How the Witch Stole Christmas (Witchless In Seattle Book 5)

by Dakota Cassidy

  She nodded her glistening blonde head. “Will do, Miss Cartwright.”

  I made my way back out into the rain, still stunned by this poison thing. Back in my car, I didn’t know where to turn next. “Win, please tell me you got a look at Melba’s phone,” I groaned.

  “I did indeed. It was a picture of one Pennantia baylisiana, considered the rarest plant or tree on Earth by the Guinness Book of World Records. Found off the coast of New Zealand at Three Kings Island.”

  “New Zealand,” I crowed, still shocked by that piece of information. “And on its own it’s not deadly. You know what that means, right?”

  “I do not, Stephania. I’ll admit, I’m quite stumped here.”

  But I wasn’t. I saw where this was going. “The actual tree they found traces of might not be poisonous, but let me tell you, I know witches and how creative they can get when mixing potions for spells. I’m betting whatever this guy Kip Googled isn’t so farfetched. He must’ve found some obscure reference to it online. Melba said he was into stuff like that, and of course everyone thinks the connection he made is plain nuts. They’re humans. Humans don’t believe we exist. Kip wouldn’t be the first to run into something never meant for human eyes. Bel could tell you all about the time a witch got her hands on—”

  I stopped myself and swallowed hard, cursing the threat of more tears. Talking about the good times I’d had with Bel hurt.

  “Oh, malutka. Were I there with you, I would give you big polar bear hug,” Arkady sympathized, using his mixed-up Russian take on American expressions.

  “I know you would, and I’d polar bear hug you right back. But hugging won’t get Bel back here with us where he belongs. I can’t lose sight of that and get caught up with my emotional attachment to this case.”

  “Then this leaves us two options with regard to how that cad had a rare plant in his system, Stephania. One, Jerry knows a witch. The chances of that are about as likely as him being a personal acquaintance to the Queen, I’d suspect. Two, that pastry truly was meant for you. I don’t understand how the chef became caught up in this, but we must now proceed with extreme caution.”

  I sat very still, shaken to my core. I was definitely the intended mark. “It’s just like I said, what better way to ruin my best Christmas ever than to kill me with something sweet?”

  “Precisely, Dove. I cannot for the life of me figure out how he made this pastry, but if this Adam knows anything about you, he knows you can’t resist sweets. ’Twas you who ate fried Twinkies for dinner just last week, was it not?”

  “Oh, hush, Judgy McJudgerson. I was busy decorating. I didn’t have time to stop and make a proper meal. But this theory still doesn’t explain how the chef got caught up in this. Why was he at the house instead of Edmund and why was he eating my pastry?”

  “I’m still working on that,” Win assured me.

  All of this meant I’d gotten too comfortable after my last encounter with Adam. I’d hoped my mother had shipped him off to parts unknown, but the rare plant connected to a poisonous spell all said differently. Adam was still out there somewhere, trying to kill me, and I had absolutely no way to prevent that with no magic.

  “Come, Stephania. It’s time to go home and give this some thought. Whilst we scour the Internet for this spell, you must replenish your energy. You’ll be no good to Bel half-starved and exhausted,” Win chastised in a gentle tone.

  The day was gray in Eb Falls, dark and gloomy, making the lights decorating each store twinkle with a Christmas glow. As I started the car, scanning the horizon over the Puget, the fear I’d never find Bel, that we’d never share another Christmas again, fought to consume me.

  Win was right. Going home was the smartest thing I could do at this point. My energy levels were depleted, my heart deflated. Seeing Whiskey would help me regroup.

  “Then home it is,” I whispered.

  * * * *

  I’d come home to a much simpler but equally beautiful Christmas lights display. As promised, Enzo and his crew had come over and removed all remnants of the debacle of last night and replaced everything but the nativity, which was still a crime scene, with lights in red and white strung for every peak and bough.

  He’d also built Strike a hut right off the porch so he could come and go as he pleased, a beautiful new place for him to rest his head, with a heater and a trough for food and water. He and the boys had even cleaned up the parlor debris and stood the tree back up, turning it around so the missing branches weren’t as visible. He’d brought in an entire team of people just for me.

  Gratitude and the raw ache of Bel’s absence had me crying like a baby on Enzo’s shoulder, and he’d awkwardly thumped me on the back and let me sob it out in gulps for air and a runny nose.

  The police had come and gone, searching the gardens and surrounding areas with their fine-tooth combs, leaving my lawn and porch a mess of muddy footprints and crime scene tape.

  I had to wonder if they’d find any other footprints but those of mine and the judges.

  Now, I sat in the kitchen and toyed with the bowl of soup Enzo had heated for me before he left, insisting he needed to see food in front of me, or Carmella would have his head.

  I’d looked up the reference Melba mentioned. In fact, I found it rather easily. But the spell I found was incomplete. The spell Kip found online called for ground tree leaves mixed with a strand of baby’s hair and a dash of ground agrimony. But that wasn’t deadly at all.

  None of the ingredients listed meshed with anything I’d ever been taught. So I emailed my good friend Winnie back in Paris, and that’s how I found out when this plant was mixed with valerian root and a dash of turmeric—along with the strand of baby hair—it creates a powerful poison that, once in your bloodstream, stops your organs entirely.

  Surely, they weren’t going to take Kip’s findings seriously. If I knew a whole stationhouse full of skeptical humans, I knew they’d sweep this right under the carpet. They had a perfectly logical explanation for Pascal’s death—asphyxiation. I was pretty sure they’d stick with that.

  In fact, I surmised, the only reason they had Melba investigate the plant was to shut this Kip up so he didn’t make them all look crazy. I’d be surprised if the plant finding even ended up in the final report.

  But that didn’t change the fact that Pascal had been choked to death—by someone.

  “Please eat, my daffodil. You must stay strong,” Arkady encouraged.

  “He’s right, Dove. If there’s one thing I can tell you as a former spy, your strength is imperative.”

  Pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead, I stared down at the rich broth with thick homemade noodles and chunks of tender chicken, but I couldn’t summon the will to eat it when each spoonful sat in my stomach like lead.

  “Anyone have any new ideas on this asphyxiation? I’ve been racking my brain, trying to come up with anything that could explain the chef being here, but I keep coming up dry.”

  “Nyet,” Arkady whispered. “I am pained I have not been able to help. Give me a good interrogation, and I am the boss. But this…this with all its loose connections and speculation, has Arkady Bagrov stumped.”

  “Don’t feel bad, old chap. It has Crispin Alistair Winterbottom stumped, too.”

  “Your name is Crispin?” Arkady crowed with schoolboy delight. “Crispin? How is it I do not know this, Crispy?”

  Win chuckled. “Because spies don’t tell their enemies their real names, Arkady Bagrov, a.k.a. JR Ewing Stepanov.”

  My favorite Russian spy gasped. “You know this sensitive information how, Crispy? It is top secret of highest priority!”

  “You’re real name is—is—JR Ewing Stepanov, Arkady? Like, the Dallas JR oil magnate Ewing?” Even in my misery, that made me snicker.

  “Bah, my mother, a good Russian chicken farmer, she love the American television, especially the soap operas. When she give birth to me, he is popular on the TV.”

  My head fell back on my shoulders as I how
led with laughter until tears ran down my face. The first genuine chuckle I’d had since Bel went missing. And then we all laughed until I think we each realized Belfry’s tiny chuckle wasn’t mingled with ours the way it had been for many months now—until we all realized he would have belly-laughed at Arkady’s real name, too.

  We each went silent at once, proving nothing would ever be right without Bel. I had to excuse myself from the table then, my tears blinding me as I made a run for the front door. I needed air, space, something to ease this ache and help me think.

  Whiskey followed close on my heels, his small pants echoing in my ears as I hit the front steps of the porch and inhaled. “Beeelfryyy! Where are you, my friend? Talk to me! Please, please talk to me!” I screamed into the rush of bitterly cold wind.

  The silence, filled only with the hard patter of rain and the crash of waves from the Sound, made me angry as tears of frustration welled in my eyes and poured down my face.

  Slipping to the steps, I didn’t care that it was pouring or that the temperature had dropped, I plopped down right on one of me and Bel’s favorite spots—as though sitting there would make him suddenly appear because I wished it so.

  We sat on these steps all summer long, watching the boats bob in Puget Sound, throwing a ball to Whiskey, sharing a glass of pomegranate juice because it was his favorite. We’d laughed over how much our lives had changed since I’d lost my powers.

  We’d talked about our old friends back in Paris, Texas, smiled in gratitude over the new friendships we’d made since we’d moved back home to Eb Falls. We’d handed out candy to the children in the neighborhood who were brave enough to make the long walk up our driveway on Halloween.

  We’d plotted my Christmas decorating coup right here on this step, laughing at how different this holiday would be surrounded by family and friends, compared to our past Christmases spent dining on Cheez Whiz and Bel’s favorite, of all things, fruitcake.

  And now it was just Whiskey and I out here on the steps. Whiskey, who nuzzled his wet nosey way under my arm and moaned a soft sigh, his longing for his buddy clear. In times like this, when I was afraid and lost, I did what I’d always done since I’d met Win. I reached out to him, seeking only the comfort he could bring.

  “Win? You there?” I asked, looking up at the inky-black sky with its smoky-gray clouds.

  “Yes, Dove. Always.”

  “I miss him so much,” I croaked, my words hitching. “I’m so afraid for him. What if he’s cold? Hungry?”

  Win’s presence was like a soft whisper across my cheek. “Oh, sweet Dove. What can I do to ease this pain? If I could take Bel’s place, I would. Though we’ve only known each other a short time, know that he is as dear to me as anyone.”

  “What if…what if we never find Belfry?” I sobbed out his name, wrapping my arms around my waist and leaning forward to keep from falling apart.

  The idea was unthinkable, but if I didn’t let it out—at least voice my fears—I’d explode.

  “Never is unacceptable.”

  “I’m terrified, Win. I’m so terrified. My life…I don’t know where I’d be if not for Bel. He kept me going when I didn’t think I could go anymore. He’s all I had as a child. He kept me moving in the right direction. He loved me when my mother couldn’t. He’s everything to me. Everything.”

  “Dove, listen to me, please. I beg of you. No matter how long, no matter what it takes, I will find our man Belfry and return him to you.”

  I wrapped my arms around Whiskey’s neck and hugged him close, inhaling the scent of his damp fur and the cold night air enveloping us. “I wish you were here, Win.”

  Win’s warmth surrounded me, hugging me tight. “As do I, my dove. As do I.”

  Chapter 12

  “Are we ready?”

  “Do you have cigar cutters, malutka? The wire snips?”

  “Knock it off, JR. I already told you, no torture.” I chastised Arkady with a roll of my eyes. “We’re not torturing anyone because we don’t know that we’re going to come across anyone worth torturing.”

  “And surely you know by now, the church Christmas Eve gathering is no place for cigar cutters, old man. It’s a church, for bloody sake. No violent interrogation accoutrement. Have some respect.”

  “I am just saying you do not catch a killer with flies. You must use vinegar,” Arkady drawled.

  I stuffed my wallet into my purse, wincing when I saw the scarf Belfry always tucked himself into whenever we went out. “That’s honey, Arkady. And there will be no violence. We’re just scoping the room, watching everyone, especially those yoga women’s husbands. It’s just like we talked about. Someone choked Chef Le June. Even though we’re fairly sure Adam is responsible for the poison in the pastry, and Chef ate it by mistake, it still makes no sense he’d choke the man, too. We’re missing a link here. So maybe one of the Downward Facing Dog husbands found out about Pascal and they’re responsible for offing him. Now, we have next to nothing in the way of evidence or proof and we’re grasping at straws, but doing nothing was going to drive me absolutely crazy.”

  We’d spent late into the night last night and almost all day today theorizing and talking things out, and we continued to come up empty. I had no idea where Bel was, no idea if Adam truly had killed Pascal or whether he was even responsible for the fiasco at my house. I only had my gut.

  But if he was, I had to keep my guard up. If Adam was involved, he wasn’t your average human. In fact, he’d be even less easy to spot—a great concern for the spies in my life. For lack of anything else to do at this point, other than worry myself sick, we’d decided I should attend the Christmas Eve party as planned and see what I could see.

  The folks of Eb Falls had planned a candlelight vigil for Edmund at midnight, after the church potluck supper. I was going to be there not only to show my support for Edmund, but to look for any clues to Pascal’s killer.

  I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to put on a pretty Christmas dress and smile at my friends and celebrate the holiday. But if anyone knew something, if anyone was hiding anything, I wanted to be the first to catch them at it.

  “Okay, guys, let’s do this. Arkady, you take the left of the room, Win, the right, and I’m front and center. Eyes and ears open.”

  “To war!” Arkady shouted his battle cry.

  “Oh, stuff it, chap. No war cries. This isn’t a battle. It’s merely a fishing expedition. So behave yourself. No trying out your newly acquired ghost skills. Tonight’s not the night.”

  As I made a break for the church steps, the steeple above me alight, I pondered. “Wait. Ghost skills? What have you been up to, Arkady? You know you have to be careful, right?”

  “Bah! No worries, my peppermint candy cane. I am no threat. Not yet, anyway,” he said, alluding to the fact that he was working on becoming a threat. Which worried me to no end.

  “Tell that to the poor bloke who came to fix the heating vent last week while Super-Spy was practicing his wall-writing.”

  I stopped in the middle of the parking lot and looked around before I asked, “You can write on walls now?”

  “Only in Japanese,” he dismissed, as though knowing Japanese was no big deal. “It is okay. I erase before he blink his tiny eyes. He think this in his head.”

  “Which was the very reason he made an appointment at the neurologist’s the next day, friend. You made him think he was seeing things,” Win accused in their chummy way.

  “No wall-writing, Arkady. No opening and closing doors. No flickering of the lights, just observation. Promise me.”

  “Dah, dah. I hear this loud and clear. It is a promise.”

  Satisfied we had a grip on our mission, I ran up the wide concrete steps, passing planters filled with red silk poinsettias and pushed my way through the double doors, only to run right into Enzo and Carmella.

  “There she is!” Enzo called out from the wide foyer brimming with people. “Pretty as a picture. How you doin’ today, gal?” He twirled
me in a circle as Carmella chuckled.

  I wrapped both he and Carmella in a hug, lingering in their warm vanilla-scented comfort. “Better, thank you. And thank you for what you did yesterday—you and the boys. You can’t know what it means to have come home to those lights after yesterday, Enzo. You’re really too good to me.”

  He flapped a hand at me and shook his head. “Nah. It wasn’t nothin’, kiddo. Just can’t stand to see you sad.”

  “Don’t you look pretty?” I said, rubbing Carmella’s arm. I loved her abundant, soft warmth dressed in a red dress with a flouncy skirt and capped sleeves.

  Carmella cupped my cheek, her round face filled with sympathy. “How are you, honey? I’m sorry about the chef. Next year, you let me teach you how to make cookies for those crabby judges. We’ll fix their fancy pants up right and nobody’ll end up dead. Promise.”

  I squeezed her wrist and smiled back, trying to keep my tears at bay. I was so grateful for these people. “It’s a date.”

  Enzo nodded his head, flashing the red knit cap he wore in place of his baseball cap. “Well, c’mon then. We gotta get in there and see how we can help. Oh!” He paused, driving his hand into his sports coat pocket. “Found this when we were cleanin’ up. Figured it fell outta somethin’ of yours, kiddo.”

  He pulled out a tiny heart-shaped sapphire in a small Ziploc bag that looked like it belonged in a piece of jewelry, the sparkle of the gem under the lights capturing my full attention.

  I plucked it from his fingers and held it up to the light. “That’s not mine, Enzo, but it’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

  “Well, I’mma guy,” he explained. “It ain’t beautiful unless it’s round and shaped like a baseball,” he said with a grin.

  Carmella swatted him with her gloves but followed up with an indulgent smile. “Men! C’mon, Mr. Romantic. Pastor Fellows needs help in the kitchen with the stove. The back burner’s not working.”

  I waved to them, tucking the stone into a small compartment in my purse before pulling off my coat and hanging it on one of the hooks in the entryway.