How the Witch Stole Christmas (Witchless In Seattle Book 5)

by Dakota Cassidy

  Blowing up the front porch steps with a finger to my neck, gesturing to the carolers to can it, I was hit with some beads midway, followed by the boisterous giggles of the women on the balcony. “Knock it the fudge off, ladies!” I bellowed upward, fighting my way through cobwebs and plastic spiders.

  Gripping the handle of the door, I heard Madge chastise Hank Winkowsky. “You mind your eyes, Hank, or I’ll tell Wilma! And what are you lookin’ at anyway, Ralph Acres? Isn’t that child bride of yours enough to keep your eyeballs in your head?”

  “Ralphie’s got a trophy wife!” Frank sang.

  And that was true enough. Ralph had made quite a splash earlier this year when he’d married a woman almost thirty-five years younger than him. She was beautiful and tall and most of the ladies in town, especially the soccer/yoga moms, hadn’t welcomed her with open arms. But that was just jealousy talking. I thought she was quite lovely.

  As Frank teased Ralph, I pushed my way inside on a long groan, crossing my fingers and toes the interior of the house didn’t look as bad as the outside.

  I almost sighed in relief when the scent of vanilla and rich chocolate reached my nose. Please let there be festive red and silver platters full of puffy pastry and drizzled with the richest caramel glaze ever, sitting by a roaring fire, strategically placed near the ten-foot Christmas tree I’d climbed a ladder eleventy billion times to decorate. Please,please,please,please,please.

  But my relief was short-lived when I heard a scream from outside. A terrified, bloodcurdling scream.

  Now what? Had someone recreated the movie Saw? Were there zombies stumbling across my lawn, crying out for brains? Maybe Norman Reedus had actually shown up?

  I flew back down the steps to see what else had gone wrong, tripping into one of the carolers, our limbs tangling together before we righted ourselves and I saw what the screaming was all about.

  I gasped a breath so sharp, my lungs stung.

  Aw, c’mon. Really?

  For reasons only Mrs. Vanderhelm could explain, probably out of morbid curiosity, she’d meandered over to the vulgar nativity scene, where she now stood with her hand over her mouth as her fellow judges gathered round her in protective formation.

  Ah. So that explained where my Joseph had gone. Caught by the garish beam of red light from the balcony, the crown of his smashed papier mâché head was poking out from behind one of my leafless hydrangea bushes. Somehow, in my panic and dismay over the zombie Jesus gnome, I’d missed that.

  But that wasn’t all I’d missed.

  I’d also missed the lifeless body of the famous pastry chef, Pascal Le June.

  Chapter 3

  Upon my arrival, and in my sheer horror, I guess I hadn’t noticed the lumpy brown tarp under the hydrangea bush. My eyes had been too busy taking in the entirety of my debacle rather than pinpointing the specifics.

  The tarp shivered in the ever-growling wind from the Sound, lifting upward then wafting back down to shroud Chef Le June once more. Ralph scurried to pull the plastic sheet away from Pascal’s face while Hank knelt next to the chef, his fingers at his wrist, before he bellowed, “Call 9-1-1!”

  I skidded to a stop just short of falling into Madge and Mrs. Vanderhelm, who’d huddled together like two sparrows in a hurricane, their spines shivering in their smart judge blazers. Peering over their shoulders, I hissed my disbelief, praying the chef was simply unconscious.

  But his slack jaw and glazed-over eyes suggested otherwise. He wore his typical white chef’s uniform, currently spattered in mud and dried grass. There were scratches on his right cheek and both his fists were clenched in tight balls. Huh. Maybe he’d caught one of the bare limbs of my hydrangea bush as he’d fallen? Had there been a scuffle?

  Hank clucked his tongue and shook his gray head. “He’s gone. Dang shame. Made some mighty fine sweets. Loved those things with the hard pink shells.”

  Ralph pulled a handkerchief from the inside of his jacket pocket. “Aw, yeah. And those marmalade-filled things. Whaddya call ’em again?”

  “Petite fours, isn’t it?” Hank wondered aloud.

  “Dove! Is that…? Chef Le June?” Win squawked the question.

  Closing my eyes, I gave a silent nod before I placed my hands on both Madge’s and Mrs. Vanderhelm’s shoulders. “Please come inside while we wait for the police, ladies. You can wash up and get warm. You’re both going to catch your death—”

  Mrs. Vanderhelm stiffened with an appalled gasp, tucking her plaid handbag against her side in a defensive move.

  Sighing, I corrected my poor word choice. “I mean a cold. Please, ladies.” I turned to the rest of the judges to convey my sincere invitation. “All of you, in fact. Come inside while we wait for the police to arrive. It’s warmer, and I promise no frog testicles.”

  Now Madge gasped, too, but even in his shock, Hank still snickered. Using slight pressure, I steered the two judges toward the house, then gave them a light nudge.

  As the group turned and began to make their way inside, their voices filled with fear, I scoured the area where Chef Le June lay, my eyes squinting when the red light from the balcony made another pass across his body.

  How had I missed seeing him there? I felt awful about it.

  “Nyet, my succulent petunia! Not another murder?” Arkady whispered with marvel in his tone.

  I winced and squatted on my haunches, angling my head to get a closer look at Pascal, taking in the strong, almost too sharp angles of his paling face. Honestly, he was in insanely good shape for someone who’d spent the better part of their days creating flaky crusts and custard cream-filled confections.

  His skin was stretched taut over his cheekbones, the scratches on them infinitely more defined as a result. His wide eyes—a deep green, and the talk of all the ladies in town, single or otherwise—stared in blank repose beneath bushy but well-kept raven eyebrows.

  “Stevie?” Arkady prompted for an answer to his question.

  I shrugged in confusion. Mostly, there was nothing to see. “I don’t know what happened, Arkady.”

  And I really didn’t. There were no signs of any obvious blunt trauma, no blood to speak of other than the drying scratches on his cheek, no gunshot wounds (thank heaven). Though, there was a bit of something crackled and glistening at the left side of his mouth.

  Crumbs from one of his delicacies? He prided himself on taste-testing every batch of pastries he made.

  Which begged the question, what the heck had happened? Chef Le June wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight. He didn’t do “ze menial labor,” according to him. He’d made that very clear when I’d hired him.

  When we’d first met, he’d very arrogantly informed me his confections were on display, not him. I vaguely recall him saying he was no horse and pony show, or something like that, while Petula giggled at his awkward English metaphors.

  The plan had been to have one of Petula’s staff arrive at our house just a half hour shy of the time I arrived home to prepare for the judges. That person would set everything up and be on their merry way. The delicious scent of coffee brewing meant someone had at least been here. In fact, Enzo, our contractor/friend, had been instructed to let Petula’s staff member in before he left, with the promise they’d lock up on their way out.

  But then I remembered, the front door hadn’t been locked…

  Belfry!

  I froze, my chest tightening. “Has anyone found Belfry yet? Is he okay?”

  “No, Dove. Not a sign of him anywhere. I’ve looked all over the house, in his favorite plants in your bathroom, the backyard, which is utterly absurd, considering our good man’s penchant for the heat. I even looked in the vase by the fireplace, his latest favorite naptime haunt.”

  I heard the slight panic in Win’s voice, the concern. I knew my Spy Guy pretty well now. Okay, there were exceptions to that statement. I still didn’t know how even he hadn’t known he’d been adopted and had a shady twin brother who’d threatened to steal everything from us. In
life, he had worked as a spy for MI6, for gracious sakes. You’d think it would be a given he’d have all his loose life ends tied up.

  I also didn’t know much about his ex-girlfriend, Miranda. The woman he was convinced had killed him, and a beautiful, mysterious fellow spy.

  But I did know his tone of voice. I knew when he was giving me upper-crust British disdain because I loved fried Twinkies and Pop-Tarts. I knew when he was mocking me simply to mock for his own amusement, and I knew concern. So his words were like a punch to my gut, one almost so real, I had to poke my fingers into my ribs to keep my stomach from losing its lunch.

  I bolted upright, pressing my knuckles into my temples. “You couldn’t find him.” I spoke the words aloud in order to process them.

  “Not anywhere, Stevie. But I’m certain he’s about. You know our Bel. He’s a crafty bugger. Likely, he’s found some new place to nap we just haven’t come upon yet.”

  “You two, go inside and make pretty with the sourpuss-face judges,” Arkady ordered. “I, Arkady Bagrov, like all good Russian spies, will search for my comrade Belfry until the soles of my feet bleed. Go now before they become suspicious!”

  Turning away from Chef Le June’s body, I moved back toward the house, trying to keep my panic at bay. I almost didn’t care about the scream of sirens or the shock of the judges. I only knew I had to find Belfry.

  Something was wrong. Something was horribly wrong.

  As my hand met the door handle once again, the blur of activity around me still in full tilt, I had a premonition about Bel. Just like back in the day when I’d still been a full-fledged witch.

  The kind of premonition a witch feels when her familiar is too far from her, when the invisible thread of their tether is broken.

  “Stevie? What’s happening? Talk to me, Dove.”

  Shaking my head, I fought tears and whispered, “Something’s wrong. I know something’s wrong. Bel’s missing and it’s not good, but I don’t know why, Win. I don’t know what’s happening. I haven’t had a premonition this strong since I lost my powers.”

  “Your powers?” a voice from behind said. One I recognized, and had even come to welcome. Well, except in times like these, when there was a body in the middle of my lawn and I was sure to end up grilled with questions like some steak at a barbecue.

  Fighting to keep my emotions in check, reminding myself Bel was notorious for hiding out during naptime, I forced a smile and turned to one of my very favorite officers of the law. “Yippee. Officer By The Book’s here.”

  Officer Nelson shot me a quick smile, his skillful policeman’s scowl breaking before he resumed his usual resting-stern-face position. “What about your powers, Miss Cartwright?”

  I flapped a dirty hand at him and his crisp uniform with the perfectly straight trouser lines. “Oh, you and your overly sensitive policeman-like hearing must be on the fritz today. I didn’t say powers, Goof. I said flowers. As in, there’s a body in mine. And are we back to calling me Miss Cartwright again? I thought we’d moved past that two crime scenes ago?”

  Clearing his throat, he gazed down at me in all his rigid handsomeness and winked before straightening his already impeccable posture. “I’m on duty.”

  We’d been through a thing or two, Officer Nelson and I, including the death of his girlfriend, Sophia, this past summer, and one murderous romp through a cemetery, wherein I’d saved his life. Nowadays, we occasionally shared a cup of coffee in the mornings before he headed off to his shift and I opened the store.

  Don’t get me wrong, I was still that nosy nag of an amateur sleuth who was forever bugging him for information about open cases and getting in over my head in matters I shouldn’t. But since he’d lost Sophia, I was less naggy, more friend.

  And I liked it that way. Dana was a grand, honest soul, as pure as they came, and while we still played this game of pretentious formality, I knew deep down he liked me a little, and probably much to his dismay.

  I reached for the set of beads caught around the badge on his chest and held them up into the flashing lights of the ghosts still swirling on the front of my house. “I see you’ve met the ladies?”

  Planting his hands on his hips, Officer Nelson sighed the sigh of the beleaguered. “I know there’s an awkward, totally outrageous explanation for them, Miss Cartwright. I’m every bit pins and needles, waiting to hear it.”

  We both stopped and cocked our heads when a strangled, warbling noise from behind my front door interrupted our conversation. Our eyes met as if to ask, “Am I hearing things?” But then we shook our heads in dismissive unison and smirked at one another.

  Nah. No way.

  “Holy cats! What the heck’s goin’ on around here, Stevie?” Sandwich, my second favorite Eb Falls police officer, shouted as he pounded up the stairs, drowning everything else out.

  I rolled my eyes and shrugged my shoulders. “Why, whatever do you mean, Sandwich? Everything’s right as rain.”

  Large and beefy, with shortly cropped dark hair, my gentle giant frowned down at me. “Didn’t you enter the Christmas Lights Display Contest? What gives with the Easter bunny on the roof and the ladies and gents in, er…their underwear?” he asked, pointing to the bare legs of the carolers, who’d now stopped singing and had closed ranks, snuggling against one another in their retrieved coats.

  “Uh, yep. I sure did enter. I went all out, too. But you know what I think is really gonna cinch the deal? The half-naked carolers singing Def Leppard. What say you, Sandwich?”

  He paused, assessing me just as another sparkler from the demented Uncle Sam on the porch flared up. “Oh. Sarcasm. I get it. So what happened here? Where are all those decorations you kept talking about? And what happened with Chef Le June? Did you see anything?”

  My answer was cut off when someone inside my house screamed. Though, this was a much different scream than Mrs. Vanderhelm’s. It was a little drawn out, rather piercing, and maybe even a little more terrified.

  Officer Nelson brushed past me, driving the heel of his hand against the door to push it open fully.

  The judges were positioned in a half-circle at the base of my staircase, their eyes wide, their mouths open. I followed their line of vision to the top of the steps, where a skittering-scratching noise dragged my focus upward. And then it happened.

  In fact, a whole flock happened.

  Turkeys, that is. Yep. That’s right. The sound Officer Nelson and I heard on the porch moments ago had, in fact, been turkeys. An entire flock of them (more than two is a flock, isn’t it?), waddling into the sitting room at the top of the stairs, overlooking Puget Sound.

  “Miss Cartwright?” Officer Nelson and his “how will you explain this one?” tone asked.

  With that question, the turkeys began dropping downward, pecking and gobbling in low squalls, their clawed feet beating out a frantic rhythm while they paced from step to step. They were obviously as stunned as we were, judging by the surprised blinks of their beady eyes.

  Frannie Lincoln squealed in alarm, throwing herself at Frank Morrison and wrapping her legs around his waist. She clung to his neck in fear, her aging hands clenched behind his head. “I hate birds!” she cried, burying her face in Frank’s neck.

  “Shooooo!” Mrs. Abernathy screeched, flapping her purse at them as they continued to advance.

  “Stevie!” Sandwich shouted, rushing the stairs to herd the turkeys as their gobbling grew louder. “What’s going on?”

  Yet, I could do nothing more than blink in my own surprise. I had turkeys in my sitting room. Someone had put not one, but four turkeys in my house. What in the name of Pete was happening? Then I realized, it was the amount of turkeys pecking their way down the stairs that troubled me.

  Four. There were four of them.

  That’s when it hit me. I’d ordered four turkeys total from Gobble Unlimited. One for our personal Christmas feast, and three for donation to the church for the Eb Falls Christmas Eve party. That was no coincidence, was it?

&nb
sp; As the turkeys rambled about, their gobbles growing louder, their necks bobbing and dipping, I stood transfixed.

  Win’s abrupt shout of an order roused me in my discombobulated state. “Dove, snap out of it and take control. The detectives have arrived!”

  With a shake of my head, I attempted to clear my mind of all the questions I had about turkeys and baby Jesus imposters and sprang into action. “Sandwich! Herd those gobblers back up into the stairwell and down the hall to the guest bedroom on the left! Judges? Follow me into the parlor, please, so we can all be in the same place to greet the detectives.” Turning my voice to the open door, I yelled, “Half-naked carolers and naughty ladies, get in here and warm up!”

  The moment the words escaped my mouth, I caught sight of Detective Sean Moore behind the crowd of people pushing their way into my house. Dressed as per usual in low-slung jeans and a T-shirt beneath his dark brown blazer, his rippled muscles flexed and tensed as he took my front steps two at a time.

  Since this past summer, when his partner, Detective Ward Montgomery, murdered Officer Nelson’s girlfriend, Sophia, in a paid-for-hire mob hit then attempted to murder me, Sean Moore had been on his own. While the Eb Falls Police Department searched for a replacement, I’ve seen a bit of a transformation in Detective Moore since his time without Detective Ward.

  Oh, he was still pretty snarly and cocky, but those attributes were currently tinged with a new humbleness I’d never witnessed to this point.

  Rumor around Eb Falls was he blamed himself for not catching on to Detective Montgomery’s extra-curricular activities for the mob. I’d heard Officer Nelson mention that particular revelation to Sandwich. Dana said it had brought a whole new dynamic to Detective Moore’s investigations nowadays. He was more careful, more thorough, and more empathetic.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t bring a new dynamic to our relationship.

  He still didn’t like me overly much and I can’t say exactly why—other than we’d originally met under interrogation-like circumstances, and I’d met his cocky with my own brand of cocky and our two cockies had collided.