Good Witch Hunting

by Dakota Cassidy

  My heart warmed around the edges just a smidge—before I reminded myself there was nothing to be pleased or warm about. Sure, I was Win’s confidant. His friend confidant. His earthly friend confidant.

  “Which tells me it’s important, and if it’s important, I want to know what made you call out my name at three in the morning. So spill.”

  “I remembered something,” he muttered quietly.

  A slither of ominous chills slipped along my spine at his tone, making me tuck my clenched fists to my sides. “Okay. What did you remember?”

  “A tattoo.”

  I tilted my head in question. “Of?”

  “It’s more like on. What the tattoo was on.”

  I scratched my head and sighed. “Don’t make me pull teeth, Win.”

  He chuckled his teasing gurgle of a laugh. “If this is pulling teeth, I’ll take it. Once, deep in the Andes, I lost my bicuspid to a group of—”

  “Win! It’s three in the morning.” I narrowed my eyes at the ceiling. “I don’t want to hear a spy story tonight. I think I have a Cheez Whiz hangover, and I’m just not up to your avoidance tactics. Now tell me what the heck you mean by a tattoo and stop going off topic with tales from the MI6 Crypt!”

  “All right then. Fine. I had a memory of the night I was killed.”

  Then there was a long silence.

  Like, really long.

  As per usual, he stopped just when things were getting juicy. I shook my fist at the ceiling. “You are the most frustrating man!” I growled as I began to pace. There was no way I was going back to sleep now. Not a chance. “So the memory involved a tattoo? Explain. Please. Without wading into your spy-capades or stopping just shy of telling me the whole story. Now, let’s start over. What does a tattoo have to do with the night you were killed?”

  “Do you recall my mentioning the shadow I thought I saw just before Miranda allegedly killed me?”

  I did. I also noted he was now using the word “allegedly” when linked to his death and Miranda. Interesting.

  So I answered him, driving my hands into the pockets of my flannel pajama bottoms. “I do remember. What about it?”

  “There was a hand attached to that shadow, Stephania. I just recalled it clear as day.”

  My heart jumped in my chest. For as long as I’d known Win, he’d been pretty sure Miranda had been the one who’d killed him. And this past summer, he’d finally confessed why he thought she was his murderer. To have this type of recollection was enormous.

  Thus, I treaded carefully. I strolled to my bedroom windows overlooking the driveway, pretending interest in the still falling snow, and cocked my head as though I were paused for thought.

  “Any thoughts on who the hand belonged to?”

  “Not a one.”

  “Male hand? Female hand?”

  “Definitely male, if the hairy knuckles are any indication.”

  Pushing my hands behind me, I wove them together and stretched my arms upward before letting them swing at my sides. “And the tattoo? Was it on the hand?”

  “’Twas…” he offered. But that was all he offered.

  I fought the roll of my eyes. “And what did the tattoo look like? Do you remember it clearly?”

  “I do…”

  I whipped around, forcing myself to stay calm even though I wanted to scream at him—shake him—make him part with this new information before, oh, I dunno, sunrise.

  “And what do you remember about the tattoo, Win?” I said from teeth clenched so hard, I was destined to need a visit to my dentist when they crumbled from the pressure of clamping them together with such force.

  “It’s very specific. Very detailed in its finery.”

  My shoulders sagged as I made my way back to the bed and hopped up into it again, careful not to disturb Whiskey and Belfry. Maybe he was right. Maybe this could wait until morning coffee—or a fishbowl full of tequila—because that’s how frustrating having a conversation about the night Win died can be. It drives me to consider drinking—a lot.

  Resettling myself under my toasty comforter, I cuddled into my delightful bed specifically designed for me by Win himself. He’d created a nook in the wall of my bedroom in almost the shape of a hexagon, rather like a place for me to nest. My gorgeous bed nook featured a fluffy mattress and tons of pillows, with a stained-glass window overlooking our side yard, and it had shelves above my head for my books. I plumped those very pillows Win endlessly complained about and yawned.

  Maybe if I pretended this revelation was no big deal, much the way Win had, he’d cough up the information. But I really had overdone the Cheez Whiz, and I needed some sleep to wash away my carb frenzy.

  Tucking my hand under my chin, I muttered, “Okay. Well, when you want to talk with more than three-or four-word sentences, lemme know. Until then. Sweet dreams, International Man of Mystery.”

  Closing my eyes, I feigned the beginnings of sleep—which wasn’t a difficult task, considering the hour and my processed cheese hangover.

  “It was a snake. The tattoo was of a coiled snake, with a very detailed collar around its neck. Who puts a collar on a snake, I ask you? Regardless, the snake had a collar—a vividly royal-blue collar with a diamond in the center, and upon the jewel, the initial R.”

  My entire body stiffened at this new batch of information, but I fought for a literate, composed response. “And it was on this shadow person’s hand? Like the back of his hand? Or his palm?”

  “Yes, Stephania. It was on the back of his hand just below his hairy knuckles. I saw it very clearly.” His tone held that rigidness I’d come to know so well because despite the fact that we were openly talking about the night he’d died, that never happened without stiffness in his words and the underlying anger I was sure he must still feel.

  “And you’re certain the hand and this tattoo were present on the night you were…” I couldn’t say it out loud. I could never say it out loud.

  But Win could. “Murdered. Yes. I’m quite positive.”

  “Does the initial R mean anything to you? Could it have something to do with Inga Von Krause?”

  Inga was one of the last people Win had spent time with before he’d died. Granted, he’d been undercover and she was the daughter of a horrible man she ended up escaping, so there’d been no romantic involvement between the two.

  But I’d had a taste of what his life had been like, after meeting Inga and falling wildly in love with her son Hardy…er, Sebastian. In fact, they’d visited us just this past Christmas for a long, wonderful weekend, where I was able to collect gooey baby kisses to my heart’s content.

  But I digress. Suffice it to say, Win’s life had been chaotic during that time. Maybe Inga knew something about this shadow and a tattooed hand?

  “No. It had nothing to do with Inga,” Win confirmed with an air of surety.

  “Did you have any R people in your life at that point in time? Is it like a gang thing, this initial? You know, like a representation of gang membership—an initiation or whatever. Because gravy knows you’ve been mixed up with all manner of mafia, drug lords and the like in your time as a spy. Could that be what the R represents? A group of some sort? Or does it represent someone’s name?”

  Clearing his throat, his voice invaded my ears. “I’ve racked my brain about just that, Stephania, and come up with nothing. I don’t know anyone with a tattoo like that. Certainly not a fellow spy from MI6. We do our best to hide any blatant identifiers such as tattoos and piercings for fear of being recognized when in deep cover. A tattoo that obvious would never be allowed simply due to its in-your-face nature. As spies, we were very careful to keep our true identities hidden.”

  “So wouldn’t that lead one to believe this wasn’t a good-guy shadow but a bad one?”

  “Quite possibly.”

  “Know any bad guys with the initial R?”

  “Maybe it wasn’t the tattoo owner’s initial, Stephania. Maybe it represented someone in his life. In memorandum of someone
who’d died. Someone he loved.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he just has a thing for the letter R. Who can say for sure? All I know is, this is huge, Win. You’ve remembered something crucial and maybe you’ve exonerated Miranda,” I offered around the lump in my throat.

  I often wondered if I wanted Miranda to have been the one who killed Win. It’s an awful guilt I carry around. At least if she really were the one who’d killed him, he’d only continue to suffer her betrayal. He’d still be angry with her.

  But if she wasn’t his killer, then he could go on loving her from way on high, and that was a hard pill for me to swallow. She’d return to reverent status in his heart, and he’d never let go.

  Then I berated myself for even considering such a thing. What difference did it make in the end? He was there and I was here and never the twain shall meet and all.

  Period.

  “I don’t know that I’ve done that just yet,” Win said, his voice cutting into my dreadful, ugly thoughts, but I heard the hope in his words. “I do know we need to go to that tattoo shop in town and further look into this.”

  Running a hand over my eyes, I gave them a good scrub to keep them open. “You mean the one that just opened? Inkerbelle’s, is it? Such a cleverly cute name. I’ve been meaning to go welcome them to our quaint ’hood.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “And why do we need to go there?”

  “Because while the letter R implies the tattoo is personalized, maybe the design isn’t. Maybe it’s a standard universal design one can find anywhere. I’d like to know one way or the other.”

  That was fair, and he was right to want to look deeper. It’s exactly what I’d do. Maybe we could solve this once and for all. If nothing else, despite my feelings on the subject, Win might finally find some peace. I wanted that for him more than I wanted to forget Miranda had ever existed.

  “Then it’s a date,” I replied sleepily. “Tomorrow we storm the castle.”

  Win’s chuckle, light in comparison to his tension-filled, evasive tone earlier, made me smile. “Tell me, Stephania, have you any tattoos?”

  Giggling, I burrowed under the warmth of my comforter, pressing the tops of my thighs to Whiskey’s bulk. “I’ll never tell.” I don’t have any tattoos, but he doesn’t need to know that. “Do you?”

  “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander, as they say. So never you mind, Mini-Spy. Rest well, Dove. See you in the morning,” he whispered on another laugh, leaving me to wonder about tattoos and very personal things I had no business wondering.

  Chapter 2

  “Is this what you’re thinking?” I held up my doodling pad to the ceiling (even though I know he’s not hovering above me. It’s a habit I can’t seem to break) to show Win my sketch of the tattoo he’d described in great detail over coffee this morning.

  He gasped with exaggerated flair. “The likeness is so distinct, it’s almost uncanny. Who knew you were a regular twenty-first century Picasso? Right here in modern day, as we live and breathe. Surely, it’s as though you’re in my head, Stephania.”

  Scrunching my nose, I sipped my coffee, tilting my head to the right. “Really?”

  “Erm, no, Stephania. Not at all. I’m using sarcasm as a means to deflect from how truly horrible that sketch is.”

  I frowned and toyed with my scarf, throwing down my colored pencil. “Not even close?”

  “Not unless kindergartners have taken to drawing tattoos these days,” he teased in his dry British way.

  Looking at my sketch, I kind of had to agree with him. It was pretty bad. My coiled snake looked akin to a big green blob of goo.

  Okay. It was really bad.

  In my defense, I stuck my tongue out at him. “I’m just trying to help, Fussy Pants.”

  “And a splendid job of that you’re doing, Stephania. How will I ever repay your diligence?”

  I batted a hand at him. “Just you hush. So I’m not going to win any art scholarships. I was only trying to get an image in my mind’s eye to work with, is all. Next time, I’ll keep my doodling to myself.” I took a long gulp of my coffee while he and Arkady laughed.

  “The roads look pretty good, Boss. I think it’s safe enough to go out now that they’ve plowed. You guys about ready?” Belfry asked on a violent shiver as he flew into the kitchen.

  We’d sent him to scout the condition of the roads after so much snowfall. We lived on the edge of a cliff a few minutes out of town, and we were always the last to see any clearing of the roads. I didn’t want to risk losing yet another car to an accident should they be dangerous.

  I was 2 for 0 in the car department, in case you’re wondering. I’m still trying to put the last incident out of my mind.

  I patted my shoulder, signaling Bel should settle there and cuddle up against my neck to warm himself. When he landed, I tucked my new scarf (a vintage, lavender Hermes, and heck of a find) around him and asked, “Would you rather stay here with Whiskey and Strike, pal? I know you hate this weather, and we won’t be gone long. Promise. We’re just going to ask a couple of questions, and I might grab a coffee before heading back here to spend the afternoon by the fireplace.”

  Belfry’s breed—a cotton ball bat, for those wondering—are warm-weather lovers. To say his tiny body wasn’t used to this weather is to say the least.

  “Not a chance, Petunia,” Bel chirped, tucking himself against my skin with a ripple of fur. “You don’t think I’d miss this, do you? We’re finally onto something about our man of mystery, right, old chap?”

  “Indeed, this could very well be a lead to something bigger, old friend,” Win agreed, but again, he had that distracted hint to his tone. His voice held a forced cheerfulness I couldn’t miss.

  If I knew Win, he was thinking ahead rather than staying in the moment—something he always told me was imperative to solving any good mystery. Yet, I couldn’t blame him. He’d waited a long time for even a small clue that could lead to some answers.

  “Well, I’m ready if you guys are.” I rose, taking one last gulp of Enzo’s special brew of coffee before dropping my mug in the sink and heading toward the coatrack at our entryway to grab my coat and boots. “Are you ready, too, Arkady?”

  “Dah, my crunchy granola bar. On with this, I say! I, too, am wondering about this tattoo and the mystery hand.”

  I chuckled as I headed out our stained-glass front door and down the steps Enzo’s sons had so kindly shoveled and salted for me while I was in the shower. “Then buckle up, Buttercups. Let’s go meet the new people and do some digging.”

  “Dare I say that lilt I hear in your tone is giddy joy, Stephania?” Win asked, laughter lacing his words.

  Beeping my car, I popped the driver’s side door open with a shiver before sliding in. Dang, it was cold. “Joy? Explain.”

  “Well, we haven’t had a mystery to solve since this past summer, when Inga brought baby Sebastian here and had you believing he was mine.”

  I nodded my head, started the engine, and turned the heat in the car to high. “You have to admit, her note was pretty convincing, and truth be told, he could have passed for your son.”

  “Fair enough,” Win acquiesced. “But still, you sound positively capricious despite the early hour and the frigid temps. You don’t even make appointments at the shop before ten a.m., Dove. Yet, here you are at nine sharp, showered, dressed—in a lovely frock, I might add—and ready to take on the world with only one cup of coffee and a store-bought cream puff to your name. Whatever am I to think other than you’re excited at the prospect of solving the mystery of the shadow and his tattoo?”

  Win knew me well. Too well.

  Yep. It was true. It had been exceptionally quiet here in Eb Falls for quite some time now. Maybe too quiet for someone like me who, when faced with too much idle time, filled up that time with broody thoughts and projections about Win.

  Absolutely nothing of interest had gone down since the summer and my brush with death via Heinrich Von Krause
, an arms dealer, and the man Win had spent a good deal of time in deep cover with before his untimely death.

  My heart still stung just a little over baby Sebastian, but Inga, his mother and Heinrich’s rebel daughter, made a point of keeping in close contact with me, due to the nature of the attachment I’d formed with her son—who really didn’t turn out to be Win’s child, by the by.

  Since then, there hadn’t been a murder or even a burglary in Eb Falls—a place we were beginning to think was the Hellmouth for murder central. Since I’d moved back here from Paris, Texas, we’d solved six mysteries and murders in as much as two years.

  But lately? Nothing. Not unless you counted the heated argument between two soccer moms at a hot yoga class, and even that was nothing to write home about.

  Preparing to back out, I took a moment to enjoy the beauty of our house wreathed in freshly fallen snow and reflect on Win’s statement. Was I one of those murder hounds? Like Aurora Teagarden on The Hallmark Channel?

  Did I salivate at the mere suggestion of a mystery while rubbing my hands in glee?

  “To answer the question I see behind your lovely green eyes, yes. You do enjoy a good mystery—be it murder or otherwise. Surely you recall Gladys Pepperton’s hunt for her brooch at bingo a month ago?”

  As I backed out of the driveway, taking my time—even after a good salting, it was still slick—I thought back to bingo night at the VFW. I love bingo, and in a town this small, sometimes that’s all a girl has to look forward to—Tuesday night bingo.

  Clearing my throat, I replied, “I remember finding her brooch for her…” It was easy to find, too. A little too easy. I needed more of a challenge.

  Belfry snorted. “Do you remember yelling at the top of your lungs about finding her brooch in the middle of the VFW hall like you’d just found Jimmy Hoffa’s skeletal remains?”

  Rolling my eyes, now I snorted, mostly in discomfort. “I did not. Don’t exaggerate.”

  “Oh yes, my little sunflower seed. You did,” Arkady assured.

  “And you drooled a bit, Dove. Right at the corner of your mouth for all to see. ’Tis just the truth.”