It Takes a Witch: A Wishcraft Mystery (33 page)

I picked up the closest thing I could find—­a Spanish-­English pocket dictionary—­and threw it at her hand just as the gun went off. The bullet barely grazed the side of her head. She screamed. Harper screamed. I screamed.

The undercover state policeman jumped the counter and tried to wrestle the gun from her hand, but she was holding on tight. Determined.

Suddenly, the gun went off again. I felt a searing pain in my arm. I looked down. Blood seeped through the sleeve of my white T-­shirt and dripped down my arm.

Blood. So much blood. I
hated
the sight of blood. My knees went weak. My vision swam. The last thing I remembered was Harper screaming.

Her screams were much better than mine.

“You really don’t have to do that,” I said two days later. I was sitting on my bed, propped up, my arm kept close to my body so as not to pop any stitches.

“I want to.”

I persisted. “It’s not necessary.”

“I beg to differ,
ma chère
. My glorious creation could not, and shall not, be debased by such, such…mediocrity.”
Pepe twitched his nose at me as he fingered my hospital-­issued sling with a shudder.

He was busy bedazzling my new sling, and would probably have a stroke if he knew I was calling it bedazzling. He’d spent the last two hours hand-­beading an intricate design on a sling he’d custom-­made to match my dress.

“Well, I appreciate it. And the house call.” I was trying to save my energy (doctor’s orders) for the dance tonight and was limiting trips outside my bedroom. The bullet that struck me had passed cleanly through my upper right arm. Lots of stitches, pain medicine, antibiotics, and an overnight stay at the hospital later, and I was well on the road to a full recovery.

I really didn’t need the bed rest, but Aunt Ve had insisted, and I had little willpower where she was concerned.

Pepe gave a little nod. “And I am grateful you have locked that furry beast out of the room.”

Tilda had been trying her best to get inside since she sniffed his arrival. Every few minutes her paw would slip under the door and swipe empty air. I admired her persistence.

Missy, on the other hand, stared at Pepe with adoration, not making a single move to eat him for lunch. He even allowed her a few kisses. Nick might have some serious competition for Missy’s affection.

I unfolded the note that Archie had delivered to me after I got home from the hospital yesterday. I reread it for the hundredth time, still wondering what I should do about Mimi.

You have the answers, Darcy. Trust yourself. Trust your knowledge. This is your biggest test so far. Do not fail.

I bit my fingernail. I didn’t know why the Elder denied me the answers I needed. Or why she thought I already possessed them. I didn’t know what to do about Nick and Mimi, and the harder I pressed Aunt Ve for
help, the more mum she became. She had been given the order not to help me with this assignment. Though I did get the admission from her that she knew all along Mimi was a Wishcrafter.

I sighed.

“Are you in pain,
ma chère
?”

Not that kind. “No, the pain medication works wonders.” Pepe finished sewing his last bead. The sling was a work of art. I admired it. “It’s beautiful.”

He tucked his tiny needle into a pouch. “Fitting for one such as yourself.”

I smiled. “Thank you, Pepe.”

He bowed again. “I must go now. Appointments all afternoon.”

I bent down and kissed the top of his head. His cheeks reddened.

“You’ll get back safely?” I asked.

“Not to worry. I have a ride.” He gave a sharp whistle and Archie appeared at my open window. Pepe lifted a corner of the screen, climbed on Archie’s neck, and waved good-­bye. Missy barked as Archie said, “I want a rematch!”

Tilda’s paw swept under the door.

Just another day in the Enchanted Village.

Where magic lived.

I dropped my head back against my pillows and scratched Missy’s ears with my good hand. My room was filled with balloon arrangements and vases of flowers. I’d already had several visitors today. Starla and Evan. Ramona. Godfrey. Sylar.

After being taken to the hospital, Gayle had been arrested for the murder of Alexandra Shively. Her wound had been treated and she’d been taken to jail, where she was currently under a suicide watch. She’d been completely desolate that she’d injured me.

Complex. Ve had used the word to describe Alex, but it fit Gayle, too. On one hand, she was a grief-­stricken
widow, a nice person, one who cared deeply that she’d hurt me. On the other, she had no remorse for killing Alex. Or for trying to frame Vince.

It created a chasm within me, because on one hand, I could understand why she did what she did. Yet on the other, there’s no excuse for her behavior. The courts would sort it out, but personally I hoped they would be lenient. She needed counseling more than prison time.

My gaze dropped to the note on my bed.

Trust yourself
.

Trust myself.

I looked at Missy. “Do you want to go see Nick and Mimi?”

She bounced up, her tail wagging.

“You’re shameless,” I said.

She barked.

I quickly slipped my arm into my sling of mediocrity.

“Don’t get too excited,” I told her. “He’s not going to be happy with what I have to say, especially not that his daughter is technically a criminal.”

I
had a vague idea of where Nick and Mimi lived, but I didn’t need directions when I had Missy. She led the whole way there. We walked slowly, and took the long way around the green to avoid seeing anyone I knew. There would be time enough later for questions, comments, and sympathies.

Right now, I really just wanted to see Nick, talk to him about Mimi, and get back for a nap before the dance tonight.

Gray clouds hovered overhead, and I felt a raindrop as Missy guided me toward Old Forest Lane. It was sprinkling now, but the forecast promised heavier showers for tonight. Starla was beside herself with worry that the dance would be ruined, so she’d ordered more tents. The green was covered with them. But instead of it looking like a tent city from the aftermath of a natural disaster, she’d gone to great lengths to make them pretty.

Colorful swags of tulle (acceptable in this case), fairy lights, and beautiful lanterns hung from the tent eaves, making them look like something out of a fairy-­tale wedding reception. A catering truck rumbled by as Missy and I crossed the street. The treelined Old Forest Lane was paved in cobblestones and its serpentine sidewalk had a flower border. Houses were modest, with decent lots. Kids were playing kickball in the street and
their laughter echoed. Farther down the street, houses spread out. Driveways were longer, houses bigger, lots larger. By the time we reached the last house, it felt as though it were the only home on the street.

The front yard was contained by a picket fence, and the driveway was gravel, not paved. The yellow farmhouse was charming with its white shutters, big front porch, and window boxes crammed full with pink petunias and cascading ivy. Behind the house, there was a large detached garage that had been designed to look like a carriage house. Its wide doors were open, and I heard the whir of a power saw.

I dragged Missy away from the hole under the fence and headed toward the noise. She had her nose to the ground and sniffed like crazy, taking in all the new scents. Gravel crunched under my feet as I approached the doorway, and my eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light inside. To the right, Nick’s truck sat in a garage bay, and the rest of the space had been converted into a woodwork shop.

The smell of freshly cut wood hung in the air, and I breathed it in, loving it. Nick’s back was to me as he sliced a piece of wood on a fierce-­looking saw table. The saw went through the piece of wood like butter. Nick examined the edges of the board, then pushed a button on the saw, silencing it.

Suddenly, there was a booming
woof
,
woof
, and a coppery and white blur hurtled toward us. I was envisioning another trip to the emergency room when Nick spun around.

“Higgins, heel!” he commanded.

The Saint Bernard slowed to a stop, but kept sniffing in my direction.

I went over to pat the big dog. “Hello there, Higgins.” He slobbered on my hand. Missy sniffed to her heart’s content.

I bent down. “Russ, is that you?”

A little bit of drool fell from Higgins’s lips.

Okay, maybe Godfrey and Ve were right about this dog not being a familiar.

Nick’s look of surprise dissolved into a smile. “Look what the dog dragged in,” he said, taking off his safety glasses and setting the wood aside. He wiped his hands on his jeans as he came toward me.

My chest squeezed. I looked at Nick and motioned to the dog. “How did you get Higgins?”

“Animal control brought him to the shelter when Mimi and I were there revisiting potential dogs. She recognized him right away, and he didn’t want to leave her side. We couldn’t come home without him.”

“No,” I said, my chest so tight it ached, “you couldn’t.”

Missy barked and danced, and Nick crouched down to give her love and attention before standing and looking at me. There was such tenderness in his eyes when he said, “Are you okay?”

I lifted the sling. “It’s but a mere flesh wound.” Archie would appreciate the quote.

He smiled. “No gunshot is a mere flesh wound. Trust me, I know.”

“I’ll be good as new in no time.” I reached out and touched his cheek. His eyes flashed with the heat I’d seen the other day, and it made me want to melt. A fleck balanced on my fingertip. “Sawdust.”

“Not as pretty as glitter.”

I smiled.

He said, “Mimi’s been dying to come see you, but I thought you might want to rest.” Higgins nudged his hand, and Nick patted his head.

“A visit would have been nice. Is she home?”

He shook his head. “She’s with Mrs. P and Starla, helping out with preparations for tonight.”

Maybe it was just as well she wasn’t here.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“I need to talk to you about something.”

“Sounds serious,” he said.

“It is.”

He folded his arms across his chest. They were covered in more sawdust. I kept my hands to myself.

“What?” he asked.

“I know who your pickpocket is.”

“He’s still in the village? I thought he’d moved on—­we haven’t had any reports in a week.”

I smiled. “Not moved on. She’s been at camp.”

He looked puzzled.

I spelled it out. “Nick, Mimi is the pickpocket.”

His eyes darkened. “Let’s sit down. I think you’d better explain.”

A few minutes later, we sat on his front-­porch swing. He’d brought out some lemonade, and I clutched my glass as I tried to explain.

Trust yourself.

He was being more patient than I imagined possible, considering I’d just accused his daughter of a crime.

We swayed back and forth.

I took a deep breath and said, “Tell me what you know about the Craft. Tell me what you know about Mimi being a Wishcrafter.”

He glanced down, stared at the ice cubes bobbing in his lemonade. His gaze shifted to me. “Is that what she is? A Wishcrafter?”

“You don’t know?”

“I knew she was a Crafter, but Melina never told me what kind she was. We never really talked about it much at all, and hardly ever once she decided to marry me and raise Mimi as a mortal.”

“What changed?” I asked. “Why did you bring Mimi back to the village?”

We swung. Missy and Higgins were busy sniffing the front yard, stem to stern.

“I’d seen how unhappy it had made Melina, not being part of her Craft. She lost her powers when she married me. Did you know that?”

“I know Wishcrafters lose their powers when they tell a mortal about their abilities, yes.”

My heart was beating hard.
Trust yourself.

“After she died, I realized I didn’t want Mimi to grow up not knowing who she is, how special she is. I brought her back here. I didn’t know what kind of Crafter she was, or who to approach about helping her. It’s not just something you can ask out of the blue. I haven’t even told Mimi that she’s a Crafter yet. I don’t know how to open a conversation like that. I know there’s someone in this village who could help her. I just don’t know who.”

“Nick, she already knows.”

“Why do you say that?”

“She’s been practicing her wishing spells. That’s how she was pickpocketing.”

He stood up, paced the porch. “I don’t understand.”

“When someone wishes for money, and a Wishcrafter grants the wish, it has to come from someone else. Someone loses the money, usually someone who won’t miss it or who has plenty to spare. So, when Mrs. P wished she had enough money to do something nice for her granddaughter, Mimi granted the wish. Later, Mrs. P inexplicably found a thousand dollars in her dresser drawer. If you add up the amount ‘stolen’”—­I used air quotes—­“from the tourists that day by the pickpocket, it adds up to a thousand dollars.”

His eyes went wide. “So the other day, in front of All That Glitters, when the man suddenly found that money in his pocket…”

“The woman had made a wish, remember? Mimi granted it. I expect, if you ask her, she’ll admit to granting wishes all over the village the last couple of weeks. When did school let out for the summer?”

He suddenly laughed. “A little over a month ago.”

Right when the pickpocketing started.

“Just so I’m clear, she’s not actually sticking her hands in someone’s pockets.…”

Smiling, I said, “No. It’s all done magically.”

“That explains a lot.”

I stood up. “You need to talk to her. Explain as best you can. Tell her as much as you know. The rest, she can come to me.”

He rose. “You?”

I smiled.
Trust yourself.
“I’m a Wishcrafter, too.”

Shaking his head, he said, “I thought Crafters couldn’t tell mortals about their powers without losing them? At least that’s what Melina said.”

“She was right. Kind of.” I explained about Halfcrafters. And how he was, by marriage, now half mortal, half Wishcrafter. My powers were safe.