Dewitched (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 3) (21 page)

Hugh rose from the chair by the fireplace and grinned. “How wonderful, Daughter! How is he?”

Water slid down my nose and I blew at the drops falling to my lips. “I think he’s hurt. Can you help?”

“Oh, of course! Win, where are you? Talk to me, please.”

“I’m here, sir, reporting for duty.”

But my father shook his head. “No. You must rest now. I’ll call upon Stevie’s great aunt Imelda to aid you. She’ll know what to do.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

I could tell Win was fighting to keep his voice steady in light of the fact that my father was here, but he was shaky. So shaky.

“Finish your shower, Dove. I’ll be fine.”

I just nodded, closing the door and leaning against it. Win was back. Thank the goddess, Win was back.

And I’d called Hugh “dad.”

If hearts could hug you tight, I think mine was hugging me for giving it the joy this morning’s events brought.

“
S
tevie? You cannot do this. Have you ever been to a place like this, Dove?”

I smiled. I didn’t care that Win was disagreeing with me. He was back in my ear, where he belonged. But that wasn’t going to stop me from doing what I had to do. And I had to do this so peace could be restored in our home.

Okay, this isn’t just about peace. It’s also about the fact that I’m nosy as a dog on a coon hunt, but whatever. I had a niggle deep in my gut that said I was on to something, and now that Win was recuperating, I couldn’t let it go.

“Nope. I sure haven’t, but I’m all about firsts. I’d never climbed out of a window to keep from being caught by a madman, run through a graveyard in my bare feet while a killer chased me with a gun, been tied to a chair with duct-tape with a gun to my head, or eaten squicky fish eggs and Steak Diane either. But they were all firsts. You have to experience firsts in order to discover whether you don’t want seconds. Especially the fish eggs. “I mock shuddered. “I never want those again.”

I pulled into the parking lot of our destination and found a space, looking at the vast expanse of the building I was about to enter. My mother had used her magic to fix my car window, strangely silent and somber this morning as she did.

I think the events of last night and our talk hit home. I don’t know how hard or if the impact will have a lasting effect, but she’d been a very different Dita this morning. We didn’t talk for long, but she’d pulled me into a tight hug before going back upstairs, her gait slow.

Win recaptured my focus when he said, “I don’t know how you managed to pull this off. Is this what you do whilst I’m fighting foes on Plane Limbo?”

My pulse sped up at Win’s words. Adam had come for Win and tried to do the same thing he’d done when he’d taken possession of the Bustamantes’
abuela
in our shop a couple of months ago.

He’d literally attempted to possess Win.

Win had fought him off, but it was Adam’s intent that it would be Win’s hand responsible for killing me, according to the spirit gossips. Already weak from bringing his image to my plane, Win was caught off guard.

But my Spy Guy? He was as tough as nails, and somehow he’d fought Adam off, swearing he’d protect me with everything he had in him.

According to the spirit world, via my dad, Win was all the talk of the afterlife this morning. They were all cheering his strength and courage when up against the almighty Adam Westfield.

But I was fretting. As my great aunt Imelda had set about the task of easing Win’s suffering through her otherworldly magic, I paced the length of our kitchen in panic. Maybe the only answer was to have Win leave me forever. If nothing else, it would keep him safe from the repercussions of my troubles.

Win wouldn’t hear of it, and those were brave words. But he wasn’t invincible and he’d never be as powerful as Adam, who’d proven he wanted me dead—and he hadn’t shied away from trying last night.

What would happen when my mother found her next husband and my father went back to Japan to begin his next movie and I was alone and powerless?

But I didn’t want Win to see me fret. My worry would only burden him when he needed to stay sharp and watch his back. “You’re not the only one who can be spy-like, International Man of Mystery. I called while I was in the bathroom yesterday between stops at home and Petula’s. I gave them my sob story about how I’m Bart’s stepdaughter and he’s dead and it was awful and they hooked me up. Easy-peasy. But you know what this means?”

“What does this mean, Dove?”

“It means you really
do
close your eyes and give me privacy when I’m using the ladies’ room.”

He barked a laugh, much stronger than anything coming from him this morning. “I’m no peeping Tom, Mini-Spy. When I make a promise, my word stands. Now, I’d like the truth.”

I stared out the windshield and did my best impression of vague. “The truth?”

“Yes, the truth. You didn’t really call the prison and charm your way into a visit. No one knows your masterful flirting techniques better than I. In other words, they are horrid. So how did you
really
get on the list for a visitation with Ralph?”

“I can’t believe how underestimated I am.”

“Stevie…”

Oh, there was that uppity British warning tone, letting me know I’d been caught and the only thing left to do was admit it out loud. I think Win keeps a scorecard with perverse pleasure about how often I’m yanking his chain.

“Fine. My father used a little bit of magic to help me along, okay? I’ve admitted it.”

“I thought your people couldn’t use magic for personal gain?”

“My people can’t. But would you call being allowed to visit a criminal in prison personal gain? If so, we need to reevaluate what personal gain means to you, Spy Guy.”

Looking to the passenger seat, where I now assumed he sat when we were in the car, after his appearance last night, I said, “Listen. You should be resting right now. Why don’t you go do that and let the grasshopper make her sensei proud?”

“Not on your life. I’m not letting you go into a prison without at least my advice in your ear. Do not argue this point with me. If you wish to make chit-chat with a criminal, I’m your wingman.”

“I’m not making chit-chat. I’m just going to talk to the guy. He’s in for tax evasion, Win. Not murder one.”

“I don’t care. Prisons are bleak places where more than just tax evaders lay their heads to rest. No more arguments.”

“I’m doing the right thing, Win. Now that Bart’s death has been labeled a murder, we need anything, even the smallest of information to help us find whoever did this.”

This morning, as I’d gathered my wits while Win healed—with my great aunt Imelda and my father at his side, working their mojo—I found two new voice messages on my phone. One from the prison, granting me visitation with Bart’s partner in scams, and one from Sandwich, who’d informed me the coroner was ruling Bart’s death a homicide—which was why they’d hauled CC in yesterday.

“Tell me again what the coroner’s report said?” Win insisted.

I grimaced. “The coroner’s report said the pulley was designed to release when the acrobats used their legs to push off from the ground or the ceiling, and it was fully functional and in good working order upon inspection.”

“So absolutely not a suicide?”

“Sandwich said the probability of Bart committing suicide was low—very low. Meaning, someone likely suspended him there and strangled him with the sheet.”

“But that wasn’t what killed him, correct?”

I looked in the rearview mirror and smoothed my hair back. “Correct. His windpipe was crushed from the pressure of the sheet around his neck.”

“Which likely means, the person who suspended him there was no weakling. Damn. The poor sod.”

What I didn’t understand was how no one saw or heard anything. But Sandwich said that was likely due to the music and the fact that most of the staff was using the French doors off the dining room to get to the front lawn. According to much of the staff testimony, the walk was easier when carrying heavy platters and it was less time consuming, keeping the food warmer.

“So they didn’t just arrest her for not cooperating? They really do have evidence against her?”

That was the worst of it. The damning evidence against her. “Fibers from her bathing suit were found on Bart’s dinner jacket.”

While both CC and another acrobat, D (yep. You guessed it. One letter) were the only two in bathing suits, D’s whereabouts could be accounted for. When CC became so offended by Bart’s rude remark, she’d told her to take a thirty-minute break.

But I didn’t care what Sandwich or anyone else said, CC was innocent, and I was going to prove that by going into this prison and making Ralph spill his guts.

“I don’t care about the evidence against her. It still doesn’t feel right, Dove,” Win said, mirroring my thoughts.

“Which is exactly why I have to go in there. Do you want her to sit in jail, or do you want to get her out before she freezes her teeny-tiny acrobatic butt off in that leotard?”

Win laughed. “We’d better hurry.”

“Then let’s do this.”

* * * *

As I sat across from Ralph in the rather cheerful visiting room of the prison, painted in cool blues and decorated with inspirational art, I couldn’t help but notice how undisturbed he appeared about Bart’s death.

While the guards looked on, their guns at their sides and the strict visitation rules posted, I was amazed Ralph had no idea who I was or why I was here. According to him, they didn’t tell him anything other than Bart’s stepdaughter wanted to speak with him.

Letting my chin rest in my hand, I looked at him long and hard. He was as nice to look at as Bart in a totally different way. Where Bart was classically handsome, Ralph was boyish and boy-next-door, despite his age. He had deep-blue eyes, crow’s feet at either corner of them, yet they sparkled bright and clear.

Ralph’s hair was gray now, too, but of the salt-and-pepper variety, slicked back from his face with a dashing swoop to it across his forehead. He even looked pretty good in orange, and he was tan—very tan. He didn’t have handcuffs on and his body language said relaxed, as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Dead, you say?” He paused and I thought it would be to gather his emotions. Instead, his jaw hardened for just a moment and then he sighed in a dramatic release of air, not quite meeting my eyes. “Ah, well.”

Was there no camaraderie in grifting? No common thread that sewed two scam artists together? No remorse for grifting days gone by?

“So you’re not upset Bart’s dead?”

“Should I be?” He almost appeared appalled at the notion, but his blue eyes went dark for a moment. It was brief and as fleeting as youth, but it was there.

Still, I couldn’t help but probe the dynamic of his relationship with Bart. “Weren’t you friends? I mean, I found you in a bunch of pictures with him at all sorts of events. You guys looked pretty friendly.”

“And what was the common denominator in those pictures, Miss Cartwright?” he asked in a deep, cultured timbre.

“Um, fancy parties? Diamonds?”

“Women,” he said, his tone flat. “We were there for one reason only. The money. The women who
had
the money.”

“Right, I get that. But I got the impression the two of you did this together. You know…wooed rich women. Sort of like a swindling tag team.”

He surprised me again by barking a laugh. “No, dear. We weren’t in anything together. We were each other’s competition. I could never get that son of a gun off my tail. He came out of nowhere, charming, suave, seemingly educated. I might have liked him because his game was sharp, if I didn’t hate his guts because his game was so sharp and he was snatching my leads up left and right. Every time I’d think I’d shaken him off, he’d show up at another event. It got to the point where we’d lay bets on who could win the attention of the richest woman in attendance before we ever stepped into the room.”

Ugh. “So it was like a game?”

Gosh, that was horrible. How cruel to scope women out for their money. I know it happens all the time, but to hear it from the horse’s mouth in such a matter-of-fact manner… Well, it was awful.

He grinned, suddenly and gleefully. “We didn’t have anything official going, mind you. But before I was arrested, I was two up on Bart. I heard he slowed down after he met your mother. Maybe it was really love after all.” Then he grinned again, likely at the absurdity of it all.

My eyes widened. “So he was doing this while he was married to my mother?”

“Men like us are always looking for the next scam, Miss Cartwright. Some say that’s horrible, but that’s the truth.”

I hated to admit it, but Ralph made me endlessly curious. “So you’re here for tax evasion and fraud. How’d a crafty guy like you get caught?”

For the first time, Ralph gave me a surprised look. “I’d think you’d know that, being his stepdaughter. Bart turned state’s evidence and got himself a get-out-of-jail-free card because of it.”

I couldn’t hide my surprise. “He turned you in?
Bart
?”

Ralph smiled as though he admired what Bart had done. There didn’t appear to be any lingering hatred—if there ever was any. “He did. We were both involved in a scandal and in order to get himself out of the scandal, he handed me over. I’d have done the same, mind you. He was just quicker on the draw, and he saved his own hide.”

So maybe Ralph could have ordered a hit from prison? Did swindlers use mob methods to rid themselves of their foes?

“Were you angry with him?”

“If you’re suggesting I was angry enough to kill him, take a look around you. I think the night of your party I was otherwise engaged. On a rousing bathroom patrol, perhaps.”

But that didn’t mean he didn’t have contacts who could kill Bart. But if he did, why would he wait three years to do it? He’d been tried and convicted a while ago now.

I knew this was a long shot, but I was going to ask anyway. “Do you have any idea who killed him? Who’d
want
to kill him?”

Ralph winked. “I’d say half the female population in the one-million-dollar-and-over club. I know that’s a broad stroke, but there it is. Bart made many people angry, Miss Cartwright. It’s the nature of our beast.”