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

by Dakota Cassidy

  He’d never once questioned the idea Belfry could talk either. He’d just taken us all at face value, and I guess, because he talks to the living and he’s dead, those facts have cleared up all doubt about the paranormal’s true existence.

  Still, hearing us discuss this as a possible motive for not only Bel’s disappearance, but the Great Christmas Decoration Fiasco of 2016, had to be unnerving—even for someone as tough as our Russian spy, who’d proudly declared he’d seen more interrogations via water-board torture and finger hacking than ten spies see in their careers combined.

  Arkady gasped in his dramatic way when Win finished explaining. “You are real witch? My pungent dill pickle is—is magic?”

  I couldn’t help but chuckle at Arkady’s disbelief. “Was. I was a real witch with magic. Now I’m just a human. It was more like Practical Magic/Hocus Pocus witch than fairy godmother/Cinderella, but that’s neither here nor there anymore. And hey, mister, aren’t you a dead guy talking to a human? Or is this all nothing but a dream, Arkady?”

  “Hah! You make my ribs tickle with your funny. Now you call turkey people and you ask questions while Zero finishes tall tale.”

  Picking my phone back up, my head a bit clearer now, I scrolled my contacts to find Gobble Unlimited and hoped they had the answer.

  While in hushed tones, Win explained the last bit of my history to Arkady, the night I’d lost my powers to Adam Westfield’s vengeance, I prayed Harvey was still at his desk. A glance at the microwave oven told me it was almost ten o’ clock, but I dialed anyway because if nothing else, I’d leave Harvey a message.

  “Gobble Unlimited, this is Harvey, speaking gobble, gobble, gobble, can I help turn your ho-hum turkey into an explosion of dancing flavors on your tongue?”

  Pinching my temple, I kept my voice calm even though I was surprised. “Harvey, I’m so relieved you’re still there!” Thank heavens for overachievers.

  “Is that you, Miss Cartwright? Shouldn’t you be enjoying the fruits of your labor right now? As I recall, someone was very excited to enter their neighborhood Christmas decorating contest. Wasn’t that tonight? How did that go?”

  I almost laughed out loud at how ludicrous the fruits of my labor sounded about now. My laborious fruits were crushed as sure as someone had run my fruit truck right over with a big rig.

  “Harvey, I have to ask you a question. Did the order I placed with you last month go through? You know, four turkeys between twenty and twenty-five pounds? One Cajun-seasoned, three traditional, supposed to be delivered in a couple of days for the utmost in freshness?”

  I heard his chair creak as I assumed he leaned back into the seat. “Looks like the order was cancelled yesterday, Miss Cartwright, by a guy named Bell Fry. Said he was your virtual assistant and your plans had changed. He caught our FedEx guy just in time, too. He was also pretty agreeable about the restocking fee, according to the note on your account. You do realize why we have to charge for the restocking fee, don’t you?”

  No. I didn’t. How could you restock a perishable item? But at this point I didn’t really care. Yet, a thought struck me then. “Did he say why we were cancelling on such short notice?”

  “Yep. Yes, ma’am, he did. He said he cancelled because there was going to be a death in the family. Which is sort of a scary thing to say, don’t you think?”

  * * * *

  I sat immobilized after I hung up with Harvey. My fingers were like the very icicles someone had stolen from my Christmas decorations on the peaks of the house.

  “You heard what he said, didn’t you, Win? Harvey claims Bel said there was going to be a death in the family and that’s why the order was cancelled. As if he knew someone was going to die? Or is going to die?”

  Win blew out a long breath. “Stevie, I need you to remain calm here. Whoever’s up to this monkey business is clearly toying with you. The only death was Chef Le June’s. He’s not a family member. I realize that’s little solace, but it’s something.”

  “Which could mean the person impersonating Belfry knew Chef Le June was going to die?” I almost couldn’t comprehend the idea his death was premeditated.

  “Quite possibly true,” Win offered.

  “So Chef Le June’s death was premeditated? Harvey said the person who called did so this morning. What’s the connection with my Christmas decorations and holiday dinner plans to Pascal? Maybe I’m just too torn up over Bel to see it, but I’m missing something.”

  “Christmas!” Arkady blurted. “I have feeling on my insides this is right.”

  I stared blankly off into the kitchen. Yes, all the things happening had to do with Christmas, but I was missing the message being sent, if there was a message at all.

  “Christmas?”

  “I’m with Stephania, old friend. Do explain yourself.”

  “Dah, malutka! You talk, talk, talk about Christmas since summer. You plan for months for the lights, the food, the special pastries from fancy-pants chef. You make things with fire and metal. You spend hours on the phone to make things perfect, you make charts, you draw diagrams better than any spy strategist Arkady knows. And during all this time where you talk, talk, talk, you say one thing, ‘This will be best Christmas ever.’”

  Both Win and I gasped in unison as the light bulbs above our heads shone. “Someone’s out to ruin my Christmas? Is that what we’re saying here?”

  “Dah!” Arkady exclaimed.

  Sweet Pete, that made perfect sense—the longer I chewed on it, the clearer it became. But what about Bel? “What does that have to do with Bel’s disappearance, Arkady?”

  “Will your Christmas not be in the ashes like Chernobyl if our bat friend is not here with you to celebrate?”

  “He’s right, Dove! That makes absolute sense. Now, what we must ask ourselves is this: Who else could possibly know about Belfry but your witch people?”

  My head began to spin, my throat going dry once more. Win was right. No one knew about Belfry but he and Arkady and the people in my coven. Which led me right back to the idea Adam Westfield was responsible for this.

  Certainly he was capable of lurking from the afterlife, listening to my plans, putting this all together in an effort to continue to punish me for his death.

  “But wait. There’s still Chef Le June. He’s a stumbling block to that theory, isn’t he? What does killing him do to my Christmas?”

  “My tender lamb chop? I now know you are too close to this investigation because you are not thinking outside this box you American’s talk so much about. If the fancy chef is dead when your judges arrive and they cannot dine on his lighter-than-air pastries—”

  “It ruins your perfect Christmas!” Win interjected. “Of course, Dove! Whoever is doing this knows how much you wanted to win the Christmas Lights Display Contest. Surely, with all the work you put into decorating the house, and judging by the pictures of past entries, you would have won hands down. I don’t doubt that for a second. But there’s no chance you’ll win now. Chef Le June ending up dead in the middle of your nativity scene certainly, and without qualm, cinches the deal and qualifies as Christmas ruined.”

  “Yes!” Arkady barked. “Yes! Zero hits head with nail!”

  “Hammer. I’ve hit the nail on the head with a hammer, Brethren In The Spy,” Win teased.

  “Hammer, head, nail. All used for torture. I mix them up. What I am saying to you is all of these things add up to one big thing and now we must locate the big thing and pull his teeth out with the wire cutters! I will show you how, buttercup. We practice on enemies first, yes? Maybe that scrunchy-face Mrs. Vanderhelm? She would make good first run.”

  “Oh, Arkady! I could kiss you!” I shouted, whirling in a circle. “All of that totally fits. And no dental work on anyone—hear me? That’s not how we roll.”

  “You are sometimes wet sheet,” Arkady complained, but I heard the laughter in his voice.

  My adrenaline kicked in with a rush as I began to pace once more, with Strike hot on my heels.
“So it’s a theme then? Trash Stevie Cartwright’s best Christmas ever by kidnapping her familiar and leaving a dead guy on her front lawn? The only person capable of switching out those decorations with magic, who hates me enough to go to all this trouble, is you-know-who.”

  “Who is this who?” Arkady asked, concern in his voice.

  “Adam Westfield.” Win confirmed my worst fears.

  I almost never said Adam’s name. In my mind, it was like saying Beetlejuice or calling up Bloody Mary in your mirror (which is a bunch of bunk, by the by). Speaking his name was akin to putting the hold he had on me out into the ether and giving it power.

  “The man-witch who hit our dumpling and took her power?”

  I nodded on a gulp. If Adam’s responsible, he’s sustaining his power for very long periods of time. It’s one thing to attempt to take me out on my front lawn (yep. That happened) by zapping me with some lightning bolts, but to have stayed on this plane long enough to do this much damage meant he was even more dangerous than ever before.

  “The one and only. But here’s something to think about, why would he actually kill Chef Le June? Not to mention, how? He tried nailing me with some lightning bolts when he tried to kill me, if you’ll recall. It sure didn’t look like our chef was fried.”

  “How quickly we forget my possession of that scoundrel I must legally call brother, Stevie,” Win reminded me.

  Possession!

  Now my eyes went wide as I remembered when Win had possessed his brother’s unconscious body—for one mere moment. The memory was bittersweet and made my eyes sting with tears. Win had kissed me that day, and we’d virtually avoided talking about it since.

  But then my chest grew tight with the horror of Adam doing the same thing; the endless havoc he could wreak with that ability left me floored.

  “How did you do that, Win? It can’t be an easy feat. In fact, I’ve heard of very few real cases of possession, and definitely not one that goes on for an extended period of time.” Which is what Adam would need to do to pull all this off—a lot of time on this plane in someone else’s body.

  “Through sheer grit and determination. That’s all I have to offer, Stephania. I suppose you could say I willed it so. I have told you all along I believe I can get back to your plane, haven’t I?”

  Oh, he definitely had, and I didn’t doubt for a minute it took more grit and iron will than most of us possess, but Win’s tone suggested he didn’t want to talk about his motives for possessing his brother’s body.

  In fact, he used the same tone just now as he had when we’d discussed his former love and fellow spy, Miranda. That meant, subject closed, Stephania. Please don’t dig around in my manhood.

  “Wait. Say this once more. You possess body? Down there with Stevie?” Arkady squealed.

  Win’s laughter tickled my eardrum. “I did, my good man. I suppose that trumps your silly coup in Batswana in 2006, no?”

  Oh, no. This wasn’t going to turn into an “I’m a more resourceful, tougher spy than you” contest. I’d been to that rodeo, and it could go on for hours as they traded their men-of-intrigue adventures while trying to one-up each other with their ghoulish spy tales.

  That conversation would escalate and turn into a fight to the finish for Best Possession of A Body 2016, and heaven only knows I can’t chase after two egotistical dead spies while they body hop.

  “Gentleman, this isn’t the time to pound your spy chests. First, Win was only able to possess his brother’s body for mere moments. If Adam is that powerful—powerful enough to possess a body for a long period of time and make someone kidnap Bel and commit murder—we have huge trouble. The consequences are enormous. But furthermore, why would he kill Chef Le June? To what end? Just to dump him in my nativity scene and cause a bigger ruckus? He did plenty just by switching out my decorations and changing orders. Chef Le June isn’t someone I hold near and dear like Belfry. I mean, of course I didn’t want him dead. But to murder him? That needs a stronger motive than ruining my Christmas, I should think. It feels extreme even for Adam.”

  Arkady grumbled, which meant he was pondering. “Possibly this dirty man-witch wanted the police to blame you for his murder? Put together with the disappearance of our Belfry and this would most definitely make mess of your perfect Christmas, dah?”

  The impact of that statement stung my heart as surely as if someone had pierced it with an arrow.

  Yes. Dah.

  Bel was the only friend I’d had to share the holidays with. For many, many years it had just been the two of us, and whatever we could afford to spare on my small salary.

  Christmas would never be Christmas without Belfry. Not ever.

  And yes, that would make every Christmas forever after a horrible memory. But there was one more theory that hit me like a ton of bricks.

  What if ruining my Christmas meant killing me?

  That would certainly put a damper on things, wouldn’t it?

  Chapter 7

  “All this talk of ruining Christmas and we’ve forgotten one thing…”

  “And that is, Dove?”

  “We’re forgetting that note Chef Le June allegedly left for me. That pastry could have been meant for me. Me dead would definitely ruin my Christmas—like forever. We don’t know why Pascal was here in the first place. That bit of this still makes no sense. But why would the chef bite into a pastry meant for me if he wrote a note telling me how he made me a special treat?”

  “Ahhh. I think we have theory number two,” Win murmured. “Though, it still has its holes.

  “I do not like this theory,” Arkady grumbled.

  I struggled to contain the tremble of my fingers. “It’s no secret Adam wants me dead as revenge for his death, guys. It makes perfect sense he’d try and poison me.”

  “So what we’re saying here is he possessed Pascal, made an irresistible treat for you laced with poison and wrote you a note to entice you to eat it?” Win asked.

  “Then why does cheating chef eat cake?”

  My head was beginning to spin with this missing link. “Okay, okay. Definitely a stumbling block. The fly in our ointment is Pascal—poisoned pastry or not.”

  “Dah. Let us stick to Arkady Bagrov’s theory. He was framing you for murder. I do not like the other theory.”

  “Then let’s stay on track and call the next person on our list,” Win encouraged, though his voice had tinges of concern I heard loud and clear.

  My theory made the most sense.

  Setting aside the absolute black void of emptiness I was feeling about Belfry’s absence, I fought to stay on track as I dialed Enzo’s number. “Okay, if we stick to Arkady’s theory about framing me for murder, that means Adam is lurking and listening to our conversations, right? Or sending someone to do his dirty work and report back about our comings and goings. But he’d know I’m the least likely person the police would suspect after all the crimes we’ve actually helped the Eb Falls police solve. That aside, he’d need some kind of irrefutable proof to frame me, and by the looks of the spot where the chef was dumped, there’s not much to go on. Not that I saw anyway.”

  “Framing conspiracies aside, I would interject with, we don’t even know Chef Le June was actually murdered,” Win stated. “We have no proof the two incidents are directly related, other than the best-Christmas-ever connection. I suppose we have to wait until they do the autopsy and inspect the crime scene with a more careful eye. There could be footprints, or DNA on the chef’s body we don’t even know about. Of course, I reiterate, that’s contingent upon this actually being a murder, Stephania.”

  I rolled my eyes and waved my hands like cheerleader pom-poms. “Earlier you were all gooo murder. Now you suddenly sound like me? What gives International Man of Mystery?”

  “I’m simply being cautious like you, Dove. We don’t have all the facts on the chef’s death. Until such, we let that portion of our dilemma sit and begin asking questions of the people who might have been here when Chef Le June arri
ved and connect that time with Belfry’s disappearance.”

  Enzo’s cell phone went to voice mail, and his wife Carmella was out of town until Christmas Eve. I had five days’ worth of casseroles and lasagna in my refrigerator she’d made for me just before she’d left to prove it, so there was no point in trying to call her either.

  I traced the pattern of veins on the kitchen countertop with a finger as I put together what Win was suggesting. “So I guess the only thing we can do is pinpoint a time frame for exactly when Bel went missing?”

  “Precisely. For all we know, Enzo heard something—a strange noise, a thump—something that would give us an idea as to the time Belfry disappeared. What could be an enormous lead for us might mean absolutely nothing to Enzo. Certainly, when Enzo makes mention of the strange noises he hears around here, you’ve poo-pooed him and chalked it up to the house settling or the wind from the Sound. But we both know it’s really Belfry puttering around upstairs with Whiskey.”

  That was correct. I’d covered for Bel at least a hundred times since Enzo had come into our lives. “Oh, and then there’s Edmund, too…maybe he heard something off? Did either of you hear if they ever located Edmund? Last I heard, he was supposed to drop off the pastries here then head to the mayor’s Christmas party, but no one had heard from him since.”

  “I believe that’s where we left things,” Win assured in the tone he reserved for soothing me. “For now, you must rest, Dove. You’ll be good to no one, least of all Bel, if you don’t at least try and rest your eyes. It’s late, and clearly Enzo isn’t answering his phone. So come, leave all this until tomorrow. Forget the mess; it can be cleaned up at a later date. Come to the parlor and we’ll put The Hallmark Channel on. That always soothes you, yes?”

  I began to protest by raising a hand. No sleep until we found Belfry. How could either of my hardcore spies even consider it? But Arkady intervened with an objection much the same as Win’s.

  “Winterbutt is right. You must recharge brain. If you are not sharp and do not have wits about you, mistakes will happen. We cannot have mistake for our Belfry’s sake, malutka. You must only take on that which you can control. You can control your state of mind and not make things worse. When even the best spy is tired, he lets his emotions get best of him.”