Gone With the Witch (8 page)

“Darcy?” Ivy asked. “What's going on? What's with the bird?”

I quickly checked the image. It was blurry, but it clearly showed the tail feathers of a startled mourning dove.

No bright starburst.

I let out a defeated sigh. I'd been so sure . . .

I handed the phone back. “Nothing. I've just been trying to get a picture of it for a while now. To paint it,” I added so she wouldn't think I was a total nut job.

“Oh,” she said, looking confused.

I stood up, tugged on my T-shirt.

She stood, too. “So? The job?”

The job. Figuring out what happened to Natasha.

In my mind's eye, I kept seeing Natasha's cherry red face . . . and felt duty-bound to figure out what had happened to her. “I'll do it,” I said reluctantly.

Moisture flooded Ivy's eyes. “Thank you for helping me.”

I neglected to tell her that I wasn't doing this for her.

I was doing it for myself, because there was a large part of me that felt guilty about not doing my job properly. If I had been watching Natasha at all times, her death might have been prevented.

Finding her killer wouldn't change the outcome of what had happened, but it would definitely help me sleep better at night.

Ivy and I made arrangements to keep in touch, and she strode off.

As I headed back to the front door, I glanced over my shoulder as she stormed down the street, taking the long way around the village so she didn't have to cross the green. I didn't blame her for avoiding the displaced Extravaganzers for whom she had no answers.

As I watched her go, a chill came over me, raising the hair on the back of my neck. I couldn't shake the feeling that I was going to regret taking this case.

Big-time.

A
n hour and a half after Ivy left, I was on my way to Chip Goldman's apartment with a couple of chatty accomplices in tow. With their help, I was hoping to uncover anything and everything I could about Natasha's on-and-off-again boyfriend.

I'd just left the Bewitching Boutique, where I'd recruited the help of Pepe and Mrs. P, who resided in the shop's walls. I'd filled them in about my mission, and they were happy to help in my investigation. Their duties were clear: While I spoke with Chip under the guise of finding a home for Titania, Pepe and Mrs. P would snoop through his apartment, looking for something that might identify him as a potential killer.

A big bottle of cyanide pills in his medicine cabinet would be nice.

“Your tail,
mon amour
. It is in my face, and it keeps knocking my glasses from my nose,” Pepe said to Mrs. P.

His voice easily floated upward from the depths of my purse, and I smiled at his adorable French inflection.

“
My
tail? What of yours?” Mrs. P countered in her New England accent—she'd lived in and around the Boston area all her life.

Even as a mouse she reminded me of the comedienne Phyllis Diller. Between the voice, her boisterous laugh, and her spiky hairstyle, all the similarities were still there.

She added, “It is resting in a most inappropriate place, my darling.”

His throaty guilty chuckle floated upward, and Mrs. P's exclamation of “You scoundrel!” followed it. Then she laughed her high-pitched cackle before a round of kissing noises reached my ears.

I stopped walking and peeked into my purse. “Would you two rather be alone?”

Inside an empty deep plastic butter container, which helped protect them from the flotsam inside my purse, were two mice, one brown, one white. One had been a familiar for more than two hundred years, the other six months only.

The chubby brown one, Pepe, held Mrs. P in a dip and was kissing her, a scene that reminded me of the iconic V-J Day Times Square photo of a sailor kissing a nurse. I smiled—I adored seeing them so happy.

My accomplices were also still considered newlyweds . . . of a sort. There had been no official wedding, but that was just a formality neither cared to pursue. For all intents and purposes, they were together till death did them part, which was going to be a very long time. Familiars were immortal until
they
opted to pass over.

At my question, Pepe set Mrs. P on her tiny white feet and straightened his red vest, making sure the three small gold buttons were perfectly aligned. He gave me a slight bow, which caused his round gold glasses to slide down his nose. “I beg your pardon,
mon amie
.”

Mrs. P fluffed the spiky tuft of fur that stuck up between her big ears and smoothed her pink velour dress. “Don't you mind us none, doll face. Are we there yet?”

“Almost,” I said. “Another half block.”

“Take your time,” Pepe said, his throaty chuckle punctuating the sentence.

Mrs. P fanned her face and pretended to swoon. He caught her in his arms and began to nuzzle.

As much as they might want me to linger, I had to hurry. Mimi and Harper would be expecting me back soon.

Half an hour ago, I had snuck out of the house under the pretense of heading to the Crone's Cupboard to scrounge something up for supper, leaving Mimi and Harper to babysit the animals, asking them to especially keep a close eye on Titania while I was gone. She'd had a traumatic day.

If I had told Mimi and Harper where I was really going, both would undoubtedly want to come with me, which was out of the question. Harper tended toward interrogation to source her information, while I was a bit more roundabout with my queries.

And Mimi shouldn't be anywhere near a potential murder suspect, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

Instead of heading to the local grocer as I had told them I would, I stopped by the Bewitching Boutique, and now here I was, on my way to Chip's.

“Ahem.” I coughed, interrupting them. “You'll have to work quickly when we get there. We don't have much time.”

Mrs. P said, “We may be old, but we're nothing if not quick, doll. In and out. Lickety-split.”

“Old?” Pepe reiterated. “I think not. Age is but merely a state of mind.”

“Yes, yes,” she reassured him, patting his hand while rolling her eyes at me.

Pepe didn't like admitting how old he was.

Across the street on the green, a beach ball bounced from one person to another, and dogs happily chased after it. Multiple grills had appeared along with several pop-up tents. Seemed to me that the crowd had grown, and I suspected that there were more than just Extravaganzers taking part in the fun.

Chip Goldman lived on the third floor of a four-story brownstone apartment building not far from the playhouse.
Please be home,
I chanted silently as I pushed the button next to his name on the directory posted in the vestibule of the building.

A voice crackled through the intercom. “Yeah?”

“Chip?” A video surveillance system mounted near the top of the door flashed my image back at me, and for a moment I was once again startled to see myself on the screen. What in the world was happening?

“Yeah?” he repeated.

“This is Darcy Merriweather. I came to talk to you about Titania. Uh, Natasha's cat? Do you have a minute?”

Silence.

I wondered if he had dismissed me. “Chip?”

There was a briefer stretch of silence before a buzzer sounded, and the entry door clicked unlocked.

I took that as an invitation to go on up. I pulled open the heavy wooden door and went inside. The scent of sautéed garlic, onions, and peppers permeated the stairway, reminding me that I still needed to figure out what to make for dinner tonight. Mimi and Harper were expecting me to bring something home.

I decided to worry about later and focused on what I was going to say to Chip.

It was easy enough to find his apartment, as there was only one door on the third floor. A dirty mountain bike with no kickstand leaned against the banister on the
landing. No lock. Apparently, Chip Goldman was the trusting sort.

I knocked on the door, and a second later he pulled it open, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and a deep frown.

“Just out of the shower,” he said by way of explanation.

As if I hadn't been able to deduce that on my own, what with the towel and the damp hair. Evan would have been beside himself, as he had a crush on the man. “So I see.”

Without the Egyptian headdress, I noted that Chip's hair was flaxen blond, even now, while wet. Dry, I'd bet it was closer to a pale blond, like Starla's. And he was tall. He towered over my five feet six. Amused, I realized he looked a bit like a Ken doll.

He sat in an angular armchair and motioned me toward a futon with a threadbare mattress cushion.

Grateful the futon wasn't currently being used as a bed, I reluctantly sat and immediately felt a cushion spring pinch my thigh. I shifted to my right and set my purse on the floor. I gave it a nudge with my heel, pushing it under the futon so Pepe and Mrs. P could climb out unseen.

“I'm sorry for your loss,” I said. “Natasha—”

“I appreciate it.” He abruptly stood, yanking up his slipping towel. He anchored it with a new knot and headed for the kitchen. “You want a drink? I got it all, from juice to vodka.”

I thought about him possibly slipping a cyanide pill into a coffee cup and said, “No, thanks.”

He pulled a plastic pitcher from the stainless steel fridge. The container was filled with what looked like green goo. Pouring some into a glass, he then wiped the counter, set the pitcher back in the fridge, turning it just so, and sat back down. His movements had been precise, no energy wasted.

Short tendrils of blond hair curled around his forehead as he sipped the green slime.

“What is that stuff?” I asked, eyeing the glass.

“Kale smoothie. A little banana, some pineapple, and protein powder. You want to taste?”

I vehemently shook my head. No way, no how.

“What's this about Titania?” he asked, sitting again, one of his legs jiggling. “Is she with you?”

“Yes, she's at my house. Well, at As You Wish.”

Spreading his knees, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on their tops. The towel slipped a bit, and I averted my gaze. He was just a cough away from showing me all his manly goods.

He kept glancing over my shoulder toward the bedroom at the back of the apartment, and I wondered if he'd heard my accomplices at work. I didn't hear anything, but I was out of place here. He'd know if something didn't sound normal.

“I didn't like the cat much,” he said, “but I hope she finds a good home.”

“You didn't like Titania?”

He shrugged. “Not a big fan of cats.”

If he hadn't been crossed off my list of candidates to adopt Titania because of his allergies, he certainly was now. She needed to be with someone who wanted her. “Because you're allergic?”

“Nah. Because they look at you all judgmental-like. I get enough judgment from when I go on auditions. I don't need any more of it.”

I'd been at the receiving end of my fair share of feline snobbery, so I couldn't argue about that trait. But I thought about Titania's purring and wondered if he knew that he was missing out on a lot of kitty love by not giving her a chance.

I doubted he'd care.

“Do you go on many auditions?” I asked, looking
around. To call the place Spartan was putting it mildly. Other than the living room grouping—an uncomfortable-looking chair, uncomfortable futon, and glass coffee table—there was no other furniture to be seen, especially since I didn't count the gym equipment as furniture.

The machines filled the rest of the living and dining space. A treadmill, an elliptical, some sort of weight machine that looked as if it doubled as a torture device.

Movie posters plastered the wall. Everything from the original
King Kong
to
Maleficent
. There had to be hundreds that overlapped each other, giving the look that he had decorated with eclectic motion picture wallpaper.

“Yeah,” he said. “Gotta earn a living. I do plays, commercials, and an occasional local movie. Once in a while, I model on the side. Pays the bills until I get my big break and can ditch this place for Beverly Hills. Gotta dream big, right? Now that”—he frowned—“Natasha's gone, I can't wait to get out of this village. She was the only reason I was sticking around. I just need the cash. Then I'm out of here.”

I thought that he wasn't shooting for the stars with his dreams but the moon itself. Beverly Hills might as well be a million miles from the village. “How well does being in commercials pay?”

He gave a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “Not enough.”

“Planning to rob a bank, then?”

With a small smile, he said, “You could say that.”

I couldn't tell if he was serious, so I pushed on. “Acting is where you met Natasha, right? While doing a play together here in the village?”

Darkness swept across his face before he brushed it away with a quick swipe of his hand. “Yeah.”

“How long ago was that?” I asked.

“Five years.”

He sipped his drink, and I cringed at the green mustache left behind.

“Were you dating all that time?” I asked.

He glanced my way, sharp intelligence radiating in his eyes. He knew what I was doing, asking all these prying questions.

I'd keep that in mind.

“Off and on. Natasha didn't like to be tied down.”

I heard a loud thump from the bedroom, and panic sluiced through me. What had Pepe and Mrs. P gotten into? If I said nothing, that might look suspicious, so I said as casually as I could muster, “What was that?”

Redness climbed Chip's neck. “What?”

“The thump?”

Shrugging, he said, “I didn't hear anything.”

I wondered why he wasn't curious about the noise, but his disinterest was to my benefit. It definitely wouldn't do for him to go chasing after two rogue mice.

“Were you currently on?” I asked, picking up our conversation. “You and Natasha?”

“Off, but that didn't affect our friendship. We were tight. You're dating the police guy, right? Has he said anything about what happened to her?”

“I haven't heard a thing,” I said truthfully.

He took another swallow of the goo. “It just doesn't make sense. She was healthy.”

“I agree. It doesn't make sense.” I hoped Pepe and Mrs. P were almost done.

“You think someone killed her?” he asked. “I think maybe someone did. Poisoned her or something. I heard she was drinking coffee when she collapsed.”

Another thump came from the bedroom, but he didn't so much as blink at the noise.

Well, if he was going to ignore it, so was I.

Uncomfortable, I shifted again and was poked by another mattress spring. “I'm not sure. It's possible, I guess. Did she have any enemies?”

“True enemies? Nah. But a lot of people didn't like her. Her personality wasn't the easiest to deal with.”

I knew that from personal experience. “Yet you've been friends for years. . . .”

“She's . . . addicting. I couldn't walk away, and trust me—I tried.”

Huh
. She didn't seem all that addicting to me. “I don't suppose you know if Natasha was currently dating someone else?”

Again, he zinged me with a sharp glance.

“Or if she has family around?” I quickly added. “I need to check with them about Titania.”

“She was seeing someone, yeah.”

Another thump.

My palms began to sweat.

“But I don't know who,” he added, his cheeks reddening. “Just that the guy was dealing with a bunch of baggage with his other woman. It was driving Natasha crazy having to sneak around.”