The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy: A Wishcraft Mystery

by Heather Blake

  “I don’t know. It’s . . . I don’t know.” Shimmying as if she had the heebie-jeebies, she looked around suspiciously.

  I had a pretty good idea what she was talking about, but I didn’t want to tell her there was probably a ghost in the room. She had trouble with kiddie haunted houses—I didn’t even want to think about what the knowledge of a real ghost would do to her.

  I tried to distract her. “I just ran into Dash Khoury on the green, and he said he’d tried to warn Michael about something.” If Fisk was a controlling force on Amy, it might explain why he and Michael had been at odds lately. I had to assume Michael would do anything to protect his sister—even if it meant turning against his best friend.

  “Really? About what?”

  “I don’t know. He got a call from Trista and took off before he could tell me.”

  “Sounds intriguing.”

  She was right; it did.

  She said, “I know that Michael and Amy are both very close to Dash and Trista. They think of them almost like family.”

  Almost but not quite. After all, Amy was dating Fisk.

  Harper tapped her chin and gave me a half smile. “My curiosity is killing me. Dash was very much a father figure to Michael, so Michael most likely would have gone to him with any problems he was having lately. But what exactly would he have been warning Michael against?”

  Whump-whump-whump-whump.

  Harper snapped her head left and right. “Seriously, you don’t feel that?”

  Trying to look innocent, I shook my head. “I know that Fisk looks a little scary, but do you think he’s dangerous?”

  She arched an eyebrow. “If you’re asking if I think he could have killed Michael . . . I don’t know. I tend to think he’s all talk and no action. But if you’re asking if he’s dangerous to Amy . . . that answer is yes. If he is controlling, he holds the potential to destroy her. Her hopes, her dreams, her light. Everything.”

  Which left me wondering exactly how far Fisk would go to protect that hold over her.

  Chapter Five

  An hour later, I followed my motley crew into the mudroom at As You Wish. Mimi and I kicked off our shoes as Higgins charged past us.

  “Well, me-oh-my! Look who decided to come home,” Ve sang loudly from the kitchen. “Is there something you forgot to tell me about the stripper, Dar—” Suddenly, she stopped talking, gasped, then let out an ear-splitting scream. “Eeeee!”

  I, too, would have screamed if a huge St. Bernard had come galloping toward me at full speed.

  She stopped screaming long enough to yell at the dog. “Down, Higgins! Down!”

  Unfortunately for Ve, Higgins wasn’t listening.

  “You’d better go rescue her,” I said to Mimi, nudging her forward. “Higgins might slobber her to death.”

  I hung up my coat, my bag, and Missy’s leash. The little dog trotted ahead of me into the kitchen as if there were nothing out of the ordinary about Ve’s being molested by a massive mutt. As I stepped over the threshold, I really wished I’d had a camera to capture the scene.

  Ve was sitting on the counter, and Higgins was doing his best to join her up there. Drool pooled at the corners of his mouth, and Mimi, who was maybe one hundred pounds soaking wet, was trying her best to tug Higgins backward. It was an image that I would have liked to frame, but that was impossible.

  Even if I’d had a camera with me, the shot wouldn’t have turned out. Wishcrafters, in photos and videos, emitted a blinding white light, like a starburst. It might have been a cute shot of Higgins, however.

  “Down, down!” Ve yelled as a giant pink tongue lapped at her chin and her cheeks.

  “He loves you, Aunt Ve,” Mimi said, pulling with all her might.

  Ve’s hair (which I’d never once seen down) was coming loose from its clip. Coppery strands framed her face. “The feeling, my dear, is not mutual. Down, Higgins! Darcy, a little help?”

  “But I’m enjoying the show,” I said, heading for a specific cabinet.

  Whump, whump. The ghost (Michael?) had finally calmed down after my talk with Harper. I hoped it stayed that way for a while.

  Ve threw me a dark I-will-get-back-at-you look. Laughing, I pulled a giant rawhide bone that we kept for Higgins’s visits from the cabinet, and tossed it down the hallway and into the family room. The floor vibrated as he took off after it.

  Ve, still sitting on the counter, shuddered as she assessed the drool damage. “I need a shower. And maybe a cigarette.”

  Mimi giggled, and it reminded me that she wasn’t a little kid who didn’t understand innuendos. She was almost thirteen—her birthday was in a couple of months, and she was wise beyond her years. This was maybe because she was naturally bright, or maybe because she hadn’t had the easiest of childhoods. It wasn’t until after her mother died and Nick had moved them here that Mimi discovered that she, too, was a witch.

  We’d pretty much adopted the girl into the family. She was like a little sister to Harper and me, and Ve insisted Mimi call her “Aunt,” too. I wasn’t sure Ve felt as loving toward Mimi and Nick’s massive St. Bernard, however. Especially at the moment, while she was covered in Higgins’s drool.

  I heard slurping in the living room. Higgins was in doggy heaven with his treat. Missy had zero interest in what Higgins was up to, and instead focused all her attention on Mimi. The dog looked to be in her own form of nirvana as Mimi picked her up and cuddled her.

  I glanced around, looking for Tilda, Ve’s prissy cat, but she was nowhere to be found. Smart kitty—she probably saw Higgins and took off for one of her favorite hiding spots.

  “What were you saying about a stripper, Aunt Ve?”

  Ve shot me an exasperated look. “Stripper?”

  Ah, playing dumb. It was a reasonable avoidance technique, but Mimi was much too smart to fall for it.

  Mimi nodded. “When we were coming in, you were saying something about a stripper to Darcy.” Her brown eyes grew even wider. “Was there was a stripper at Harriette’s party tonight?”

  Personally, I’d rather be talking to Mimi about the stripper than the murder. She’d peppered me with questions for the past hour, ever since she returned to the bookstore, while we stopped by her house to pick up clothes and Higgins, and during the walk back here.

  Stripping was a nice change of topic.

  Ve smiled sweetly. “Are you staying the night, Mimi?”

  Mimi nodded. Her curly black hair had been pulled back into one long braid. She’d grown since I first met her—by a good two inches. A few more inches and we’d be seeing eye to eye. At the rate she was going, she would be supermodel tall by her freshman year of high school. “My dad has to work late because of the murder. Did you hear about that? Poor Michael, right? I just saw him at the bakery yesterday.” She frowned. “He gave me an extra cake pop. He was so nice.”

  I slid my arm around her. We’d already discussed—at length—the extra cake pop and how kind Michael had always been to her.

  “Who do you think killed him?” she asked. Her eyes widened again. “Do you think there’s a serial killer in the village?”

  I didn’t like the note of excitement in her voice. She’d been hanging around with Harper a bit too much.

  Ve carefully slid off the counter. “Yes, Michael was a very kind soul; yes, I heard about the murder; and no, I don’t think there’s a serial killer in the village.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Mimi asked.

  Ve tapped Mimi’s nose playfully. “For one thing, only one person has died. Nothing serial about that.”

  Mimi frowned as though she hadn’t thought the definition of serial killer all the way through. After a long second, she said, “So, the stripper?”

  I had to laugh at her tenacity.

  Ve eyed the liquor cabinet as she crossed to the sink to clean off the drool. “Stripper?” she tittered. “What stripper?”

  Someone knocked once, then opened the back door. “Hello?”

  I turned as the m
an stepped into the kitchen. My jaw dropped.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I forgot my duffel bag in the bathroom. . . .”

  “That stripper,” I said to Mimi, elbowing her.

  Higgins, I noticed, hadn’t budged at the entrance of a stranger. I had the feeling a parade of poodles could march through the family room and his attention wouldn’t waver from that rawhide.

  Missy’s ears twitched, but she didn’t seem to be eager to leave Mimi’s arms to assess the man, either.

  “I prefer ‘revealing entertainer,’” Hot Rod Stiffington said, shoving a hand in my direction. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Darcy Merriweather,” I said, shaking his hand. “And this is Mimi Sawyer.” My gaze slid to my aunt. “I assume you know Ve?”

  “We met earlier,” he said.

  Ve’s cheeks were a rosy red, and she wouldn’t meet my eye. “I’ll, ah, get your bag.” She scurried down the hallway toward the guest bath.

  Mimi shook Rod’s hand, and kept staring. “Are you a Chippendale? You seem a little—”

  I cut her off before she said something we might all regret. “Mimi, how do you even know about Chippendales?”

  “YouTube.”

  Ah. Had to love the Internet.

  “No, I’m not a Chippendale,” Hot Rod said with a self-deprecating smile as he swiped a hand over his bald head.

  As if it needed to be said aloud.

  Fortunately, Hot Rod was fully covered. He wore dark sweatpants and a zippered sweatshirt, its fabric stretched over his belly. Up close, he looked a little bit like my favorite high school teacher, Mr. Rickman, a wonderful man whose death during my senior year had left me heartbroken.

  I immediately softened toward Hot Rod.

  Wrinkles multiplied as a smile spread on Hot Rod’s face. “My work is more . . . a comedy routine than a dance routine.”

  And just like that, I liked him even more.

  Mimi eyed him appraisingly. “I can see that.”

  “What are you doing here again?” I asked, wishing Mr. Rickman was still around to teach Mimi tact. “You said you forgot a bag?” It was then that I noticed two wineglasses in the sink.

  Hmm. What had Ve been up to while I was gone?

  Ve came rushing back into the kitchen. She thrust a large bag at Hot Rod, and her hands went to her blotchy throat. “There you go, Rodney! I know you have to be getting back, so don’t let us keep you.”

  His eyes twinkled. “Right. Thanks again for your hospitality, Ve.”

  I wondered if “hospitality” was a euphemism in this case. I studied Ve carefully, but other than her full body blush, she wasn’t giving much away.

  “It was lovely of you to invite me over in the first place.” He turned to me. “I didn’t know what to do since my car was blocked in by emergency vehicles, and then, like an angel dropped from the sky, Ve was there, inviting me back here so I could change and wait for the traffic to clear out.”

  An angel, my foot. More like a little devil.

  “It was nice to have a slight respite before heading home,” he said.

  I also wondered if “respite” was a euphemism. What had Ve been thinking? I fished for information. “I heard Harriette really enjoyed your show tonight.”

  “Oh, she did,” Ve said, practically pushing Hot Rod toward the back door by the sheer force of her glare. “Rodney was a big hit, but he really must be going.”

  She was as subtle as a sledgehammer.

  “Yes,” he said. “I must. It’s been a pleasure, ladies.” He doffed an imaginary cap and headed out the back door.

  As soon as the latch clicked into place, Mimi and I turned to face Ve.

  She tried to head us off at the pass. “Have there been any developments in the murder case?” She placed an emphasis on the word “murder” in an attempt to distract.

  Mimi fell for it. “Dad says Michael— Ow!”

  I’d stomped on her foot. “Ve? Is there something you forgot to tell us about the stripper?”

  Pursing her lips, she said, “Touché. Now, about poor Michael . . .”

  Mimi opened her mouth, looked at me, then snapped it closed again. Missy, still tucked cozily in Mimi’s arms, blinked at Ve. Apparently, she wanted answers, too.

  “Hot Rod?” I pressed.

  Ve folded her arms. “He’s adorable.”

  He was, in an older-guy kind of way.

  “And Terry?” I asked of her boyfriend.

  “It was just one drink,” Ve said, trying to justify herself.

  “Uh-huh.” My aunt had issues with monogamy. She’d already been married four times (once to Terry), and she had almost walked down the aisle again this past summer but canceled the wedding at the last minute. “Are you sure it was just a drink?”

  Ve cast a look at Mimi, rolled her eyes, pouted and said, “It’s not like I didn’t try for something a bit more, but he wasn’t interested. Turned me down flat. My ego is crushed. I’m going to take a bath, then go to bed.” She headed toward the back staircase, then turned around. “We’ll never see Hot Rod again.”

  I swear there was wistfulness in her voice.

  “So,” she continued, “we’ll just keep his visit to ourselves, right, girls?”

  It wasn’t so much a request as an order.

  “Right,” Mimi and I said in unison.

  Ve nodded and trundled up the steps.

  When she was out of earshot, Mimi said, “That was nice of Ve to invite Rod back here.”

  “Yeah, nice.” I pulled two mugs from the cabinet along with the container of hot chocolate mix.

  Mimi smiled—she had Nick’s smile. “She’s going to see him again, isn’t she?”

  “She’s probably calling him right now.”

  “Do you think he’ll let us call him ‘Uncle Hot Rod’?”

  I was laughing when Ve appeared at the top of the steps, a curious look on her face. “Has either of you seen Tilda?”

  Mimi shook her head, and I said, “Not tonight.”

  Ve came down the steps. “She’s not upstairs.”

  “She’s probably lying low because of Higgins,” I said, abandoning the cocoa mix. “Let’s split up and search the house.”

  By midnight, we’d looked high, low, and even under a now-snoozing Higgins (just in case). There was no sign of her.

  Tilda was missing.

  Chapter Six

  “A stem blooms devoid of light, at the darkest time of night.”

  I came awake with a start and looked around.

  Missy lifted her chin and blinked drowsily at me, as if wondering why I had disturbed her sleep. I patted her head, and she settled back down as Higgins snored from his spot on the floor. The bed shifted as Mimi rolled over in her sleep. Usually when she stayed the night, she slept in Harper’s old room down the hall, but at some point in the wee hours, she’d climbed in with me.

  As much as Michael Healey’s murder fascinated her, it had also clearly freaked her out—she’d been too scared to sleep alone.

  A stem blooms devoid of light, at the darkest time of night.

  Had I dreamed the voice whispering to me? It was just the four of us here. Two of us couldn’t talk, one was still sound asleep, and then there was me. I glanced around. Maybe Archie or Pepe, my mouse familiar friend, had snuck in?

  But no—there was no one else.

  Well. Except for the ghost.

  Whump-whump.

  “Michael?” I whispered. “Is that you?”

  Before I moved to the village, I never in a million years would have guessed I’d try talking to a ghost. Of course, back then I never dreamed I was a witch. That familiars existed. That magic was real.

  My life had come a long way.

  At the sound of my voice, Missy cracked open an eye.

  “Sorry,” I said to her. “Go back to sleep.”

  An owl hooted somewhere in the distance, sounding sad and lonely. It was almost five in the morning, and I knew there’d be no going back to sleep
for me. I wiggled my way out from under the covers without further disturbing Mimi, Missy, or Higgins. There was a time when I lamented sleeping alone—the recovery from my divorce had taken me a while—but now I was rather missing my empty bed. Especially if a ghost shared it as well.

  It wasn’t something I really wanted to think about, so I slipped on my glasses and my robe and went downstairs. I glanced at Tilda’s bowls and immediately felt a pang. Where could she be? She wasn’t much of an outdoor cat—she wandered around the yard from time to time, but she’d never strayed beyond the fence before.

  We’d already started the phone chain, asking neighbors to keep an eye out for her. Later today, I’d hand out Lost flyers. Someone had to have seen her. White and gray puffballs with attitude didn’t just disappear.

  Or did they?

  There was a familiar that was here at the house a lot. I’d heard her voice a dozen times, but Ve would never tell me who it was. I’d questioned both Missy and Tilda, but neither had responded to me. . . . If either was a familiar, they didn’t want me to know.

  If Tilda was a familiar, she might have other business to attend to beyond the house . . . but wouldn’t Ve know that and say so before an all-out search party was formed?

  It was all so confusing, this magic stuff. I hoped one day I’d get used to it. One day soon.

  The automatic coffeepot had already brewed the first pot of coffee, and I poured myself a big mug. I unlocked the back door and hoped that I’d find Tilda curled up on the back step, but I immediately knew that was a silly notion. If she’d found her way home, she would have come in through the doggy door we’d left open.

  I sighed as I tightened my sash and sat on the porch swing. Frost had settled overnight, and the grass was crisp with shards of frozen dew. Cascading ivy vines covered the fence and trailed up and over the arched iron gate. During the warmer months, showy clematis blooms intertwined with the ivy, the bright flowers a beautiful contrast against deep green leaves.