It Takes a Witch: A Wishcraft Mystery (8 page)

Missy made a beeline for her food dish, and I watched the stairs as I poured coffee, but saw only Tilda staring down at us from the top step, her tail curled around her body.

Sliding a mug in front of Ve, I said, “Cherise Goodwin,” and explained the situation.

Ve took a sip of her coffee and frowned. Abruptly, she stood up, went into the butler’s pantry, and rooted around. She came out with a bottle of Grand Marnier and poured a generous amount into her coffee. She sipped, smiled, and said, “That’s better.”

She left the bottle on the counter, one hand resting on it as if she’d rather be drinking straight from its glass neck.

“Long night?” I asked with a smile.

She grinned. “How’d you guess?”

I didn’t want to push for details on Sylar right off the bat. A little bit of decompression time was probably needed after what she’d been through.

I listened for footsteps upstairs, but heard nothing. Finally, my curiosity got the best of me. “Aunt Ve?”

Gripping her mug like a lifeline, she said, “Yes, dear?”

“Who were you speaking with upstairs just a few minutes ago?”

“Speaking with? Why, no one. No one else is here.” She drained her mug and motioned for a refill.

I brought the coffeepot over. “I definitely heard voices.”

“I must have been talking to myself. I do that often—I should have warned you.”

“But—”

“You’re sure you can handle running As You Wish on your own today?” Ve smiled tightly as she added a healthy amount of liquor to her mug.

Her swift change of subject didn’t go unnoticed. “I’m sure.”

“You need to use extra caution. You’re still new to your powers. You have no idea of what you’re capable.”

“If I have any questions, I can call you.”

Ve worried her lip. “You can also contact—” With a shake of her head, she cut herself off. “Never mind. Call me.”

“Who else is there?”

She sighed, drank, and said, “The Elder, but let’s not bother her today.”

“The Elder is a she?”

Smiling, Velma said, “Always. Crafters are matriarchal.”

I leaned down on my elbows. “Is it someone I’ve met?”

She wagged a finger. “The identity of the Elder is held in the highest of confidence. Her powers are great, Darcy. Very few know her identity as a matter of her protection, and we’re all bound to silence on the matter. You’ll find out in due time. Have patience, child.”

“How does a Crafter make contact with the Elder?”

“It’s a conversation for another day, Darcy.”

Hearing the weariness in her tone, I decided not to push the matter. “I did have one question.” I slid the day planner toward her. “Why do we need to find a wombat?” I left off the “how.” I figured she had a plan.

She groaned. “I completely forgot, and the party is tomorrow.”

“What party?”

“Jake Carey’s seventh birthday. He’s crazy for wombats and is having a marsupial-themed birthday party. His mother hired As You Wish to find a wombat piñata. So far, I’ve had no luck, but where there’s a will, there’s a way. Unfortunately for you, it has to be your will and your way. I need to leave soon. Sylar is due in court in two hours. I need to bring him a suit.”

“Court? Why?”

She let out a heavy sigh. “He’s been arrested and will be arraigned for Alexandra’s murder later today.”

By noon, anxiety was building, slow and steady. I could feel it pulsing in my hands, throbbing in my neck. I took a few deep breaths, and shut down my laptop before I had a full-blown panic attack.

I wasn’t one to have so many things out of my control at once.

Missy lifted her head as I backed away from the desk, stretching sore neck muscles. I couldn’t help but notice that Starla was right—my upper arms did jiggle. I frowned at them and wished for toned muscle.

I wasn’t the least bit surprised when nothing happened.

Didn’t matter. I could fix a jiggly muscle. It might take some time, but it could be done. I was going to take Starla up on her offer to go jogging and get in shape. What were a few more changes after the upheaval of moving here?

Glancing at the phone, I hoped it would ring. Ve said she’d call as soon as she had word about Sylar. The police were convinced he had killed Alexandra. Motive was still a little fuzzy, but he had been the last one to have possession of Ve’s scarf, and Evan Sullivan had told the police about Alexandra’s plans to talk to Sylar after
the meeting—not to mention that he was found hovering over the body. It was enough for the overeager prosecutor to take immediate action. Ve was most incensed with the village’s police chief, Martin Leighton, who’d pretty much turned the case over to the state police so he could get back to his golf game. I had a feeling that once this case was all said and done, Ve would find a way to get Chief Leighton to retire.

I drummed my fingers on my laptop. Should I do another round of online searches for wombat piñatas? I’d already spent close to three hours searching with no luck whatsoever. The closest I could find was a piglet piñata that I might be able to doctor a bit, but that idea fell through when I called the store and found out the piñata wasn’t in stock and would take three weeks to arrive.

That wouldn’t work so well for a birthday party late tomorrow afternoon.

Which meant I had only one option, since Mrs. Carey hadn’t implicitly wished for a wombat piñata. I was going to have to dig deep into memories of art class papier-mâché and make one myself. Time was of the essence—I had lots of shopping to get done. I made sure the front door was locked, and the
BE RIGHT BACK
sign was in place on the door. We didn’t get many walk-in clients, but occasionally people happened inside just to see what the business was about.

I glanced around. Everything was neat and in its place. The spacious front room, the main meeting space for As You Wish, held a sofa, several chairs, and a small conference table. An area rug covered dark floors, and warm blues and greens made the large parlor feel a lot smaller and cozier. Fresh-cut hydrangeas floated in a bowl on the coffee table, and antique glass vases decorated the mantel. Silvery blue wallpaper with a playful faded curlicue design covered the walls, and sunlight slipped in through the gauzy curtain panels. The room
was light and airy and welcoming. And yet, the room also brought out another feeling. A notion that there was something more going on in here. Something unseen. Something magical.

Which, of course, there was.

And then there was my favorite thing about the whole house. Above the mantel hung a large rectangular watercolor of a magic wand. The golden colors ebbed and flowed, swirled and twirled. It was perfect.

In the mudroom off the kitchen, I tugged on my sneakers, noticing that the tread was worn. If I was going to start jogging, I’d need a new pair. More shopping.

Missy bounded over, jumping and prancing.

Take her? Leave her? “You may have to wait outside some of the shops.” Most of the village shops allowed dogs inside, but some held fast to the rule that pets remained out of doors.

She turned in a circle, her tail wagging.

I reached for her leash and snapped it on. Grabbing my wallet from my purse, I headed out the door.

Apparently there had been no need to worry about tourism. The square was packed. Alexandra’s murder had people flocking to the village. I spotted Starla with her camera. One source of her income was taking random pictures of the tourists, and then selling them the prints.

I headed her way, Missy bouncing along next to me. Starla was just handing a couple a claim ticket when she saw me.

“Want a picture done?” she asked, steadying her lens.

“No, no!”

“Don’t tell me you’re camera shy?”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“No, thank goodness, or I’d be out of business.” She slipped a pad of claim tickets into one of the many pockets of a lime green work apron (the kind a construction worker might use for nails and screwdrivers) embroidered
with “Hocus-Pocus Photography.” “I hate to say it, but murder is good for business. The village is hopping.”

We both turned toward Lotions and Potions. It was deserted. There wasn’t even any crime-scene tape to indicate something terrible had happened. Just a cardboard
CLOSED
sign taped to the door.

“I heard Sylar was arrested,” she said. “I just can’t believe it.”

Abruptly, Starla tipped her head, looking at something over my shoulder. She quickly switched lenses, adjusted her zoom, and took aim. I turned to see the object of her attention. Mrs. Pennywhistle sat on a hand-hewn log bench in front of a multitrunked birch tree, its branches heavy with new leaves.

She looked in a daze, staring ahead at nothing in particular. If I wasn’t mistaken, she was wearing the same pink tracksuit she’d worn the night before at the village meeting. Her hair was deflated, and her hands stayed in constant motion, twisting and turning over themselves. “She looks like something’s very wrong. Did she know Alexandra?”

Starla lowered her camera. “Everyone here knows everyone. But if Mrs. P and Alex had a special friendship, I didn’t know of it.”

“Did Alexandra have many friends?”

Missy, who had been sweeping the area for any interesting smells, settled at my feet and seemed to be looking at Mrs. Pennywhistle, too.

“A few. She and Evan were friends. They’d hang out and watch movies and hit the pub now and again.”

Starla didn’t mention anything about Alex’s forays into Crafting, and I wasn’t going to bring it up.

“She wasn’t the easiest to get along with. Very…intense. I sensed a loneliness in her. I thought it was because she never dated, but apparently she did. Secretly.”

“Why would she keep it secret, do you think?”

“Maybe her boyfriend was married?”

If he was, and his wife found out about the affair, that would be good motive for murder. Maybe Harper and Ve were right. Maybe Sylar was innocent.…

“I have to get these images back to the shop and get them uploaded. Are we on for running tomorrow morning?”

I nodded. “You’ll be sure to bring the defibrillator paddles?”

“Never leave home without them,” she called over her shoulder as she walked away.

I looked down at Missy. “I hope she knows I wasn’t joking.”

Missy thumped her tail.

Inwardly, I debated whether to go over and see if Mrs. Pennywhistle was okay, but when I glanced her way, she had her head down as if she was praying. I decided to check back with her on my way home.

Looking around the square, I wondered where I could pick up wombat supplies. First and foremost, I needed balloons. And newspapers—lots of them. And glue. I started for the village’s general store, the Crone’s Cupboard. When I passed the bookshop, I paused. Was Harper behaving herself? I peeked in the window and saw her shoulder to shoulder with Vince, arranging a display.

She spotted me and motioned for me to keep on moving. I’d just decided to go in and give her a good teasing when a raised voice turned my attention. Missy started yapping and tugging on her leash, wanting to see what all the excitement was about.

Down the street a bit, I spotted a man in front of Lotions and Potions, beating on its door. I moved a little closer. It was a man I didn’t recognize at all. Tall, fit, and completely bald.

A good-sized crowd had gathered round. I looked for any familiar faces to see if they knew the man, but I didn’t recognize anyone. Sirens screamed as a police
cruiser pulled to the curb. The man wasn’t the least bit fazed by the approaching patrolmen.

“Come out of there, you witch!” he shouted. The glass door panes rattled under his fists. “You’re nothing but a phony! You’ll pay for what you’ve done to me! Mark my words! I’ll make you pay!”

Apparently, Alexandra had made many more enemies than friends in this village.

Then I remembered a mournful Mrs. Pennywhistle sitting on the bench. I turned to see if she was still there, but she was gone.

“H
is name is Griffin Huntley,” Harper said as she stirred sugar into a glass of iced tea. “He’s a local car salesman. You’ve probably seen his commercials. They certainly run often enough.”

It had been a few hours since I’d seen Griffin beating on the door to Lotions and Potions. I’d stuck around just long enough for the village police to stuff him into the cruiser. Elbow-deep in flour, glue, and newspaper strips, I tried to recall if I knew the name. “Wait. The used-car dealer with the bad dye job and cut?” His hair was an unnatural ebony and always slicked back in a pompadour.

“That’s him. The Elvis wannabe.” Harper dropped a straw into her glass. Her first day on the job at the bookstore had gone well, and she’d come home all smiles with stories to tell. “Vince told me Griffin was a client of Alex’s. He wanted to be handsomer, richer, and desperately wanted his hair to stop falling out. He thought Alex’s potions could work miracles. He was wrong. The crème she gave him made all his hair fall out.”

My papier-mâché skills were lacking. I was having a hard time keeping strips of newspaper from sliding off the balloons I’d rigged together to look like a wombat. “Did Griffin really think Alex was a witch? That she had powers?”

Harper nodded. “He’s not the only one. Vince thought so, too. She had a lot of people convinced.”

Tilda hopped up on the counter, sniffed at the wombat, and hopped down again, her tail in the air as she sashayed away. Missy rose from her doggy bed, yawned, stretched, and headed toward the doggy door. The tiny fenced-in backyard was perfect for her to roam on her own, though she’d managed to escape a time or three over the last couple of weeks.

“How much did she charge for her potions?”

“Not much. According to Vince, she really just wanted to help people.”

“Like Evan and Griffin? That’s help I think I’d pass on.”

Harper rummaged through the cabinets. She pulled out a sleeve of crackers and grabbed a tub of garlic-and-herb cheese from the fridge. “If you ask me, Griffin was plenty handsome before. You know, if you didn’t count his hair. At least now he doesn’t have to worry about that. He should be grateful to Alex.”