Witch Slapped (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 1) (13 page)

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-defying 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!”

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.

“What was the five-alarm fire about, Bel? Was it the police? Or a detective?” I asked him, still wondering about the guy in the trench coat I’d seen yesterday before Tito the Taco Vendor broke up with me.

“I dunno, Boss. But it was some guy who smelled real good. Didn’t get a decent look at him because he had his head down and a slicker on. Dark suit and nice shoes, though.”

“Maybe we should try and see who it was?” I peered toward Madam Zoltar’s shop, the flashing sign no longer blinking cheerfully at me.

“He’s already gone. He probably heard you carrying on about jumping out of a window and got spooked. Seeing as we have to wait to speak to Liza and her father, shall we continue this conversation back at the house before you catch your death?” Win suggested.

Ah, the house. I’d forgotten that was where I’d hang my hat tonight. “Because it’s so warm and toasty there with no heat and no windows?”

Win chuckled that hearty gurgle of laughter. “You don’t give my man enough credit. You’ll see, naysayer.”

I was almost afraid to put any credence in Win’s words, but I was freezing and exhausted, so I played along as I waved down a cab and climbed in. My head was full of thoughts and a list of suspects as we left the main part of town and drove through the winding road leading to my new abode.

When we pulled up to the house, the cab driver turned around and hitched his jaw at the house. “Quite a project you’re takin’ on there.”

I hooted a sarcastic laugh, handing him money. “Is that subtext for disaster?”

He grinned at me over his shoulder. “You know the lady who lived here? You a relative?”

I shook my head, interested in what he had to offer in the way of information about the house’s prior owner. “No idea who she was. I sort of inherited it.”

“Let’s go, Stevie,” Win muttered impatiently.

Clamping my fingers together behind my head, I gave him the universal sign for shut it and asked the cab driver, “Who lived here?”

“Some lady named Melinda. Don’t know her last name or much about her. She died about five years ago, just a week after she bought the place. Fell off the cliff out there right into the Sound. It was for sale forever. Can’t believe someone actually bought the dump. Thought she might be your relative.”

“Nope. I had no idea who owned it. This was left to me by a really annoying uncle. You know, the kind who’s a total know-it-all about every subject ever, but still loveable enough to tolerate over a turkey and a lot of whiskey on Thanksgiving?”

“You’re despicable, Stevie Cartwright,” Win murmured.

The cab driver winked a green eye. “I know the one. Got one myself. You have a good night now, and good luck with the reno.”

I slid out and waved him off, picking my way up the steep incline to the steps. My feet sank into the soft mud almost up to my ankles. “First order of business, Spy Guy? A paved driveway.”

“But it’s so good for your abundant backside. Can you feel the burn, Stevie?” he ribbed.

As we approached the house, my breath hitched at the sight unfolding before me. How had this happened in the span of the seven hours I’d been gone?

There was already scaffolding along the second level where the bedrooms were located and long pieces of plywood lined the spot where the crooked, caving steps leading to the front porch once were.

The porch steps had a temporary railing made of two-by-fours attached to them, making it easier to cling as I avoided the pratfalls on my way up to the front door.

“I see my guy’s here. Good show.”

I looked at the big 4x4 truck parked down at the end of what I prayed was a driveway and pushed the door open, stepping into the entryway with a gasp. “Who is this guy?” I murmured.

“Only the best in the business. He did some incredible renovations for a friend. He’s a bloody miracle worker.”

“I’ll say,” I muttered as I looked into the previously debris-filled parlor, now cleared entirely. A fire glowed in the fireplace, and there was a lone wingback chair alongside the hearth with the once three-legged table propped up next to it.

Hammering from somewhere else in the house had me off to investigate.

“Hello?” I called, making my way out of the parlor and down the entryway hall to the kitchen—or what I’d secretly referred to as Nightmare on Samantha Lane.

As I rounded the corner, I caught sight of the alleged miracle worker, his overalls covered in sheetrock dust and paint, his dark hair sprouting from a Yankees cap as he studied the wall between the kitchen and the dining room.

Holding out my hand, I approached him from behind. “Hello? I’m Stevie Cartwright. You are?”