How the Witch Stole Christmas (Witchless In Seattle Book 5) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  How the Witch Stole Christmas

  Author Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Note from Dakota

  eBooks by Dakota Cassidy

  Excerpt

  “I believe that’s where we left things,” Win assured in the tone he reserved for soothing me. “For now, you must rest, Dove. You’ll be good to no one, least of all Bel, if you don’t at least try and rest your eyes. It’s late, and clearly Enzo isn’t answering his phone. So come, leave all this until tomorrow. Forget the mess; it can be cleaned up at a later date. Come to the parlor and we’ll put The Hallmark Channel on. That always soothes you, yes?”

  I began to protest by raising a hand. No sleep until we found Belfry. How could either of my hardcore spies even consider it? But Arkady intervened with an objection much the same as Win’s.

  “Winterbutt is right. You must recharge brain. If you are not sharp and do not have wits about you, mistakes will happen. We cannot have mistake for our Belfry’s sake, malutka. You must only take on that which you can control. You can control your state of mind and not make things worse. When even the best spy is tired, he lets his emotions get best of him.”

  They were right. I couldn’t let my emotions get the better of me. So I conceded. I had nothing to go on anyway, which wasn’t just frustrating, it was frightening.

  Bel was somewhere out there—alone…maybe cold…probably hungry. I couldn’t bear the idea, but if I didn’t let at least that much go, if I wallowed in what could be happening to him, if I gave even the smallest of horrors a chance to fester, I’d crumble.

  Heading to the laundry room, I pulled my comfortable old sweater from a hook on the wall and drove my arms into it with a shiver as I buried my nose in the soft, worn threads. The brush of metal against the skin of my neck as I disturbed the amulet my father had given me last summer comforted me.

  He’d said the necklace was a symbol he was always near, and right now I needed all the comfort I could get.

  Rest. I would rest so I could be at my sharpest for Belfry.

  Padding toward the parlor, I pushed my feet through pine tree limbs and shattered ornaments, clearing a path with Whiskey and Strike in tow. I looked away from the mess of my beautiful Christmas tree, the sticky puddle of coffee and caramel on the buffet table, and dropped down into my favorite chair by the fireplace hearth.

  Reaching for the remote, I tapped in the digits for The Hallmark Channel with my thumb without even looking. That’s just how acquainted I am with this channel—we’re old friends. Bel and I had watched a hundred of their movies over the years while he mocked and teased my gooey sentimentality and I defended the need for a time out from the real world.

  I’m a romantic at heart, and it doesn’t have to have anything to do with me personally, I just love a happily-ever-after, especially if it involves Christmas.

  Win and Arkady cut off my thoughts when they gasped in unison.

  I sat up straight, tucking my sweater around me. “What?”

  “Someone has stolen the kissy-face channel, too?” Arkady asked. “This is an act of terrorism! I will not let this blatant torture of my tangy blackberry jam stand!”

  My eyes rose to meet the big-screen TV on the wall across from the fireplace to see what they were talking about, and I gasped, too.

  My cable company’s message sat at the bottom of the screen and read: You do not subscribe to this channel. Please call your cable provider for further information.

  That son of a butt scratcher had cancelled my Hallmark Channel subscription on top of everything else?

  So not only had he likely kidnapped Belfry, and obliterated my Christmas decorations, but he’d yanked the final straw from my stack and taken the one thing that had any hope of easing my pain?

  Aw, heck no. This would not stand. Someone had to pay.

  How the Witch Stole Christmas

  Witchless In Seattle Mysteries, Book 5

  Dakota Cassidy

  Published 2017 by Book Boutiques.

  ISBN: 978-1-944003-88-3

  Copyright © 2017, Dakota Cassidy.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Book Boutiques.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is wholly coincidental. The names, characters, dialogue, and events in this book are from the author’s imagination and should not to be construed as real.

  Manufactured in the USA.

  Email [email protected] with questions, or inquiries about Book Boutiques.

  Author Note

  Dear Fabulous, Amazing, Awesome readers,

  Please note, the Witchless in Seattle series is truly best read in order, to understand the full backstory and history of each character as they develop with every connecting book.

  Especially in the case of the mystery surrounding Winterbottom (I know it drives some of you crazy. Sorrysorrysorry!). His story is ever evolving and will contain some mini-cliffhangers from book to book. But I promise not to make you wait too long until I answer each set of questions I dredge up.

  I also promise the central mystery featured in each addition to the series will always be wrapped up with a big bow by book’s end!

  That said, I hope you’ll join me for Ain’t Love A Witch?, Book 6 in the series, and Witch, Please!, Book 7, coming in 2017!

  No matter how you arrived here, thanks so much for joining Stevie and company on their journey to solve afterlife mysteries, and her search to regain her witchy powers.

  From myself, Stevie, Belfry, Winterbottom, Whiskey and all the Ebenezer Falls gang (living and dead), here’s to a joyous holiday season, filled with all the things you love, and a healthy, prosperous New Year!

  Happy holidays to all!

  Dakota XXOO

  Blurb

  It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas—!

  Er, not so much…

  It’s Christmas, and I, ex-witch Stevie Cartwright, declare this my favorite time of year! I love the decorations! The food! The Hallmark Channel holiday specials! This year promises to be better than ever because for the first time in a very long time, I’m going to have more than just Cheez Whiz, Triscuits and the wish to be surrounded by family and friends.

  My carefully planned holiday bonanza includes all the usual suspects. My bat familiar Belfry, my dog Whiskey, my ever-present ghostly spy friends—dashing Brit Winterbottom, stalwart Russian Arkady and my parents.

  However, nothing comes easy for this amateur sleuth, not even a neighborhood decorating contest. You know, the one I’ve been painstakingly prepping for months? Something goes horribly awry with my Christmas display (think bikini-clad carolers, pink flamingos and real, live turkeys) to start.

  But the worst? The dead body of the famous Chef Pascal Le June in my nativity scene!

  It becomes clear someone’s trying to ruin my Christmas, and that someone must pay! But when Belfry goes missing, and the danger takes on a paranormal edge, I find I have more to lose than ever before…

 
Acknowledgements

  Cover Artist: Valerie Tibbs, Tibbs Design

  Editor: Kelli Collins

  Chapter 1

  “Oh, Mr. Butterbaum, you didn’t…?” I asked, knowing the answer before he nodded his snowy-white head to confirm.

  He blustered, leaning back in his chair and brushing a hand over his houndstooth jacket with the cheerfully blinking Santa pin on his lapel.

  “I didn’t mean to… Honest. She was so dang mad at me, too. She died before I could tell her I was sorry. I need to apologize, Stevie…er, I mean, Madam Zoltar, or whatever we’re callin’ ya these days. I need my girl to know I’m sorry. Maybe that’ll give her some peace and she’ll stop showin’ up at the end of my bed every night, holdin’ that durn,” he threw up his fingers in quotes, “‘special sucky hose thing’ attachment. Scares the livin’ boxers right off’a me every time, I tell you.”

  I readjusted my signature Madam Zoltar turban and gripped his hand, giving him a pensive glance. I couldn’t help but wonder what provoked him to buy a vacuum as a gift.

  “But a vacuum? You bought your one and only true love a vacuum for Christmas? Her last Christmas here on earth?”

  I sighed and fought a judgmental frown. Men. Though, in Mr. B’s defense, maybe his wife had wanted one.

  “It was the Shark,” he weakly defended with a sheepish glance peppered with guilt, making the wrinkles beside each of his eyes deepen. “I thought I was doing good by her. Matilda even said she wanted one. Swear she did while she was watchin’ an infomercial for it. Said she’d like to have one.” He shook his head in remorse. “Knew I shoulda gone with the dang Pajama Jeans. Now she’s hauntin’ me and I don’t know what to do. Don’t only spirits who haven’t crossed over do that? You gotta help her, Stevie—and me, too. Ain’t slept a whole night through in forever.”

  “May I ask question?”

  “Mmmm,” I muttered back to one of my beloved afterlife pals.

  “Arkady Bagrov does not understand why a sucky Shark hose thing is not a good thing,” my favorite dead Russian spy said, clearly oblivious to the matters of women. “Where I come from, giving the sucky thing is high praise. This Matilda should be grateful her husband give her something so useful to make his home beautiful, no?”

  I fought a laugh, using the back of my hand to cover my mouth while not revealing to Mr. Butterbaum I was hearing a ghost praise his choice of the ultimate Christmas gift.

  Now Win’s good-natured laughter barked in my ear. “Ahhh, old chap. I’d say nyet. But this of course explains why you could never have a wife. Women want something with true meaning. Something you’ve invested a moment of research on, you old goat. Not a vacuum with a special sucky thing.”

  Arkady’s rumble of good cheer followed Win’s remark. “Hah! You!” he playfully accused. “You should know about the sucky thing. This silly talk of meaningful gifts is what you call the sucking up thing!”

  And then Win laughed in return, something that happened a great deal since he and Arkady had met up again in the afterlife a few months ago during the hottest week we’d ever had on record here in Ebenezer Falls, Washington. Once mortal enemies, now buddies, they often slapped each other on the back like old friends these days.

  Which was nice, considering Arkady had joined our little family in his direct, or what some would call, pushy manner. He just showed up one day while I was in the height of a confrontation with who we now know was Win’s twin brother, Balthazar (more on him and his dastardly disappearance later), inserted himself into our lives, and never left.

  Since then, I’d come to love hearing Arkady’s rich voice, his swoon-worthy accent, and even his completely unfiltered sexist thoughts. He genuinely doesn’t mean to be so insensitive. On the contrary, he’s quite complimentary to me in my ongoing spy training—holds me in the highest regard for being nothing more than, according to him, a mere mortal with more grit and determination than ten Russian spies in a Siberian prison.

  But unintentional sexist comments aside, he’s kind and giving, and above all, loyal to us to the core, and that helps when it comes time to speak to the spirits. He, like Win, aids me in contacting the dead at my little shop here in the center of Ebenezer Falls. He proves quite helpful when dealing with the crustier-than-usual specters.

  With his stern reminders he once took on a cartel in Mexico with nothing more than a Chapstick and a can of pickled herring, and his cheerfully forceful way of pushing the more tight-lipped ghosts to ante up information, he’s a good addition to our small crew of ghostly facilitators.

  Oh, and he seems to make Win really happy. Win, my dead British secret agent, stuck on what we jokingly call Plane Limbo (a plane where, after death, the undecided go), deserved a friend to share his afterlife.

  This particular plane can become quite lonely as spirits come and go with rapid frequency and they decide whether to cross over, making it tough for those who aren’t ready to cross to forge friendships.

  For the moment, Arkady was sticking around, and he and Win spent lots of time together rehashing old spy missions, and in general behaving like they were back in high school, reliving their glory days.

  Whiskey, our rescue St. Bernard, stirred at my feet, tucking his nose against my calf, reminding me Mr. Butterbaum was still waiting to speak to Matilda, his recently passed wife of over fifty years.

  “Mr. Butterbaum?”

  He patted my hand, his gnarled fingers curling over mine, his face a mass of worried wrinkles. “Call me Vern, MZ.”

  I smiled in sympathy. “All right. Vern it is. So let me get this right. You want to apologize to your wife for buying her a vacuum for Christmas.”

  He dipped his head at me. “Yep. That’ll exorcise her, right? Or whatever ya call it. Make her go into the light? I want her to rest in peace is all.”

  Fighting a chuckle, I wondered if the vacuum was really the problem here. “Yes, my goal is to help her cross over into the light, but do you really think she was that angry over a vacuum cleaner? Angry enough to haunt you? You were married for fifty years. Surely she knows you well enough to know you meant well by giving her a vacuum with a special hose attachment.”

  “Then why does she keep showin’ up every night at the end of our bed, wavin’ that hose attachment thing around like a checkered flag at the Indy 500?”

  “That is the question.” I patted his arm and squeezed it tight, holding up Matilda’s treasured locket between the fingers of my other hand. Sometimes, making contact with the dearly departed was easier if I had a personal object they’d worn or some item they truly loved. “Are you ready, Vern?”

  He puffed his chest out as though preparing to put on a brave front and gave me a hesitant smile. “I think so.”

  Settling back in my Madam Zoltar chair, I said, “Dim the lights, please,” voice-activating our lighting system. Instantly, the lights settled into an amber glow, making Vern’s fresh-from-Florida-golfing-trip tan appear deeper. “Matilda? Are you here with us, dear? I have someone who’d like to talk to you.”

  The light hum of energy I felt when a presence announced itself had been growing stronger as of late. The shiver along my spine indicating an aura in the room occurred just like the days of old, before I had my witch powers slapped out of me by a vengeful warlock.

  Each time I performed a séance during the summer months, when our tourist season here in Ebenezer Falls was at its highest, I’d experienced some of my old signals, and I welcomed them—relished them—but mostly, I tried not to dwell on them.

  It was almost as if, if I ignored the possible return of my powers, I couldn’t end up disappointed if they didn’t fully return. In my old life as a witch, before I’d been shunned, I’d lived in a town where the paranormal lived out in the open. I’d also communicated with the dead, it was my specialty. I heard them speak to me as though they were right in the room, and then one day I didn’t.

  The loss of that communication had been devastating—but the miracle of hearing Win, and mor
e recently Arkady, were promising signs all hope wasn’t lost. But I wasn’t going to count my chickens just yet. I couldn’t for fear of crushing defeat.

  “Matilda?” I called again as the hum became deeper, more resonant, and the Christmas lights we’d strung around the room began to flicker. I smiled at Vern, whose eyes had grown wider than dimes. “I think she’s here, Vern.”

  I was excited by this prospect. Vern? Well, Vern, obviously not so much. He sat hunkered down in his chair, his shoulders bunched together.

  Win cleared his throat. “I have contact, Dove. Matilda’s here with me.”

  “She’s here, Vern. Go ahead and say whatever you’d like to say.”

  Vern blustered, his bushy white eyebrows scrunching together when he scanned the room as though his wife might pop out of the ether, hose attachment in hand.

  “Matilda, honey? I’m sorry. I don’t know why you’re showin’ up every night, but I need my sleep, gal, for our grandkids, and you’re scarin’ the ever-livin’ poop right outta me, all hovering and looming with that dang hose. I don’t know what you want me to do. How many more times do you want me to apologize?”

  Patting his hand, I silently reassured him he’d done well.

  “Matilda says to tell Vern she hovers and looms because something’s stuck in the hose, and he’d know that if he vacuumed himself instead of paying that lushly ripe peach of a Happy Housekeeper, Jeanette Hartman, to do it. Then she called him a moron,” Win offered with a deep chuckle. “Affectionately, of course.”

  Every once in a while, when a spirit from the afterlife wasn’t really hurting anyone, when the situation wasn’t dire, I told fibs as I relayed messages. Not big ones, mind you, but some dipped in a little more sugar than vinegar.

  So, I nodded my head to signal to Win I understood. “Vern? Matilda says there’s something stuck in the hose. She’s been trying to tell you, and that’s why she keeps showing up each night.”

  Now, Vern looked affronted, almost annoyed, his lips pursing as he squinted his eyes. “Well, what the heck, gal? What’s stuck in the hose that’s so important you gotta show up every night, spookin’ the life outta me?”