Studmuffin blinked at the sticker, momentarily sidetracked from the detective's dancing spots.
The words printed across the sticker drifted around lazily then settled into something readable for my dyslexic brain.
"Who Killed RaeRae? Call 1-800-CUR-RATS." An itchy feeling crawled up my neck. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Detective Palmer tossed the sticker onto the table. "I think it means cure. Cure rats. If we find out who killed RaeRae, someone will cure the rats."
"As in turn them back into witches." I took a long, long swig of coffee. Something told me it was going to be a very long day, and it hadn't even really started yet. "So who is this RaeRae? If she's dead, is she in the back of one of those hearses?"
"We're looking into it. I dialed this 800 number earlier to ask s
