Witch Slapped (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 1) (24 page)

I let him digest for a moment, roll it around in his brain. He was, after all, the one I’d have to rely on to help me make contact.

Holding up the picture frame, I asked, “So, Crispin Alistair Winterbottom—you in?”

“I think I am, Stevie Like-Nicks-the-Singer. I think I am. But there’s one small thing I’d like to discuss.”

“You want rules? We’ve got scads of ’em. What’s one more?”

“No more rules. This is personal.”

I crossed my legs in front of me and stretched. “Okay, tell me.”

“There’s another reason I contacted you, Stevie. It wasn’t just about the house and money…”

Maybe this would fill in the blanks for me. Help me to understand what piece of Win’s puzzle I was missing. “Then shoot.”

“You asked why I hadn’t crossed over once, and here’s really why—I believe I can get back to your plane.”

No. No. That wasn’t possible. How could he even think that? How did I tell him it was impossible? “How do you plan to accomplish coming back from the dead, Win?”

“I know you think it’s improbable, maybe even impossible, but if you were once a real-live witch—spells and cauldrons and all—why couldn’t I be reincarnated? Who’s to say I can’t come back?”

He had a point, but still, I couldn’t encourage him. Even though I found I’d like very much for Win to actually be here, I just didn’t see how it was possible.

In all the spells I knew, in all the crazy hoodoo I could once conjure as a witch, I’d never witnessed an actual reincarnation. I also still had no answer for how Win was communicating with me if I no longer had my powers.

Yet, here we were…communicating as though he were on this plane.

“I can see your skepticism, and for now we can leave this in a box somewhere—all tied up. But regardless, I know in my gut there’s a way.
I know
. And when the time comes, I’d like your help.”

My chest went all tight and itchy at his conviction, but Win was right. For now it was better we left this topic in a box.

“Fair enough. We’ll leave it alone for the time being and focus on helping the other side, with me as MZ Jr.”

Belfry yawned when I scooped him from my purse and placed him on my shoulder. “Can I help, too?”

“Would we be the dynamic three-o any other way? We’re like
Charlie’s Angels
now,” I joked.

“I call Sabrina,” Win said. “She was the smart one.”

“I’ll take Farrah. I think I have the hair for it,” Belfry added, melting into peals of laughter.

“Well, if this very moment isn’t fortuitous. It must be fate,” Win commented, a thread of excitement in his voice.

I wrinkled my nose and cocked my head. “What’s fortuitous?”

“Shhh, Stevie! I can’t hear.” Win stopped talking for a moment and then he said, “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down,
mi amigo
. I don’t speak Spanish. Turkish, Russian, Latvian, French, and Italian, yes. But my Spanish is rusty. What’s that you say about Stevie?” He paused again. “Well, hell. I’ll tell her. Of course I’ll tell her. Just give me a minute.”

I sat up straight now, totally alert. “
Tell me what
?”

“I think we have our first customer, MZ 2.0 and you’re never going to believe who it is. You’d better get your turban pressed.”

The urgency in Win’s voice made my heart kick up a notch. “Well, tell me already. I can’t stand the suspense!”

As Win muttered whom he was talking to in my ear, and my eyes went wide with shock, I nodded with purpose. “Tell her we’re on it!”

That thrill of hope I’d been experiencing these past couple of weeks returned in a rush of adrenaline. I was coming to terms with my new life as a non-witch, and I was still doing what I’d always loved to do.

Helping people—only now I was doing it with a little help from my friends.

It just didn’t get any better than that.

I so hope you enjoyed
Witch Slapped
, and I hope you’ll return to Ebenezer Falls and find out whom our intrepid afterlife spy Win is communicating with, how he plans to get back to this plane, how in the fudge he’s communicating with Stevie and if our Mini-Spy, Stevie’s, always going to remain mortal in Book 2,
Quit Your Witchin’
—the
Witchless in Seattle Mysteries
!

Witchless In Seattle Mysteries, Book 2

“
C
rispin Alistair Winterbottom!”

“Now what, Stevie? You’re always yelling. Have I told you you’re a yeller?”

I ignored his complaint, followed by an aggravated sigh. “You know exactly what. This will never work if you keep trying to land a date with our client’s deceased lover. Understood?” I whisper-yelled at my partner in spy.

“Bah,” he whisper-yelled back. “It’s not a date, Stevie. I was just asking if Kitty liked to dance. When’s a trip around Plane Light Fantastic ever hurt anyone, Miss Funstomper?”

I ran my hand over my temple before giving it a good squeeze to ease the tension. “That’s not the point. When we agreed to do this—reopen Madam Zoltar’s with me as her successor, you agreed to play by my rules when contacting the dead.”

“I am playing by your rules, Dark Overlord. You said nothing about asking a client’s deceased loved one if they had a hobby. Not a solitary word. Did she, Belfry?”

Belfry, my tiny cottonball bat familiar, stretched and yawned from the bed he’d made from one of the leaves of an elephant ear plant. “I hate to side with the Cumberbatch wannabe ghost, but that’s kinda is what you said, Boss.”

Chiding him for not playing by the rules was as close to pointless as one got, but I did it out of habit. Much the way any mother of a toddler who needed repetitive reinforcement would.

Winterbottom, or Win as I call him, is my afterlife connection—my conduit to the other side. Really. That’s the absolute truth.

Plainly speaking, he’s a dead British spy who barged into my life (or my ear if we’re being literal) just over a month or so ago when he needed my help and wouldn’t leave until I caved.

If I helped him solve a murder, in return he’d helped me move on with my new life here in Ebenezer Falls, WA as a shunned, powerless, broke ex-witch and give me all his worldly possessions as a reward of sorts.

Worldly possession being a decrepit old Victorian in crumbling, graffiti-filled disrepair and more money to renovate it than I could spend in five lifetimes.

The truth. My hand to God. That really happened. Though, according to him, he’d already planned on giving me his house and money before I’d agreed to help solve the murder.

He said my afterlife connections were enough of a reference to consider me a worthy recipient. Also according to him, that was all he needed to ensure his monster of a house, and what I now lovingly call Mayhem Manor, would be in good hands.

Win never reminded me what he’d so generously given my bat familiar, Belfry and I. He never rubbed it in. He never asked for anything more than his initial request in return.

But he sure made up for it in other ways. Like today. We’d taken over Madam Zoltar’s tarot card reading and medium business in her honor.

Madam Zoltar’s death was the murder I mentioned, and what brought Win and I together in the first place. Now it was the glue sticking him to my backside.

I longed for the days when I was a witch, and I desperately missed communicating with spirits—my specialty before I was shunned. Running Madam Zoltar’s helped ease that ache a bit, even if I was only communicating by proxy.

Also something to note, shunned is a kind word. After I literally had the witch slapped out of me by an angry spirit, I ended up booted out of my coven back in Paris, Texas, when I became mortal again by the very leader I’d trust with my soul.

And it hurt—stung like no tomorrow.

So once the dust settled after solving Madam Zoltar’s murder case, we’d concocted a plan—one that had given me a reason to get up in the morning.

I’d be the medium, hence my turban and caftan (another shout out to Madam Zoltar and her keen, quirky fashion sense—hey, girl!), and Win would be my legit conduit to the afterlife. Being that he was in limbo and had no plans to change his afterlife Facebook status to “crossed over” any time soon, our arrangement worked just fine.

We’d agreed to take this journey together in memory of Madam Zoltar, a beloved figure here in Ebenezer Falls, and also someone Win had become very fond of just prior to her death.

But we had rules and stipulations to this agreement.

Though, hear this, I’d never take money to contact the deceased from someone who was in the throes of grief.
Never
. I’d also never take their money if I couldn’t truly communicate with the deceased.

So Win and I decided not only would we work as a team, we’d donate whatever the customer could afford to pay (yes, you read that right. Sliding scale séances) to various charities—animal rescue being high on my list—and use only what we needed to pay the store’s expenses.

And that’s what led me here—to Spy Guy’s otherworldly philandering.

I looked at the picture of our client Edward Randolph’s dead lover, Kitty Talucci, her luscious ebony hair falling down her back in a riot of curls, lying against the alabaster skin of her shoulders, decked out in a strapless lycra red dress that hugged her abundant breasts and accentuated her tiny waist and lush hips, and pointed to it.

“Does Kitty look like a woman who hasn’t danced a time or two, Win?”

“You’re stereotyping. That’s against the law.”

“Point for the dead spy,” Belfry chirped, stretching his wings.

“It’s called profiling and I’m not a cop, but even if I were, I’m really not profiling. Kitty
was
a dancer. Burlesque. You’d know that if you were looking into her deep, dark velvety eyes. Now quit trying to pick her up and help me help Edward find her last will and testament so he can prove to her evil ex that Snape is now his cat because Kitty left him to Edward in her will.”

“Who names their cat Snape?” Win balked.

Repositioning my turban, I smoothed my colorful caftan and made a face. “Women who like Harry Potter and Alan Rickman?”

“Ah, a fellow Brit. This bodes well for me,” he purred in his whiskey-smooth voice.

“No. There is no boding anything. Now, get out there to that table and let’s get ‘er done. One more swish of your flirty ghost hair, and it’s curtains for you, International Man Of Intrigue.”

If I could actually see Win, I’d bet five bucks he was rolling his eyes at me right now. “Fine, fine. You’re the boss. Just remember, the spirits respond well to me and my hair swishing.”

I made a face at the air. “When I was a witch, I never had to swish my hair to get the spirits to communicate with me. They just did. No bribes, no flirting, no cash exchanged hands.”

“She speaks the truth, Winterbutt,” Belfry agreed, tucking back down into the green leaf. “Though, cash would have been nice.”

Win scoffed in that way he had when he wanted me to hear he was disgusted. “That’s because you’re a woman, Stevie. The game of pick up is not a two way street. It’s a proven fact that women are far more successful at picking up men than the other way around.”

“I bet that fact checker was a man. A man who didn’t want to admit we just have better game. And you basically just admitted you’re trying to pick up Kitty.” I pointed to the door of the room separating us from what we’d privately dubbed Séance Command Central, and said, “Now go. We need to finish up because I have a lunch date with Forrest.”

“Oh, then by all means,” Win drawled with his uppity British lilt. “We shouldn’t waste a second longer. I wouldn’t want you to miss a ham on rye on my account.”

Forrest Sherwood was our next-door neighbor here at the shop. He owned Strange Brew, the coffee café to the right of us. He was also an old high school acquaintance who’d taken an interest in me since I’d moved back to my hometown, something Win didn’t seem to care for much.

He was always picking at Forrest, who, of course, is thoroughly unaware of Win’s existence. Win’s dislike of Forrest leaves me scratching my head sometimes. Forrest’s a nice guy, who works hard, makes amazing coffee and has the cutest grandfather ever named Chester.

But I didn’t have time to address Win’s sarcastic jabs at Forrest today. Today was all about finding our feet out here in the business world.

Madam Zoltar’s had been re-opened just a week, and we were finally seeing some foot traffic as the people in town, and tourist’s alike, curiosity got the better of them. Everyone wanted to know if the formerly accused murderer Stevie Cartwright really could communicate with the dead.

I won’t get into the murder accusation. Suffice it to say, even though I was utterly innocent and totally exonerated, the fact that my fellow Ebenezer’s had all but tarred and feathered me during the time of the investigation into Madam Zoltar’s death still stung. So maybe I still feel a little grudgy despite how kind the townspeople have been since my good name was cleared.

After checking on Belfry to find him fast asleep, I pushed open the door of what was once Madam Zoltar’s small apartment, now our storage/coffee room and wiggled my finger over my shoulder at him. Pointing to Edward, our grieving boyfriend who was waiting for me to help him find Kitty’s will, I said, “Let’s do this, Spy Guy.”

“Is everything all right?” Edward asked, his sweet face lined in worry as I reentered Séance Command Central.

I patted him on the hand to reassure him, before taking a seat at my brand new reading table. “Everything’s fine. Sometimes I just get so overwhelmed by the spirits and their shenanigans, I need a moment to gather myself and refocus.”

That’s not a lie either. Win could make the man above need a moment, so someone like little ol’ me didn’t stand a chance.

I took in a deep breath and looked Edward square in his eye. “Now, where were we?”

Edward reached his forefinger up under his round, thick black-rimmed glasses and wiped a tear from his eye. “You said my Kitty was here—right here in the room with us.”

“Yes. She absolutely is.” I closed my eyes again and focused my attention on asking the appropriate questions for Win to relay. “Kitty? Edward’s here. He wants you to know he misses you very much and he has a question for you. Can you help?”