Some Like It Witchy

by Heather Blake

  I wrinkled my nose. “Don’t you think the cottage on Maypole Lane is a better choice? The location isn’t as good, true, but it’s cheaper and it needs only minimal renovations.”

  The sun made Cherise’s eyes sparkle. “Darcy, you’re not trying to talk me out of this house so you can have it for yourself, are you?”

  I had to confess to a pang of envy. Something about this house had drawn me in the moment I found out it was for sale. It was a visceral connection. One I couldn’t quite explain. I’d love to own it, to put my stamp on it, and bring it back to its original glory. “You know I do love it, but it’s simply not for me.”

  Though I wished it were. I really did, which was all kinds of silly. My life was . . . settled.

  I couldn’t really imagine moving out of As You Wish, leaving behind all the things that were starting to feel like home. Then there was village police chief Nick Sawyer to think about. Our relationship had never been better. We’ve been dating for almost a year, and it was becoming clear it may be time to take the next step, and he and his daughter, Mimi, already had a lovely house a couple of blocks away. Having two homes was a complication we didn’t need to take on.

  But this house . . . I sighed. It felt like it was supposed to be mine.

  “And hardly a realistic possibility,” I added, trying to talk myself out of the impossible. Though I had a decent inheritance from my late father, it wasn’t near the money I’d need for a house like this. “I don’t have your kind of resources, Miss Moneybags.”

  She laughed again, and squeezed my arm. “If I get it, I promise to take good care of it.”

  If I couldn’t have the home, then Cherise was a great choice. She would honor the character, the history. But it was a big if. The other buyers didn’t seem to be backing down.

  “Let’s go have another look, shall we?” Cherise finally let go of that poor finial, and I followed her to the front door. She knocked, then tried the knob.

  “Locked,” she said, glancing at her watch. “It’s unusual for Raina to be late. She’s always early.”

  “I’m sure she’ll be here soon. It’s a busy time of year for her.” The spring housing market had exploded. Magickal Realty, owned by Raina and her husband, Kent, had dozens of listings in and around the village. “And don’t forget Scott Whiting is following her around, asking every question under the sun.”

  Scott Whiting was the producer in charge of the home show that had its sights set on filming in the village.

  “True enough,” she said, grinning. “What a hoot it would be to have a show taped here, no?”

  “Maybe,” I reasoned. “But some things around here aren’t easily explained.” Like how Wishcrafters showed up on film as bright white starbursts.

  “True, true,” Cherise said, nodding as though just considering those kinds of issues.

  Currently, there were two obstacles that stood in the way of the show starting production. The first was that a special filming permit needed approval from the village council—which was also going to be voted on at the next village council meeting—and second was that Scott Whiting had to definitively decide on a host for the show.

  As Cherise and I sat on the sagging top step to await Raina’s arrival, I glanced next door at Terry’s house. A curtain suddenly swished closed in an upstairs window—he’d been watching us, and I had to wonder what he thought about possibly living between two ex-wives.

  If I were him, I’d consider selling his place.

  Immediately.

  “Oh, here comes Calliope,” Cherise said, standing up and dusting off her knee-length shorts.

  Calliope Harcourt had her head down, reading something on her phone, as she hurried along. When she made an abrupt right turn to come up the walkway, she gasped when she finally looked up and realized she wasn’t alone. She dropped a binder she was carrying and laughed as she picked it up. “I should pay more attention. Hello!”

  Mid-twenties, Calliope had just earned her master’s degree from Boston College, and intelligence shone in blue eyes that slanted downward at their corners. She was a tiny thing—barely five feet tall with an oval face, rectangular glasses, and shiny auburn hair pulled back in a loose bun. Wearing dress pants, a short-sleeved floral-print top, and ballet flats, she looked every bit a bookworm.

  When I first met her, Calliope had been working part-time for Sylar Dewitt at his optometry office. It wasn’t long after he married the atrocious Dorothy Hansel, one of his optician assistants, that Calliope had started looking for a new job. I didn’t blame her. I could only imagine how overbearing Dorothy had become after marrying the boss. Where Dorothy was concerned, walking away was often necessary before something homicidal happened.

  Been there, done that.

  Kent and Raina had hired Calliope straight off, and she’d been working for them almost a year now, but their time with her was limited. She’d been sending out résumés for her dream job as a museum archivist for a few months now and it was just a matter of time before she found a position.

  “You looked engrossed,” Cherise said, smiling.

  “An e-mail from Kent to draw up a contract when I’m through here. He and Raina are running me ragged. Plus, dealing with the TV show details . . .” She smiled, not seeming to be bothered in the least. She glanced around. “Raina asked me to meet her here with papers for you to sign, Ms. Goodwin. Is she inside?”

  “She’s not here, dear,” Cherise said. “We’ve been waiting for her to have our walk-through.”

  “That’s strange.” Confusion filled her eyes, and her eyebrows dipped. “I know she had a morning meeting with Scott Whiting. Maybe it ran late.” She shrugged. “Let’s go in. At least you can look around while we wait for her to get here.”

  Calliope tucked her binder under her arm and bent to tackle the lockbox on the door. A second later, she had the key in her hand and was slipping it into the door. A one-carat crystal-clear diamond sparkled on her ring finger. Her boyfriend, Finn Reardon, had popped the question last Valentine’s Day.

  “Go on in,” she said, stepping aside. “I’m going to send Raina a text message to remind her we’re waiting, and then I’ll be right in.”

  My envy level spiked a little as we walked through the door, still wishing this place was mine. Sunlight streamed through the windows, and dust particles danced in the beams. The house had been emptied of furniture and all that remained were the bare bones of the place and a few knickknacks like a clock that no longer worked, a fireplace poker and shovel, and an old footstool.

  Although those bare bones were in need of a little TLC, they were . . . extraordinary. The scarred wooden floor, the original hand-carved mantel and fireplace surround. The built-in bookcases. A wide archway led through to the dining room, which had French doors opening to the spacious backyard.

  “The ceiling needs a lot of work,” Cherise said, eyeing it critically.

  It did. Water stains looked like rusty clouds. “You’ll need to find out where that water came from. My guess is the roof.”

  “Undoubtedly. Did you see the rotting shingles?” She fanned herself with her hand. “Central air-conditioning would be nice, too,” she said, adding to the list.

  It would. Saunalike, it was hot and humid in the house, and I longed to open the windows to let in some fresh air. Unfortunately, all the sashes had been painted shut. The single-paned windows were one more thing needing updating.

  Cherise headed into the kitchen and looked around. “It’s beyond repair.”

  Old cracked wooden cabinets hung from loose hinges. The white-tiled counter was stained, a lot of the tiles chipped. The linoleum flooring seemed to have been waxed with a layer of grease, which made footing slippery.

  Cherise lifted a pale eyebrow. “What would you do in here?”

  “Maple cabinets, bronze hardware, a light-colored granite countertop,” I said,
lying through my teeth. I didn’t want Cherise to know what I’d do—it would be too painful to see it be built in someone else’s house. I’d enlarge the window above the kitchen sink, which I’d replace with one in a deep farmhouse style. Soft white cabinets, brushed nickel hardware, and a Carrara marble countertop.

  She eyed me suspiciously, and I had the feeling she knew I was lying.

  Finally she said, “I was thinking so, too. It would be lovely.”

  As she headed for the staircase, Calliope came inside and glanced around. “It sure has potential, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” I said softly, trying to hide my longing as I admired the craftsmanship of the banister. “Any more offers come in?”

  “A few,” Calliope said, trailing behind me as I climbed the steps. “The deadline is still tonight, however. Best and final.”

  “Any hint of how high the bidding has gone?” I asked.

  “Sorry. You know I can’t say.”

  Pesky real estate rules.

  Upstairs, Cherise wandered around the master bedroom, chatting with Calliope about the changes she’d like to make, including busting out a wall to add a balcony or a deck.

  “Oh, and I’d love to knock this down”—Cherise motioned to the wall dividing the master from the second bedroom—“and create an expansive walk-in closet.” She strode across the room, to the adjoining bath. “Then I’d take out the existing walk-in closet and enlarge the bathroom.”

  I walked over to the closet to see how much space it would add to the bath. Pulling open the door, I happily inhaled the scent of the cedar boards that lined the space. As I scooted far enough inside to grab the chain dangling from the light, I stepped in something wet and figured the roof had leaked in here, too. But as the light flashed on, I looked down to find I’d stepped in a large puddle of . . .

  I shrieked.

  ...blood.

  A little farther into the space, Raina’s body lay curled in a fetal position, her eyes wide and vacant. The blood had come from a gaping wound on the side of her head.

  Instantly woozy, I stumbled backward, nearly knocking down Cherise and Calliope as they raced over to see what was going on. I leaned against the doorframe and concentrated on breathing deeply, trying not to pass out. I hated the sight of blood.

  Calliope shoved her phone and binder at me and slapped her hands over her mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick.” She ran for the bathroom.

  I knew the feeling.

  Peeking through one eye, I saw Cherise move in for a closer look. She took hold of Raina’s wrist. Looking for a pulse.

  Light-headed, I forced myself to look around, to take in the scene. Sunbeams glinted off a golden chain resting in Raina’s open palm, and I could see a flash of color from a gemstone amulet.

  The hairs rose on the back of my neck again, and I took a closer look at the closet. A few of the cedar panels had been pried loose, but clear as day the letter A had been written in blood on one of the wooden boards.

  Something wicked . . .

  “Do you feel a pulse?” I whispered, not sure I could speak any louder if I tried.

  Cherise shook her head and sadness filled her eyes. “We’re too late. Raina’s dead.”

  Chapter Two

  “I need new shoes,” I said, staring down at my freshly scrubbed toes. The police had confiscated my sandals as evidence. “Maybe even new feet. Do you have a spell for that, Cherise?”

  We sat side by side on As You Wish’s porch swing, watching a village police officer cordon off the street. It wasn’t Nick. He, as the chief of police, was inside the Tavistock house. A medical examiner’s team was on the way. The investigation into Raina’s death had begun.

  The clothes I’d been wearing were now in the wash (with extra soap and hot water), and I’d changed into comfy khaki-colored linen pants and a light pink T-shirt.

  “Shoes?” Cherise asked, her thin pale eyebrows raised in question.

  “No. Feet.”

  With an oh-geez smile, she patted my hand. “No.”

  Missy, my gray-and-white Schnoodle (half schnauzer, half mini poodle) lay between us, her head resting on my thigh. She flicked a glance upward at me, and I swore she was smiling, too.

  I hadn’t been kidding.

  “But the heebies . . .” I shuddered, easily imagining Raina’s blood on my feet even after washing them three times. It was like my own version of Lady Macbeth’s damned spot.

  “Will pass,” Cherise assured.

  Maybe. In a few days.

  Weeks.

  Years.

  “You didn’t pass out,” she said brightly. “That’s something.”

  It was. And I hadn’t tossed my cookies like poor Calliope, either.

  My word. I was getting used to the sight of blood. Of seeing death. What has my life come to?

  A colorful red, blue, and yellow blur swooped downward, circled, and landed gracefully on the porch railing, long gray talons clutching the wooden rail. Archie looked at Cherise. “‘The Grim Reaper’s visiting with you.’”

  Horrified, Cherise jerked her head left, then right. Frantically, she said, “What?”

  “Ha. Ha,” I said drolly, frowning at him as he laughed. I looked at Cherise. “It’s a quote from the movie Heat that Archie is using to compare me to the Grim Reaper. And it’s not the least bit funny.”

  “Ah, right,” Cherise said. “Your movie quote competition.”

  Archie and I had been playing a game of trying to stump each other with movie quote trivia since I had moved to the village. It usually made me smile. Not today.

  “I’m tickled,” Archie said, an amused glint in his tiny eyes as he watched me. “And certainly you cannot deny you have an affinity for finding dead bodies, Darcy.”

  “Affinity?” Cherise questioned.

  “Affinity,” he stated firmly, stretching his wings out. From blue tip to blue tip, his wingspan was a few inches shy of four feet long.

  I glared at him. “‘You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.’”

  “You’re not even trying,” he accused. “The Princess Bride.”

  I used my big toe to set the swing swaying. “It wasn’t meant to stump you,” I said testily as I rubbed Missy’s ears. “It was meant to demonstrate your need of a vocabulary lesson.” Affinity? No. There was nothing I enjoyed about finding dead bodies.

  Investigating the crimes I didn’t mind so much, if I was being honest. But seeing death up close and personal? It was nothing short of . . . shocking.

  His chest puffed, the scarlet feathers nearly standing on end. In his haughtiest voice, he exclaimed, “I beg your pardon!”

  He did haughty well.

  Pointedly lifting an eyebrow, I crossed my arms. “Consider it begged.”

  With an exaggerated show of plumage, he flew over to Cherise’s side of the swing and perched on the armrest. His tail was so long it nearly touched the porch decking. In a loud stage whisper, he leaned in close to her ear and said, “Darcy’s in ill humor.”

  “Can you blame her?” Cherise asked, using the same cheeky undertone. “After all, this is what? The third body she’s found in less than a year?”

  “Fourth,” he corrected.

  Actually, it was the fifth. I didn’t plan to correct them, however.

  And that wasn’t counting all the incidental deaths I’d witnessed. Suspects who’d died. Friends who’d passed from natural causes. Murderers.

  Good gosh. Maybe I was the Grim Reaper. It was a sobering thought—one I refused to voice. Archie was at his worst when he gloated. “Surely there must be someone else in the village you’d like to harass this morning.”

  He cocked his head. “No. Starla, alas, is working and not running things over.”

  Cherise chuckled. “It’s early yet. Give her
time.”

  I smiled despite myself. I wasn’t sure why—at thirty years old—Starla decided it was high time she learned how to drive. She’d gotten by just fine all this time, having lived in and around cities with public transit her whole life. As a Wishcrafter, she couldn’t legally get a license because of photo issues; however, like my sister, Harper, and me and Ve and every other Wishcrafter around, she already had a fake ID, procured through the black market. But suddenly she was determined. And her boyfriend, Vincent Paxton—madly in love with her and unaware of the dangers—took on the task. Exactly how she explained to him why she didn’t know how to drive but had a license I still didn’t know.

  What I did know was that Vince was braver than I ever gave him credit for.

  Over the past week, Starla had run over countless curbs, sideswiped a tree, and narrowly missed a fire hydrant. Her spatial issues needed work.

  A lot of work.

  “Besides,” Archie said, his tone shifting from snarky to imperious, “I come not only to harass, but to deliver a message.”

  I set my foot flat on the porch, stopping the swing. Missy took advantage and leapt to the ground, hurrying over to the gate to get a better look at what was happening out on the street. Her tiny tail wiggled as she watched the comings and goings.

  Shifting on the bench, I faced my feathered friend head-on. Archie’s missives usually came from one person only. The Elder. I, and many others, didn’t know her identity (it was top secret), but every Crafter knew Archie was her right-hand bird. “Is this about Raina’s murder?”

  “It is indeed,” he said smugly.

  Many months ago, the Elder had given me a job as an investigator. As a protective measure, I was to snoop into criminal offenses that involved elements of the Craft. It was imperative mortals did not learn of our heritage, as the last time it had been uncovered in Salem, it hadn’t ended so well for our ancestors.