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Authors: Heather Blake

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BOOK: Gone With the Witch
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“I'll
give
you the one of Pie, no charge.”

“How're you supposed to make money on your art if you give it away?”

“I don't create the art to make money,” I said, meaning it.

“In that case, you could give the money to me.” She blinked innocently.

“You're doing okay on your own.” Harper's ideas often exceeded her budget, but her budget had recently expanded, thanks to that trust fund our mother had left me. I'd done everything possible to fairly share that money with Harper, who hadn't been born when the trust was created. The trust had just paid off the mortgage on Harper's bookshop, which would now hopefully start turning a nice profit without the burden of an enormous overhead.

“I can always use more,” she muttered. “Who couldn't?”

Ignoring her, I walked over to Missy's pen to check on her. With her head on her front paws, she lay in her
doggy bed, watching Harper and me with a look of pure disgust in her eyes. Except for her time with Reggie, she'd been mopey since we arrived. Not even Higgins' arrival had lifted her spirits, and she loved that big slobbery dog.

Poor thing.

“What has you down? Is it this pen?” I asked her. She had never been fond of being fenced in. I patted her curly-topped head. “It's only for one day. Not even. Six, seven hours . . .”

Lifting an eyebrow, she glared at me.

There were some days she was just so humanlike that I could easily imagine that she was a familiar. Maybe she was. Who knew?

The Elder, that's who.

Perhaps she'd tell me if I asked especially nicely.

Or maybe I'd inhaled too many paint fumes.

“Darcy!” a shrill voice called out, and Missy whimpered.

I almost whimpered, too.

“Six, seven hours,” I repeated to Missy with a smile and scratch under her chin before I stood and found Ivy Teasdale rushing toward me, a lanyard bobbing on her chest as if it were playing a game of hopscotch, a clipboard grasped tightly in her hand. Her pink-tipped hair had been pulled back into a tight knot, and she wore neon green sneakers with her tailored black suit.

“Hi, Ivy,” I said, trying to keep the weariness out of my voice. “You know my sister, Harper?”

“Yes, of course.” Her gaze flicked from Harper, then back to me in a flash. “Where's the rest of your decor, Darcy?”

“There is no more,” I said with a shrug. “This is it.”

Confusion dripped from her words. “What do you mean, no more?”

It felt as though the temperature had dropped a good twenty degrees from Ivy's icy glare, and I was glad I'd worn a cardigan over my vintage Tweety Bird T-shirt.

“Where's the tulle? The lace? The ribbons? The animal print?” Ivy awkwardly tucked the clipboard under her armpit and made frantic jazz hands. “The pizzazz!”

Harper's eyes went wide with horror. “Oh my God, you weren't kidding about the jazz hands.”

Ivy shot her an annoyed look, then faced me and dropped her voice. “You need to be the best of the best, Darcy. Nothing else will do to get on you-know-who's radar. You don't have much time before she . . .” Ivy's gaze settled on something over my shoulder, and then she pasted on a phony smile.

I glanced over my shoulder.

Not a something, after all. A
someone
.

Ivy said, “Natasha! So good to see you again!”

Natasha wore a billowy long white dress with braided halter straps, gold sandals, and about a dozen gold chains of varying lengths around her neck. Although the outfit should have swallowed her petite frame, it didn't. Instead she looked nothing but glamorous.

I was suddenly regretting my choice of jeans and T-shirt.

As Ivy brushed past me to greet the reigning Extravaganza champion, she whispered, “Do not blow it, Darcy.”

Harper came to stand at my elbow. “Why'd you take this job again?”

“No job too big or too small, remember?”

“That's a stupid motto.”

Missy barked as though agreeing.

I was beginning to think so, too, as I said, “Be that as it may, I—”

I broke off, too stunned at the sight before me to finish my sentence.

“What?” Harper asked, then gasped as she followed my gaze.

A bare-chested muscular man stood at the end of the aisle and began to beat a tambourine against his thick thigh. He wore nothing but a tiny swath of white cloth across his hips that barely covered all his manly bits and a black shoulder-length headdress, banded at the temples with thin gold fabric.

Harper grabbed my arm. “Holy Mr. Tambourine Man. Tell me I'm hallucinating.”

“If you are, I am, too,” I said.

Behind him, two other men dressed identically to the first carried a palanquin, one of those fancy bedlike conveyances that Egyptian royalty had used, down the wide aisle. People parted as though Moses himself were on board. The rectangular litter looked hand-carved and was painted a vibrant gold. It had a dome roof and thick purple velvet curtains.

Harper and I watched in awe as the men marched methodically toward Natasha's booth.

Ivy turned toward me, frowning while doing the jazz-hand thing, and turned back toward the spectacle.

Pizzazz. Right.

Natasha had pizzazz up the wazoo.

While Mr. Tambourine Man kept the beat going, the other men set the carrier on top of the table draped with silken cloths and, with a flourish, drew back the curtains to reveal Titania sitting majestically on a velvet purple cushion. The cat wore a gold headdress, and one of the men held a jeweled leash, attached to a golden collar.

And damn if that cat didn't look like a queen with her stately demeanor, sitting perfectly still, her tail curved around her body. Her amber eyes were bright and intelligent as she surveyed her kingdom.

The tambourine finished with a flourish, and all three
men retreated, one behind the table, the other two separated on each side.

The people around us—the contestants
not
entered in the same category—burst into applause.

“I
am
hallucinating.” Harper rubbed her eyes.

“My theme,” Natasha said loudly and dramatically, “is ancient Egypt. Today Titania will be playing the role of
Cleocatra
.” She bowed in the direction of the cat.

More applause erupted, and I felt a little queasy.

Harper looked at the ribbon in her hand and tossed it over her shoulder. “Why bother? Pie doesn't stand a chance against that.”

“You're not even entered in the same category,” I pointed out.

“Doesn't matter.”

“That's the spirit,” I teased her.

“She has naked men,” Harper said. “Naked. Men.”

I looked at the guys, their hands clasped behind their backs. They appeared here to stay.

“Half-naked,” I corrected.

“The loincloths hardly count. Did you see their chest muscles? I think one just waved at me.”

“One of the guys?”

“One of the
pectorals
. Mr. Nipples, the one on the left, has quite the talent with that particular muscle.”

Mr. Tambourine Man. Mr. Nipples
. It was going to be a long day.

“Darcy,” Natasha said, striding across the aisle once the applause died down and Ivy had fled. “I didn't know you had registered Missy in the competition. Hello, Harper.” Bright blue eye shadow and long fake lashes highlighted her dark eyes as she glanced up at me.

“That was some entrance,” Harper said, sending curious glances toward the muscled men.

“Well, you know. I have a reputation to uphold. Titania and I are going for a four-peat.” She cut her gaze
to Missy, who was also staring at the faux-Egyptian men, ears perked. “What category are you entered in?”

“Easy on the Eyes,” I said as breezily as I could.

Something flickered in Natasha's gaze, and her face froze. “I see.” Cracking a thin smile, she walked over to my display. Dryly, she added over her bare shoulder, “Pun intended.”

“Oh.” I faked a laugh. “Funny.”

Harper made faces behind her back.

“Interesting,” Natasha said of my art, the same way one might comment on hearing of a great-aunt's trip to the dentist. “Sometimes simplest is best.”

“Are the beefcakes sticking around all day?” Harper asked abruptly. “They're making me uncomfortable. One of them won't stop winking at me.”

“That's not a wink,” Natasha said with a staccato laugh. “He's allergic to cats and his itchy eyes are driving him crazy.”

“Oh,” Harper said, redness climbing up her neck. “That makes me feel better. But if Mr. Blinky is allergic, why's he here?”

“His name is Chip. And because I asked,” Natasha said with a sly smile. “They're all staying. Private security.”

“Private security?” I asked, testing the waters. “For what?”

“My cat is quite valuable,” Natasha said with a haughty tone. “I need to ensure that Titania's protected at all times. . . .” She glanced at Missy. “Titania is not just some common pet. She's an award-winning purebred.”

Harper smiled sweetly.

Too sweetly.

She'd gone into fight mode.

I quickly linked arms with her to prevent her from
accidentally
shoving Natasha. Harper rarely got physical when angry, but Natasha was testing those limits.

“As a matter of fact,” Natasha said, “Titania has an audition with an animal talent agency next week in Hollywood. She's going to be famous. Her grand-prize win today will look fabulous on her résumé.”

Harper chuckled mirthlessly. “Let me guess. She's going to be a catactress.” Looking at me, my sister wore a puzzled expression, despite her eyes flashing with mischief. “A cactress? A cactor?”

With pursed lips, Natasha stared at Harper for a long moment, and then she smiled. Thin. Brittle. Evil.

It chilled me to my bones.

“Yes. Well, good luck today, Darcy.” Natasha spun around, her dress flaring out behind her. “You'll need it.”

Competition changes people. Trust me.

Ivy had been right about that.

And I was beginning to suspect that she'd been right about Natasha sabotaging Titania's competition as well.

Chapter Four

H
ours later, it was becoming clear that Lady Catherine, Marigold Coe's whippet, was stealing the show right out from under Titania's regal nose.

The dog, named after
Pride and Prejudice
's Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had been entered in the Crankypuss group, and her name and the category were both entirely appropriate. When her big brown eyes narrowed as she looked down her long snout at passersby, she always appeared to be
most seriously displeased
, a trait shared with the literary character.

In my opinion, the Jane Austen connection to the gorgeous dog sealed her place as the favorite to win the Extravaganza. That, and the fact that she was one of the sweetest dogs in the village. The contrast between her docile demeanor and her imperious appearance had stolen the hearts of the crowd gathered around her.

She was the Grumpy Cat of the dog world.

It was hours yet before the winners would be chosen, but the judges with their matching clipboards were spending a lot of time at Lady Catherine's booth with big smiles on their faces. They weren't alone. A sizable group of spectators surrounded them. They couldn't seem to get enough of the dog's innate hauteur.

The event photographer was having a field day, darting around to take pictures from every angle. Nearby, Starla was snapping her photos for the
Toil and Trouble
. Even she seemed charmed by Lady Catherine despite the fact that her own dog was a competitor.

Marigold stood proudly by her pet, beaming at the attention the dog was receiving.

No one could have predicted such an upset.

Especially Natasha.

Across the aisle from me, there was most certainly not a smile on Natasha's lips. In fact, it appeared as though she could barely contain a scowl as she eyed Lady Catherine's growing crowd.

I made a mental note to pay close attention to Natasha's dealings with Marigold, because if anyone was now at risk for an unfortunate accident, it was Marigold. Again.

I truly hoped she stayed away from the curved staircase.

As I turned my attention back to my own display, I couldn't help feeling a surge of pride. Come to find out, I hadn't needed glittery or golden or half-naked pizzazz to attract attention. People had been swarming my booth to visit with Missy and see my paintings, and several had asked if I took commissions—they wanted portraits painted of their beloved pets.

I'd been taking phone numbers all morning.

Natasha most definitely was not happy with the crowd around my table, even though she'd also had a solid stream of visitors.

But I supposed they weren't the type of people she'd intended to attract.

I'd never seen so many giggling teenagers in all my life.

Even now, a gaggle of them sashayed past the faux Egyptians, who didn't seem to mind the attention, as underage as it might be.

One of those teenagers peeled off from the flock and headed my way, barely taking her gaze from the men keeping guard over Titania.

“Is Missy feeling any better?” Mimi asked me for at least the sixth time today as she crouched next to Missy's pen to say hello to the dog.

Mimi Sawyer had turned thirteen a few months ago, and though she was an inquisitive bookworm by nature, even she couldn't resist the lure of barely dressed attractive men.

“Still the same,” I said, suppressing a smile.

“That's good,” she said absently, her attention focused across the aisle.

I almost laughed at her transparent behavior. “How's Higgins doing?”

She glanced at me with her big dark brown eyes. “Not winning any votes with his drooling.”

I'd been on the receiving end of his drool many times. Laughing, I asked, “Are you handing out wet wipes?”

“And hand sanitizer.”

There wasn't enough sanitizer in the world for Higgins' drool, in my opinion.

Mimi stood. “Dad sent me over to ask if you wanted to go to lunch soon.”

I could barely see the far corner of the showroom floor where Higgins' booth was located, and certainly couldn't spot Nick from so far away. I eyed Mimi. “He sent you over, did he?”

A blush crept up her neck. “Okay, I might have
volunteered.” She shrugged. “Okay, begged. Same difference.”

Smiling, I resisted teasing her, and glanced at my watch. “Tell him half an hour is good with me.” I'd ask Harper to watch my booth—and Natasha—while I was away. Right now I was manning Harper's booth while she was at lunch with Aunt Ve. Watching over Pie was easy, as it seemed his preferred method of dealing with the crowds was to nap.

Mimi gave me a halfhearted wave as she wandered off, and as I watched her thread through the crowd, I noticed the judges finally on the move. The crowd around Lady Catherine's booth remained.

“Danish?” someone said from nearby.

I jumped, not having heard Vivienne approach.

She held up a glass platter. “Seems Baz and I overestimated how many pastries we needed, and I really don't want to take them home.”

“No, thanks,” I said. “I'm headed to lunch soon.”

“How about you, Natasha?” Vivienne asked. “Would you like a Danish?”

Disgust filled Natasha's eyes. “No, thanks. A moment on the lips, forever on the hips,” she said, her gaze flicking downward to my thighs. She lifted a smug eyebrow.

Vivienne rolled her eyes.

I glanced down the aisle toward the Lucases' booth, wondering just how many pastries remained. There were still a dozen pink Gingerbread Shack boxes stacked behind their display. That was a lot of leftovers.

Natasha had turned her back on us and pulled a mirror from her bag to check her lipstick. I could have sworn I saw her eyeing the Danish in her reflection.

Biting back a smile, I faced Vivienne and found her frowning at the plate in her hand. “I'm not looking forward to hearing from Baz about how it was my idea to order extra.”

“Is he on his lunch break?” I asked, not seeing him—or Audrey. Was he at all concerned about getting food poisoning again this year?

“Nature called. He took Audrey outside to the dog play yard.”

I looked at Missy—she'd be due to go out soon as well, and I hoped the fresh air would perk her up a little before the judges made their rounds. I knew we weren't eligible to win, but I rather hoped she wouldn't look so morose when they stopped by.

A young couple with two little kids wandered over to Vivienne's booth, and she said, “Ooh, gotta go.” She dashed over to foist Danish on them.

A moment later, I spotted Evan Sullivan and Twink headed this way. He walked slowly, his lips pursed as though whistling a quiet tune. As he neared, I heard the song.

“It's Raining Men.”

The color was high in his freckled fair cheeks as he pulled to a stop in front of my display. He set Twink down inside the pen, and he bounced over to say hello to Missy. She eyed the little dog with what looked like pity. The Evel Knievel outfit
was
a bit over-the-top.

Evan said, “Just, uh, taking Twink out for a quick walk.” He smoothed his short ginger-blond hair and picked an imaginary piece of lint off his perfectly pressed light blue button-down shirt.

“Et tu, Brute?” I said with a broad smile. “Mimi's been by half a dozen times already.”

Theatrically, his body sagged and he tipped his head back and groaned. In a whisper, he said, “Come on, Darcy. Can you blame us?”

I leaned around Evan to take another look at the scantily clad men.

Chip, aka Mr. Blinky, was dabbing at his eyes with a
handkerchief, Mr. Tambourine Man was fighting a yawn, and Mr. Nipples wiggled his pectorals at me.

Have mercy, as Ve would say.

Evan whistled low. “They're gorgeous. Especially Chip, the one on the right.”

“Not my type,” I said, meeting Evan's sky blue eyes. “And you're in a relationship, remember?”

He'd recently started seeing FBI agent Scott Abramson.

“A casual relationship.” He tossed a surreptitious glance over his shoulder. “Besides, just because I enjoy man candy doesn't mean I'm going to sample it.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless an offer presents itself. . . .”

I smacked his shoulder and he laughed.

“You don't have to worry,” he said. “Chip Goldman is an actor who's hopelessly devoted to only two people. Himself and Natasha. They've been seeing each other off and on for years. It's mostly on during theater season, since they work together.” He dropped his voice. “Natasha toys with him, and he happily lets her, the dimwit.”

Once again, I glanced across the aisle. Chip was still dabbing his eyes. Now that I knew he and Natasha were seeing each other, it made much more sense as to why he'd put himself through the torture of guarding a cat he was allergic to.

Evan might have proclaimed the trio of men gorgeous, but I didn't see the appeal of any of the male models. Sure, they were buff and handsome, but they did nothing for me.

Then I realized why.

Nick.

He'd ruined me for all other men. In my eyes, my heart, no one could compare.

And I didn't mind one little bit.

“What's that goofy smile all about?” Evan asked, eyeing me.

“Noth—oh my God!” I quickly looked left, looked right.

“What?” Evan asked, following my frantic gaze.

I looked around again and saw the judges had dispersed, fanning out in several directions, apparently taking a quick break.

What I didn't see was any sign of Natasha.

Ivy was not going to be happy about this. I had to find Natasha. Fast.

“What's going on?” Evan asked.

“I lost Natasha.”

His eyes widened—he knew that I'd been hired to keep an eye on her . . . and why. “Well, go find her!”

I rushed over to her booth and approached Mr. Nipples, figuring I had a better chance at getting answers out of him, since he'd waved at me. Kind of. “Uh, excuse me, do you know where Natasha went?”

Titania, I noticed, was still sitting on her fluffy pillow. She blinked at me, and the majestic look I'd seen earlier was gone now, replaced with what looked like embarrassment. She meowed pitifully. I didn't blame her. Tilda would throw a hissy fit if she'd been dolled up in such a manner. I reached out to pet the cat and she tried to push her face into the palm of my hand, but the headdress stopped her. Instead I scratched her chin, and she purred loudly.

And just like that she stole my vote for the grand-prize winner.

“Restroom,” said Mr. Nipples, who was apparently a man of few words.

“Thanks.” I gave Titania one last scratch. Hurrying back to my booth, I grabbed my spy pen and said to Evan, “Can you watch my booth for a couple of minutes?”

He grinned and leaned against the table as if settling in for a long stay. “Take as long as you want, Darcy.”

I shook a finger at him, then broke into a fast jog, headed toward the bathroom that was located at the far end of the room. As I rushed along, I glanced toward Lady Catherine's booth and was dismayed to see neither she nor Marigold Coe was there.

Oh no, oh no
.
No, no, no.

I pushed through the restroom's door to find a line of women waiting to use the facilities. None of them were Natasha. I scooted past the queue, heading for the sink area. As I did so, I glanced under stall doors, looking for strappy gold sandals.

There were none.

Great. Fabulous.

Spinning around, I ran out, receiving curious glances as I did so.

Back in the main room, I looked around but couldn't see much because of the crowd. I headed up the stairs to get a bird's-eye view.

On the upper landing, I squinted, searching the room. No Natasha. No Marigold. I did, however, spot the colorful Archie. The scarlet macaw familiar was singing loudly, and I strained to hear the song.

“One Is the Loneliest Number.”

It fit, I supposed, considering that his booth was empty except for the presence of Terry. Archie was used to entertaining a crowd.

I also saw Nick. I gave him a smile and a curt wave, then spun around and headed down a long hallway toward the dining room. At an intersecting corridor, the sound of a staccato laugh echoed. I knew that laugh. Natasha.

I stopped. Listened. I heard another laugh—softer this time. More of a giggle. The noise had definitely come from the deserted hallway.

Veering right, I kept close to the wall and tiptoed farther away from the thrum of the event. This hallway
housed smaller conference rooms, each with a recessed double doorway.

As I neared the middle of the corridor, I passed a narrow recess, a single entryway. A piece of fabric that stuck out from beneath the bottom of the door marked
STORAGE
caught my attention. The cloth was white and filmy and looked a lot like the hem of Natasha's dress. I approached the door cautiously and pressed my ear to it.

I heard the low murmur of voices—a man and a woman—and slurpy kissing sounds.

Ew
.

At first I thought it had to be Natasha and Chip, but immediately dismissed the idea. Chip was downstairs, his eyes red and swollen, as he watched Titania.

Who, exactly, was in the storage room with Natasha?

As I debated whether to knock, the door started to open.

Panicked, I quickly dashed into the meeting room across the hall, which was offset at a diagonal. Perfect for spying without being seen. I kept one of the double doors cracked open with my foot and leaned into the doorway's portal to peek out. As Natasha emerged from the storage closet, her cheeks were bright red as she fussed with the strap of her dress and continued to giggle.

As surreptitiously as I could, I aimed the spy pen her way, just in time to catch Baz Lucas stepping out behind her. His dog, Audrey, looked bewildered as she circled his feet. Baz pinched Natasha's butt, nuzzled the back of her neck, and whispered something in her ear.

BOOK: Gone With the Witch
11.14Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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