Somebody Tell Aunt Tillie She's Dead (Toad Witch Series, Book One) (26 page)

“Don’t judge me,” he snapped. “Did anyone get hurt?”

“Is this like a regular thing? Have you seen a doctor?”

He blushed. “I don’t like doctors. I usually just hide my car keys before I go to sleep.”

“But your mind still knows where they are.”

“How is my life any of your business?” he asked, oddly defiant.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake. You could have killed somebody. Even out here, in the middle of cow country.” Irritated, I closed the driver’s side door, left him hanging, and walked away.

Sleep-driving. I shook my head. I hated irresponsible people. Gus aside. He might be irresponsible, but I was pretty sure he’d never intentionally put someone’s life in danger. Their sanity, maybe. Their life, no. At least, not so far.

I jogged over to the other car, which had crunched into the maple tree across the way. The front end was crumpled and a very sexy and slightly shaken Paul Raines was leaning against the back bumper, his cell phone in hand.

“I already called. The police are on their way.”

“Oh, ah… thanks.” He said, his face reddening. He flipped the cell phone closed and winced.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, just shaken up a little.”

“You’re lucky you weren’t in a convertible. Hitting a tree is what killed Tillie.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me, you’re the one who’s going to be hurting tomorrow.”

Sirens grew louder. Two police cars pulled up, followed by an ambulance.

He quickly shoved his cell phone in my pocket. “Hold this for me, okay? Our little secret.” He gave me a charming smile and then limped over to talk to the police.

After I filled the cops in on what I knew, I went back into the cottage. I pulled Paul’s cell phone out of my pocket and looked at it, tempted to scroll through its history. There had to be a reason he didn’t want the cops to find it. But then I looked up and caught Grundleshanks staring at me. I sighed and placed the phone on the table.

“Okay, fine.” I told the toad. “Snooping is wrong. I get it. But there are times…” I glanced out the window. There was a tow-truck hooking Paul’s car up to a winch. The other guy had already left with the flat-bed that had towed his pickup.

As the cops pulled away, I spotted Paul walking toward the cottage. Good thing I had decided against snooping through Paul’s phone. I put the phone out of my mind and turned my attention to cooking.

I had sausages in the oven and I was cracking eggs into a mixing bowl when Paul knocked and walked in the open door. “Just came to get my phone.”

“Have a seat. Wanna join me for breakfast?”

He looked at his watch. “It’s two o’clock. How late do you sleep?”

No wonder I was starving. “I’ve had a busy morning. And then most of my day was taken up with these two idiots crashing into my property.”

“Okay, okay,” he raised his hands in surrender. “I’m sorry. Smells great in here.” He started setting the table and I turned back to my eggs.

My goal was to make tomato-cheese-basil omelettes, but, as usual, they came out looking like colorful scrambled eggs. I never did have a knack for flipping omelettes. 

But soon, everything was done and the small table was festooned with plates of eggs, honey-smoked sausages, buttered toast, coffee and orange juice.

“Wow. Remind me to come over here more often.” Paul whistled.

“As long as you keep all four wheels on the road. Or walk. My cottage doesn’t take well to speeding cars.”

“I don’t blame it. It’s a gem of a home. It definitely wouldn’t have looked good with an SUV going through it.”

For someone who hadn’t been hungry for breakfast, he was practically inhaling his eggs. He must have heard my thoughts, because he looked up at me and grinned, his smile lighting up the kitchen. “Normally, I don’t eat like this. You’re a great cook.”

I drank my orange juice and smiled.

He sipped his coffee. “Even the coffee is good. You ever think about opening a cafe?”

“Not really. My culinary accomplishments are pretty limited.” I said. “So, what happened out there?”

“We both got lectured and threatened with jail time. Sam had to turn over his car keys and agree not to drive for the next month.”

“I didn’t know cops could do that.”

“They can out here. They’re dispensers of homey wisdom and justice. Keeps the court docket at Trinity Harbor free.”

“Why were you threatened with jail time? And what was the deal with the phone? Are you some kind of rogue CIA agent?”

He laughed. Then he looked at the phone, embarrassed. “Yeah. Thanks for stashing that. I would have definitely been chillin’ in the pokey if they had caught me with it.”

“I didn’t know owning a cell phone was a capital offense.”

He sighed. “It is when you get caught text messaging. Especially if this your third offense.”

“Are you kidding me?! Text messaging?! While you’re driving? Are you an idiot?”

“Okay, let me explain. I’m not used to texting. I haven’t upgraded my phone in like, three years. So the first time someone sent me a text, I thought my cell phone was ringing. I kept trying to answer it. By the time I figured out what was going on, I had run into a parked car.”

I looked at him, shocked.

He held up a hand. “Being a responsible kind of guy, I paid to fix the car.”

“And the second time?”

“I wasn’t going to text back, I just wanted to see what it was who was texting me. I was just looking. But Howie pulled up next to me while I was checking it out and gave me a ticket.”

“And today?”

“I was actually texting. It was an emergency.”

I stood up and took the plates to the sink.

“Hey, I wasn’t done!” He protested, standing up.

“You are now. Text messaging. While you’re driving. That’s almost as stupid and irresponsible as sleep-driving.”

“It’s inexcusable, I know.” He joined me, drying the dishes as I washed them. “But really, I’m not that guy who texts while he drives. It’s just that my publisher was having some problems and then my publicist called, going nuts about some interview she wants me to do. I have a book about to hit the market and things are in the middle of chaos right now. And besides, it was ringing. I can’t just let a phone ring and not answer it. It’s not in me.”

I dried my hands and grabbed both our phones off the table.

“What are you doing?”

“You’ll see.” I uploaded a ring tone to his phone, then I downloaded it and set it as his text message tone. I added his cell number into my phone, then handed him his phone.

“Next time you feel the need to text message, pull the hell over and park, okay? Me, the cows, the trees and my home, we would all appreciate it.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled and looked so sincere, I felt my anger dissipate.

“So, you’re a writer?”

“Yeah. I guess it runs in the family. Teaching pays the bills, but writing’s my passion. You still mad?”

“You’re just lucky you’re cute.” I quickly sent his phone a text.

His phone buzzed and started the new ringtone, a voice saying “Do not pick up the phone. Do not pick up the phone.”

“There’s your new text message ringtone. Think you can leave that be?”

He laughed. “Okay. I can live with that.” He slid the phone into his pocket. “So, you think I’m cute? There’s a lot of places we could go with cute. How about ‘hot’? Do you think I’m hot? A couple of days ago, you thought I was sexy. And possibly sweaty.”

“A couple of days ago, I thought you were gay.” His hands strayed over to my side of the sink. I slapped at his flirty fingers. “Don’t push your luck.”

After Paul left, I tried calling Gus again from my cell phone, just in case he was screening for numbers he recognized. But as I walked in front of the cellar door, I lost the signal. I stepped away from the door. Full bars. A step towards the door and it was completely back to zero bars. Just like before, with the landline. I took a deep breath, put my hand on the cellar doorknob and unlocked the door.

Chapter Thirty-Three

As I slowly opened the cellar door, a cold breeze came up out of the darkness. Goosebumps raced my arms and across my scalp. I grabbed my big mag-lite to use for protection, and flipped the cellar light switch on. A single light bulb flared on, turning the utter blackness at the bottom of the cellar steps into a light gray.

I carefully walked down the stone steps, one hand on the wall, the other clutching my flashlight. I couldn’t see anything, but I could hear the scratching and rustling of small animals.

Once I got to the bottom of the stairs, I could make out random white strings hanging down from the ceiling. When I pulled on one of the strings, another light bulb flared on.

I heard something fall and my heart jumped up into my throat.

Then I felt something small and furry run over my foot.

I screamed and jumped sideways.

Okay, here’s the thing. As much as I’m not as afraid of things that turn normal people into jelly, like ghosts and supernatural bumps, I’m at a loss when it comes to rodents who want to live in my home. I don’t want them there. I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to see their droppings. But I don’t want to see their dead little bodies either. So I’m hopeless at setting out traps. What I’d like to do is just go away and come back to a magically critter-free home. But so far, I haven’t been able to figure out how to pull that off.

And what makes it worse is that the creepy critters seem to love me. They’ll run right up to me and stand on my feet. Or if I’m laying down, they’ll curl up next to my pillow. It’s why I don’t go camping any more.

I quickly jumped around, swinging the flashlight and making lots of noise to scare off any lurking critters. Then I yanked on all the overhanging strings, until the cellar was lit up like a police interrogation room. But at the edges of where the light could reach, it was still cobwebby, full of boxes and dark shadows, and haunted by feelings of rage and dread.

Halfway through the room, I noticed another door. I opened it. An empty storage room. I could use it as a place to store essential oils, herbs and incense. Maybe even do some blending. That is, if I could find the courage to come down to the cellar on a regular basis. But I just couldn’t see spending any more time down here than I had to. My goosebumps had goosebumps.

As I walked through the cellar, I noticed that it didn’t quite mesh, size-wise, with the house. It seemed to be quite a bit smaller. There was a wall blocking off the area where the mud room and part of the kitchen was on the upper floor. I pushed against the wall, wondering if it concealed some kind of secret room. Or if some human sacrifice had been deliberately bricked up in there, my subconscious prompted.

“Get out of my home!”
The ghostly voice echoed in the confines of the cellar and the hair on my neck stood on end.

“Forget about it. This place is mine. I’m not going anywhere.”  I said, drawing my line in the sand.

“Get out! Or face the consequences.”
The voice whispered, curling around me like a mist.

A wrapped Santa Claus flew across the room, aiming right for me.

I ducked and it smashed against the wall.

“Leave here, now!”

Box after box flipped open and the contents hurled themselves at me. Pictures, plates, glasses, books, ornaments, holiday decorations, all turned into ammunition and shrapnel. I weaved and ducked as fast as I could, using my mag-lite as a baseball bat, but it was all coming too fast.

I screamed in pain as a chair nailed my leg. I tried to hobble for the stairway, using my arms to cover my face. A crystal glass hit my forearm and blood trickled down to my elbow.

“Knock it off! That hurts!”

A plate hit my shin. A sharp stab of pain traveled up my leg as one of the blades of a gardening shear embedded itself in my flesh.

“Goddamnit, Aunt Tillie. Knock it off or I swear by all the Gods, I’ll call up Lisette right now and help her do whatever she wants.”

Silence. The onslaught stopped. 

I yanked the shears out of my thigh and hobbled up the stairs, but nothing more hit me. When I reached the top, I slammed the door shut, locked it and wedged a chair under the doorknob. In the silence, I heard the light bulbs on the other side of the door explode, one by one.

An hour later, I was still shaking over the attack in the cellar, as the doctor stitched up my leg. Fucking pushy, opinionated, tantrum-throwing, pain-in-the-ass ghosts, I thought to myself, trying not to watch the needle and thread. This was ridiculous. Aunt Tillie could have killed me. In fact, she probably would have.

“It’s none of my business, but if someone did this to you, I can have the police here in a red hot minute. One thing we do well is protect our women and children. Zero tolerance.”