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Book: Wicked Ways: Death at the DuMond (A Cozy Witch Mystery Book 1) by Ava Collins
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Authors: Ava Collins
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the same size. I was wondering if it would be too much to ask if I could borrow a dress?”
She looked me up and down. “We’re not at all the same size. I’m much smaller than you are.”
I tried to hold my disdain back. But I couldn’t. Charlotte and I are obviously the same size. I might even be a little smaller. I felt my face grow red, and I’m sure my eyes blazed into her. My first thought was to cast a spell that would make her crave chocolate. But I refrained.
Instead, I forced a smile. “Yes, of course. You’re teeny tiny. I just thought that perhaps, with your fashion expertise, you might be able to offer some advice. Maybe you have an old dress that is too large? One that you bought by mistake, of course?”
“All of my dresses are tailored to fit. And very expensive.”
Her snide remark grated on my nerves. Still, I maintained a pleasant demeanor. “Well, you have excellent taste.”
I smiled, thanked her for her time, and left. I was going to have to get one of her belongings another way.
CHAPTER 12
TRASH PICKUP IS in the morning on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Most of the residents just leave their rubbish in plastic bags in the hallway the night before. I wasn’t keen on digging through Charlotte’s garbage. But I figured I had a good shot at coming across something she discarded.
Technically, if she discarded a belonging, it wouldn’t really be hers anymore. I wondered if the location spell would still work. Still, it was worth a shot. Though, I have never been very good at location spells.
I waited until the evening for Charlotte to set out her trash. Once the coast was clear, I snatched a couple of bags and met Banksy in the model apartment.
It was absolutely disgusting. Sometime, in the last few days, Charlotte and Elliott had eaten grilled salmon. Now it was rotting in the trash. The smell was overwhelming when I opened the bag. I thought I was going to hurl. My stomach rumbled, and I felt the sour taste of acid tickle the back of my throat. I pulled my shirt collar up over my nose as I dug through the slimy filth.
Banksy was laughing at me.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“I can’t smell a thing.” He smiled.
I glared at him. “I hate you.”
“Yes, but remember, I can’t smell roses, or perfume, or any other delightful aroma.” He sighed.
As a ghost, Bancroft couldn’t touch, taste, or feel anything. As much as I was nauseated by the smell of the garbage, I felt sorry for Banksy. Half of his senses were gone. For over a hundred years, he hadn’t eaten a pizza, or tasted cake, or smelled bacon in the morning. That sounded kind of miserable to me. Bacon is my guilty pleasure.
Bancroft says that sometimes he can sort of feel things. In the same way that he can knock a picture from the wall, or push open a door. He says it’s like an echo of a feeling. A sensation that is very faint. But he says it takes a lot of concentration.
I dug through the first bag and couldn’t find anything of use. The second bag smelled even worse. Rotten eggs and days old chicken. The bag was full of papers, milk cartons, plastic water bottles, used coffee grounds, soda cans. There were bank statements and credit card receipts. I was a little shocked they didn’t bother to shred those. It is amazing what you can learn about people from the trash.
The second bag was a bust. I still hadn’t found anything of Charlotte’s I could use to anchor the spell. I was going to be really upset if I had to suffer through the stench for nothing.
Alas, the third bag was more of the same. Warm, stale garbage. I was devastated. I tied the bags up and threw them out in the hallway. Then I scrubbed my hands in the bathroom for what seemed like half an hour. One’s hands can never be too clean.
I sulked back into the living room. “Bancroft, what am I going to do?”
“Why don’t you just tell her you’re a witch and you need something of hers to cast a spell to find her
She looked me up and down. “We’re not at all the same size. I’m much smaller than you are.”
I tried to hold my disdain back. But I couldn’t. Charlotte and I are obviously the same size. I might even be a little smaller. I felt my face grow red, and I’m sure my eyes blazed into her. My first thought was to cast a spell that would make her crave chocolate. But I refrained.
Instead, I forced a smile. “Yes, of course. You’re teeny tiny. I just thought that perhaps, with your fashion expertise, you might be able to offer some advice. Maybe you have an old dress that is too large? One that you bought by mistake, of course?”
“All of my dresses are tailored to fit. And very expensive.”
Her snide remark grated on my nerves. Still, I maintained a pleasant demeanor. “Well, you have excellent taste.”
I smiled, thanked her for her time, and left. I was going to have to get one of her belongings another way.
CHAPTER 12
TRASH PICKUP IS in the morning on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Most of the residents just leave their rubbish in plastic bags in the hallway the night before. I wasn’t keen on digging through Charlotte’s garbage. But I figured I had a good shot at coming across something she discarded.
Technically, if she discarded a belonging, it wouldn’t really be hers anymore. I wondered if the location spell would still work. Still, it was worth a shot. Though, I have never been very good at location spells.
I waited until the evening for Charlotte to set out her trash. Once the coast was clear, I snatched a couple of bags and met Banksy in the model apartment.
It was absolutely disgusting. Sometime, in the last few days, Charlotte and Elliott had eaten grilled salmon. Now it was rotting in the trash. The smell was overwhelming when I opened the bag. I thought I was going to hurl. My stomach rumbled, and I felt the sour taste of acid tickle the back of my throat. I pulled my shirt collar up over my nose as I dug through the slimy filth.
Banksy was laughing at me.
“What’s so funny?” I asked.
“I can’t smell a thing.” He smiled.
I glared at him. “I hate you.”
“Yes, but remember, I can’t smell roses, or perfume, or any other delightful aroma.” He sighed.
As a ghost, Bancroft couldn’t touch, taste, or feel anything. As much as I was nauseated by the smell of the garbage, I felt sorry for Banksy. Half of his senses were gone. For over a hundred years, he hadn’t eaten a pizza, or tasted cake, or smelled bacon in the morning. That sounded kind of miserable to me. Bacon is my guilty pleasure.
Bancroft says that sometimes he can sort of feel things. In the same way that he can knock a picture from the wall, or push open a door. He says it’s like an echo of a feeling. A sensation that is very faint. But he says it takes a lot of concentration.
I dug through the first bag and couldn’t find anything of use. The second bag smelled even worse. Rotten eggs and days old chicken. The bag was full of papers, milk cartons, plastic water bottles, used coffee grounds, soda cans. There were bank statements and credit card receipts. I was a little shocked they didn’t bother to shred those. It is amazing what you can learn about people from the trash.
The second bag was a bust. I still hadn’t found anything of Charlotte’s I could use to anchor the spell. I was going to be really upset if I had to suffer through the stench for nothing.
Alas, the third bag was more of the same. Warm, stale garbage. I was devastated. I tied the bags up and threw them out in the hallway. Then I scrubbed my hands in the bathroom for what seemed like half an hour. One’s hands can never be too clean.
I sulked back into the living room. “Bancroft, what am I going to do?”
“Why don’t you just tell her you’re a witch and you need something of hers to cast a spell to find her
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