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

by Heather Blake

“You might be right, Darcy. I’ve never personally met this Hot Rod, but Michael spoke highly of him.”

  That meant if I found Rodney (and hence Tilda), then I’d also find Fisk and Amy. Win-win-win-win.

  “But I still don’t have any idea how to find them,” Evan added, bursting my bubble.

  “Keep thinking on it. Until then, I have another idea.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “I’m bringing in the big guns.” I needed someone to hack into a Web site, and I knew just the person to call.

  “I already told you I’m out of ideas,” Evan joked.

  Laughing, I hung up and dialed my sister.

  She answered on the first ring. “Spellbound Books, this is Harper. How may I help you?”

  “It’s me,” I said, hearing my moral compass break just a little bit more.

  “I was just about to call you. You won’t believe what I spy with my little eye.”

  I smiled. I spy had been a favorite game of hers when she was little. “What?”

  “A Wickeds convention under the beech tree on the green.”

  “You lost me, Harper.”

  “They’re all out there, Darcy. Ophelia, Bertie, Imogene. They’re gathered with their heads bent together. The only one missing is Harriette, who I spy near the creepy haunted house at the festival. Lydia and Willard are out there, too. You should see the looks they’re throwing Harriette’s way. Oooh-whee. If looks could kill. I spy daggers in their eyes.”

  It was an expression, yes, but one I suddenly couldn’t discount. Lydia had a lot to gain if something happened to her mother. . . .

  I moved Lydia to the top of my suspect list. I thought about Ve and her “diversionary tactic” of having us search for Tilda even though she knew where the cat was.

  What if Lydia had hired me to look for Harriette’s fiancé as a diversionary tactic as well? One to divert suspicion away from Michael’s murder?

  “I’ve got the shivvies just looking at them,” Harper said. “I sense some seriously bad juju in the air.”

  I trusted no one’s instincts more than Harper’s. If she sensed something bad was going to happen, then something bad was going to happen.

  “So how fast can you get here?” Harper asked.

  I’d called to see if she could meet me at Ve’s for a little hacking, but I supposed that could wait just a bit longer. It wasn’t likely I’d get the chance to have all the Wickeds and Lydia in the same place again.

  “I’ll be there as soon as I’m done with the Elder.”

  “I’ll keep an eye on them.”

  “Don’t get too close.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m not going near that haunted house.” She hung up.

  I wandered deeper into the woods. The path was well marked, but I could probably find my way without the markers. My various trips to see the Elder were imprinted on my mind forever. This visit, however, was a little different. I had requested to see her. . . .

  I turned right at a fork in the path, and tried to keep my jitters at bay. I was feeling anxious about this case, and about the danger I sensed.

  Ahead, light burst from a clearing filled with wildflowers of every height and color. Beautiful, magical blooms. In the center of the clearing was a solitary tree. Wide trunked, its leafy canopy wept, making it look more like a mushroom. There was a notch in the tree, where messages to the Elder were placed, and there had to be some way for the Elder to go inside the tree, but I couldn’t see how from where I stood, and I didn’t dare investigate.

  “Hello, Darcy,” the Elder said. Her voice was the one I had heard in the house this afternoon.

  The position of Elder, as Ve had told me, was always held by a woman, and there was a good chance I already knew her. That she was a villager. Her identity, however, was top secret. Only a few knew who she was—which was to protect her. As the governess of all Crafts, she had immeasurable power—the rare witch with the abilities of each Craft family. She was Curecrafter, Bakecrafter, Wishcrafter . . . all rolled into one. There were many who sought her wisdom, and her magic.

  “Sit, sit,” she said.

  A tree stump appeared behind me. I sat.

  “You wanted to see me?” she said.

  I wrung my hands. “I’m here about Michael Healey.”

  “The spirit imprinted upon you.”

  “You know about that?”

  “Of course I know about that.”

  Of course.

  “Elder?”

  “Yes?”

  “Were you at my house today, talking with Ve?” I wanted to make sure.

  There was a brief silence; then she said, “Yes.”

  Aha! “I overheard you speaking about Michael. About how you failed him. I’m trying to figure out who killed him, and if you know anything, I’d be very grateful if you shared the information with me.”

  There was another stretch of silence before she spoke. “Michael came to me a couple of months ago regarding his work at the Elysian Fields. He was upset that Harriette Harkette had claimed his creation as her own, therefore breaking a Floracraft Law. His claims were valid, so Harriette was summoned, and she was told to renounce her claim to the Witching Hour roses and to give credit where credit was due. Harriette refused.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said under my breath.

  “I gave her one week to make amends. She did not. Her powers were permanently revoked.”

  I drew in a sharp breath. Harriette had no Craft powers? That explained why she’d turned over running the greenhouse to Lydia two months ago—and why she was really retiring. Never mind that she couldn’t produce black roses—she couldn’t create any roses. “Does anyone know that Harriette doesn’t have her ability anymore?”

  “Only Harriette, who shared the news with her fiancé. And now you know. I believed I handled the situation as best I could, but Michael still didn’t have his claim to fame, and he also became increasingly concerned regarding thefts of the black roses. He suspected someone inside the compound was stealing them in hopes of harvesting a crop of his or her own black flowers. However, we both knew the thefts were aggravating but pointless. Because of the spell Michael used, the DNA of the plant is unrecognizable. The longevity of the breed has always been an issue. Once the lifespan of the plant is complete, that is it. It is gone. Seeds will not germinate without the help of an Illumicrafter and his spell. The plant is impossible to breed without—”

  “The spell.”

  “Correct. Or a renewal spell at the very least.”

  “Longevity is moot now that Michael has been killed. The plants have all died. Except for the few he has resurrected in his ghostly state.”

  “He is fortunate to have imprinted on you. Your perceptions are especially acute—you recognized he was with you almost immediately. Sometimes it takes years for an imprinter to be noticed.”

  I supposed “fortunate” was in the eye of the beholder, though, honestly, I hadn’t minded a bit that Michael was around. After I overcame my initial heebies about it. “Why isn’t he with me all the time? Like right now?”

  “Michael will always find his way back to you. I suspect he is also investigating his death in his own way.” There was a long silence before she said, “When he and I last spoke, I suggested that he walk away from the situation at the Elysian Fields and cultivate his own business. And he did, working side by side with Dash Khoury. That was two months ago, and I thought the whole matter resolved until Michael was found murdered.” Her voice dropped. “I didn’t comprehend the danger he was in, and I should have.”

  I thought she was being a bit hard on herself. “How could you have known?”

  “The spell he created is unique, not only for its impact in the mortal world but also the impact in the Craft world. With his spell, his Craft has surpassed both Terracrafters and Floracrafters in terms of floral ingenuity. It has the potential to shake those Crafts to their core. I neglected to consider some of his Flora and Terra rivals might not be too pleased ab
out that. Neglected to foresee that if anyone learned the truth, the danger to him would be immense.”

  “Put that way, do you think Harriette has been in danger all this time?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  That notion settled over me like a bucket of cold water.

  “I did have the foresight to ask him not to tell anyone of his spell or talk of his Craft to anyone who didn’t already know of it until he was ready to launch his new company. My hope in that was to buy time to see if anyone would come forward to reveal that they uncovered the secret about the Witching Hour roses. It never happened. Harriette has kept claiming the roses as hers, and Michael kept his promise to me. I never dreamed someone would take a quest for that spell so far.”

  “Does his killer realize yet that the spell is useless without an Illumicrafter?” I asked.

  “That question has been gnawing at me since Michael’s body was found. There is no way to know. Either way, Amy is in danger. You see, Darcy, the killer may believe she knows how the spell works simply because Michael was her brother. Where she is now, she is safe.”

  “With Fisk and Hot Rod Stiffington, you mean?”

  “You’ve done well with your investigating, Darcy. You must continue. Stay strong. Do not be fooled by what others want you to believe.”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” I scoffed.

  “I have the faith in you that you do not have in yourself. Yet.”

  Heat crept up my neck. Her point had been taken.

  “You must succeed,” she said softly, “where I did not. I am counting on you, Darcy Merriweather. You may go now.”

  The tree went dark. Reluctantly, I stood up. The tree stump dissolved into colorful sparkles that bloomed into beautiful flowers as soon as they hit the ground.

  As I walked back toward home, I realized that I was still no closer to figuring out who killed Michael than when I’d arrived.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Kids grinned like one of Starla’s jack-o’-lanterns as they glided up and down on the Ghoulousel. Teenagers wandered from ride to ride, game to game. The village green was packed, elbow to elbow. Peppy sounds blasted, assaulting from every direction. Piped music from the carousel, the dinging from a strength game, eerie spooky moans from Boo Manor.

  My tough little sister edged a bit closer to me, locking her elbow with mine. I held back a smile and appreciated her body warmth. It was freezing. My breath puffed out in a white cloud as I let out a sigh. I’d given my wool coat a spray of Febreze so I could wear it. Dry cleaning would have to wait. I’d also borrowed one of Ve’s knit cloche hats and fuzzy mittens. Winter was knocking on the door, but so far the snow was holding off.

  “Do you see any of them?” Harper asked.

  Since she was a head shorter than me, she had no hope of seeing above the crowd. As it was, I had to stand on tiptoe. “Nope.”

  We’d been wandering around the green for half an hour looking for any of the Wickeds, Lydia, or Dash. I’d walked past the caramel apple booth three times, each time feeling the pull a little bit more. I was still resisting, holding out hope that before the festival packed up for good next Sunday night, Nick would have fulfilled his promise of buying me one.

  Cinnamon floated on the wind, and I followed the scent toward the hot apple cider booth. I tugged Harper in that direction, dodging someone dressed up as a goblin. There were a lot of costumes at the festival tonight. Babies dressed as peapods. Toddlers as superheroes. Adults as everything from ghosts to witches (how appropriate) to queens and pirates.

  I wondered what Michael was up to. He still hadn’t returned. Which was probably a good thing, considering how jittery Harper was already.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m thirsty. And freezing.”

  “How can you be so calm? Don’t you feel it?”

  All I felt was bone-chilling cold and regret at how Nick and I had left things earlier.

  I would have loved to compromise with him, but as I told him, I didn’t know how. We were both looking into Michael’s murder—it was frustrating that he couldn’t share what he’d learned with me whereas I was obligated to tell him everything.

  Shoving the thoughts aside, I tried to focus on Michael. On figuring out who had killed him. Because that, as I had to keep reminding myself, was the most important thing.

  “Feel what?” I asked, playing dumb.

  “The bad juju!” She shivered and steered me far away from Boo Manor.

  I felt it all right. The danger I sensed earlier had intensified to a point where I had goose bumps that weren’t from the cold. “It’s strong, but that could be because Glinda Hansel keeps giving me the evil eye.”

  She stood near the Scarish Wheel, watching. Waiting. I wondered when she slept. I also assumed that because she was here, she hadn’t found Amy and Fisk. For now. Amy must have managed to lose Glinda’s tail when she stole Fisk’s car.

  “What’s with her, anyway?” Harper asked. “I thought you two were friendly.”

  “She caught Nick and me cuddling last night.”

  “Is cuddling a euphemism, because if it is, I’m a big girl now and can hear the proper terminology for s-e-x.”

  I laughed. “Old enough to hear it, but not say it?”

  Her jaw dropped. “For the love! Don’t even tell me she caught you and Nick—”

  “No! We were cuddling. C-u-d-d-l-i-n-g.”

  She gave me a hip check. “Smart-ass.”

  “Oh, you’ll say that.”

  She nudged me again. “Thanks.”

  “For what?”

  “Distracting me from the juju. Maybe a hot cider wouldn’t be so bad. As long as it’s not poisoned.”

  “I can’t make any promises.”

  She stopped walking and stared at me with her big brown elfish eyes. Suddenly, she looked eight years old.

  “I’m kidding,” I said.

  “Not funny. Will you take a sip of mine first to test it out?” She batted her eyelashes.

  Smiling, I said, “No.” Though even as I said it, I knew I would. “Hey, when we’re done here, can you come home with me? I need your help with something.”

  “Sounds urgent,” she said in an excited voice.

  “I need you to hack into a stripper’s Web site.”

  “I’m in,” she said without a second thought.

  Sometimes I loved my sister more than I could say.

  We advanced in the line, and I suddenly heard someone calling my name. I glanced around and was surprised to see Vince Paxton headed toward me.

  “Vince?” He looked especially adorable tonight, with his coat, hat, and scarf.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, not making eye contact with Harper. There was bad blood between them. “But I remembered something else from last night. When Fisk and Michael were fighting.”

  “Sure,” I said. “What is it?”

  “It was Fisk. He said something about his grandmother, and he sounded worried. He kept saying, ‘Someone was there. Someone heard. Someone knows.’”

  “Heard what?” Harper asked.

  “I don’t know,” Vince said.

  My heart pounded. I knew. Or at least I thought I did, thanks to Dash. Earlier he had said that Fisk had gone to see Harriette yesterday afternoon and that they had talked about Michael and the spell.

  If someone had overheard that conversation . . . someone who wanted the Witching Hour spell . . .

  That conversation might just have been Michael’s death sentence.

  “I thought I’d pass it on.” Vince gave us a quick nod. “See you later.”

  “That was strange,” Harper said as he walked away. “Why would Fisk even be talking to his grandmother? Oh, oh! We can ask her. Harriette, ten o’clock.”

  I swiveled. Sure enough, Harriette stood off to the side, leaning against the fried dough booth. She kept looking at her watch as though she were expecting someone. She was, as usual, dressed in black. Black jeans, black boots, black co
at belted at her narrow waist. Black leather gloves, black scarf. Except for her pale face and her shocking white hair, she blended in with the night.

  The line advanced, and I said, “I should go alone, since she already knows me.”

  “You can’t leave me here, next to that . . .” She threw a look at Boo Manor.

  “Move closer to the bonfire. I’ll be right back.”

  Harper didn’t look too thrilled, but she nodded. However, when I turned toward Harriette, the Floracrafter was gone. I glanced around. “Where’d she go?”

  “I don’t know, but there are a couple of Wickeds at eight o’clock,” Harper said, tugging me back into line. “Are they nuts? Look where they’re going!”

  I abandoned my search for Harriette and turned in time to see Hammond Wickham and Ophelia’s little boy, Jacob (dressed as a cowboy), head into the haunted house. Behind them, Ophelia (dressed as a cowgirl) and Bertie followed, their heads bent together. I was glad to see the two of them getting along. I smiled at the wizard who went in after them, admiring the dazzling hooded cape, the rope-belted tunic, the crooked walking stick, and fluffy white beard.

  Harper pulled me out of the line. “You have to stop them. Go after them and get them out of there!”

  “Are you crazy? They already went inside. They’ll be fine.” Even as I said it, though, I felt the shift in the air. The bad juju.

  Harper shivered, a full-body shudder.

  She’d felt the juju, too.

  We glanced at each other, and I went running toward Boo Manor. “Ophelia! Bertie!” I tried to push my way to the front of the line, but I met the protests of many who’d been waiting quite a while. Many who didn’t understand the urgency.

  A hand grabbed my arm. “Is there a problem, Darcy?”

  Glinda squeezed a little tighter than necessary, I thought, but I was too grateful to see her to care. “You have to go in there,” I said. “Get Bertie and Ophelia.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I leaned in to her. “Don’t you feel it?”

  “Feel what?” she said, looking at me as if I had lost my mind.

  “The danger?”

  Naked emotion washed over her face. “It’s why I’m here,” she said softly.