Quit Your Witchin' (3 page)

A spirit had reached out to me via Win. A spirit of Latin descent—a female aura, to be precise. She’d requested help with a “friend” and then she’d up and disappeared. Win had no description of her. He claimed she was just a voice—an older voice who’d said she had a friend here in Ebenezer Falls in need of earthly aide.

I’d told Win to tell her we’d get right on it, but then she’d disappeared.

I stood just on the fringe of the food truck parking lot in the warm sunshine, seeing the colorful sails bobbing on the choppy waters of the Puget, unable to push past the wall of people. Unable or unwilling, that is. I couldn’t pinpoint which.

I think I’m still a little raw from my last bout with murder and my feet are telling my brain to move along, but my heart is telling my brain to piss off.

“Do you suppose this has to do with the voice that contacted me?” Win asked what I’d just been thinking.

I nodded numbly as the wind caught my caftan, whipping it about my feet. “I wondered the same thing. But how could she have known this would happen? In fact, what
did
happen?”

“Dang. Seems like we can’t keep anybody alive in this durn town,” Chester muttered as he came to stand next to me, threading his arm through mine and leaning into me while we shared the view of the small parking lot.

Many times, when I peeked out the picture window of Madam Z’s between readings, I’d look out over the sea of multicolored trucks parked in a semi-circle end to end and smile at the people who lived in my town and frequented the carts, rain or shine. Families, couples, everyone who made up Ebenezer Falls, strolling and enjoying the one thing we all did universally—eat—and the sight always made my heart warm.

But today, even as the sun beat down on our heads via a cloudless sky, while tulips and daffodils bloomed all around us in the beds the community had built, and despite happy music blaring from speakers set about the court area, the trucks looked less cheerful.

I noted Jacob, the fish-and-chips guy who owned The Deep Sea Diver, wasn’t in the vicinity today. Sally, over at The Sunshine Inn, had mentioned he skirted the permits necessary to park and serve food whenever possible. Today was probably a smart day to avoid the place altogether.

The breeze picked up, bringing with it the call of seagulls and bike horns as Ebenezer Falls celebrated this unusual break in the weather.

Still, my eyes went back to the area where I suspected Tito was sprawled. “Do you know what happened, Chester?”

He shook his silvery-white head and patted my arm, his normally twinkling eyes somber. “Nope, and this time, I’m gonna be real careful about what I say, girlie. Don’t want ya goin’ to jail for round two or we’ll never get those gardens done.”

I’d laugh if I didn’t still remember what the interior of an Ebenezer Falls holding cell looked like, thanks to a whole lot of unfounded suspicion on not just Chester’s part, but the police department’s, too.

“Stevie? You okay?” Forrest asked from behind me, his tall presence strong and reassuring. He placed one of his big hands on my shoulder and squeezed before moving to stand on the opposite side of his grandfather.

“I’m fine. I had nothing to do with this one, if that’s what you’re wondering.” I tried to joke, but inside, my guts were all ripped up.

There’d never be another taco like Tito’s Supreme Grande soft taco slathered with sour cream, guacamole and, of all things, dandelion leaves.
Never
.

I often thought Tito was trying to fit in with the latest fad of organic meets traditional in order to continue to compete in the marketplace with some of the more foodie-minded trucks. But the line at his door every day was proof enough he didn’t need tofu and quinoa to make a sale.

Thankfully, someone had the smarts to turn off the music, and only hushed whispers now pervaded the food court. The police arrived then in a wave of sirens and flashing red and blue lights, the screams of the ambulance not far behind before their tires came to a screeching halt.

As the crowd parted to allow the paramedics and police through, I got my first real glimpse of Tito, splayed out on the concrete in front of his festive pink and mint-green food truck with the dancing sombrero splashed across the side right next to the menu for all that taco goodness.

He’d often said the colors of his food truck were meant to represent his life. Fun, colorful, like a Mexican hat dance every single day.

“Bloody hell,” Win muttered in my ear—exactly what I was thinking.

“Is that what I think it is?” Chester asked in a somber hush, tightening his grip on my arm.

“I think it is, Pops,” Forrest said, his voice wooden and perplexed, if one’s tone could be such at the same time.

It absolutely was exactly what Chester thought it was.

Cheese.

Tito’s whole shiny ebony head was covered in cheese. The gloriously velvety, mildly spicy, brilliantly orange-yellow cheese he so generously poured over his Not-So-Naked Nachos and topped with slow-cooked brisket, chives and jalapenos. Another of my favorites.

There was also a trail of cheese from his truck to where he’d fallen.

Okay, so after my last experience, here’s where I should bow out, right? March myself right back to my shop, finish Edward’s reading and ignore anything to do with a potential murder case.

Because let’s face it, I’d been to this rodeo. The difference was, this time I hadn’t been anywhere near Tito or his truck when he was found. Unlike the last time, when I was in Madam Z’s shop with her dead body when the police arrived—with Chester hot on their heels, ready to burn me at the stake.

Back then, it never even occurred to me that Madam Z had been murdered. My first thought was that she’d had a heart attack. And that had been my first thought here, too, but I’d learned real quick about first impressions after my run-ins with the law and a real live killer.

But then I had a crazy niggle that what happened here was none of those things. The one I used to get when I was a witch. The one that was never wrong—and that niggle said Tito’s death had to do with foul play.

“Heart attack? Stroke?” Chester asked, his gruff voice smaller today.

“It sure looks that way,” I agreed, despite the gnawing…nay,
burning
protest of my gut. “Maybe he fell into the vat of cheese before he stumbled out here? He always had that huge pot of it simmering on the stove by the back door of the truck. Maybe he was trying to get help when he did?”

Win coughed in my ear. “Hmm, Mini-Spy. A heart attack? Haven’t we heard that before?”

So Win must be feeling that niggle, too. But two murders in the matter of as many months? Here in Ebenezer Falls, where crime was on record with an all-time low for a suburb just outside Seattle?

“I smell fish, and it’s not Forrest’s breath,” Win murmured.

I shook him off, riveted by what was happening around Tito’s body as the paramedics and police gathered to assess. His white apron, typically covered in all manner of whatever food he was cooking that day, was still around his neck but untied at his waist, suggesting maybe he’d just been putting it on. It lay flat on top of him, a stark white against the dark concrete.

He’d clearly fallen out of the truck backward, landing flat mere steps away. His arms were spread out beside his body, suggesting he hadn’t even tried to stop his fall. His face troubled me the most; the cheese was beginning to harden over his skin in the sun, turning dull, while bits of jalapeño stuck to his nose and cheeks.

As the police began to move people along, I noted for the first time a man in the very back of the crowd, his youthful face a mask of pain, as though he were on the verge of crying. His eyes were a startling green, shimmering with unshed tears.

Handsome, with deep chestnut hair and chiseled good looks, he looked away, his wide football-player shoulders trembling when the paramedics finally covered Tito’s body after placing him on the gurney.

“Titooooo!” a woman wailed, her agonizing sob slicing through the warm breeze as said woman pushed her way through the parting crowd.

Everyone turned to see Tito’s estranged wife, Magdalena—or Maggie, as we called her here in town—stumble toward the gurney, a tissue in her hand, her long black shawl with the red fringe falling from her rounded shoulders.

“Didn’t she throw Tito out just last month?” Win wondered.

“I thought she and Tito were getting divorced?” Chester mirrored Win’s thoughts.

“I knew there was trouble. I was right outside here, changing the sandwich board, just before she confronted him about something. She caught him upside the head with a broom, yelling and carrying on, crying too—left in a real huff. Next thing I heard from the gossip mill was she’d told him she wanted a divorce and was staying with her daughter, Bianca,” Forrest said.

I hated hearing there’d been trouble between Tito and Maggie, but I hated it worse because they hadn’t mended fences before he passed. “Do you know what happened?”

“Forgive my crassness. I’m simply repeating what I’ve heard. Word around town is, Tito put his enchilada in the wrong oven,” Win provided in my ear.

I had to fight a gasp. No. He wouldn’t…

“Heard he was cattin’ around,” Chester supplied, running a hand over his stubble-littered jaw.

Tito?
My
Tito was a bandito? Naw. He loved Maggie. Adored her. Talked about her like she was the second coming. I couldn’t imagine he’d cheated on her. Maybe it was just a misunderstanding.

Maggie’s cherubic face was tearstained, streaking her thick makeup and leaving dark circles around her usually vivid coal-black eyes. “
Mi amor
!” she howled, her voice raw and scratchy. “
Como pudistes dejarme asi?
No,
mi amor
, no, no, noooo!”

Bianca, her daughter, ran behind her, catching her by the waist as Maggie fell on Tito’s body, clinging to his prone hand.

“Mama, please!” Bianca begged, tears of her own streaking down her gorgeously high cheekbones.

Bianca was every man’s dream. Svelte, with curves in all the right places, and full lips filled in with a raspberry gloss. Thick, straight hair the color of a raven’s wing fell down her back to almost her waist, accentuating olive skin so clear, if I were the jealous type, I’d hate her hot tamale guts.

Her waist was tiny, her hips full in her brightly colored mini-skirt, accompanied by a white, off-the-shoulder peasant shirt and big gold hoops in her ears.

She caught Maggie’s shoulders, her ringed fingers gripping at her mother, tugging to pull her away from Tito. “Come, Mama. Shh-shh, now,” she crooned in a hoarse whisper. “Come with me.
No mires, por favor
.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and gripped Chester’s hand tighter, sorrow filling my heart.

“Folks, I’m gonna have to ask you to move it on out, please!” ordered my favorite local law enforcement officer, Lyn Paddington, a.k.a. Sandwich (because he once ate a sardine and mayo sandwich with sweet pickles on a dare).

I shifted out of the way but I didn’t leave as directed. I was riveted, my eyes scanning the surrounding area where Tito had fallen, looking for anything that would tell me he didn’t have a heart attack. Which was a little insane. I’d far prefer Tito left this world that way than by way of a murderer.

“Stevie?” Sandwich said, looking down at me.

I glanced up at his normally happy face, now tight with concentration. “Yes?”

“I said move it along, please. Remember the last time you were at a crime scene?”

I planted my hands on my hips and nodded, my turban tilting awkwardly to the left. “You mean the time I was accused of a crime I didn’t commit, and Starsky and Hutch questioned me like we were remaking
Silence of The Lambs
? You bet I remember, buddy. Weren’t you the one to take me to your place of business like a lamb to slaughter?”

Sandwich sighed, a brief look of remorse on his face before he hitched his rounded jaw toward the other side of the street. “I apologized a hundred times for that, Stevie. Now please, go back to the store and tell fortunes and let us do our job.”

Lifting my chin, I narrowed my gaze at him. “I do not tell fortunes. I communicate with the dead.”

He chuckled. “Yep. And I’m Walker, Texas Ranger.”

Rolling my eyes, I didn’t bother to try to defend my afterlife activities. No one believed me anyway. Everyone in town humored me, despite several gushing testimonials on Yelp.

But I did as I was told. I just didn’t do it in a rush. I’ll admit I was reluctant, so I lingered for a few moments until Sandwich became distracted by another thrush of gawkers who’d stopped to form a cluster by the ambulance, and then I scurried on past him, heading straight for Tito’s truck.

“I knew you couldn’t resist,” Win remarked with a chuckle.

Okay, so I couldn’t resist. I swatted Win out of my ear, inching my way around the back of the truck, peering around the corner to be sure no one was behind it.

There was a shadow crossing the sharp midday sunlight, making me look up at the chain-link fence backing the food court area. I caught only a glimpse of a plaid flannel shirt, and what appeared to be an inhaler sticking out of the back pocket of the jeans worn by whoever it was, before they climbed through the ripped opening in the fence and the sun blinded me.

It was probably one of the local kids playing hooky from school. Not everyone’s a suspect, Stevie Cartwright. Get it together.

When I saw the coast was clear, I made a break for the back door of the truck, near which I knew Tito kept the pot of cheese he ladled with such love. I don’t know why I had to see the interior of the truck or what I hoped to find. I don’t know a lot of things. Like what compels me to speak impulsively or connect dots one wouldn’t necessarily connect. I just had a feeling—a tingle of awareness something was off.

A strong one.

Trying not to contaminate anything in case my gut was right and this genuinely was a crime scene, I stepped around the trail of cheese leading to where his body had ended up and peered inside Tito’s truck, a vast wonderland of taco shells, the mouthwatering scent of spicy meat, and an overturned pot of hardening cheese on the floor.