He shrugged.
“It’ll come to me. What’s the address?”
“Divinity Ridge?”
Ve scooted to the edge of the couch. “Of course! Lew Renault. Wow. No one’s seen him in decades.”
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Oh, Darcy, he’s a rare witch. An Emoticrafter.”
I’d never heard of it.
“What kind of Craft is that?” Mimi asked.
“He has the ability to absorb the emotions of those around him,” Ve said as she refilled Nick’s mug from an urn on the table. “As you may imagine, it’s an extremely difficult Craft, always feeling what others are feeling.”
“I think that’s so cool,” Mimi said.
“Ah, but, child, imagine if Lew were in this room. He’d feel your joy, my worry, your father’s anxiety, and Darcy’s unhappiness.”
“Darcy’s unhappy?” Mimi asked, whipping her head to examine me.
I shot a “gee, thanks” look at Ve and turned the tables. “What are you worried about, Ve?”
“Yeah,” Mimi piped in.
Nick kept sipping.
Ve laughed, but the humor didn’t reach her eyes. “Posh, I was just giving a hypothetical situation! Now, can you imagine what that kind of scenario would do to an Emoticrafter?”
Mimi winced. “Maybe it’s not so cool.”
“Can he block the emotions?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine living that way.
“If he’s truly skilled, he can for short periods of time,” Ve said.
Nick said, “Is that why he hasn’t been seen in decades?”
Ve nodded. “Very wise of you, my friend. Lew cut himself off from society years ago because he couldn’t deal with it. He bought a big house on acres of land and became the village hermit, if you will. The Crone’s Cupboard delivers groceries once a week but leaves the items on his front porch. He hires a landscape team to keep his massive yard up to date. He’d be”—she counted off fingers—“around seventy, mid-seventies by now.”
Whump-whump-whump.
Nick’s head snapped up as if he’d forgotten Michael, who had decided to join us. Nick added a bigger splash of bourbon to his coffee as I wondered why Michael had reacted so strongly. How would he know a hermit? Then I realized what Ve had said. Lew had hired a landscape company. . . . Had it been Dash’s? Had Michael worked for him at some point?
I wanted to ask Michael and ask about any payments from Harriette, but I didn’t want to freak out Mimi—she didn’t know about Michael’s ghost.
Nick said, “Doesn’t Divinity Ridge border the Elysian Fields?”
“And didn’t Harriette say at her birthday party that her fiancé was a little younger than she was?” I asked.
Mimi clapped. “Harriette’s fiancé is real! I’m going to win the betting pool!”
I smiled. She was going to have to share that money with Trista Harkette. “Is it possible?” I asked Ve.
Ve drew in a breath. “I don’t know. I cannot imagine it. Harriette has a strong, abrasive personality—bane to an Emoticrafter.”
“Ugh,” Mimi moaned. “There goes the betting pool.”
I wasn’t as ready as Mimi to give up the thought that this Lew might be the Louis I’d been looking for. Tomorrow I’d take a ride to Divinity Ridge—which was a good five miles across town—and see what I could see.
The doorbell rang.
“That’ll be the pizza,” Ve said. She pushed herself off the couch and bustled to the front door.
“Mimi, go help Aunt Ve, will you?” Nick said.
Mimi nodded and bounced up.
Nick set his mug on the table and leaned forward. “I heard that you had a conversation with Glinda earlier.”
I tucked my legs beneath me. “It didn’t feel so much like a conversation as her marking her territory.”
He quirked an eyebrow and gave me a small smile. “That may be the case, but she has some valid points.”
“I know she does.”
He held my gaze. “I can’t keep sharing information with you. Not if I want to keep my job.”
I nodded. I understood—I did. But I wasn’t happy about it. Not when I was so invested in this case. I mean, really. There was a ghost imprinted on me who wouldn’t—couldn’t—move on until his murder was solved. “Do you think Glinda would actually report you if she had hard evidence that you gave me information?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Because you’re dating me?” I knew she had no qualms about bending police procedures when it benefited her. Such as when her mother went around stalking people and Glinda didn’t report it right away.
“Maybe a little comes from that, but I also think she’s looking to prove herself as a competent officer, especially after what happened with her mother. And like I said, the fact is she’s right. I’ve bent, if not broken, rules where you’re concerned.”
As Mimi’s and Ve’s voices carried as they joked with the pizza delivery boy, I tried to ignore the feeling that a huge wedge had just been shoved between Nick and me.
A wedge named Glinda.
“I hate that you’re unhappy,” he said, “but I can’t keep sharing information with you.”
I met his gaze. “I hate that you’re filled with anxiety, but even though you can’t share information, I have to keep investigating on my own. Michael’s ghost is imprinted on me. I can’t ignore that.”
He dragged a hand down his face. “I can’t argue that you’re good at investigating, but it’s not your job. It’s mine.”
He was right, of course, so I had nothing to counter with. I simply said, “I know.”
“But it’s not going to stop you, is it?”
I shook my head.
“Then we’re at a bit of an impasse.”
“A bit,” I replied, feeling that wedge nudging us farther apart.
He wrung his hands. “We have to figure out some sort of compromise.”
We did. “Like what?”
“I have no idea. You?”
“No.” I swallowed over the lump in my throat. “Honestly, I don’t think there’s anything we can do about it right now.”
“No, there probably isn’t.”
As we sat there in tense silence, I told myself to have faith that we would eventually figure it out.
Before Nick got fired.
Before Glinda arrested me for interfering with police business.
And before that wedge separated us permanently.
Chapter Twenty-one
Thanks to Ve and her endless village gossip and tall tales, dinner hadn’t been a complete disaster. But as soon as the dishes had been set in the dishwasher, Nick and Mimi had gone home. Fortunately, before he left, he received a call from Glinda and shared with us the news that Bertie hadn’t been the one housing Fisk and Amy.
I was surprised (yet grateful) he had told us at all after the conversation we had, but I supposed the information wasn’t as confidential as discussing things like murder weapons.
Now, thirty minutes later, I was on the hunt for more information. I had to hurry, though—I had only forty-five minutes until my meeting with the Elder. I definitely did not want to be late for that. The Elder scared me.
The festival pulsed with life and energy as I skirted around the green. I noticed the crime-scene tape had been removed from the parking lot, and every spot was full. A minivan was parked in the spot where the Gingerbread Shack van had been, and I shuddered.
Whump, whump.
“Which way now?” I asked as I came to an intersection.
Michael nudged me from behind to keep going straight. He was taking me to Dash’s top secret greenhouse.
I wanted to ask Dash some questions, and I hoped he’d talk to me. In the absence of Fisk, Dash was my next big chance to sort out what had happened to Michael—and perhaps what had happened to Imogene.
As I walked, I quizzed Michael as best I could. “Did Harriette pay you for the Witching Hour spell?”
Yes.
That explained the withdrawals from Harriette’s account. “Did the money stop coming in after you quit?”
Yes.
“So there haven’t been any new black roses created since you left the Elysian Fields?”
No.
I recalled what Lydia had said earlier, about how the roses hadn’t been doing well before they abruptly died. Probably because they needed Michael’s light to thrive. “Harriette must have been desperate for you to come back to work.”
Yes.
It wouldn’t make sense, then, that she would be behind his death. She needed him—him or another Illumicrafter who knew the spell. . . . I fervently hoped that Amy was staying hidden.
“Did you give any of the black roses from Harriette’s greenhouse to Dash?” I asked.
No.
“Do you think Dash or Fisk had anything to do with the theft of black roses from the Elysian Fields?”
No.
“You know,” I said, “this would be easier if you could talk.”
Yes.
“Earlier you were unhappy when Amy mentioned Fisk had been spending time with Harriette. Has he been spending a lot of time there recently?”
Yes.
“Was he helping you with the black roses there?” Michael had said Fisk was involved in the roses somehow. Maybe the connection was through the Elysian Fields.
Yes.
“Does Lydia know Fisk has been hanging around?” It struck me that she wouldn’t be too happy about it.
No.
“Does she have any idea how involved you were with the roses?”
No.
He guided me along the sidewalks of a neighborhood behind the square and tugged on my arm in front of a quaint Victorian-style house with charm to spare. I recognized it as Trista and Dash’s house.
“Dash’s greenhouse is here?”
Yes.
A covered portico connected the house to a garage, and I noticed two black cars parked in the open bays—someone was home. Michael nudged me under the portico and into the backyard. A stone patio arced out from the back of the house, surrounding a pool covered for the impending winter. The garden was meticulously groomed, and beautiful flowers still bloomed. The yard was contained by a fence covered in leafy vines. There was no greenhouse to be seen.
“Um,” I said, looking around. Lights were on in the house, and I wondered if I should just knock on the door and plead my case to Trista.
Michael nudged me to the right. I stood firm. There was nothing over there but a viny fence. And for some reason, in the darkness, those vines resembled snakes.
Uh-uh. No way. No how.
He shoved me.
“Hey! I thought we talked about the shoving thing.”
He flashed three times his apology, then nudged me toward the fence.
Reluctantly, I walked toward it. The wind rustled the leaves on the vines, making them look like moving snakes. Goose bumps popped, and I was ready to get the heck out of there.
He nudged again.
“There’s nothing there!”
For a frustrating second, I stood there, staring at the wall. Suddenly, I felt a touch on my hand, hot—almost too hot to handle. It lifted my hand, curved my fingers around a vine that stuck out a touch more than the others, and then pulled.
The heat left my hand as a hidden door swung open. It had been so seamlessly hidden that I could have stood there for hours searching for it and never even come close to finding a hinge.
I felt my eyes grow wide as I took a tentative step into the breathtaking secret garden. Japanese lanterns hung from a wooden pergola covered in night-blooming jasmine, which shouldn’t have been blooming after the first frost. But as this was a village where magic lived, I wasn’t the least bit surprised. I breathed in the lovely fragrance and said loudly, “Dash?”
Gorgeous colorful flowers filled the lush area, peeking out from behind tumbled boulders and around a waterfall that drained into a small man-made stream. It was simply stunning back here.
At the back of the garden stood a small greenhouse surrounded by low-growing shrubs. The house itself was much smaller than Harriette’s, maybe ten by twelve with only a two-tiered shelving unit on the left side, and a narrow workbench on the right. I followed a slate walkway to the door, and I could easily see Dash inside, sitting on a stool, his head in his hands, his dark hair hanging over his eyes.
I paused for a moment and studied him. His regality was gone, replaced with what looked like defeat.
Archie would be crushed to see him this way, engulfed in grief.
All around Dash were dozens of dead black flowers. They sat limply in pots on shelves, on the workbench, on the floor. All had shriveled up, leaves crinkled and curled.
Seeing the plants and knowing why they were dead broke my heart all over again.
I tapped on the glass door. “Dash?”
His head snapped up. He didn’t bother wiping the tears from his eyes. “Darcy?”
Confusion filled his watery gaze, and I couldn’t blame him. It wasn’t every day a witch you barely knew came traipsing through your magical garden.
I didn’t have time to beat around the bush. “I need to ask you some questions.” I didn’t wait to be invited in, but rather I forged my way inside, past the sad little plants.
Whump-whump-whump.
I could feel Michael’s sadness, too.
“How did you get in here?” Dash asked, looking past me at the open gate.
“Michael showed me.”
His eyebrows snapped downward. “When?”
“Just now.”
He stood, towering over me, his dark brown eyes troubled. “I don’t know what kind of joke you’re trying to play.”
“No joke, Dash,” I said softly. “When Michael died, he imprinted on me, apparently because I’d been the one to find his body. He’s here now. Can you feel him?”
Whump-whump-whump.
Dash shook his head and still gazed at me suspiciously. “I don’t feel anything.”
“Michael? Do you want to do the resurrection thing?”
In front of one of the pots on the ground, a small light grew into a pulsing orb. The sphere moved to the base of a dead orchid, and I watched in awe as the plant slowly came back to life. Standing tall, the stem green, the beautiful flower a pure black.
“I need to figure out who killed Michael. It’s the only way to get him to move on. And to do that, I need your help, Dash.”
He didn’t appear to be listening. He’d walked over to the orb and reached out his hands. The orb lowered into Dash’s palms. “It’s really him,” he whispered.
It was an amazing experience to watch, and I walked around the greenhouse, letting the two of them have a moment. I heard Dash talking softly to Michael, but I couldn’t understand the words. Maybe an apology. Maybe a good-bye.
Finally, Dash said, “I’ll do whatever I can to help, Darcy.”
When I turned back around, the orb was gone, but I could still feel Michael.
Whump, whump.
“Last night, you told me you’d warned Michael about something. What?”
Dash sat back on his stool. I watched in wonder as the orb flared up again before another plant. It slowly came back to life.
“To explain, I must go back a little.”
I leaned against the workbench. “Please do.”
“Trista told me you know that Michael created the Witching Hour spell. . . .”
I nodded. “But I’m still fuzzy on how it works, and how Harriette and Fisk became involved.”
Dash dragged a hand over his face. “That’s where it gets complicated.”
Whump-whump.
“I heard all this through Fisk only yesterday, so if something isn’t right, perhaps Michael can let us know.”
Michael flashed once.
“That means yes,” I translated.
Dash blinked slowly. “I can hardly believe this is happening.”
It
was incredible, but I didn’t have time to get distracted. “What did Fisk tell you?”
“When Michael started working at the Elysian Fields, he was simply doing maintenance. Weeding, watering, that kind of thing. Slowly, over time, Harriette began to notice how the plants responded to Michael, and she struck up a friendship with him.”
“Harriette?”
“I know. It surprised me as well. Over time, Fisk began visiting Michael at the farm and started getting to know—and growing close—to his grandmother, a fact Trista still doesn’t know, and I’d appreciate it if you’d keep the secret for a while. I’m still coping with that bit of news.”
I wasn’t going to make any promises. “I’ll do my best.”
“Last winter, there was a huge snowstorm that knocked out power around the village. Michael was working, and Fisk was visiting him when the lights went out. They panicked as it grew colder and colder in the greenhouse, believing the roses would die and that Harriette would go on a rampage.”
“They thought the roses would die, despite their being magical?”
Dash smiled. “In the moment, they simply forgot. Some of the blooms had wilted in the cold—nothing that couldn’t be brought back easily, but they were young, tired, and didn’t think things all the way through. It was Fisk who realized that Michael could keep them warm by using his glow. After a little while of using Michael’s light, they noticed something strange happening.”
Whump-whump.
Dash’s eyes lit as he said, “The edges of some of the petals were turning black. It was right about then that Harriette burst in and found them—she’d seen the glow and had come to investigate.”
I whistled low.
“Yes. Fisk related that it was quite the scene. Until Harriette realized that the black on the roses wasn’t heat damage—it was hue. That incident sparked the creation of the black roses.”
“But Michael hadn’t used a spell that night, had he? Just his glow?”
“No,” Dash said. “And try as they might, they couldn’t replicate the black color until almost a month later. They finally achieved the same results—the edges of the roses turned black. It wasn’t the product they were trying for, but that night they realized one crucial element.”
A month later . . . “The moon!”
The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy: A Wishcraft Mystery Page 18
