Witch Way Did He Go? Page 6

  As I kicked off my shoes and unwrapped the scarf around my neck, I headed to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth.

  And that was when I saw the message written in my favorite lipstick on the mirror above my sink.

  Look 4 bath.

  Chapter 6

  “Look for bath?” Arkady repeated in obvious confusion over the message left by heaven only knew. “Arkady Bagrov does not understand. Zero want you to find bathroom? What the heckles?”

  I blinked under the warm lighting of the bathroom and tried to make heads or tails of this new message. The writing was choppy and partially in cursive, definitely a lost art these days, and quite possibly from someone older.

  The two O’s in the word “look” were smushed together, and the word “bath” used the less common way to write the letter A. Rather than make a circle with the tail on the bottom and to the right, the small A had the hook at the top, facing left, and reminded me of the more traditional handwriting taught decades ago.

  Yet, they’d used the number four instead of the word—which was very current and more in the style of a text. Did that mean whoever had written it had been in a hurry? Was it some confused ghost who straddled the line between generations and had a good grasp on both old and new styles?

  Gripping the cool porcelain of my bathtub, I sat down on the edge and stared mindlessly at the assorted loofah sponges and bath bombs in a basket on the windowsill, feeling as though the wind had been knocked out of me.

  “Stevie?” Bel tweeted at me as he flew to the basket’s handle and perched there. “Don’t drift off without taking us with you. Let’s talk this out.”

  I exhaled and looked at the message again. “Okay, so first, who wrote that? Was it a spirit from the afterlife, or Win himself? Can he even write things? Arkady? Do you know?”

  If so, he’d never done it around me. I do know he’s moved an object or two on occasion, but nothing monumental. Had he been hiding his abilities from me for the express purpose of this stunt?

  I’d always thought Win and I were mostly open books ever since he’d told me about the night he died, but if he knew I’d disapprove because it was incredibly unsafe, he would have kept this from me. I was sure of that.

  “I do not know. He has never done this with Arkady. I have only do once. Remember? But it was in Japanese. Everything went kaplooey.”

  Nodding slowly, I said, “I do remember. We were investigating the Chef Le June murder, right? It had to do with something about the guy fixing the heating vent?”

  “Dah. Your house was still under construction and I was practicing on wall. The worker man see what I write.”

  I laughed softly. “I remember Win’s exact words on the subject. ‘You made him think he was seeing things’,” I said in my imitation of Win’s accent. “I remember him telling us the poor man went to see a neurologist because he thought he was losing his marbles.”

  “Oh, yeah!” Bel agreed. “I remember you guys telling me about that. So you think this could be Win’s work? And what do you think it means, Stevie? Is it some secret spy code? You know, like Morse code but not?”

  I stared at the message in red again and shook my head. “Arkady? Thoughts? Is this some kind of crazy spy-speak?”

  “I do not understand what this message means, malutka. If it is some secret code, it is nothing Arkady understands.” He paused and then he said, “This message have to be about Zero. Too many coincidences at once for it to be anything else. “

  But was the message from Zero or only about him? Was he communicating with us personally, or had he sent someone in his stead? I wouldn’t doubt Win could charm the knickers right off another ghost and get them to do whatever he wanted

  Rising, I went to the sink where my lipstick sat on the shelf beneath the gorgeous oval mirror framed in whitewashed wood, sitting there just as I’d left it this morning.

  Nothing was amiss. Nothing was moved.

  “Argh!” I yelled, shaking a fist at the ceiling. “What’s happening, Win? What are you trying to tell me?”

  Bel flew to my shoulder and whispered, “There, there, Stevie. Ease up a little and let’s keep talking this through. We’re not without clues. We have rebirth, imposter, and now bath. Let’s put our heads together and think.”

  As I was about to do that, I remembered the metal box of papers I had stashed in my walk-in closet. I jabbed a finger in the air. “Hold that thought, guys,” I said as I made a break for the closet, unfolding the stepladder so I could reach the top shelf.

  Grabbing the heavy box, I dragged it from the shelf and hopped off the ladder, placing it on the lush carpet of the closet floor—carpet Win insisted I have to keep my feet warm in the winter.

  “Malutka? What are you doing?”

  I tapped the top of the box with a fingernail and flipped it open. “The papers from Win’s lawyer have to be signed, right? As a for instance, his will where he left everything to me, right?”

  Bel flew into the closet, landing on the floor. As he waddled toward me, his round body swaying to and fro, he said, “Uh, okay, and what will that mean, Stevie?”

  I grabbed the envelope with the will and held it up in victory, forcing my eyes away from the picture of Win with Miranda in Paris and shouted, “We can compare handwriting!”

  “Bravo, malutka!” Arkady cheered as I scurried back to the bathroom mirror and eyeballed the message.

  I pulled the official-looking paper from the envelope and held it up near the writing on the mirror. Unfortunately, most of the letters that matched one another in his signature and the message—as in the case of the A and the L—were opposites. Little A’s versus a cap, and vice versa.

  Now, the letter O in “Winterbottom” and “look” might be another story…

  I squinted and looked harder. “See the letter O, Arkady? It has that little squiggly loop on top. Could be a possible match, don’t you think?”

  “Ummm… I am no handwriting expert, sugarsnap, but I—”

  “Don’t think so,” Bel said dryly. “They look nothing alike, Stevie, and you know it. Now you’re creating narratives that don’t exist. What does Win always say about that?”

  “Don’t chase shadows.” I repeated his familiar words numbly. “Stick to the facts.”

  Belfry clucked his tongue. “Riiight. It’s a waste of time, and the fact is, the handwriting looks nothing like Win’s. I bet if you look at some of the other signatures on that tome of a will, you’ll see I’m right.”

  I closed my eyes and took deep breaths before I stuffed the will back in the envelope. “You’re right. I’m reaching.”

  “I’ll say, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t keep reaching until you latch on to something solid, Stevie. Now, you need sleep. We’ve beaten this to death for the moment, and we’re on the fast train to nowhere. Wash up. It’s bedtime for all ex-witches.”

  “Do you promise to wake me if you hear anything, Arkady? Swear? There are no boundaries now, okay?” We had limits about things like bedtime and bathroom usage, and neither Win nor Arkady had ever broken the rules, but rules be damned.

  I needed to know where Win was.

  “Of course, malutka. If I hear anything, I will wake you right away. I promise this.”

  My shoulders slumped at the thought of halting our search, but I put the envelope back and went about my nightly routine as though everything were normal—because at that point, I still refused to believe it never would be again.

  Somehow, I managed to grab some shuteye, but it was littered with dreams of Win, a kaleidoscope of him in different settings. The way I see him in my mind when he tells me about one of his missions, and even with Miranda at the Eiffel Tower.

  Needless to say, it wasn’t very restful, but it was better than nothing. I certainly wasn’t refreshed, but I was better than I’d been last night.

  Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, I stroked Whiskey’s head and looked at the picture in the frame I’d bought, sitting on my n
ightstand. The picture frame housed a photo of some random model. I’d once used it to tease Win when I had no idea what he looked like. I told him it gave me a frame of reference—little did I know how closely he resembled the man in the picture.

  The dark-haired, blue-eyed, handsome-as-the-devil model in the photo, I’d come to find, almost freakishly resembled Win. Sometimes when we were chatting, and I wanted to really stir him up, I’d pretend the picture in the frame was Win. It’s been was our little joke since nearly day one.

  Seeing it now, my heart clenched and constricted until I thought it would burst through the wall of my chest.

  I traced the outline of the model’s jaw, something I’d done when I was alone many times before as I wondered what it would be like to have Win physically here with us. I whispered, “Where are you?”

  Closing my eyes, I sent out a prayer to the universe that something—anything—would happen today that would give us a hint, before I hopped down to the floor.

  As I raced into the bathroom because I couldn’t stay in bed any longer or I’d go mad, Bel was already up, setting out my toothbrush with some toothpaste (I know it sounds crazy, but his wee hands are quite adept). “Mornin’, Stevie.”

  “No time, Bel. Have to get a move on,” I said, heading back out and dismissing him without thinking about how rude that was.

  “Excuuuse me, but you will march your sassy pants right back in there and brush your teeth and shower, little lady!” he demanded as he buzzed in front of my face, his eyes flashing angry orders. “Win’s disappearance is not a good enough excuse for poor hygiene, miss. Now get. I’ll start the shower.”

  I sighed like I used to when I was eight or nine, and he’d given me my marching orders, but then I smiled. “Thanks for reminding me a clean spy is a useful spy,” I teased, feeling better already as I picked up the toothbrush—

  Only to stop dead in my tracks.

  The mirror was clean.

  No! We needed that message. It was a clue!

  But Belfry was in my ear in an instant. “Relax, Nancy Drew. I took a picture of it with your phone, which weighs as much as an elephant, FYI. I got your back. Now go brush your teeth. Your breath smells like toxic waste.”

  I blew out a breath I didn’t know I was holding and smiled into the mirror, my eyes round and glassy from lack of sleep but, I noted, still determined. “Thanks, Bel.” I turned back to the task of brushing and focused on a plan. Win said we should always have a plan.

  Today we would find Win. That was the plan.

  But you know what they say about plans and intentions—or is that roads? I don’t know. I can’t remember anymore. I only know whoever said it, they understood hell.

  Because this was, indeed, hell.

  Another almost ten solid hours and a shower later, my optimism and my plan had begun to fade, and fade fast.

  Leaning over the kitchen island, I pressed my palms against the edge of the cool marble and arched my back, stretching the muscles. I was on E at this point. We’d been tearing through room after room, looking for any kind of clue, and if you know Mayhem Manor, you know it has endless rooms and more storage spaces than The Container Store.

  We’d decided our plan of attack was to go over the house with a fine-tooth comb, looking for clues possibly sent by Win.

  I’d been hopeful this morning. Now that it was almost time for dinner and my arms and legs were sore from crawling in and out of tight spaces and hauling storage boxes around? Not so much.

  “You look in garage, yes?” Arkady asked for the umpteenth time, making me clench my teeth to keep from screaming my anguish and frustration.

  “Yes. I looked in every tote, every box, every stinkin’ drawer in the storage bins three times. There’s nothing, Arkady. Absolutely nothing.”

  We’d never had an instance when obvious, visible signs were sent to us without Win to interpret the meaning—or at least ask the sender. So we’d decided Spy Guy was responsible for trying to get a message to us about his location, because we really didn’t have anything else to go on and we had to choose a path.

  We chose the one where Win stalks us from the afterlife. Or, maybe to better describe it, we chose the path where our man of mystery sends some errant spirit to stalk us; one who makes absolutely no sense and is incapable of finishing a sentence.

  Planting my hands on my hips, I scrunched my eyes shut and thought—I thought hard. If I were a clue to Win’s whereabouts, where would I be?

  “The attic?” Belfry asked as though he’d read my mind.

  I swiped a finger in the air. “It’s the only place we haven’t looked. And as a by the by, we haven’t really accumulated as much as you’d think after two years. Shouldn’t we have way more junk?”

  “If you remember right, we didn’t start with much junk to begin with, Stevie. It was mostly the clothes on our back after that dusty old hag shipped us off from Paris.”

  My smile was a wry one as I remembered how little we’d truly had, and how full up everything had become because of Win. Tears stung my eyes, and I had to grit my teeth to stop a sudden onslaught. No way was I breaking down now.

  Something was going on here and I knew it had to do with Win. That was the only incentive I needed to keep my act together.

  “And look at what we have now, huh?” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

  “We’ve come a long way, haven’t we, Boss?” Belfry murmured from Whiskey’s back.

  “We sure have, buddy.”

  “So…the attic?”

  “The attic it is!” I said, jetting down the hall to the staircase, Whiskey in tow.

  Running up the stairs, I ignored how wobbly I was or how rubbery my muscles felt, because I had a new mission and that meant hope. But the ring of the doorbell stopped me cold.

  I wasn’t expecting anyone, and Dana and Melba always gave me a heads up before they dropped by. It couldn’t be Chester, either—not unless he’d decided to give up his Wheel of Fortune and his warm slippers.

  Zooming back down the stairs, I was instantly on alert. We’d already had one run-in with a violent ghost. I didn’t cherish the idea of another.

  I looked at the security camera and cocked my head.

  It was Cory from the local pizza place, holding a small square box of pizza. He was new, and a really nice kid, but he definitely had the wrong house.

  As I stared at his lanky frame on the doorbell cam, his bleached-blond hair with the dark roots blowing in the heavy wind, I narrowed my eyes.

  “Bel? Did you order a pizza for me?” I whispered.

  “Nope. I planned on making you heat up the leftover grilled chicken and broccoli from Carmella because you need something in that belly. No pizza orders here, Boss.”

  Instantly, I became suspicious. As we well know, a delivery guy who turned out to be a murderer had fooled me once before. It’s the very reason I have the camera to begin with. Win insisted upon it.

  That would not happen again.

  Nope. Not today, Satan.

  While I know Cory vaguely, I can’t say for sure he couldn’t be bribed to deliver something nefarious, and seeing as Win was missing and all manner of strange things were happening, my suspicion grew.

  I pressed the button for the security camera and asked, “Hey, Cory! What’s up?”

  He held up the pizza, smiling his infectious grin, complete with deep dimples and twinkling blue eyes. “Delivery, Miss Cartwright.”

  “But I didn’t order a pizza, Cory.”

  He appeared puzzled as he looked down at the receipt. “Has your name and address on it. I heard the guy back at the store take the order.”

  At this point in the day, after having only a Twinkie for breakfast and skipping lunch entirely in favor of scouring the house for clues, maybe I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

  Speaking of mouths, mine began to water at the idea of pizza. “Can I see it?”

  Cory gave me a confused look. “Sure, Miss Cartwright. Hey, you okay?�
�� he asked as he pulled the box from the insulated bag and flipped the top open.

  Pepperoni and mushroom. My favorite. Now I was more curious than anything else, so I popped the door open and smiled at him. “I’m fine, Cory. I just wondered if whoever sent this to me knows what I like.” Taking the box from him and setting it on the table by the stairs, I grabbed my purse and dug around for some cash. “What do I owe you?”

  He shrugged, tucking the bag under his arm. “Nothin’. Whoever ordered it paid for it already.”

  Alarm bells shot off in my head as the wind whooshed into the entryway, making me shiver. “Really? Credit card? Debit?”

  Cory stared at me as the rain battered the front porch and the wind raged. “Not sure. But you can probably call the store and ask.”

  Handing him a five-dollar bill, I smiled again. “I’ll do that, and thanks. I’m actually starving.”

  “Okey-doke, Miss Cartwright. Enjoy your dinner,” he said with a wave as he scooted down the steps and toward the driveway to his compact car.

  Closing the door on the cold wind, I scratched my head and stared at the pizza. “Weird, huh, guys?”

  “Malutka, you smell before you eat, yes? One time, when I am in bowels of Laos on mission, bad lady tried to poison me. I would not know if I did not use nose first.”

  Belfry barked a laugh. “That bad lady was your third ex-wife, buddy, and from what you told us, you deserved to be poisoned, you old coot. You told us that story on poker night. Try again, Boo.”

  I took the pizza and headed back to the kitchen, my legs tired and my arms sore. “You guys have a poker night? How didn’t I know about this?”

  “You get mani/pedis and hang out with Melba at the thrift store, we play poker. We’re allowed to have lives outside of you, aren’t we?”

  I giggled, and it felt good to release some of my tension. Grabbing my cell, I dialed up the pizza place. “But poker? I didn’t even know you knew how to play poker, Bel.” As the phone rang, I popped open the box, savoring the saucy smell of cheese and pepperoni.

  “Petey’s Pizza!” a feminine voice chirped cheerfully in my ear.