“I’ll ask Harper to keep her busy this afternoon,” I said. “That should help a bit.”
Relief flashed in his eyes. “Thanks.”
“Before you go . . .” His mention of hanging on the fence reminded me of Cherise, and how she’d latched onto that finial that morning. “Will the investigation stall the sale of the home?”
He said, “Not necessarily. As long as we’re still allowed access inside if need be. I’ll see you later?”
I nodded.
He gave me a quick kiss before weaving into the crowd.
I took a long look at the Tavistock house and felt that familiar pull toward it, as though it was supposed to be mine. I wished it were.
Just like I wished it could reveal the secrets it held.
Chapter Six
Walking into the Gingerbread Shack was a pleasant assault on my senses. At first it was the happy sound of the jingle bells greeting me at the door. Then a heady mix of spices and vanilla and chocolate enveloped me, and I greedily breathed it in like an asthmatic would a life-saving inhaler. Letting the scentsational magic of this shop seep into my very being.
“I’ll be right out,” Evan called from the kitchen.
“Take your time,” I said. “It’s only me.”
After the death last year of one of his employees, Michael Healy, Evan had been hesitant to hire on more help, but he desperately needed it. More often than not, the front counter was left unmanned while Evan worked in the kitchen.
Which was clearly not an issue right now, as the shop was empty. Most everyone in the village was still across the green, their nosiness parked at the curb in front of the Tavistock house. However, there were many days a line formed out the Gingerbread Shack’s door, and those were the times he had trouble keeping up.
Although he was half Wishcrafter, Evan’s predominate Craft was Bakecrafting. Confections created with ordinary ingredients were made extraordinary by Evan’s heritage. The treats he made were nothing short of heavenly, but it was his secret ingredient that kept his customers coming back.
Magic.
Allowing him to make the perfect bite, which filled its eater with a sense of contentment.
It was no wonder his shop was one of the most successful in the village.
“I was hoping you’d come by,” Evan said, still in the kitchen. “I’m dying of curiosity about what happened this morning.”
Dying.
I shuddered at his word choice.
I tried to play it off. “Oh, you know. All in a day’s work.”
Finding dead bodies was becoming commonplace.
And the fact that that notion didn’t disturb me as much as it once would have was slightly disturbing.
Baking pans clanged. “You’re going to get a reputation, Darcy Merriweather.” His voice held a hint of humor.
“Archie’s already called me the Grim Reaper this morning. It’s bound to spread.”
He laughed. “He’ll commission T-shirts soon, the crazy old bird.”
Archie and Evan had a bit of a love-hate relationship. They loved to hate each other.
“If he does,” I said, “I’ll make sure he saves one for you.”
“A size medium. I’ve been working out.”
He wasn’t fooling me. He hadn’t been working out. He’d been working. Long days. Long nights. And losing weight because of it, despite being surrounded by treats all the time.
My gaze zipped to the bakery case, and I headed for it as though a moth drawn to a flame. Who could blame me? The Gingerbread Shack was a novelty bakery specializing in delectable mini desserts. Cake bites were Evan’s biggest claim to fame, and they sat in perfect rows inside the case, each seemingly saying “Pick me!” Devil’s food bites, cheesecake, vanilla, piña colada, brownie, German chocolate . . . Each coated in flavorful icings and dipped in varying chocolates that were then fancily decorated. Some with piped swirls or chopped nuts or toasted coconut or a dusting of cinnamon or crushed candies. There was no limit to the combinations because there was no limit to Evan’s imagination.
Sharing the case with the cake bites were the petit fours, triple chocolate mini mousse cakes, mini cupcakes, macaroons, and tiny tarts and cheesecakes. My mouth began to water.
Evan zipped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron hanging low on his slim hips. His jeans sagged a bit, another reminder he’d lost weight recently—and he hadn’t really had much to spare in the first place. Once, he was a naturally slim man who’d carried a bit of a paunch, a hazard of his job.
That paunch was now gone.
Flour dusted his fair cheeks and his ginger-blond hair. Blue eyes flared wide with frenetic energy as he bustled behind the counter, grabbing a cardboard coffee cup. He handed it to me and set out a plate. Reaching into the bakery case, he pulled out two mini devil’s food cupcakes. My favorite. “Spill. Tell me everything about the morning.”
I studied him carefully. “How much coffee have you had today?”
“Not enough. Despite this lull, it’s been crazy around here.” He slid the plate over to me.
“I’ll need a dozen mixed cake bites to go, too.”
“Sure thing.” He quickly boxed the order.
I planned to give the treats to Calliope, hoping they’d loosen her tongue about the goings-on in Raina’s life. A little enticement never hurt anyone.
Evan slid the box across the counter, and I pulled out my wallet.
“Darcy.”
“Evan,” I returned with a smile, mimicking his exasperated tone.
He never wanted to charge me, and I always insisted on paying. We’d been doing this same song and dance for nearly a year. I slid a twenty-dollar bill across the counter. He had a living to make, and because I was here so often, my orders would quickly go from friendly freebies to mooching.
“You should hire some more help,” I said for what was probably the hundredth time.
“Soon,” he said, jabbing cash register keys.
We’d been doing this song and dance since last Halloween, when a murderer had, in one moment of pure evil, taken the life of a young man. In that act, however, the killer had given something to Evan.
Fear.
Even though he never said so, Evan had been more traumatized by Michael’s murder than he let on. Mostly because the young man hadn’t only been an employee but also a friend.
In the months since the murder, it had become clear Evan was afraid to grow close to anyone else.
He closed ranks around his nearest and dearest, not letting anyone else in and edging others out. Throwing himself into his job, he’d become even more of a workaholic. Once sociable, he was now a homebody. Early to bed, early to rise.
Rinse. Repeat.
The stress of it all showed on his face, in the purplish coloring beneath his cobalt blue eyes that now had fine lines stretching from their outer corners. In the hollowness of once round cheeks. In the smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
He handed my change to me, and I dropped some of it in the tip jar.
“How soon will you hire someone?” I pressed, heading for the coffee carafes.
With rushed yet fluid motions, he quickly wiped down the countertops with a dishcloth. “I’m not sure. I don’t really have the time right now. Summer’s always busy with the increase in tourism and weddings and parties. . . .”
I filled my cup, set the lid, and turned to him. I arched an eyebrow. “Seems to me it would be less busy for you if you hired some more help in addition to your two current part-timers.”
He stopped wiping. “You’re not going to let this go, are you, Darcy?”
“You need help. And I want to help by finding you help.”
“That’s a lot of help.” A smile stretched across his face.
I gave him a wry grin. “It’s what I do.�
�
“I thought you were cutting back on the help thing.” He pressed his hands to his chest. “I wouldn’t want to be the cause of your regression. You’ve been making some real progress. Like when you didn’t butt in when Starla was flipping out over wallpaper choices. You stepped back and let her choose on her own. It was the wrong choice,” he said, shaking his head. “But that wasn’t your fault.”
Although the twins used to live together, when they opted to sell their brownstone, they decided it was finally time to get places of their own. Starla had bought a cottage, and Evan moved into the recently vacated apartment he owned above his bakery. To say that Starla had thrown herself into home decorating wholeheartedly was a vast understatement. And Evan was right—the wallpaper choice hadn’t been what I would have picked, but Starla liked it and that was all that mattered.
“And how you haven’t said a word about her bad driving. That’s impressive. Surely you could do a better job teaching her than Vince.”
He was wrong there—that was a job I definitely did not want to tackle. I’d taught Harper how to drive. It had been experience enough to last me a lifetime. But if Evan wanted to think I was backing off on purpose, I’d let him.
Because, okay, it was true that I had a bit of a fix-it complex. A deep-seated need to help others, even when they hadn’t asked for it. It started at seven years old when my mother died, and I’d been determined that Harper, a newborn, wouldn’t feel as though she was lacking any motherly love.
I’d been working on helping only when asked, but when it came to Evan—or anyone I loved—I knew I couldn’t help stepping in on matters that were truly important. “Oh, I don’t mind a little regression.”
Wiping his hands on his apron, he said, “I’m fine.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“I don’t need help.”
Darn redheaded stubbornness. “Right. When was the last time you went out to dinner? Went shopping? Went out on a date?”
“I do those things.”
“When?”
“All the time.”
“When?” I pressed.
“I’m fine,” he repeated instead of answering.
“If by fine you mean slowly killing yourself, then, yeah, you’re dandy.”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic, Darcy.”
If there was a quicker way to ignite a woman’s temper than telling her she was dramatic, I’d like to know it.
As heat shot into my cheeks, I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and steeled myself for a fight. I was about to let him have it—because someone clearly needed to—when the bell on the door jangled, and a family of four came in. Twin toddler girls raced to the bakery case, pressing their plump faces to the glass. They bounced in anticipation, squealing at the delights before them.
Putting my anger on hold, I sat at a bistro table and watched as a harried Evan pasted a smile on his face while the family ordered. Midway through, a timer went off in the kitchen and he had to excuse himself to take care of it.
When he didn’t return quickly, one of the toddlers began to fuss, her voice ratcheting up into a sharp whine.
I stuck a whole mini cupcake into my mouth and chewed slowly, letting the treat soothe my nerves. My anger slowly melted away with the chocolate.
The whine turned into a cry.
A friend would have gotten up from her cushy stool and helped Evan out. Finish taking the order or assisted in the kitchen.
But I was a best friend.
And, in my oh so humble opinion, he needed to learn a lesson.
As I waited for him to return, I glanced out the window and stiffened when I saw Vincent’s car turn the corner, jump the curb, and straighten out again. Starla had her hands at ten and two and was leaning forward, her chin nearly atop the steering wheel. Vince had his hands glued to the dashboard and a look of pure terror on his face.
Good God. I shook my head at the sight and fervently sent up thanks that she hadn’t asked me to teach her to drive. I wouldn’t have been able to say no.
It was another issue I was working on.
Evan finally returned, finished the order, and waved as the family walked out the door. As soon as they were out of eyeshot, he grabbed a spray bottle of sanitizer and quickly cleaned the glass on the bakery case, erasing tiny finger and nose prints. He rubbed so hard I suspected he was also trying to erase some bad memories as well. Unfortunately, those weren’t so easy to get rid of.
When he finished, he wiped his hands and sat on the stool next to me, letting out a deep breath. Finally, he looked up at me.
I smiled broadly and batted my eyelashes.
“All right. Fine,” he said in a rush as he waved his white towel in the air. “I surrender. Before you launch into a full-blown Operation Fix Evan, you can set up some interviews.”
It was his way of apologizing. Which I accepted immediately by saying, “Operation Fix Evan does have a nice ring to it. Now, about your love life . . .”
Thunking his head on the tabletop, he said, “Give you an inch. . . .”
“All right, fine. I’ll leave that part to you.”
“Thank you.”
“For now.”
He shook his head. “Enough about me. Tell me about this morning. I can’t believe Raina’s dead. She was so . . . alive. Has Nick learned anything yet?”
“It was surreal,” I said, filling him in about finding Raina and all I knew up to this point. “Did you know about the village’s connection to the diamond heist?”
“I’ve heard rumors, but I didn’t know there was a Craft connection.”
It didn’t surprise me. He and Starla hadn’t grown up here. Their parents divorced early on, and their mother had moved them out of the village. It wasn’t until their grandfather bequeathed them the bakery almost five years ago that they returned.
I dropped my voice. “Seems Crafters don’t like to talk about it because of the link to Circe.”
“Ve said the diamonds give people unlimited power? What does that mean exactly?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “She said it’s similar to the Elder’s powers.”
At the mention of the Elder, Andreus’s earlier words surfaced in my head, haunting me.
“Most of us in the village know who she is. Except you don’t know, do you? Poor thing. Left in the dark. One has to wonder why.”
I rubbed an imaginary spot on the table. “Do you know who she is? Her identity?”
“Who? The Elder?”
I nodded. I couldn’t believe I’d even asked. That I allowed Andreus’s taunts to fester inside my head.
“No, do you?” Eagerly, he leaned in. “Did you find out who it was? Is it Cherise?”
“No, I don’t know.” Then I added, “Cherise? What makes you think it’s her?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know exactly. She just seems the Elder type. Wise but bossy.”
Cherise. Hmm. Was it possible? Was that why the Elder’s voice always sounded oddly familiar?
“Does Nick have a prime suspect?” Evan asked, turning the conversation back to Raina’s murder.
I shook my head and said, “It’s too soon. Of course, Andreus and Kent are on the list and now Noelle Quinlan. Harper thinks Calliope should be a suspect, too.”
“Why Calliope?”
“Harper says Calliope overreacted when Raina was found. Rushing off like that, tossing her cookies.”
“I probably would have done the same,” he said, making a squeamish face—cheeks sucked in, lips pushed out. “Weak stomach.”
Not everyone was cut out to find dead bodies. No, that was seemingly my specialty. Still, Harper had planted the seed about Calliope, and I could feel it sprouting. Harper had excellent instincts. I made circles on the table with my coffee cup. Tipping my head, I added, “Do you know much about her? Cal
liope? Is she a Crafter? Has she always lived in the village?”
Leaning back in his seat, he folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not sure. I’ve always felt like she was a Crafter, but I don’t know for sure. I’m not even certain why I got that impression, and I don’t know how long she’s lived in the village either. What would be her motive for killing Raina?”
I told him Harper’s list of reasons. “I’ve got to dig a little.”
“Well,” he said. “If anyone can uproot buried secrets, it’s you, Grim Reaper.”
“Ha. Ha,” I said tonelessly.
“My money’s on Kent. I never did like him.”
“Why?”
“Can’t put my finger on it. A gut feeling.”
It was enough for me. “When you were house-hunting with Starla, did you pick up any clues from Raina that her marriage was in trouble? Any hint Kent was thinking of divorcing her?”
“She seemed happy. She was excited at the possibility of being on a TV show.” He snapped his fingers and his head jerked up as though he’d just remembered something. “She was trying to talk the producer into making Kent a cohost and was a little anxious about it. Apparently the producer wasn’t that into the idea of cohosts. Just another thing that points to Kent. Maybe he wanted that job so much he got rid of his competition.”
It was interesting Raina had been trying to bring Kent on board for the TV show. Had he put that pressure on her, or had she burdened herself with it in an attempt to save her marriage? “Do you know how that turned out? If Kent was being considered as a candidate?”
“Nope. Starla found a house and that was that. I only saw Raina sporadically after Starla signed papers, mostly when Raina dropped in here. You know how it goes. Simple chitchat while I fill the order.”
I needed to track down producer Scott Whiting. Maybe he could shed a little light on the whole TV host gig. Plus, Calliope mentioned Raina had a meeting with him this morning. It was plausible that—except for the killer—he was the last to speak to Raina before she died.
I took another sip of coffee. “I wonder where Kent was this morning. If he has an alibi.”
Some Like It Witchy: A Wishcraft Mystery Page 7
