Chiding him for not playing by the rules was as close to pointless as one got, but I did it out of habit. Much the way any mother of a toddler who needed repetitive reinforcement would.
Winterbottom, or Win as I call him, is my afterlife connection—my conduit to the other side. Really. That’s the absolute truth.
Plainly speaking, he’s a dead British spy who barged into my life (or my ear if we’re being literal) just over a month or so ago when he needed my help and wouldn’t leave until I caved.
If I helped him solve a murder, in return he’d helped me move on with my new life here in Ebenezer Falls, WA as a shunned, powerless, broke ex-witch and give me all his worldly possessions as a reward of sorts.
Worldly possession being a decrepit old Victorian in crumbling, graffiti-filled disrepair and more money to renovate it than I could spend in five lifetimes.
The truth. My hand to God. That really happened. Though, according to him, he’d already planned on giving me his house and money before I’d agreed to help solve the murder.
He said my afterlife connections were enough of a reference to consider me a worthy recipient. Also according to him, that was all he needed to ensure his monster of a house, and what I now lovingly call Mayhem Manor, would be in good hands.
Win never reminded me what he’d so generously given my bat familiar, Belfry and I. He never rubbed it in. He never asked for anything more than his initial request in return.
But he sure made up for it in other ways. Like today. We’d taken over Madam Zoltar’s tarot card reading and medium business in her honor.
Madam Zoltar’s death was the murder I mentioned, and what brought Win and I together in the first place. Now it was the glue sticking him to my backside.
I longed for the days when I was a witch, and I desperately missed communicating with spirits—my specialty before I was shunned. Running Madam Zoltar’s helped ease that ache a bit, even if I was only communicating by proxy.
Also something to note, shunned is a kind word. After I literally had the witch slapped out of me by an angry spirit, I ended up booted out of my coven back in Paris, Texas, when I became mortal again by the very leader I’d trust with my soul.
And it hurt—stung like no tomorrow.
So once the dust settled after solving Madam Zoltar’s murder case, we’d concocted a plan—one that had given me a reason to get up in the morning.
I’d be the medium, hence my turban and caftan (another shout out to Madam Zoltar and her keen, quirky fashion sense—hey, girl!), and Win would be my legit conduit to the afterlife. Being that he was in limbo and had no plans to change his afterlife Facebook status to “crossed over” any time soon, our arrangement worked just fine.
We’d agreed to take this journey together in memory of Madam Zoltar, a beloved figure here in Ebenezer Falls, and also someone Win had become very fond of just prior to her death.
But we had rules and stipulations to this agreement.
Though, hear this, I’d never take money to contact the deceased from someone who was in the throes of grief. Never. I’d also never take their money if I couldn’t truly communicate with the deceased.
So Win and I decided not only would we work as a team, we’d donate whatever the customer could afford to pay (yes, you read that right. Sliding scale séances) to various charities—animal rescue being high on my list—and use only what we needed to pay the store’s expenses.
And that’s what led me here—to Spy Guy’s otherworldly philandering.
I looked at the picture of our client Edward Randolph’s dead lover, Kitty Talucci, her luscious ebony hair falling down her back in a riot of curls, lying against the alabaster skin of her shoulders, decked out in a strapless lycra red dress that hugged her abundant breasts and accentuated her tiny waist and lush hips, and pointed to it.
“Does Kitty look like a woman who hasn’t danced a time or two, Win?”
“You’re stereotyping. That’s against the law.”
“Point for the dead spy,” Belfry chirped, stretching his wings.
“It’s called profiling and I’m not a cop, but even if I were, I’m really not profiling. Kitty was a dancer. Burlesque. You’d know that if you were looking into her deep, dark velvety eyes. Now quit trying to pick her up and help me help Edward find her last will and testament so he can prove to her evil ex that Snape is now his cat because Kitty left him to Edward in her will.”
“Who names their cat Snape?” Win balked.
Repositioning my turban, I smoothed my colorful caftan and made a face. “Women who like Harry Potter and Alan Rickman?”
“Ah, a fellow Brit. This bodes well for me,” he purred in his whiskey-smooth voice.
“No. There is no boding anything. Now, get out there to that table and let’s get ‘er done. One more swish of your flirty ghost hair, and it’s curtains for you, International Man Of Intrigue.”