Witch Slapped (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 1)

by Dakota Cassidy

  “What was the five-alarm fire about, Bel? Was it the police? Or a detective?” I asked him, still wondering about the guy in the trench coat I’d seen yesterday before Tito the Taco Vendor broke up with me.

  “I dunno, Boss. But it was some guy who smelled real good. Didn’t get a decent look at him because he had his head down and a slicker on. Dark suit and nice shoes, though.”

  “Maybe we should try and see who it was?” I peered toward Madam Zoltar’s shop, the flashing sign no longer blinking cheerfully at me.

  “He’s already gone. He probably heard you carrying on about jumping out of a window and got spooked. Seeing as we have to wait to speak to Liza and her father, shall we continue this conversation back at the house before you catch your death?” Win suggested.

  Ah, the house. I’d forgotten that was where I’d hang my hat tonight. “Because it’s so warm and toasty there with no heat and no windows?”

  Win chuckled that hearty gurgle of laughter. “You don’t give my man enough credit. You’ll see, naysayer.”

  I was almost afraid to put any credence in Win’s words, but I was freezing and exhausted, so I played along as I waved down a cab and climbed in. My head was full of thoughts and a list of suspects as we left the main part of town and drove through the winding road leading to my new abode.

  When we pulled up to the house, the cab driver turned around and hitched his jaw at the house. “Quite a project you’re takin’ on there.”

  I hooted a sarcastic laugh, handing him money. “Is that subtext for disaster?”

  He grinned at me over his shoulder. “You know the lady who lived here? You a relative?”

  I shook my head, interested in what he had to offer in the way of information about the house’s prior owner. “No idea who she was. I sort of inherited it.”

  “Let’s go, Stevie,” Win muttered impatiently.

  Clamping my fingers together behind my head, I gave him the universal sign for shut it and asked the cab driver, “Who lived here?”

  “Some lady named Melinda. Don’t know her last name or much about her. She died about five years ago, just a week after she bought the place. Fell off the cliff out there right into the Sound. It was for sale forever. Can’t believe someone actually bought the dump. Thought she might be your relative.”

  “Nope. I had no idea who owned it. This was left to me by a really annoying uncle. You know, the kind who’s a total know-it-all about every subject ever, but still loveable enough to tolerate over a turkey and a lot of whiskey on Thanksgiving?”

  “You’re despicable, Stevie Cartwright,” Win murmured.

  The cab driver winked a green eye. “I know the one. Got one myself. You have a good night now, and good luck with the reno.”

  I slid out and waved him off, picking my way up the steep incline to the steps. My feet sank into the soft mud almost up to my ankles. “First order of business, Spy Guy? A paved driveway.”

  “But it’s so good for your abundant backside. Can you feel the burn, Stevie?” he ribbed.

  As we approached the house, my breath hitched at the sight unfolding before me. How had this happened in the span of the seven hours I’d been gone?

  There was already scaffolding along the second level where the bedrooms were located and long pieces of plywood lined the spot where the crooked, caving steps leading to the front porch once were.

  The porch steps had a temporary railing made of two-by-fours attached to them, making it easier to cling as I avoided the pratfalls on my way up to the front door.

  “I see my guy’s here. Good show.”

  I looked at the big 4x4 truck parked down at the end of what I prayed was a driveway and pushed the door open, stepping into the entryway with a gasp. “Who is this guy?” I murmured.

  “Only the best in the business. He did some incredible renovations for a friend. He’s a bloody miracle worker.”

  “I’ll say,” I muttered as I looked into the previously debris-filled parlor, now cleared entirely. A fire glowed in the fireplace, and there was a lone wingback chair alongside the hearth with the once three-legged table propped up next to it.

  Hammering from somewhere else in the house had me off to investigate.

  “Hello?” I called, making my way out of the parlor and down the entryway hall to the kitchen—or what I’d secretly referred to as Nightmare on Samantha Lane.

  As I rounded the corner, I caught sight of the alleged miracle worker, his overalls covered in sheetrock dust and paint, his dark hair sprouting from a Yankees cap as he studied the wall between the kitchen and the dining room.

  Holding out my hand, I approached him from behind. “Hello? I’m Stevie Cartwright. You are?”

  “The guy who’s about to drain your bank account dry,” he said in a heavy New York accent. Then he chuckled at his own joke. Dropping the hammer, he turned around and wiped his hand on the bib of his overalls, offering it to me. “Name’s Enzo. Good to meet ya.”

  As we shook hands, I caught my first real glimpse of the kitchen. It was enormous, but gone were the cabinets falling off the walls and the avocado-colored fridge, now replaced with a small temporary fridge.

  The countertops were completely wiped out, totally removed but for one where Enzo had covered it with more plywood and placed a shiny microwave and coffeepot. The windows on the opposite end of the room, tall and elegant, sprawled the wall from the base of the window seat to almost the top of the ceiling.

  My heart melted when I saw the view. Mountains dipped in snow crested the dark purple and bruised-blue skyline; the Sound below them rose and fell in gray, choppy waves. In the summer, I imagined, there’d be colorful sails on boats, bobbing past me as I had my morning coffee while a warm summer breeze wafted in, and for the first time in a month or so, I smiled at the pleasurable peace the vision brought me.

  Rejuvenated, I turned back to Enzo. “First, thank you for cleaning some of the debris out and getting the fireplace going. It almost felt like home when I walked in. Second, have you worked out estimates for me?”

  Enzo nodded and pointed to the plywood countertop next to the microwave, where a ream of paper sat, before he went back to hammering out the wall between the kitchen and the formal dining room.

  Surely he was kidding. I crossed the room and lifted the first page of the thick manifesto, where it listed a breakdown of the costs involved in renovating just the kitchen. My mouth fell open.

  “Enzo?”

  Without missing a beat, he grunted, “Uh-yup?”

  “This can’t be right.” I held up the paper with the estimate for the kitchen.

  “Nope. It’s right.” He went back to hammering as though I hadn’t questioned his sanity.

  “Your guy is a shyster, Winterbottom,” I muttered, in case Win had decided to join me.

  He gasped in that squealing way he used when mocking me. “How can you say that? Enzo’s the best in the business. He’s worth every penny.”

  “Of sixty thousand dollars?”

  “Sculptures of David urinating coffee and champagne waterfalls cost the earth. Didn’t you know that?”

  I began furiously flipping through the pages to see just how much a fountain costs. “You are not putting a champagne waterfall in the kitchen. Are you?”

  Was he?

  “Why aren’t I shocked to find a waterfall disturbs you far more than a coffee-urinating sculpture of David?”

  “Because coffee is coffee and I don’t care where it comes from.”

  Win snickered. “No. But I am putting in a state-of-the-art chef’s package. It’s not cheap to install a wood-fired pizza oven, you know.”

  “But I don’t cook. I can’t even make a Pop-Tart. So let’s save some money and go on a cruise or something fun, huh?”

  “But I can cook, and I can teach you.”

  A thought flashed through my mind at that point. Did Win think he could somehow get back to this plane to use a fancy chef’s package? It made me stop and consider other angles
he might have for giving me this house.

  “But you don’t need to cook. You can’t eat.”

  “But you can.”

  My eyebrow lifted. “I thought after today, the idea was to lighten my wide load?”

  “Your words, not mine. I think the view is just fine. I meant spy-training camp. I want to teach you some basics for protecting yourself.”

  My cheeks grew hot from his compliment, so I looked back at the endless list of work to be completed. “Okay, so care to explain the Italian marble countertops? Is that really necessary?”

  “What, pray tell, do you have against Italian marble?”

  “It’s a ridiculous expense, Win.”

  “And you have a ridiculous amount of money. Enough for—”

  “Five lifetimes. I know, I know. You know, I betcha you died bleeding to death from a paper cut while making it rain money.” I swiped my fingers over my palm to show him what I meant.

  He barked a laugh and again avoided the subject of his death. “We were talking Italian marble.”

  “Okay, if marble’s your wish, so be it. I promised not to argue if you promised to let me pick the color of my bathroom. A deal’s a deal. Now, I need to grab a shower, order a pizza, and talk out what we found today at MZ’s. You up for that, Spy Guy? Because now more than ever, I want to know what happened to MZ.”

  “I’ll meet you in the parlor. Let’s hope Enzo got the water turned on and someone to sandblast the tub.”

  I glanced at the microwave clock and Enzo’s back as he took swing after swing at the wall with his sledgehammer. “Isn’t it time for him to knock off?”

  “Enzo’s an arteest, Stevie. You can’t rush, or for that matter, halt the magic. It happens when it happens.”

  “What was I thinking? Of course sixty grand in kitchen renovations requires nothing short of an expensive magician.”

  I hauled the ream of paper under the crook of my arm and waved to Enzo, heading back to the parlor to get my purse and Belfry. “Meet you back here in an hour.”

  Plodding up the creaking, rotting stairs, I was almost afraid to see what I’d encounter on the landing, but true to Win’s words, Enzo had come through.

  If there’d been debris up here, it was gone now. It wasn’t the Four Seasons, or even a Motel 6, but it was clean and there were lights. The wide landing spanning the second floor at the top of the stairs would be beautiful when done.

  More tall windows overlooking the Sound lined the far wall, taking up almost the entire space, and though the paint was peeling and the floor had holes and were covered in dust, I knew it would be a space nothing short of spectacular.

  There were two halls, one to my left and one to my right, where Win had generously told me to choose any room I liked. So I went to investigate to find the only one in the house that had a bathroom connected to it.

  “Hey, Bel, you awake?”

  “Are you kidding me? The dead are tossing and turning with all that racket coming from the kitchen.”

  “How are you feeling, pal? Warmer now?”

  Belfry climbed out of my purse and flapped his wings, bringing him to my shoulder, where he nestled against my neck. “Yep, like brand new. So what’s our next move, Boss?”

  I crept down the hallway to the right, passing each room for a total of three. “I don’t know, bud. I can’t think until I take a shower. But I told Win we’d meet him back down in the parlor to reassess what we have so far.”

  Belfry grunted.

  “What am I sensing here, Belfry? What’s going on with you? You’ve been out of sorts all day.”

  “Gas. It’s gas.”

  I stopped at the last bedroom, pushing the door open and smiling when I flipped on the light, which was nothing more than a stray bulb in the middle of the water-stained ceiling. Then I smiled harder.

  Oh yeah, this was my room. Not only did it have a crumbling fireplace and another gorgeous view of the Sound from the front of the house, but it had that tub Win mentioned. I saw it from the corner of my eye, sitting smack in the middle of a bathroom the size of my old apartment back in Paris.

  As promised, my suitcases and boxes had been delivered from the hotel room. I found them all sitting in a neat pile by the closet door.

  Setting the ream of paper on the floor along with my purse, I scooped Belfry off my shoulder and plopped him in the palm of my hand. “Talk to me, old friend. What’s the problem?”

  “Is Winterbutt going to be your new sidekick? Do I need to start looking for another gig?”

  I wrinkled my nose and tweaked his tiny yellow ear. “Are you kidding me? Who, in the history of all bird calls, could ever replace your crow squawk? You saved our hides back there.”

  “Being serious here, Stevie.”

  I knew this tone. He was jealous of Win and feeling displaced. “Buddy, I’d no sooner replace you than I would one of my limbs. You’re in it to win it for as long as my human years allow. No way you’re getting away from me. Yes, Win’s a big part of that now, but sometimes we have to make sacrifices in order to survive. We needed a job and a place to live. He gave that to us in spades. And you have to admit; he’s not horrible to have around. In fact, as I recall, in the beginning you were pretty smitten with his accent.”

  Belfry grumbled. “That was before he took charge of our lives.”

  “I get that he’s sort of got us by the short hairs, but I don’t believe he’s bossy because he’s a jerk. He’s just a bossypants. I guess spies have to know how to take charge if they’re taking down guys who want to blow the world up, right? Now c’mon, no more talk of us breaking up because I need this shower desperately. You’re Sonny to my Cher. I got you, babe.”

  Stepping into the bathroom, I winced. There was a tub, sure enough. A rusty bucket that probably had once been a beautiful claw foot but was now spotted with corrosion.

  Though, in Enzo’s favor, there was a new shower curtain and showerhead.

  But that wasn’t all there was.

  In the corner of this vast bathroom, with its endless torn linoleum flooring and ugly pink toilet and cracked sink, sat a variety of potted plants.

  Belfry zoomed around the room with a squeak of excitement. “Did you do this for me?”

  “I had nothing to do with it. It must be from your ex-boyfriend, Winterbutt. Maybe he wants to get back together?” I teased, noting fresh towels sat on the toilet seat.

  “Okay, fine,” Bel conceded. “He can stay. But just you remember who got you through the almost meteor crash of 2006.”

  “You were a real rock while I talked that warlock off the ledge, buddy,” I said, blowing a kiss to him.

  Cotton ball bats are notorious for snuggling together for warmth when they sleep—they typically do that beneath the leaves of a tropical plant in a tropical locale. Because Belfry was a loner, his plant/bed meant everything to him. It was like a slice of home.

  On more than one occasion, I’d kicked myself for not taking Belfry’s favorite plant bed with me when I was booted out of Paris.

  But Win had taken care of that by providing every kind of broad-leaf plant he could manage, tucked into beautiful ceramic planters in gentle whites and a soft turquoise.

  I don’t know how he’d managed to get them here, and I don’t know how he knew Bel really needed a boost, but he had.

  That was all that mattered.

  Chapter 11

  “Stevie—time to wake up, Snugglebunny. The day awaits!”

  I flapped a hand at my ear and the British invasion growling in it. “Go away. Do you have any idea how uncomfortable an air mattress is? I’ve had three hours of sleep total, Win.”

  Our meeting last night ran into a snafu when I was too tired to keep my eyes open. Win made himself scarce after showing me where Enzo had put the air mattress in order to let me get some sleep.

  When I’d finally crawled into bed, I couldn’t turn my brain off. If I wasn’t trying to figure out who’d want to hurt a harmless fake medium and beloved town favo
rite, I was wondering what Win looked like. My Internet was spotty, so doing much research until I figured that out was difficult at best, especially with Win always nearby.

  Was he harder like Tom Hardy or Daniel Craig? Or was he the suave Sean Connery/Roger Moore type? Or maybe I was glamorizing him altogether too much. Maybe he was a geek like Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory.

  And then I thought maybe I just shouldn’t worry about what he looked like because he would always be a voice—sometimes an interfering, annoying one, waking me up when I could barely prop my eyes open.

  “We have people to see and things to do today. Up and at ’em. Also, you’ll be glad to know your bed’s being delivered this afternoon, along with a couch. Won’t a couch be nice to sit by the fire?”

  My head popped up as I spit my hair out of my mouth and rubbed my eyes. “You got me a bed? How did you arrange for a bed, and a couch, too? Are you off bribing more psychics to do your dirty work when I’m not looking?”

  “Hah. You’re funny, even in the early morning hours before coffee—which I understand is an addiction of yours. I most certainly did not bribe another psychic. I had a list of things I knew you’d need and Madam Z purchased them for me online just before she died, using my credit card. Oh, and I added your name to my credit cards as well. For life’s little emergencies.”

  There was that twist of my heart in my chest again. His fondness for MZ was nothing short of endearing, and I wanted to find out who’d killed her because of it.

  I sat up and forced my eyes to acknowledge the day from the wide expanse of windows, and the rain pounding against them. I’d missed the rain while living in Texas. Today somehow, it comforted me.

  “So where are we at this morning?” I asked, jamming on my work boots to head toward the kitchen where coffee needed making.

  “Today, Dan and Liza are expected back from Tacoma. We need to find a way to get them to talk to you, Stevie. You’ll have to really lay on the charm.”

  I wandered into the kitchen to find coffee had already been brewed. Astonishment didn’t stop me from sniffing the delicious odor of cinnamon and a dark roast. Did Win have the ability to touch things? Move them?