Gone With the Witch

by Heather Blake

  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.”

  Her eyes widened, and she scrounged in her backpack and came up with a mirror. “Take a look.”

  I angled my body to get the best light in the mirror and took a peek. “Oh. My. God.”

  On the left side of my head, a thin streak of brilliant silver hair framed my face, from scalp to split end.

  “Wha— How?” I stammered, still staring. The silver practically glowed like neon against my dark hair.

  “I don’t know,” Starla said. “It wasn’t there when I saw you earlier, so I just assumed you went to the Magic Wand.”

  Well, I hadn’t gone to the salon.

  Which left only one explanation, really.

  Magic.

  “Do you know of any spells that would cause this?” I asked.

  Shaking her head, she said, “None off the top of my head.” She cringed. “No pun intended.”

  “What happened to the whole ‘do no harm’ part of the Craft?” I said, talking fast. My heart was still pounding. I wasn’t a vain person by any means, but it was a little disconcerting when your dark hair developed a streak of silver in the span of a few hours.

  Starla shrugged. “I mean, it’s not really harmful, is it? It looks good.”

  “I’m thirty-one and my hair
is turning silver! Right now it’s a narrow streak, but who knows if my whole head will be silver tomorrow?”

  “Okay, okay. We’ll figure this out,” she said, talking low and slow as if she were some sort of negotiator in a hostage situation. “Ve might know. And if that fails, we’ll send a note to the Elder. One way or the other we’ll get this reversed.”

  “But who cast the spell? Who did this to me? And why? Do you think it was Glinda? Dorothy?”

  She let out a half chuckle, half snort. “You know I think either is capable of a lot worse than turning your hair silver. I’m surprised their antics haven’t turned your whole head gray yet.”

  Which was truly a very good point.

  Then I thought of Harper and how suspiciously she’d been behaving when I called. Could she and Mimi have been looking through spell books while I was away? Had I somehow become an unintended victim of a Spellcrafting lesson?

  I handed the mirror back to Starla—I’d seen enough. In the grand scheme of what else had transpired today, my hair changing color was a drop in the bucket.

  First the video of me, then Natasha’s death, then Chip’s poisoning . . .

  Yes, definitely a drop. Maybe even a globule.

  Taking a deep breath, I tried not to think about it too hard and willed Nick to hurry up. Right now all I wanted to do was go home. But first, I wanted to know what clues he’d found in Chip’s apartment, if any.

  Thinking of Glinda reminded me of the mysterious video, and I eyed Starla’s camera sitting next to her. “Did you look at the pictures you took today at the Extravaganza?”

  “I’ve been through every last one of them with a fine-tooth comb. I know you were worried about something to do with Ve and Evan on camera, but didn’t see anything questionable. What had you worried?”

  “They weren’t visible in the pictures?”

  “Visible? Like mortals, you mean?”

  I nodded.

  “No. Just their usual starbursts. Why?”

  I held up a wait-a-sec finger and pulled my smartphone from my jean’s pocket. A few swipes later, I had framed us in a selfie shot.

  “What’re you doing? You know this isn’t going to turn out,” she said, sounding like a mother chiding her child.

  “Say cheese!” I said loudly.

  “Crazy lady!” she murmured between clenched teeth.

  I captured the shot, pulled it up on the screen, and handed my phone to her.

  The image of two wild-eyed women grinning like hyped-up horses stared back at us. On closer reflection, the angle of the selfie hadn’t been the best. Who knew we had such long faces?

  With a gasp, she dropped the phone, and it clattered down three stone steps before coming to a stop.

  “Oh!” Starla jumped up to retrieve it. After pushing a few buttons, she let out a deep breath. “It’s okay! Don’t worry.” Looking again at the picture, she said, “How? Why? Who . . . ?”

  I shrugged.

  “But why didn’t Evan and Ve . . .”

  I shrugged again.

  “This is . . .” She trailed off, not finishing her sentence.

  As she sat back down, she looked at me and gasped again, her hand flying up to cover her mouth. Her blue eyes had rounded with wonder.

  “What now?” I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

  I heard her swallow hard and then she reached into her backpack and pulled out the mirror once again. Wordlessly, she handed it over.

  Bracing myself, I peeked at my reflection with one eye closed. The silver streak had widened. It was still thin, but there was definitely more silver hair than before.

  “It . . . looks good,” Starla said in her best cheerleading voice.

  I pretended not to hear the waver in her tone. Looking at her, I opened my mouth to tell her it was okay, but the words failed to come out. My eyebrows shot upward.

  “What?” she asked. “Why are you looking at me that way?”

  I tapped my head where my silver streak started and handed her the mirror. She held it up and let out a guttural cry.

  “What is that?” she shrieked.

  “It’s très chic,” I said, echoing her earlier comment.

  She glared at me. “Don’t make me push you off these steps, Darcy Merriweather.”

  A thin strip of jet-black hair started at her part and swooped backward, blending with the rest of her blond hair wrapped in the ponytail.

  “I look like a zebra!” she cried.

  “A beautiful zebra.”

  She pressed her eyes closed, and I swore I heard her counting to ten under her breath.

  I motioned for my phone, and she slammed it into my hand. Testing a theory, I held up my phone and snapped another picture of only myself.

  “What are you doing?” Starla asked, confusion lacing her tone.

  “Did my streak get wider?”

  She leaned in close to my head. “I think it did. Yes, it definitely did.”

  I tucked my phone back in my pocket. “Well, now we know.”

  “Know what?”

  “The two are linked. The ability to be seen in pictures, and the changes in our hair.” It must have been why I hadn’t noticed the streak before, after the photos at the Wisp. It had probably grown and widened with each captured image. The surveillance camera outside Baz’s apartment had probably made the streak so visible.

  Slowly Starla nodded.

  “But we still don’t know why,” I added. “Or who’s behind the spell.”

  She grabbed my hand and tugged me to my feet. “We have to go find Ve. She’s bound to be done with the press by now.”

  “I can’t leave yet—I need to wait for Nick.”

  “Darcy Merriweather, he knows where to find you.”

  I hesitated.

  “A zebra!” she cried. “And you’re starting to look like Lily Munster.”

  My jaw dropped. “You said it looked good.”

  “Come on already!” She grabbed her camera and her backpack and pulled me along the sidewalk.

  I glanced over my shoulder, hoping to see Nick chasing after us.

  But all I saw was Vivienne Lucas.

  She’d moved closer to the apartment building, and Audrey was happily sniffing bushes along the path.

  Again, I wondered how much she knew.

  I hoped my initial instinct that she wasn’t involved in Natasha’s death proved true.

  But I knew from experience my instincts had been wrong before.

  Chapter Eleven

  Almost to As You Wish, Starla and I came across Harper, who was standing behind Terry Goodwin’s picket fence, in his front yard, poking around the bushes.

  “Your hair,” Harper said, eyeing my head critically. “What in the world happened to it?”

  “Long story.” I glanced at the shrubs. “What’re you doing?”

  My sister slowly blinked her owlish eyes. “What do you mean, what am I doing?”

  “Out here.” I swept my arms out. “In the bushes.”

  “In the bushes?” She shrugged.

  Again with the talking in circles. I narrowed my eyes. “What’s going on?”

  “Can you two sort this out later?” Starla cut in. “I have a date tonight with Vince, and I’d rather not show up looking like a My Little Pony gone wrong.”

  Starla and mortal Vincent Paxton, owner of Lotions and Potions, had been dating since last Halloween. I still had my doubts about Vince being a good choice for her, since he was a Seeker (a mortal who sought to become a Crafter), but he was slowly wearing down my defenses. He adored Starla. But if their relationship was to progress, they were going to face some pretty big obstacles.

  Harper took a moment to study Starla’s hair. “It’s not a very good look for either of you.”

  Starla said, “Don’t
make me come over this fence.”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger.” Harper held up her hands in surrender. “Just being honest.”

  “Well, don’t be. Starla’s a little defensive about the hair thing right now,” I explained.

  “Me?” Starla protested. “You were the one going on about doing no harm.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I faced my sister. Her deflective ploy had worked well—for a moment. “I’ll tell you about the hair if you tell me what you’re doing out here, searching the bushes.”

  Harper looked positively pained. She hated when she was left out of the loop. “I, uh . . .”

  Before she could say anything more, Mimi came trotting down Terry’s driveway. “She’s not in the backy—”

  Her words abruptly stopped when she spotted Starla and me.

  “Who’s not back in the backyard?” I asked.

  “Cookie!” Harper said quickly. “We’re helping to look for Cookie. Harmony and Angela went past a little while ago while out searching, and we thought, hey, we’ll help. We’re very charitable that way.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Charitable wasn’t the word I’d been thinking.

  Deceptive was more like it.

  “Right. Cookie. Silly goat.” Mimi smiled wide and bright as she came to stand next to me. “Dudes, your hair!”

  Starla groaned.

  I was too exhausted from the day to even mind the “dudes” part of Mimi’s sentence. She was, after all, thirteen. Even though she often seemed much older than her age, she occasionally threw around teenage lingo as if to remind us that she was still a little girl.

  Especially when she knew she was doing something wrong.

  Like lying.

  I glanced toward As You Wish. “Where’s Missy?”

  “Missy’s right in the side yard. Exactly where she’s been since we got back from the Extravaganza,” Harper said, throwing Mimi a stern look.

  A warning.

  I sidestepped along the sidewalk to be able to see for myself. Missy sat at the fence, her nose sticking through a picket slat as she kept an eye on us. Higgins stood next to her, so tall that his head rose above the fence. He was drooling on the rosebushes.

  Archie wasn’t in his cage, or I would have asked him what was going on. He had a loose beak when it came to village gossip.