The charred skin on the ball of her foot screamed electrocution. But then I remembered the scarf around her neck. Maybe I’d missed any signs of strangulation because I’d been so hung up on a different cause of death.
However, why in seven hells was the ball of her foot burned? Did she step on something? I had to get into that store and at least take a look around.
And another thing, how good had Spy Guy been as a spy if he didn’t have any theories yet?
I gripped Sandwich’s arm, looking up at him. “Are you sure she was strangled? Are the papers right? Are they really now calling Madam Zoltar’s death murder?”
He bounced from foot to foot with nervous energy, running his index finger along the collar of his stiff shirt. “Stop asking me questions, Stevie. You know I can’t answer them.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, coffee cup against my chin, I eyed him. “Then that makes us even, because I can’t answer yours either.”
“Aw, c’mon,” he pleaded under his breath. “Don’t make a big deal of this, just come to the station, talk to the lead detective and you’re done.”
“They’ve definitely involved detectives?” I hadn’t been sure if who I saw yesterday was a genuine detective going into MZ’s. But this meant an official investigation was underway, didn’t it? Human laws and witch laws were so different, I wasn’t sure.
Sandwich sort of pouted. “I can’t tell you that. Please, just take a ride to the station with me.”
“And if I refuse? Am I then under arrest, Officer Paddington?”
Now he looked uncomfortable. “Shoot no, Stevie. We just want to ask you more questions is all.”
Win breezed into my ear then. “Might I remind you, Stevie Like-Nicks-the-Singer, you don’t have to answer anything without a lawyer present unless they’re arresting you. A lawyer you can well afford now.”
I turned away from a confused Sandwich, putting my hand to the Bluetooth piece in my ear, and muttered, “Won’t that cut into our house budget and that fancy claw-foot tub you were babbling about this morning?”
I wasn’t used to having bags of money, let alone the amount now sitting in my bank account. It’s why I bought all of my clothes in thrift stores and consignment shops. Because I loved designer duds, I just couldn’t afford them.
“Hardly,” Win drawled.
Then that settled that. I turned back to my former classmate and gave him the haughtiest look I had in my arsenal, condescending raised eyebrow and everything.
“Sandwich? You go right back to your captain and tell him Stevie Cartwright won’t be questioned without her lawyer present, and if they want me to come in any other way, they’ll have to arrest me!”
“Stevieee,” Sandwich groaned. “They sent me because I know you—”
“And they thought they’d use that familiarity to abuse my good nature, didn’t they?”
Sandwich scratched his head, his shoulders slumping. “I think so. Er, no. I don’t know…”
I dropped my coffee cup on a nearby table and turned, putting my hands behind my back in a submissive gesture. “Well? Either you cuff me or I’m walking out that door, Sandwich.” And for the benefit of the crowd of people staring at me as though I had two heads and three breasts, I said, “Because I am not, I repeat, I am not a murderer!”
As everyone’s eyes widened, I stomped to the door, forgetting my coffee, forgetting everything except for my pride. I still had that.
Well, mostly.
When I stomped back and scooped up my coffee with shaky hands, I somehow managed to fumble the cup. My scarf now askew from my temper tantrum, I spilled the hot liquid all down the front of my silk shirt.
The shirt that suddenly became quite see-through.
Ugh.
Chapter 8
“The good news is, you had a bra on, Stevie. I’ve seen more skin on SpongeBob SquarePants than you were showing.”
Belfry’s attempt to make me feel better wasn’t helping.
“If you only knew how much I wish I lived in a pineapple under the sea right now!” I whisper-yelled.
“I didn’t see a thing. Pinky spy swear,” Win chimed in with his support.
I stomped up the street, passing Tito my taco vendor, who had the audacity to turn his back on me the moment I came into view, but not before he gave me the evil eye.
Several people, tucked into their winter vests and knit hats, literally looked the other way as I stalked along the curb toward nowhere in particular.
But when one of the shop owners, sweeping the sidewalk along his store, looked at me with obvious suspicion, I think I officially lost it a little.
Enough was enough. I stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk, raised my fists to the gloomy sky, and bellowed at him and anyone else in my path, “I am not a murderer!”
“Stevie! Steady the hull, huh? It’s like being on a roller coaster in here, for cripes’ sake!”
I winced, cradling my purse to my chest and peering into the interior with remorse. Poor Belfry.