Witch Slapped (Witchless In Seattle Mysteries Book 1) by Dakota Cassidy

smooth-as-melted-chocolate voice.
    “Are you smiling?”
    “I don’t smile, I smirk.”
    “As all good spies do. So what do we do next?” I asked, reaching for the rusty doorknob.
    “We plan a strategy, Stevie. A strategy to smoke out a killer.”
    “Can we do that after I have some dinner?”
    “We can begin tomorrow. Bright and early.”
    I twisted the doorknob and was relieved to feel it turn beneath my fingers. “Oh, one more thing.”
    I felt the cool warmth of his aura surround me. I use the words cool and warm because he had the feel of a ghost in that spin-tingling sense, but his aura was warm. “What’s that?”
    “About that Aston Martin you mentioned…”
    “Not even if your life was hanging in the balance.”
    I giggled as I stepped out onto the porch, using my phone as a flashlight to find my way down the stairs.
    Something clicked inside me at that moment. Something felt innately right, and that was when I decided I felt more like myself than I had in over a month.
    Just like the old Stevie, but without a wand and a curse-you-and-your-damnable-soul-to-the-fiery-depths-of-Hades spell.

Chapter 7
    “ G ood morning, Mr. Sherwood!” I called as I entered the near-empty Strange Brew, the coffee shop next door to Madam Zoltar’s.
    The shop was filled with pastel-colored wrought iron tables, cheerful bud vases with pink carnations, and a glass counter with fat muffins in every flavor imaginable. I liked the vibe in here.
    It was easy on the eye, and the smooth coffeehouse jazz playing over the sound system soothed my nerves for what I was about to do. Which was behave as though Chester Sherwood had never accused me of murdering “his” Tina. Keep your enemies close and all.
    “How about you not be so nice to the guy who accused you of hurting ‘his Tina’,” Belfry chirped from inside my purse, still cross he’d missed my deal-making with Winterbottom.
    When he’d heard about our newfound riches, he’d been thrilled. Until he heard I didn’t fight for the Aston Martin. Then he’d pouted for two hours after the most sumptuous breakfast I’d had in years—courtesy of my fat bank account. After taking a cab into Seattle and finding a place to dine where no one would label me a murderer, I’d treated Belfry and myself to the first decent meal we’d had in weeks.
    There’d be plenty of lunches I’d have to eat while skulking in some cold alleyway, considering the hate everyone in town was expressing about my alleged involvement with Madam Zoltar’s death. I figured it was only fair we begin the day pampered.
    “Chester’s a fine man, Belfry. He was simply reacting to his grief. It’s natural.”
    “This from the man who waterboards criminals for a living? What do you know about grief, Winterbutt?” Belfry squeaked in outrage.
    I didn’t understand this sudden animosity toward Win. Belfry had been all sorts of determined to involve me with him and now he was behaving as though he’d never swooned over his accent just a mere twenty-four hours ago.
    But Win just chuckled, rich and deep. “I might not know grieving, but I can assure you, Cheeky One, I know how to dole out some grief.”
    Belfry growled from the interior of my purse, fluffing his wings for hand-to-wing combat. “Was that a threat, Spy Guy?”
    “Belfry!” I held my purse up to my face, pretending I was rooting around for my debit card. “Knock it off. You started this, and now we’re in—both feet. Adjust, buddy, and stop being so rude. We have a place to live and money in our pockets thanks to Win. Remember the whole attitude-is-gratitude talk over breakfast while you gobbled down lush mangos and kiwi?”
    “We have a dump, that’s what we have. A cold, ugly, ramshackle dump from the seventh circle of hell.”
    Fair enough. We did have a dump, but I’d already been in touch with the “someone” Win had in mind for the renovations, and he was assessing things as I stood here. I’d also been in touch with