Quit Your Witchin'

by Dakota Cassidy

  Sandwich pulled out his phone with a log of the call. Damn you, technology.

  He tapped the phone. “Says it right here, Stevie. ‘Belfry stop’.”

  “Should’ve followed up with a twirl of your hair, Stevie,” Win taunted in my ear.

  I licked my lips and attempted to keep my face placid. “Oh! I know, that must have been when I was yelling ‘help me’ and ‘stop’. That was when he was charging me like I had the football.”

  “I see,” he said noncommittally.

  I could tell he wasn’t sure whether he believed me or not, but I really had to get home and take some aspirin or get Enzo to tranquilize me.

  “So is that all? Am I going to be arrested for interfering with an ongoing investigation or something?”

  “Nothing would please me more,” Officer Nelson said from behind Sandwich.

  Yippee. My favorite stick in the mud was in the house.

  “Hey, Officer Sunshine. What up?” I asked as cheerfully as possible.

  Officer Nelson strolled toward me, the boat rocking yet his strong legs never once losing their balance as he peered down at me. If sarcasm were an expression, he was wearing it.

  “How strange that we should find you here on the docks with Jacob Dietrich, Miss Cartwright. Could it be that you’re sticking your civilian nose in where it doesn’t belong?”

  I pretended I was contemplating as I gazed at his chiseled face with as much innocence as I could muster. “Could be,” I offered grudgingly.

  His eyebrow rose and his face remained a block of ice. “How unlike you. Looks like you have some pretty bad bruises on your neck there.”

  My hand flew to my neck as my cheeks went hot. “That’s what happens when a drunken psychopath uses you as his punching bag.”

  “You should have that checked out, and we’ll need pictures for evidence. So please wait here.” Officer Nelson then sauntered off and up the creaky steps to the upper deck, where much commotion was going on.

  I’d dig through my purse for my compact to see the damage, but everything was scattered all over the floor.

  “He’s right, Stevie,” Sandwich said as he lifted my chin, wincing as he looked at the column of my throat. “Those look pretty rough. But at least let us get some pictures so he can be charged with assault and battery. No matter what you did, he shouldn’t be knockin’ a woman around.”

  “She was trespassing, was what the hell she was doin’!”

  Ah, Jacob had recovered from the taser and was up and at ’em again. He’d been restrained and I was finally able to get a good look at him. Man, he was big. Redwood big, with greasy hair he’d tied into a dirty brown ponytail and eyes like maniacal, wobbly blue marbles in his head.

  I became indignant. “I was not!” Well, not yet, anyway. Not fully. Okay, I admit, I was on the deck, but he caught me before I had the chance to find a door to knock on. Still, the truth was, I hadn’t even begun to trespass. “I’d just stepped foot on this leaky canoe when you grabbed me. I was looking for a door to knock on, you monster!”

  “Stevie. Stop poking the beast,” Win warned, warming my heart, reminding me he was back and everything was right again.

  “Stevie. Please don’t antagonize,” Sandwich said, mirroring Win’s words. “Now, let’s get you to the doc so he can check you and we can take pictures, okay?”

  “You can take as many pictures as you’d like, but I don’t need to go to the doctor. I’m fine. Honest.” I began an attempt to push past Sandwich, only to find walking was quite painful. I winced and tried to bite off the hiss of searing agony shooting up my thigh.

  “You don’t look fine. Listen, don’t be a hero. Just go see the doc in case there’s real damage. You wouldn’t want to hinder your sleuthing if it’s something serious, would you?”

  “Stop taunting me, Officer Paddington. I was only trying to help people I like. I’ll go to the doctor, but I’m telling you, I’m really okay.” Except for my butt. My derriere was broken.

  “Can I offer you a lift? I’ll bring you back to your car when you’re done.”

  “Sure. Thanks, Sandwich.” I let him help me toward the steps to the upper deck, biting off cries of pain as I went.

  Just as we passed the group of officers who’d come to save me from that madman, I heard one mutter, “Nah, he alibied out. He was with Marvin Wexler all morning, filling out permit papers the day Bustamante was whacked. Sure would make me feel better if it was Dietrich so we could take that boozer off the streets for good before he really hurts someone. He’s a dang nasty drunk.”

  Whelp, we could scratch that suspect off our list.

  Shoot.

  Might have been useful information to have before I broke my butt.

  Chapter 10

  I’ll be dipped. I sort of really had broken my butt. My coccyx, to be precise, and it wasn’t really broken, just badly bruised. An ailment neither Belfry nor Winterbottom were apparently ever going to let me live down.

  When Jacob dropped me to the ground so suddenly, I hadn’t braced myself for the fall, thus bruising my butt. Now, back at home, on some lovely muscle relaxers, I almost didn’t mind that Win and Bel couldn’t stop torturing me about it. Because we were all together and that’s what was most important.

  Bel nudged my ear with his fuzzy head before tucking against my neck and hiding just under my hair. “Hey. Is the ice helping your butt?”

  “Who’s got a Winterbottom now?” Win asked, and then both he and Bel fell into another fit of laughter.

  “Jolly good one, mate!” Bel giggled out the words.

  “Oh, you’re both a laugh riot,” I said as I tried to stand up, but it took some doing. Even with the muscle relaxers, which had begun to wear off.

  “Oh no, kiddo. You sit your undernourished tuchus back in that seat and rest. I’m heating you up some pasta fagioli and making you a fontina and gouda grilled cheese,” Carmella said in her husband Enzo’s matching New York accent as she came around the corner of the parlor, wiping her hands on her salmon-pink apron with the ruffles.

  I loved Carmella. She was soft and chubby, round and perfect, her thick black hair with a shock of white rolled into a messy bun at the back of her head. She always smelled like vanilla, sage, and pasta sauce, and she wore sensible, black lace-up shoes with matching sensible boxy dresses tied around her thick waist.

  She cooked, she soothed…in general, she made me feel like I mattered, and I loved it. Ate it up with a spoon, no matter how much I protested her attentions and awesome leftovers she sent for me with Enzo. Above all, she was a nurturer, something my mother definitely was not, nor had ever been.

  Carmella had heard about my incident with Jacob and had rushed over to cook for me so I could rest and recover. She’d even gone so far as to personally cancel my late-afternoon appointment with Bootsie Davis.

  Planting her hands on her abundant hips, she gave me one of those admonishing looks all Italian mothers have down to a science. “And who are you talking to in here? Rest means rest, little lady.”

  I pointed to the Bluetooth in my ear. “Just a friend who’s sorely mistaken if he thinks comedy is in his wheelhouse.”

  “Well, you just sit right there and be still so you can heal. All those meds you have in you means you shouldn’t be wanderin’ around anyway. I’m back in the kitchen for a little bit. Don’t make me bring out the rolling pin,” she teased, her deep brown eyes twinkling with the threat.

  “Thank you, Carmella. You’ve made a horrible day so much nicer. I appreciate you and Enzo.”

  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 ti
me 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?”