He sucked in his cheeks and his eyes sparkled—which meant Officer Rigid was annoyed. “Which would infer she’s sick, wouldn’t it, Miss Cartwright? Don’t play that game of semantics with me. Why is everything either a test or an argument with you?”
I think my mouth fell open, because I sure had brought out the antagonistic in everyone today, but I didn’t have time to dwell on how poked I felt by Dana.
In that moment, his phone signaled a text, and he pulled it from his pocket like he was drawing in preparation for a duel at dawn. “Excuse me a sec,” he said, turning his back to me.
Listen, at this point, I’m not sure if it’s just me, but this conversation with Dana cinches it. Everything feels a little left of center today. From Win this morning, to Chester and Sandwich, topped off by the garden club ladies and now Dana.
I mean, Dana almost always enjoys a good poke at me, and I enjoy poking him back. It’s what we do. It’s what we’ve always done since I moved back home to Eb Falls, but this session of poking just felt weird.
It felt defensive and, dare I say, curt.
I heard him tap something out, and then he reached back to put his phone in his pocket. Being the nosy Nellie I am, I let my eyes graze the screen of his phone while he was still facing the other direction.
And what did I see?
Or what did I think I saw?
The name Donna.
I didn’t see who was texting him, but I’d bet my spleen it was Win.
So when he turned around, I looked him right in the eye and decided a direct approach was the way to go. “Who was that?”
He shrugged his wide shoulders and sucked his cheeks in again, his eyes skirting my face before settling on the front of the cafe. “Just a friend.”
Uh-huh. Or your partner in crime?
Blowing my hair out of my face, I couldn’t take this cat-and-mouse anymore. Something was going on. I knew it. I felt it.
“Okay, Dana. What the heck’s going on?”
“Going on?” he asked, his tone ultra-innocent, making my teeth clench. “I don’t know what you mean, Miss Cartwright.”
“Yes, you do, Officer Follow The Rules. You do so!” I said, fighting not to stomp my foot.
Yes, ladies and gentleman, I had that tingle. Something was going on, and I wanted to know what.
He cocked his dark brown head, driving his hands into the pockets of his well-worn but somehow perfectly unwrinkled, unblemished jeans. “I absolutely do not know what you mean, Miss Cartwright.”
“I call baloney on toast! That was definitely an Aston Martin, one I’m sure Win’s told you about. In fact, I’d lay bets on it. You two are always yucking it up together, always sharing stories of his you-know-what past,” I said, lowering my voice to a whisper. “He loves that car, Dana. There’s no way you can convince me he didn’t tell you he had one. Which means he’s brought it here from wherever it was. And I don’t know where that was, but that was his car.”
Dana gave me one of his long, raspy, exasperated sighs—one that made some heads in the cafe turn, I’ll tell you that much, followed by his “don’t question my authority” bristle.
All qualities unique to my favorite police officer.
“I’m not going to stand here and let you call me a liar, Miss Cartwright. I came to grab some coffee and a Danish. Not to spar with you on such a nice day.” He tried to move past me, but I held up my cinnamon bun under his nose.
Because as you know, I’m very intimidating—especially so with a drippy cinnamon bun in my hand.
“Did Win put you up to this? Did he tell you to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about? Is he going to hide that gorgeous piece of machinery somewhere here in Eb Falls and take it out in secret just to keep me from it? Where has it been all this time anyway, Dana?”
Dana’s handsome face screwed up before he gave me the death glare. “That’s it. As of this moment, I’m consciously uncoupling with you. Have a wonderful day, Miss Cartwright.”
He stepped around me, his expression hard as he clomped up to the counter to order his coffee—likely to distract me from interrogating him—leaving me feeling quite huffy.
So, fine. That was just fine. Clearly, I was going to have to find my own answers. But I’m telling you, I’m at least ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure that was an Aston Martin, and I intend to find out who it belonged to if it didn’t belong to Win.
I pushed my way out the door of the café, the sunlight blinding me when it hit me square in the eyes, making them sting and water.
Stumbling from the glare, I tripped on a pothole in the sidewalk, my feet tangling together as I wobbled, holding up my coffee and my cinnamon bun to keep from falling.
But in keeping with how my day was going, my efforts were for naught. Instead of righting myself, my ankle gave way because of my cute wedge sandals and I crashed to the ground, spilling my coffee everywhere.
And then there was the tragic death of my cinnamon bun, splattered on the ground in a small puddle of gooey dirt, the melted icing glistening in the sun.
I don’t suppose the five-second rule applies if your food lands in dirty water…
Dejected, I sighed and hoisted myself upward, scooping up my empty coffee cup and my desecrated cinnamon bun and hurling them both into the nearest trashcan, thoroughly disgusted.
To make matters worse, my cute sundress had a splash of coffee on it.
Ugh.
Looking around, I was glad to see the sidewalk was mostly deserted, saving me the embarrassment of being found with my dress almost around my ears.
A I dug into my purse for a wet wipe, my phone sounded the familiar chirp of Win’s text. Setting my purse on top of the garbage can, I dug around until I found my phone and tapped on the incoming message.
Well, well, look who finally got around to answering my text. I squinted in the sunlight to reread what I’d texted him due to the fact that it felt like it had been a hundred years since I’d originally sent it.
And then I remembered. I’d just successfully made some magic by levitating my book and, if you’ll recall, had been quite pleased with myself. So I’d asked him, guess what this girl just did. Thus, making his return response completely bonkers.
I blinked and reread it again to be sure the text was from Win.
And indeed, there was no denying the text had come from Win.
Wanna know what he said?
This is what he said: “What’s that, Donna?”
Chapter 5
My eyes narrowed. Okay. Who. The. Flibbity-flabbity. Is. Donna?
Stomping across the street, ignoring my sore ankle and my coffee-spattered dress in favor of a park bench in the shade, I headed for my favorite place under a sprawling oak tree.
Plunking down, I fought the impulse to say something I’d regret and simply texted back exactly what I was thinking.
“Who’s Donna?” I tapped out the text with fiery fingers. In fact, I’d bet they would have shot actual flames if my powers were still intact.
The dots indicating a return text popped up immediately this time, which, if Win could score any points with me right now, was a good thing.
“I’m sorry. I meant darling… ”
Darling? He never called me darling. Dove, Mini-Spy, Stephania, Lover of Trash TV, Broken Palate, but never darling.
Now, I’m sure a case could be made for all the nuttier-than-fruitcake things that had gone on since this day began, but calling me Donna or darling, for that matter, had no defense.
“You never call me darling, Crispin Alistair Winterbottom. What the heck is going on?”
“Don’t I? Then maybe I shall start.” Kissy-face emoji, smiley-face emoji.
Oh no. Nope. He wasn’t going to get away with this by being sweet with cute emojis.
Now I’m more certain than ever something is going on; I just don’t know what that something is. But I’m sure as the day is long going to find out.
“Don’t you dare send me kissy-fa
ce emoji’s, DARLING. You’re not going to charm your way out of this one!”
“You behave as though I called you a manky sod, Stephania. It was a simple mistake.”
I don’t know what the heck a manky sod is, but he might as well have called me one. And he was avoiding the question. Who was Donna?
“Who is Donna?” I texted again, and this time I sent the mean-face emoji because I meant business.
“I do believe it must have been autocorrect, Love of My Life. I’m sure I meant ‘Dove.’ Now, I simply must run, but before I do, won’t you share with me what you did?” Heart emoji, heart emoji, heart emoji.
Love of his life, my eye. I wanted to text him and ask him if he was sure I was really the love of his life or if it was his Aston Martin and Donna.
Wait. Maybe he had a nickname for his fancy car? Maybe he called it Donna? Some people name their cars, right? I once had a green car I’d called Booger.
That would certainly explain why I’d seen the name on Dana’s phone even as he tried to convince me I hadn’t seen an Aston Martin.
If Win called his car Donna, he’d surely refer to it as such in a text, right? Like maybe, “Hey, buddy! Come meet Donna my Aston Martin”?
It might also explain the note Win had written that he’d left at Madam Z’s. But what did Blitzhen and all those numbers mean?
And why didn’t I just ask him?
I furiously tapped out another text. “If Donna was a mistake by autocorrect, then what about Blitzhen? Who’s Donna Blitzhen, and why did you write her name on a piece of paper I found at Madam Z’s with a bunch of random numbers? Is Donna the name you’ve given your Aston Martin?”
This time there were no dots to indicate he was typing. This time he was silent—solidifying my notion Donna was, in fact, his Aston Martin.
“Win?”
Nothing. Not even a suck-up kissy-face emoji.
Aha! I knew it. I mentally stuck out my tongue at Dana. Don’t you tell me I don’t know an Aston Martin when I see one. Win wasn’t answering because I was right.
Thus, mystery solved.
I sat back on the bench and sighed, but as the warm breeze blew and the seagulls squawked, my satisfaction was brief.
Okay, so maybe I’d figured out who Donna was, but what did these numbers mean? I stared at the paper.
Were they monetary amounts? Coordinates? Latitude and longitude? Gas mileage? Odometer reading?
I shook my head. I was being silly. What difference did it make? Win’s Aston Martin was here, her name was Donna, and he was hiding her from me because…
Because why?
Was he afraid I’d want to drive it and I’d get into a wreck? I guess I couldn’t blame him there. I had gone through my fair share of cars since I’d met Win. Just ask my insurance agent and my sky-high rates.
So why didn’t he just say he didn’t want me to drive it for fear I’d end up in a large body of water with his sleek sports car as my flotation device?
Was it that he didn’t want to hurt my feelings? I mean, I can respect boundaries. All he had to do was tell me he didn’t want me to drive his precious.
And why did I care? I have my own car. I didn’t need his car. I don’t really even want to drive an Aston Martin. It’s more the principal of the thing.
I guess what truly bothered me is that a joke between us, a funny bone of contention, had become something he felt he had to keep hidden.
Looking out at the water, I watched the choppy waves froth and flow as the colorful parasails bobbed, and decided I was being silly. I have no idea why Win wouldn’t tell me he was in possession of the Aston Martin, but I trusted there was a reason he hadn’t.
I didn’t have to know everything he was doing at every moment of our lives. If he’d brought the Aston Martin to Eb Falls, good for him. He’d tell me when he was ready.
That decided, I closed my eyes and inhaled the tang of the saltwater and exhaled my stupidity. I’d attack this subject with my pseudo James Bond at dinner tonight. For now, I was going to read my book and relax before my mini spa day.
But then I looked down at my dress and was reminded of the coffee splatter on the skirt. Mentally, I went through my closet, trying to visualize what else I could wear to replace what I had on.
My appointment at the salon was still two hours away. That gave me plenty of time to head back home and find another dress to wear so I wouldn’t have the extra task of changing if I ran late at the salon with Leif.
I looked longingly at my book and tucked it back in my purse. “Until later, Agatha,” I muttered in reluctance.
Leaving the bench, I crossed the street, mostly quiet now that the tourists had all but vacated. Labor Day was the following Monday, but typically folks went home the week before to prepare for the school year.
Usually, I missed the buzz of crowds, but today I was grateful I didn’t have to fight my way down the sidewalk or for a parking space.
Beeping my car, I hopped in, turned on the AC and headed back to the house.
When I pulled up and parked in the garage, all was quiet. Win was likely at his garden club meeting by now, making me wonder if Arkady or Bel were around.
I hopped out, closed the garage door and took a satisfying look at the lawn and how beautiful it was. Thanks to the help of Chester, and Win and his garden club ladies, the hydrangeas were in full bloom in blue and white.
This year, we’d also lined the square white pavers of the pathway leading to the stairs with variegated hostas and lavender bushes, dotting them with more outdoor lighting.
Often, we’d sit out on the front porch and share a glass of wine while the sun set and admire our latest project’s handiwork.
Either way, it reminded me that Win and I were a team. We’d been a team since we’d met. I’d do well to remember that when I had doubts about anything he was doing.
I climbed the steps, my ankle stinging a little still, but no worse for the wear. I tapped the code into my phone for our security system, and as the front door popped open, I called out, “Arkady? Bel?”
But all was silent except for the hushed clomp of Whiskey’s paws as he came to greet me.
“Hey, buddy,” I cooed, scratching his ears. “Still all alone?”
He huffed and snorted at me, turning to run back into the kitchen, where I’d lay bets he’d been laying in a patch of late-afternoon sun by the French doors leading to the patio—his usual napping spot.
A cup of coffee to replace my spilled one was in order to brew while I went upstairs to find a new dress for tonight. I threw a pod into the Keurig, set my cup under it and headed upstairs.
Making my way to my bedroom—the gorgeous bedroom that Win had designed especially for me—I smiled to myself. Everything from the nook bed carved into the wall, with its gorgeous pale yellow and blue chintz bedding, to the soft carpet and puffy armchair he’d bought was perfection, and so me. Even back then, Win paid attention to every nuance of my personality.
If you’ll recall, he’d done this long before we were anything much more than ghost and conduit. He’d taken the time to discover who I was, what I liked through my afterlife interactions and Belfry, and then he’d set about making a room I’d love to come home to relax in.
There was so much about Win that was selfless and giving that I, in turn, felt like a real jerk for harping on the Aston Martin.
Pushing the door open all the way, I went straight to my closet and picked through my dresses, choosing a fun melon and pink cold-shoulder with ruffles. Throwing it over my head, I dug out some beige wedges and threw them on, too.
Just as I was about to head back downstairs, the scent of my sorely needed cup of coffee calling me, I heard noises from the driveway, making me wonder if Enzo had dropped by with food from Carmella.
Yes, even though I had a perfectly wonderful man who loved to cook, Carmella still sent food over with Enzo to be sure I wasn’t wasting away, and who am I to complain? Nothing beats her stuffed shells and chicken piz
zaiola.
Yet, when I pushed aside the filmy curtains and peeked out the window in my bedroom overlooking the driveway, it was to find someone dropping Win off in a blue Kia. An Uber, I’m assuming. Once he was out of the car, a phone at his ear, he paced while he ran an impatient hand through his hair.
I know that Win. That Win is annoyed, but about what?
I threw the window open to let him know I was home, realizing I’d parked in the garage and he wouldn’t see my car, but found myself totally caught off guard when I heard him say, “Yes, that’s right. Candy Cane. She has the snow.”
Chapter 6
While I was recovering from my shock and about to call out to him, a strange car (a black sedan) I didn’t recognize, with a blonde woman in a floppy hat driving, pulled up. Win hopped in, a smile on his face, and away they drove.
I blinked, backing away from the windows. What had just happened? And who was the blonde? I didn’t see her face very clearly, but I definitely saw her flowing locks.
Backing away from the window, I sat down on my bed, my heart pounding in my chest, my legs shaky. Was the blonde the elusive Donna Blitzhen? Had I been wrong this whole time? Did the name Donna have to do with a real person and not his Aston Martin?
And who in the world was Candy Cane and what did “she has the snow” mean?
My fingers dug into my soft comforter, gripping it tight. That niggle I’d mentioned? It was full throttle now, zipping along my spine and leaving the hair on my neck standing on end.
Somehow, I made it down the stairs and to the kitchen, where Whiskey still basked in the sun and Strike had joined him, curling up next to his hind quarters.
My fingers shook as I reached for the coffee I no longer wanted, but made anyway. I wandered over to the kitchen table to grab my phone, my mind whirring, making me realize I needed to get a grip.
First, I needed to call Win and outright ask him what was going on, because none of this made sense. So I clicked on his handsome picture in my phone and pressed dial, but it went to voice mail. I left him a quick message to tell him we needed to talk, on the paranoid chance our phones were being tapped.
Gettin' Witched (Witchless in Seattle Mysteries Book 12) Page 4