A Witch Called Wanda (iWitch Mystery Book 1)

by Diana Orgain

  “Honey, we have to be realistic. I mean, even if you solve this homicide for Mrs. Avery, we still need a second income.”

  “I could get another client.”

  Jim looked at me, a cross of pity and love on his face.

  “You think I’m kidding myself, don’t you?” I asked.

  He wrapped his arms around me. “I totally believe in you and support you and love you.”

  “You think I’m kidding myself.”

  “How about I ask for a raise today?”

  I pulled out of his embrace and looked into his eyes. “You certainly deserve one.”

  “Yeah. I’ve been landing them new clients left and right. You should have seen the ad campaign I presented last week. Maybe I can squeeze a few more dollars out of them, or hell, even a promotion.”

  Relief washed over me. Maybe I could stay home after all.

  “You better get going then,” I said. “You don’t want to be late on the day you get promoted.”

  To Do:

  1. Find Brad and/or Michelle and Svetlana’s killer.

  2. x Speak to Michelle’s sister, Kelli-Ann.

  3. Get some sleep.

  4. x E-mail for advice on pump.

  5. Figure out how to launch this PI business—need license?

  6. Research day care for Jelly Bean—just in case.

  7. Start diet.

  8. Pick up some dental whitener.

  9. Find time for manicure/pedicure.

  I looked over my list. How could I prioritize that to-do list? Could I really find a killer?

  Well, I had found George, hadn’t I?

  Please don’t be one and the same, I prayed, unable to control the nausea that surfaced.

  The phone rang, interrupting my thoughts.

  “Kate. Nora Collins here. How are you and the baby?”

  My boss from corporate hell.

  “Fine. Fine. Everyone is good.”

  “Great. Glad to hear it. Did you get the basket we sent?”

  The staff from my office had sent a baby bathing basket. In it was a little yellow ducky robe complete with a bill hood and two feet dangling from the end of it, a couple of rubber duckies, baby shampoo, lotion and soap, and a waterproof bath book.

  I hadn’t had the time or energy to mail the thank-you cards. What had happened to my manners? I reached for the pen that was near me and re-added “Mail thank-you cards” to my to-do list.

  “We got the basket,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Glad you like it. Sheryl picked out everything. You know how she likes to shop.”

  Sheryl was Nora’s ever faithful and devoted assistant. Everyone in the office knew Nora would be lost without Sheryl.

  “Have you thought about your return date?” Nora asked.

  I’d thought of little else, except for Laurie and solving this mystery.

  What to tell Nora?

  I want to launch my own business so I can stay home with my little treasure and my husband is hopefully going to get a raise today, so maybe I won’t be coming back. Besides, I’d probably crack in two if I had to leave Laurie, so you don’t really want me back.

  “I don’t have a return date yet. I have to see my doctor first and get a release,” I said.

  “Of course,” Nora said. “I understand.”

  Did she understand? She didn’t have any children, or a spouse for that matter. She had given up everything to climb the corporate ladder.

  I tried to put a little cheer into my voice. “Thanks for calling and checking in. Tell everyone I said hello. I’ll let you know about my return date after I see my doctor.”

  We hung up.

  I paced.

  Return to work? Ugh!

  Not that there was anything wrong with my job. It was a good job, and I worked with decent people. I was responsible for the management of the entire architectural office. It was a creative place to work, and things were always busy around me. But I would have to be away from Laurie all day, every day.

  I had to find a way to solve this crime. Investigation was much more exciting than my corporate job ever had been. And more important, if I could launch my own business, it would give me freedom and flexibility.

  I googled “starting a business” and got busy reading.

  <><><>

  Laurie was nestled comfortably in the baby carrier, lunch barely on the table, when I heard the front door slam. Laurie and I peeked into the hallway in time to see Jim let his briefcase fall to the floor with a loud thud.

  “What are you doing back so soon?”

  He stared at me. “I was fired.”

  “Fired? I thought everything was going well.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You said the presentation went great. What about the promotion? The raise?”

  “My presentation was great. We got the account. I landed my firm a multimillion-dollar account and they canned my ass.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “They found out that I got arrested.”

  “What? How? And what does that have to do with anything? You’re not guilty of anything! You were released.”

  Laurie began to wail, as though she sensed we were upset. Funny how intuitive people are when they start out.

  “That cop, McNearny, plays poker every Saturday night with Josh Garner, the top partner at my firm. Turns out McNearny blabs that I was arrested. Josh pulled me into his office this morning and said I’d violated, get this, a moral turpitude clause in my employee contract.”

  I sat on our couch, stunned. Waves of disbelief washed over me. “I can’t believe it! You haven’t been convicted of anything!”

  “I know. He said it didn’t matter, said it was bad for the firm’s image.”

  “Maybe if you talked to another partner. What about Dylan—”

  “Screw it! I’m not going to beg for my job. Ungrateful bastards!”

  I stared at the mallard print that hung above our fireplace. A bird in flight. I love that picture simply because it’s an incredible act of nature. Such a small creature defying nature’s biggest law. Gravity.

  I mustered the most courage I could. “Honey, we’re a team. We’re going to figure this thing out. Together!”

  Jim’s shoulders slumped. “I’ve never been fired before.”

  Pain shot through my temples. “You think I should go back to the office?”

  His eyes searched out mine. “I don’t know what I think. I know how you feel about being home with Laurie.”

  We sat in silence. I unbundled Laurie from the baby carrier and placed her on the little play mat. She was happy again, and played with a little witch rattle Mom had brought her in preparation for Halloween. Laurie clutched the rattle and studied her hand in surprise, as if wondering how the witch had gotten there.

  Jim and I looked at each other. I covered my face and burst out crying, shaking all over. It seemed every time we took one step forward, we managed to take two back.

  He hugged me tight. “Don’t cry, honey. We’re going to figure it out. We have our savings and I’ll have unemployment, for all that’s worth. Don’t worry, Kate. Please don’t cry.”

  <><><>

  Miraculously, we ended up getting a good night’s sleep. Laurie must have tired herself out playing with the little rattle and ended up sleeping for a blessed six hours straight, which all the medical books comically term “sleeping through the night.”

  In the morning, Jim awoke at his normal time—6 A.M.—in a panic. “Oh! Oh. This is weird, honey, really weird.”

  “What is?”

  “Not having to get up and go to the office.”

  He turned over in bed and looked straight into my eyes. “I’m sorry, honey. I feel guilty. If I hadn’t picked a fight with George—”

  “No! You didn’t know. How could you know that you would be fired over that? And by the way, George had it coming for getting us involved in all of this in the first place.”

  Jim smiled. “You’re finally starting to see thi
ngs my way.”

  “Let’s look at the bright side,” I said. “At least this will free you up to help me solve the murders.”

  Jim nodded. We peeked at Laurie, nestled in the bassinet by our bed. She was still sleeping.

  I snuggled into Jim. “Let’s go back to sleep.”

  “Yeah.” Jim said, putting his arm around me. “I’m depressed. It sucks to be fired.”

  I hugged him tight. “Oh, honey! Don’t worry. Things always work out for the best.”

  “How can this be for the best, Kate?”

  I sighed. “I dunno. I have to say that to keep from getting depressed myself.”

  Jim fluffed up a pillow and pulled the blanket around himself. “You’re right, we should go back to sleep. Maybe it’s all a dream.”

  We dozed until what felt like a decadent hour—7 A.M.! Then our little Laurie alarm went off.

  Wailing.

  Jim seemed in better spirits after the additional hour of sleep. “Better start looking for another job.”

  “Don’t worry, you’ll find something soon. You’re the best ad executive I know.”

  “I’m the only ad executive you know.”

  “That doesn’t matter. You’re still the best.” I winked at him. He nodded back at me. “If you don’t find another job soon,” I continued, “I’ll go back to work. We can swing it on my salary for a while, until you find something.”

  I tried to keep the panic out of my voice and my eyes free from tears at the thought of going back to the office. Something must have shown because Jim’s lips tightened into a line.

  He stared at me, then we both nodded solemnly together, trying to convince each other that we believed everything would work out.

  I snuggled with Laurie while I listened to Jim tap on the computer keyboard in the other room.

  At 8 A.M. the phone rang. A refined gentleman’s voice asked, “Is Mr. Connolly available?”

  “May I ask who’s calling?”

  “This is Dirk Jonson, with Jonson, Mayer, and Ritler.”

  Could this be a recruiter already?

  With Laurie in tow, I walked to Jim’s office and handed him the cordless phone. Before I could tell him who was calling, Laurie began to wail in my ear. I took our screaming daughter out of the room and closed the door behind me, ruining any chance of my eavesdropping, but giving Jim an opportunity to hear something other than Laurie’s caterwauling.

  I put a pot of decaf on and scrambled around the kitchen looking for anything that vaguely resembled breakfast fixings. I made toast.

  I added sugar to my cup and revised my to-do list:

  To Do:

  1. Help Jim find a job.

  2. Find Brad and/or Michelle and Svetlana’s killer.

  3. Get more sleep.

  4. Figure out how to launch this PI business—How do I get more clients?

  5. Research day care for Jelly Bean.

  6. Get a manicure and pedicure.

  7. Where is that parenting book?

  8. Organize house.

  9. Mail thank-you cards.

  I grabbed the stack of thank-you cards and popped them into the diaper bag. I would mail them today no matter what.

  I called Jim for breakfast.

  “All we have is toast,” I muttered. “I’ll shop today.”

  “I’ll go,” Jim said, gobbling every crumb on his plate.

  “Who was that on the phone?”

  “The client I landed for Fortena and Associates.”

  “What was he calling about?”

  “They told him I got fired yesterday. He wasn’t very happy about it and wants to meet with me today.” Jim raised his eyebrows.

  The phone rang again. Mrs. Avery wanted to take me to brunch and get a status report.

  The brunch part sounded fabulous, because, of course, I was still hungry, even after two slices of toast. The status part . . . ?

  What would I report?

  <><><>

  After breakfast, Jim put Laurie into her bassinet and tapped away at the computer. I showered, trying to pull energy and ideas from the water.

  Jim’s appointment wasn’t until the afternoon, which left me plenty of time to meet with Mrs. Avery without having to worry Mom about babysitting.

  I fumbled through my closet and found the best clothes I could that would fit. Dressier slacks that I could almost button and a pink silk blouse, which was designed to tie around the waist, camouflaging my sins.

  I even had time to apply makeup. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Wow! Makeup really did make a difference. Especially at age thirty.

  I crept into Jim’s office. Laurie was sleeping peacefully in the baby carrier with her thumb in her mouth.

  “She’s discovered her thumb,” I said.

  “I noticed,” Jim replied.

  “I hope she won’t develop nipple confusion.”

  Jim laughed. “I doubt it.”

  “Right,” I said, reassured. “The breastfeeding purists will tell you anything to keep you nursing.”

  I edged Jim away from the computer in order to prepare my report for Mrs. Avery. What could I possibly put in it, when I didn’t have a clue who killed Brad? I fell back on my old corporate skills: “If you have nothing of substance to report, at least make it look good. And when all else fails, overwhelm the reader with information.”

  “When will you be back?” Jim asked, looking over my shoulder as I typed.

  “In time for the next feeding, don’t worry.”

  “What do I do if she cries?”

  I looked up into Jim’s face. His brow was creased in concern.

  “You’ve been alone with her before.”

  “Once, and you left me with a bottle. When she cried, I gave it to her and she stopped. What do I do this time?”

  “There’s a bottle in the fridge. I’ll leave written instructions again, okay? I won’t be gone long.”

  A look of relief flashed across his face. He leaned over to kiss me.

  He asked, “Are you going to invoice Mrs. Avery today?”

  “What?”

  “Remember, I’m out of work. If you’re serious about making this a business, you should present her with an invoice for your time so far. I mean, you never even got a retainer from her, right?”

  “What’s a retainer?”

  “Request at least twenty-five percent of what you think the total cost to solve the crime will be.”

  “I have no idea what that is.”

  “Figure it out fast and err on the high side if you need to. It’s easier to return an overpayment than try to collect.” He leaned over again to kiss me and said, “And, honey, you look really pretty.”

  I felt warm inside. I hadn’t felt really pretty in months, probably nine to be exact.

  <><><>

  I drove to the Olympic Club on Country Club Drive. Judging by all the Mercedeses, BMWs, and Bentleys, I was more than out of place in my six-year-old Chevrolet Cavalier.

  Oh well, Kate, just try not to sideswipe any of them.

  The grounds of the country club were beautiful. There was a view of the manicured golf course from the top of the driveway. As I pulled up to the valet, I could see a few morning golfers grabbing their clubs. I’d never gotten into golfing, although it certainly seemed like the thing to do nowadays.

  Could I land any clients by networking at a golf course? How do you get into golfing anyway? Does someone need to show you how? Like a coach or something? Or do you just get up and swing? How do you even get a reservation on the course?

  Mrs. Avery waved to me from the entrance of the club, which was landscaped with blooming chrysanthemums. How did they keep them fresh so late in the season? Mrs. Avery looked completely in her element, dressed in striped golf pants with a coordinating polo shirt.

  “Kate! Thank you for coming,” she said, wrapping a protective arm through mine.

  She steered me toward the restaurant. The ceiling in the room was so high I got dizzy looking up. T
he red velvet high-back chairs stood at attention, like British guards, over the sparkling silver at each table.

  Mrs. Avery squeezed my elbow. “Let’s get seated, then you can tell me what you’ve discovered.”

  We were escorted by the host, a serious gentleman dressed in a three-piece suit, to a table in the corner. Mrs. Avery whispered to me that not long ago women had not been allowed into the Club.

  The Club. La di da.

  The host pulled out our chairs and made sure we were seated comfortably before disappearing. Instantly, an unblemished seventeen-year-old boy appeared and handed us menus. His hair was slicked back in a pompadour style and he wore a white dress shirt and black slacks. He looked me up and down.

  What was he thinking? Was he wondering what I was doing in a place like this?

  His eyes lingered on me. He blushed.

  Oh! He was checking me out!

  It had been so long since someone, besides that creep Rich, had looked at me that way, I’d forgotten what it was like. He averted his eyes. I smiled, remembering that Jim had said I looked pretty.

  I sucked in my postpartum belly and sat a little straighter. I’d have to do the makeup thing more often.

  “The smoked salmon is divine here, Kate,” Mrs. Avery said. She turned to the boy. “Two freshly squeezed orange juices, dear.”

  He nodded and hustled off without even a look back at me. I guess I wasn’t that impressive.

  I studied the menu, deciding on the “French Country” breakfast, a traditional omelet filled with diced potatoes, served with a green seasonal salad and sherry wine vinaigrette. My mouth watered reading the description. Mrs. Avery settled on the smoked salmon, served with squash cake, dill sauce, and a green salad.

  What is squash cake?

  Judging by the platters wafting by me, no doubt it would look good.

  While we waited for our food, I presented my report to Mrs. Avery. A color-printed PowerPoint presentation of all the suspects, wrapped in a bright blue folio.

  Mrs. Avery pulled her reading glasses from her purse and reviewed my notes, the pie charts, and graphs. “Wow! This is a very pretty report!”

  “Thank you.” I beamed.

  “What does it mean?”

  Indeed. What did it mean?

  I squinted at her and tried not to lose my nerve. “Well . . . it means that each person has an equal chance of being the murderer.”