Witch Slapped (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 1)

by Dakota Cassidy

  Something about the way he spoke, the warmth in his voice, made me cave just a little. Clearly, he’d grown fond of Madam Zoltar. But I also wondered how long he’d known her before she was killed. My impression was it had been a short relationship, yet his tone almost suggested otherwise.

  Which begged the question… “Why did you put Sal’s name on the will if you didn’t want him to have the house?”

  “Because when my lawyer called me to arrange the will, he phoned when I was at the height of a very delicate interrogation. I was pressed to name someone and then I forgot all about it. Sal is my only living relative. He was the first person to come to mind when the word ‘familial’ came into play.”

  “What do you suppose Sal will have to say about this startling turn of events?”

  “He never knew he was named to begin with, so he won’t say a thing.”

  “You don’t have any friends? A BFF?”

  “Spies don’t have BFFs.” His response was curt and screamed this area of his life was none of my business.

  Tucking my chin in my hand, I parsed the deal out in words. “So all I have to do is stay here until the house is done, which could take a hundred years and a hundred backhoes, help you figure out who killed Madam Zoltar, and I can keep the money and the house?”

  “And you must agree to renovating my way.”

  Really, what did I have to lose? If everything checked out, if the money was clean, it was just a house. It wouldn’t eat up even a quarter of the money he’d dumped into my account, and I’d still be in the black. If nothing else, it meant Belfry and I would eventually have somewhere warm and dry to hang our hats.

  “And you’re sure there’s no illegal attachment to this money or this house? Some drug lord from Constantinople won’t come knocking on the door wanting his cash?”

  “The chances of a drug lord from Constantinople are slim to none. Now, Columbia?” he rumbled. “That’s a more distinct possibility.”

  “Winterbottom!”

  “Joking. No drug lords or otherwise.”

  I took a deep breath and looked around at this heaping mess of debris and crumbling walls, rotted wood and graffiti from squatters, and as the light began to rapidly fade, I made a decision.

  My first big, possibly life-changing decision as a human. As much as I longed to go back to my friends in Paris, as much as I missed being a witch, I was no longer welcome in the coven. So it was move on or give up.

  I decided to move on.

  “Okay. It’s a deal. I’d shake on it but, well, you know—ghost and all.”

  “I’m thrilled right now. I wish you could see my face.”

  I wished I could see his face, too. It would be nice to have a face to attach to the whiskey-rough but smooth-as-melted-chocolate voice.

  “Are you smiling?”

  “I don’t smile, I smirk.”

  “As all good spies do. So what do we do next?” I asked, reaching for the rusty doorknob.

  “We plan a strategy, Stevie. A strategy to smoke out a killer.”

  “Can we do that after I have some dinner?”

  “We can begin tomorrow. Bright and early.”

  I twisted the doorknob and was relieved to feel it turn beneath my fingers. “Oh, one more thing.”

  I felt the cool warmth of his aura surround me. I use the words cool and warm because he had the feel of a ghost in that spin-tingling sense, but his aura was warm. “What’s that?”

  “About that Aston Martin you mentioned…”

  “Not even if your life was hanging in the balance.”

  I giggled as I stepped out onto the porch, using my phone as a flashlight to find my way down the stairs.

  Something clicked inside me at that moment. Something felt innately right, and that was when I decided I felt more like myself than I had in over a month.

  Just like the old Stevie, but without a wand and a curse-you-and-your-damnable-soul-to-the-fiery-depths-of-Hades spell.

  Chapter 7

  “Good morning, Mr. Sherwood!” I called as I entered the near-empty Strange Brew, the coffee shop next door to Madam Zoltar’s.

  The shop was filled with pastel-colored wrought iron tables, cheerful bud vases with pink carnations, and a glass counter with fat muffins in every flavor imaginable. I liked the vibe in here.

  It was easy on the eye, and the smooth coffeehouse jazz playing over the sound system soothed my nerves for what I was about to do. Which was behave as though Chester Sherwood had never accused me of murdering “his” Tina. Keep your enemies close and all.

  “How about you not be so nice to the guy who accused you of hurting ‘his Tina’,” Belfry chirped from inside my purse, still cross he’d missed my deal-making with Winterbottom.

  When he’d heard about our newfound riches, he’d been thrilled. Until he heard I didn’t fight for the Aston Martin. Then he’d pouted for two hours after the most sumptuous breakfast I’d had in years—courtesy of my fat bank account. After taking a cab into Seattle and finding a place to dine where no one would label me a murderer, I’d treated Belfry and myself to the first decent meal we’d had in weeks.

  There’d be plenty of lunches I’d have to eat while skulking in some cold alleyway, considering the hate everyone in town was expressing about my alleged involvement with Madam Zoltar’s death. I figured it was only fair we begin the day pampered.

  “Chester’s a fine man, Belfry. He was simply reacting to his grief. It’s natural.”

  “This from the man who waterboards criminals for a living? What do you know about grief, Winterbutt?” Belfry squeaked in outrage.

  I didn’t understand this sudden animosity toward Win. Belfry had been all sorts of determined to involve me with him and now he was behaving as though he’d never swooned over his accent just a mere twenty-four hours ago.

  But Win just chuckled, rich and deep. “I might not know grieving, but I can assure you, Cheeky One, I know how to dole out some grief.”

  Belfry growled from the interior of my purse, fluffing his wings for hand-to-wing combat. “Was that a threat, Spy Guy?”

  “Belfry!” I held my purse up to my face, pretending I was rooting around for my debit card. “Knock it off. You started this, and now we’re in—both feet. Adjust, buddy, and stop being so rude. We have a place to live and money in our pockets thanks to Win. Remember the whole attitude-is-gratitude talk over breakfast while you gobbled down lush mangos and kiwi?”

  “We have a dump, that’s what we have. A cold, ugly, ramshackle dump from the seventh circle of hell.”

  Fair enough. We did have a dump, but I’d already been in touch with the “someone” Win had in mind for the renovations, and he was assessing things as I stood here. I’d also been in touch with Davis Monroe, Esquire, and I did indeed have not just a great deal of money, but the deed to a house Crispin Alistair Winterbottom had bought just two months prior to his mysterious death—with cash.

  When I’d inquired about Win’s passing, the only information Davis Monroe was able to provide was the death certificate he’d received from London.

  Upon receipt of a death certificate, he’d been instructed by Win to consider him expired and the reading of his will should commence exactly a month from the day of his passing, which was two days ago as per Davis Monroe.

  Win had explained how he’d left the timeframe for announcing his death at a month as a safeguard. It was in case he wasn’t really dead. According to him, sometimes spies went deep undercover, and even their superiors had to pretend they were dead.

  Davis Monroe was only to accept a death certificate from a source Win had named in his will—someone he trusted beyond reproach, and someone who could, without a shadow of a doubt, confirm he was gone.

  I’d mentally put the date of his expiration in my box of things to explore once I could find a moment alone with Google sans Win in my ear.

  I panicked for a moment when Mr. Monroe mentioned how odd it was that he could have sworn there’d been an enti
rely different name listed as Crispin Winterbottom’s sole beneficiary, but he chalked it up to the hectic phone call with a lot of background noise (which, according to Win, was in the middle of an interrogation) and his age. Which was nearing eighty, but he was still fit as a fiddle, he’d joked.

  So I learned Win hadn’t been dead for long. That he’d acclimated so quickly to the afterlife said something about his fortitude. Sometimes it took weeks to find your footing as a ghost if you chose to wait on crossing over.

  But not Spy Guy. He had it down. What he’d said about the confusion and disorientation a soul experiences if their death was traumatic was also true. So did that mean he didn’t die a traumatic spy-worthy death? Or was he just tough as nails?

  That he’d had so many rigid rules and instructions in his will in preparation for his death spoke volumes about who he was when he was alive.

  Orderly (well, except for naming Sal as his sole beneficiary, but who could blame a guy when he was in the middle of a delicate grilling?), concise, and no-nonsense.

  But I still didn’t know why the house meant so much to him or if he really had been a spy.

  However, I decided to let it go for the time being in favor of catching a killer. There was no immediacy to finding a job now. Though find one I would, when this was through. Money was lovely. It meant security, but it didn’t mean I wanted to sit on my butt without purpose.

  So I set my sights on keeping my promise to Win by doing what I once did best. Solving a puzzle. I didn’t love that I’d be solving them minus my spells and wand, but this felt good—to be back at a place in my life where I wasn’t in limbo.

  I closed my purse and waved to Chester Sherwood as I approached. He sat at a corner table with a single pink carnation in a vase, his plaid shirt crisp, his eyes behind his glasses sharp.

  He was reading the local paper. My stomach dashed to my feet, stopping me in my tracks when I read the headline: Beloved Local Medium Allegedly Murdered—Suspect Questioned.

  So now I was a confirmed suspect. As far as I knew, I was the only one questioned. Darn, and this day had started out so shiny and new.

  “Don’t let it get in your head, Stevie. Do what you came to do,” Win coached.

  I plastered a smile on my face for Chester’s benefit. “Hi, Mr. Sherwood, remember me from yesterday?” Duh, stupid. How could he forget? He accused you of murder.

  He looked over the top of his morning paper, his round glasses sitting at the end of his nose. “The murderer.”

  If there was one thing that never changed about Ebenezer Falls, word got around just as quickly as ever. It wouldn’t be long before everyone else was calling me a murderer, too.

  I pulled out the chair opposite him and asked with a smile, “May I?”

  “Don’t ask, Stevie. Just sit. Own this interrogation,” Win demanded in brisk words.

  I held up a finger and said, “Just one moment, please, Mr. Sherwood,” before I turned my back to him and whispered from the side of my mouth. “What did I tell you about interfering? We made rules this morning, Win. I was very clear about how we’d do this—”

  “Among other things,” Win drawled. “What was rule number fifty-six again? Something about announcing my entrance to any room with the mating call of the North American—”

  “He’s not a suspect in a terrorist attack or a valuable art heist, Win! He’s an elderly gentleman who may have seen something yesterday he doesn’t think is important but could help Madam Zoltar, and more importantly, us. Now put away the bamboo shoots to jam under his nails and back off!”

  I turned back around and cleared my throat, putting a finger to my ear and pointing at the Bluetooth earpiece I planned to use as a beard whenever Win decided I needed his spy-erly advice. “Sorry. An unexpected call from one of those naggy telemarketers. Anyway, may I sit with you? Please?”

  Mr. Sherwood dropped his paper to his lap and glared at me. “Why would I wanna sit with you? And just so’s you know, I don’t care how pretty you are. You ain’t winnin’ me over with those big blue eyes. You’re still a murderer. The paper says so.”

  I pouted, deciding to use my big blue eyes to my advantage even though they weren’t so much blue as a boring gray.

  “Aw, c’mon, Mr. Sherwood. I’d never hurt a fly. I know what you think, and what everyone’s saying, but I swear on my honor, I just went in to take a look around and got clumsy. I grew up here and so much has changed. Madam Zoltar’s used to be a sewing shop when I was a kid. So I was curious to see the changes and maybe meet Madam Zoltar.”

  Now he was interested. I saw it in his expression. “Who’s your kin?”

  But this was where things could get sticky for me. My mother didn’t exactly have a stellar reputation. She’d been quite the cougar back in the day—or gold digger, depending on which of her victims you asked.

  Still, I couldn’t lie about who she was. Maybe he’d even feel sorry for me.

  “Dita Cartwright was my mother.”

  He bobbed his balding head, his lips still in a thin line of disapproval. “Yep. Lived over in the fancy cul-de-sac, didn’t ya? That explains your good looks.”

  “You knew my mother?” I asked before I thought better. Opening up the subject of my mother was always tricky business. You never knew who you’d run into when it came to a stranger’s experience with the infamous Dita. Sometimes they were friends, but more likely they were angry, bitter foes.

  “Yep,” he offered before returning to his paper.

  This was going exactly as I’d planned. Or not. Ugh.

  The man behind the counter, whose back had been turned, saved me having to offer up excuses about Dita when he approached the table, a pad in his hand.

  When I looked up, I almost fell out of my chair.

  Why hadn’t I remembered Forrest Sherwood when Win told me Chester’s last name? Two years older than me, he was the hottest thing Ebenezer Falls High School had to offer back in the day.

  I jumped up and stuck out my hand. “Forrest? I had no idea you were in town! It’s Stevie. Stevie Cartwright! I was two years behind you, but we went to school together, remember?”

  Forrest smiled slow and easy, making deep grooves appear on either side of his mouth. He took my hand and nodded. “I didn’t at first, but I knew your name was familiar when Grandpa told me about what happened yesterday. Stevie’s an unusual name for a woman. Black lipstick, long trench coat, right?”

  I waved my hand in the air at him and giggled. “All day, every day. That was me and my signature brand of Goth.”

  “Could you be any more schoolgirl-crush obvious?” Win blustered in my ear.

  I stuck my middle finger up behind my head in the direction of Win’s voice as I tucked my hair back into place and sat in my chair.

  “You’ve really changed,” he said with his boy-next-door grin, eyeing my thrift store pink and gray Hermes scarf I’d so carefully wrapped around my neck and draped down my chest to cover the hole in my second-hand silk shirt.

  The shirt was tucked into my third favorite pair of jeans to also hide the wasabi stain on the hem, and I’d paired it all with work boots because I’d sold most of my thrift-store shoes before I left Paris.

  So while I’m sure I looked different, I was still the girl who dripped ketchup down the front of her when she was eating a hot dog.

  But I grinned back at Forrest, brushing my hair from my eyes and setting my sunglasses on top of my head. “I have indeed. For the better, I hope.”

  “So your hair really wasn’t that black with the purple glow?”

  “Nope. I’ve always been a boring medium brown. My quest to be different from everyone else wasn’t always a success.”

  Forrest laughed, deep and rumbly. “Well, you look terrific.”

  Win’s sigh went long and raspy-loud straight through my eardrums. “God save the Queen. Let’s get on with this. This isn’t bloody eHarmony. This is an interrogation.”

  “So you work here?” I asked Forrest, noti
ng his hair was still as sunshiney blond and his eyes were still just as aquamarine as they’d been back when we were in school.

  Chester dropped his newspaper altogether and glared at me. “He owns the place.”

  Forrest put his hand on his grandfather’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze before snapping one of his red suspenders. “Gramps? Ease up, huh? You don’t really believe Stevie hurt Madam Zoltar, do you? Be nice to the customers. Especially ones as pretty as Stevie—and stop perpetuating the rumor.”

  Chester blustered. “Don’t you go givin’ me your PC nonsense about shaming and whatever else it is you extra-sensitive kids have come up with to get all up in arms about!”

  I preened extra hard for Win’s benefit before I asked, “Speaking of Madam Zoltar, do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions about her, Mr. Sherwood?”

  “Finally,” Win groused.

  Mr. Sherwood grumbled, adjusting his suspenders and shrugging Forrest off. “What do you wanna know? And remember, I’m immune to those big gray-blue eyes a yours.”

  I winked playfully. “Right. I dub thee immune. So, before you heard me knocking around next door like an elephant doing the fandango, did you see anything else, hear anything else?”

  “Nope. I’m hard a hearin’. Surprised the nonsense right outta me when I heard the ruckus. I was sittin’ right over there at that corner table havin’ a latte-schmatte-mocha-choca-ya-ya or whatever the kid here calls ’em. ’Bout knocked me out of my chair. So you know it was daggone loud.”

  I looked to my left at the row of sherbet-colored wrought iron tables and noted the wall of Strange Brew faced the very wall where I’d demolished the metal rack with all the candles.

  “And what time did you get here to your grandson’s shop, Mr. Sherwood?”

  “What are you, a Charlie’s Angel? I don’t even know why you’re askin’, but I got here at six-thirty. Same time I do every day.”