Witch Slapped (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 1)

by Dakota Cassidy

  I lay in the pile of my rubble, a bit dazed as the dust settled, and Belfry swooped downward to land on my chest.

  “Twinkle Toes?”

  I began to sit up with a groan, my head aching. “Yes, Belfry?”

  “If you can manage to do it without the effort resulting in an emergency brain transplant, turn around.”

  I blew at a strand of hair stuck to my mouth. “If I do what you ask, what will happen? Will the store fall into a sinkhole?”

  “No, no. It’s much, much worse.”

  His somber tone had me—and obviously my better judgment—sitting up straight.

  As I took in the room behind the purple gauze material, my gasp echoed, the noise flying from my mouth, making me cringe and press my fingers to my lips.

  I closed my eyes and gulped as Belfry climbed up my jacket and settled on my shoulder. “Please,please,pleeease tell me that isn’t Madam Zoltar.”

  “I’ve only been saying as much for nigh on three hours now. Blimey, you Americans are slow.”

  Enter British Guy.

  Jolly good show.

  Chapter 3

  “Belfry? Why can I hear but not see a British guy?”

  “Winterbottom,” a smooth voice whispered against my ear, sending a cool chill along my spine. I knew that chill. Oh yes, I did. British Guy was a real live ghost. That much of Belfry’s story was true.

  How could this be? I was a mortal now. No mortal I knew could truly talk to the dead. “Bottom who?”

  I squinted and looked around the store, just as I did back in the good old days when a ghost made contact, hoping against hope I’d see him appear just the way ghosts always did in the past when they came to me for help. But there was nothing. No filmy, transparent glimmer of anything. Just a store trashed courtesy of yours truly.

  What the heck was going on?

  “I’m Winterbottom. The name’s Winterbottom,” the disembodied voice repeated.

  I wasn’t sure where to begin. With what I saw in the room behind the purple curtain, or the fact that I was hearing the voice of a ghost even though I technically shouldn’t be able to hear anything from the afterlife.

  I decided to attack the unclear first, before I sank my teeth into the obvious. “Okay, um, Bottom’s Up, how can I hear you?”

  “Winter. Bottom,” he enunciated, dry as a bone, sounding a lot like he’d stepped right out of an episode of Game of Thrones. “And it’s a bit of a tale for the X-Files. A tale we don’t have time to indulge in, but I’d be chuffed to pieces to share with you later. As you can see, we have far more pressing matters.”

  A warm breeze wafted past me and ruffled the gauzy material, revealing problem number two.

  My eyes slammed shut and my fingers spread over my temple to pinch off the ensuing headache. “Madam Zoltar, I presume?”

  “It is indeed. No need to check for a pulse, she’s dead.”

  The desert my throat had become made it difficult to swallow. “What happened to her?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why you’re here. To help me figure it out.”

  “So all this trying to talk to Belfry was to get me to come here?”

  “That wasn’t the original intent.”

  “What was the original intent?” I asked.

  “Forget that for now. As I was saying, you are, as they say here in the afterlife, the best in the biz. They also say you have a big heart, you’re tenacious, you cry at Hallmark movies during Christmas, you’re unbelievably gifted at finding bargain designer clothes from consignment shops and the like, you love a good mystery and are rather proficient at solving them, and you have a lovely shade of gray-blue eyes—of which I’d quite agree.”

  My cheeks flushed red. “That’s very kind of them, and you. The problem is, I can’t help you or anyone from the afterlife anymore.”

  “Mmm. I’ve heard. That’s neither here nor there.”

  I stared up at the direction the voice came from and made a face. “No, that is here. Did the afterlife gossips fail to mention I’m not a witch anymore and all my medium powers are gone?”

  “Yet, here you are, talking to me. They couldn’t be gone entirely, because I truly am gone from this plane and still we communicate…um, sorry. What’s your name?”

  “The afterlife didn’t tell you my name?”

  “They’re all quite vague here. As though you’re some secret family recipe for Yorkshire pudding they aren’t willing to share. They had the absolute audacity to tell me to get in line. Though, they did mention your very annoying familiar. Their words, not mine.”

  “Hey!” Belfry chirped. “I’m right here, you know. And it’s Belfry, BTW. As in ‘bats in the’.”

  I plucked Belfry up and tucked him against my chin, where he clung to the lapel on my jacket. “I’m Stevie, as in Nicks, the singer. Stevie Cartwright.”

  “The pleasure’s all mine. Anyway, as you can see, we have a problem.”

  “Are you sure she’s dead?”

  “Positive.”

  When I’d assisted souls from the afterlife, they’d never sent me to help with a dead body. Still, I couldn’t stop myself peeking around the corner of the purple material to assess the situation.

  Madam Zoltar was flat out on the floor on her back in the mostly sparse space. Compared to the outer portion of the store, the back had no clutter at all. There was only a water cooler at the other end of the room in the right corner with some cone-shaped cups.

  There was a wooden chair tipped over next to her, her body crumpled as though she’d slid from the seat she was sitting on at the round table and collapsed to the floor.

  A purple tablecloth just touching the floor looked as though someone had yanked it half off the scarred table.

  Madam Z must have grabbed it when she fell backward, which explained why the tarot cards were scattered over the top of the table and on the floor beside her still body.

  She wore a turban made of some sort of white clingy material, with a big green jewel in the center, but a tuft of her graying hair poked out from beneath the edges by her neck. Her dress was flowing and multicolored, a caftan was how I’d classify it, with a matching jewel-encrusted neckline revealing her ample décolletage, and a scarf tied around her neck.

  Gaudy rings graced almost every one of her fingers and in every color, with enormous costume gems. Yet her feet were bare, something I found curious. For someone who appreciated a little finery, I found it odd she didn’t have matching kitten heels to complete her outfit, or at least a cute pair of functional flats.

  That curiosity had my eyes swerving to her chubby feet. Ten toes were painted red and, in keeping with her love of jewelry, she had a toe ring on one middle toe.

  But the ball of her right foot really caught my eye. There was a hole about two inches in size where her skin looked torn and missing, the edges of the wound almost charred. It was as though the spot on her foot had randomly exploded.

  I’d call it a blister, but if that wound was a blister, I’d throw away the shoes that gave it to me.

  My first instinct was to consider the obvious. A heart attack. After seeing the tablecloth she’d clearly dragged with her when she fell, it looked to me like she’d latched on to it in the throes of pain. Madam Z was an older woman, probably in her later sixties, her skin said as much. A heart attack made sense.

  “Heart attack?” I finally asked out loud.

  “I don’t think so,” Winterbottom replied, as if he had this all sewn up.

  “Were you a medical examiner in your former life?”

  “Um, nope. Guess again.”

  Planting my hands on my hips, I frowned into the empty store. “Then how do you know she didn’t die of a heart attack or stroke? Did you see something?”

  “No. Unfortunately, when I arrived just before I tried contacting you through Belfry this morning, Madame Zoltar was already dead.”

  Why was a legitimate ghost visiting a fake psychic? “You were here? Why?”

  “We
had business to attend.”

  “Could you be any more vague? You invited me to this party, Weatherwarning. I didn’t crash it.”

  He chuckled, sort of low and slow and absolutely meant to be condescending. “Now you’re just teasing me, Stevie Like-Nicks-the-Singer. Surely you’re not that dense. I repeat, it’s Winterbottom. And you make a fair statement. But it sounds as though we’ll have to continue this conversation later. I believe I hear the dulcet tones of police sirens.”

  I froze, my eyes skimming the front of the store and the picture window, where the sign still blinked, looking for in-store cameras.

  Ebenezer Falls was mostly crime-free as I remembered it, but that didn’t mean Madam Z wasn’t smart enough to protect herself on the off chance someone broke in. The last thing I needed was to end up on America’s Most Wanted.

  I raised my hand to cast a vanishing spell in case I’d been filmed and then I remembered, like a punch to the gut, I couldn’t handle my problems with a spell and the flick of my hand anymore.

  A thread of panic screamed through my veins, making my blood run cold. I’d had enough of being accused of something I didn’t do in my witch life. I refused to start my human one with the local police as my guide.

  Scooping Belfry from my collar, I located my purse on the countertop, where all my trouble began, and plopped him into it. “Okay, SummerButt or whatever your name is. I apologize in advance if I have that wrong, but I can’t think straight when I’m in a panic. And this is me, officially in a panic. This looks bad. So, so bad. I’ll call 9-1-1 once I’m safely out of here. They’re going to take one look at this mess and think I had something to do with it!”

  I’m not sure why I came to the conclusion the police would immediately think I’d killed Madam Zoltar. Maybe it was because I was still so freshly raw from my witch-slapping incident. Raw enough to know not everything is always as it seems.

  I began picking my way through the debris of candles and crystals, wondering if I’d left muddy footprints anywhere with my galoshes. Didn’t the forensic police always match footprints to shoes?

  Of course they did. They did it all the time on Castle.

  But there was no time for me to cover my tracks as the sirens grew closer.

  The door to the store burst open, filling the interior with the sounds of the busy street outside. A short round man pushed his way through, almost tripping on some of the candles. “That’s her!” he yelled, pointing at me.

  There was a local police officer right behind him who eyed me critically, shoving the short man behind him in a protective gesture. “Police! Put your hands where I can see ’em!” He pointed what looked like the biggest gun in the history of guns right at me. “Chester! Stay behind me, would you?”

  My hands flew upward in compliance; my purse, once in the crook of my arm, fell to my shoulder, unintentionally tossing poor Belfry around. No way was I giving anyone any guff. I watched YouTube. I knew what could happen if I got mouthy.

  I fought a groan of distress as the officer approached me, his eyes narrowed and suspicious, as if he’d just caught Hoffa in the middle of a mob kill.

  “Let me explain,” I began, keeping my tone even and, above all, calm while I forced myself to look into his dark brown eyes.

  If I were going to explain, I’d do it right to his handsome face like someone who was telling the truth.

  “That’s her!” the round senior with suspenders and a plaid green-flannel shirt chirped, as though he’d just identified Bigfoot. “Saw her comin’ in here about fifteen minutes ago then heard all the ruckus from my son’s coffee shop next door. Called you boys right up.”

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “That’s true, Officer. The gentleman’s absolutely right. It was about fifteen minutes ago. I was just…”

  Just what? What could I possibly tell them? I came in to investigate the voice my bat familiar heard calling to him from the afterlife? And as a point of interest, he’s a ghost with a British accent and his name’s SpringLoaded—or something fancy and pretentious.

  Ugh! When I got my hands on British Guy, I was going to knock him right into the next plane!

  Gathering myself, I decided I had to be very careful about what I said and how I said it. “I just came in to look around. I’m recently back in Ebenezer Falls after being gone for a decade or so, and there are so many new things to see—”

  “Then why in tarnation did it sound like a herd of elephants was doin’ the fandango in here?” the sweet-looking senior asked. “These walls are thin, lady. You were in here roughin’ up my Tina, that’s what you were doing!”

  I found it hard to hide my surprise as I looked into this man’s blue eyes, so alive with anguish. “Who’s Tina?”

  Winterbottom’s rich, sophisticated voice grazed my ear. “That’s Madam Zoltar’s real name. Tina Marie Martoni. And this little chap with the suspenders and sharp eyes? He’s Chester Sherwood. Seventy-two, and a spry old goat. His son runs and owns the coffee shop next door.”

  I rolled my shoulder to dislodge Winterbottom from my ear. If there was anything I was skilled at, it was ignoring clingy ghosts who wanted to talk when I was in the middle of something.

  “May I put my hands down now, Officer? I think my fingers are numb.”

  But Chester began hopping around in protest, the tuft of white hair on his balding head bouncing in time with his feet. “She was in here up to no good! Tell her to keep her hands in the air ’til her fingers fall off!”

  Aw. That was kinda mean. I sent big pleading eyes to the officer, averting my gaze away from Chester The Heckler.

  The officer lowered his gun and holstered it when his backup arrived, but he pointed a warning finger at me. “You can put your hands down, but you stay where we can see you.” Then he turned to his partner, a reed-thin, sandy-blond man who had to be at least six-three. “Keep an eye on her, Gorton, while I take a look around. She was here in the middle of all this when I got to the scene.”

  “Wait!” I yelped a warning without even thinking. “Madam Zoltar’s…” I looked to Chester, who had called her “his” Tina, leading me to believe there might be some kind of romantic attachment, so I wanted to tread delicately. I’d hate it if I blurted out in a careless manner that she’d left this world.

  So I inched my way over to the first officer on the scene, and caught his name badge. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I leaned into him. “Um, Officer Nelson? Madam Zoltar is dead.”

  Chester was becoming more agitated by the second. He gripped the tall officer, his fingers sinking into the policeman’s forearm, his lips thinning into a line. “What are you whisperin’ about over there, girlie! What did you do to my Tina?”

  Officer Nelson planted his hands on slender hips. “And how do you know she’s departed, Miss—”

  I stuck my hand out between us, cutting off his words. “Cartwright. Stevie Cartwright. I know because I saw her. If you’ll just let me explain—”

  He gave me a sharp gaze that said shut it and firmly ignored my hand, but his spoken instruction was polite. “If you’ll just wait here, Miss Cartwright, I’ll take a look.”

  As Officer Nelson climbed over the carnage of my klutziness, I shoved my unshaken hand back to my side and held my breath.

  From this distance, I saw him kneel down next to Madam Zoltar, pressing his fingers to her wrist. Then he spoke softly into the radio at his shoulder, obviously alerting headquarters there was no rush.

  It was then the sorrow of a soul passing over hit me in waves of remorse, arcing over my initial shock. Madam Zoltar had probably been someone’s mother, sister, daughter, friend. I hoped wherever she’d landed on the other side, she was happy.

  I said a small prayer to that effect while Officer Nelson assessed me again with a critical pair of brown eyes, his tight jaw and clean good looks hard to ignore. He struck me as the kind of man who made hospital corners on his bed and devoutly avoided anything chaotic.

  But it appeared as though he wouldn
’t be able to avoid chaos today. As passersby and probably other shop owners began to gather at the window and the entry to the store, more police arrived.

  Was Madam Zoltar important to the community in a way other than her work? Or were these rubberneckers just a bunch of ambulance chasers?

  “Nana Tina?” someone from the back of the forming crowd called, followed by a pale hand waving from the street.

  All heads swiveled to see where the cry had come from before a young woman barreled through the gawkers.

  Her eyes were wide and green, her hair dyed so red, under the dim light of the store it looked almost pink. The cut was shaggy and unkempt, worn jagged and spiky around her heart-shaped face. She had on as much jewelry as her nana, but she wore most of it in the way of piercings in her eyebrows and nose.

  The slouch of her loose jeans rolled at her ankles, a pair of navy-blue Keds and a neon-green hoodie all said she was quite young.

  “Nana Tina?” she cried out again, her eyes taking in the mess on the floor. Then she looked to Officer Nelson. “Where is my nana?”

  I knew what was coming, and the very thought made me hurt for this young woman.

  Officer Nelson’s wide shoulders slumped for only a moment before he squared them and stepped in her path, blocking her from the back room. “May I ask who you are?”

  Anxiety began to take over, that much was clear from her tone and the way she attempted to get around him. “I’m Liza Martoni. I’m Tina, er, Madam Zoltar’s granddaughter. Now where is she? What happened? Was she robbed?” Tears stemming from obvious fear were beginning to form in the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill from her round orbs.

  Officer Nelson placed a broad hand on Liza’s shoulder, and though he towered over her, he still managed to keep his voice gentle. “I’d afraid she’s gone, Miss Martoni. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  “Gone?” Liza wailed, collapsing against the glass counter. “What happened?”

  “That’s what we’re here to try to find out. Please, let Officer Gorton take you outside so we can investigate thoroughly.” Officer Nelson swept a hand toward the door, but Liza began to sob, clinging to him.