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

his, but I did remember it hadn’t looked quite so haunted Victorian as it did today.
    As I took in the decaying house at the top of the cliff, I groaned. This was what all the chatty buildup had been about? All the, “Just wait, Stevie, it’s smashing. You’re going to love it. It’s right on a cliff overlooking the Sound. Private, sprawling, plenty of room for Belfry to fly” had been over this?
    This? It was a monstrosity. A falling-apart-at-the-seams, crumbling-in-almost-every-corner monstrosity.
    But I held my tongue. Mostly because I was still too angry with Win for ruining my torrid affair with my favorite taco truck to speak, and it didn’t really matter if I was angry here or back in my hotel room.
    I paid the driver and slid out, bracing myself for the wind and rain that would surely pummel my face. Thankfully, I still had my galoshes on. I’d need them if I had any hope of climbing the steep, muddy incline leading to the crooked front porch.
    The concrete stairs had caved inward at some point, cracked and certainly too dangerous to walk on. Not to mention, a good deal of the wrought iron railings were missing, too.
    I stopped when we were almost to the top, gasping for breath, and that was when I got a close-up glimpse of the underside of the porch steps, rotting away as we stood there.
    The wind picked up, pushing me forward so hard, I had to steady myself. “Is it safe?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. Would I take you anywhere that wasn’t safe?”
    “Would you take me somewhere there’s been a murder? I think the answer is yes. So forgive me if I question your definition of safe.”
    His sigh rasped in my ear, going in one and out the other. “How long will you grudge, Stevie?”
    “For as long as I’m connected to Madam Zoltar’s suspicious death, and probably long after that. So in non-ghost speak— forever .”
    “Forever’s a long time, now hurry along. We have things to discuss.”
    I plowed up the remaining bit of hill and hit the front porch steps with a wince, my mind still so full of the images of today. Liza’s raw grief. Mr. Sherwood’s face when he accused me of hurting “his Tina.”
    And that Senior Alert necklace Liza made mention of that wasn’t around Madam Zoltar’s neck or anywhere near her fallen body. Maybe I’d just missed it, but it was poking at me something fierce. I didn’t want to believe she’d been murdered, but my gut said something quite different.
    As I climbed the steps, I wondered if they’d even hold my weight. I was no size two. I wasn’t even a size eight. And they looked mighty weak. I’d had a hella bad day. Adding falling through some rotting stairs to my death to the roster would send me right over the edge.
    I stepped onto the porch with great care and took my first look around. The stained-glass door with a beautiful pattern of greens, blues and maroon I couldn’t make sense of was warped, but could be quite lovely refinished and re-stained. It was wide and thick, handcrafted rather than bought at a local box store.
    The sprawling porch, flanked by four pillars, wrapped around each side of the three-story house. Planks of wood popped up, the boards were loose and splintered, the paint peeling everywhere. An enormous hole by one of the thick pillars looked like someone had dropped a heavy ball through it.
    “The key’s under the mat.”
    Winterbottom’s statement made me wonder how long he’d owned this dump. I stooped, lifting up the disintegrating, soggy mat covered in slimy leaves, and found a shiny brass key. Pushing it into the keyhole, I turned it—with no luck.
    “It’s jammed. Bummer. Guess I’ll have to pay for another cab ride home you can put on your final bill. Too bad, so sad.”
    “Did you always give up this easily when you were a witch? Lift the handle and turn.”
    With a defeated sigh, I did as instructed. Popping the door open, I squinted and scanned the gigantic square entryway as my eyes adjusted.
    Someone had