Winterbottom’s rich, sophisticated voice grazed my ear. “That’s Madam Zoltar’s real name. Tina Marie Martoni. And this little chap with the suspenders and sharp eyes? He’s Chester Sherwood. Seventy-two, and a spry old goat. His son runs and owns the coffee shop next door.”
I rolled my shoulder to dislodge Winterbottom from my ear. If there was anything I was skilled at, it was ignoring clingy ghosts who wanted to talk when I was in the middle of something.
“May I put my hands down now, Officer? I think my fingers are numb.”
But Chester began hopping around in protest, the tuft of white hair on his balding head bouncing in time with his feet. “She was in here up to no good! Tell her to keep her hands in the air ’til her fingers fall off!”
Aw. That was kinda mean. I sent big pleading eyes to the officer, averting my gaze away from Chester The Heckler.
The officer lowered his gun and holstered it when his backup arrived, but he pointed a warning finger at me. “You can put your hands down, but you stay where we can see you.” Then he turned to his partner, a reed-thin, sandy-blond man who had to be at least six-three. “Keep an eye on her, Gorton, while I take a look around. She was here in the middle of all this when I got to the scene.”
“Wait!” I yelped a warning without even thinking. “Madam Zoltar’s…” I looked to Chester, who had called her “his” Tina, leading me to believe there might be some kind of romantic attachment, so I wanted to tread delicately. I’d hate it if I blurted out in a careless manner that she’d left this world.
So I inched my way over to the first officer on the scene, and caught his name badge. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I leaned into him. “Um, Officer Nelson? Madam Zoltar is dead.”
Chester was becoming more agitated by the second. He gripped the tall officer, his fingers sinking into the policeman’s forearm, his lips thinning into a line. “What are you whisperin’ about over there, girlie! What did you do to my Tina?”
Officer Nelson planted his hands on slender hips. “And how do you know she’s departed, Miss—”
I stuck my hand out between us, cutting off his words. “Cartwright. Stevie Cartwright. I know because I saw her. If you’ll just let me explain—”
He gave me a sharp gaze that said shut it and firmly ignored my hand, but his spoken instruction was polite. “If you’ll just wait here, Miss Cartwright, I’ll take a look.”
As Officer Nelson climbed over the carnage of my klutziness, I shoved my unshaken hand back to my side and held my breath.
From this distance, I saw him kneel down next to Madam Zoltar, pressing his fingers to her wrist. Then he spoke softly into the radio at his shoulder, obviously alerting headquarters there was no rush.
It was then the sorrow of a soul passing over hit me in waves of remorse, arcing over my initial shock. Madam Zoltar had probably been someone’s mother, sister, daughter, friend. I hoped wherever she’d landed on the other side, she was happy.
I said a small prayer to that effect while Officer Nelson assessed me again with a critical pair of brown eyes, his tight jaw and clean good looks hard to ignore. He struck me as the kind of man who made hospital corners on his bed and devoutly avoided anything chaotic.
But it appeared as though he wouldn’t be able to avoid chaos today. As passersby and probably other shop owners began to gather at the window and the entry to the store, more police arrived.
Was Madam Zoltar important to the community in a way other than her work? Or were these rubberneckers just a bunch of ambulance chasers?
“Nana Tina?” someone from the back of the forming crowd called, followed by a pale hand waving from the street.
All heads swiveled to see where the cry had come from before a young woman barreled through the gawkers.
Her eyes were wide and green, her hair dyed so red, under the dim light of the store it looked almost pink. The cut was shaggy and unkempt, worn jagged and spiky around her heart-shaped face. She had on as much jewelry as her nana, but she wore most of it in the way of piercings in her eyebrows and nose.
The slouch of her loose jeans rolled at her ankles, a pair of navy-blue Keds and a neon-green hoodie all said she was quite young.
“Nana Tina?” she cried out again, her eyes taking in the mess on the floor. Then she looked to Officer Nelson. “Where is my nana?”
I knew what was coming, and the very thought made me hurt for this young woman.
Officer Nelson’s wide shoulders slumped for only a moment before he squared them and stepped in her path, blocking her from the back room. “May I ask who you are?”
Anxiety began to take over, that much was clear from her tone and the way she attempted to get around him. “I’m Liza Martoni. I’m Tina, er, Madam Zoltar’s granddaughter. Now where is she? What happened? Was she robbed?” Tears stemming from obvious fear were beginning to form in the corners of her eyes, threatening to spill from her round orbs.