Witch Slapped (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 1)

by Dakota Cassidy

  As I entered the dark store, Win was right behind me. “Do you have a to-do list?”

  “Nope, but I’m considering writing up a kill list.”

  “You joke, but there’s this list circulating in the Maldives as we speak—”

  “Win! Can it!”

  “I was merely going to suggest we add a tension wrench to your spy accessory kit to enhance your next lock-picking experience. No need to be so huffy.”

  “Listen, we’re breaking the law here. I don’t have clearance from Tom Cruise and his Mission Impossible posse to be in here. If we get caught, I get arrested. You get to float around and annoy me in my ear while you walk free, and I eat stale bread and creamed corn. So forgive me if I’m a little tense.”

  I picked my way through Madam Z’s small living space, which was nothing more than a very basic studio apartment, careful not to disturb anything. The connecting door was ajar, and as I faced the room where Madam Zoltar had fallen out of her chair, I sucked in air before entering.

  Forcing my feet to move, I eyed the fallen chair and the chalk outline of Madam Z.

  The tarot cards hadn’t been cleaned up either, so I stooped to get a better look at what Madam Zoltar had dealt while I wondered if she’d been in the middle of a reading when she died.

  If she had, then the devil and death card could have some meaning. It caught my eye and made me wonder, if the cards were for a client reading, did it mean there was a devil mucking up their life? Or the client was the devil intent on death?

  “Do the cards mean anything to you?” Win asked.

  “Well, if she was doing a reading for someone, they’re not good, but it also depends on the order she pulled them. Sometimes during a reading, you pull cards reflecting your own feelings. If that’s the case here, she had a hint he was her killer.” I stopped for a moment and gazed down at the corner of a card I was pretty sure was the King of Cups, but I couldn’t get a good look at it without disturbing the order of the cards. “I think that’s the King of Cups, which, if this was the client’s reading, speaks of a family member bringing them to this point.”

  “But to the point of murder? Did she know she was going to die?”

  I swallowed hard when I heard the evident distaste and upset in his question, and bit back my own disgust. “I don’t know because they’re such a jumble.”

  “So if this wasn’t a client reading, then we can consider Dan or Liza as suspects. They’re certainly family.”

  “It’s a definite possibility. And see the competition card? That suggests someone who needs to be noticed. It represents brashness, someone who doesn’t care who they anger.”

  “And the one to the right there—with the woman bound and blindfolded?”

  “It’s the card of a victim…” I whispered, surer than ever this reading had been for whoever killed Madam Z. “And the card with the cup, that represents relationships…and if I’m reading it from the killer’s standpoint, he kills because the victim has what he wants.”

  “Which makes Dan a prime suspect,” Win spat.

  “Maybe, but what did MZ have that he wanted? The store? According to Liza, she had no money but her pension.”

  “We certainly need to talk to Liza.”

  I’d managed to find Dan’s number in the phone book, but according to his dog-sitter, he and Liza were out of town in Tacoma due to a death in the family, and wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. “Well, we can’t do that until tomorrow when they come back from Tacoma.”

  I rose as I took in the scene again, including the scattered cards. “You know what I don’t get? If MZ was strangled, what happened to her foot? If that hole in the ball of her foot was the point of entry, which is what I suspect, how did she electrocute herself like that? Did she step on a live wire?”

  Win grunted low. “I’m just now remembering. Madam Zoltar had a pedal, almost like one you’d use to run a sewing machine. It was right under this table.”

  I looked to the floor, but the pedal Win mentioned was gone. “And what did she do with it?”

  “The usual psychic fare. She used it to control the lights flickering on and off, move items and such.”

  “Okay, so then maybe it was an accident after all? Maybe the wiring was faulty.”

  “Or maybe someone tampered with the wiring. But if what Sandwich says is correct, strangulation was the cause of death—so the point is moot.”

  Win’s voice had sailed across the room to an outlet on the wall next to the table. The white outlet plate was scorched, as was the wall itself.

  Hands on my hips, I eyed the outlet. “Well, I’m no electrician. Any thoughts on how we’d even be able to tell someone tampered with it—or why they’d tamper with it?”

  “Not a one. But after your explanation of the tarot cards and the talk of strangulation, it still means murder—by whichever means came first.”

  That’s when I remembered the necklace. “Do you remember Liza mentioning a Senior Alert necklace she’d given Madam Z? She said they’d given it to her because she was keeping late hours here just to keep the place running. But I don’t remember seeing it because she had a scarf on.”

  “I distinctly remember hearing Liza mention it, but I don’t remember seeing it around her neck during any of our conversations. Of course, she did always wear a scarf. Maybe it was to hide the necklace. She mentioned a time or two how her family worried, and she did whatever she could to alleviate their worries while she went right on living her life out loud.”

  “You think she was embarrassed to wear it? Sort of like a babysitter she didn’t want or need?”

  “Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “So why wouldn’t she press the dang thing?” I muttered, squatting down to look around the water cooler.

  “That could be one of three things. One, if there was foul play, she didn’t sense any danger from her assailant. Or two, someone took it to cover their tracks. Or three, she did press it, and the investigators have it in evidence. There’s likely a chip inside that would have recorded a help signal when she pressed it.”

  “Or maybe she just didn’t wear it at all. I’m more inclined to go with my first theory that Madam Z was a tough old bird and she didn’t like the idea she needed help at all.”

  Win laughed softly. “You have the right impression. She was independent and funny and determined to make contact with the dead. She believed in the afterlife and ghosts and that’s all there was to it.”

  My heart softened for this woman I’d never know, but who had stayed the course despite, I imagine, her fair share of mockery.

  “Even though she’d never actually made an afterlife connection?”

  “She confided something in me during the course of our conversations. It was the deciding factor in choosing her as a way to contact you—aside from the fact that she was wide open when it came to believing. Those are always the easiest people to contact.”

  His statement left me confused. “Then why didn’t you just contact me directly? If anyone’s wide open, it’s a former medium.”

  “Because believe it or not, Miss Medium, you were like a firmly shut door. I’m assuming your troubles back home had soured you, closed you off or something. I couldn’t get your attention no matter what I tried. And I did it all. Made scary ghost noises, flickered the lights, I even attempted a message on your hotel bathroom mirror.”

  That was a fair assessment of where my head was and sort of still is. I was heartsick at the idea I’d never be able to communicate with the dead again. It had been my way of life for so long, it felt like I’d lost an arm. It made sense I’d also lost my fine-tuning.

  “So what did MZ confide in you that made you choose her?”

  “Madam Zoltar said she knew it was wrong to give people the impression she really could talk to their dead relatives, and even take their money for it, but what she hoped they took away from a tarot card reading or séance was comfort. As in the case of Chester.”

  I smiled. “Forrest men
tioned Chester and Madam Z spent a lot of time together.”

  “According to her, she would often check up on some of her customers in the hope she’d helped them move forward by telling them their loved ones would only rest easy if they began to live their lives to the fullest again. She picked up on small clues about the recently departed and she’d use those clues to convince her clients she’d made contact with the other side. Her heart truly was in the right place.”

  My chest tightened in guilt. I’d never thought too highly of non-witch psychics and mediums, as someone who really could make contact with the departed, but I guess I’d never looked at it from the angle Madam Z did.

  “Also, something else worth mentioning. I offered her money, but she wanted nothing from me in the way of financial gain. She was just thrilled to talk to me—thrilled I was proof the afterlife existed. Now that I’ve heard Liza say she was struggling, I wish I could have done more.”

  The gentle admiration in Win’s tone made me smile to myself. “You know, about that. What was the deal anyway? I mean, aside from doing some séances for her? Was she just going to knock on my hotel room door and tell me you’d come to her and asked her to change your will to my name as your sole beneficiary?”

  Now his voice was sad. “She was going to make the deal with you for me.”

  I tilted my head as I looked around the disheveled room in thought. “How much time did you spend with her?”

  “Only a few days before this happened. But I enjoyed every bloody minute. She was a good egg, Madam Z.”

  My heart clenched in reflexive sympathy. “So you were the first to find her. I’d forgotten about that in all the confusion. I’m sorry, Win.”

  His sigh was forlorn in my ear. “I showed up for our usual morning chat while she sipped her tea, and found her on the floor. That’s when I ramped up my efforts to contact you through Belfry.”

  But now I was only half listening. Something had caught my eye. Dropping to my knees on the cold concrete floor, I peered under the water cooler’s base. Using the tissue I’d used on the door handle, I wrapped it around my fingers and fished out the shiny object, giving it a closer look.

  A pen. A brown and gold Montblanc pen. I held it up. “If Madam Z was on the verge of broke, why would she have an expensive pen like this?”

  “It could be anyone’s, Stevie. Maybe a customer’s?”

  I nodded my head. “Yep. Maybe. But I can tell you this. I don’t know too many people in Ebenezer falls who can afford a Montblanc.”

  “I’m impressed, Mini-Spy. How did you know it was a Montblanc?”

  “Someday, when I’ve recovered from unloading my last batch of baggage, ask me about my mother, Dita,” I joked, tucking the pen in my purse, ensuring the tissue paper was still around it.

  I wondered if I could get Sandwich to test it for fingerprints. If this was happening back in my heyday, I’d just read the pen’s aura and find out whom it belonged to.

  I rose and sighed. “Do you know if she kept a list of clients?”

  He barked a laugh. “I don’t know if you noticed, but Madam Z wasn’t much for organization. Though, she did tell me she took lots of notes on clients.”

  A thrill of hope shot up my spine. “If we could find a list of her clientele, maybe we could begin ticking suspects off our list. Where do you suppose she kept something like that?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I—”

  “Ca-caw ca-caw!” Belfry made the call of a crow, our agreed-upon warning signal.

  But rather than figure out how to get out of the store, or at least hide, I froze, my feet rooting to the spot. Oh, if Cagney and Lacey could see me now.

  “Ca-caw ca-caaaaw!”

  “Stevie!” Win urged. “Move it!”

  “Where?” I whisper-yelled in my panic. “Where am I supposed to go?”

  There were only two exits I knew of. The front door and the back. Oh, sweet Pete on a pogo stick, I was a goner.

  “Ahem, people. I said ca-caw ca-caw!” Belfry’s cry, urgently annoyed, sang through my ears.

  “The bathroom, Stevie! There’s a window. Go now!”

  I made a break for it, hopping over the tarot cards and out to the front of the store, where I remembered seeing the door for the bathroom. Concentrating on not tripping over the candles and debris, I saw my target and made a break for it, throwing the door open and slipping inside.

  My heart raced in my chest, so fast and furious, I was sure it would pop right out.

  “Open the window above the sink,” Win ordered briskly.

  I looked up at the window, just over the pedestal sink, and my stomach fell to my feet. “Do you see the size of that window? I appreciate the thought, but no way is this butt pushing its way through that sliver of a window!”

  The rectangular window—framed by peeling wood and covered in rain spatter on its frosty pane—was too small. Any attempt to get out through it would be like trying to push sausage back into its casing.

  As footsteps approached, Win yelled in my ear, “Move it or learn to love creamed corn, Mini-Spy!”

  My arms and legs decided to move all at once, tangling up while they tried to figure out which set of limbs should go first—upper or lower extremities. I fell forward, jamming my hip on the edge of the sink and knocking the soap dispenser to the floor.

  “Hello?” someone called.

  Catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror above the sink, my skin pale, my eyes wide, I was frozen in place again, my palms going clammy and sweaty.

  But then Win was there, the warmth of his aura enveloping me. “Stevie, don’t panic. Use your hands on the windowsill to haul yourself up onto the edges of the sink, and your feet to brace yourself when you get on top of it. Go!”

  Win’s instructions somehow soothed me, gave me focus, and I did exactly that. But there was still absolutely no way I was getting out of that window, no matter how much instruction he gave me.

  As the rain pounded on the roof, making so much noise I almost couldn’t hear myself think, I took the opportunity to ask, “Got any tips on how to lose fifteen pounds in two seconds?” I quipped, a bead of sweat now forming on my brow.

  But he ignored me. “Pop it open, Stevie, and listen carefully. Feet first, flatten and elongate your body out as you go. Do it!”

  I did as I was told, my hands shaking. I didn’t even know where the window led. I just knew I had to get the heck out before whoever was in the store caught me and accused me of yet another crime, one I was definitely guilty of this time.

  Jamming my legs out the window, I leaned back and fought a grunt as the top of the window sat on my stomach and the tracks dug into my butt, There wasn’t a spare inch either way. I filled the entire space.

  “I can’t breathe!”

  “Do you think breathing will be easier if the air comes from your prison cell?”

  Fear spiked again. “You’re not helping!”

  “And you’re not moving! Now slide out, Stevie. Spread your legs, use the heels of your boots to brace against the building, and your thigh muscles and arms and hands to inch you out and slide!”

  “Did I mention I failed PE in school? Gravy, I was so bad. I couldn’t even climb a rope without secretly using a spell,” I said, on the verge of hysteria as I tried to feel for the side of the building with the heels of my work boots.

  “Did I mention we’re putting you into a rigorous training program the moment we wake on the morrow? Stop gabbing and get moving!”

  “Did you just call me fat?”

  “Helllooo?” the voice called again. A male voice, to be precise.

  I heard the handle to the bathroom door rattle, my legs and stomach aching while I tried to gather the courage to slide as Win suggested.

  “Stevie! You’ve got tops, maybe five seconds before you’re caught. Yum-yum, creamed corn!”

  I hate creamed corn. Hate it. Despise it. Wish it a thousand fiery deaths. Who knew it would be my catalyst to manage a death-defy
ing leap from a window?

  Engaging my last bit of strength, I stuffed my abundant backside through that tiny hole, using my hands to push as I gripped my purse, which still held the pen.

  Just as I was about to launch myself forward, I vowed to hire a personal trainer with all that money Win gave me. A big, hunky muscly one who would help me downsize my butt while wearing Lycra bike shorts and a wife-beater.

  “Stevie, go!”

  I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming and pushed myself out, stretching my body and straightening my arms so they cleared the window.

  Eyes closed, I prepared for impact, wondering if I’d break a leg or maybe something far worse, like my back.

  The dull thud of my work boots on the wet concrete and the spray of slimy mud, spattering my face and lips when I crumpled like a deflated plastic beach ball, made my eyes pop open to see how far I’d fallen.

  I looked up from my puddle, frowning as the rain beat at my face.

  “Well, well, Mini-Spy, don’t be surprised if the people from the stunt double association call you up and hire you sight unseen,” Win teased in that rich timbre of his.

  Win’s taunting laughter echoed in my ears because, as it turned out, my death-defying leap to freedom was only about a five-foot drop into the tiny, very muddy courtyard separating Madam Z’s from the spice shop on the other side of her store.

  I held up a finger and hissed under my breath, “If you say a single word, I’ll turn that monstrosity of yours into a palace of pink and ruffles with glitter everywhere!”

  Chapter 10

  I hauled myself upward and dabbed at the mud on my face with my Hermes scarf, moving from the open window as quickly as I could before whoever was inside realized I was right beneath it.

  I skedaddled around the corner and stood in front of the spice shop, turning my back to the street. Spitting the mud from my mouth, I opened my purse and whispered, “Belfry!”

  His tiny white body came into view in seconds, swooping down against the wind until he was on my shoulder with a shake and a shiver before hopping inside my purse.