Wicked Ways: Death at the DuMond (A Cozy Witch Mystery Book 1) (11 page)

I don’t think I ever saw Zoe with the same man twice. She was extremely gifted at short term relationships. Usually with married men. She was especially gifted at getting these men into compromising positions. Positions which they would later regret. This regret would often compel these men to make large contributions to Zoe in order to ensure confidentiality. Zoe made quite a nice living exploiting her looks and her talent for blackmail. 

 Zoe was getting older, and her looks were starting to fade. Don’t get me wrong, she was still gorgeous. But her racket wasn’t going to last forever, and she knew this. It was getting harder and harder for her to snare her prey. You could see a little bit of the desperation and fear creeping into her eyes. 

 I was fairly certain that Mrs. DuMond knew of Zoe’s little grifts. She certainly looked down her nose at Zoe. But I couldn’t really figure a motive for Zoe to kill Mrs. DuMond. Perhaps Mrs. DuMond threatened to expose her. Still, it didn’t add up. The night of the murder, Zoe couldn’t even walk across the room unassisted—much less kill someone with a wrench. Unless, of course, her drunken state was all an act?

I watched Zoe flirt with her next victim, weaving her web of intrigue. I felt bad for the guy. But he was wearing a wedding ring. And he clearly wasn’t Zoe’s husband.

I went back to my table, but Porter was gone. I looked around the coffee shop and didn’t see him anywhere. My eyes were wide. Banksy shrugged at me. 

“What happened? Did he leave?” I asked.

“Did who leave?” Bancroft said.

“You know who.”

“Oh, him. Yes, I think so.”

“He just up and left without saying anything?” My eyes narrowed at Bancroft, suspiciously.

“I’m as shocked as you are,” Bancroft said. “I thought you two were hitting it off swimmingly.”

“Bancroft, did you scare him away?”

“I would never do such a thing,” Bancroft said, trying to sound sincere.

“Who are you talking to?” Porter said, stepping up behind me.

“Oh, nobody,” I said.

“Nobody?” said Bancroft.

“I was just—“

“—Talking to your little ghost friend?” Porter said. 

“Where were you?” I asked.

“So, now you’re my mother?” Porter said. “I can’t go anywhere without telling you?”

“No. I just thought you left,” I said.

Porter smiled. His perfect teeth gleamed. His blue eyes sparkled. “Now, why would I want to leave a beautiful girl like you?”

My heart fluttered, and my knees went a little week.

Bancroft gagged, then mocked Porter. “Now, why would I want to leave a beautiful girl like you?” 

“Shut up,” I snapped at Banksy. 

“Not exactly the response I was looking for,” Porter said, thinking I was talking to him.

“No. Not you. I was talking to Banksy.”

“Banksy?”

“It’s Mr. Bancroft to you, sir!” 

“He can’t hear you,” I whispered to Bancroft.

“I’m aware,” Banksy said.

“He prefers if you’d call him Mr. Bancroft,” I said.

Porter turned to the empty space next to me. “Mr. Bancroft, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“I’m over here, you moron,” Bancroft said.

I motioned in Bancroft’s direction. Porter caught on and re-introduced himself, this time facing Bancroft’s general direction. 

Bancroft punched Porter in the face. Of course it went right through him. But Porter flinched like something had tickled his nose. 

“You’ll have to excuse him, he’s not used to new people,” I said.

Porter nodded.

“Behave,” I said, scolding Banksy.

Porter drove us over to 23
rd
Street and Vermont. The building was just as it appeared in the mirror, only it was on a different street. Tricky, those mirrors.

I felt the gemstone in my pocket radiate with heat. We were close. Very close. Porter parked the cab in an alleyway behind the building. Again, we found ourselves in a dark, desolate part of town.

“You don’t have to come inside with me,” I said. “I know you’re afraid of this area.”

Porter raised an eyebrow at me. “Watch it there, missy.”

“I mean, I don’t want to have to save you again from another mob of ruthless gang members,” I said, taunting him.

 Porter held back a grin. I don’t think Banksy enjoyed watching us flirt at all. 

We headed away from the cab, down the dingy alley, toward 23
rd
Street. “Where’s that shotgun of yours?” I asked. “You know, just in case I have to rescue you.”

“You don’t carry weapons when you go to see Big Slim,” Porter said. “It would be taken as a sign of hostility.”

We stepped into the building through the main doors.  Fluorescent lighting buzzed, casting a green hue. Some of the lights flickered, strobing the hallway. The muffled sounds of television sets spilled through the thin walls and cheap wooden doors. You could hear couples fighting and babies crying. 

The air was thick with a moldy, mildew smell. Brown water spots occasionally stained the walls and ceilings. Some parts of the hall were ripe with the pungent stench of urine. I instantly felt icky and coated with grime. I wanted to rush home and take a shower.

In the center of the hallway, a wooden staircase spiraled up. I followed Porter up the creaky wooden steps. The walls of the stairwell were sprayed with graffiti. Somewhere about the third floor, we had to step over a drunk who was passed out. He made the first floor hallway smell like roses in comparison.

Bancroft whispered in my ear, “And I thought the DuMond was creepy.”

By the time we got to the ninth floor, I was out of breath. As we started down the hall, I froze in my tracks at the muffled sound of a gunshot.

“Was that what I think it was?” I asked.

“Probably,” Porter said. “Just be glad they’re not shooting at you.” He continued down the hall to apartment 922.

Between the grande latte and the gunshot, my heart was speeding. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time. I could see how people became adrenaline junkies. 

“Let me do the talking,” Porter said. His knuckles rapped on the door. After a few moments, a slat in the door snapped open. Menacing eyes peered out.

“What do you want?” the doorman said. His wide eyes darted about, surveying Porter, then me, then the hallway, then back to Porter.

“We’re here to see Big Slim,” Porter said.

“Big Slim don’t see nobody,” the doorman said. Then he snapped the slat shut. Porter knocked on the door again. Laughter from a sitcom spilled into the hallway from the apartment across the hall. The whole thing was surreal and eerie. The hairs on the back of my neck stood tall.

After a moment, the slat reopened. The same menacing eyes darted about. “I told you, Big Slim don’t see nobody,” the doorman snarled. “Knock on this door again, you’re gonna wish you hadn’t.” The slat snapped shut, the sharp tone echoing down the hall.

The gemstone in my pocket burned like a hot coal. This was definitely the place. Charlotte’s jewelry was here. 

Bancroft passed through the wall into Big Slim’s apartment. He returned a few moments later and whispered in my ear. I chuckled just a bit, then knocked on the door.

CHAPTER 17

THE SLAT OPENED. Angry eyes blazed into me. “I told you not to knock on that door again.”

“No, you told Porter not to knock on the door again. And unless you want me to tell everyone that Big Slim wears pink bunny slippers and reads romance novels, you better open the door.”

The angry eyes grew wide with embarrassment. The slat slapped shut. Porter looked at me like I was crazy. I probably was. Let’s just blame it on the caffeine.

Almost a minute went by. Then the slat opened again. The once angry eyes were quite a bit softer now. “You’re not the police, are you?” the doorman said.

“No. Do I look like the police?”

The slat closed, and the door opened just a crack. The doorman looked me up and down. Then he eyed Porter. Then he poked his head out and looked both ways down the hall. Satisfied, he pulled the door open all the way and motioned for us to enter.

He was a large, imposing man. Everything a doorman should be. He made Porter, who was six foot three and ripped, look small. The fact that he was holding an assault rifle didn’t soften his image.

The apartment was packed with high end merchandise, stacked floor-to-ceiling. Flat panel TVs, blu-ray players, jewelry, weapons, even art—pretty much anything of value. 

Big Slim sat on a leather couch wearing a pink robe, pink rabbit slippers, and eating out of a tub of ice cream. He was reading a romance novel. He was anything but slim. He had a round, boyish face and a pleasant smile. Not at all the look that I was expecting for a ruthless criminal overlord.

“Oh, I just love your shoes. They’re so adorable,” Big Slim said.

I looked at him, stunned. Did he really just compliment my shoes? It took me a minute to respond. “Thank you. Thrift store.”

“That’s the best. Let somebody else take the depreciation hit,” Slim said.  “As you can imagine, I’m not a fan of buying anything new. I’m not really a fan of buying anything period. Free is my favorite,” he said. “What is it I can do for you?”

I started to speak, but Slim cut me off. “I do have to warn you, if you’re working with the police, or you’re here to jeopardize my operation in any way, Xander will kill you.”

I gulped and looked to the doorman. He smiled.

“Xander enjoys killing. Don’t you?” Big Slim said.

The doorman nodded and continued to smile.

I couldn’t tell if it was all an act, or if these guys really were ruthless killers. I wasn’t about to find out, so I went along with it. Clearly, they had earned a reputation for themselves on the street. A reputation that didn’t involve pink bunny slippers and romance novels.

Big Slim wiggled his bunny slippers. “I’m curious how you knew. You say you’re not with the police, but do you have hidden cameras surveilling my operation?
 

“No. No cameras,” I said. “But I do love the slippers.”

“They’re so comfortable,” Slim said. “And the robe. You should feel it.” Slim motioned for me to come over to him.
 

I hesitated.
 

“I’m not going to bite,” he said.

I stepped cautiously toward him. He held out his sleeve, and I felt the plush fabric. My eyes lit up. It was heavenly. “Oh, my God, I want one.”

“See,” Slim said. “I didn’t care what color it was. I had to have it.”

“I get it,” I said.

“Now, because of my line of work, this isn’t the image I need to portray,” Slim said.  “So, if you tell anyone about this, I’ll have Xander hunt you down and kill you.”

Xander smiled.

I nodded.

“But don’t be fooled,” Slim whispered. “ Xander has one too.”

 Xander’s smile faded to a scowl.

 Big Slim looked me up and down. “What’s a sweet little thing like you doing in a place like this?”

“I’m looking for someone,” I said.

“Sorry, honey. I don’t deal in people,” Slim said.

“You recently acquired a gold Rolex and an engagement ring,” I said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Slim said. “And if I did, I’m not giving it back.”

“I could care less about the jewelry,” I said.

Slim raised a curious eyebrow.

“I need to talk to the thief who stole it,” I said.

 Slim got flustered. “Whoa. Hang on there. I think you’re confused. I don’t know any thieves. And none of this merchandise is stolen. This is a fine retail establishment. I’m no different than any other department store.” Slim smiled.

 I looked around at the merchandise. “Except you don’t have a cosmetic counter.”

“Oh, honey. We do makeovers. They’re just not pretty,” Slim said.
 

Xander smiled and made a fist.

“Right. My apologies,” I said. Then I rephrased the question. “I need to speak with one of your suppliers of fine timepieces.”

Slim smiled, appreciative of my subtle shift in terminology. “Here at Slim’s Department Sore, we pride ourselves on maintaining the privacy of both our clients and our suppliers.”

“Look, I’m not going to report him to the police. I don’t care that he took the jewelry. I just need to speak with him.”

Slim squinted at me, confused. “Why do you want to talk to this person?”

“Because I think he can help solve a murder,” I said. “I think he saw the killer.”

Slim thought about this for a moment. “You seem like a nice kid, and I wish I could help you. But this is just full of problems. I can’t have the cops looking into my supplier. Cops start looking into my supplier, pretty soon they’re looking into me.”

“No cops. I promise.” I said. “I just need to know the identity of the killer. I’ll build the case from there.”