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

by Heather Blake

  He nodded. “Not just any moon. Once that piece fell into place, Michael created a spell for the rest. The spell has to be cast by an Illumicrafter at midnight on the first night of a new moon. Otherwise, the spell is useless. The flowers use the light from the Illumicrafter to absorb darkness—turning the blooms black as night.”

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

  When was the darkest time of night? Midnight—the Witching Hour—on the night of a new moon.

  I closed my eyes. It made sense now. “How did Harriette fit in?”

  “They were her roses, of course, and she had the contacts, the reputation, to get the roses the recognition they deserved. She offered to pay Michael monthly for use of the spell, and in turn she’d claim the roses as hers. He came to me at that point and told me about what was going on and wanted my advice.”

  “Is this when you warned him?”

  “Not yet,” he said patiently, “though I begged him to make sure he was certain it was a deal he wanted to make. He believed it was. And at first it was mutually beneficial. But the more the roses received national acclaim, the more resentful Michael became of Harriette taking credit for his creation. He wanted her to publicly acknowledge his role, he wanted the fame, and he wanted a future for himself other than as Harriette’s employee.”

  Whump-whump.

  Michael didn’t seem to be affected by this retelling. “Is that why he quit?” The timing coincided—he left the Elysian Fields right after the announcement that Harriette had won the big awards.

  “Yes. He couldn’t fathom how she could take all the credit even after he asked her to acknowledge his help with the roses. He even offered to return her money. She declined. I have to admit I took advantage when Michael quit the Elysian Fields and asked Michael to work with me creating black flowers. As you can see, we had great success until . . .”

  Until he died.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I said, “What—and when—was your warning to him?”

  “It was yesterday. He mentioned that he was being pressured to do another Witching Hour rose spell at the Elysian Fields. I warned him against it.”

  “Who was pressuring him? Harriette?”

  “I believed so, but no. Turns out it was Fisk. He confessed last night after Michael’s body was found. That was when he told me he’d been growing close to Harriette, and how her roses were failing. He didn’t want to see her fail, and he wanted Michael to help her out. The new moon is coming up in a few days. . . .”

  “Did Michael agree to do the spell?”

  “No.”

  “Was that what they were fighting about last night behind the bakery?”

  “Yes. Fisk had just come from Harriette’s house and was upset because she told him to let it go. She was ready to move on, to retire, and said that she hoped Michael realized that the risk of raising black flowers was not worth the reward. Fisk took it as her giving up, and it . . . He blamed Michael. They fought. Both were angry, yes, but Fisk didn’t kill him.”

  “What risk was Harriette referring to?”

  “Probably the constant scrutiny from the horticultural community and the threat of smugglers.”

  “Why didn’t Michael ever take credit for the roses when he quit the farm and call Harriette out as a fraud?”

  Puzzlement washed over Dash’s face. “I don’t know the answer to that.”

  I knew who did. “Michael, did you want to take credit publicly?”

  There was a sudden flickering—nothing I could decipher.

  Then something I overheard this afternoon clicked into place. I breathed in. “You went to the Elder for help.”

  Yes.

  “But she couldn’t help you.”

  No response.

  “You don’t know,” I interpreted Michael’s lack of response.

  Interesting, because I overheard her saying she failed him.

  “Dash, did you steal cultivations from Harriette’s greenhouse?” I asked. Michael had said no, but he might not have been aware.

  His dark eyes narrowed. “I haven’t set foot on that property in decades.”

  “Did Fisk steal any?”

  He said, “I don’t believe so.”

  “Do you know where Fisk is?”

  “No,” he said, “but I received a text message from him about an hour ago that said he was safe and fine. It came from an unknown number.”

  It fit with the text Amy had received. I told him about the text on her phone, and how she was now missing. “Do you know anyone with an R name that Fisk would be friends with? Other than Bertie Braun—she’s already been checked out.”

  Dash shook his head. “None at all.”

  I sighed. “Another dead end. Have you heard any rumors about the stolen rosebushes being sold on the black market?”

  “None at all,” he said. “But whoever stole the plants from Harriette’s greenhouse is out of luck if the intent was to sell—or to replicate—the roses. Undoubtedly they all died when Michael died. And the spell died with him. He’s the only one who can bring them back.” Long fingers touched the petals of the black orchid Michael had resurrected.

  “Who else knew that Michael created the spell?” I asked.

  “Harriette, Trista, Fisk, and I did. I don’t think anyone else knew. Harriette made sure everyone thought the spell was hers.”

  “Michael said only three people knew the actual spell. He and two others. Do you know who they are?”

  “He kept it closely guarded—he wouldn’t share it with anyone. Not me, not Fisk, not Harriette.”

  I told him about how I had run through a list of people in his personal circle who might know it, only to meet with Michael’s nays.

  Dash thought for a long minute, then snapped his fingers. “The Elder.”

  Yes.

  Of course the Elder. Why hadn’t I thought of it sooner? After all, he’d gone to her for help. It made sense that he’d share the spell with her.

  Speaking of the Elder, I was running out of time. I needed to meet with her soon. “Who could the other person possibly be?”

  “I’m out of ideas,” Dash said.

  Whump-whump-whump-whump.

  I suddenly felt a burst of fear and anxiety from Michael. If this was what an Emoticrafter dealt with, no wonder Lew Renault chose to become a hermit.

  Whump-whump-whump-whump.

  “Michael, did you accept money in turn for sharing the spell with someone other than Harriette?” Maybe he’d sold the spell to another Crafter. One of the Wickeds, perhaps?

  He flickered twice. No.

  There went that theory.

  Whump-whump-whump-whump-whump.

  “I feel like Michael’s trying to tell me something, a clue about who the third person is,” I said. “He’s fearful, desperate. . . .”

  I felt my knees go weak, and I grabbed onto the table. I’d had the worst thought. Over a lump in my throat, I said, “Did you tell your killer the spell, Michael?” I had assumed he’d been killed because of the spell . . . not for the spell.

  Yes.

  And just like that his fear and anxiety were gone.

  Mine remained.

  Dash covered his mouth with his hand, and the pain in his eyes nearly crushed me.

  I said, “Did the killer promise to let you go if you told?”

  Yes.

  “But you were killed anyway,” I said softly.

  Yes.

  Sometimes locking myself away from the world like a hermit sounded wonderful. Like right now when I realized how evil some people could be.

  “Does your killer know you were an Illumicrafter?”

  There was no response; he didn’t know. Which meant that right now his killer was either really confused as to why the spell wasn’t working—or looking for Amy.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. And suddenly I recognized the futility of my asking him earlier who else knew the spell. I’d run through the laundry list of people he knew and worked
with, and he denied any of them knew. But one of them could know. If that person had killed him.

  He gave me a little nudge.

  I looked at my watch. “I need to get going, Dash. Thanks for telling me what you knew about the spell.”

  “I’ll walk you out,” he said, leading the way.

  We walked through the gate, and a small cat came running toward Dash. He scooped it up, and I could hear its happy purrs. “This is Taboo,” he said.

  “She’s beautiful,” I said, feeling a pang for Tilda.

  “I’ve seen the flyers around the village about Tilda. Has she come home yet?”

  We stood under the portico. “Not yet.”

  He smiled, his beautiful teeth gleaming against his dark skin. “I wish you knew where she was.”

  My skin tingled, and I grinned. “I wish I might, I wish I may, grant this wish without delay.” I blinked my left eye twice, and in an instant saw Tilda in the arms of a man, looking as happy as could be. My jaw dropped.

  “Did the Elder grant the wish immediately?” Dash asked.

  He had obviously heard about the amendment to the Wishcraft Laws that all wishes made by fellow Crafters had to be first approved by the Elder. I nodded.

  He cocked his head. “Then why do you look so . . .”

  “Dumbfounded?”

  “That works.”

  “I’m just a little shocked at who she’s with. It’s—”

  I was cut off by the sound of a revving engine. Dash quickly pushed me aside as one of the black cars in the garage came zooming out. It burned rubber as it peeled out of the driveway and sped off down the street.

  Dash looked at me, shock etched on his face. “Was that car driving itself?”

  I looked at him, feeling as shocked as he looked. “Was that a fish sticker in the back window?”

  He nodded. “Fisk’s car—he has a thing for fish. But I didn’t see a driver. Did you see a driver?”

  I suddenly realized that the car Wicked Widow Imogene had seen in front of Harriette’s house hadn’t belonged to Harriette’s fiancé. It had belonged to her grandson.

  “You didn’t see her because she’s invisible.” I sighed. “Amy just stole Fisk’s car.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  After I explained to Dash why Amy was invisible, I ran for home.

  Dash had said he wouldn’t call the police about the stolen car, but no sooner had the car fishtailed out of the driveway than a pink MINI Cooper zoomed after it. Glinda Hansel had been staking out the Khourys’ house.

  I could only hope that Amy knew she had an officer trailing her. I would have called to warn her, but Nick had taken her cell phone with him when he left Ve’s earlier.

  I had only fifteen minutes before my meeting with the Elder, and I needed to talk to Ve first to discuss the Tilda situation.

  After I met with the Elder, I really wanted to go see Harriette Harkette.

  I had a sneaking suspicion. A bad feeling.

  Someone wanted to make it look like Harriette was involved in Michael’s death.

  The flower snips that were used to stab Michael—the ones that were identical to the ones from Harriette’s greenhouse. The feathers stuck to the weapon.

  It was all too obvious. Harriette wouldn’t have been so careless.

  I tried to wrap my head around this. Because now, Michael wasn’t the only victim. Not really.

  Now there was Harriette, too. Who hated her so much to pin a murder on her?

  And what about Imogene? How did she fit in? Why was she poisoned? Does she know too much? If so, was she still in danger?

  Then I remembered Harper’s comment about Murder on the Orient Express. Four methods of murder . . . four Wicked Widows.

  Was someone out to get all of them?

  I had a growing sense of unease. One I knew I should talk through with Nick—even if he couldn’t share his thoughts about the case with me.

  The festival was in full swing as As You Wish came into sight. The village green was packed; the shops looked to be doing great business. And I could still feel the magic in the air—but now there was something else, too.

  Danger.

  I shivered as I darted up the back steps of the house. Throwing open the mudroom door, I yelled, “Aunt Ve!” I kicked off my shoes and hurried into the kitchen. “Ve!”

  She came running down the back staircase, her hand on her heart. “Darcy, dear! What is it? Are you okay?”

  “Velma Devaney,” I said, wagging a finger. “I want to know why Tilda is with Hot Rod Stiffington.”

  * * *

  In the family room, Ve hugged a pillow and wore a contrite expression—her eyes wide and her lips pouty. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

  My leg jiggled nervously. The clock was ticking. “How was it supposed to be? You stuffed Tilda in Hot Rod’s duffel bag!”

  A guilty flush rose up her neck. “He was supposed to discover Tilda last night, bring her back, stay for a nightcap, and you know . . .” She batted her eyelashes.

  She was incorrigible. Absolutely incorrigible.

  “You had us searching for hours last night,” I accused. All that time wasted.

  “I couldn’t very well tell you what I’d done, so I set the search in motion so I wouldn’t look guilty. It was a diversionary tactic.”

  The way her mind worked baffled me sometimes.

  “But when Rodney didn’t return Tilda last night, I grew a wee bit concerned. Even more so when Rodney didn’t come by this morning with her.”

  “Ah, so that’s why you stopped payment on his check.”

  “I had to lure him back here. But now . . . he says he’s not coming till Monday. And I’m frightfully concerned about that.”

  “Why now?”

  “Why hasn’t he returned her? She has her tags. . . .” She gulped. “What if she’s still in that duffel bag? In the trunk of his car?”

  Fine time to be thinking about that. I set her mind at ease, only because she was starting to hyperventilate. “She’s not in his car. She’s in his lap.” I explained about Dash’s wish, and how I’d seen Tilda.

  “Lucky kitty,” Ve said on a sigh.

  I groaned. “We have to go to Rod’s and get her back.”

  Ve shoved the pillow aside. “That’s just it, Darcy. I’ve tried my hardest to locate a phone number or address for the man, but I have nothing.”

  “What about the caller ID? We can get a reverse trace done.”

  “The number he called from was blocked.”

  I nibbled my fingernail. I’d contacted Rodney through a Web site—by filling out a form. There hadn’t been a phone number or an address for the company. I checked my watch. I had five minutes before my appointment to see the Elder. “I have to go. But when I get back we’ll figure this out.”

  Ve nodded.

  I fetched my cloak from the front closet and slipped it on. As I headed for the back door, Ve said, “Did Tilda look like she enjoyed being in Rodney’s lap?”

  “Loving every minute of it.”

  Ve looked crushed.

  * * *

  I dialed Evan Sullivan as I hurried along the path to the Elder’s meadow deep in the Enchanted Woods. The Gingerbread Shack was open late to profit from the festival, and he answered on the second ring.

  “I need your help,” I said after explaining how Ve had stuffed Tilda into Hot Rod’s bag.

  “How can I help?” he asked after he stopped laughing. I heard the dinging of a cash register in the background.

  The woods were dark, eerie. Dark clouds blocked any moonlight from the crescent moon, but I’d brought along a flashlight to avoid any tripping hazards.

  Michael was not with me. Apparently I wasn’t the only one afraid of the Elder.

  “You’re the one who recommended Hot Rod’s Web site to me. How did you know about it? Is he local?”

  “I—ah,” he stammered.

  “What?” I pressed. “It’s important. It’s Tilda.”


  He cursed under his breath. “I promised I wouldn’t say.”

  “Promised who, and why?”

  “Michael.”

  I heard him swallow hard.

  “Michael?” I repeated. “What does he have to do with Hot . . . Oh my gosh! Was Michael a stripper? Is that the night job he had that he wouldn’t tell Amy about?”

  “You didn’t hear it from me,” Evan said as if Michael were going to track him down and take him to task.

  Actually, I guessed he still could. He certainly pushed me around enough.

  “Michael worked for Hot Rod off and on over the past six months. Mostly when he needed some extra cash. Fisk, too, I believe.”

  I nearly dropped the phone. “Fisk certainly doesn’t need the money.”

  “No,” Evan said. “I think he just enjoyed it.”

  I tried to banish the images from my mind. When I’d hired Hot Rod, I hadn’t scrolled through the other entertainers on the site. Rodney’s was the first profile I saw, and I made up my mind then and there to hire him for Harriette’s party.

  “It’s actually very tame,” Evan said. “They don’t go full monty. Just do a little dancing, collect some money. Have some fun. It’s a good time.”

  “You sound like you know quite a bit about it, Evan Sullivan.”

  He coughed. “I don’t know what you’re trying to say.”

  Oh my. “Do not tell me you were a stripper!”

  “I wasn’t,” he said, “but I’ve been to a few parties. . . .”

  “La-la-la-la,” I sang. “Not listening.”

  Evan laughed.

  “I need an address,” I said.

  “I wish I knew one,” he said.

  Since he was half Wishcrafter, I couldn’t grant his wish.

  “Michael had to have pay stubs,” I said.

  “Paid under the table, I believe.”

  Curses!

  “Fisk might know,” Evan added, “if you can find him.”

  “That might be out of my hands at this point.” I explained about Glinda following Fisk’s car. If Amy was going to see her boyfriend at the mysterious R’s house, and didn’t realize she had a tail, then she had probably led the police straight to Fisk’s doorstep—wherever that might be.

  I stopped short in the path. R. Rodney. Could it be? I shared with Evan my supposition.