“Crispin Alistair Winterbottom!”
“What now, Miss Cartwright?”
I ignored his aggravated sigh and my urge to lob something at the wall.
“You know exactly what. This will never work if you keep trying to land a date with our client’s deceased lover. Understood?” I whisper-yelled at my partner in spy.
“Bah,” he whisper-yelled back. “It’s not a date, Stevie. I was just asking if Kitty liked to dance. When has a trip around Plane Light Fantastic ever hurt anyone, Funstomper?”
I ran my hand over my temple before giving it a good squeeze to ease the tension. “That’s not the point and you know it. When we agreed to do this—reopen Madam Zoltar’s with me as her successor—you agreed to play by my rules when contacting the dead.”
“Nonsense. I am playing by your rules, Dark Overlord. You said nothing about asking a client’s deceased loved one if they had a hobby. Not a solitary word. Did she, Belfry?”
Belfry, my tiny cotton ball bat familiar, stretched and yawned from the bed he’d made out of one of the leaves of an elephant ear plant. “I hate to side with the Cumberbatch-alike ghost, but he’s kinda right, Boss.”
Chiding my ghost for not playing by the rules was as close to pointless as one got, but I did it out of habit. Much the way any mother of a toddler who needed repetitive reinforcement would.
Winterbottom, or Win as I call him, is my afterlife connection—my conduit to the other side.
Really. That’s the absolute truth.
Plainly speaking, he’s a dead British spy who barged into my life (or my ear, if we’re being literal) just over a month or so ago when he needed my help and wouldn’t leave until I caved.
If I helped him solve a murder, in return, he’d help me move on with my new life here in Ebenezer Falls, Washington, as a shunned, powerless, broke ex-witch—and give me all his worldly possessions as a reward of sorts.
“Worldly possession” being a decrepit old Victorian in crumbling, graffiti-filled disrepair and more money to renovate it than I could spend in five lifetimes.
The truth. My hand to God. That really happened. Though, according to him, he’d already planned on giving me his house and money before I’d agreed to help solve the murder.
He said my afterlife connections were enough of a reference to consider me a worthy recipient. Also according to him, that was all he needed to ensure his monster of a house—what I now lovingly call Mayhem Manor—would be in good hands.
Win never reminded me of what he’d so generously given my bat familiar Belfry and I. He never rubbed it in. He’d never asked for anything more than his initial request in return.
But he sure made up for it in other ways. Like today. We’d taken over Madam Zoltar’s tarot card reading and medium business here in town in her honor.
Madam Zoltar’s death was the murder I mentioned, and what brought Win and I together in the first place. Now it was the glue sticking him to my backside.
I longed for the days when I was a witch and I desperately missed communicating with spirits—my specialty before I was shunned (another long story). Running Madam Zoltar’s helped ease that ache a bit, even if I was only communicating by proxy.
Also something of note: Shunned is a kind word for what happened to me. After I literally had the witch slapped out of me by an angry spirit, I ended up booted out of my coven back in Paris, Texas, when I became mortal again, by the very leader I’d have trusted with my soul.
And it hurt—stung like no tomorrow. My fearless leader was Baba Yaga, in case having a name to attach to my tragedy is necessary, and the longer I thought about how she’d dumped me like a fickle girl dumps a ’90s boy band, without listening to a word of my defense, the less I was able to continue to outwardly support what she’d allowed to happen to me. I worked hard not to be bitter because technically, she was still Belfry’s head honcho, but as of late, the work had become harder.
Anyway, once the dust settled after solving Madam Zoltar’s murder case, Win and I concocted a plan—one that had given me a reason to get up in the morning.
I’d be the new medium, hence my turban and caftan (another shout out to Madam Zoltar and her keen, quirky fashion sense—hey, girl!), and Win would be my legit conduit to the afterlife. Being that he was in limbo and had no plans to change his afterlife Facebook status to “crossed over” anytime soon, our arrangement worked just fine—so far.
We’d agreed to take this journey together in memory of Madam Zoltar, a beloved figure here in Ebenezer Falls, and also someone Win had become very fond of just prior to her death.
But we had rules and stipulations to this agreement.
Though, hear this, I’d never take money to contact the deceased from someone who was in the throes of grief. Never. I’d also never take their money if I couldn’t truly communicate with said deceased.
So Win and I decided not only would we work as a team, we’d donate whatever the customer could afford to pay (yes, you read that right. Sliding-scale séances) to various charities—animal rescue being high on my list—and use only what we needed to pay the store’s expenses.
And that’s what led me here—to Spy Guy’s otherworldly philandering.
I looked at the picture of Kitty Talucci, the one our client, Edward Randolph, had brought to the reading. A picture of his lover, her luscious ebony hair falling down her back in a riot of curls, lying against the alabaster skin of her shoulders. Decked out in a strapless, red Lycra dress, which hugging her abundant breasts and accentuated her tiny waist and lush hips, she was beautiful. I pointed to it with the tap of my index finger.
“You were not asking about her hobbies, Win. I know it and you know it.”
“I beg your pardon,” he spat in that uppity British tone of his.
“Does Kitty look like a woman who hasn’t danced a time or two, Win?”
He gasped with his high-pitched-mock-Stevie-girlie-squeal. “You’re stereotyping. That’s against the law.”
“Point for the dead spy,” Belfry chirped, stretching his wings.
“It’s called profiling and I’m not a cop, but even if I were, I’m really not profiling. Kitty was a dancer. Burlesque. You’d know that if you weren’t busy looking into her deep, dark velvety eyes. Now quit trying to pick her up and help me help Edward find her last will and testament, so he can prove to her evil ex that Snape is now his cat because Kitty left him to Edward in her will.”
“Who names their cat Snape?” Win balked.
Repositioning my turban, I smoothed my colorful caftan and made a face. “Women who like Harry Potter and Alan Rickman?”
“Ah, a fellow Brit. This bodes well for me,” he purred in his whiskey-smooth voice.
“No. There is no boding anything. Now, get out there to that table and let’s get ’er done. One more swish of your flirty ghost hair and it’s curtains for you, International Man of Intrigue.”
If I could actually see Win, I’d bet five bucks he was rolling his eyes at me right now. “Fine, fine. You’re the boss. Just remember, the spirits respond well to me and my hair swishing.”
I made a face at the air. “When I was a witch, I never had to swish my hair to get the spirits to communicate with me. They just did. No bribes, no flirting, no cash exchanging hands.”
“She speaks the truth, Winterbutt,” Belfry agreed, tucking back down into the green leaf. “Though, cash would have been nice.”
Win scoffed in that way he had when he wanted me to hear he was disgusted. “That’s because you’re a woman, Stevie. The game of pickup is not a two-way street. It’s a proven fact that women are far more successful at picking up men than the other way around.”
“I bet that fact checker was a man. A man who didn’t want to admit we just have better game. And you basically just admitted you’re trying to pick up Kitty.” I pointed to the door separating us from the room we’d privately dubbed Séance Command Central, and said, “Now go. We need to finish up because I have a lunch date with Forrest.”
“Oh, then by all means,” Win drawled with his uppity British lilt. “We shouldn’t waste a second longer. I wouldn’t want you to miss a ham on rye on my account.”
Forrest Sherwood was our next-door neighbor here at the shop. He owned Strange Brew, the coffee café to the right of us. He was also an old high school acquaintance who’d taken an interest in me since I’d moved back to my hometown, something Win didn’t seem to care for much.
He was always picking at Forrest, who, of course, is thoroughly unaware of Win’s existence. Win’s dislike of Forrest leaves me scratching my head sometimes. Forrest’s a nice guy who works hard, makes amazing coffee, and has the cutest grandfather ever named Chester.
But I didn’t have time to address Win’s sarcastic jabs at Forrest today. Today was all about finding our feet out here in the world of commerce in Ebenezer Falls.
Madam Zoltar’s had been reopened just a week, and we were finally seeing some foot traffic as curiosity got the better of the locals and tourists alike. Everyone wanted to know if the formerly accused murderer, Stevie Cartwright, really could communicate with the dead.
I won’t get into the murder accusation. Suffice it to say, even though I was utterly innocent and totally exonerated, the fact that my fellow Ebenezers had all but tarred and feathered me during the investigation into Madam Zoltar’s death still stung. So maybe I still feel a little grudgey, despite how kind the townspeople have been since my good name was cleared.
After checking on Belfry and finding him fast asleep, I pushed open the door of what was once Madam Zoltar’s small apartment, now our storage/coffee room, and wiggled my finger over my shoulder at Win. Pointing to Edward, our grieving boyfriend, who was waiting for me to help him find Kitty’s will, I said, “Let’s do this, Spy Guy.”
“Is everything all right?” Edward asked, his sweet face lined in worry as I reentered Séance Command Central.
I patted him on the hand to reassure him before taking a seat at my brand-new reading table. “Everything’s fine. Sometimes I just get so overwhelmed by the spirits and their shenanigans, I need a moment to gather myself and refocus.”
That’s not a lie, either. Win could make the man above need a moment, so someone like little ol’ mortal me didn’t stand a chance.
I took in a deep breath and looked Edward square in his eye. “Now, where were we?”
Edward reached his forefinger up under his round, thick, black-rimmed glasses and wiped a tear from his eye. “You said my Kitty was here—right here in the room with us.”
“Yes. She absolutely is.” I closed my eyes again and focused my attention on asking the appropriate questions for Win to relay. “Kitty? Edward’s here. He wants you to know he misses you very much and he has a question for you. Can you help?”
“Kitty says to tell Edward she’s busy,” Win supplied in a dry tone.
The house that Win gave me is at the height of renovations with his contractor Enzo, and it’s gorgeous—and he’d lose his ever-lovin’ afterlife if anyone were to mar his precious.
So, yep. When we got back to the house, I was going to draw on the freshly sheetrocked wall with a black Sharpie. Maybe a peace sign, or hashtag #payback.
I stirred in my chair and cleared my throat, our mutually agreed-upon signal for “quit screwin’ around”.
“So, Kitty, like I said, Edward has a question for you. He’d like to know where you left your will. It’s not in the place you said it would be, and your ex-boyfriend, Marlon, is threatening to take poor Snape away from your beloved Edward. Where did you put your will, Kitty?”
“She says she’s still busy.”
I clenched my teeth and muttered under my breath, “Well what is she doing? Her nails?”
Edward gripped my hand with his sweaty cold one. “Are you really talking to her? What is she saying?”
“She said she’s busy. I can’t make her talk to me, Stevie,” Win said in exasperation. “Rule number five hundred and twenty-two clearly states, no former spy interrogation tactics with the spirits. This is inclusive of, but not exclusive to, waterboarding, jumper cables, cigar cutters, any sort of contractor’s tool, all forms of bamboo-ish-like torture, fire, bullets, bombs, anything affiliated with bombs, chains, razors, yelling, berating, and/or other forceful measures that may never be taken when inducing spirit conversation in the afterlife. Your words.”
I grated out a sigh, forgetting Edward was with us. “Oh, we do not either have five hundred and twenty-two rules yet. It’s only in the three hundreds, Melodrama Mama, and I said nothing about razors, but I’m glad you mentioned them. They’re definitely out. Please put that on the list.”
Edward leaned back in his seat, pulling his hand from mine, the vein running along his forehead pulsing. The apprehension on his face was clear. “What? I don’t understand what she means. What do razors have to do with anything? What’s happening?”
The distress on Edward’s face was obvious, from the lines in his forehead shaped in a frown to the downward turn of his trembling mouth.
I patted his hand again then sneezed, giving Win the second agreed-upon signal to quit screwin’ around. If we got to the stage where I coughed, it was DEFCON and Win better be prepared to be on the receiving end of a good tongue-lashing.
“It’s all going to be fine, Edward. Sometimes other spirits interfere with my communication and our signals get crossed.”
“Other spirits?” he asked as he peered at me with watery eyes.
“Yep. Spirits who struggle with simple directions. They’re everywhere. All around us. Some even have names that rhyme with Winterbottom.”
Edward’s face went openly confused.
“You truly are despicable, Stevie Cartwright. You do this all the time and I have absolutely no way of defending myself. It’s cruel.”
I fought a grin, but just as I reached for Edward’s hand once more, there was a commotion outside at the front of the store.
A crowd had gathered, the voices floating toward my ear filled with rising hysteria, lifting above the loud music typically blaring in the food court.
How odd.
But I shrugged it off. Maybe Forrest’s grandfather, Chester, had threatened the kids who skateboarded along the sidewalk with his big broom. Chester was infamous for chasing the local teens when they scooted along the sidewalk, his broom in his chubby, weathered hands, held high over his head as he bellowed at them and called them words like miscreants and rug rats.
Chester made me giggle. I adored this crabby, chubby little man, and he liked me pretty well, too, but we didn’t always have such a mutual admiration for one another.
He was the first person to accuse me of murdering Madam Zoltar, totally unfounded and completely reactionary on his part, but at the time, it had caused me some serious grief.
However, I’d forgiven him since then, and he was now one of the best parts about living here in Ebenezer Falls. I especially loved that he was helping me design gardens for the front of Mayhem Manor. We’d spent hours at the kitchen table, plotting and planning for spring, and I couldn’t wait to get my hands in the soil right alongside him.
Someone screamed outside, cutting off my thoughts.
Edward gripped my hand. “What’s going on?”
I rose from my seat and headed toward the new picture window I’d had installed in the front of the store, peering around our blinking Madam Zoltar sign toward the food trucks parked just across the street.
Frank Jessup, the manager of the local used bookstore, flew across the street, his eyes wide, his long legs eating up the distance between the food trucks and my store. He looked panicked, maybe even afraid as he ran straight for Forrest’s coffee shop, ducking inside.
Forgetting about Edward and Kitty, I ran to our front door and pushed it open, the chimes Madam Zoltar had been so fond of tinkling a haunting sound. We were having an unusually warm, sunny day for March in Washington, which had brought a big lunch crowd to the food court.
I couldn’t see anything through the throng of heads crammed around my favorite taco vendor’s food truck.
“He’s dead!” someone screamed in a light Spanish accent.
My heart began to pound and I tried to swallow, but my throat kept closing up. No. Please don’t let it be…
And then someone confirmed my deepest dread. “Call the police! Tito’s dead! The Taco Man’s dead!”