“Mediums are baloney, Bel. You know that. They’re shysters looking to prey on the bereaved. And she’s not creepy. She’s just… Odd.” Yes. Odd. That was an appropriate word to describe Coop. Beautifully odd.
“Is that what you consider yourself, Stephania? A shyster?” Win crowed.
“You are not oyster, my malutka. You are honest and good lady. You do not take money for you. You give away to people who have none.”
I could always count on my Arkady when I needed an ego boost. It was true. We gave away my medium fees to all manner of charities. We didn’t need it, but I did need to help people. It’d just who I am.
“The word is shyster, Arkady, and yes. That’s true. We don’t keep the money people pay to contact their loved ones. And no, Win. I don’t consider myself a shyster. I consider myself rare. It’s very, very rare to find another true medium.”
“Yet, here you are,” he pointed out once more.
“But I’m a witch.”
“No, Stephania, you are not. You’ve lost your abilities to witch. But you haven’t lost your abilities to hear the dead. The two are apparently not mutually exclusive.”
“But I only hear you and Arkady. You guys do the rest of the listening for me at Madam Zoltar’s. It’s not the same.” Shrugging, I kept one eye on Trixie behind me and the other on the road as more snow fell. “I don’t know. Either way, Coop can hear you, Win, and that terrifies me.”
“Whatever for, Dove?”
“Because I don’t know what it means, and it means something. Maybe something not good. Maybe it has to do with Adam Westfield? There’s always that possibility. Though, Coop looked terrified when she heard you call me Dove. Of course, Adam is terrifying. So maybe that explains her fear.”
I had to throw that out into the universe so the notion could be tossed about and ease my inner turmoil. I didn’t want to be wrong about these women, but I needed to say the words out loud just in case.
“Do you really believe that, Stevie?” Bel asked. “Let’s rationalize here. You’re bringing these women to our home. If you felt in any way they were in cahoots with Adam “Maniac from The Great Beyond” Westfield, you wouldn’t do that. I know you well enough to know that much. You’re bringing them back to the house because you have a good heart, you know they have nowhere to go, and likely no money to go anywhere with. Oh, and let’s not forget, you love a good mystery. They brought the mystery.”
“I just felt like I had to put it out there as a suggestion so I could get it out of my system is all. But it also means Coop knows our secret. Or she will when I tell her. We have no choice but to be honest about it. She already knows because she can hear you. If she knows, she can tell other people.”
“Who? Who would care? Everyone in Eb Falls already thinks you’re one bon-bon shy of a box when it comes to talking to the afterlife, Stephania. How is Coop’s confirmation going to change any opinion that doesn’t already exist? Do make note, it sounds quite ridiculous when repeated. All that aside, I have a feeling about Coop. A good one. I don’t think she’ll have any problem with you hearing ghosts. But she also has some explaining to do. She did lob Detective Moore across the room as though he were a mere box of tissues. I imagine that’s her secret, and I’d like to know the explanation.”
There was that. Among the million questions I had, that surely was one of them. “Are you just saying all that because she’s insanely beautiful and you want to keep her around?” I teased.
Win’s answer growled in my ear. “That she is indeed. But nay, Dove. I’m looking at this objectively and rationally—and rationally, I believe Coop, though peculiar, has good intentions. And I do not believe she murdered Hank Morrison. If there was some kind of poison in the ink of the tattoo gun, that would suggest premeditation. I don’t believe Coop’s anything but black and white.”
“I hope you’re right, Win. Otherwise, we could be getting ourselves into something we can’t get out of,” I reminded him, pulling onto our street and praying Enzo had plowed the driveway so Trixie could get her very old car up our steep drive. “Not to mention, we need to find out when and why she argued with Hank. In the meantime, just stay quiet until we can figure this all out, okay?”
“Of course, Dove.”
“Arkady, are we in agreement?”
“Dah-dah, my sugar snap pea. I will zip my lip.”
The sight of our house, blanketed in snow, the lights in the gardens just coming on at dusk, warmed me from the inside out. A toasty fire and some pepperoni pizza were in order, and then we needed to get down to the business of figuring out who killed Hank Morrison.
Before the police had the chance to pin it on Coop with their “overwhelming evidence.”
As I exited the car and raised my hand to wave Trixie into a parking spot that wouldn’t interfere with Enzo’s plow, Win’s warmth (or his aura, as we mediums say) encompassed me, wrapping around my shoulders as though he’d loaned me his coat to keep me warm.
And that was some comfort as I headed into what we both knew would be a difficult conversation.
* * * *
“Ohhh, your home is beautiful, Stevie!” Trixie said on a sigh, her hand absently running over Whiskey’s head as we landed in the kitchen, the last stop on our tour.
I’d somehow managed to divert all suspicion and fear by showing them the house. I have to admit, the house formerly known as Mayhem Manor was a fabulous diversion when one wanted to avoid the inevitable.
“So you did the renovations yourself?” Trixie asked, her eyes tired and red, but wide with curiosity as she looked at our kitchen.
I barked a laugh and went to grab some wine glasses. “Um, no. I hired people to do it for us… Er, me. I picked colors and pointed my finger and wrote big checks. Lots of big, big checks.”
Trixie breathed in again, closing her eyes before she opened them and gave me a warm smile. “Well, you did a lovely job, didn’t she, Coop?”
Coop cleared her throat and straightened, inching closer to Trixie as Strike pecked at the floor near her feet. “Yes. This is quite lovely.” She repeated the words woodenly before looking to Trixie for approval.
And I know that’s what she was looking for. Approval. And still, I didn’t know why. But that was all about to change.
Coop blanched when Strike brushed against her to get to me, nearly climbing into Trixie’s arms. For such a warrior, she sure was easily spooked.
Reaching down, I stroked his head and smiled with affection. “He won’t hurt you, Coop. He’s quite friendly. I promise.”
“What is he, Trixie Lavender?” she whispered to Trixie, her voice trembling, adding to her cache of bizarre questions.
Trixie chuckled and held her hand out to Strike, who quite willingly rubbed up against her. “He’s a turkey, Coop. You know, like cluck-cluck—or something like that. I’ve never seen one as a pet, but if Stevie says he’s okay, I’m sure it’s fine.”
Grinning, I grabbed some feed from the cabinet and scattered it on the floor. “He’s sort of a rescue. Long story, but suffice it to say, he’s just another whacky addition to my family.”
Trixie knelt in front of Strike then, grabbing Coop’s hand. “Hold out your hand, Warrior Princess,” she teased. “He’s really very sweet.”
As Coop very tentatively let Strike closer, I went to find refreshment. Some much-needed libation.
“Can I interest you in some wine with our dinner? I sure could use some after today. Coop? How about you?” I asked as I popped open our industrial-sized refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of cabernet.
Trixie shook her head. “None for me, thanks, and Coop doesn’t drink.”
Coop agreed as I held up water bottles instead. “Yes. She’s right. So no thank you, Stevie Cartwright. I don’t drink.”
I was just going to let this bizarre habit of Coop running everything she did past Trixie go for the moment. “So let’s have a seat in the living room and call for our pizza, yes? Enzo, my amazing handyman and dear frie
nd, built a fire, and it’s lovely and warm in there. You both look like you could use a moment’s peace.”
But Trixie hesitated, pulling her cap off and tucking her reddish brown hair with the blue streak behind her ears. “Hold on for a sec. I don’t mean to come across as rude after all you’ve done for us, Stevie, but…what’s the catch?”
“The catch?”
Holding her phone up, she scrolled the screen. “Yes. Er, as in, the lowdown, the shakes, the gist.” She paused and squinted her eyes. “And the shimmy?”
I stood on tippy toe and looked over her hand to the screen of her phone. “Did you Google that?”
Trixie blanched, her pale skin getting paler. “I did. I’m not really up to date on things of this nature.”
I laughed and headed into the living room anyway, motioning them to follow. I stood in front of our stone fireplace to warm my hands and sighed a happy sigh. It was good to be home. “I know there’s a story there, Trixie, but for now, we need to clear other things up first, don’t we? And there’s no catch or lowdown or anything else. I want to help because I know what it’s like to be unjustly accused of murder.”
Coop hissed while Trixie stopped dead in her tracks, putting a protective hand at Coop’s waist. “You were accused of murder?” she squeaked.
I grinned and winked, passing it off as no big deal. “Yep. But I was cleared. Promise. Just like I hope Coop will be. But we can’t do that unless you tell me what the heck is going on. Let’s start at Coop javelin-throwing Starsky across the room as though he were a ragdoll. I think that’s a good place. And please, don’t insult my intelligence here. I know what I saw. I also know Detective Moore outweighs Coop by at least seventy-five pounds—minimum. Sweatin’ to the Oldies won’t give you that kind of workout.”
Coop looked to Trixie, an eyebrow raised. “What is Sweatin’ to the Oldies, Trixie Lavender?”
“And then there’s that,” I pointed out, using a finger to punctuate the air with a warm smile. I didn’t want to upset them. I wanted to understand them. “Maybe I could let the reference to Richard Simmons go because Coop doesn’t look much older than twenty-five.”
Inching through the doorway behind Trixie, scouring our enormous space with those ever-inquisitive eyes, she took in the cool-colored walls in shades of beige and cream, the crown molding, and the big comfortable furniture we’d so carefully chosen before she addressed her age.
“I’m not twenty-five. I’m thirty-two, Stephania Cartwright,” she offered with all seriousness.
Of course she was, and naturally someone as ethereally beautiful as her wouldn’t look her age. Not to mention, she’d used my full name. She’d heard Win, all right. No doubt.
“Right,” I said with a nod, snapping my fingers to invite Whiskey into the room. “But no one calls anyone by their first and last name. And how did you know my full first name? At first I thought you might be from another country, but there’s no sign of an accent. Then, in all honesty, I wondered if there was some medical reason—which you don’t have to divulge at all, if you don’t want to. Yet, those solutions don’t explain Coop’s undeniable strength.”
Coop looked at me with that gaze that shot right through my flesh to my very soul. “I’m not from another country.”
“Then where are you from, Coop?” I asked gently, taking a seat in my favorite wingback chair and hoping they’d do the same on our couch with its jillion throw pillows Win complained about endlessly.
She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t bat a luscious eye. Rather, she looked deeper into my soul and said, “I’m from Hell.”
Chapter 8
I pulled a pillow over my chest and thought about that, refusing to react to her answer if that’s what she hoped for. Yet, the look on Trixie’s face didn’t appear as though she were pleased with Coop’s answer. She hadn’t said it for the shock value. She looked at me in all seriousness.
Knowing her penchant for bizarre answers, I tried to interpret what she meant, and it was reflected in my next question. “Do you mean you’re from a bad neighborhood, Coop?”
“Coop. I can’t let you do this. Stop. Please,” Trixie begged, her eyes growing glassy with tears.
But Coop flashed angry eyes right back at Trixie and stomped into the living room in a huff. “You said it’s wrong to lie, Trixie. I read it’s a sin on the Internet. I will not do wrong, sinful things. I’m a good person now. I will always be a good person. I promised you.”
Trixie’s sigh filled the living room when it escaped her throat. It was a weary sigh of pent-up fear. Of aggravation. Of worry. “I know what I told you, Coop. But sometimes, there are things better left unsaid—”
“Yes!” Coop intervened with more emotion than I’d seen since we’d met—more than even when she’d been put in handcuffs and arrested for a possible murder. “You told me that. But I don’t have to leave things unsaid with Stevie Cartwright, do I? She wants to know the truth. I want to tell her the truth because I know she’ll understand. I can smell she’ll understand.”
Smell… How peculiar.
I held up my hand to thwart any more disagreement and sat forward on the chair, making Whiskey lift his head and rub it on my leg. I reached down to scratch him between the ears to let him know everything was all right. “Listen, ladies. I only want to know the truth so I can help you. Luis was very clear about a few things he needs to represent you—like Coop’s last name, for starters. Sure, I’m curious. I won’t lie. There are some things that have happened today I simply don’t understand. But beyond those concerns, you could be in a great deal of trouble, Coop. I’m not sure you understand just how much. So giving me all the information is crucial to helping you. Not to mention Luis. He says you can’t be found anywhere. Not online, not anywhere. And you have no last name? Why is that?”
Trixie rocked from foot to foot, her movements jerky and nervous. If she were planning to lie about the reasons for these strange happenings, she was going to bomb. Her body language said as much.
But Coop? Yeah, Coop wasn’t nervous at all. She took Trixie by the hand and led her to the couch, pointing to the seat next to her as she sat down. “We have to tell Stevie Cartwright everything. I can tell she’ll listen and believe. I told you, I smelled it on her.”
There it was again. My smell factor.
Still, her trust astounded me, but I didn’t want to spook Trixie, who was less enthused, and I was choosing to ignore the bit about her smelling me. Coop waters were murky at best; I wasn’t ready to wade into the deep end yet.
Silence prevailed momentarily until I finally said, “Let’s start here—did you hear someone call me Stephania, Coop? Can you hear that voice…but you’re unable to see the person the voice belongs to?”
Coop looked to Trixie, who smiled at her, even though it was evident she was terrified. “It’s your story to tell, Coop. It’s up to you how you want to tell it. Just like we talked about on the car ride over. But I hope you’ll remember what I said might happen.”
Coop licked her lips but her stare never wavered. “Yes. I can hear that voice. I heard the other one, too. At first it scared me until I realized they were talking to you. You are Dove.”
Indeed, I am. “So then you’re a medium? Like me?”
What the fluff? That left me stumped. When I’d first mentioned I was a medium, she’d looked at me as though I had two heads and one eye.
“No. I’m not a medium. That’s not what my title is. I have a title.”
Her title… “What do you mean by title, Coop? Are you some kind of royalty? Like a princess or something?”
Now that I could believe. First, she was gorgeous. Whoever gave birth to her hit the lottery gene pool. Second, she held herself like someone had taught her to walk with a book on her head—long, tall and seductive.
“No. Where I come from, there’s only one ruler. The rest of us are just minions created to do his bidding. And we must do it right or we’re punished. Severely.”
My mouth fell
open at that point.
“Stephania, wipe the corner of your mouth, Dove. You have a bit of wine there,” Win said on a laugh.
Coop leaned forward and did just as Win instructed, using her thumb.
But I brushed her hand off and asked, “And where are you from again?”
“I told you, Stevie Cartwright. I’m from Hell.”
Did she mean Hell, Michigan? I’d heard of it. That had to be what she meant, right?
“Do you mean like Michigan? Hell, Michigan?” Did Michigan have a ruler? Maybe in her muddled miscommunication she meant the governor or the mayor.
Coop shook her head, the curtain of her dusky red hair falling around her face. “No. I mean from down there.” She pointed to the gleaming hardwood floor.
Nope. She didn’t mean the mayor.
Swallowing, I reached for my glass of wine and took a long gulp followed by a deep, deep breath. “Okay, and what’s your title in Hell, Coop?”
“Demon.”
Forget my glass—I blinked and grabbed the entire bottle of wine. In fact, I might even hunt around for some whiskey before all was said and done, because that confession called for some hard liquor.
Instead, I took a long swig and said, “Ah. I see.”
Coop, however, didn’t miss a beat. “Unless you care to count head tattoo artist. Then I’m a demon head tattoo artist. I tattooed all new entrants to Hell with a special insignia. Everyone gets a unique tattoo so if they escape Hell, they can be caught and dragged back. Escapees make Satan very angry.”
Dragged back to Hell. Yikes. Having confirmation that Hell truly existed was one thing. Hearing all the things we fear are reality? Quite another.
Okay, look. I know I’m a witch. Er, was a witch. I know magic exists, spells, all sorts of stuff, etcetera. I know the paranormal exist, too, in a sort of “we are the paranormal world” kind of way. Meaning, I get others exist; I’ve just not met many of them.
But this? A demon? I didn’t know how to respond. So I didn’t. I just looked at Coop and blinked again.
Good Witch Hunting Page 8