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

long before everyone else was calling me a murderer, too.
    I pulled out the chair opposite him and asked with a smile, “May I?”
    “Don’t ask, Stevie. Just sit. Own this interrogation,” Win demanded in brisk words.
    I held up a finger and said, “Just one moment, please, Mr. Sherwood,” before I turned my back to him and whispered from the side of my mouth. “What did I tell you about interfering? We made rules this morning, Win. I was very clear about how we’d do this—”
    “Among other things,” Win drawled. “What was rule number fifty-six again? Something about announcing my entrance to any room with the mating call of the North American—”
    “He’s not a suspect in a terrorist attack or a valuable art heist, Win! He’s an elderly gentleman who may have seen something yesterday he doesn’t think is important but could help Madam Zoltar, and more importantly, us. Now put away the bamboo shoots to jam under his nails and back off !”
    I turned back around and cleared my throat, putting a finger to my ear and pointing at the Bluetooth earpiece I planned to use as a beard whenever Win decided I needed his spy-erly advice. “Sorry. An unexpected call from one of those naggy telemarketers. Anyway, may I sit with you? Please?”
    Mr. Sherwood dropped his paper to his lap and glared at me. “Why would I wanna sit with you? And just so’s you know, I don’t care how pretty you are. You ain’t winnin’ me over with those big blue eyes. You’re still a murderer. The paper says so.”
    I pouted, deciding to use my big blue eyes to my advantage even though they weren’t so much blue as a boring gray.
    “Aw, c’mon, Mr. Sherwood. I’d never hurt a fly. I know what you think, and what everyone’s saying, but I swear on my honor, I just went in to take a look around and got clumsy. I grew up here and so much has changed. Madam Zoltar’s used to be a sewing shop when I was a kid. So I was curious to see the changes and maybe meet Madam Zoltar.”
    Now he was interested. I saw it in his expression. “Who’s your kin?”
    But this was where things could get sticky for me. My mother didn’t exactly have a stellar reputation. She’d been quite the cougar back in the day—or gold digger, depending on which of her victims you asked.
    Still, I couldn’t lie about who she was. Maybe he’d even feel sorry for me.
    “Dita Cartwright was my mother.”
    He bobbed his balding head, his lips still in a thin line of disapproval. “Yep. Lived over in the fancy cul-de-sac, didn’t ya? That explains your good looks.”
    “You knew my mother?” I asked before I thought better. Opening up the subject of my mother was always tricky business. You never knew who you’d run into when it came to a stranger’s experience with the infamous Dita. Sometimes they were friends, but more likely they were angry, bitter foes.
    “Yep,” he offered before returning to his paper.
    This was going exactly as I’d planned. Or not. Ugh.
    The man behind the counter, whose back had been turned, saved me having to offer up excuses about Dita when he approached the table, a pad in his hand.
    When I looked up, I almost fell out of my chair.
    Why hadn’t I remembered Forrest Sherwood when Win told me Chester’s last name? Two years older than me, he was the hottest thing Ebenezer Falls High School had to offer back in the day.
    I jumped up and stuck out my hand. “Forrest? I had no idea you were in town! It’s Stevie. Stevie Cartwright! I was two years behind you, but we went to school together, remember?”
    Forrest smiled slow and easy, making deep grooves appear on either side of his mouth. He took my hand and nodded. “I didn’t at first, but I knew your name was familiar when Grandpa told me about what happened yesterday. Stevie’s an unusual name for a woman. Black lipstick, long trench coat, right?”
    I waved my hand in the air at him and giggled. “All day, every day. That was me and my signature brand of