Quit Your Witchin' (23 page)

And Maggie? She’d accepted Carlito as if he were her own son. She told him he was a piece of her taco man still here on earth, and she’d never regret finding out about him now that Tito was gone.

Jacob Dietrich was released from the drunk tank and, according to reports, muttering something about a white bug attacking him on his boat that day. But he hadn’t mentioned me at all. Word was, Jacob had checked himself into rehab willingly, and that gave me hope, so I agreed to the judge’s terms that he remain at the recovery center as part of time served as his punishment.

“Anything else from Alba?” I asked, alternately thankful for and concerned by her presence that night with Miguel.

“I think it’s safe to say she’s gone now, but I won’t deny her words that evening troubled me, Dove.”

I had no control.
That’s what she’d said to Win even as she’d attempted to help save me from Miguel. Those words worried me, too.

“Shall we assume she had no control at the séance that night because of someone or something directing some afterlife rage toward you through
her
?”

Win meant Adam Westfield, the council member who’d slapped the witch out of me. Anything was possible. Adam had been a powerful warlock in life, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’d taken measures to ensure his afterlife remain just as powerful.

I just didn’t understand how—or why what he’d done to me already wasn’t enough punishment. Why he’d seek retribution by possessing a woman who, while misguided, had been looking out for her daughter.

Would he never let me be? Or was it someone else entirely and I was barking up the wrong tree?

“I don’t know, Win. I just know she tried to help. That’s the only thing I know. The other thing I hope is she’s crossed over. To safety.”

But I couldn’t allow myself to dwell or I wouldn’t live.

So today? Today I just wanted to bask in the glow of some peace and quiet. Renovations were coming closer and closer to done. Another month, and the sound of jackhammers and nail guns waking me would be a thing of the past. But Enzo and Carmella wouldn’t. I wanted them around as much as possible.

Dog came barreling out from behind the house, his jowls flapping and dirt flying from his fur. We’d discovered he loved to dig, but was quite content to listen when we told him no. After a visit to the vet, where no microchip was found but a clean bill of health was given, he’d settled in like he’d always been with us.

He came to an abrupt stop in front of me, the ball we’d thrown around earlier in his mouth. I loved his gentle brown eyes and morning kisses.

“Dog! Have you been digging in the backyard again, mister? I will take your pig ears. Yes I will!” Win threatened with the cooingly fond tone he’d adopted especially for Dog.

I giggled and scrubbed his ears, loving the soft fur between my fingers. Dog was one of the bright spots of this week. He was officially family; even Belfry had to admit he just worked.

Which meant he needed a name. “Dog is never going to work, Win. He’s part of the Cartwright/Winterbottom conglomeration now, and I think I have the perfect name in mind.”

“I already told you, Sassafras is out. This fine beast of muscle and more hair than a yak is far bigger than Sassafras,” Win protested.

“Whiskey,” I said. “St. Bernards are famous for carrying barrels of booze to stranded people in the mountains or something. I looked it up. Though, ever wonder why the heck you’d give a person who hasn’t eaten or had anything to drink in days,
whiskey
? Is that wise?”

“Well, usually they were lost in snowstorms, and it was cold, and brandy, not whiskey, is known to warm a fella up. Which is what they were rumored to carry in those barrels around their necks. But the monks who raised them deny it,” Belfry chirped sleepily from my workout bag. “But Whiskey’ll do in a pinch, seeing as our guy’s a dude.”

Win laughed. “Whiskey it is then.”

I ruffled the top of Whiskey’s head. “Hooray! You have a name. Welcome to the family, Whiskey.”

Whiskey dropped to the ground at my feet in the shade and began gnawing on the fifth tennis ball he’d desecrated this week alone.

Sighing, I let the sun seep into my sore bones and stretched. Today was a good day. Our Madam Zoltar schedule was clear, the driveway was finished and sported my car, neatly parked outside the new garage doors. Carlito was out of jail and Tito’s killer was caught.

Life was really nice right now. Except for one small detail…

“So shall we talk about what happened that night? Or shall we continue to ignore it actually happened?”

Pouring some cucumber water from the glass pitcher, I hedged. I wasn’t sure I wanted to talk about what Win meant. But I
knew
what he meant.

So I shrugged, leaning over to peek in on Belfry, who’d gone back to sleep.

“Stevie…”

“Okay, let’s talk about it, but could we do it quietly so Bel doesn’t get the wrong idea? We don’t know if it means anything yet and I don’t want him to get too excited.”

“So I wasn’t imagining the spark shooting from your fingertip?”

“No. You didn’t imagine it. That was how I always began a spell.”

“Ah. And it felt the same then?”

“It did. It felt just like it used to feel.” I’d tried all week long to recapture, to replicate that feeling, only to fail time and time again. So I stopped. I didn’t want to rehash the loss of my powers. I couldn’t.

“What do you think this means, Dove?”

Shaking my head, I looked down at my bare feet, deciding a pedi was in order. “I don’t know. I’m afraid to think about it too much. Maybe it meant nothing at all.”

“Couldn’t you talk to one of your witch friends about what happened, maybe get their input? You don’t talk a great deal about those days in your life, you know. You can’t just erase them, Dove. They mean something. They’re part of who you are.”

“
Were
,” I said, shifting in my chair. “They’re who I
was,
Win, and if I don’t keep my feet moving forward, I’ll just collapse. I don’t want to hope what happened that night with Miguel means much of anything, only to have it mean nothing.”

“So you’d just rather not think about it at all?”

I looked down at the blades of grass under my feet. “No. I actually put a call in to my friend Winnie. Just to see if she could maybe give me some insight.”

“Good then. Bloody good. Nothing would make me happier than to see your former powers returned to you.”

I managed a smile, even though I thought it was utterly impossible, no matter how many tingling fingers I had. “You might not like that so much, International Man of Mystery. It would mean I could give you a real run for your money on Plane Limbo with my wand.”

“I repeat. You’re such a meanie-butt.”

Giggling, I sipped my cucumber water and stared out at the beautiful masterpiece my front lawn was becoming. No one would let me help because of my injuries, but I sure was glad so many people cared enough to force me to recuperate.

“So…are we going to talk about the
other
thing that’s troubling you?”

The warm wind picked up, billowing the umbrella above us. “What other thing?”

“You know what other thing, Stevie. It’s been bothering you all week.”

“If I knew what other thing you were talking about, I’d say so. What’s the thing?”

“That’s not entirely true. Because you haven’t said so.”

“Okay, Spy Guy, spit it out. I’m all tapped out on mysteries for this week.”

“The picture.”

I froze, my drink halfway to my lips. I don’t know why I pretended like I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I did. I mean, maybe he didn’t mean what I thought he meant and I’d blow my cover for no good reason.

“The picture?”

“Yes, Stevie. The picture. The one of me in Paris.”

My stomach somersaulted and my heart crashed in my ears. Were we actually going to talk about this? That was
actually
what he looked like?

A dizzy rush of jumbled thoughts came to mind, but Win deserved an answer. I had, after all, vowed there’d be no more secrets…

“Why didn’t you tell me it was here in the house if you knew where it was, Win?” I squeaked, my throat dry.

“Because it’s a painfully sore subject, Stevie. I knew eventually you’d discover it, so I decided to let nature takes its own course and deal with it only when I had to. Call it procrastination, but there it is.”

His reply was a somber one at best, his words as raw and honest as I’d ever heard them. “Why is it painful?”

“Because the woman in the picture—”

“Miranda?”

“Yes,” he offered in his stiff-upper-British-lip way. “Miranda was her name.”

I think my eyes were beginning to glaze over. Win knew a lot about me, almost everything, but I knew so little about him and his spy past. Now that the moment of reckoning was here, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know who Miranda was to him.

Scratch that, it was obvious who she was to him.

They’d been in love, and I don’t know why that made my heart ache with sadness, but it sure did.

Licking my dry lips and gripping the arms of my lounge chair, I gathered the courage to ask, “So, do you want to tell me who Miranda is? Are you ready to?”

Was I ready to hear?

Win cleared his throat. The seconds ticking by like hour-long, agonizing interludes of silence.

When he finally answered, I had to fight to keep myself upright and not gasp.

“Miranda is the woman who murdered me…”

For now! I hope you’ll join Stevie, Winterbottom, Belfry, and Whiskey, and follow more clues to discover exactly how Winterbottom landed in the afterlife, if he’ll ever get back to this plane, and if our amateur sleuth Stevie is ever going to regain her witch powers again in
Dewitched
—Book Three—Witchless In Seattle Cozy Mysteries! Coming, May 2016!

A Paris, Texas Romance, Book 1

“I
’m warning you, Winnifred Foster. If you say or do anything today that sends our asses back to the pokey, I’ll zap you bald and give you a cold sore that makes you look like you have three lips,” her best friend Zelda groused as she futilely tried to snatch a pair of scissors from Winnie’s hand to prevent her from giving herself bangs.

Winnie hopped on the sagging mattress of her cot, looking down at her partner in crimes of abusive witch magic and current cellmate in witch jail with an accusatory glance.

She held the scissors up in the air. “I’m sorry,
me
? As in
moi
? If
I
say anything? Er, wasn’t it
you
who told Baba Blah-Blah she was wearing the wrong color leg warmers for that wart on her nose? Or was I just imagining things?”

Zelda swiped for the scissors again. “It’s Baba Yaga
,”
she corrected, reminding Winnie she’d purposely twisted their jailor’s name out of spite, and it was one of the reasons they were in magic jail to begin with. “You’d better get that right at Council so we appear respectful.”

“Call her whatever you like, Z, but
you
insulted her, not me. I love you, and while I totally agreed with your fashion assessment, and she did look hideous, I bet pointing out Baba DooDah’s flaws aren’t going to win us favor at Council today. She’s an elephant, my friend. She remembers everything.”

She hopped back off the cot when Zelda stopped trying to make a grab for the scissors. She was worried. They were up for review for parole today and she didn’t want anything screwing that up. She wanted out of this rank-smelling cell with its gray concrete walls and equally gray sheets.

She wanted to go to parties and laugh and drink champagne like they used to.

Drown herself in luxury and forget Ben…

Their cell was barren of any modern conveniences, especially those they could perform magic with—like mirrors. Locked up in Salem, Massachusetts, like serial killers in an old hotel built in the early 1900s that had been converted to a jail for witches.

Cellblock D was designated for witches who abused their magic as easily as they changed their underwear. Witches like her and Zelda.

It wasn’t hardcore like Cellblock X. That was a nightmare of mastermind witch criminals who didn’t just whip up a stack of money to spend at Neiman Marcus like she and Zelda were known to do—but real freaks who’d put the A in apocalyptic Armageddon.

From the outside, the hotel was glamoured to look like a charming bed-and-breakfast, complete with climbing ivy and flowers growing out of every conceivable nook and cranny. Inside it was barren, cold and ugly, and guarded heavily with magic, keeping all mortals at bay.

At the moment, it was just the two of them in Cellblock D. Just Winnie and Zelda and the humor-free staff of older-than-dirt witches and warlocks guarding them.

Zelda made a face, running a hand through her gorgeous red curls. “So, for the sake of our parole, let’s hope Baba Lamadingdong remembers our good behavior. Like the time you taught Big Sue Moses how to make eye shadow out of baby oil and cigarette ashes. Or when I selflessly gave Chi-Chi Gonzalez my extra Kotex pads so she could make some slippers for those Sasquatch-like feet of hers.”