The Old Witcheroo (12 page)

With that, I turned on my heel and headed straight for the door, lifting the edges of my flowing caftan so I wouldn’t trip, and to ensure my exit was full of all sorts of righteous indignation.

Hitting the door with the heel of my hand, I whisked back out into the oppressive heat and stalked toward my store, where my car was parked out front.

The nerve of that man. It was one thing to worry for my safety, totally another to basically tell me to stop doing what I loved to do.

“He’s only looking out for your best interests, Pet. Don’t be angry,” Win cooed in my ears. “Besides, he’s absolutely spot on.”

I pressed my fingers to my Bluetooth and narrowed my eyes (which, surprise, also hurt my nose). “Not you, too, Win! You’re always game for a good mystery. How can you say that?”

I felt betrayed, flimflammed. This was my Spy Guy, the man who’d been with me on every chase since the beginning. The man who’d virtually taught me all sorts of forms of torture and escape, who’d talked me through every dangerous liaison I’d been in with a killer. The man who’d come to me and asked me for help to begin with was turning on me.

“I’ve said that from the beginning, Dove. And while, yes, I’m game for a good mystery, I’m not game for you hurting yourself in the pursuit of said mystery. I have not an iota of trouble putting clues together with you in the kitchen, but facing a real killer is a different tale altogether. I’ve always worried for your safety. More, I’ve always hesitated when you’ve taken it upon yourself to dig where you shouldn’t. Lest ye forget about Jacob the fish man, who almost broke your backside.”

Oh, I remembered Jacob the jerk, of Deep Sea Diver food truck fame. Yes, he almost broke my rear end. I still felt a pang on particularly damp days from the injury, but I’d survived, and I’d learned, and I used what I’d learned to my advantage. I was getting better all the time.

So, I couldn’t believe I was hearing this. I was, as Win says, utterly gobsmacked and annoyed. And hot. God, it was so bloody hot!

“I bet you never said that to Miranda!” I croaked.

There was a silence, a you’ve-gone-too-far silence, before Win said, “Cheap shot, Mini-Spy. She was trained to deal with ruthless killers, Stephania. You, decidedly, are not!”

I really lost my temper then. It doesn’t rear its ugly head often, but when it does, the words that end up coming out are usually ones I regret.

Hauling my purse over my shoulder, I squinted against the sun. “You know what, Winterbottom? I’ve had enough of you bunch of sac scratchers for today, thank you very much. I can take care of myself!” I shouted, forgetting about the ruse of my Bluetooth altogether.

“I’m sorry, were you speaking to me?”

Okay, the heat was getting to me, because it didn’t sound like Win was in my ear anymore, it sounded like he was directly behind me.

I whipped around so fast, I almost lost my footing. And then my eyes narrowed.

Speaking of sac scratchers, I strolled up to my favorite one of all with a stilted, wilted swagger. “Well, well. If it isn’t Fauxbottom. What, pray tell, could I possibly have to say to
you
?”

Fake Spy Guy lifted his chiseled chin with the dimple in it and tugged the ends of his fancy suit jacket (more Armani, if you must know) to straighten the length. He looked completely unruffled by this unmitigated heat, and that made me want to stomp on one of his shiny black leather shoes (also Armani).

He smiled at me, all charmy-charms and courteous posturing. As the sun beat down on his head, he answered in his oh so British way, “I heard you call my name. It’s impolite to ignore a lady.”

My nose was one heck of a mess right now and it was throbbing like it had a life of its own. Not to mention, I was outside in my sticky Madam Z caftan in the blazing-hot sun while sweat trickled down between my shoulder blades and left my poofy turban wilted. I was, essentially, in no mood.

“You heard wrong. Today is not the day, and I am absolutely not the one, Imposter. Now go away, you scam artist. My lawyer and I will see you next week, and not a moment sooner!”

So, hah! I’d really told him.

But Fakebottom simply smiled brighter, if that were at all possible, right there in the midday sun, out in public where all the Eb Fall-ers milled about. “Indeed. I shall see you very soon, shan’t I?”

“Shan’t I
?” I mimicked like all good six-year-olds would—complete with a simultaneous neck and eye roll. “You know, pal, who do you think you are? Never mind, I know who you
think
you are. The question is, why are you still here in Ebenezer Falls? Shouldn’t you be off sipping Earl Gray with your pinky sticking out while you watch the telly?”

Fakebottom rocked back on his heels. “Ah, don’t tempt me, Miss Cartwright. I miss my motherland. For now, I shall have to suffer you Americans and your…
pop
, is it? Pinky finger out, of course. I decided I should learn to enjoy the ways of this town, get acquainted and such. I will be moving into my house soon, after, all, and I want to make a good first impression with my neighbors.”

All right. That was just about enough. If he wanted a fight, he was going to get one, and it was going to hurt. These people all staring at me as though I’d finally cracked were my neighbors. By goddess.
Mine
. And he couldn’t have them.

I cornered him up against the pharmacy’s picture window, ignoring the fact that he was at least six inches taller than me, and growled up at his coolly serene face. “You listen to me, whoever you are. It’ll be an ice storm in Arizona in July before you steal my house from me, and I don’t care what kind of proof you claim to have. You’ll carry my stiff, cold, lifeless body out of there before you get your pasty-white hands on my house! That
house
is mine. That
money
is mine. These people here in town are mine, and if you think you can take them away from me, you’d better roll up your fancy Armani sleeves and pack a lunch!”

I hadn’t noticed before, but the street had grown quite silent. No background noises to speak of, no murmurs from the crowds lined up at the food trucks.

Fakebottom said nothing, but his eyes roved the landscape above my head with a smirk on his face.

“They’re all looking at me, aren’t they?”

He nodded, smile back in its properly gloating place. “I’m afraid so, Miss Cartwright.”

“Good then, I have witnesses. As for now, I bid you and your hoity-toity upper-crust accent good day!” I shouted up at him and all his classic good looks and non-perspiring façade, before I stomped the rest of the way back up the sidewalk to grab Whiskey from the store and take him home before I snuck into Sophia’s apartment.

That was when I heard the clapping.

Oh, I swear, if that no-good, smarmy, lying, over-the-pond dweller was mocking me, he was going to pay!

Spinning back around—there was no one. Fakebottom had left the building, so to speak, and everyone else had returned to the business of their day.

It had to be the heat. It must be the heat. It had somehow melted my brain into my skull and I was hearing things.

“Hah! Bravo, my little
malutka
!”

I froze as my eyes went wide. “Win?” Wait, since when did Win have a Russian accent?

A hearty laugh followed my question. “No! It is I, Arkady Bagrov!”

Oh, good goddess.

“
L
isten, um, Arkady, is it?”

“
Da
,” my new friend replied, low and casual.

“Right. Um, Arkady. I’m not sure what’s going on here. I’m not even sure how I’m hearing you.
How
am I hearing you?” I’d finally summoned up the courage to ask, still fearing this new voice in my ear was a delusion created from too much sun.

“It is the magic of the afterlife, my pretty American daffodil. Ahhh, this place! Filled with more wonders than a Russian brothel. No stress, no worries, no machine guns. Wonderful, I say!”

What was going on and where the heck was Win? If this guy wasn’t some prankster from the realm, then he was Win’s rival. An enemy, so to speak. Did one remain an enemy into the afterlife? Though, Adam Westfield certainly had for me…

I’d dropped Whiskey off at the house and changed into something more comfortable, sweating bullets the entire ride as this Arkady Bagrov yapped away in my ear, taking up where Win had left off.

I’d remained silent for most of his one-sided conversation, because, hello. I’m hearing a ghost other than Win in my ear and I’m feeling a little off-kilter. I’m either going mad, was mad, or am well on my way to officially being diagnosed mad.

I don’t know. I just know Arkady had plenty to say. “What adventure are we on today, my plucky petunia?” he asked, his rich voice resonating in my ear.

“Hold that thought, would you, Big A? My afterlife skills are a little rusty since I’ve been incommunicado for a while. So let me adjust to hearing you, would you?”

“Of course.” He offered those two words like a reprieve, as though he were magnanimously giving me a gift.

Plucking a sleepy Belfry from my purse, I set him on my shoulder. “Psst! Bel, wake up! Are you hearing this?”

He yawned in my ear with a groan. “Yeah, yeah. I don’t know
why
I’m hearing this. Come to think of it, I still don’t even know how I can hear Winterbutt, but I hear him. Remember the good old days, when you did all the talking and I was just your tiny but mighty sidekick? And now, I hear this dude, too, and all his vodka and AK-47 talk. Who
is
he?”

That’s when I suddenly remembered the conversation Win and I had about plastic surgery. “Don’t you remember?” I whispered-yelled. “Win mentioned an Arkady—he was like a rival Russian spy or something.”

“Oh, yeah!” Bel agreed, snuggling against my chin as I took a sharp right to head toward Sophia’s apartment. “Something about a nuclear missile, right?”

“Yes!”

Arkady cleared his throat, the scratchy noise jarring me. “I am still here, my tender filet of beauty. Why must you behave as though I’m not? It hurts me so.”

I gripped the steering wheel and inhaled. I’m not hearing things, this was really happening. It took me a moment, but I was able to tap into my lost gift of afterlife communication without too much trouble.

But where was Win? I’d been pretty rude to him by throwing out the Miranda card. He was right to have gone off elsewhere. Sometimes I went a little overboard with my female empowerment, and now I regretted it. I totally understood his fears for my safety—they really were justified. I wasn’t a spy. I wasn’t trained to deal with ruthless killers. I guess I just didn’t want anyone to tell me I couldn’t do what I wanted.

“I’m sorry, Arkady. Forgive me. I just had to touch base with someone to be sure I’m not going crazy. I lost my ability to communicate with the afterlife a few months ago. So the fact you’re able to communicate with me is a little…well, exciting.” The tingle in my stomach said so.

“I see,” Arkady drawled. “You are much different than all the others. When I talk, you do not scream and cry because you can’t see me. There is no, how you say, hysterical baby hugging in a corner. You are strong like Russian male bull!”

I couldn’t help but bark a laugh. “I think you mean crying in a corner while in the fetal position. And do know, nothing makes my day brighter than being compared to a Russian bull. Anyway, is there something I can do for you? Help you in some way? That’s usually why ghosts contacted me back when I was still in closer touch with the Great Beyond.”

“Bah!” he barked back. “Arkady Bagrov needs no help. I just need company from time to time. You, my deliciously plump cherry, are good company. You are strong of spirit and quick of wit!”

I laughed. “Well, thanks.”

“Also, a little something you should know. That man pretending to be Zero is no Zero. There is only one Zero! In case you wondered.”

Zero? “Oh! You mean Winterbottom?”

“Who is this Coldbackside? What is this name? You Americans. All so strange.”

Zero Below had been Win’s code name. Holy cow. This man knew Win’s MI6 code name?

“How can you be so sure that’s not, uh…Zero?”

“I know a fierce opponent when I see him. This imposter is too soft at the knees, too slow in his stride; his jaw isn’t quite as square. The differences, they are subtle, but my trained eye knows. You trust Arkady, he knows that’s no Zero.”

“You know what this means, right, Boss?” Bel asked.

Yeah. If there’d ever been any doubt about Win being a spy, he had backup.

Now the question remained, where was Win?

* * * *

“You are veeery crafty, my sumptuous dandelion. You somehow manage to get past the woman with the glare of daggers and greasy boy hair. You do an old Russian spy proud!” Arkady praised me as I made my way down the hall of Sophia’s apartment building.

As luck would have it, I knew the woman with the glare of daggers and greasy boy hair. Her name was Jory Sprug—the building’s manager. She’d come into Madam Z’s a month or so ago, hoping to connect with her uncle Argo. Thankfully, we’d been successful and she remained grateful.

I told her I wanted to gather some pictures for Sophia’s memorial service tonight. She’d given me a key to Sophia’s apartment with the promise I wouldn’t disturb anything, because the police had warned her they were due there later today to conduct a search.

I pulled on my crime-scene gloves and jammed the key into the door, popping it open as a swell of muggy heat greeted me. Entering the tiny hallway leading to the small living room, I inhaled.

Sophia’s favorite floral scent was everywhere—
she
was everywhere. In every muted, elegant color choice, in every floral watercolor picture hanging on her walls. Soft and subtle was the best way I could describe the apartment. She’d made this her space, and seeing her calming color choices, the small personal touches, brought more tears to my eyes.

I scanned the pale lemon wall by the tiny outdated television set to find a shelf brimming with books. Crossing the room, passing a glass-top coffee table with a basket of fake lilacs and a conch shell, I went directly for the books in the hopes they would tell me something about her. Something more intimate than just the foster kid story she’d told Dana.