“You know,” Forrest interrupted, pulling up a chair to sit between us, his long legs knocking into mine. “Now that you mention it, I do remember hearing a yelp at around eight-thirty or so. But I just figured it was one of the kids walking to the bus stop for school. They’re always pretty noisy and full of it, so I didn’t think anything about it. You don’t think it was Mrs. Martoni, do you? I’d feel awful if she needed help and I…”
Forrest looked stricken by the idea he might have missed saving her. But that niggle from last night hadn’t gone away. I don’t think anyone could have helped her.
Folding my hands in front of me, I looked for a sign with the hours of Strange Brew, but didn’t see one. “What time does the coffee shop open, Forrest?”
“I open at six sharp every day for the commuters and early birds. There are lots of ’em that take the sunrise yoga class three times a week at Joy Carmichael’s studio just three doors down.”
I tapped my finger on my chin. “Isn’t that a rather strange hour for Madam Zoltar to open up shop? I thought most psychics kept nighttime hours?” When it was easier to pull off fake séances and flickering lights.
Chester tapped his newspaper with a thick forefinger, his face still quite cross. “Tina lived in the back of the shop. She always opened early for any commuters who might want a tarot card reading.”
Now I was going to tread into sensitive waters. Chester’s tone and staunch defense of Madam Zoltar yesterday made me wonder if he’d had romantic notions about her. “You liked Madam Zoltar a great deal. It’s obvious. Were the two of you close friends?”
Forrest barked a laugh as Chester’s round cheeks went rosy. “Mrs. Martoni—as I called her, anyway—was a little sweet on Gramps, I think. But Gramps only has eyes for Gram. I told him he had to stop referring to her as ‘his’, but it’s just his way of declaring how much he cares about her.”
So an unrequited love on Madam Z’s part, maybe? Hmmm. “That’s so sweet, Chester. Your wife’s lucky to have someone as upstanding as you.”
Chester finally looked at me, but his eyes were no longer hard like ice chips, they were melancholy and soft. “My Violet’s gone now. Just like Tina. Like to think she met her at the Pearly Gates and welcomed her inside.”
I swallowed hard and without thought, reached out and gripped his hand. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sherwood.”
He squeezed my hand back before he pushed his chair out, obviously done with my questions and done with me. “Anything else you wanna harass me about, Kojak?”
I refused to let him thwart my efforts to make friends. Someday, sooner than Chester Sherwood thought, we’d share a cup of coffee—maybe even a muffin—and he’d like it, or I’d die trying.
“Just one more thing, please?” I smiled sweetly. I’d seen my mother do it a thousand times if I’d seen her do it once, and it almost always worked.
Chester frowned as though he were visibly fighting the forces of my evil. “What?”
Okay, I’d have to work on my flirty smiles. “Did you see anyone else go into Madam Zoltar’s store at all that morning?”
“I already told ya, I was sittin’ over there by the wall that faces her store. Can’t see nothin’ but the street from that vantage point, Sherlock Holmes. That’s where I sat until I heard those elephant feet a yours, tearin’ up the joint. It’s where I sit every day. Are we done now, Blue Eyes? Because The Price Is Right’s comin’ on and I got a date with some Victoria’s Secret models for lunch.”
I laughed out loud. “You’ve been very indulgent with this accused murderer, but I think I’m good now. Thanks much, Mr. Sherwood. I hope to see you again really soon.”
He flapped his hand at me, but I’d swear on my wand, he had to fight a reluctant smile as he trotted off behind the counter and toward the kitchen.
Forrest leaned into me just enough to remind me he was still there. “Sorry about Gramps. He can be a real ornery coot, but he’s a good guy and I can tell he’s warming to you.”
“Oh, I’ll win him over eventually. Speaking of winning someone over, you said you thought Mrs. Martoni was sweet on him?”
“He and Mrs. Martoni talked all the time, but Gramps never saw it. Everyone else did, but not him. He was interested in only one thing.”
I let my hand rest in my chin and asked, “What was that?”
“I really think he believed Mrs. Martoni, aka Madam Zoltar, could get in touch with my grandmother on the other side.”
I fought a healthy dose of skepticism again, forcing my eyes not to roll and give away my stance on mediums. Poor Chester.
“Did she try?”
Forrest bobbed his head. “She did, and it brought a comfort to him I can’t explain, but I have to admit I was grateful to her. He never told me what actually happened when she tried to contact Gram, but he came back a different man. Still cranky as all get out, but more at peace, I guess would be the word. I can’t really explain it. Either way, they were friends. She came in all the time for coffee and they’d shoot the breeze. He’d bring her a muffin from time to time.”
My heart ached for Chester Sherwood and his lost love. Sometimes grief made you reach out in the oddest of ways, but it sounded as though his friendship with Madam Z comforted him.
“If you don’t mind me asking, how long has your grandmother been gone?”
Forrest’s smile was fond, but far away. “Two years now. Miss her a lot.”
“Then I’m glad your grandfather had Madam Zoltar for a friend.”
Forrest shook off his reverie and turned to me as he prepared to rise, his eyes sparkling even in the gloom of the day. “So how long are you in town, Stevie?”
“Oh, I’m back for good.” That was the first time I’d acknowledged Paris was never going to be my home again. Which had to be a healthy sign I’d accepted my fate and was moving on—at least for now.
“That’s good to know. Would you grab dinner with me sometime?”
Win groaned in my ear, but I blushed from head to toe. “I’d love to. But I have to run for now. It was great seeing you, Forrest.”
Pushing his chair out, he tilted his well-groomed head toward the counter. “Cup of coffee for the road? My treat.”
My hand went to the knot in my scarf. “I’d love one.”
“I’d love one,” Win repeated, mimicking me. I pictured him rolling his head on his neck and flipping his pretend hair. “Let’s get on with this for bloody sake, Stevie.”
But I flapped him away as I sauntered to the counter on a cloud. Forrest Sherwood had asked me out. Take that, Sandy McNally.
Just as I was hovering on my cloud and bemusing how shocked Sandy would be to find Forrest had asked out the town rebel in black instead of the prettiest high school cheerleader, the door to the coffee shop bounced open, a gust of sharp wind blowing in through the door.
Sandwich filled the store with his sheer bulk. His cheeks were their usual beet red, his shortly cropped hair springing from his scalp. “There you are, Stevie! Been all over town lookin’ for you. I thought you were stayin’ out at the hotel by the cliffs?”
Accepting my coffee from Forrest with a smile, I turned to say, “I was, but my plans changed.”
“Don’t you check your phone?”
“What’s going on, Sandwi—” I paused and looked around the shop, just beginning to fill with the lunch crowd. I remembered his words from yesterday and caught myself. “Um, I mean, Lyn. What’s up?”
He huffed his way toward me, leaving wet size-twelve footprints on the shiny wood flooring. “You’re gonna have to come with me.”
“Now what did I do?”
He leaned in, keeping his voice low, his eyes rounded with pleading. “Don’t make a scene, Stevie, please. Just come with me.”
I moved my finger like a metronome. “Aw, heck no. No can do, old friend. The last time I went with you, I spent an hour swearing on my favorite knock-off Coach bag that I didn’t know anything about what happened to Madam Zoltar. And look where it’s gotten me? Right b
ack here with you in my face. My answers haven’t changed since yesterday. There’s absolutely nothing else I can tell you other than I found Madam Zoltar exactly the way you did, and I had nothing to do with how she died. In fact, how did she die, Sandwich? The local paper called it murder. Is that the verdict? Am I the ‘suspect’ the paper mentioned?”
At that point, my words began to bleed into each other, which only served to frustrate Sandwich. Beads of sweat broke out on his brow.
“The preliminary reports say she was strangled.” Then he blanched. “I’m not supposed to tell you this! Stop talking so fast.”
I gasped. “She was strangled? But what about the hole in her foot?” Instantly, I regretted my reaction, wanting nothing more than to stuff my fist in my big mouth as the lunch crowd turned to stare at me.
The charred skin on the ball of her foot screamed electrocution. But then I remembered the scarf around her neck. Maybe I’d missed any signs of strangulation because I’d been so hung up on a different cause of death.
However, why in seven hells was the ball of her foot burned? Did she step on something? I had to get into that store and at least take a look around.
And another thing, how good had Spy Guy been as a spy if he didn’t have any theories yet?
I gripped Sandwich’s arm, looking up at him. “Are you sure she was strangled? Are the papers right? Are they really now calling Madam Zoltar’s death murder?”
He bounced from foot to foot with nervous energy, running his index finger along the collar of his stiff shirt. “Stop asking me questions, Stevie. You know I can’t answer them.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, coffee cup against my chin, I eyed him. “Then that makes us even, because I can’t answer yours either.”
“Aw, c’mon,” he pleaded under his breath. “Don’t make a big deal of this, just come to the station, talk to the lead detective and you’re done.”
“They’ve definitely involved detectives?” I hadn’t been sure if who I saw yesterday was a genuine detective going into MZ’s. But this meant an official investigation was underway, didn’t it? Human laws and witch laws were so different, I wasn’t sure.
Sandwich sort of pouted. “I can’t tell you that. Please, just take a ride to the station with me.”
“And if I refuse? Am I then under arrest, Officer Paddington?”
Now he looked uncomfortable. “Shoot no, Stevie. We just want to ask you more questions is all.”
Win breezed into my ear then. “Might I remind you, Stevie Like-Nicks-the-Singer, you don’t have to answer anything without a lawyer present unless they’re arresting you. A lawyer you can well afford now.”
I turned away from a confused Sandwich, putting my hand to the Bluetooth piece in my ear, and muttered, “Won’t that cut into our house budget and that fancy claw-foot tub you were babbling about this morning?”
I wasn’t used to having bags of money, let alone the amount now sitting in my bank account. It’s why I bought all of my clothes in thrift stores and consignment shops. Because I loved designer duds, I just couldn’t afford them.
“Hardly,” Win drawled.
Then that settled that. I turned back to my former classmate and gave him the haughtiest look I had in my arsenal, condescending raised eyebrow and everything.
“Sandwich? You go right back to your captain and tell him Stevie Cartwright won’t be questioned without her lawyer present, and if they want me to come in any other way, they’ll have to arrest me!”
“Stevieee,” Sandwich groaned. “They sent me because I know you—”
“And they thought they’d use that familiarity to abuse my good nature, didn’t they?”
Sandwich scratched his head, his shoulders slumping. “I think so. Er, no. I don’t know…”
I dropped my coffee cup on a nearby table and turned, putting my hands behind my back in a submissive gesture. “Well? Either you cuff me or I’m walking out that door, Sandwich.” And for the benefit of the crowd of people staring at me as though I had two heads and three breasts, I said, “Because I am not, I repeat, I am not a murderer!”
As everyone’s eyes widened, I stomped to the door, forgetting my coffee, forgetting everything except for my pride. I still had that.
Well, mostly.
When I stomped back and scooped up my coffee with shaky hands, I somehow managed to fumble the cup. My scarf now askew from my temper tantrum, I spilled the hot liquid all down the front of my silk shirt.
The shirt that suddenly became quite see-through.
Ugh.
Chapter 8
“The good news is, you had a bra on, Stevie. I’ve seen more skin on SpongeBob SquarePants than you were showing.”
Belfry’s attempt to make me feel better wasn’t helping.
“If you only knew how much I wish I lived in a pineapple under the sea right now!” I whisper-yelled.
“I didn’t see a thing. Pinky spy swear,” Win chimed in with his support.
I stomped up the street, passing Tito my taco vendor, who had the audacity to turn his back on me the moment I came into view, but not before he gave me the evil eye.
Several people, tucked into their winter vests and knit hats, literally looked the other way as I stalked along the curb toward nowhere in particular.
But when one of the shop owners, sweeping the sidewalk along his store, looked at me with obvious suspicion, I think I officially lost it a little.
Enough was enough. I stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk, raised my fists to the gloomy sky, and bellowed at him and anyone else in my path, “I am not a murderer!”
“Stevie! Steady the hull, huh? It’s like being on a roller coaster in here, for cripes’ sake!”
I winced, cradling my purse to my chest and peering into the interior with remorse. Poor Belfry.
I sucked in a deep breath of cool air to ease the tightness in my chest. “Sorry, buddy. I kind of flipped my nut there.”
“Tell me again why we decided to come back to Seattle? I almost think it would have been better to stay in Paris and take those batty witches and all their guff. At least you knew your enemy.”
“Didn’t they call me a murderer there, too?” I regretted saying as much the moment the words came out of my mouth, but there they were. All out in the open and so very ugly.
“Come again?” Win whispered in my ear, his presence there now quite cold.
Belfry poked his head out the top of my purse. “Aw, leave her alone, Winterbutt. She’s had a rough month.”
“Aw. Poor Boo. I died. Whaddya have to top that?”
I knew I’d eventually have to explain to Win why I no longer was a part of my coven, and where my powers had gone, but in some passive, pathetically misguided notion, I’d hoped someone in the afterlife would tell him for me. In this case, I was almost glad I couldn’t see his face. He hadn’t pressured me about it, but I wanted to be open about my ability to help.
“I said leave her alone, or I’m gonna fly up outta this musty den of lipstick and tampons and—”
“Belfry! Stop. It’s okay. I do owe Win an explanation.”
“Like the one he gave you about what happened to him?” Belfry yelped with disbelief.
“I’ve just given you everything I own, including a hefty sum of money. I’d think an explanation would be a courtesy you’d want to extend. But if you’d prefer, I can wait. No pressure here.”
That was more than fair. He should know whom he was doing business with.
I stopped at the corner just past the coffee shop and darted across the street to the bus stop shelter, where at least I’d be dry while I laid my baggage on the carousel for Win to see.
Dropping down to the seat, I looked out at the dismal day, musing at how it mirrored my emotions. “Okay, so first of all, ‘murderer’ is a little dramatic. Only one person actually said that, and while most of my friends rushed to defend me, it didn’t make hearing it any easier. I guess that particular accusation kind of stuck with me.�
�
“So you’re not a murderer then?” Win asked in his no-nonsense way.
“Didn’t anyone in the afterlife tell you how I ended up losing my powers?”
The first week after I’d suffered the loss, Belfry had fended off more inquiries than the Spanish Inquisition. Most of them had come in like messages on an old ham radio, full of static and choppy, but the distress from my ethereal pals shone through. That time in my life still ached. I missed communicating with the spirits—I missed helping them.
Win cleared his throat. “I’ve heard many things, but nothing clear. Whatever happened, everyone here is rather apprehensive to say much, I’m guessing. I sense some fear in their tones when they refer to the incident.”
“And still you trusted me with a frillion dollars and Mayhem Manor?”
“Is that the name you’re suggesting we put on the sign along the drive?”
I folded my cold hands in my lap and shrugged my shoulders. “I wasn’t suggesting anything, really. It just popped into my head, considering the condition of the place. But it has a ring to it. Like, it’s sort of all encompassing, don’t you think?”
“Um, no. No, I don’t think. Stop avoiding the issue and tell me what’s on your mind.”
Oooo. Win was using his serious voice. Okay, house name tabled for now.
“So no one has told you how I lost my powers.”
I didn’t say it out loud, but I was sure it had to do with the severity of the accusation and whom the accusation had come from. Even in death, the son of a butt-scratcher wielded authority.
“Nothing clear. Though, I’m told the longer I’m here, the clearer things will become. Time served is an asset here, apparently.”
That was true, too. The more time Win spent undecided about his eternal fate, the more the others in the same predicament would become sharper, more defined, and above all, more trusting.
“So what exactly did they tell you about me, Win? It had to have been enough to trust me with all your money.”
“Truthfully? I would have given the money to the devil himself rather than hand it over to Sal. This wasn’t all an altruistic act on my part, Stevie. I want to see my dream come to fruition. The word on this plane is, you’re the one to trust. I thought, who better than a homeless woman down on her luck to help me live out my dream? You needed a place to stay, I had the place.”
Witch Slapped (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 1) Page 8