“Was Bart…” I swallowed hard. “Was he hanging when you found him, Mom?”
She closed her eyes and shuddered. “I don’t remember, Stephania. He was just there. I told the police everything. Please don’t make me repeat that horror.”
Then something else occurred to me. Something I wouldn’t necessarily be able to tell anymore because I was no longer a witch. Bart was a warlock. Had he tried to use his magic to stop his killer? It was a natural, almost kneejerk defense.
“Did you smell magic when you found him?”
My mother’s gaze found mine as though she just realized something crucial. “Yes!” Then her eyes clouded over. “But I can’t remember if it smelled like Bart’s,” she sobbed.
I stiffened, fear coursing through my veins. “You didn’t say anything like that to the police, did you? Call me crazy, but worse has been revealed in a time of anguish.”
“Of course not, Stephania! I’m not an idiot.”
“Okay, then did you see anything else that might help us? Anything unusual other than the scent of magic?”
“No! Now stop grilling me as though I’m the guilty party here! I don’t know who’d want to kill Bart. I told the police that, too. In fact, I don’t know much about his past at all.”
“Because you never investigated his past, Mom.” She’d just seen dollar signs. “This is going to look bad to the police, Mom. You could end up a serious suspect.”
“Well, I don’t care! It’s just as I said. If I wanted Bart dead, I’d have taken care of it with my magic.”
Closing my eyes, I prayed for patience. “Mom? You cannot use that as a valid alibi for how you couldn’t possibly have killed Bart. We live with humans here in Ebenezer Falls. They won’t get your justifications, and you cannot kill anyone, ever, anyway. Not according to Baba and the coven word. Understand? And maybe you should talk to my father so he can help you work on your sad face, so if the police question you again you’ll at least look like you’re sorry Bart’s dead.”
“Stevie, we’ve talked about this. You’ll only add fuel to the fire,” Win chastised.
Crossing her arms over her chest, Mom gave me the death glare. “Don’t even speak his name in my presence, Stephania. I won’t have it today.”
I know, I know. I swore I was going to accept Dita for who she was and love her anyway. But not when it came to something as important as this. Nuh-uh.
“Mom? All you have to do is answer one teeny-tiny question and we don’t have to talk about Hugh ever again. No talking it out. No repercussions. No blame. No drama. Just one question. Deal?”
Sucking in her cheeks, she gave me a curt nod of her sleep-tousled head. “One question and that’s it. Then we have business to take care of.”
I swallowed hard. Now that I was about to ask the most important of questions, I couldn’t believe how nervous I was or how much I really wanted what I was about to ask to be true.
Rubbing my hands together, their clammy surfaces cold, I looked her in the eye. “Is Hugh Granite really my father?”
Dita took a deep breath. The early-morning gray of the oncoming rain through the wide expanse of windows made her look tiny for only a moment before she sat up straight, her spine rigid. “Yes. Hugh Granite is your father.”
I let out a breath I didn’t even know I was holding and left her with these words: “Thank you for answering. I’m going to take a shower, and when I’m done, we’ll have some breakfast and figure out what happened with Bart.”
Tears stung my eyes as I made my way into the bathroom.
I had a movie-star father.
In Japan.
And I liked him.
And that was pretty cool.
* * * *
“Why are you wearing that ridiculous outfit, Stephania?” my mother asked as I looked at yet another account Bart owed money on.
Belfry rolled to his back on the towel I’d set him on and looked up at my mother. “You deaf, lady? Didn’t we just relive the whole Madam Zoltar 2.0 story?”
But I pressed my finger to his chin to quiet him. “Because I work, Mom. I have an appointment today as Madam Zoltar. Remember what I told you over the eggs Carmella was kind enough to make—and you complained about?”
Carmella had come to check on my mother and me this morning to find we hadn’t eaten yet. And no one didn’t eat when Carmella had an apron and a gourmet kitchen at her beck and call.
“Well, they were runny.”
“So is your mou—”
I pressed another finger to Bel’s snout to shush him. “And they were free. Like I told you earlier, I’m dressed like this because this was how Madam Zoltar dressed when she was giving readings and communicating with the dead.”
She rolled her eyes, bored with me already. “But didn’t you just tell me you could no longer communicate with the afterlife?”
“Yes, but then I also told you about Win, my conduit. He helps me talk to the spirits. So in honor of Madam Zoltar, I took over her business and I have appointments for readings today that were made a good deal in advance of your surprise visit. You didn’t RSVP until the last second. I thought you weren’t coming. Anyway, that’s why I wear the caftan and the turban.”
“You’ll never get a man dressed like that, Stephania,” she scoffed, flicking at the linen napkin on the table of our kitchen nook.
“Well, that’s good, because I don’t want a man who bases his attraction to me on how I dress. I want a man who bases his attraction to me on my mind.”
“Brainz, we want braaainz!” Belfry chirped on an infectious giggle.
I would have laughed under normal circumstance, but not after the hour I’d just spent going over Bart and Dita’s finances. Pressing my fingers to my temples to ease the ache in them, I closed my laptop with resignation.
It was true. Bart had no money. He’d been scamming Mom all along, using credit cards he’d run up to the max to stay afloat, robbing Peter to pay Paul, and it was all catching up to him today.
“So it’s true then?” Mom asked, her tone filled with worry.
“It sure looks that way. His credit cards are all maxed out. In fact, the first-class flight to Seattle took him right over the top. The Mercedes was a lease that’s going to be repossessed any minute, a lease he also paid for with a cash advance from his credit card. The villa in Greece, the yacht in Aruba, the condo in Miami, the wine-of-the-month club, a couple of other unmentionables I can’t even believe you tolerated—all leased. All paid for with credit cards. Didn’t you have credit cards as his wife, too, Mom? Didn’t you ever look at the bills and see the mess he was in?”
Now she looked hesitant—and that made me nervous.
“Mom? If we’re going to do this, and I’m going to help you, you’re going to have to lay everything on the table for me. All of it. I want the truth. Don’t let me get caught with my pants down and make me look like a fool, and don’t you dare get defensive either. Now spit it out.”
Fluffing her silk scarf (a new one; not like the kind I hunted down at secondhand stores, mind you), she twisted the multicolored fabric in nervousness. “I did have credit cards, but they weren’t all in his name. Some were in mine.”
“And where are they now?” I held slim hope they were shredded in the trash, but I knew better.
“Pick me, I know! I know!” Bel squeaked.
I gave my familiar a stern look that said enough really was enough. “Mom?”
“In my purse,” she hedged, biting her lower lip.
“Burning a hole in it, I suppose?”
Shrugging, she ran her finger over the rim of her teacup. “I have some debt…”
“Mom, where did you meet Bart?”
“At a convention.”
Sweet Pete in a mini-skirt. I had a bad feeling I was in up to my eyeballs because she was being purposefully evasive, but that didn’t stop me from diving head first into the pool. “For?”
“Millionaires,” she said on a guilty whisper.
&nb
sp; Well, of course she had. Where else would someone like my mother go to hunt down her next husband? “So he told you he was a millionaire?”
Mom looked at me as if I was insane to question such a thing. “How else could he be registered at the convention?”
“I smell rotten things in Denmark, Stevie. I do believe we have a legitimate con artist on our hands, Dove.”
“Seeing as I’m pretty sure you weren’t working the convention—though, I’ve heard back in the day you were super adept at them, Rodeo Girl—Bart was probably registered the same way you were registered. By making things up and presenting false documents.”
I watched as her mind worked, watched as she considered creating some tall tale in her head to cover her scam, so I gave her the “don’t even” glare.
Finally, Dita looked me right in the eye, her beautiful gaze narrowed. “He thought I was an heiress with a trust fund, all right?”
Win began to laugh in my ear, so loud and so hard, he wheezed. “Priceless! They scammed each other! Oh, bloody good show!”
“So he thought you had money, too?” The magnitude of not just the pretense of riches, but the mental work it required to keep up such a ruse fell on me, full impact. “Oh, Mom. Haven’t you learned after all this time? Stuff like this catches up with you. I thought after husband number three hundred and eight, you’d get it. And you’ve married other men and didn’t have to pretend you were rich to get them to say I do.”
My mother let out an annoyed sigh, smoothing her silky hair back over her shoulder. “Don’t exaggerate, Stephania. I’ve only had five husbands, counting Bart. But he told me he would only marry a woman of his ilk, and when I peeked at his net worth, well, you know the rest of the story.”
Oh, what tangled webs we weave… I cleared my throat. “So you pretended to be ‘of his ilk’ before you even knew if he had ilk himself? How’d you manage that?”
Dita didn’t look guilty when she told me. Not even a little. “Masters, my last husband, left me some money, and of course I have credit cards…”
“Some money? Wasn’t Masters a legit multimillionaire?”
“He was, but he left most everything to his greedy children and his various charities. Some diabetes foundation or another, the hunting club, etcetera.”
Now for the biggest question of all—the one which would determine how much debt she was really in. “How much did he leave you, Mom?”
“Enough to—”
“How. Much?” I wasn’t letting this go. If we were going to try to fix this, we were going all the way.
“Two hundred thousand dollars.”
Win groaned with me.
Licking my lips, I said through clenched teeth, “And where is that money now, Mom?”
Looking out the window at the boats, she drummed her fingers on the table. “Well, I had to prove to Bart I was an heiress, didn’t I? So I bought a car and some small trinkets. They were investments…”
“While I lived like a pauper in a fleabag motel and ate dollar tacos to make my money last? Nice, Mom.”
Dita turned her eyes to me, all doughy and soft. “I didn’t know, Stephania.”
I fought the urge to be petty, but it slipped out anyway. “Because you didn’t want to know. Bart told you he didn’t want you to know.”
Mom swallowed, licking her lips. “That’s fair.”
“So, in other words, all the money you had is gone, yes?”
“Yes,” she said in a weak voice.
“How long did you think you could keep making him believe you were an heiress with a big fat trust fund?”
“Do you want the truth?”
“Nah. I want you to lie to me. Of course I want the truth, Mom!”
Her shoulders lifted under her powder-blue cashmere sweater. “Until someone better, maybe richer came along. I had my eye on a shipping magnate.”
I popped up from the table, my work boots clomping on the gorgeous hardwood floor to keep from throttling her. “Okay, I need a breather and it’s almost nine. That means I have to go because I don’t want to be late for my nine-thirty at the shop. Let me mull some of this over and we’ll reconnect later this afternoon when I’m done with work.”
“And what do you expect I’ll do all day? Hang around with those disgusting mutants upstairs?”
Count the credit card companies you owe? Plan a funeral for your husband?
“Count, Stevie. Do the three-count. In this instance, maybe five or even ten. Whatever it takes to keep your cool. Remember, as we discussed. Be clear and concise with your requirements for this relationship, but don’t give in to fits of sarcasm. And no passive-aggressive stabs at her clear inability to focus on anything but herself, or her lack of sensitivity after abandoning you in your darkest hour,” Win encouraged. “The time to hash her faults as a mother out are for after this is handled. And I wholly encourage you to do such. Don’t let her take advantage, but wait until the dust of Bart’s death settles.”
He’d been coaching me for the past couple of days, ever since he knew my mother was coming to visit, offering skills on how to deal with emotional terrorists. I’m still not sure if it’s the same as the kind of terrorists he’s dealt with, but so far, it was kind of panning out.
So I counted to ten in my head, got my boundary ducks in a row, and said, “Mourn your husband properly, keep your mouth closed and don’t talk to anyone. Also, please don’t call the Bats disgusting. They’re an extension of Belfry, who’s one of the best friends I have in the world. That means they’re always welcome here forever. Just because you don’t want a familiar, doesn’t mean I don’t. They’ve been given strict instructions to stay out of your way, but I won’t have you insulting them. They’re my guests.”
Then I scooped up Belfry and tucked him in my purse, calling for Whiskey, who loved to ride in the car no matter where we went. “Whiskey! C’mon, buddy! Vroom-vroom!”
Those two key words had him bounding down the stairs and, from the sound of it, stumbling over his big feet on the last step before he skidded into the hallway entry. He righted himself and scurried to stand by my side as I latched his leash on his collar.
Kneeling down, I pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Who’s the best boy ever?”
And that was when I noticed what he had in his mouth. A business card with bite marks on it.
Groaning, I tapped his wet nose. “Hand it over, dude, or no vroom-vroom for you.”
Bel peeked his head out of my purse, his tiny claws, clinging to the edge. “Whiskey! Dude, what have I told you about eating everything off the ground? Swear, someday you’re gonna get the clap just because you can’t resist snarfing stuff up. Spit it out!” he ordered.
Whiskey let his tongue unfurl, plopping the card into my hand. I held it up under the light coming in from the front door. It was a card from Parties by Petula, pastel pink and festively decorated with a three-tier cake with sparkling white bows.
As I flipped it over, I read a name scrawled in pencil on the back.
Bart.
Chapter 7
I looked at the business card from Petula again as I waited at the store for my eleven o’clock to arrive. A man who wanted to attempt contact with his brother who’d died last month.
The day had gone even grayer and drizzlier, but the store cheered me up. I loved what we’d done with Madam Zoltar’s. It soothed me today, with the healing crystals I so adored surrounding me, and what was left of my glued-together snow globe collection (trashed after a run-in with an angry spirit) on a shelf.
We’d added antique rocking chairs outside for those who chose to pop in and chat (spirits and people alike), and as word got out, we were beginning to grow our clientele.
“I assume we can speak freely now that we’re out of your mother’s presence?” Win asked.
I nodded, pulling my turban off to run my fingers through my hair. “Thank goddess, yes.”
“You sound exhausted and the day’s only just begun, Stevie. Didn’t sleep
well last night?”
Yawning, I rolled my shoulders to ease the tension. “My mother takes the stuffing right out of me. All this keeping my feelings to myself is work, Win. I used to let off steam with sarcasm and my razor-sharp wit. If I can’t use those, she uses up all my life points,” I complained on a laugh.
Win barked a laugh of his own. “She is a great deal of work and far worse than I imagined.”
“Admit it, you thought I was exaggerating, didn’t you?”
“I’ll own that statement. Yes. I thought you exaggerated. I was wrong. But I’m proud of how you’re handling the shambles her life is right now. I realize there’s a great deal of fodder to be had, but you have on your restraint pants and you’re wearing them well. So let’s refresh, yes? Beginning with Masters.”
“Her ex-husband?”
“Poor sap,” Belfry chimed in.
“Yes. Well, it seems he may be the spirit from last night who warned us Dita wasn’t what she seemed. He revealed himself to me just this morning as your mother frantically entered incorrect passwords for Bart’s credit card accounts. Who uses muffinloveshisbunny as a password?”
I snorted. “Did he have any other gems from the afterlife?”
“Just the one, but I fear he’s simply striking out as a form of payback. While we obviously can’t dismiss his statement, we surely should be on the lookout for retaliation.”
Leaning back in my Madam Zoltar chair, I sipped my cup of freshly made coffee. “Fair enough. I’ll make sure to keep my ducking skills brushed up. So let’s move on to the bigger mystery. Why the heck did Bart have the number for the Washington State Penn, and do we call the police and mention they missed a piece of possible evidence? Do we show that potential piece of evidence to Momster and see if it really was Bart’s?”
Win scoffed. “Well, the first is obvious. His BFF’s probably in doing twenty for some scam or another. Grifters like Bart don’t make close friends often, but they do make contacts. Maybe he was trying to reach out to one of them?”
I thought about that. Sure, if Bart had been doing this all his life, maybe he did have connections to others like him. “Maybe. But it’s not like we can call up the pokey and ask if a Bart has called recently.”
Dewitched (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 3) Page 8
