The woman scrunched her wrinkled face as she pondered for a long moment. “Fine. How about this? My body was found here in the thrift shop after I choked, or apparently choked, on something. I’d been here for two days before anyone came to look for me. I was wearing this exact same outfit on the day of my death. I was found by a boy of the name Frankie, who often wears pants even tighter than those ridiculous ones you’re wearing right now.”
I brought out my phone as she spoke. I hadn’t heard any of this before, but it could be just as easy for my brain to make up such a story. I bet myself $100 that if I searched the old woman’s facts, nothing would come up. That would prove that this is all in my head and I was just losing my mind a little bit. Nothing a superfood smoothie and some meditation couldn’t fix. Scrolling through the online news reports, my mouth dropped open. After furiously reading through a few websites and blogs that outlined the occurrences of Agatha’s death, my skin grew cold. “It’s true,” I whispered.
“Of course, it’s true, stupid girl. We’re talking about my own death here. Or, at least, what I’ve managed to figure out about it,” the old woman grumbled.
I frowned at my cell phone. “Maybe I read this somewhere, and I just don’t remember.”
Agatha proceeded to list out a number of other facts about herself that I would have no way of knowing, all of which I confirmed through quick internet searches. After about ten minutes of searching, there was no question that what she was saying was true. She wasn’t a figment of my imagination at all. But how the hell could that be? I simply sat and stared at her. “So, you’re what, a ghost?” I finally asked.
Agatha raised her hands above her head and shouted, “Hallelujah, the girl’s not an idiot after all!”
I ran my hands through my hair nervously. “This is absurd. There is no such thing as ghosts. And absolutely no such thing as talking cats.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself so you can sleep at night, beautiful,” the tabby cat purred.
“This just doesn’t make sense,” I whispered. “How can it? There must be some logical explanation for this. I’ve lost my mind, surely.”
“The only thing you’ve lost is too much weight, skinny girl,” Agatha snapped. She reached down and stroked the ginger cat’s ear. “I hope she’s not another disappointment, Muffin. We’ve had enough silly assistants to last us a lifetime, haven’t we?”
“Your assistant?” I shook my head and was surprised something didn’t rattle inside my aching skull. “What are you talking about? I can’t assist you with anything, Agatha. You’re dead.” I swallowed hard, and decided to go upstairs, have a nice hot bath, get a proper night’s sleep, and then book a session with the local therapist. “I don’t think dead people really need assistants.”
“Of course they do, you foolish girl. I need an assistant now more than ever.” Agatha straightened herself and turned to look me square in the face. “I need you to solve my murder.”
Chapter Five
“Nope.” Agatha followed me through the thrift store, but I refused to glance in her direction. “Nope, nope, nopety-nope.”
“You can’t nope me out of your life, girl. You signed a contract. You agreed to be my assistant.” Agatha frowned at her hands. “And your first duty is to discover who murdered me so I can get my magic back and gain access to my powers.”
I paused with my handle on the shop door. “Your magic?” I raised my eyebrows. “Your powers?” The ghost nodded and I scrunched my face up. “Yeah, we’re done here.” I lifted my hand. “Ghosts? Kinda, maybe. Talking cats? Stretching it. But magical powers?” I twisted my key in the lock and yanked the door open. “I’m out.”
I let the door slam behind me as I pounded up the stairs into the apartment, but when I slipped inside, Agatha was already waiting for me. I gritted my teeth as she followed me into the dining room and watched me haul my bags across the floor. “You know, you’re not the only one who’s disappointed with how this has turned out, young lady. You’ve got your panties all in a bunch because you’re hard done by, but think how I must feel. I’ve signed all my worldly possessions over to a cowardly custard who lets slimy, good-for-nothing men control her life and then runs off like a lamb when they tell her they’ve had enough of her. Quitter.”
Her accusation struck me like a blade and I spun to face her. “You know nothing about me!” I clenched my fists. “And I’m not running anywhere. I’m staying here and I’m turning your store into a juice bar, and you can haunt it all day and all night for all I care. I’m not a quitter.”
“That’s the spirit, Cilla.” The ghost clapped her hands and called to the cats, “We’ll make a fine witch out of her yet, boys.”
“A witch?” I shouldered the door to the master bedroom open and flung my bags on the floor in an indignant pile. “Of course, how did I not see that coming? You’re a witch. A ghost witch. And you were murdered and now I need to be your witch apprentice and uncover the truth of the dastardly crime, am I right?” The old woman nodded and I gave a snort of disbelief. “Yeah, that’s not going to happen, lady. Sorry, the last train to crazy town is ready to leave the station, but I’m not getting on it. You and the cats are going to have to make that little trip alone.”
Agatha narrowed her eyes at me. “You’re lucky I don’t have my powers, girlie. I’d be very tempted to teach you some manners, wouldn’t I, boys?” In response to her question, the cats moved closer to Agatha’s feet. The ginger cat, Muffin, purred affectionately at the ghost while the tabby cat prowled in a full circle around me, pausing briefly to run his eyes over my body before returning to Agatha. The black cat just glared. Agatha sniffed, watching me out of the corner of her eye. “Who would have thought a young lady could be so cruel to a poor, defenseless murder victim?”
I opened my mouth to tell the ghost she was the furthest thing from a defenseless victim I’d ever met, but my retort was cut short by the sound of rapping on the door downstairs. I glared at Agatha as the banging increased in volume. “This conversation isn’t over,” I insisted as I yanked the door of the apartment open and trampled down the narrow staircase. Through the frosted glass, I could make out two figures; one tall and narrow, the other short and rounded. I frowned and opened the door a crack. “Can I help you?”
“Welcome to the neighborhood, dear.” I blinked as the aroma of spiced apples and warm pastry hit my nostrils and my eyes were immediately drawn to the golden crust on the apple pie being thrust through the gap between the door and my body. I took a step back as a plump figure pushed past me, pie first, and a pretty, round face beamed in my direction. “Dot Murphy, I own the bakery and coffee shop on the corner, Bewitching Bites.”
Before I could respond, a second body slid through the half-opened doorway and stood beside Dot in the cramped base of the stairwell. The newcomer was as straight and sharp as her companion was warm and soft, and she caught my hand in a cool, firm handshake before I had even gathered my wits enough to greet the women. My gaze traveled from her hand all the way up her long slim arm until it settled on the steel gray eyes examining me from under a blunt white fringe. The woman was strikingly beautiful, despite the lines of age that wreathed her eyes and the corners of her lips. Or perhaps because of them; hers was a face that had lived a long life and emerged triumphant. Her mouth curved ever so slightly at the corners as she addressed me. “Bianca D’Arcy. Welcome to Salem.”