Bigfoots Don't Do Mini Coopers (Kate Storm Book 1)

by Meredith Allen Conner

  Our dumpsters go on the pads. Since the sanitary company had already been through and removed most of the items guaranteed to leave a stench and the senator had been murdered recently - and at a different location - the scent of copper was faint. It mixed in with the late summer air, warmed concrete and faint lingering sweetness of rotted fruit.

  Can you get a blood stain out of concrete?

  Especially a large one?

  It would have been a lot worse if the senator had been actually killed here. I understood that. But the pillow sized pool continued to look VERY LARGE to me.

  “Ya got some rags?” Al tilted his head at Morgan.

  She reached into a cream canvas tote bag I had not noticed. I really don’t know how I missed it. Large with red handles and her name embroidered in a matching color and elegant font on the side, the tote would have looked more at home on a sailboat than in my alley.

  I’d wondered what had happened to a stack of mail order catalogs I’d been saving. Morgan’s inner suburbanite was showing a little leg. I planned to tease her about it. After we got rid of the body.

  “These ones will be perfect.” She opened a container of bright colored cloths. “They’re microfiber and lint-free.”

  Al circled the blood to give them a sniff. “These are perfect. They’ll soak up any moisture and won’t leave anything behind. Where’d ya get ‘em?”

  “Amazon.com. I bought a whole case.”

  I refused to think about why my UDBF would feel the need to purchase an entire case of lint-free cloths that were well-suited to crime scene clean-up.

  “Shouldn’t I wear gloves too?”

  “You didn’t touch the body. And the police would expect to find your fingerprints at your office.”

  Made sense.

  I held out my hand and Morgan tossed one lint-free cloth over to me. She crouched on one side and I took the other.

  “No, Doll, stop.” Al nudged my hand. “Ya need to start from the outside and work your way in. That way you won’t spread the blood and make the stain larger.”

  I don’t argue with logic. Or a former hit man who obviously knows what he is talking about. Even if he is my Chihuahua.

  After we’d absorbed as much of the blood as we could, Morgan pulled out a garbage bag and we disposed of the cloths.

  Next she handed me a bucket. “Would you mind filling this partway with cold water?”

  “Sure.” I stood, stretched my back and turned.

  “Make sure it’s cold water, Kate.”

  “Got it.” I didn’t understand the exact need for cold water, but again I was bowing to their superior knowledge. Although I’m pretty sure I’d read something about cold water and blood on my box of Tide.

  It warms my heart to know that Morgan and Tide are in agreement.

  Feel free to insert any level of sarcasm along with that sentence. As long as it is a lot of sarcasm.

  When I returned with the cold water, Morgan handed me a sponge. “We’ll wash this the same way. Just make certain you don’t use too much water and you are directly over the bucket when you squeeze out your sponge.”

  I could handle that.

  I dipped my sponge in the water, carefully squeezed out the excess and began to scrub.

  “Remember. From the outside in, Doll.”

  Outside in. Check.

  I moved my hand to the edge of the blood and began again. We went through several buckets of water before Morgan and Al pronounced their satisfaction with the now blood free area.

  My fingers had turned slightly purple by this time. I poured the clear water into the sink and ran the faucet for several minutes after as per Morgan’s instructions.

  Just in case anyone decided to take apart my plumbing and discovered the blood. I’m sure that would be the first thing a person - either human or non - would think the moment we were introduced.

  I always think to myself “Gee, I oughta take apart their plumbing and see what potential crimes they have been up to,” the moment I shake someone’s hands.

  Again this falls along the lines of sarcasm and ways to distract myself while doing gory chores. Frankly, I thought I was doing pretty damn good.

  Morgan was going over the area with a metal bristled brush when I came back outside. Total overkill, in my opinion. I couldn’t see even a hint of pink at this point.

  “Do ya have some peroxide?” Al sat next to Morgan, inspecting her work.

  She leaned back on her heels and frowned at him. “No. I have bleach.”

  Al shook his furry head, twitched his whiskers. “Bleach will leave a different stain and a smell. Peroxide works best on concrete.”

  “I have hydrogen peroxide in with my first aid stuff,” I offered.

  “That’ll work,” Al said.

  I went back in. I didn’t know which was worse, the vast knowledge and frightening thoroughness my UDBF just displayed in regards to getting rid of a blood stain or that my Chihuahua apparently knew more than she did.

  ****

  “Doesn’t he have a campaign office near here?” Morgan asked as she set the tarp wrapped body down in my office.

  I shut the door before answering. Now I could check potential witnesses off my Concerned list.

  “There’s one in Virtue.” The next town over, about ten miles away. I’d read it in the paper. That had been big and surprising news in our small town neck of the woods.

  Another smooth political maneuver in marketing the senator’s regular guy image.

  “Why?” I almost cringed as I said it. Morgan has a complex and devious mind. That in conjunction with a crime scene opened up a host of ghoulish possibilities.

  “I think we should dump his body there.”

  I didn’t think we should go anywhere near a place connected with the dead body.

  “Good plan,” Al grunted. “Looks like a political killing to me. Dumpin’ his body at one of his campaign offices should put a crimp in their plan.”

  “Whose plan?”

  “The ones tryin’ to set ya up, Doll.” Al nudged my ankle as if to say try to keep up please.

  Right. The people behind the set up. Actually, any crimp in their scheme worked exceedingly well for me.

  “The office should be closed right now too,” I said, pleased to join in the plan. “The senator is speaking tonight,” I eyed the blue tarp and duck tape, “was supposed to give a speech tonight at the VFW in Virtue. He’d invited everyone from the office to join him.”

  There are obviously more benefits to reading the paper than keeping up on local news.

  “Perfect.” Morgan shouldered the body. “You follow on your broom.”

  “What about Al? I don’t have an extra carrier here.” And no way was I leaving him alone. He’s a very small Chihuahua.

  “I can ride on the body.”

  The plastic was shiny which meant slippery. Horror shivered its way through me at the thought of him falling off. Before I could voice my concerns and insult his ego, Morgan flipped the body from her shoulder to cradle it in her arms.

  She crouched and Al jumped onto the tarp wrapped dead body. Willingly. That dog does love a murder. Especially one he can be involved in.

  “All right. I’ll meet you there.” I opened the back door, Morgan flew off with Al. I locked the front door, grabbed my plain yellow back-up broom out of the closet, locked the back door behind me and took off after them.

  My back-up broom totally rocks in terms of speed and agility. It sucks in looks.

  The price had been out of my comfort zone, but it’s come in handy too many times for me to complain. And Morgan and I had tomato-ed the car belonging to the retail clerk I’d bought it from. That little witch had been a few years behind me in school and never liked me. Hopefully she’ll reconsider overcharging me in the future.

  If not, Aunt Tabs always has tomatoes in her garden.

  I caught up with Morgan and Al about halfway there.

  She wasn’t flying slow enough for me and my worr
y over my Chihuahua. Judging by Al’s big doggy grin she could go as fast as she wanted.

  The senator’s campaign office also butted up against an alley, so we set down there.

  I leaned my broom against a brick wall, Morgan smashed the glass window of the back door with her elbow.

  Immediately a shrill alarm pierced the evening air.

  “Shit!” I looked around the empty alley frantically.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be long gone before the police arrive. Open the door would you?”

  Morgan moved to one side and I reached through the gaping hole to pat around for the doorknob. I felt the lock for a deadbolt right above the doorknob, unlocked it and turned the metal knob. The door swung inwards.

  The alarm vibrated along with my nerves and I whispered the words to a calming spell.

  Morgan brushed past me, lowered the body. Al jumped off and moved back. She sliced a long tear with her nails down the center of the tarp and two more across the bottom and top. Grabbing the edges of the tarp, she toppled the body onto the floor.

  The senator rolled once and came to rest face up.

  With the tip of her boot, Morgan flipped the campaign flag out of his shirt and up near his face. She surveyed the scene while she gathered the empty tarp into a ball.

  “That’ll work.” She nodded.

  “Disks.”

  I peered down at Al, totally confused. What did disks mean?Al noticed my look and nodded toward a corner of the room. I didn’t see any disks.

  Ah. In the upper corner, a small red dot blipped above a black camera. The senator had security cameras.

  “Got ‘em.” Morgan sauntered back in with a DVD looking disk in hand. “Good thing he was too cheap to go wireless.”

  Morgan and Al both tipped their heads as if listening to something. “There’s the cops.” Al turned and walked out.

  “Time to fly, Kate.”

  Morgan pulled out one of her microfiber clothes, rubbed it over the doorknob and lock and motioned me through the door. She followed right behind me and closed the door with the cloth. She grabbed Al, I grabbed my broom and off we went.

  I did a rough calculation on the return flight to my office. It had taken us less than four minutes to break and enter into the senator’s campaign office, dump his body, gather up the evidence of our part in the crime and leave.

  My calming spell was taking longer than that.

  11. Testy Demons.

  The meatballs and manicotti were stone cold by the time we got home. Al was not happy, but he settled down after I warmed up a large meatball and added a little extra parmesan.

  I put the manicotti in the fridge for lunch the next day.

  Bigfoot slept soundly.

  I had twenty minutes before Ash arrived. I’m not much of a dressy witch. Twenty minutes would be plenty of time.

  I took off my stained clothing, shrugged into my robe and hurried into the kitchen. Al choked on a meatball chunk just as I opened the cabinet for my trash can. Right. These were no longer clothes, but potential Exhibit A’s. I yanked out a new trash bag, stuffed my clothes inside and tied it shut.

  “I’ll toss it into someone else’s dumpster tomorrow,” I promised him on my way back to my room. There are way too many pesky little details involved in hiding evidence.

  “You’re getting the hang of it, Doll,” Al shouted after me.

  Sweet Spirits, I sincerely hoped not.

  I tugged on a pair of jeans. Tugged a little harder over the hips and managed to get them buttoned. Go me.

  Opening my closet, I examined my options. Six shirts hung on the hangers and Ash had seen me in five of them already. That left my violet button down with the long black lace overlay on the sleeves.

  And reminded me I should schedule a shopping trip sometime during the next week. I could use another pair of biker’s boots too.

  After putting my dirty, potential court-ordered proof-of- foul-play boots back on, I dashed into my tiny bathroom. A washcloth - with cold water - took care of my boots. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wished it could do the same for my curls.

  Usually, I can find a positive side for nearly any situation. As long as my curls are nowhere in the vicinity. They don’t even respond to my magic. Which leaves me with hair products. Lots of ‘em.

  Do you have any idea how hard it is for a witch with curly hair to find products that will actually work in southeastern Idaho?

  All I can say is: Thank the Spirits for the internet.

  Currently my curls appeared as if they had decided to sign up for a cross country trip. The right side apparently wanted to tour the West coast and the left wanted to see the East. In a convertible. In the middle of a hurricane. With humidity. Amazonian style humidity.

  I have never quite figured out if Al and Morgan don’t want to mention the varied and interesting shapes my hair takes on because: a) they don’t want to hurt my feelings, b) they have simply grown immune to the horror or c) their sense of humor is more twisted than mine is.

  I turned on the water, grabbed the industrial size bottle of leave-in conditioner and went to work.

  I was going to be late for my date.

  ****

  I slid onto the the red plastic sided booth. Ash sat down across from me on the other side. And promptly gathered my legs in between his. His boots touched mine, legs pressed tight to my calves and crowding up alongside my thighs.

  He is a very touchy-feely demon. One could go so far as to say he craves physical contact. Although I wouldn’t recommend saying it within a couple miles of where he could hear you.

  From what I’ve been told and what little - VERY little - I’ve gathered from Ash, the demon realm is a desolate place.

  Try a barren rocky wasteland with the occasional skin peeling steam vents near rivers of molten lava, and to round it all off, the periodic comforting volcano.

  Basically it’s hell.

  No flowers, no scents other than ash and burning things, no birds chirping, no cushy mattress to hug your body at night. Nothing soft.

  Even the female demons are hard. The demona have thick, rough skin, horns and razor sharp claws.

  Our realm is like the forbidden candy store to Ash. And right now he considers me to be the cherry on top of his coveted ice cream.

  I’m of two halves with that. With the first half - the cynical, logical one - there is this part of me that frets over what the heck I am going to do when he decides he doesn’t want me anymore. I’m not being pessimistic, I promise you. I’ve just never had anyone outside of my family and Morgan want to spend time with me. Plus I’m cursed.

  I’m not a wimpy witch either and I don’t base my life around the decisions of a certain male demon, however, I’m pretty far gone over Ash. What he feels for me is still a mystery. Men in general are bad enough when it comes to communication. Demons are in their own realm. Literally.

  The second half of my self - the larger and decidedly hormonal one - just screams “Wahooooo!”. Honestly, what witch wouldn’t want to be his little cherry? Ash is the epitome of every naughty fantasy I’ve ever had and all the ones I never thought to consider.

  His size alone makes various areas of my body squirm. The fact he fit in the booth with his legs under the table is quite a feat. Ash is a VERY BIG demon.

  Every section of his body is bigger and stronger than my matching sections. That is such a turn on. It’s also a little nerve racking - not scary - just not exactly safe. Ash could use his strength to protect or he could use it against me.

  That unknown side of him, the part he keeps hidden, is more than a little dangerous. I know this. And it makes my heart beat faster. And interferes with rational thought and self-preservation.

  So I might have a previously undiscovered shallow and eensy bit kinky side, so what? It is not every day a witch gets a shot with a demon lord like this one.

  Call me Wicked, but I’ll take my chances.

  Ash reached across the table and pulled my hand
s in between his. His thumbs began a slow stroke over the first knuckle of my index fingers and the crease at the base of my thumbs.

  That is a very sensitive area on a witch.

  “How was your day?” His amber eyes roved over my face as he asked his question.

  I thought about the senator, his interview, my mother’s Spell Book, the senator’s dead body, the attempted framing of myself for his death, the crime scene clean up and the relocation of said body.

  “Good.” I wasn’t in jail. After the day’s events, that was pretty darn good. “How was your day?”

  I have no idea what Ash does during the day. I’ve asked, but he won’t tell me. I know he is hiding something from me and I do try to temper my hormones with that knowledge.

  Not very hard, but I do try. Once in a while.

  “Good,” he said. I didn’t have to cast a spell to know he lied too.

  We’re the perfect pair.

  Candy, the purple haired high schooler, came over to take our order. Candy works weekends at Madge’s Place to earn money. She claims it’s for a law degree. My truth spell says it’s for beauty school.

  The streaks of purple were strategically placed and well-done. It suited her appearance and personality. I just hoped she could convince her parents - the judge and the cop - of the potential in updos and perms. And purple.

  The buzz around town is that they are NOT AT ALL happy with the purple.

  Seriously though, the beautician industry is a consistent market. When you decide you are going to cut back on things, haircuts are never on the list. The idea of trying to simply trim my curls sent shivers up and down my spine.

  “Hi Candy,” I smiled. Ash didn’t let go of my hands. We hadn’t looked at our menus, but we didn’t need to. Madge’s menu hasn’t changed since the day she opened, twelve years ago.

  “Have you heard?” Candy bounced from one foot to the other. With the onslaught of texting and Twitter these days, it could be anything from a media event half way around the world to a fight at the local bar.

  My stomach started to knot, uncomfortably reminding me I might have inside knowledge on what was behind Candy’s excited dance.