Gone With the Witch (9 page)

Baz
. No doubt that his prenup could be considered baggage. I played dumb about her current boyfriend being
married
. “Other woman? They had an open relationship?”

“At first. They were getting pretty serious these last few weeks. She must have really liked him, because she stayed even though she hates baggage more than strings.”

There was a hint of sadness in his voice as he spoke, and I had the feeling he cared for Natasha more than he let on. “Her family?”

“A sister. Alina. Lives down the Cape. Falmouth, I think.”

“I'll check with her about the cat,” I said. “But just in case she doesn't want Titania, does Natasha have any friends in the village who might want her?”

“Natasha was a lone wolf,” he said, shaking his head.

Lone, except when it came to men. “Well, if you think of anyone, let me know, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

I felt a tug on the hem of my jeans—either Pepe or Mrs. P letting me know they had concluded their search. Thank goodness. I was ready to get out of here.

“I should go, then,” I said, standing. I bent and grabbed my purse. “Thanks for talking with me.”

He set his cup on the glass table and walked me out. “No problem.”

As I reached the landing, he said, “Hey, Darcy?”

“Yeah?”

His face was flushed as he said, “You should keep Titania. I saw you with her earlier, petting her. She liked you, and she doesn't like a lot of people.”

With that, he closed the door in my face.

As I quickly ran down the steps, something was nagging at me, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Something Chip had said, perhaps.

Breaking into a fast jog, I ducked around the corner into an alleyway next to the building and opened my purse.

“Doll!” Mrs. P said, looking peaked. Behind her white whiskers, a green tint colored fuzzy cheeks. “I'm a little motion sick after that run. I might hoik.”

Pepe took a step away from her, but reached out his hand and patted her back from his safe distance.

“Sorry, sorry,” I apologized. “I wanted to hear what you found as soon as possible. What on earth was going on in that bedroom?”

Pepe pumped his fist. “Warfare!”

“We were under attack.” Mrs. P blinked her long
lashes. The green color was fading. “I almost got conked on the head with a shoe.”

Pepe's face turned red, and he clenched his tiny fists. “I, of course, had to avenge my love, so I snuck up behind the barbarian and bit him on his ankle.”

“My hero,” Mrs. P crooned, sinking into a faux swoon.

Pepe caught her and planted a kiss on her puckered lips.

“Wait, wait,” I said, my head spinning. “Who was it attacking you?”

Pepe set Mrs. P upright and twirled his whiskered mustache. “Have you not been paying attention,
ma chère
? It was the man hiding in Chip's bedroom.”

“M
an? What man?” I glanced around to ensure no one was nearby, eavesdropping. Fortunately, it was just us and the Dumpsters.

“It was that smooth talker,
Baz Lucas
.” Mrs. P said his name as though he were the devil himself. “Just wait until I get my paws on him. Throw one of those clunky Birkenstocks at me, will he?”

“What in the world was Baz doing in Chip's bedroom?” I asked, trying to make sense of it.

“Eavesdropping on your conversation, by the looks of it,” Pepe answered. “Had his ear pressed to the door right up until he spotted Eugenia dart under the bed. That's when he went after her with his shoe.”

Although I couldn't help smiling at the thought of a mortal seeing Pepe in his little red vest and glasses, it would be very hard to explain. “Does he need a memory cleanse? I have some at home in my dresser. . . .”

“
Non
.
Ma chère
, this is not our first reconnaissance mission. We left our clothing in your handbag to roam about au naturel. Arouses less suspicion that way should we encounter a mortal.”

“Always thinking ahead. Thank you.”

He bowed, and I couldn't help thinking about why in the world Baz would be in Chip's bedroom.

One thing was for certain. “Chip had to know Baz was in there. It's why he didn't react when he heard the thumps.” I laughed. “There I was, thinking it was you two, while he was thinking it was Baz. Neither of us wanted the other to investigate. Was Baz dressed?”

“Fully clothed, head to toe. Are you thinking the two of them . . . ?” Mrs. P wiggled her eyebrows.

“I don't know what to think. I have no reason to believe either is gay, but what do I know? Chip was in a towel. . . .”

I didn't know the connection between the two, but I realized that Chip had to have known Baz had been Natasha's current boyfriend. If Chip and Natasha were still close friends, she would have told him.

Startled, I jumped as a loud noise reverberated above my head, the clanging of footsteps on the fire escape. I ducked into the shadows of the Dumpsters and crouched down.

When I heard something crunch next to me, I nearly fell backward.

Cookie the dwarf goat was chomping on a cardboard cup, looking happy as a clam. Her cream and tan coat shone in the shadows of the alley as she blinked her golden eyes with their odd rectangular pupils at me. Her short tail wagged much like the way Missy's would when she was happy.

I petted her knobby head—she didn't have horns—and whispered, “Don't put that trash in your mouth.”

“Meehhh,”
she bleated, dropping the cup.

Curiously, she eyed Pepe and Mrs. P, giving them a good sniff.

Both mice immediately ducked back into my purse, and I heard the zipper as they locked up behind themselves.

I tried to grab Cookie's braided purple collar, but she quickly turned tail and hopped away, racing down the alley.

At her noisy retreat, the footstep sounds on the fire escape had stopped, and as soon as Cookie was gone, started again.

I peeked around the edge of the Dumpster.

Baz Lucas was rushing down the steel rungs as quickly as his hands and feet could move. Ten feet from the ground, he leaped, and landed with a loud groan not three feet from where I hid.

Sweat had soaked through his shirt, and panic was etched in his features from the droop of his eyebrows and the widening of his eyes to his slightly agape mouth. He scrambled to his feet and took off running, limping slightly as he did so. He glanced back only once, upward toward the third floor.

The look on his face was as though he'd seen a ghost.

My stomach began to churn with worry. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

I heard the zipper on my purse sliding, and a moment later, Mrs. P popped her head out. “What's going on, doll?”

“Baz Lucas just tore out of here like a man running for his life.” I ran around to the front of the building and rang the buzzer for Chip's apartment.

No answer.

I grabbed my cell phone from my pocket and dialed Nick's number. When there was no answer, I left a panicked message.

As I debated what to do next, I kept thinking about Chip and his strange behavior. . . . Then it suddenly hit me what had been nagging at my subconscious.

His coloring.

After sipping on his green goo, he had steadily become more flushed. I'd thought it had been from his odd reaction to the bedroom thumps, but what if his response hadn't been an emotional flush at all?

What if it had been
poison
at work?

After all, Natasha had turned red before she collapsed.

Acting purely on instinct, I quickly dialed 9-1-1, then punched every buzzer on the directory until someone let me in. I took the steps to the third floor two at a time. Breathing hard, I knocked once on Chip's door before trying the handle. Unlocked, thank goodness.

All the way up the steps, I had wished and hoped I was wrong about my poison theory, but I soon saw that I hadn't been.

Still wearing only a towel, Chip was lying facedown on his living room floor, his face—his whole body—cherry red.

I dropped my purse and bent to check for a pulse.

Mrs. P crawled out of my bag, her hand clamped over her mouth, her cheeks puffed out. She wobbled to and fro, and I realized that barreling up here probably hadn't been good for her motion sickness issues.

“Is he alive?” Pepe asked, dashing over to stand next to me.

Under my fingertips, Chip's pulse beat slow and weak. “Barely,” I said. “But I don't know for how long.”

*   *   *

An hour later, I sat on the stone steps of the playhouse, waiting for Nick. He'd been inside Chip's apartment for nearly half an hour now, long after Chip had been
airlifted to a city hospital. If there was any hope for him, he needed the best medicine had to offer, and Boston had it in spades.

Pepe and Mrs. P had headed home, and Archie had swooped by twice to get the scoop. He had stopped molting for the time being, but I figured one mention of the attempted birdnapping and his feathers would start dropping again.

The village green was nearly empty now, cleared out so the medical helicopter could land. When I called Harper soon after finding Chip to tell her that I'd be a while—and why—I hadn't been prepared for her to be so blithe about the situation.

“That's fine,” she'd said. “Just keep us up-to-date as much as you can.”

I'd stared at the phone. “What's wrong?”

“What do you mean, what's wrong?” She tried for a laugh, but it fell short. “Nothing's wrong.”

“You're not pestering me for details. Something is most definitely wrong. Is Mimi okay?”

“Darcy,” she said with a huff as a horn honked in the background, “Mimi is fine. I'm fine. Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all.”

The more she protested, the less I believed it. “Where are you?”

“Outside.”

“Outside where?”

“Where are
you
?” she asked suddenly.

And that's when I knew for absolute certain that she was hiding something. Harper resorted to talking in circles when cornered. “Harper, what's going on?”

“Not a thing. Look, I've got to go. Call when you have news. Bye!”

Whatever was going on with her was something to figure out later on. Right now I needed to focus on Chip . . .

And why someone wanted him dead.

I'd seen Nick only briefly in the chaos surrounding the horde of emergency personnel that had swarmed Chip's apartment. I gave him the truncated version of Baz's involvement, but needed to fill in the finer points when we had a little more time.

“Darcy!”

I shaded my eyes against the late-afternoon sun to see who was calling my name.

It was Starla. Hurrying along the sidewalk, she had her camera gripped tightly in hand, a backpack slung over one shoulder, and her blond ponytail flew behind her like a golden cape. She'd changed out of the dressy capri pants and blouse that she'd worn to the Extravaganza, and into a pair of short shorts and a tank top, both of which showed off her toned body.

I hadn't seen her since the evacuation when she was running around like a loon, snapping photos of the fracas.

It seemed like days ago, not hours.

Starla sat next to me on the step, dropping her backpack between her feet and carefully setting her camera next to her. “What in the world happened? Something about Chip Goldman being poisoned? I heard you broke down his apartment door like something out of a ninja movie.
Hi-yah!
” She karate-chopped the air.

“Village tall tales,” I said, amazed at how fast those tales could grow. “I merely turned the knob. The door was unlocked.”

She looked crestfallen. “I liked the ninja story better.” Leaning in front of me, she looked toward Chip's apartment building, where red and blue strobe lights from village police cars pulsed against the exterior. “Is Chip dead? I've heard everything from rigor mortis had set in by the time you found him to he was up and walking around and planning his next audition, which by the way
was to be a spokesman for one of those infomercial blenders that whip up his protein smoothies.”

I wished that last part was true. “Villagers have good imaginations.”

She nodded. “And plenty of time on their hands. So what's the truth?”

“Last I saw, Chip wasn't breathing on his own. The paramedics didn't look too hopeful.” I told her all I knew, from the cyanide theory right on down to Baz Lucas looking as if he'd seen a ghost.

“Whoa,” she said.

“I know. It's crazy.” I ran a hand through my hair, pulling it forward over my shoulder.

“Do you think Baz did them both in? Natasha
and
Chip?” she clarified.

“I really don't know. Baz looked . . . more freaked-out than guilty.”

“Well, I'd be freaked beyond belief if Chip collapsed in front of me.”

“Yeah,” I said. I knew all about how that felt. “But why didn't Baz call the cops? Why did he run?”

“Very good questions,” she said. She swatted at a mosquito. “Do you think it's possible Chip poisoned himself, unable to live with the guilt of killing Natasha this afternoon? Was today one big
Romeo and Juliet
audition gone wrong? A twisted version of it, mind you . . . but that seems to fit what I hear of their relationship.”

I thought about what Starla said, and then about the lackadaisical way Chip had sipped his smoothie. “He gave me no hint that he knew there was poison in his drink.”

“He is a good actor.”

“Not that good.”

“Okay, well, what if Natasha poisoned his smoothie mix without his knowing, then poisoned herself at the Extravaganza? It's entirely possible she committed suicide, isn't it?”

I smiled at her.

“What?” she asked, confusion crinkling the corners of her eyes.

“A year ago would you ever have dreamed that you'd be casually having a conversation with a friend, tossing around murder theories?”

“Never in a million years,” she said.

The breeze sent my hair flying, and I shoved it out of my face. “A lot has changed in the twelve months since I moved here.”

She nudged me with her elbow. “It definitely has.”

“Some good,” I said.

“Some bad,” she countered, and I had the feeling she was talking about the bad business surrounding the death of her ex-husband.

A year ago I'd never dreamed I'd have two best friends in Starla and Evan, and know talking animals who were practically family.

Then there was Nick and Mimi. My heart thumped crazily.

“Mostly good,” I said, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Yes,” she agreed with a smile. After a long minute, she added, “Now, about my suicide theory . . .”

It was my turn to laugh. “You're as bad as Harper.”

She shrugged. “There are worse things.”

That there were.

“Do I think Natasha committed suicide?” I fussed with the hem of my T-shirt. “I don't think so, for one simple reason. If she knew she was going to die, she would have eaten the pastry.”

Starla faced me head-on. “You lost me.”

“At the Extravaganza, Vivienne Lucas offered Natasha one of the Danish from her
Breakfast at Tiffany's
display. Evan made them, so you know they were delicious, right?”

Starla nodded. “Of course. They're magical.”

“Exactly. Natasha turned it down flat, making a snide comment about a moment on the lips, forever on the hips. If she knew she was going to die later on, she wouldn't have cared about her hips.”

“Damn,” Starla muttered. “I wish she'd eaten the Danish.”

My skin tingled at the wish, but because Starla was part Wishcrafter I didn't cast a spell. Wishcrafters couldn't grant each other's wishes. “Me, too.”

Across the green, I spotted a woman slowly walking a dog, her attention squarely on the apartment building.

Vivienne Lucas.

Did she have any idea that her husband was somehow involved in what happened today?

Or was she going to be blindsided when the police showed up at her door?

Neither option was particularly appealing for her.

Once again, I felt a surge of sympathy for the woman.

“By the way, your hair is
très
chic,” Starla said, adopting a French accent. “I like it.”

“What do you mean?” Reaching up, I patted my head. I didn't feel anything different.

“What do you mean, what do I mean? Your hair. You had it colored this afternoon, right? I mean, it's not a look I would have chosen for myself, but I have to admit, you pull it off. Then again, you'd look good with a rainbow Mohawk.”

My heart started beating fast. “Seriously, what do you mean? I've barely had time to breathe today, never mind going to the salon.”