Witch Slapped (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 1) (20 page)

Luis cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of him on the cold table. “Gentleman? You do realize you’re just stalling for time? Miss Cartwright isn’t a viable suspect. I think we all know as much. She has no motive. Her record is clean as a whistle. She’s only just returned to town a month ago, and has never been seen in or around Tina Martoni’s place of business until two days ago—the day of the murder.”

Had it only been two days? It felt like two million years.

As Luis continued, he set a package of papers in his briefcase and snapped it shut. “I don’t know what you think you can charge her with at this point, but whatever it is, I’m sure I can crush the charge in a matter of moments. Now, I have a dinner date with my mother for, of all things, cabbage rolls and some riveting Game Show Network television. Miss Cartwright has to go home and hire a cleaning crew to dig herself out of your department’s careless disregard for her personal belongings. I believe we’re done.”

He rose, smoothing his silk blue tie over his firm stomach before buttoning his suit jacket and looking at both detectives with that unblinking stare. “Good day to you both. Please feel free to contact my client via
me
when you have evidence worthy of my seven-hundred-dollar-an-hour fee. I’ll show up again for nothing less than proof
bigger
than an anonymous phone call and a necklace so blatantly planted at my client’s house.”

Holding out his hand, Luis pulled me up from my chair and held the door to the interview room open for me.

As childish as this sounds, I wanted to turn around and stick my tongue out at them, or at the very least give them a more NC-17-rated middle finger, but I was exhausted.

Really what I wanted to do was just go home, curl up in the amazing bed Win had given me and close my eyes, forgetting today ever happened.

Out in the reception area of the station, I saw Sandwich, hobbling around on crutches. Without thinking, I approached him with the intent to apologize.

My hands outstretched, I murmured, “Oh, Sand…er, Lyn. I’m so sorry. This happened because of me, didn’t it?” I pointed to his foot, wrapped in an ACE bandage.

But Sandwich held up a wide hand to stop me, his always pleasant face tight and withdrawn. “You stay right where you are, Stevie. I’m already in enough trouble because of you and I can’t say anything more. So I’ll thank ya kindly to keep your distance.”

I don’t know if it was Sandwich losing faith in me, or the fact that the two detectives were standing outside the interview room, arms crossed over their chests, watching me as though I were a puppy killer, but I was done in.

Just over all of it.

Luis saved me from making a scene by crying in front of everyone when he put his hand at my elbow and led me out of the station to his car, where he helped me in and drove me home as I fought tears.

I was no closer to catching this killer, Madam Zoltar’s spirit was in total turmoil and now one of the few people in town who actually didn’t hate me wanted nothing to do with me.

And I couldn’t even drown my sorrows in Tito’s tacos because he hated me, too.

Boo-hiss.

“
S
teeeevie! Come now. Don’t be sad.”

“Me, sad? Don’t be silly, Win,” I said, my voice muffled from beneath the pillow. “What’s there to be sad about? That I’ve been framed for murder? That we might never find out who killed Madam Zoltar? Or that a killer is running free and getting away with said murder? Don’t talk crazy. We should have a party. Maybe some balloons and a cake, too.”

“Want me to tell you how I died?” Win singsonged the question in my ear.

I didn’t even budge. No way was I taking that bait. “Not interested.”

“Not true.”

I pushed the pillow off my face and sighed. “Maybe it isn’t. Or maybe I’ve decided I’d rather you
want
to tell me versus share your story as a bribe. But know this, Crispin Alistair Winterbottom, when you tell me, it’ll mean we’ve crossed a milestone—it’ll mean you finally trust me.”

Win blustered. “I do trust you now. I gave you millions of dollars in spy money and my beloved house. How much more trust is there?”

I rolled to my side and looked out the windows inside my little nook of a bed. “Those are all superficial things, Win. Things you couldn’t use yourself now even if you wanted to. You could have given them to anyone. They have nothing to do with friendship.”

I can’t say why I was picking a fight with Win, other than I was angry all over. Maybe bruised was a better word. It wasn’t like me to give in to feeling sorry for myself, but tonight, without my powers, with the possibility of jail time looming in my future, bruised was the best word I could find to sum up how I was feeling. Maybe I needed Win to trust me because no one else did.

Belfry’s tiny hands pulled him up along my body until he was at my ear. “Cheer up, Stevie. We ordered pizzzaaaa,” he enticed.

“Oh, nice. Gobs of cheese and pepperoni will make a killer running free so much easier to digest.”

Win made a funny gagging noise from his throat. “No pepperoni. That’s for heathens. Olives and sausage with plump Roma tomatoes make a pizza, Stevie. Anyone with taste buds knows that.”

I sat up, taking Bel with me. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not hungry anyway. I can’t eat while there’s a murderer out there, Win. And what the heck did Madam Z mean when she mentioned Dan knew? She said cluck-cluck and Dan knows.”

“She did. Maybe she’s just disoriented at this point. Maybe she’s throwing out words relating to what troubled her before she died. Obviously, Von Adams met with Dan. We know that. Or maybe she threw those key words out there to get us to the inn?”

“According to Luis, Chicken-Man has an alibi. So, if it’s not Hendrick Von Adams then it has to be the fish-and-chips guy. I feel it. I mean, who else is left except for Dan? The only person we haven’t questioned. But he doesn’t feel right, yanno?”

“I do know,” Win answered.

“So this fish-and-chips guy… W
ho
is he?” I asked more to myself than anyone else as I climbed out of the bed and slid to the floor, dropping into my discarded work boots.

Thankfully, the police hadn’t torn up my new bed—much. I’d expected to find stuffing from my pillows from one end of the room to the other, but it had been mostly untouched.

They had, however, rifled through all my suitcases.

“Tell me what Luis said and where we’re at right now.”

I grabbed my robe and slid into it, fighting the chilly memory the police station brought. “He said there was absolutely no reason to panic and he’d eat his own shoes if they actually came up with something solid to convince a judge to lock me up. I told him that I hoped he had soft shoes, the way my luck’s been going. He laughed, which, BTW, I didn’t think he was capable of because he’s crazy serious and that glare he has is intimidating as all get out. Anyway, he told me to lay low, don’t leave town, the norm, and not to worry. But this changes nothing as far as I’m concerned. Someone got away with murdering MZ and is trying to frame me for it. I can’t live with that, Win. I have to find whoever did this.”

Win’s voice followed me as I made my way down the stairs, stepping over and around the various loose boards. “That’s the spirit. A much better attitude! Now, you need to eat. You haven’t had anything since breakfast. Once we have some food in you, we’ll hash out what we discovered today.”

I wandered down the hallway, stepping around the table saw by the wall of the stairs and headed to the kitchen, fumbling around for a light, still unclear of the house’s layout. When I flicked the switch, I inhaled.

“Is Enzo a magician?” I asked, amazed at his progress. The entire wall into the dining room had been knocked out, all the old flooring was now gone, leaving the space even more open and airy.

The windows facing the Sound, eight in total, were trimmed in the same thick wood that was in my nook bed, and an unpainted window seat sat enticingly beneath the middle three windows.

A design for the layout of the cabinets and appliances was sitting by the microwave, waiting for my approval, but I couldn’t absorb it all right now.

I made my way to the tiny fridge Enzo had brought in and grabbed a bottled water, staring out into the dark night.

“So do you like the layout of the kitchen, Stevie?” Win finally asked.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Sure. It looks like it should be easy enough to find a place for my Pop-Tarts and crunchy peanut butter with all those cabinets.”

“There’s just no educating you, is there?”

Chuckling, I shook my head. “I told you, I don’t cook. I don’t want to learn to cook. I can just as easily order in or eat cereal.”

“Speaking of your underdeveloped taste buds and food for ten-year-olds, didn’t you have a date with Sherwood Forrest tonight?”

Remorse tweaked me. “I did, but I canceled. First, I don’t want to subject him to the kind of treatment I’ve been getting around town lately. Second, my heart’s not in it. I can’t think of anything else until we at least get a lead on fish-and-chips guy. So I texted him and asked for a rain check. Though, if I were him, I wouldn’t want to go anywhere with me.”

There was a loud knock at the door, thwarting more conversation about Forrest. I set Belfry on the counter on a hand towel. “You wait here. I’ll be back to get your dinner.”

Though I was feeling pretty blue, the thought of some food did cheer me up. My stomach was a sea of acid from nothing but liquids today.

The light to the front porch didn’t work yet, so I couldn’t see very well. But seriously, who’d haul themselves up that steep, muddy incline but a teenager who might get a tip out of it?

Well, except for maybe the local police. They’d had no trouble at all hunting me down.

“Who is it?” I called more out of habit than anything else.

“Pizza man!”

His silhouette behind the warped front door said he was indeed the pizza man, judging by his signature hat and the big square box.

My stomach grumbled as I flung the door open, turning to look for my purse so I could give him a big tip for coming all the way to the front door of Mayhem Manor without chickening out.

“C’mon in,” I said over my shoulder as I located my purse on the banister of the steps. “Lemme just grab you some money. Listen, thanks for coming all the way up here. I know it’s a hike in all that mud, especially in the dark. But there’s a big tip in this for—”

“Fish and chips, Stevie!” Win bellowed. “Bloody hell, fish and chips!”

I was just about to tell Spy Guy to shut it about the fish-and-chips guy until the pizza-delivery kid was gone, but I didn’t have the chance before the sharp sting of something with a blunt edge whacked me on the back of my head.

* * * *

As my brain found its way back to the surface, and words in my ear strung together, I fought to open my eyes, the throb in my head a staccato rhythm.

“Stevie! Wake up, damn it. You must wake up! Where’s your phone?” And then he hissed, “Damn! He smashed it.”

My groan was long and pained. “What the heck happened?” I managed to push the words from my lips as I realized I was tied up.

The sticky residue of duct tape pulled at the skin around my wrists and the chafing of rope around my ankles itched.

Now my eyes popped right open to discover I was in the basement of Mayhem Manor. Smack in the middle of the room, which spanned the entire house. Nothing but me and a bazillion cobwebs and every creepy-crawly ever.

Previously, I’d only been down here for half a second to reaffirm my distaste for dark, damp hovels when Win mentioned he was having a wine cellar put in here and he needed me to see the space.

I’d poked my head down here and told him he could house aliens in it if he wanted, however he wanted. Now I wished I’d paid closer attention to the landscape of things. I didn’t even know if there was a window I could get to if I could manage to break the duct tape imprisoning my wrists.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t remember how I got here. Maybe this was Win’s idea of some kind of surprise spy training?

“Is this Spy Camp 101? Because not funny to entice me to the door for some pizza and wail me in the back of the head. Hey…hold on. How did you wail me in the back of the head? Have you been lying to me about moving big things? Like more than the usual newbie spirit stunts allows? Can you move things, Win?”

I heaved a sigh and let my eyes slide closed again. It was exhausting just to talk. Dang. I was so sleepy.

“Stevie, keep your eyes open. Do not fall back to sleep!” Win barked the order, making my head pop back upward from its decline to my shoulder.

But I felt absolutely no urgency to do as Win suggested at this point. I’m not sure if it was because my head hurt so much, but I was feeling pretty loopy.

There was rustling from upstairs, the door still open, revealing a shaft of light from the kitchen. When I recalled Win’s words about my phone, I noted it was indeed smashed on the concrete floor, and then I heard footsteps.

Okay, scratch that. Urgency came in a tidal wave of awareness, hitting me square in the gut.

“Who’s up there, Win? What the fudge is going on?” I whispered, fighting panic. As awareness solidified, I began to see my predicament clearly.

Stevie tied up in a damp basement equals bad ju-ju, was my summation in a nutshell.

“Oh, jolly good! You’re awake!” A far-too-cheerful voice sang as heavy feet descended on the creaky steps. A man. For sure, it was a man with big feet.

Then I snorted to myself. I was the lamest sleuth ever. Okay, so he was a man and he had big feet. That could be a good quarter of the population.

I squinted when he made an appearance, the light blaring down in front of his form making it hard for me to totally see who was holding me hostage.

“Who are you?”

“The man who’s going to kill you, of course,” he answered, his accent very clearly British.

In that moment, that stark moment of clarity, everything came together in a big blob of understanding. I knew exactly who he was, because Win’s last words before I was tied up came back to me in a flash.