Witch it Real Good Page 7

  Tears stung my eyes. That’s how beautiful it was.

  “See that store there with all the Christmas ornaments in the window, called Saffron’s Sundries? She works for us, and her mother owns the store below.”

  I blinked and nodded, following Hal’s gloved finger as the cold snow clung to my eyelashes, but I still couldn’t speak. Every single building had something new to see.

  Festive Santas on trapezes and presents carved out of wood hung as though suspended from shutters. Icicle lights swayed in the cold wind under each store’s eaves.

  There were wooden sleighs along the curbs with carved wooden horses pulling them to unknown magical destinations. Bows in red and gold gathered each vignette of evergreen bough. Every bare tree limb and bush lit up with twinkling lights and everywhere your eyes looked, there was something Christmas.

  And then there was the gazebo. We’d parked right by it in Hal’s Jeep, a white octagonal structure made of wood with globe lights strung from one end to the other, all along the picket fence sides, along the roof and the railings of the stairs.

  “That’s where one of our volunteer firemen sits when they play Santa for the kids every year, and it’s also where we have crab and lobster boils in the summer.”

  “White Christmas” funneled to my ears from somewhere off in the distance and I found, as Hal pointed things out to me, I was becoming suddenly melancholy.

  When I finally found my voice, it was husky with gratitude for this experience.

  “Oh, Hal. I know this will probably sound ridiculous, me getting choked up over some Christmas decorations, but my mother didn’t do much for Christmas. I was an only child and she was…otherwise preoccupied. So I always do it up big because I love the holiday season, and I suppose on a therapy couch somewhere, a therapist would tell me I’m trying to make up for all the Christmases I missed as a child. But also, it’s been such a precarious year for us—for Win—and this was just what I needed. Truly.”

  She grinned at me, her clear skin pink from the cold, her blue eyes sparkling as snow fell on the tips of her hair poking out from beneath her knit cap.

  “I’m really glad I could help, Stevie. I realize we don’t know each other, but I’m hoping we’ll be able to get to know one another. I don’t have any family left…well, mostly,” she said, and I found it odd how her tone of voice changed for a moment before she stood up straight. “What I mean is, it’s nice to know there’s someone else out there who’s a little like me. Now, let’s go pay homage to your love of all things Christmas and buy you some overalls so you won’t stick out like some fancy tourist.”

  I giggled as we took long strides across the parking lot toward the beauty of this tiny treasure of a town, kicking up the fluffy snow as we went.

  As we stepped onto the curb, and my eyes were gobbling up yet another feast of a store window with Christmas decorations, I almost knocked over a woman with flaming-red hair shrouding her face, who smelled of fresh pears and citrus.

  I reached out to steady her and mumble an apology, but as I looked up and our gazes met, my eyes widened.

  And so did hers.

  I tried to make my mouth move, so I could speak her name with a question attached to it, but she quickly turned away and scurried down the sidewalk, the tails of her winter-white trench coat flapping behind her until she disappeared.

  I couldn’t move. Hal’s voice became a muffled squawk in my ear. My already frozen feet became immobile.

  Now, I realize I’ve never seen a truly clear picture of her, but I spend a lot of my time observing people in all ways. Their posture, the curve of their spine, the way they stand, the tilt of their chins…and you can call me crazy. Go right ahead. In fact, I bet Win would call me crazy for even thinking what I was thinking.

  But I’d know that headful of flaming-red hair anywhere. It had stayed with me all this time—ever since I’d seen the picture of her that I’d found in the back of my closet when we’d first moved into Mayhem Manor.

  And I’d bet two limbs, a vintage Hermes scarf, and my esophagus the woman I’d just fallen into was none other than Miranda.

  Miranda the murderer.

  Chapter 7

  “Malutka, are you sure? Are you really sure?”

  “Well, you tell me, Arkady. The description I gave you, does it fit her? You knew her, or at least you’ve seen her, right? In passing as you spied your way across the globe. Does it sound like her?”

  “Dah,” he hissed into the room. “It does sound like the she-devil, but Stevie, my honey-dipped potato chip, how can this be? How can she be here? Did we not think she is dead?”

  Yeah. How could Miranda be here, in the town Win was in, where someone had just tried to run him over? Hmmm.

  “We thought lots of things, Arkady. I’m beginning to think that’s our problem. We think too much. I can’t remember the Miranda scoreboard and where her stats are in terms of life or death. I think last Win and I talked about her, she was reported dead by MI6—or something. So to be clear, he saw her the night he died, found out she wasn’t really dead, then afterward, while he was on Plane Limbo, I distinctly remember him saying there was a rumor floating around at MI6 that she was dead again.” I rasped an aggravated sigh. “Dead, alive, I can only tell you what I saw, and I know what I saw. I saw Miranda.”

  I’d settled into my beautiful white sleigh bed with the winter-white quilt and throw pillows with reindeer on them then hunkered down under the covers with Belfry (because it was freezing out there) shortly after dinner, feigning exhaustion.

  Thankfully, every room had a fireplace, and this one was no exception. Beautiful white antiqued brick surrounded the fireplace that Hal had snapped her fingers at and instantly created a roaring fire.

  The distressed wood mantel with more draped garland made of pine and intertwined with tiny twinkling lights had delicate snowflakes made of Balsa wood strung across it. Propped up against the wall directly beside the fireplace was a sleigh with a simple holly berry wreath in the middle.

  In the corner sat a puffy red chair and, directly behind it, the fir tree Bel had napped in earlier today. Whiskey had chosen to sleep on the area rug on front of the fireplace instead of sleeping on the bed with me, his light snores of contentment making me smile.

  In all of this beauty, as I burrowed down beneath the quilt in my newly acquired thermal underwear in, of all things, pink paisley, I perused Hal’s computer while my heart thumped painfully in my chest.

  Because I didn’t tell Win about Miranda. I’d decided to keep it to myself and, while I hate admitting it, it was for selfish reasons.

  There, I said it. It makes me sick to my stomach to think about that encounter, and as much as I’d like to believe it might not have been her, my gut said differently.

  Also, in my defense, I didn’t want him to think I was bananapants, or worse, thinking irrationally. But I had not-so-altruistic reasons, too.

  So after an amazing dinner of French onion soup, and probably the best milk-roasted chicken and stuffing with creamed corn I’d ever had in my entire existence, I’d pretended I was tired, kissed Win’s cheek, and ran to my room as though the hounds of Hell were on my heels.

  And now, as I sat here, watching the flames of the fire dance and toying with the mousepad, I fret over that choice. Not only did I fret over that choice, but the choice to include Bel and Arkady in my deception, too.

  But I know what I saw, and I’m telling you, Miranda’s hair, her signature of sorts, is a dead giveaway. Even in that faded photo it had stood out in all its flaming glory. I’d know it anywhere.

  And okay, if I’m showering my theory with honesty, I also don’t want to tell Win because I’m still a little insecure about her. What if she really hadn’t killed Win? What if this person with the tattoo on his hand was the one responsible for his murder?

  Would his old feelings for her resurface and soften? Maybe he’d do a complete about-face?

  The whole thing had me shaken up at this point
. I don’t know how I managed to keep my legs under me the whole time Hal and I shopped.

  She chatted and I nodded. That’s how.

  “Malutka? I see the worry on your face, and Arkady Bagrov knows why you worry, but you should not. Zero no longer has romantic feelings for Miranda. This I know as I know my own soul. He almost never speak of her, but when he was here, he always talk about you. Every day. It is you. It will always be you that he loves.”

  My heart went tight in my chest. “I’ll be honest, my bowl of borscht, I am a little worried about that, but I’m more worried about not telling him that I think I saw her. Am I doing the right thing?”

  “I cannot say. If we decide this with our hearts, then dah. This is right thing. But if she has something to do with car this morning and Zero’s accident? Then we are doing wrong thing. I, like you, am tear up.”

  “Torn, Arkady. You’re torn, and so am I. But let’s focus on something else. Maybe we can gather enough evidence to bring to Win so he’ll believe us.”

  “Okie-doke, then let us look for evidence.”

  I looked up at the pristine white ceiling and smiled before I asked, “Hey, do you know what Miranda’s last name is? In all the time I’ve know Win, I have absolutely no idea.”

  Arkady barked a laugh. “Even if I do know, would it matter? Spies go by many different names, malutka. We play roles and are assigned names to go with role. You do remember what Arkady’s real name is, do you not?”

  I giggled and reached for my water on the round bedside table with a handmade snow lady sitting at the edge. “How could I ever forget, JR Ewing Stepanov?”

  “Dah, my mama, she love the show Dallas,” he said wistfully.

  “Who didn’t love all those shoulder pads and big hair? I guess you can be grateful she didn’t name you Krystle Carrington.”

  His laughter rumbled in my ear, soothing my frazzled nerves. “Anyway, malutka, I do not think Miranda’s surname will make difference. Who knows if it is real?”

  “Okay, so I suppose tapping Facebook and other very obvious social media outlets won’t help our case, right?”

  “No, my gentle lamb. If Miranda is here, and I believe you could be right, she is not on your social media. It is much too obvious. If she is, she is in cleverly crafted disguise and you will never find her.”

  “Which is strange, don’t you think? If she knows Win’s here, why wouldn’t she disguise herself? I mean, if she had something to do with trying to kill him, she wouldn’t want to be caught, would she? She sure as heck wouldn’t want him to see her. Maybe she’s not really here and I’m simply chasing shadows.”

  But that didn’t feel right when I said it aloud.

  I nibbled on the end of my nail, trying not to mess up my manicure. “So my next question is this: Do you think she’s here because she wants to finish what she started when she gave up his location, and try to kill Win? If he died that night right in front of her, why in all the why’s in all the wide-wide world would she even think he’d lived?”

  Arkady rasped a sigh. “But why, Stevie? Why she show up now, and here of all the places? If rumor about the money she is paid for giving away Zero’s whereabouts is true, why is she here now? Why is she not in far off land, counting her pennies? What is her motive? Bah!” he groused. “Arkady do not understand.”

  Shrugging my shoulders, I typed in Balthazar’s name in the search bar. “It could be any number of motives, Arkady. Maybe someone thinks he’s alive and they’ve offered her more money to off him—to make sure he’s really dead this time? Maybe it’s the mob. I don’t know. I mean, Win was a pretty skilled spy. With him off the market, there were lots of bad guys who could roam free, right? Or…no matter who dealt the actual final blow that ended up killing Win, Miranda, the tattoo guy, I don’t know, but maybe whoever paid Miranda to give up his location somehow knows Win’s still alive and they’re angry. Maybe they want him gone—again?”

  “This may be true, but it still does not sit well with me. Not the part about the night he was murdered, but about today. If it is Miranda who try to kill Win today, her driving would have been much better than what I see. It was amateur who drive today. She is spy, for pity sake. She should know how to drive vehicle in high-speed chases. Alas, I do not know her very well, or her level of skill. But then, we never really know each other when we are spies. It is why Arkady Bagrov did not want to have relationship. Trust is very hard when you live life as spy.”

  “And still, somehow, you were married three times?” I teased, taking a sip of my water.

  “Do not judge me, pickled nuts. Life of spy is lonely.”

  I chuckled. “I would never judge you, my dear friend. Anyway, maybe Miranda, or proof she exists, is a dead end, but you can bet your bippy I’m going to drop into each one of those stores near where I saw her today and ask some questions of the merchants. Her hair is pretty identifiable, not to mention her beauty.”

  “You think she is pretty, my apple strudel?”

  I snorted. Duh.

  “What red-blooded male wouldn’t? I mean, all that swingy hair floating down her back, those deep green eyes, that lack of a double chin? That fit-as-a-fiddle body? Hello. I can admit defeat when I see it, and she screams ‘give up all hope, Stevie.’”

  “She will never be as pretty as you, malutka. That is because your heart is as pretty as your face. She is snake in tall grass!” His response was so vehement, I almost didn’t know what to say.

  Also, it embarrassed me a little. Arkady loves me. He can’t see my faults, but trust me when I tell you, Miranda’s magnificent.

  “Well, regardless, until I can talk to some of the shop owners, I’ll wait. Now Balthazar? He’s another story. He’s got quite a public record, here and abroad. I can’t believe they let him into the country, Arkady.”

  “Maybe he did not come legally…”

  I groaned my response as I looked at one police blotter with an assault and battery charge. “How is Win ever going to get away from this? He has Balthazar’s fingerprints, for the love of beef stew.”

  “Mandrake will fix this, malutka. He will wash Internet and do all necessary things to fix this for Zero. He owes him big time.”

  My ears perked, making me sit up straight. “First, he’s going to scrub the Internet for Win? Why am I just hearing about this now?”

  I knew little to nothing about Mandrake, and I assumed that was for my safety, but what I did know was, he was going to construct a new identity for Win, complete with passport, license, green card, work history, fake resume and so on.

  “Mandrake is not in a place where is easy for him to be contacted.”

  “Well, that’s cryptic. Where is he? Attica?”

  “Maybe,” Arkady muttered, and I knew I probably wasn’t far off the mark.

  “Care to tell me why he owes Win something so big, he’ll scrub the Internet and create fake IDs out the wazoo for him?”

  “No.”

  I frowned up at him. “No? Just no? That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

  “Yes.”

  I clucked my tongue in disappointment. “C’mon,” I whined. “Quit holding out on me. What’s Mandrake’s story?”

  “It is not mine to tell. Ask Zero. I already tell you, in life, I betray many people. In death, I do not.”

  Holding up my hands like white flags, I gave in. “Far be it from me to ask you to betray Win. Unless we get into dire straits, Arkady. Then we do what we have to do. Right?”

  “I will always do whatever it take to keep you both safe, Stevie. This is my solemn promise.”

  Grinning, I smiled up at him, wishing I could give him a big hug, but grateful he was still with us—even if it wasn’t physically. “I love you, Arkady.”

  “And I you,” he said with the kind of warmth that made me feel a tiny burst of joy inside. After meeting him, I wished ever harder he could be here with us on this plane.

  But a knock on my bedroom door had me snapping the laptop shut in guil
t. I slid it under the covers and traipsed across the cold hardwood to see who’d knocked.

  “My dove?” Win said, his handsome face smiling at me from the crack in the door. He had on the hat I’d bought him that matched mine, a big, fluffy hat with ear flaps, and the navy-blue down coat I’d snagged for him for a steal at Stig’s.

  “Oh, look, it’s the guy who has a big ol’ bunch of stitches in his blinkety-blinkin’ head. Whatever could he want, do you think?”

  As it turned out, butterflying his wound wasn’t enough. When we came back from shopping, Win’s head was sewn up like Frankenstein’s and I didn’t want to know the gory details.

  Win chuckled that deep chuckle that said he found me amusingly tolerable. “How are you feeling? Have you rested?”

  I gave him a skeptically coy glance. “Why? Are you off on some midnight jog and you need me to watch for cars so they don’t accidentally run you over?”

  His blue eyes remained amused, but his jaw did that little tic thing it did when I was testing his patience. “Stephania? You’re making it impossibly difficult for me to woo you. Do you wish to be wooed or not?”

  My toes tingled as I batted my eyelashes. “Woo me? Whatever do you mean, International Man of Mystery?”

  “Are you up for a bit of a stroll? Or are you still too exhausted after shopping for someone’s old clothes in a store that smells of mold and desperation?”

  I waved my finger at him. “You say that now, but you’ll be singing a different tune when you see me in my Farmer’s Almanac 1924 T-shirt and overalls. I’ll be irresistible.”

  He barked a laugh then held up a finger across his lips. “Shhh. We mustn’t wake Hal. Now, are you up for a bit of a stroll?”

  “Are you serious? It’s a hundred below out there.”