We quickly walked the remainder of the way, Win whistling cheerfully as though he hadn’t booted a bunch of unruly women out of the store on their backsides only a half hour ago.
We neared one of the smaller motels Eb Falls featured, an efficiency called The Cozy Nook, run by Merle Leveque and his lovely wife, Adelaide. Both in their early sixties, they took great pride in clean rooms and a view of the water.
The two-story stucco structure gleamed white and crisp under the blue skies, tiny balconies attached to some of the rooms. The entry doorway was flanked by enormous worn pottery vases holding multicolored pansies and geraniums in full bloom.
The Leveques had a super-sweet pond I wanted to show Win in the hopes he’d like the idea. I wanted one like it for our backyard, and I kept mentioning we should stop by and see Merle’s when it was ready for the season. It would be a perfect addition to a space we both thought looked blank and boring.
“Before we go inside, let’s check out the pond around the side of the motel. Remember I told you Merle had one with a waterfall that I think would be perfect in our backyard?”
Win nodded with an indulgent smile. “Lead the way, Dove.”
We took the winding flagstone path lined with tiger lilies just now beginning to bloom and full hostas toward the right. The sound of water splashing against the rocks of the small waterfall at the tip of the pond called to me as I inhaled the fresh air of midspring, letting go of the last hour or so of turmoil.
“Cryptophasia,” Win murmured as we pushed our way past the big holly bushes and tall arborvitaes, getting closer to the sound of the water.
“What-a-whose-o-phasia?” I asked, wrinkling my nose.
“Sorry, Dove. I was simply thinking out loud. I said cryptophasia. It’s the technical, or maybe it’s medical, term when twins create their own language, as Cleo described. It truly exists.”
“Really? There’s a technical word for it?” I’d never heard of it before Cleo mentioned it, but I found it incredibly interesting.
He helped me over a rocky patch along the path. “Indeed, there is, Dove. I Googled it. Fascinating, wouldn’t you agree?”
Stopping short, I cocked my head when we reached the clearing where the pond was located. “International Man of Mystery?”
“My Dove?”
“Do you see what I see?” I asked, pointing my finger in the direction of the pond, where small white wrought-iron tables sat.
Win pushed me behind him with a protective hand. “Is that…? Surely that can’t be… Is it…? Is that a…?”
I gulped, peeking around his broad back as I clung to his muscled arm. “Do you mean is that a dead guy with what I’m pretty sure is a cake server sticking out of the side of his head?”
“Is he half-naked, as well? Or are my eyes deceiving me, Dove?”
I snapped my open mouth shut and shook my head. “Nope. You’ve still got twenty-twenty eyeballs.”
“Ah. This presents quite the dilemma, wouldn’t you say?”
“You mean for the dead guy? I’ll say. He’s dead. It doesn’t get much more dilemma’d than that, wouldn’t you agree?”
Chapter 4
At that most inopportune moment, a motel guest trod out the side door with a cup of coffee in hand, obviously hoping to enjoy the pond and the view of the water on this lovely day.
Instead, she saw what we saw (yep. The half-naked guy with a cake server embedded in his skull) and screamed so loud, I think my eardrums vibrated.
When she dropped her mug and it smashed against the surrounding rock, contaminating the crime scene, I sprang into action in an attempt to preserve the area for the police.
“Stop!” I yelped, running toward her as pieces of the black ceramic mug flew and scattered around the three wrought-iron tables.
The woman froze, but her body trembled while she tried to hold perfectly still as though she were playing a game of freeze tag.
When I reached her side, I lightly touched her arm. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you, but this is a crime scene. You have to be careful where you walk.”
As the early afternoon sun glanced across her pale face, she trembled again so violently, the tiny caramel-colored ponytail on top of her head shook and her chest rose and fell with obvious panic. “Are…are you the police?”
“No. My name is Stevie Cartwright and this is my fiancé, Christoph Winningham. What’s your name?” I asked with a soft tone, keeping my voice light and easygoing as Win smiled at her.
“Fallon. Fallon Merriweather,” she replied on a gulp, her voice shaky.
Fallon was maybe in her late thirties, if her skin was telling the tale. Medium complexion, curvy, dressed in pale blue sweats and a matching jacket with rhinestone flip-flops, she looked exactly as she should. As though she’d hoped for a relaxing cup of coffee with the smell of the salty air…and got anything but.
“Are you a guest here at the motel?”
She gave me a suspicious glance, clearly having a mental battle with fight or flight while she fiddled with the strings of her jogging suit’s jacket. “Uh-huh. Are you?”
“No. We just came upon the cri—this when we came to look at the pond I’ve been admiring for some time now. We’re actually here to drop something off to a guest at the motel. Wrong time, wrong place, I’m afraid.”
That was when she gulped. I saw her throat work, heard her swallow hard, even over the sound of the waterfall in the pond. She looked at me, her round hazel eyes wide and filled with fear as she twisted the strings of her light blue jacket, her mind obviously turning.
That was when she began to back away, despite my warning to stay put. “How do I know…how do I know you two didn’t do this to him?” she yelped, the pitch of her voice rising with each word until it turned into a terrified scream. “You stay away from me! Stay away! I’m calling the police!”
Moving backward, she turned and ran down the path we’d followed toward the front of the motel, her hysterical sobs echoing in the lukewarm air.
Win came to stand by my side, placing his hand on my waist. “Well, that went swimmingly.”
“Think I scared her?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dove. She didn’t appear frightened at all.”
Sighing, I looked at the man sitting at a table, slumped in the chair, a silver cake server with a white marbled handle driven at least a half inch into his temple. Dried blood dripped down the right side of his bald head and into his unkempt, mousy brown beard.
And let’s not forget, the upper half of his body was naked. I peered around to see if he’d discarded a shirt, but I didn’t see anything. Only his dark, hairy chest with the tattoo of a toadstool around his belly button as he slumped in the wrought iron chair, his jaw slack, his eyes glassy. His skin suggested he was in his early thirties, his face unlined by wrinkles around his eyes.
“Did you call 9-1-1?”
“Of course, Dove.”
As if on cue, I heard the peal of sirens cut through the quiet sound of the water and the occasional squawking seagull.
Dana would be here in minutes, rigid with official police rules and regulations, claiming he couldn’t release sensitive information, blah-blah-blah. You know what I have to say to that, right?
Poppycock. Rules were made for people who hadn’t stuck their noses in the middle of a crime she had no business sticking her nose in.
Before approaching the body, I grabbed some surgical footies from my purse and pulled them over my sandals.
“Stephania, really?” Win teased with his indulgent smile. “Did that come with your super-duper spy kit?”
I made a face at him. “You laugh, but it came with a magnifying glass and a fingerprint kit, buddy. You’re not the only one who knows how to spy. Nobody’s ever gonna tell me I’m not prepared.”
Win chuckled and nudged me. “Well, don’t leave me out. Surely you have another pair for me in your bargain-basement purse?”
I held up my smart red handbag. “I resent th
at remark, Daddy Warbucks. This is a Coach bag, circa 1980-something, and I only paid ten bucks for it. On the open market it would sell for at least six hundred dollars. It was the find of the century.”
“Of course, Dove. It’s all about the hunt, seek, destroy, and so on. I can’t deny the joy it brings you when you show me one of your new bargain trophies. That aside, have you no gloves and footies for me? Am I a part of this team or am I a part of this team?”
I nodded, pulling them from my purse. “I knew you couldn’t resist, but we’d better make haste before Dana arrives and catches us snooping.”
Yes. My heart was thumping in my chest at the thrill of the chase. I hang my head in shame at the gleam surely in my eye. However, I do realize someone is dead. Someone I know nothing about, yet still feel compassion for.
Win pulled on his rubber gloves and grimaced. “I don’t think you give him enough credit, Stephania. He’s simply doing his job and abiding by the law. We can’t ask him to bend the rules because we’re crime-solving junkies.”
“Said his bro-friend,” I responded with a hint of sarcasm as I pulled my gloves on, too. “I get it. He has to do what he has to do to keep his job ,and since you two have become pals, you have to defend his honor. It’s what all good bromances are made of. I’d do the same for my sister, Hal, or my friend Winnie, and especially Belfry.”
Dana and Win had become very good friends. They occasionally golfed, had lunch at least once a week, and sometimes caught a Seahawks game together. All the while, Win teasing Dana about how, compared to England’s rugby, American football players were a bunch of milksops.
He crossed his arms over his broad chest and cocked an arrogant eyebrow at me. “If having a bromance with Dana is wrong, I don’t want to be right.”
Sighing, I looked around at all the bushes just beginning to bloom and listened to the trickle of the water from the weathered stone pond. “You take pictures and I’ll snoop?”
Win pulled his cell phone from the pocket of his black trousers and nodded. “At your service, madam.”
I might have wondered at our seemingly cavalier nature once the initial shock of finding a dead man wore off. We were getting right down to business.
In our defense, a dead body didn’t even make my Spy Guy blink twice. His prior job dealt in the business of dead people. Though he was often sympathetic to the victim when they deserved his sympathy, he knew how to keep it together.
As for me, over time, I’ve learned to compartmentalize. Sure, I’ve seen a lot of dead bodies since I met Win. Yet, this wasn’t someone I knew, which made it less traumatic in the sense that a deep emotion wasn’t present. But I’ve also learned to observe and take note of as much as I can on the off chance someone from the afterlife needs our help as a result of being murdered.
It’s what keeps my head on straight and keeps me motivated to see as much as I can before Dana comes along and boots me out on my keister.
That thought made me get into gear. I moved closer to the body, the scent of his congealed blood growing coppery in my nose. As I inspected the man’s skull where the cake server was embedded, I noted there was writing on the silver wedge driven into his head, but I couldn’t quite make it out, and I sure wasn’t going to get close enough to read what was written.
I do have my limits, and they include trying to read a cake server stuck in someone’s skull, and I won’t apologize for it.
My cheeks were growing warm and a bead of sweat trickled down my spine as I inspected, trying to keep my sympathy for this man, who probably had parents or siblings or children, out of the inspection.
“Get a really good picture of that cake server, would you, please, Win? I can’t read it because it’s stuck in his head, but there’s an engraving on it. Maybe we can blow it up and figure it out later.”
While Win snapped pictures, I wondered if they’d find fingerprints on the white marbleized handle or if whoever did this had wiped it clean. Nothing was ever that easy, leaving me sure it was probably wiped.
“What sort of crime do you think we’re seeing here, Dove? Passion? Jealousy? Money?”
Chewing the inside of my cheek, I said, “Well, judging from the way he’s dressed, his scruffy jeans and shabby flip-flops, I don’t know if money’s a factor here.”
Win scoffed and crouched to take a picture of the ground beneath the man’s legs. “Not all the wealthy wear a three-piece suit, Dove. Though, I will admit, his feet, if he is wealthy, certainly don’t suggest he spends his money at a foot spa.”
Wincing, I noted his toenails were a little ragged, the soles of his feet dry and peeling. “You’re right. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t killed for money. Maybe he’s a hippie billionaire who refuses to conform to society’s idea of what a rich guy’s supposed to look like.”
“Fair assessment. There are several billionaires I’m personally acquainted with who opt not to deck themselves out in diamonds and gold. In fact, when I was on a mission in Matamata, South Tunisia, I met a chap who refused to wear clothes at all.”
My head popped up. “Ever?”
He looked over the top of his phone and smiled a quirky smile. “Ever.”
Blowing out a breath, grateful for the levity as the air grew thicker, I asked with great trepidation, “Please say he’s not on our guest list.”
Win gave me his charmingest smile, making the grooves on either side of his mouth deepen. “I thought I’d told you, Dove. He’s my best mate.”
I fought a laugh, which felt wrong considering the circumstances, but it sure made it easier to get through this. “As long as he wears a bowtie for that sophisticated, this-is-a-fancy-affair look, I’m fine with it. But do you think Agatha Backstrom will mind? You know how she feels about too much skin showing. Delphine Freemont practically had a turtleneck on at the spring bake sale, and I thought Miss Agatha was going to faint when Del bent over to pick up a napkin. You’d think she took her shirt off and offered her wares for a price.”
Win’s head fell back on his shoulders, revealing his tanned throat when he laughed. “Have I mentioned you’re a delight, Dove?”
I waved a finger at him and motioned to the crime scene. “Maybe once or twice. Now, back to the biz at hand because I hear car doors and sirens, and you know what that means. Do we have enough pictures?”
“Indeed. I think we have plenty.” He held up his phone, pushing it back into the pocket of his trousers.
Just as I was about to move out of the space of the crime scene and pull my surgical footies off before Dana and Detective Starsky came and rained on our meddling parade, a glint of something shiny on the ground, about ten feet away from the body, caught the sun and my eye.
As the footsteps of the police rang out, I followed the shine of the object to a small boxwood bush. Kneeling, I yanked my phone out of my purse, my eyes widening.
Win sat on his haunches beside me. “My Dove? Is that what I think it is?”
“Do you think it’s a charm?”
“That thought crossed my mind.”
“As in, a charm from a bracelet I held earlier today?”
He lifted a raven eyebrow. “Coincidence?”
“Do we believe in those?”
Win shrugged, his lips set in a grim line. “I rather liked Cleo and her fighting spirit. Thus today, I’m going to say yes. Yes. I believe in coincidences.”
I glanced at the charm quickly without really seeing what it was, snapping a picture before I looked at Win. “Then let’s hope the power of believing is enough—because this doesn’t look good for Cleo.”
Not good at all.
Chapter 5
Seconds after we’d pulled off our footies and gloves, I heard, “Miss Cartwright.”
This formality business was so silly. Yet, every time Dana encountered me at a crime scene, or even just when he was merely wearing his uniform and we bumped into each other at the coffee shop, it was as if a switch inside him flipped on and he was all Officer Play by The Rules.
; Which was fine. I got what Win was saying when he was defending his bro-friend, but for the love of disco, he could call me by my first name.
We kind of go way back, you know? It’s not as though Sandwich and the rest of the gang at Eb Falls police department don’t know we’re friends or that Dana and Win are buddies.
However, this time, I decided to play along. “Officer Nelson. Fine day we’re having, isn’t it?” I asked, squinting into the sun at his sharp, angled features, handsome and clean-shaven.
He hitched his jaw at the dead man, slouched in the wrought-iron chair. “Is a day with murder fine, Miss Cartwright?”
“I meant the weather, not the circumstances.” And he knew it, the smarty-pants.
He pulled his pad and pen from the pocket of his uniform and looked at me as though seeing me for the first time and asked, “So, what do we have here, Miss Cartwright?”
Okay, I couldn’t take it. If I didn’t razz him, who was I? “Looks like a clambake to me. I hope you brought extra tartar sauce.”
He leaned down, blocking out the sun, a twinkle in his eye. “You know, you can tell me or you can tell Detective Starsky. Win’s talking to him right now, but we all know he likes Win much better than you.”
I nodded, tucking my hair behind my ears. “You know, Officer Nelson, I don’t get that. I mean, I’m prettier by far. Sure, Win’s charming and charismatic, and yes, he’s handsome, but I’m better looking, and I have a super-cute outfit on today, don’t you think?”
I spread the skirt of my floral maxi dress with the colorful pink and purple flowers and ruffled short sleeves to show him exactly how cute I was.
Dana almost cracked a smile. The granite expression on his face fractured a little before he returned to his normal stoicism. “Your dress is lovely. But on to more important things. Like a murder. Why are you here, and why are you smack-dab in the middle of a crime scene—the first one, I might add, we’ve had in quite some time?”
“The luck o’ the Irish?” I asked with my pitiful imitation of an Irish accent.
Where There's A Witch, There's A Way (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 13) Page 4