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

by Heather Blake

  He gulped. “Perhaps so.” He barely looked at Lydia as he said, “I need to open the shop. I’ll be home for dinner.” Clumsily, he made his way out the door.

  “Mother, aren’t you being a bit—”

  “Enough, Lydia.”

  Lydia clamped her jaw closed and rocked on her heels.

  Harriette pressed her fingertips to her temples. “I have a searing headache and must rest.”

  “That’s a good idea. I’ll take care of things here.”

  Harriette arched an eyebrow as though she had her doubts.

  “All my flowers are fine, aren’t they?” Lydia countered, gesturing to the colorful roses.

  Harriette pursed her lips, spun around, and strode out, one long step after another.

  As soon as the door closed, Lydia slumped, sitting on the edge of a bench. “I hate seeing her so agitated. She’s not been well lately, and I’m afraid this crisis will cause a setback.”

  “Not well?”

  “Her heart,” Lydia said. “She has an appointment with Dennis Goodwin next week.”

  Dr. Dennis Goodwin was the most sought-after Curecrafter around. If he couldn’t heal Harriette, no one could. I could only imagine what this stress was doing to someone with a heart issue and hoped Harriette rested as she said she would.

  “Mother . . .” She strove to find words, and I could see anger flashing in her eyes. “She’s a difficult woman who has trouble letting go, even though until last night’s incident, I’ve more than proven I can handle this greenhouse.”

  “You’re solely in charge now?” Harriette seemed too much of a control freak to let anyone else handle her business.

  “Yes, except for the cultivation of the black roses, which is Mother’s pet project. She turned over the rest of the day-to-day operations to Willard and me a couple of months ago. And she shouldn’t be so hard on him. He set that alarm last night. He always does.”

  “How many people have the code?”

  “Not many. The Wickeds. Me, Willard.”

  Whump-whump-whump.

  “What about people who work here? Maintenance people, that sort of thing?”

  “They’re not allowed in here,” Lydia said.

  A tiny light behind her flickered twice. No.

  “Not even Michael Healey?” I asked. “Didn’t you say he worked closely with the plants?”

  She flushed. “You’re right. He was an exception to the rule, one Mother made because she appreciated his talent with the roses.”

  Whump-whump-whump.

  “Who hired him? Was it Harriette?”

  “Actually, no. Bertie hired him against Mother’s wishes.”

  Bertie Braun—the Terracrafter who raised lilies in one of these greenhouses.

  Before I could ask another question, Lydia stood up. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Darcy. I’m already in trouble for having you in here. Mother’s probably lurking outside, waiting for you to go before giving me hell.”

  “Does she do that often?”

  Lydia smiled weakly. “She used to, but lately she’s been . . . nicer. To me, to the other Wickeds. She’s been more generous, helpful, happy.”

  It sounded to me as if she had fallen in love, and suddenly, I wanted to change my bet at Spellbound.

  “I thought she was finally changing her ways,” Lydia said, “but apparently, old habits run deep. Do you have the papers for me to sign?”

  I fished them out of my bag and handed them to her. “May I ask you something personal?”

  She shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Why don’t you and Willard move?”

  Something darted across her eyes. It looked a lot like fear. “Mother would never let us.”

  “Why is it her decision?”

  “Don’t you understand, Darcy? She controls everything I do. Always has. Always will.”

  “Why not walk away? Between you and Willard, you can start your own flower farm. Open your own shop.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve worked too hard to walk away now. This place is mine.” Her eyes flashed—and I realized how snakelike hers were as well. “I just have to be patient.”

  Patient. Until her mother dies.

  As she bent down to sign the papers, I watched behind her as a tiny flicker of light grew into a glowing, pulsing orb. When the sphere touched one of the dead black roses, its shriveled leaves unfurled, its stem straightened, and its bloom reopened one petal at a time. It had come alive.

  The light flickered, then vanished, leaving behind a beautiful lush, perfectly healthy black rose.

  I swallowed hard.

  Lydia, who was oblivious to what was happening behind her, handed the papers back. “I worked my whole life under the belief that this place would one day be my own. I don’t want someone who’s never even had dirt under his fingernails coming along and taking it away from me.”

  Nodding, I tucked the papers away. “I’ll be in touch.”

  “I’ll be here,” she said mournfully, “trying to figure out how to replace a year of mother’s hard work.”

  The air temperature outside seemed even colder after I had been in the warmth of the greenhouse. I hurried to the car, turned on the heater, and sat staring at the churned fields.

  Whump-whump-whump-whump.

  My heart beat just as wildly as I replayed what I’d seen with that black rose over and over in my mind. Finally, I said, “Those roses weren’t poisoned, were they?”

  No response.

  “They died,” I said, “because you died. Am I right?”

  He flickered once.

  Yes.

  Chapter Eleven

  I tried to figure out what that even meant. “Why?”

  There was no response. Obviously, since it wasn’t a yes or no question.

  I bit my lip and tried to figure out how I could discover the reason. As I glanced around, I saw someone walking around inside a greenhouse to my left. I squinted at the guidepost.

  The arrow directed me to Bertie’s greenhouse.

  Perfect.

  I cut the engine. I wanted to find out what Bertie knew about the Witching Hour roses—and what Michael had to do with them. And why, too, she had hired Michael when Harriette was against the decision.

  I glanced his way. “Can we trust Bertie?”

  No response.

  “You don’t know who to trust, do you?”

  No.

  “Oh, Michael.” My lip quivered and I bit it. “What did you get mixed up in?”

  No response.

  I sighed. “Come on, then. Let’s go see what we can find out from Bertie.”

  Following an identical bluestone pathway to Bertie’s greenhouse, I hoped Harriette wasn’t lurking as Lydia suspected. I didn’t want her to see me going inside. Mostly because I didn’t want to face Harriette’s wrath if she found out I was snooping around in her business.

  I turned the latch on the door and stepped inside. Warmth flooded over me, and I was grateful for it. I’d been chilled to the bone. A sweet scent hung in the air as dozens of lilies bloomed along long worktables in a layout identical to that of the other greenhouse.

  Bertie looked up from her work and smiled. “Darcy, hello.”

  Bertie was the second youngest of the Wickeds—in her mid-sixties. She wore much the same kind of outfit as Lydia, right down to the clogs. Her silver-streaked blond hair was cut into a severe bob that tended to hang in her face. She pushed a section of hair behind her ear and assessed me from behind a pair of rectangular glasses. “I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “I came to see Lydia.”

  “She’s across the way,” Bertie said, pointing to the rose greenhouse as if I’d lost my way.

  “I know. I was just there. I saw what happened to the Witching Hour roses. . . .”

  Bertie’s face, soft and glowing with good health, suddenly lost color. She ran a finger over a pearlescent lily petal. “It’s . . . shocking.”

  “Do you know what happened
to the roses?”

  “No, but maybe it wouldn’t have happened if Harriette had shared the Witching Hour spell with the rest of us Wickeds. Among the four of us and our skills, we could probably find the solution to the problem. But no, Harriette insists on being selfish. She won’t even share the spell with her daughter, who’s practically begged to be let in on the secret. No surprise there, really. Harriette’s known for caring about only one person. Harriette.”

  Bitterness laced her tone, and I noted the anger in her eyes. “Have you tried to create your own black flowers?”

  “Of course! It’s an ingenious creation, but none of us has been able to replicate it.”

  I could see Bertie and Imogene wanting the spell for their lilies and orchids, but Ophelia? “Black saffron doesn’t seem like a good idea. . . .”

  Bertie adjusted a pot on the bench. “For Ophelia, it’s sport. And trying to prove that as a Terracrafter she’s just as good as Harriette.”

  “But that’s not your goal as well?”

  Her gaze snapped to me. “What is it you want, Darcy?”

  I hedged for only a second. “Information about Michael,” I said honestly.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I was the one who found his body,” I said. “I feel . . . obligated to figure out what happened to him.”

  “That’s not your duty,” Bertie said.

  “It is now.”

  She suddenly startled. Her gaze darted around. “Oh my good God, he’s here, isn’t he?”

  I tried to look innocent.

  “I feel him,” she said. “He’s . . .” She stared at me. “He’s imprinted on you, hasn’t he?”

  “He’s what?” I asked.

  “Come away from the front windows,” she said, drawing me farther back into the greenhouse. “It’s too easy for passersby to see you standing there.”

  “What does that mean, he’s imprinted on me?”

  “It means his spirit form has latched onto you because you were the first one to find him. He has unfinished business here—something he has to take care of before he can cross over. He’s stuck.” She smiled. “To you.”

  “How do you know all this?” Ve hadn’t had a clue about why Michael was following me around.

  “I had an imprinter once.” She shook her head. “Craziest three days of my life. You won’t be rid of him until his mission is complete. Finding his killer really is your duty. He won’t be able to leave you until he can rest in peace.”

  Great. Wonderful. Fantastic. Nothing like a little pressure.

  “Good lord,” Bertie said, wiping her brow. “I never should have hired him.” She marched along the aisle, mumbling to herself.

  “Why did you hire him?”

  “As a favor to Trista Harkette. I’m the one who introduced Dash to her—yet another source of contention between Harriette and me. I couldn’t turn her down when she called me one day and asked a favor. One of her son’s Crafter friends needed a good-paying job. He’d just lost his mother and was trying to take care of his little sister. Harriette threw a fit, but Imogene backed me up. She has a soft spot for Trista. In hindsight, I wish I hadn’t brought him here. Maybe then he’d be alive right now.”

  Whump-whump-whump.

  “All right, calm down, Michael. I’m just telling it how it is.”

  “You can feel him?” I asked.

  “Of course. Once you’ve been imprinted, you recognize the sensation easily. Others might not feel him at all, unless they’re finely attuned to the other side—even mortals have the ability if they’re sensitive enough.”

  I thought of Harper and how she’d felt him. She’d once worked in a nursing home and had eerily been able to predict when residents were close to death. It didn’t surprise me that she sensed Michael’s presence.

  “Has he touched you yet?” She shuddered.

  “A few times.”

  “Better you than me, kid. Imprinters, fortunately, can only touch the person they’re connected to.”

  Wonderful.

  “Anyway, Harriette eventually got over her snit when she met Michael, and he won her over. He was quite charming.”

  “He would be as an Il—”

  An urgent hot nudge cut me off.

  “A what?” Bertie asked.

  “Lost my train of thought,” I fibbed, wondering why Michael hadn’t wanted me to mention his Craft. His caution also made me double-think asking about his connection to the black roses and why they may have died. After all, Michael had already expressed that we didn’t know if we could trust Bertie. “So much going on today that my mind is whirring. Do you know why Michael quit?”

  She glanced around and lowered her voice. “I don’t know for sure, but I’m beginning to suspect that he had some—” She stopped talking and stared over my shoulder.

  Turning, I followed her gaze. Ophelia and Imogene were coming up the walkway.

  Bertie said, “Michael, you’d better skedaddle. You don’t want them realizing you’re hanging around. Go on, hurry.”

  “You don’t want them to know he’s here?”

  “It’s better that way.”

  “Why?”

  Before she could answer, the door swung open.

  The two women who walked in stopped midconversation when they saw me.

  “Ophelia, Imogene!” Bertie said brightly. “Look who stopped by for a visit.”

  Each regarded me with thinly veiled suspicion.

  Ophelia, Bertie’s daughter-in-law, was the youngest of the Wickeds—in her early forties. Stylish in a dark pencil skirt, form-flattering blue sweater, and heels, she was petite and thin, with long tawny hair and intelligent blue eyes. I could feel the tension between Bertie and her, and it made me uncomfortable.

  Of average height and weight, Imogene was in her mid-seventies and by far the most laid-back looking of the group, with wild pale white-blond frizzy hair, no makeup, and comfy in jeans and a long-sleeve T-shirt. I wanted to like her despite the look she was giving me.

  “Why are you here, Darcy?” Ophelia asked pointedly.

  I could practically hear her “You don’t belong here” tacked onto the sentence.

  I borrowed Lydia’s made-up excuse, which also suited my snooping needs. “Lydia wants to throw a surprise engagement party for Harriette and Louis. I was hoping you could help me out a bit, to get a better feel for them as a couple. What’s Louis like?”

  Bertie leaned back on her heels, and I could sense her Cheshire cat smile. She was pleased with the excuse I’d come up with.

  “Harriette won’t like a party,” Ophelia said. She stood off to the side, segregating herself from both Bertie and Imogene.

  Why anyone wanted to work in these greenhouses—magical land or not—I couldn’t imagine. The atmosphere had to be stifling between Harriette’s controlling nature and the multiple conflicts.

  “No,” Imogene agreed, “she wouldn’t.”

  “Be that as it may,” I said, “I was hired to throw one. Does anyone know Louis’s interests? I always like to incorporate personality into a party.”

  They looked between each other and shook their heads.

  “I don’t even know his last name,” Imogene said.

  Bertie and Ophelia admitted they also didn’t know.

  “You’ve never met him?” I asked them.

  All three shook their heads again.

  “I did see his car once,” Imogene said. “I’d stopped by to have drinks with Harriette, and he was just leaving.”

  “You saw his car?” Bertie asked.

  “What kind was it?” Ophelia added.

  Imogene shrugged. “It was small and black.”

  Ophelia sighed and leaned against a workbench. “Of course it was black. Harriette wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

  Bertie stepped up next to her and pulled a potted lily from behind Ophelia, relocating it to the center bench.

  Ophelia rolled her eyes.

  “The car had some sort of fish s
ticker in the window,” Imogene added, oblivious to what was going on between Ophelia and Bertie.

  We all stared at her.

  “A fish sticker?” Ophelia said, her voice light with humor. “Who puts a fish sticker on his car?”

  “Lots of people,” Bertie said with a haughty tone. “The ichthus symbol? I’ve even seen those as bumper stickers,” she said, directing her words to Ophelia.

  It was ridiculous, this back-and-forth between them.

  “No, nothing religious about it.” Imogene shook her head. “Just a fish. White background, dark fish. Very unusual.”

  Ophelia shot Bertie a smug smile.

  The mother hen in me wanted to take them both to task.

  I could see that I was going to get nowhere with them about the mysterious Louis, so I said, “Well, if you think of anything, let me know. I should be going.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” Bertie said.

  Two sets of curious eyes followed us.

  I stepped out into the cold, and Bertie followed, tugging the door partly closed. “Listen, Darcy,” she said in a whisper, “be very careful whom you tell about the imprinting, okay? Because if the killer finds out that Michael is still around, it puts you in very real danger.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Well, that visit had been illuminating, as Starla would say.

  After I left the Elysian Fields, I drove toward As You Wish. I had to pick up the Lost flyers and distribute them around town. Then I planned to stop in and see Vince Paxton at Lotions and Potions. Archie said that Vince had broken up the fight between Fisk and Michael last night. Maybe the Seeker had heard a little more about what the argument had been about.

  As I drove, my mind kept slipping back to my visit to the greenhouses. One thing in particular was bothering me about my trip to Lydia’s. For whatever reason, the black roses had died because Michael had died, but that didn’t explain why a few of the plants were missing. Who had stolen them?

  “Do you know what happened to those missing Witching Hour roses?” I asked Michael. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon, and the village was packed with tourists. The Harvest Festival was crowded with long lines and happy faces.

  Only the police crime-scene tape fluttering in the light breeze hinted that anything bad had happened here recently.