now. All the good ones will be gone by Halloween.”
    My flapper ensemble was $49.99 more than I could afford to spend, but I kept my eye on the prize (Peter) and figured it was worth it.
    “Beautiful choice,” Estelle assured me with a nicotine-stained smile.
    “What’s this?” Lance asked, picking up a large plastic skeleton’s skull from a display on the counter.
    “It’s a bumper decoration for your car,” Estelle enthused. “Only nine ninety-nine. And the skeleton’s eyes light up.” She flipped a switch on the back of the skull, and indeed, its eye sockets lit up in bright