Quit Your Witchin' (13 page)

I sighed a happy sigh as she grinned and left the parlor. Despite the fact that my neck resembled a purple-and-blue road map and my bruised butt ached even with meds, I felt indulged by so many people hovering over me at one time.

My childhood had been pretty solitary while my mother was off hunting down her next husband. I never thought I needed coddling. I’d gotten through a bout of bronchitis, my first period—wherein, I thought I was bleeding to death—and the time I fell down our stairs, broke my leg and had to conjure up a spell to heal it, but ended up conjuring an extra limb. All totally alone. But I found I liked being coddled, and I wasn’t going to push anyone away just to prove my independence.

I repositioned the cold pack under my butt, snuggled down under my blanket and stared at the recently added white brick fireplace while the scents of pasta fagioli simmering and toasting bread with cheese lulled me.

I still had some making up with someone to do. “So, Win?”

“Yes, my dove?”

“We need to talk.”

“About the callous way you accused me of spying for Baba Yaga? Or about the big question mark you slapped on my integrity?”

I cringed. I hadn’t meant for it to come off callously. I just blurted it out without giving it a great deal of thought. “That was pretty thoughtless of me.”

“Indeed, ’twas.”

Wow. There’d be no slack here. Not that I deserved any. “I didn’t think before I spoke and I’m sorry. The connection popped into my head and before I knew it, it shot out of my mouth. I have no good reason why I sometimes speak before I think, but I’m truly sorry.”

“I will say this once and once only, Stevie. I’ve never communicated with Baba Yaga. Not before I died. Not after. I only just met her yesterday. My loyalty lies with you and you alone.”

“Told ya,” Bel murmured as he snuggled down on my shoulder again, once more under my hair.

“You have to admit, it isn’t as preposterous as you make it sound.”

I don’t know why I was trying to defend myself. I knew he was telling me the truth, but his words of loyalty made me feel warm in a way I didn’t quite understand and I had to find a way to deflect that because quite frankly, it scared me—my dependence on Win scared the pants right off me.

Win’s tone bristled. “I’ll admit no such thing.”

“I just want to be honest with each other, Win. I don’t want to have any secrets—except for the one about how you can communicate with me when I’m no longer a witch who can communicate with the dead, or how you died, of course.”

“And still she pokes.”

I pulled my hands out from under the blanket and held them up. “I’m not poking. I’m just being honest. If I didn’t talk to you and tell you my squishy girl feelings, it would have eaten me alive. If we’re going to work together, essentially live together, renovate this monstrosity together, I need open, honest communication. I don’t want to harbor ill will.”

“Fair enough. Here’s my openly honest, squishy-girl feeling. You were angry with me when I had the audacity to suggest I wasn’t pleased about you approaching Jacob alone. You turned it into me
telling
you what to do versus what I was actually doing—making a very keen observation. Jacob Dietrich is a drunk, a violent one at that. Just ask your backside.”

“And you were right.”

“Not to mention, he was a suspect in a murder investigation, Stevie. You don’t just go off blindly throwing yourself in front of a moving freight train, do you? You absolutely must give more thought to these things. He could have killed you, and then where would we be?”

“I guess I’d be on Plane Limbo with you. Which would mean I could grill you face-to-face.”

“
Stevie
,” Win warned. “Not a joke. Jacob was suspected of murder.
Murder
. Do you not comprehend what could have happened to you if he was actually Tito’s killer? You can’t go off willy-nilly without thinking things through, and thinking things through means you plan your strategy and you don’t go alone to a suspected murderer’s house.”

“Boat,” I corrected, slinking down in my seat.

“I don’t care if it was his sheet fort. Don’t do it again, Stevie. Not without backup. I’m not telling you that because I like bossing you around, Miss Feminist. I’m telling you that because I’m experienced in murderers.”

“I already said you were right.”

“I was
what
?” Win coaxed, though I knew full well he’d heard what I said.

“I said you were right. I’ve apologized, I’ve admitted about Jacob and I was totally wrong to question your loyalty. Is there anything else you want—any other way I can make it up to you?”

“Yes.”

“A lung? An apology written in blood, maybe?”

“Just one small thing and we’ll be even. The color green in the first guest bathroom. That delightful sage I showed you just the other day works.”

I fought a smirk. “No way! It’s ugly, Win.”

“Aw, c’mon, Stevie. It brings out all the colors of the pines from the view outside the window. It’s perfect with the bone claw-foot tub and copper fixtures. Plus, it’ll take the sting out of your accusations. Sage green is known to soothe. Like aloe.”

I really wanted the sage green, but I’d put up a fight because originally, Win had wanted a manlier hunter green, which was just ugly and dark. So I’d told him the hunter green was ugly and suggested pale blue—and he’d used his tiny male brain to somehow decide if I couldn’t get with the darker green, surely I’d agree to a lighter shade.

So I did. “Okay, fine. But only if it cinches your acceptance of my apology.”

“Deal. Now on to other matters. Jacob Dietrich. He’s quite something, eh?”

My backside stung at the mere mention. “Yeah. Something. But on my way out with Sandwich, I heard one of the detectives say he’d alibied out. He was with the town permit guy, Marvin Wexler, at the time Tito was killed.”

“Do we even have a time of death?”

“Are you kidding me? No one’s giving me anything at this point. I’ve suddenly become the town busybody who can’t keep her nose out of a crime scene. Even Sandwich is hard to trip up with my fancy word scrambles. And no way is that Officer Nelson falling for my cutesy act. If Scarlett Johansson showed up and used her magical feminine wiles on him, he’d probably glare at her, too. He’s a rock.”

“So that leaves the Bustamante boys. We must speak with one of them. I have an idea about how to approach them and their wicked sister. One you’ll think is crazy, but one I’d never consider unless I knew in my gut they were innocent.”

As I listened to Win, I happened to glance at the paper I’d left on the only table we had in the parlor at this point while Win hunted for just the right end tables to bracket the unbelievably comfortable couch.

I sat up fast. Too fast. Between the waning dose of muscle relaxers and my aching butt, I had to grip the arm of the chair to keep from crying out. “Do you see that, Win? How did we miss that before?”

“See what?”

The picture of Tito’s truck in the paper! Look at the crowd behind it. That’s the young man I was talking about! See him? He’s the tall one with the pretty features. Same as the picture in Tito’s truck!”

“The one you said looked pretty shook up the day Tito died?”

I bounced my head. “Yes! It’s from the day those TV people came to taste-test the food trucks. Look at him. He looks happy.”

I pointed to the picture of the crowd surrounding Tito’s Salty Sombrero, where the young man stood at least a head above everyone else just to the side of the truck. Tall and lanky, he was in the middle of a group of people who were all lining up for food, their faces bright even in the rain.

I guess the paper had chosen to use a picture of Tito and his food truck from happier times.

“So we think this is the son Maggie spoke of at the séance the other night?”

My spine tingled and my head began to whir with my thoughts. So I told Win as much. “I’m getting that tingle in my spine, so I’m betting on yes. We need to find him, Win. We have to talk to him.”

“Also something to think about. The woman who gave birth to the alleged son. If he is this young man, he had or has a mother. Maybe she came back to exact some revenge on Tito for leaving her with this son to raise all these years?”

I tapped the newspaper. “After all this time? Doesn’t that seem like a long time to hold a grudge? If he’s the guy, he has to be in his early twenties at least.”

“Stranger things have been known to happen, Stevie. We’ve already discussed what passion can do to a person.”

“What if he’s not Tito’s son at all? Maybe we’re jumping the gun and taking for granted the illegitimate son is fully grown. Maybe Tito was randier than we gave him credit for. Mateo said they just found out recently he had a son. He didn’t say how old the child was or when any of this happened.”

“I suppose anything is possible, but I’d call that a stretch. Tito was in his sixties.”

I noted the credited name of the photographer for the article in the paper and typed it into my phone. “Oh! I know the photographer from school. Elias Little—we took accounting together. That helps. Maybe he met him that day. Elias was always really chatty. It wouldn’t surprise me if he got to know the people he was photographing. Plus, he’s our only lead. So let’s go talk to him.” I attempted to rise, gripping the arm of the couch.

“Oh, no you don’t! You sit right back down there,” Carmella ordered in her mom tone. “I made you a nice late lunch and you’re going to eat it. You’re not going anywhere, especially on enough muscle relaxers to take down a circus elephant. Park it. Now.”

I slid back to the cushion with a guilty look and a wince and let Carmella set the tray of steaming pasta fagioli and gooey grilled cheese on my thighs.

“When I finish seeing to Enzo, I’m coming back. Make that all gone. You hear?” she asked with a wink and a chuckle.

I raised a hand in Girl Scout mode. “On my honor.”

She wiped her hands on her apron. “How much I got says you were no Girl Scout?”

I laughed as she went off to find Enzo, who was putting up the crown molding in the kitchen.

And then I gulped my soup, shoveled my cheese sandwich into my mouth with a couple of eyeball rolls and euphoric grunts before I was ready to rumble.

Sliding back off the couch, I said, “You two ready?”

“Stevie,” Win protested. “This isn’t in your best interest. How can you drive when you can barely walk? Why not just call and see if he’s in?”

Flapping my hand at him, I inched my way to the front door with care so as not to catch Carmella’s attention from across the entryway. Though, I don’t know if she would have noticed me anyway. She and Enzo were laughing and dancing to some Frank Sinatra tune, their intimate giggles wafting to my ears as Enzo dipped his beloved wife.

I smiled. They made me happy. Their love made me happy.

Because real love could happen. Because even after thirty-three years of marriage, they were still in real love.

“Stevie, I’m telling you, this isn’t a good idea,” Win warned. “You’re on muscle relaxers. You shouldn’t drive.”

“I’m fine. Sober as the day is long. I took the first one more than four hours ago now, Win. It’s all worn off. Just ask my butt. I have to go out anyway. I need to stop at the pharmacy and get some more ice packs. Might as well kill two birds with one stone, right? Now hush and come with so maybe we can catch Elias before he leaves for the day.”

I stuffed the paper under my arm, grabbed a scarf to wrap around my bruised and battered neck, and limped toward the front door, pulling it open. I’d thank Enzo later for fitting the new door so perfectly it didn’t make a sound when I opened it. I slipped out onto the front porch totally unnoticed with a belly full of yummy, warm goodness.

W
hen we pulled up to the small brick building that housed the
Ebenezer Falls Herald
, I was beginning to rethink my haste in choosing to go without overlapping pain meds.

I grunted as I slid from the driver’s seat of my Fiat, a tiny enough car to begin with. Add in a broken butt, and getting out of it was brutal.

Gingerly, I forced my spine erect, tucked my purse to my side and headed inside the quaint building, the glass door flagged by two large urns, each holding a lemon cypress.

I was greeted by none other than Sandy McNally, ex-cheerleader and one-time crusher on Forrest.

The office was mostly quiet, with only a few people milling about behind her. But it was bright and cheerful and nothing like I’d have thought a newspaper office would be. No one was slogging away on a clunky typewriter with a cigarette hanging from their mouth while a cloud of smoke separated the introverted journalist from the common people.

Sandy popped up from the reception desk, still as pretty and blonde as she’d always been. “Is that you, Stevie Cartwright?” she gasped, her china-doll eyes going wide.

I had nothing against Sandy, in truth. I guess she was just too much for me. In high school, she was the opposite of everything I’d been. Exuberant, bubbly, outgoing, and a little annoying with how she was always turning words into cutesy nicknames.

She looked genuinely pleased to see me at first—and then she ruined everything. “I hardly recognized you without all the black clothes and raccoon makeup you used to wear.”

Sandy was referring to my Goth days back in high school. I’d gone opposite end of the spectrum, thinking in my very immature mind I’d leave my mark—be extra memorable so whenever people talked about Stevie Cartwright, they’d say, “Yeah. She was cool.” Instead, I’d just left marks of makeup on my clothes and had no friends.

So I nodded and plastered a smile on my face. “Yep. It’s me. Things change, I guess. We grow up.”

Sandy bobbed her chicly styled blonde head. “We certainly do. I’d heard you were back here in Eb Falls. Something about buying that spooky ramshackle of a house out on the cliff on Samantha Lane, right? What a crazy thing to do when there are perfectly good condos overlooking the Puget right here in town with all the modern conveniences.”

I give you cutesy nickname. No one but Sandy would call Ebenezer Falls “Eb Falls”.