I’d call it a blister, but if that wound was a blister, I’d throw away the shoes that gave it to me.
My first instinct was to consider the obvious. A heart attack. After seeing the tablecloth she’d clearly dragged with her when she fell, it looked to me like she’d latched on to it in the throes of pain. Madam Z was an older woman, probably in her later sixties, her skin said as much. A heart attack made sense.
“Heart attack?” I finally asked out loud.
“I don’t think so,” Winterbottom replied, as if he had this all sewn up.
“Were you a medical examiner in your former life?”
“Um, nope. Guess again.”
Planting my hands on my hips, I frowned into the empty store. “Then how do you know she didn’t die of a heart attack or stroke? Did you see something?”
“No. Unfortunately, when I arrived just before I tried contacting you through Belfry this morning, Madame Zoltar was already dead.”
Why was a legitimate ghost visiting a fake psychic? “You were here? Why?”
“We had business to attend.”
“Could you be any more vague? You invited me to this party, Weatherwarning. I didn’t crash it.”
He chuckled, sort of low and slow and absolutely meant to be condescending. “Now you’re just teasing me, Stevie Like-Nicks-the-Singer. Surely you’re not that dense. I repeat, it’s Winterbottom. And you make a fair statement. But it sounds as though we’ll have to continue this conversation later. I believe I hear the dulcet tones of police sirens.”
I froze, my eyes skimming the front of the store and the picture window, where the sign still blinked, looking for in-store cameras.
Ebenezer Falls was mostly crime-free as I remembered it, but that didn’t mean Madam Z wasn’t smart enough to protect herself on the off chance someone broke in. The last thing I needed was to end up on America’s Most Wanted.
I raised my hand to cast a vanishing spell in case I’d been filmed and then I remembered, like a punch to the gut, I couldn’t handle my problems with a spell and the flick of my hand anymore.
A thread of panic screamed through my veins, making my blood run cold. I’d had enough of being accused of something I didn’t do in my witch life. I refused to start my human one with the local police as my guide.
Scooping Belfry from my collar, I located my purse on the countertop, where all my trouble began, and plopped him into it. “Okay, SummerButt or whatever your name is. I apologize in advance if I have that wrong, but I can’t think straight when I’m in a panic. And this is me, officially in a panic. This looks bad. So, so bad. I’ll call 9-1-1 once I’m safely out of here. They’re going to take one look at this mess and think I had something to do with it!”
I’m not sure why I came to the conclusion the police would immediately think I’d killed Madam Zoltar. Maybe it was because I was still so freshly raw from my witch-slapping incident. Raw enough to know not everything is always as it seems.
I began picking my way through the debris of candles and crystals, wondering if I’d left muddy footprints anywhere with my galoshes. Didn’t the forensic police always match footprints to shoes?
Of course they did. They did it all the time on Castle.
But there was no time for me to cover my tracks as the sirens grew closer.
The door to the store burst open, filling the interior with the sounds of the busy street outside. A short round man pushed his way through, almost tripping on some of the candles. “That’s her!” he yelled, pointing at me.
There was a local police officer right behind him who eyed me critically, shoving the short man behind him in a protective gesture. “Police! Put your hands where I can see ’em!” He pointed what looked like the biggest gun in the history of guns right at me. “Chester! Stay behind me, would you?”
My hands flew upward in compliance; my purse, once in the crook of my arm, fell to my shoulder, unintentionally tossing poor Belfry around. No way was I giving anyone any guff. I watched YouTube. I knew what could happen if I got mouthy.
I fought a groan of distress as the officer approached me, his eyes narrowed and suspicious, as if he’d just caught Hoffa in the middle of a mob kill.
“Let me explain,” I began, keeping my tone even and, above all, calm while I forced myself to look into his dark brown eyes.
If I were going to explain, I’d do it right to his handsome face like someone who was telling the truth.
“That’s her!” the round senior with suspenders and a plaid green-flannel shirt chirped, as though he’d just identified Bigfoot. “Saw her comin’ in here about fifteen minutes ago then heard all the ruckus from my son’s coffee shop next door. Called you boys right up.”