Win had explained how he’d left the timeframe for announcing his death at a month as a safeguard. It was in case he wasn’t really dead. According to him, sometimes spies went deep undercover, and even their superiors had to pretend they were dead.
Davis Monroe was only to accept a death certificate from a source Win had named in his will—someone he trusted beyond reproach, and someone who could, without a shadow of a doubt, confirm he was gone.
I’d mentally put the date of his expiration in my box of things to explore once I could find a moment alone with Google sans Win in my ear.
I panicked for a moment when Mr. Monroe mentioned how odd it was that he could have sworn there’d been an entirely different name listed as Crispin Winterbottom’s sole beneficiary, but he chalked it up to the hectic phone call with a lot of background noise (which, according to Win, was in the middle of an interrogation) and his age. Which was nearing eighty, but he was still fit as a fiddle, he’d joked.
So I learned Win hadn’t been dead for long. That he’d acclimated so quickly to the afterlife said something about his fortitude. Sometimes it took weeks to find your footing as a ghost if you chose to wait on crossing over.
But not Spy Guy. He had it down. What he’d said about the confusion and disorientation a soul experiences if their death was traumatic was also true. So did that mean he didn’t die a traumatic spy-worthy death? Or was he just tough as nails?
That he’d had so many rigid rules and instructions in his will in preparation for his death spoke volumes about who he was when he was alive.
Orderly (well, except for naming Sal as his sole beneficiary, but who could blame a guy when he was in the middle of a delicate grilling?), concise, and no-nonsense.
But I still didn’t know why the house meant so much to him or if he really had been a spy.
However, I decided to let it go for the time being in favor of catching a killer. There was no immediacy to finding a job now. Though find one I would, when this was through. Money was lovely. It meant security, but it didn’t mean I wanted to sit on my butt without purpose.
So I set my sights on keeping my promise to Win by doing what I once did best. Solving a puzzle. I didn’t love that I’d be solving them minus my spells and wand, but this felt good—to be back at a place in my life where I wasn’t in limbo.
I closed my purse and waved to Chester Sherwood as I approached. He sat at a corner table with a single pink carnation in a vase, his plaid shirt crisp, his eyes behind his glasses sharp.
He was reading the local paper. My stomach dashed to my feet, stopping me in my tracks when I read the headline: Beloved Local Medium Allegedly Murdered—Suspect Questioned.
So now I was a confirmed suspect. As far as I knew, I was the only one questioned. Darn, and this day had started out so shiny and new.
“Don’t let it get in your head, Stevie. Do what you came to do,” Win coached.
I plastered a smile on my face for Chester’s benefit. “Hi, Mr. Sherwood, remember me from yesterday?” Duh, stupid. How could he forget? He accused you of murder.
He looked over the top of his morning paper, his round glasses sitting at the end of his nose. “The murderer.”
If there was one thing that never changed about Ebenezer Falls, word got around just as quickly as ever. It wouldn’t be long before everyone else was calling me a murderer, too.
I pulled out the chair opposite him and asked with a smile, “May I?”
“Don’t ask, Stevie. Just sit. Own this interrogation,” Win demanded in brisk words.
I held up a finger and said, “Just one moment, please, Mr. Sherwood,” before I turned my back to him and whispered from the side of my mouth. “What did I tell you about interfering? We made rules this morning, Win. I was very clear about how we’d do this—”
“Among other things,” Win drawled. “What was rule number fifty-six again? Something about announcing my entrance to any room with the mating call of the North American—”
“He’s not a suspect in a terrorist attack or a valuable art heist, Win! He’s an elderly gentleman who may have seen something yesterday he doesn’t think is important but could help Madam Zoltar, and more importantly, us. Now put away the bamboo shoots to jam under his nails and back off!”
I turned back around and cleared my throat, putting a finger to my ear and pointing at the Bluetooth earpiece I planned to use as a beard whenever Win decided I needed his spy-erly advice. “Sorry. An unexpected call from one of those naggy telemarketers. Anyway, may I sit with you? Please?”
Mr. Sherwood dropped his paper to his lap and glared at me. “Why would I wanna sit with you? And just so’s you know, I don’t care how pretty you are. You ain’t winnin’ me over with those big blue eyes. You’re still a murderer. The paper says so.”