“Madam Zoltar, have you been dipping into the wine? What do chickens have to do with this?”
“You have wine in the afterlife?” I asked.
“A buffet table, too. Quite an abundant spread, in fact,” Win responded, and then he groaned. “She’s off on a tangent again. I think she’s well knackered.”
I began to walk again with determination, this time directly across the street with the idea I’d head back to Madam Zoltar’s and see if I could sneak my way in there somehow. I needed to look more thoroughly at the crime scene. I still didn’t understand how Madam Zoltar had been electrocuted and strangled at the same time, sitting at her tarot card table.
My mind raced, replaying visions of the scene, but all I could recall was poor MZ on the floor.
“So what does a chicken have to do with any of this, do you suppose?”
“Who?” Win asked.
“A chicken,” I repeated.
“Not you, Stevie. I’m still talking to Madam Zoltar. Say the name again, MZ,” he encouraged.
Another long pause filled the air, making me wish I still had a way to communicate one on one with the spirit world. Everything was always so much easier if I could see an apparition’s face and read their expression.
“Dan. She said Dan knows.”
I stopped just as Madam Zoltar’s store came into view, a frigid chill running up my spine, making the hair at the back of my neck stand on end. “Who’s Dan and what does he know?”
Win groaned. “Aw, hell.”
“What? Tell me! Who’s Dan?”
“Dan is her son.”
Chapter 9
“Crispin Alistair Winterbottom?”
“You’re using my full name. As I recollect from my childhood, this is a parental tactic used to show one means business.”
“Shut. Up. Shut up now. Stop reciting your spy DIY tips. I don’t know if it escaped you, but I don’t have a bungee cord I can repel down the back of the building with.”
“Oh stop. Don’t exaggerate. I didn’t tell you to use a bungee cord to do anything. That’s only for the skilled, and while the time will come when all my secrets will be revealed, you haven’t earned your wings just yet. I said, dig a hairpin out of your purse to pick the lock, and make sure you use a tissue so you don’t leave behind fingerprints on the doorknob.”
I rolled my eyes, keeping them peeled in the alleyway behind Madam Z’s. “And then you went on and on about types of locks and cylinders and torque or something. What’s next? Lipstick machine guns?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Stevie. I never used a lipstick gun for anything. It’s a pen. Ball point, to be precise, and if you’re not ready for bungee cords, not a chance in all of my mother country would I allow you a pen gun at this stage of the game.”
“That’s not my point. My point is, shut up. All your gibberish about locks is making me nervous and confusing me. Now be a good lookout and cover me!”
I knelt down again and looked at the lock, forgetting Win’s advice and remembering what Jo-Jo Swenson taught me in the sixth grade about breaking into my locker because I could never remember the combination. I jammed my hairpin into the lock and lifted, saying a small prayer.
The tension eased on the lock’s pins and my hand twisted the doorknob with ease. “Hah!” I yelped triumphantly before covering my mouth and taking another furtive glance around.
I scooped Belfry from my purse and set him in the corner under the awning of Madam Z’s back door, stroking his tiny head. We’d agreed prior to this break in, he’d be our lookout. He’d make the sound of a crow if trouble were afoot.
As I entered the dark store, Win was right behind me. “Do you have a to-do list?”
“Nope, but I’m considering writing up a kill list.”
“You joke, but there’s this list circulating in the Maldives as we speak—”
“Win! Can it!”
“I was merely going to suggest we add a tension wrench to your spy accessory kit to enhance your next lock-picking experience. No need to be so huffy.”
“Listen, we’re breaking the law here. I don’t have clearance from Tom Cruise and his Mission Impossible posse to be in here. If we get caught, I get arrested. You get to float around and annoy me in my ear while you walk free, and I eat stale bread and creamed corn. So forgive me if I’m a little tense.”
I picked my way through Madam Z’s small living space, which was nothing more than a very basic studio apartment, careful not to disturb anything. The connecting door was ajar, and as I faced the room where Madam Zoltar had fallen out of her chair, I sucked in air before entering.
Forcing my feet to move, I eyed the fallen chair and the chalk outline of Madam Z.
The tarot cards hadn’t been cleaned up either, so I stooped to get a better look at what Madam Zoltar had dealt while I wondered if she’d been in the middle of a reading when she died.