“What was the original intent?” I asked.
“Forget that for now. As I was saying, you are, as they say here in the afterlife, the best in the biz. They also say you have a big heart, you’re tenacious, you cry at Hallmark movies during Christmas, you’re unbelievably gifted at finding bargain designer clothes from consignment shops and the like, you love a good mystery and are rather proficient at solving them, and you have a lovely shade of gray-blue eyes—of which I’d quite agree.”
My cheeks flushed red. “That’s very kind of them, and you. The problem is, I can’t help you or anyone from the afterlife anymore.”
“Mmm. I’ve heard. That’s neither here nor there.”
I stared up at the direction the voice came from and made a face. “No, that is here. Did the afterlife gossips fail to mention I’m not a witch anymore and all my medium powers are gone?”
“Yet, here you are, talking to me. They couldn’t be gone entirely, because I truly am gone from this plane and still we communicate…um, sorry. What’s your name?”
“The afterlife didn’t tell you my name?”
“They’re all quite vague here. As though you’re some secret family recipe for Yorkshire pudding they aren’t willing to share. They had the absolute audacity to tell me to get in line. Though, they did mention your very annoying familiar. Their words, not mine.”
“Hey!” Belfry chirped. “I’m right here, you know. And it’s Belfry, BTW. As in ‘bats in the’.”
I plucked Belfry up and tucked him against my chin, where he clung to the lapel on my jacket. “I’m Stevie, as in Nicks, the singer. Stevie Cartwright.”
“The pleasure’s all mine. Anyway, as you can see, we have a problem.”
“Are you sure she’s dead?”
“Positive.”
When I’d assisted souls from the afterlife, they’d never sent me to help with a dead body. Still, I couldn’t stop myself peeking around the corner of the purple material to assess the situation.
Madam Zoltar was flat out on the floor on her back in the mostly sparse space. Compared to the outer portion of the store, the back had no clutter at all. There was only a water cooler at the other end of the room in the right corner with some cone-shaped cups.
There was a wooden chair tipped over next to her, her body crumpled as though she’d slid from the seat she was sitting on at the round table and collapsed to the floor.
A purple tablecloth just touching the floor looked as though someone had yanked it half off the scarred table.
Madam Z must have grabbed it when she fell backward, which explained why the tarot cards were scattered over the top of the table and on the floor beside her still body.
She wore a turban made of some sort of white clingy material, with a big green jewel in the center, but a tuft of her graying hair poked out from beneath the edges by her neck. Her dress was flowing and multicolored, a caftan was how I’d classify it, with a matching jewel-encrusted neckline revealing her ample décolletage, and a scarf tied around her neck.
Gaudy rings graced almost every one of her fingers and in every color, with enormous costume gems. Yet her feet were bare, something I found curious. For someone who appreciated a little finery, I found it odd she didn’t have matching kitten heels to complete her outfit, or at least a cute pair of functional flats.
That curiosity had my eyes swerving to her chubby feet. Ten toes were painted red and, in keeping with her love of jewelry, she had a toe ring on one middle toe.
But the ball of her right foot really caught my eye. There was a hole about two inches in size where her skin looked torn and missing, the edges of the wound almost charred. It was as though the spot on her foot had randomly exploded.
I’d call it a blister, but if that wound was a blister, I’d throw away the shoes that gave it to me.
My first instinct was to consider the obvious. A heart attack. After seeing the tablecloth she’d clearly dragged with her when she fell, it looked to me like she’d latched on to it in the throes of pain. Madam Z was an older woman, probably in her later sixties, her skin said as much. A heart attack made sense.
“Heart attack?” I finally asked out loud.
“I don’t think so,” Winterbottom replied, as if he had this all sewn up.
“Were you a medical examiner in your former life?”
“Um, nope. Guess again.”
Planting my hands on my hips, I frowned into the empty store. “Then how do you know she didn’t die of a heart attack or stroke? Did you see something?”
“No. Unfortunately, when I arrived just before I tried contacting you through Belfry this morning, Madame Zoltar was already dead.”
Why was a legitimate ghost visiting a fake psychic? “You were here? Why?”
“We had business to attend.”