Edward gripped my hand with his sweaty cold one. “Are you really talking to her? What is she saying?”
“She said she’s busy. I can’t make her talk to me, Stevie,” Win said in exasperation. “Rule number five hundred and twenty-two clearly states, no former spy interrogation tactics with the spirits. This is inclusive of but not exclusive to, waterboarding, jumper cables, cigar cutters, any sort of contractor’s tool, all forms of bamboo-ish-like torture, fire, bullets, bombs, anything affiliated with bombs, chains, razors, yelling, berating, and or forceful measures are never to be taken when inducing spirit conversation in the afterlife. Your words.”
I grated out a sigh, forgetting Edward was with us. “Oh, we do not either have five hundred and twenty-two rules yet. It’s only in the three hundreds, Melodrama Mama, and I said nothing about bombs, but I’m glad you mentioned them. They’re definitely out.”
Edward leaned back in his seat, pulling his hand from mine, the vein running along his forehead pulsing. The apprehension on his face was clear. “What? I don’t understand what she means. We didn’t have any bombs. What’s happening?”
The distress on Edward’s face was obvious, from the lines in his forehead shaped in a frown to the downward turn of his trembling mouth.
I patted his hand again then sneezed, giving Win the second agreed upon signal to quit screwin’ around. If we got to the stage where I coughed, it was DEFCON and Win better be prepared to be on the receiving end of a good tongue-lashing. “It’s all going to be fine, Edward. Sometimes, other spirits interfere with my communication and our signals get crossed.”
“Other spirits?” he asked as he peered at me with watery eyes.
“Yep. Spirits who struggle with simple directions. They’re everywhere. All around us. Some even have names that rhyme with chin.”
Edward’s face went openly confused.
“You truly are despicable, Stevie Cartwright. You do this all the time and I have absolutely no way of defending myself. It’s cruel.”
I fought a grin, but just as I reached for Edward’s hand once more, there was a commotion outside the front of the store.
A crowd had gathered, the voices floating toward my ear filled with rising hysteria.
How odd.
But I shrugged it off. Maybe Forrest’s grandfather, Chester, had threatened the kids who skateboarded along the sidewalk with his big broom. Chester was infamous for chasing the local teens when they rode along the sidewalk with his broom in his chubby, weathered hands, held high over his head as he bellowed at them and called them miscreants.
Chester made me giggle. I adored this crabby, chubby little man, and he liked me pretty well, too, but we didn’t always have this mutual admiration for one another. He was the first person to accuse me of murdering Madam Zoltar, totally unfounded and completely reactionary on his part, but at the time, it had caused me some serious grief.
However, I’d forgiven him since then, and he was now one of the best parts about living here in Ebenezer Falls. I especially loved that he was helping me design gardens for the front of Mayhem Manor. We’d spent hours at the kitchen table, plotting and planning for spring.
Someone screamed outside, cutting off my thoughts.
Edward gripped my hand. “What’s going on?”
I rose from my seat and headed toward the new picture window I’d had installed in the front of the store and peered around our blinking Madam Zoltar sign toward the food trucks parked just across the street.
Aaron Jessup flew across the street, his eyes wide, his long legs eating up the distance between my store and the food carts. He looked panicked, maybe even afraid as he ran straight for Forrest’s coffee shop, ducking inside.
Forgetting about Edward and Kitty, I ran to our front door and pushed it open, the chimes Madam Zoltar had been so fond of tinkling a haunting sound. We were having an unusually warm, sunny day for March in Washington, which had brought a big lunch crowd to the food carts.
I couldn’t see anything through the throng of heads crowded around my favorite taco vendor’s food truck.
“He’s dead!” someone screamed in a light Spanish accent.
My heart began to pound and I tried to swallow, but my throat kept closing up. No. Please don’t let it be…
And then someone confirmed my deepest dread. “Call the police! Tito’s dead! The Taco Man’s dead!”