Quit Your Witchin' (18 page)

“It only says she’s being questioned and they have new evidence. That doesn’t mean much, Dove.”

“I guess not, but to make it a headline? Maybe the guy who wrote this knows more than we do. That means I’m going to make a point of finding him after the funeral and using my charms to get him talking.”

“Speaking of funerals, the hour grows closer, Stevie. You should prepare.”

Pushing off the counter, I moaned. “I have to dig out a dress that’s appropriate. Which means I’m going to have to go through some of those old storage boxes in the closet finally. I guess it’s as good an excuse as any to organize.”

“I hate that it’s because Tito is dead, but I don’t mind telling you, you’re a clutter bug and I’ll be grateful to see you clear some of it up.”

Looking out the window, I noted the rain had returned, the dark clouds in the sky crashing into each other just as the downpour began. “Why? Did you plan on needing half of the closet?”

“You never know,” Win answered mysteriously.

That was true. I definitely didn’t know. But I wanted to. I wanted to know how Win thought he could get back here to this plane—how he planned to do something no one had ever done before.

And then a thought struck me. “Speaking of things that are crazy…how did you get Dog
inside
the house?”

“The same way I’m going to open this and show you there’s more to breakfast than sugary squares of chocolate,” Win said, just before he popped open the fridge door.

Like wide open. And it
stayed
open.

Inside, the interior was chock full of Tupperware, all neatly stacked and labeled.

Color me astounded. “How…what?”

“Practice, Dove. It just took practice, and a favor or two with one Lawilla Johnson, who specializes in moving things on the earthly plane.”

I crossed to the fridge and looked inside. “But what’s all this?”

“Nourishment. Proper nourishment made by one of the best personal chefs on the planet. Seeing you eat one more cold can of squares stuffed with processed cheese would leave me bereft. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. You must treat your body like a temple, not a bodega.”

“I thought it was the
7-Eleven
?” I teased, taking in the stacks of plastic containers.

Win grated a sigh. “Anyway, they arrived just this morning. Enzo was kind enough to unpack and stack them for you. They’ll arrive every three days. All you have to do is heat them up, which should be no chore for someone as proficient at heating things in a microwave as you.”

Grinning at the picture frame I had with the fake picture in it, I grabbed it and held it up. “See Win nurture Stevie,” I teased, ignoring the food and reaching into the lone cabinet for my Pop-Tart.

“See Win protect his investment Stevie,” he shot back dryly.

Win did his best to remind me that I was essentially his physical eyes and ears here on planet Earth, but he liked me. I knew he did. He took too much care in providing me with outrageous things just like this to deny it.

Dog nudged my hand then sat at my feet, his beautiful eyes staring up at me. “You think there’s any kibble in there from the personal chef for you, buddy? Let’s look,” I coaxed.

I began scanning the Tupperware, eyeing the one that read: Steak Diane.

“Stevie. Don’t you dare. That’s a filet!”

I popped it open and, while I’ll admit, it smelled like heaven even cold, Dog here needed to eat something and I had no time to grab dog food before Tito’s funeral.

“I’m sorry, did I bring a stray dog the size of a cruise ship home, hungry and filthy? No. I did not. But he needs to eat, and I don’t have time to get him any dog food before we go.”

I set it down on the floor for Dog and watched as he happily scarfed the steak with groans of pleasure. “Who’s a good-good boy? Now, Mommy’s going to go grab a shower and dress for Tito’s funeral. You finish your breakfast all up and if you’re still hungry, we’ll find out what ‘chicken cordon bleu’ means.”

“Don’t you dare feed him that chicken, Stevie. It costs the earth!”

I chuckled as I made my way back through the kitchen and up the stairs toward my bedroom. “Better practice opening cans, Win. I have a feeling there’ll be a lot of them in Dog’s future!”

I grunted when I hit the top of the stairs. Maybe I’d overestimated how good my tailbone felt. As I rounded the corner, I winced. I wasn’t looking forward to digging through boxes, but I knew I had a secondhand vintage Halston, a classic, simple black dress, and completely appropriate for Tito’s funeral.

Sorrow gripped my heart as I opened the closet door and sank to my knees to begin digging.

I hated the reason I was wearing this dress. I hated that I hadn’t figured out who’d murdered Tito. But I was resigned to showing my support for Maggie and her family even if I still had no answers as to who’d killed him.

Popping open the first box, I winkled my nose at the one full of some of my clothes from Paris. All light apparel because Texas was hell-hot, all only useful here in Ebenezer Falls for a total of maybe three or four months.

Hoisting myself over the first layer of boxes, I tried to read the labels on them without a light when something caught my eye.

Way in the back, stuffed up against the corner, was a shiny jewelry box—and not one of mine, by the by. I wondered if the prior owner had left it—the prior owner still being a mystery at this point.

I’d asked around town here and there, but everyone had a different story. Some said it was a woman named Melissa or Melinda, and she’d died just after purchasing the house.

One story said she’d slipped off the cliff at the edge of my property and fell to the rocks below. Another told the tale of her disappearing and never returning.

I didn’t know what to believe. I only know whoever owned this beast of a house before Win was suspicious indeed.

With a grunt, I latched on to the jewelry box, the studded exterior flashing in ruby-red and green tones. My heart began to pound for no apparent reason other than whom this belonged to remained a mystery, and by now, we all know how I feel about one of those.

I slid out of the closet, forgetting about the dress and sitting on the plywood floor still waiting for the delivery of reclaimed wood to garnish it. My fingers grew stiff and clammy as I popped it open, my hands shaky and unsure.

The interior, deep ruby-red velvet, was as pristine as anything could be after surviving vagrants and teenagers squatting here.

And inside, there was a picture.

I yanked it out, fighting the race of my pulse.

The edges were worn, as though someone had worried the picture with their fingertips. It was composed of that thin photo stock one uses when they print their own pictures from a home computer.

It also looked fairly current, if I went by what the couple was wearing, and I was certain that was the Eiffel Tower behind them. Though the focus of the photo was more on the two of them.

A redhead with a thick cascade of bright curls smiled laughingly up a tall, dark-haired man, her profile distinct, her chin lean. He wore a navy-blue button-up shirt, fitted to hug his lean waist and wide shoulders, black jeans and black cowboy boots. He smiled down at her, his hand wrapped around her small waist, while hers were planted possessively on his chest.

She wore a black down vest over a red turtleneck, her breasts high and pert, her legs long in jeans that hugged her figure and led to heeled brown boots.

I couldn’t see her really well, I’d need a magnifying glass to distinguish her features better, but I saw the man. His grin was wide, carefree, and totally besotted—obviously with the woman. His curly dark hair fell just over his collar, but was slicked back on top, his coloring leaning toward almost olive-skinned, his cheekbones defined by a glint of the sun.

And he was so handsome I almost couldn’t breathe.

I stared at it for a moment or two longer, curiosity eating me up. Who were these people, and could this be the woman who’d owned the house before Win?

I don’t know what made me look at the back of the photo. Hardly anyone I know dates them like some parents used to do back in the day before the Internet and cell phones. Nowadays, you can find a time stamp on your phone or Facebook and Instagram.

But I did, and
when
I did, this time, I really gasped out loud, making Belfry, who’d obviously gone back to sleep, stir with a soft mewl.

The back right edge had writing on it, the first letter of the first name smudged and worn away.

But what I could read said: in and Miranda. Paris 2009.

Was I looking at what I thought I was looking at?

I blinked, rubbing my eyes and getting up to hold it to the light.

Could this Miranda be the Melissa or Melinda everyone was always speculating about?

And the letters I and N… If you put a W in front of them, it spelled Win.

My heart nearly beat out of my chest even as my knees trembled.

Was I looking at my Spy Guy?

“
F
rank. It’s a solid name, Stevie. What troubles you about Frank?”

“It sounds like we don’t care enough to come up with something creative for him, that’s what’s wrong with it.”

“Well,
Stephania
,” Win drawled, extra British at the moment, “then you come up with something better.”

I’d been snippy with Win since we’d gotten into the car to head to Tito’s funeral. I know it was due to the fact that I’d found that darn picture and I was having some feelings about it I was incapable of identifying.

I didn’t even know if it was really him. I just knew the woman was gorgeous and they were in Paris and I’d have to tell him what I found because I hated secrets. But right now, I just wanted to pick a name for our dang dog and mourn Tito.

“Snowball!” I shouted as though I’d found the meaning of life, while passing the boatyard on my way to the church where the service for Tito would be held.

“
Snowball?
Bah. Half the population owns or has owned a pet named Snowball. Really, Stevie. How much more original is that than Frank?”

“Well, it’s better than Lassiter. Sounds like a name you stole from some romance novel,” I scoffed, gripping the steering wheel as the heavy rain battered the windshield.

“What have you against romance novels?”

“Nothing. I love them. Sop ’em up with a biscuit. I just don’t want our dog to be named after some over-endowed stud cowboy who wears tight T-shirts, has a rock-hard jaw, perfect teeth, sweats glitter and diamonds, and carries around his emotional baggage like a saddle.”

“Can one ever be too over-endowed?”

“Maybe not, but they can be too mouthy.”

“No Snowball,” he groused.

I decided to change the subject before I blurted out something I’d regret. I needed more time to process that picture.

“Remind me to hunt down Sandwich. I’m sure he’ll be at the funeral, and I know he’s probably got more information. He won’t like it, but I’m going to worm it out of him anyway.”

“The way you wormed the last bit out of him?”

Rolling my eyes, I pulled into the parking lot of the church, my hands clammy from nerves. “Fine. So I’m an epic fail at flirty. I’ll think of another way to dazzle him, don’t you worry about a thing, pal.”

“Will you be all right going in alone for a moment?”

Heaving a sigh, I watched as mourners poured through the wood doors of the church by the dozen. “I’ll be fine. Why?”

“I’d just like to pop in and check on Bel and Dog. Make sure Bel’s got this covered and Dog is behaving whilst they get to know one another. He did agree to babysit and help Dog acclimate. It’s the least I can do, but I’ll be right back.”

My heart chugged, warming with a glow. Win could be so sensitive to others’ feelings. A rare trait in a spy, I’d imagine.

“You go. I’ll be okay. Promise.” I adjusted the Bluetooth in my ear and popped the car door open. “Hurry back, though. You never know if someone might show up who looks suspicious.”

“Who looks suspicious?” Forrest asked, making me jump. Dressed in a dark suit with a black tie, despite the reason for his outfit, he looked handsome and strong. “Share my umbrella?”

I smiled up at him as he held his red-and-white-striped umbrella over my head and gave a small laugh. “Yes, thank you, and it’s nothing. Just more renovation drama. How are you?”

Forrest’s handsome face went grim. “About as well as can be expected, I guess.”

Chester came up from the rear, slipping his arm through mine and patting my hand. The scent of his Old Spice in my nose comforted me. “There’s my girl. Sad day today.”

As we hit the bottom of the church steps, I nodded. “It sure is.”

“You hear they brought Tito’s girl in for questioning?” Chester asked.

Nodding, I replied, “I read it in the paper just this morning. It’s standard stuff, I’d think.”

Chester grunted. “I dunno. Maybe not after the way that Nelson fella was grumblin’ in the coffee shop today.”

“So what else is new? Officer Nelson is always grumbling,” I joked.

“Well, this mornin’, he had plenty to say to his buddy Gorton there about that Bianca—”

“Gramps,” Forrest chided, thwarting further speculation. “No gossiping. You promised. Let the police handle this.”

When we reached the top of the wide stairs leading to the church doors, I had to swallow hard when I caught sight of Maggie. Wearing a simple black dress and matching flats, she looked like the weight of the world rested squarely on her shoulders.

Reaching out a hand to her, I pulled her into a light hug. “I’m so sorry, Maggie,” I whispered as her body shuddered in my arms.

She pulled away first, her eyes full of unshed tears when she said, “My Taco, he like you, Stevie. He so sorry for calling you bad name. He tell me he want to make things good.”

Rubbing a soothing circle across her shoulders, I nodded. “And he did. Promise. It’s okay now, Maggie. It’s all water under the bridge, right? Please, if you need anything, anything at all, let me know, would you? I’d be happy to help with whatever you need.”

I left her with those words and Forrest, so he could convey his condolences before I began to sob along with her, scurrying inside the church vestibule to find a seat for the service.