“And voilà!” he declared, removing the lid from the processor. “Pumpkin puree.”
The girls clapped. Each had a small mixing bowl and wooden spoon set in front of her, along with smaller ramekins filled with spices. I could pick out the cinnamon and cloves easily, but the others were a mystery.
Whump, whump.
Michael lurked, but if others in the shop could sense his presence, they didn’t let on.
The store was busy with shoppers loading wooden baskets with beauty supplies. I waved to Colleen Curtis, a local college freshman who was working the cash register. She, her mother, Angela (who worked for Harper), Vince, Harper, Marcus, and I had taken that ill-fated cooking class together. We’d bonded over the trauma of it all. Colleen worked part-time at the library, and I hadn’t realized she had taken a job here as well.
Chest-high display shelves lined one half of the store—the demonstration area took up the other side. Along two walls there were clear containers as at a candy shop, except these weren’t filled with gumballs and gummy worms but with herbs and spices Vince (with Mrs. Pennywhistle’s help) used to make his lotions and potions that ranged from moisturizers to lip balm to bath fizz.
Vince scooped the puree into a large orange ceramic dish. “One scoop of this into each of your bowls. After that, we’ll add the scrubby and spicy part of the recipe. You girls get started, and I’ll be right back.”
Spoons dove for the pumpkin puree as Vince wiped his hands on a black smock and came toward us. He and Nick shook hands, and he smiled at me. “In the market for a pumpkin spice body scrub? Freshly made.”
I leaned on my tiptoes to get a better view of the table. “Is it edible? Because it smells delicious.”
“Sadly, no, though it probably explains why I’ve had a craving for pumpkin pie lately.” He smiled as he adjusted his glasses and said, “Why do I feel like you two aren’t here to shop?”
I was thankful that with Nick along I didn’t have to resort to sneaky tactics to question Vince about the fight he’d witnessed last night. I let Nick take the lead.
He said, “Can we go somewhere a little more private?”
Vince glanced at his Brownie Scouts, then at Colleen. “Can you take over for a second, Colleen?”
“Sure.” She bustled out from behind the counter and started oohing and aahing over the Scouts’ progress.
Vince led us to the back of the shop, to a tiny office space. I wondered if Nick was having the same flashbacks I was. It wasn’t all that long ago that we’d broken into this place looking for evidence of a killer. Well. I had broken in, and Nick had reluctantly followed.
Vince’s puppy dog eyes had grown wide with concern. “You’re here about the fight last night between Fisk Khoury and Michael Healey?”
Nick said, “Unofficially. Just trying to piece together a timeline.”
Vince sat on the edge of the desk. He was boy-next-door cute, but I knew he had a dark side. It was bad enough he was a Seeker, but he was a Seeker on a mission to learn everything he could about any possible witchcraft in the village. Four months ago, that exploration had put him front and center of a murder case, and revealed that he’d go to just about any lengths to get what he wanted. Including cheating on his girlfriend at the time to woo someone he thought was a Crafter.
At one point, Harper had a crush on him, but she had quickly snapped out of her infatuation. Thank goodness. I had the queasy feeling that whoever got too close to Vince would come away the worse for wear.
“If only I’d known what was going to happen.” Vince shook his head, sending his brown shaggy curls flopping this way and that. “Maybe I could have stopped it. Somehow.”
His voice held such sincerity that I was inclined to believe him. Pain sketched across his face in the tightness of his lips, the wariness of his eyes.
“I think,” I said, “that someone was determined. There was nothing you could have done.”
Vince sat on the edge of his desk. “Even still.”
Even still. I knew how he was feeling, wondering if I could have somehow prevented what had happened. If I’d called to check on the cake earlier . . . or met Michael when he arrived in the parking lot. Something. Anything that could have stopped what happened.
Then I thought about what Nick had said. Stabbed, strangled, bludgeoned, poisoned.
Someone had wanted Michael dead. And I had no doubt it would have happened whether in the parking lot last night or somewhere else.
I had to listen to my own advice. There was nothing I could have done.
“What time did you come across the two fighting?” Nick asked.
There was a no-nonsense air about him. And even though his uniform might look better suited to a camp counselor, and he drove a black and yellow MINI Cooper (that I had nicknamed the Bumblebeemobile), he meant business. He’d once been a Rhode Island state trooper before being shot in the line of duty. His wife at the time, Melina (a Wishcrafter), had insisted he quit the force out of fear of losing him.
He did, but their marriage fell apart anyway. She cheated on him, he left, they divorced. Then the unthinkable happened. Melina was stricken with terminal pancreatic cancer. Nick had moved back to the family home to take care of her, not because he had to but because he wanted to. It was the kind of man he was—loyal, loving. By the time Melina passed away, they had pieced together a friendship, and I think that had brought him comfort during the dark days when he probably wondered if there was anything he could have done to save her.
Growing up a mortal, he’d been oblivious to the Craft until Melina revealed her powers to him. In doing so, she lost her ability to Wishcraft (another Wishcraft Law), but it was alive and strong within Mimi. Nick had wanted what was best for his daughter, so after Melina died, he’d packed up Mimi and moved her here so she could learn more about her Craft.
Vince clasped his hands together. “There’s not much to tell. I had been at the festival, and I was taking a shortcut through the back alley to the shop when I came across them going at it. Amy was there, crying, begging them to stop. I pulled them apart, gave them a lecture about friendship, and Fisk stomped away with Amy trailing after him. Last I saw, Michael had climbed into the delivery van and driven off.”
Nick said, “Did you hear what they were fighting about?”
“Bits,” Vince admitted, “but none of it really made sense.”
Whump-whump-whump.
I noticed Nick glance around, his eyes taking in every detail.
Had he felt Michael?
I bit my lip, then said, “Anything about the moon?”
Whump-whump-whump-whump.
Nick shifted, on alert.
Oh yeah, he definitely felt Michael.
I felt him, too, his agitation. What was it about the moon that was so important?
Vince snapped his fingers. “Actually, yes.”
Nick threw me a questioning look.
I tried for an innocent expression despite knowing I probably looked guilty as sin.
“Now that you mention it,” Vince continued, “as Fisk marched off last night, I heard him mumbling about the moon under his breath”—he glanced up at me and held my gaze—“and how he was running out of time.”
Chapter Fourteen
Back outside, I’d taken just two steps before Nick grabbed my forearm, pulling me to a stop.
So much for a clean getaway.
“Darcy?” he said, his brown eyes probing.
I sidestepped out of the way of a stroller. “Yes?”
Nick tugged me into the passageway separating Spellbound’s storefront from Lotions and Potions. “Something you want to tell me?”
A group of kids from the back alley ran past us, darting across the street to the festival, barely looking for oncoming traffic. My heart clutched until they made it safely across.
I glanced at Nick, who was waiting patiently for me to answer. “Actually,” I said, “I have a couple of things to tell you.”
“Spill.�
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“You look very handsome today.” I batted my eyelashes.
His tight lips loosened into a half smile. “On any other day, flattery might get you everywhere, but today? I want some answers.”
“You’re no fun,” I teased.
“Darcy.”
I sighed. “Okay, well there’s this thing with the black roses.”
“Wait.” He held up a hand. “Black roses? What black roses?”
“Harriette Harkette’s black roses. They’re officially called the Witching Hour roses.”
“The ones she won awards for?”
I nodded.
“What do they have to do with Michael?”
“Everything. They’re why he’s dead.”
Whump-whump-whump-whump.
Nick jumped a little, and his head swiveled back and forth, apparently looking for the source of what he could feel but not see. Finally, he stared at me. Questions churned in his eyes.
“I don’t know where to begin,” he said on a drawn-out sigh. “I’ve been looking into Michael’s death for more than twelve hours now, and I haven’t come across anything to do with roses.”
“They’re magic roses,” I said.
“Magic?”
I heard his skepticism and couldn’t fault him for it. After all, he’d grown up a mortal and hadn’t quite adjusted to the fact that magic was happening around him at all times.
“Did Glinda mention Michael was an Illumicrafter?”
“No, she didn’t. What kind of Crafter is that?”
He sounded annoyed, and for some reason I felt the need to say, “She may not have known he was one. He kept it kind of hush-hush.” I thought back to the run-in with Glinda that morning and realized that none of us had actually revealed that Amy was an Illumicrafter. I’d made a vague reference to light, but that could have been taken many ways.
I quickly explained to Nick the abilities of Illumicrafters and how Michael had been working at the Elysian Fields until two months ago.
“Harriette’s flower farm, right?” he asked.
“Right. Apparently it was his spell that turned the roses black.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Which part?” I asked.
“Any of it. All of it. What was with that moon question? How did you know about the spell?”
I winced. He wasn’t going to like this part. “Well.” I cleared my throat. “The moon thing? I heard that from Amy Healey.”
His eyes widened. “You’ve seen Amy?”
I wanted to joke that all of outer space could have seen her this morning, but I didn’t think he was in the mood for my humor. “I kind of ran into her this morning while I was jogging. She was, ah, glowing.”
He glanced around as if wanting to find a chair to sit down. But only leaves rustled behind him, and somewhere nearby, was Michael.
Whump, whump.
“Literally?” he asked.
Ah, the Halfcrafter in him was finally catching on. I nodded. “Illumicrafters have the ability to glow. And apparently, when there is strong emotion involved, they can’t shut the glow off. She practically lit up three blocks this morning.” I quickly told him how Godfrey had come to the rescue.
“Where is she now?” he asked.
“At Ve’s. Sleeping. She says she’s more than willing to talk to you. Just not to Glinda.”
“Why?”
“Something about how Glinda was ready to arrest Fisk last night . . .”
“You do realize Fisk is our top suspect at this point, right?”
Whump-whump-whump.
With a puzzled expression, Nick looked around.
“An understandable suspect,” I said, “before you learned about the roses. But Fisk has nothing to do with those.”
Whump-whump-whump.
I frowned at Michael’s reaction. Did Fisk have something to do with the roses?
Nick tucked his hands into his fleece’s pockets. “I’m almost afraid to ask, but why do you think the roses are the reason Michael is dead?”
I scrunched my nose. “Because Michael told me. Well, not told literally. He can’t talk. But he flashed me. With light. I mean, because he’s not visible, either. He’s a”—I dropped my voice—“ghost.”
“I need a drink,” Nick said. His gaze zoomed into the distance, across the square to the Cauldron. Then he focused on me. “You’re serious?”
“He imprinted on me last night when I found his body. He’s been with us the whole time. You’ve felt him here.”
“I have?”
“Feel,” I said to Nick, then said to Michael, “Black roses, spell, moon.”
Whump-whump-whump.
Nick rubbed his arms as though a million goose bumps had just risen. Wide eyes blinked slowly. “You are serious.”
“Michael, say hi to Nick, will you?”
A few feet away, a tiny light flickered on and off, on and off.
Nick slowly turned his head to me, then back to the light, then back to me.
“I know,” I said. “I could hardly believe it, either. He can’t talk, but he can answer yes and no questions. He flashes once for yes, twice for no, and oh, three times for I’m sorry.”
“‘I’m sorry’?” Nick echoed.
“There was a shoving incident. . . .”
He shook his head. I told him all about my trip to see Lydia this morning, what had happened with the roses, what Bertie had said, and how Amy had linked the death of the roses to Michael’s death and how that meant Harriette was a big fraud.
“This is . . . incredible.”
It really was. There was something I wanted to ask Michael because of his earlier reaction to something I said. “Michael, earlier you were agitated when I mentioned that Fisk had nothing to do with the roses.” I took a deep breath. “Was I wrong? Is he involved with what’s going on with the black roses?”
He flashed once. Yes.
Nick rubbed his eyes. The cop in him was taking over. “Do you know where Fisk is now?”
No.
“Do you,” Nick said, “think that Fisk had something to do with your death?”
No response.
Nick looked at me. “What does that mean when he doesn’t answer?”
“It means he’s unsure,” I said softly.
Which meant that Fisk could very well be Michael’s killer.
* * *
Nick had only another few minutes before he had to head back to work. With this new twist in Michael’s case, he had other avenues to investigate—namely, Harriette Harkette and the Elysian Fields.
Nick pulled open the door to Spellbound and held it open for me—and me alone. Michael hadn’t followed me in. Nick was present physically, but I could tell his mind was elsewhere. Probably awash in magical possibilities.
I saw the Lost notice featuring Tilda hanging on the glass, and I felt a little pang. Where could she possibly be?
The bell on the door was still jingling as Missy came charging toward us—bypassing me and going straight to Nick. He barely even noticed her, so it didn’t surprise me in the least when she nipped his ankle to get his attention.
She wasn’t one to be overlooked—unless it was on her own terms.
Nick jumped back and glanced down at her. She blinked innocently, turned tail, and strutted away.
Nick shot me a shocked look. I shrugged and said, “You shouldn’t ignore her. She doesn’t like it.”
Angela Curtis, Colleen’s mom and Harper’s part-time employee, was helping a customer in the cookbook section, Harper was finishing ringing up a sale, and I spotted Mimi in the kids’ nook. I nudged Nick to take a look. Mimi had Pie sitting on her lap as she read a storybook to a group of enraptured preschoolers.
A breathtaking smile bloomed on Nick’s face, and I fell just a little bit harder for him. The unabashed love he felt for his daughter made my heart turn to mush.
Angela led her customer to the cash register and then came over to us, putting an arm around my shou
lders. “Mimi’s a natural with the kids.”
She looked it. I couldn’t see the story she was reading, but she was quite the dramatic storyteller, letting her voice rise and fall. Grand arm gestures punctuated sentences. The group of kids seemed to inch closer and closer to her toadstool, as if they, too, wanted to climb atop her lap like the spoiled tabby kitten.
She looked up and gave a smile that matched Nick’s.
It made my heart mushy, too.
Mimi had been “helping” Harper at the bookshop for the last two months—ever since school started. Technically, she couldn’t work for Harper yet—Mimi wasn’t old enough—but Harper paid her a decent hourly wage under the table. Mimi had been hoarding the money, saving up to buy a new iPod.
“How long has she been reading to them?” Nick asked.
Angela glanced at her watch. “Going on an hour now. I don’t think she even realizes how much time has passed. I’ll tell you what, it’s good for business. The kids’ parents are shopping like crazy.”
I glanced around. Sure enough, the store was packed. I felt a little kick in my stomach when I spotted Ophelia Braun-Wickham across the shop. She was staring at me. I offered a smile just as she turned to whisper in Hammond Wickham’s ear.
I elbowed Nick. “That’s Ophelia, one of the Wicked Widows.”
He straightened. Each of the Wickeds was now on his list to be interviewed.
Angela said, “She and Hammond have been browsing for an hour now, waiting for Ophelia’s little boy, Jacob.” She pointed to a small dark-haired boy who stared, besotted, at Mimi.
“Oh, and there’s Imogene, too,” I whispered to Nick, though he already knew Imogene, having met her before at town meetings.
Imogene stood off to the side of the children’s nook, watching Mimi read to the little ones. She appeared as besotted as little Jacob. After a moment, she glanced up, noticed us, and came right over.
“Your daughter is lovely, Chief Sawyer,” Imogene said.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Nick said with a smile.
“Do you have grandchildren, Imogene?” Angela asked.
“Never blessed with children at all,” she said with a wistful sigh. “It’s my biggest regret.”
The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy: A Wishcraft Mystery Page 12
