Witchy Worries (Neighborhood Witch Committee Book 2)

by Nic Saint

  “Wow,” I said. “That probably slowed him down some.”

  She smiled a serene smile. “Ten stitches and a night in jail cured him of his infatuation. And when he showed up the next day, wanting to attend the meeting, I kicked him out and filed for a restraining order.”

  “Did he respect it?”

  “Yes, he did. I guess he did not want to spend another night in jail. Or the hospital.”

  “Aside from what happened to you, did he make other enemies in the group?” asked Sam.

  “Or friends,” I added.

  Lacey thought for a moment. “He wasn’t well-liked. Kept heckling people. Making fun of them and their drinking problem. No, he didn’t have any friends. Pretty much everybody hated his guts.”

  “Did they hate him enough to kill him?”

  “That, I can’t say. I know of no other incidents between Rico and any of my chapter members. After what happened, he more or less disappeared from my radar. In fact, before you called me, I hadn’t thought about Rico Torrent in a long time.”

  Sam nodded thoughtfully, then tapped his notebook. “Where were you last night around midnight, Lacey?”

  She laughed. “The eternal question. And I’m afraid I’m going to have to disappoint you, Sam. I was at home, in bed, with no one to keep me company apart from Digsby.”

  “And Digsby is…”

  “My Maine Coon.”

  Sam frowned, and I shared a grin with Lacey. “A cat, Sam,” I said. “Digsby is a cat.”

  “Oh. Well…”

  “I was alone in bed, Sam,” said Lacey.

  “And I guess Digsby ain’t talking, right?”

  “Not unless they finally invented a machine that translates a cat’s thoughts.”

  “Wouldn’t that be great?” I asked.

  “Oh, wouldn’t it?” said Lacey enthusiastically. “I’ve been waiting for that announcement for years. To be able to interpret Digsby’s meows. To finally find out what he’s been trying to tell me.”

  “Probably for you to change kibble brands,” said Sam acerbically.

  “Or maybe give us all the answers to the riddles of the universe.”

  “Yeah, right,” Sam muttered, closing his notebook. He eyed Lacey mournfully. “You had motive to kill that man, Lacey. And you have no alibi whatsoever.”

  “Uh-oh. Things don’t look good for me, do they?”

  He smiled. “I don’t think you’re a killer, Lacey. Just don’t leave town, will you?”

  “I sure won’t, Sam. My people need me.” She grimaced. “And I sure need them.”

  As we were leaving the meeting room, I heard the scuffing of a chair on the concrete floor and looked up. At the back of the room, a man was picking up his coat. We locked eyes, and I recognized him as… Sloan Lockyer, Tisha Lockyer’s husband. I frowned. Had he heard the entire interview?

  “Sam,” I said softly, giving him a nudge.

  Sam looked over. “Sloan Lockyer,” he said. “Sneaky bastard.”

  Chapter 17

  Sam had to get back to the station, and I had to get back to the store, so we kissed goodbye, and I started making my way back. I couldn’t stop thinking about Sloan Lockyer. Was he an anonymous alcoholic—not so anonymous now, though—or was he simply there to rearrange the furniture and keep Lacey Gobbler company? And I’d just decided on the latter, more juicy explanation, when I ran into Flavio and Erick Moreskin, the gay couple who live across the street from Safflower House. They were walking their Labradoodles Max and Minx and greeted me warmly.

  “Edie! Miss Neighborhood Watch herself!” Flavio cried. He’s of Eastern European descent, though he looks more like Antonia Banderas. Erick, on the other hand, is the epitome of the blue-eyed, blond Adonis.

  “Hey, guys,” I said by way of greeting. “You are coming to the meeting tomorrow, right?”

  “Of course,” said Erick. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Who else is coming?”

  “Well, a lot of people, I hope.”

  “Is Mayor Putin going to be there?”

  “And Malka?” asked Flavio. “Oh, wait. They’re divorcing, right? So Malka probably won’t be there. Such a pity. I adore that woman. She’s got style in spades. In spades, darling!”

  “Yes, Malka is my role model,” said Erick. “So gorgeous.”

  “Why are they divorcing?” I asked.

  “Oh, puh-lease,” said Flavio. “Boyce Putin has had more mistresses than Tiger Woods. I guess Malka finally got fed up and kicked him out.”

  “Kudos for her,” said Erick.

  “I think it’s kudos to her, darling.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said kudos for her. It’s kudos to her.”

  “Whatever. I think she should be our next mayor.”

  “Oh, no. Our next mayor has simply got to be a gay man.”

  “Harvey Fierstein!”

  “Oh, darling, I love you so much right now! You’re absolutely right. Harvey for mayor!”

  “Mayor Fierstein!”

  “Who’s Harvey Fierstein?” I asked.

  They both looked at me as if I were an alien. “Who’s Harvey Fierstein?” asked Flavio. “And you call yourself a Brooklynite! The man is only a Tony-Award-winning actor!”

  “And writer!”

  “And activist!”

  “Well, he didn’t win a Tony for his activism, darling,” said Erick.

  “I don’t think he lives in New York anymore, though,” said Flavio thoughtfully.

  “He could always come back. We need Mayor Fierstein more than ever.”

  “Or Cynthia Nixon.”

  “Sex and the City!”

  “Are they finally making a third movie? They just have to!”

  “Um… guys?” I asked. “Did you know a guy called Rico Torrent?”

  They stared at each other for a moment. “Rico Torrent?” asked Flavio. “Isn’t that the guy that got shot last night? The druggie who used to be a major movie star?”

  “Minor movie star,” Erick said. “I never liked him. He had a weird face.”

  “I liked his face. It’s his eyes I didn’t like. Too wild for me.”

  “What kind of wild are we talking about here? Mel Gibson wild or Jack Nicholson wild?”

  “He looked a little crazy, that’s all. And not a good crazy. Like, a bad crazy.”

  “Is there a good crazy?” I asked.

  “Of course there’s a good crazy,” said Flavio with a smile. “Nic Cage crazy.”

  “I have to disagree with you there, darling,” said Erick. “I find Nic Cage crazy off-putting. I’m more into Angelina Jolie crazy.”

  “Oh, my God. Angie is a goddess!”

  “Isn’t she?”

  “Guys!” I insisted. “What about Rico Torrent?”

  “Well, he was obviously a complete cuckoo bird,” said Eric.

  “Totally,” said Flavio.

  “Yeah, just ask Stanley Chariot.”

  “Who’s Stanley Chariot?”

  “He’s our accountant. He told us Rico once attacked him.”

  “Attacked him?”

  “Road rage incident,” said Erick, nodding. “I’m a little vague on the deets, but if you ask Stanley, he’ll tell you all about it. He was shaken, I can tell you that.”

  “Shaken and stirred,” Flavio agreed. “Said he’d never see a Johnson Junqueras movie again.”

  “But he didn’t know that Rico Torrent was Johnson Junqueras, did he?” asked Erick.

  “Oh, that’s right. He didn’t. So why did he tell us he was never going to see a Johnson Junqueras movie again?”

  “Duh. Because he didn’t like Johnson Junqueras movies?”

  “I didn’t like him either. He had weird eyes.”

  “And a weird face.”

  “Guys,” I interrupted them laughingly. “Where can I find this accountant of yours?”

  “Accounting away, as usual,” said Flavio. “In his accounting den.” He took out his phone and shared St
anley Chariot’s ‘deets’ with me. “He’s worth his weight in gold,” he added, tapping his nose for some reason. “Knows every loophole in the tax code.”

  “Edie is not interested in finding holes in the tax code, darling,” said Erick. “She’s not a business owner.”

  “Yes, she is. She owns Floret & Bloom.”

  “Ooh, that’s right. That adorable little flower shop. Kudos for you, darling.”

  “Kudos to you,” Flavio corrected his partner.

  “Whatever. I like flowers.”

  “And flowers like you, darling,” said Flavio.

  “Oh, that’s the sweetest thing you’ve said to me all day!”

  “I did tell you that I love you almost as much as I love Max and Minx,” Flavio reminded him.

  “Oh, that’s right. The second-sweetest thing you’ve said to me all day!”

  “Wait, you love your dogs more than you love your boyfriend?” I asked.

  “Husband,” said Flavio, displaying his wedding band. “And of course I love Max and Minx more than I love Erick. They’re my babies!”

  “Our babies,” said Erick, picking up Max while Flavio picked up Minx. “They’re so cute! How can you not love them?”

  I shook my head. If ever there came a day that I loved a dog more than I loved Sam, I was probably ready to be admitted to Bellevue. Still, to watch two grown men cuddle their fluffy dogs was an adorable sight.

  “You really love those dogs, don’t you?” I asked.

  “Of course! Dogs are simply the most wonderful, lovable creatures,” said Flavio.

  As if to confirm this statement, Max gave a loud woof.

  “Not a mean bone in their bodies,” Erick said. “Unlike some humans.”

  “Unlike most humans,” Flavio said.

  “Like Johnson Junqueras.”

  “And Boyce Putin.”

  “Poor Malka.”

  “Maybe she should be mayor. Mayor Malka.”

  “I like it.”

  “I love it!”

  And we were back where we started. So I said my goodbyes, and strode in the direction of my ‘small business.’ My ‘adorable little flower shop.’

  Chapter 18

  After checking in with Strel and Stien—and discovering they were doing just fine on their own—I decided to have a chat with Flavio and Erick’s accountant first. A road rage victim made for a great suspect in my book, and I wanted to ask him a few questions before I added him to my list.

  Stanley Chariot worked out of his home office, which was located in Williamsburg, one of the hippest neighborhoods in Brooklyn. It’s full of cool cafés, trendy little shops and chic boutiques, and Stanley lived above a Thai restaurant.

  He was a nervous young man with green hipster glasses, his hair parted neatly in the middle, and wearing a yellow tweed suit. He looked more like a fashion designer than an accountant. His workspace consisted of a large trestle table, a floor-to-ceiling window offering a great view at Williamsburg’s main thoroughfare, and the biggest Apple computer I’d ever seen. Oh, and stacks and stacks of manila folders and documents, of course, along with a very big calculator. Solar-powered.

  He seemed confused when I walked in. “Flavio and Erick sent you to fix your tax return?”

  “No, they sent me to you to talk about Rico Torrent—or Johnson Junqueras.”

  “Well, who is it? Rico Torrent or Johnson Junqueras?” he asked, a little annoyed.

  “Both. They’re one and the same,” I explained as I looked around. “Nice place.”

  “Thanks. What do you mean Rico Torrent and Johnson Junqueras are one and the same? Johnson Junqueras was a nineties action star and Rico Torrent is the man who scratched my Toyota Prius with his face and yelled at me.”

  “Same guy. Rico Torrent was Johnson Junqueras.”

  He gave a confused shake of the head. “Wait—what?”

  “Johnson changed his name and moved to Brooklyn. He died last night when he was shot at his home on Lake Street.”

  His hands flew to his nicely parted hair. “Oh. My. God. The man was my childhood hero! I’ve seen all of his movies!”

  “You did?”

  “Of course. He was the greatest. He had this trademark move, where he would kick his opponent in the gut, then keep his leg extended while the other man went down. I had posters on my wall of Johnson in that position. It was too cool! Plus, it really outlined the contours of his junk.”

  “I… believe you,” I said, wondering what was so cool about a guy who kicked other people for a living and liked to show off his junk. Though the name Junqueras should have been an indication.

  “I still have a poster of his in my bathroom. Wanna see?”

  “Not really.” But before I could stop him, he’d already taken my hand and pulled me along in the direction of his bathroom.

  On the wall across from the toilet, a poster of a pony-tailed Johnson Junqueras had been hung, his leg sticking out in the exact position the accountant had just described, his opponent writhing on the floor, probably ruing the day he ever dared to mouth off against the action star. I stared at Johnson’s junk for all of one second, then nodded when Stanley asked, “Pretty cool, huh?”

  “Like the X-rated version of The Karate Kid,” I conceded.

  “Exactly! Oh, boy. And to think I had that scratch removed from my Prius. I should have framed it. Johnson Junqueras’s face made that scratch!”

  “How did that happen, exactly?”

  We were back in Stanley’s office, where I was in no danger of posters of Johnson suddenly springing out at me. “Well, I’d just paid a visit to Flavio and Erick—coincidentally two of my best friends—and best customers—when out of nowhere Johnson walks in front of my car. I ding him with my left fender before I manage to stomp on the brakes, and when I get out, he’s on the ground and he’s bleeding. He’s got one of those eyebrow piercings, and it got ripped off when I hit him—that’s how I got that scratch—his piercing collided with the fender and just clean came off.”

  “Ouch. Sounds painful.”

  “I don’t think he was in pain. He was, shall we say, heavily sedated. In fact he looked to be completely out of it. He just lay there, staring up at me, blood streaming down his face—those cuts to the face can bleed like a mother. He was mumbling incoherently, and it was only when I suggested I call an ambulance that he started screaming. He just reared up, grabbed me by the ears, and said the most awful things to me.” He heaved a quiet sob. “Called me names. Some very, very bad names.”

  “So this was the road rage incident Flavio and Erick mentioned?”

  “Yes, well, we were on the road, and he raged. In fact he was so loud the neighbors called the police. When the boys in blue finally showed up, I was extremely traumatized by the whole experience. So much so I had to go into therapy. I spent the next year talking to Doctor Kroger about it.”

  “That must have been terrible for you.”

  “It was! If only I’d known it was Johnson Junqueras who yelled at me, I might have been able to place it.” He shook his head, his curly hair swishing about his face. Then his eyes widened, as if he’d just realized something. “Oh. My. God! Omigod! Do you think, if the cops hadn’t intervened, Johnson Junqueras might have given me one of his trademark high kicks?”

  “I think… that’s a very real possibility.”

  He looked rueful. “If only I’d known. I could have been kicked by Johnson Junqueras.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  He frowned at me. “So… you came here to give me this startling piece of news?”

  “No, actually I’m assisting the police in the murder investigation. Me and my sisters. We run the neighborhood watch in the Haymill neighborhood. When Flavio and Erick told me you were one of Johnson’s victims…”

  A beatific look stole over the accountant’s face. “I was one of Johnson Junqueras’s victims. Wow. Just… wow.”

  “Right. But you didn’t know it was Johnson, right? You thought you’d been attack
ed and verbally abused by Rico Torrent, a drug addict who sent you into therapy for a year.”

  “Yes—if only I’d known…”

  “So… is it safe to say you were holding a serious grudge against Johnson?”

  “Oh, yes,” he said with a humorless laugh. “I hated that man. Hated him with all my heart—though, wait. Can you hate someone with your heart? Isn’t a heart made for loving? Let’s just say I hated him with every fiber of my being. Yes, that sounds about right.”

  I smiled at the hipster accountant. “Did you hate him enough to kill him, sir?”

  His jaw dropped. “Wait—what?”

  “You said you hated him. He sent you to therapy.”

  “Yes, but I would never kill him. I’m not a violent man, Miss… What did you say your name was?”

  “Flummox.”

  “I could never raise my hand in anger against a fellow human being, Miss Flummox. I’m kind to animals, humans and every other creature put here on this great, green earth of ours.”

  “Where were you last night around midnight, Mr. Chariot?”

  “I was right here, dreaming of the new iPhone I’d just purchased.”

  “Can anyone vouch for you?”

  “Yes, Tim Cook can.”

  Now it was my turn to frown. “Who’s Tim Cook?”

  He made a very expressive eye roll. “Duh. Only the president of the finest company on earth. And hopefully the next president of the USA. The first gay president. Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “So… Tim Cook is your… boyfriend?”

  He cackled loudly. “I wish! No, Tim Cook made my snazzy new iPhone—my sweet, sweet darling—which was lying next to me on my pillow last night. If anyone can vouch for me, it’s… it.”

  “Right,” I said doubtfully. “Only smartphones make for very unreliable witnesses.”

  He smiled. “On the contrary, darling. My iPhone is connected with my iWatch. Together, they give a very accurate picture of my whereabouts, twenty-four seven.”