It Takes a Witch: A Wishcraft Mystery (17 page)

Starla was humming as she clicked away.

A sudden thought hit. “Did you get a picture of the
pickpocket?” Maybe after our talk this morning, she’d gone through her shots from yesterday and found an image with the pickpocket in action.

“Nope. Here. Look at this.” She clicked a few buttons and the image on the screen enlarged.

I blinked. It was the shot, a close-up, she’d taken of me and Nick yesterday afternoon. Nick looked gorgeous as usual and as he stared my way, I saw a softness in his eyes that I’d never noticed before. The image of me was simply a white starburst.

“I’ve never looked better,” I joked, my palms starting to sweat.

“I was quite surprised when I loaded this image,” Starla said. “This kind of result doesn’t happen often.”

“Maybe the sun was hitting me wrong?” I tried.

Starla looked at Evan, happiness surrounding her like a glow. “She’s cute. Isn’t she cute?”

My palms really started to sweat. What was going on? And how did I get out of it?

“Adorable,” Evan said, nodding.

Starla opened a desk drawer and pulled out a photo album. “Here.”

I took it.

“Open it,” Starla urged.

I opened it. Mesmerized, I flipped page after page. A crib with a sunburst in the middle. A prom picture with a line of dolled-up girls, except for a starburst to the right of the frame. A group shot on the green, a sunburst catching a Frisbee.

Starla stood. “I imagine you have a lot of similar pictures. You and Harper.”

I glanced at her, then Evan, as realization dawned. And I suddenly also knew why Evan’s wish hadn’t been granted. Because Wishcrafters can’t grant each other’s wishes.

“I— You—” I couldn’t say it aloud. If I did, and I was wrong, I’d lose my powers forever.

Starla nodded, but she wasn’t talking, either.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, I’ll say it. Hello,” he said, dipping his head. “I’m Evan Sullivan, and I’m a Cross-Crafter, half Bakecrafter…and half Wishcrafter.”

“Wishcrafter just like you,” Starla added, her smile dazzling.

M
rs. P’s picture haunted me as I hurried through the back alley that ran behind Spellbound and Lotions and Potions on my way to the Pixie Cottage. I felt an overwhelming need to make sure Mrs. Pennywhistle was okay.

I emerged from the alley on the other side of the square. The Pixie Cottage took up a corner lot and looked like it had been plucked out of a Grimm’s fairy tale and set in the village. “Charming” wasn’t strong enough a word. It was a large stone bungalow with lush gardens, an inviting wraparound porch, and beautiful ivy creeping up the chimney.

A whimsical sign with
Pixie Cottage
written in a looping font hung from a post in front of a white picket fence. A
NO VACANCY
notice dangled from a hook beneath the sign. The gate squeaked as I pushed it open. Butterflies flitted about, and a bee buzzed by my ear.

My step was light as I followed the flagstone path to the arched wooden door. I pushed down on the handle and went inside. A woman I didn’t recognize was on the phone behind a whitewashed registration desk. She smiled when she saw me and held up an I’ll-be-right-with-you finger. I took a moment to look around. The registration area opened into a large living room with a stacked stone fireplace.

Light streamed in through large arched windows, highlighting dark wooden floors, pale sofas, lavender armchairs with lightly checkered ottomans. All the tables in the room appeared to be made out of twigs. The room was darling, and absolutely perfect for a pixie.

I tried not to eavesdrop on the conversation going on behind me. The woman, late thirties, early forties, looked more like a librarian than a hotel clerk. Her hair was swept back and held with a large clip, and a pair of glasses was perched on top of her head.

“Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” she was saying. She listened to the person on the other end, then added, “The village is really quite safe.” A pause. “I see. No, I understand. Thank you for calling.”

She hung up and rose, offering me her hand. “I’m Harmony Atchison. You’re Darcy, aren’t you?”

“Word gets around,” I said.

“It’s a small village.” She wore a flowing bohemian-style skirt and a pristine white peasant blouse. Frowning at the phone, she added, “Which is sometimes unfortunate.”

“Cancellations?” I asked.

Nodding, she tidied a stack of papers. “As if the murder wasn’t bad enough, now these thefts…For the first time in the five years since I’ve taken over, the Pixie Cottage will have vacancies during the week of the Midsummer Dance.”

I tipped my head. What did she mean she’d taken over?

“You don’t happen to need a reservation?” she asked hopefully.

“Sadly, no, though I love the inn. It’s absolutely charming.”

Her smile seemed to light her from inside out. “It was in sad disrepair when I bought it.”

“It’s beautiful,” I murmured. “But I’m a little confused.
I thought Mrs. Pennywhistle lived here? That she owned the cottage?”

Sitting on the edge of the desk, Harmony said, “Mrs. P still lives here. Room number four. Her favorite. I bought this place five years ago from her. She just couldn’t keep up with it on her own after Mr. P died. Debts mounted. It was a tough decision she made to sell it, and even at its fixer-­upper bargain price, it was still out of my price range.” Her eyes grew misty. “Mrs. P agreed to cut her price as long as she could live here free of charge. It was truly a bargain in my favor, and it still is. She’s a sweet woman, a ball of energy. She helps me more than she knows, especially with the gardens. Greenest thumb I’ve ever seen.”

I recalled what Mrs. P had said yesterday, about her being a poor old woman. How much had she discounted the cottage? “She’s a sweetheart,” I said. “Her laugh is the best, isn’t it?”

“Contagious,” she agreed.

“Is she around by any chance? I wanted to check on her.”

A touch of sadness swept over her face. “She’s been a touch…out of it lately, hasn’t she? She’s taking Alexandra Shively’s death quite hard. I’ve never seen her so melancholy. The murder was quite shocking, especially for the old-­timers in the village. That kind of thing just doesn’t happen here. They’re taking it personally.”

“I think it’s quite shocking for everyone,” I said softly, thinking of Aunt Ve.

“You’re right about that, though Alex…” She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t gossip so much.” She grinned. “Sometimes I just can’t help myself. How is Velma holding up?”

I wondered what she was going to say about Alex. Probably nothing I hadn’t heard in the past few days. That she was not well liked. Outspoken. Misleading.

“Holding steady. She’s offering a reward for Alex’s missing watch.” I pulled a flyer out of my bag and handed
it to her. “She’s hoping that finding it will help clear Sylar’s name.”

Harmony glanced at the flyer. “Foolish business, arresting Sylar. The man is a cuddly teddy bear who’d have moral issues swatting a mosquito.”

“You’ve known him long?” I really didn’t know much about him, except what I’d read in the papers and learned from Ve this morning. Sixty-­eight years old. Widower. Optometrist. Lived in the village for thirty years. Village council hoo-­ha.

“Years and years. I’ve lived in this village my whole life. His wife was one of my favorite teachers when I was in school. He was devastated—­the whole village was—­when she passed away.”

This news had me studying Harmony carefully. If there was one thing I’d learned in the two weeks I’d been in the village, it’s that if you’ve lived here your whole life, then you’re most likely a Crafter. Was she?

There was absolutely no way of telling. Which was starting to drive me a little crazy.

Something else she said stood out. I tried to recall what the paper had said. “That was about ten years ago that she died, right? Was she in an accident?”

I was fishing. If she died suspiciously, it might paint Sylar in a different light.

“An aneurysm.” Her jaw set. “The police are barking up the wrong tree. If you ask me, they should be talking to that hairstylist, Ramona Todd. Chief Leighton ignored me when I suggested it.”

“Ramona?” I said, shocked.

Harmony nodded. “The day Alexandra died, I saw her and Ramona in a heated argument in the alley behind Lotions and Potions. I thought they were going to come to blows, and that I was going to have to separate them.”

“You didn’t have to?”

“Ramona backed off and left, but I think the fight is fairly incriminating, don’t you?”

Ramona seemed so even-­keeled. I couldn’t imagine her raising her voice in anger. “The police didn’t think so?”

“Obviously not if they arrested Sylar.” She shrugged. “I’ve not been impressed with the police chief’s investigation. Seems premature to make an arrest this early, especially when there are clearly other suspects out there.”

That seemed to be a general consensus.

But what had Ramona and Alex been arguing about? I thought about that appointment I was going to make with Ramona and decided I’d try to get in as soon as possible. I checked my watch. Time was flying by today. I still wanted to stop by Bewitching Boutique to look for new sneakers and inquire about a certain satin cape before heading back home to pick up the wombat.

“You may want to call Marcus Debrowski and talk to him. He’s representing Sylar. Maybe if he has your information, it will help him build a case of reasonable doubt.”

She perked up. “I will. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of that.” The phone rang, and she said, “If you’ll excuse me?”

I’d almost forgotten why I was here. “Is Mrs. P around?”

She reached for the phone. “I actually haven’t seen her this morning. You can check her room. Down the hall on the right. Number four. Hello, Pixie Cottage, Harmony speaking.”

I thanked her and headed down the hallway. I knocked gently on the door, and I was surprised when it swung open, having been left slightly ajar. Worried, I peeked inside. A gorgeous, fantastical canopy bed made of twigs sat in the center of the room, and two 1940s-­style mirrored nightstands flanked its sides. The bed was made; the room was neat, tidy, and empty.

I turned to go when a framed photo on the wall
caught my attention. It was a young version of Mrs. P.holding the hand of a little girl in a plain knee-­length dress and a big bonnet. Mrs. P wore a tight-­fitting skirt suit and a wide smile. I had to laugh—­some things change over time, and other things stay the same. In the photo, Mrs. P’s hair stuck out in every which direction, looking a lot like Cruella De Vil’s hairdo. It hadn’t changed a bit over the decades.

I closed the door, said good-­bye to Harmony, and headed toward Bewitching Boutique. I was halfway there when what Harmony had said earlier struck me.

The day Alexandra died, I saw them in a heated argument in the alley behind Lotions and Potions.

But why, exactly, had Harmony been in the alley behind the shops?

“As I live and breathe!” a voice boomed. “
The
Darcy Merriweather has finally come
inside
the shop.” A dapper man, dressed to the nines, rushed forward, took my hand, and kissed it.

I glanced around, as if I might spot some hidden cameras nearby.

“Godfrey Baleaux, Cloakcrafter extraordinaire, at your service.” He bowed. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

All I could do was stare at him. He was impeccably dressed in a white suit and vest, with a yellow silk tie and matching pocket square. A gold pocket-­watch chain swung as he continued to hold my hand. Older, maybe late fifties, early sixties, he was short, squat, and balding. He reminded me a bit of a hoity-­toity Humpty Dumpty.

“Come in, come in.” He pulled me farther into the shop, to a small grouping of sumptuously covered chairs in front of a dressing room, fancily decorated with silk drapes and elaborate tiebacks. “I have your dress ready for you. I think you’ll find everything in order.”

“My dress?” I squeaked. “I—­I came in for sneakers.
Running shoes. Do you carry them?” It was a stupid question. This shop was clearly not one that would deign to sell mere Asics or Nikes.

Wagging a finger, he said, “Ah-­ah-­ah! Do not practice to deceive with me, young lady.”

I snapped my gaping mouth closed. Who
was
this man?

“I know, young Miss Darcy, that you’ve come in for that special blue dress you’ve been eyeing in the window. It is your dress, as if I made it, stitch by stitch, just for you. After all, any niece of Velma’s is a nie­—­” He cut himself off, tapped his chin. “Perhaps not a niece of mine. Suffice it to say that any relative of Velma’s is a relative of mine. Come, now, tell Godfrey the truth.”

I couldn’t help but smile as he tipped his head, waiting patiently. He oozed charming personality, and I found I liked him immediately.

Suddenly, a silky smooth man’s voice with a pronounced French accent said, “You made that dress? Stitch by stitch? How
dare
”—­he dragged the word out at least three seconds—­“you?
I
made that dress.”

I glanced around but didn’t see anyone.

The voice continued, saying, “And if you’d kindly tell your
relative
to get off my tail, I’d appreciate it. Move it or lose it,
ma chère
.”

I looked down and saw the tiny face of a mouse looking up at me behind the tiniest pair of glasses I’d ever seen. The mouse’s thin whiskers had been braided together and curved upward at the ends to resemble a Dali mustache. He wore a tiny vest with three minuscule buttons.

“Eee!” I jumped onto the chair.

“That’s better,” the mouse said, shaking its tail.

Looking downward, Godfrey put his hands on his hips. “Must you always be so dramatic? You’ve scared the poor child half to death. Come down from there,
Darcy. You’ve nothing to fear from Pepe here. He’s simply a cranky old familiar.”

“Perhaps, not
she
has something to fear,” Pepe said, “but
you
.” Pepe walked over to Godfrey, bared his teeth, and chomped Godfrey’s ankle.

Godfrey jumped around on one foot, swearing a blue streak. Cautiously, I stepped down off the chair and hoped Godfrey wasn’t bleeding. The sight of blood usually made me pass out—­and I didn’t want to miss a second of this little talking mouse.