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

knocked the wall out between the parlor and the entry. I say “knocked it out” because it literally looked as though someone had plowed through it with their body. The hole was jagged and rough, the sheetrock crumbled and littering the floor.
    I gave a good look around the place, my eyes going to the staircase on my left, winding upward to the second floor where window upon window lined the head of the steps.
    If you looked directly across the entryway and down the short hall, there was a room I guessed was a kitchen, but I couldn’t see much other than more windows and junk. All manner of fast-food cartons and pizza boxes, crushed beer and soda cans were strewn from one end of the entry to the next. It was filthy and smelled like desperation and cat urine.
    “So, what do you think?” Win asked, as though he were proudly asking me to rate on a scale of one to ten how cute his newborn baby was.
    “Who’s your decorator, Marilyn Manson?”
    “Oh, it’s all fun and games until you find out I actually know a Manson. Charlie, to be precise. Isn’t that right, Stevie Like-Nicks-the-Singer?”
    Laughter gurgled from my throat against my will. I’d give Mr. British Guy this, he could make with the funny.
    But how peculiar he should mention knowing one of America’s most controversial serial killers. What had been Winterbottom’s profession before he’d died? My guess was prison guard.
    My eyebrow rose as I stepped over a torn bag of Funyuns and an empty six-pack of Dr. Pepper. “You know Charles Manson?”
    “Well, I don’t know him know him. We don’t lunch or anything. I met him. Once. I interviewed him about another case that didn’t involve him, but was similar to his portfolio of crimes.”
    A case? Curioser and curioser.
    “Okay, so did his cellmate help you decorate this place?” I asked, my fingers trailing over the thick covering of dust on a three-legged end table by the side of the stairs.
    “They were beyond helpful in my quest to make sure the paint peeled in all the right places.”
    I glanced around again at the wall that looked as though someone had tried to scratch their way out of the parlor from behind the sheetrock and nodded. “Tell him job well done. He’s an overachiever.”
    Winterbottom’s chuckle, deep and rich, swirled in my ears, sweeping over the room. “And it’s all yours.”
    Say what now?
    I kept my surprise on the inside, but I gripped the wobbly square finial on the staircase banister to steady myself.
    “It’s what?”
    “All yours, if you’ll have it.”
    I held up a hand, setting my purse on the warped hardwood floor so if he chose, Belfry could poke his head out when he was done napping. “I think I need some clarity. Who were you when you were alive and how can you give me an entire house?”
    There was a pause, as though he was gathering steam to prepare me for something heinous. It hadn’t occurred to me up to this point, but what if he was a bad guy? What if he was some crappy shyster of a real estate developer who stole from seniors, or a Bernie Madoff type dude?
    “Are you ready for this?”
    “Do you really think anything you tell me can move the register on my surprise meter any higher after the events of today? Divulge or I go back to my hotel room.”
    “I was a spy.”
    My head cocked to the right while his words nested in my brain. “A spy as in private investigator, Inspector Clouseau…or a spy like the spy in the show Alias ?”
    “Oh, definitely an Alias -caliber spy. Sydney’s my hero.”
    Visions of Sydney Bristow danced through my head. Images of this faceless man, with his educated, succinct words and light disdain, wearing a wig for a disguise, swiftly followed.
    “You’re very quiet, Stevie.”
    I gnawed on the inside of my cheek. While intrigued, I was far from sold.
    “Well, here’s the thing. You could tell me you were the King of Prussia and I’d have no way to prove you weren’t, right? I can’t see ghosts anymore, so