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

by Heather Blake

  She twisted her hands and searched our faces. Her pale blond hair was styled much like mine—twisted into a loose knot atop her head. On her, it looked slightly glamorous. On me, it looked like a rat’s nest on my scalp.

  “Which means,” she said, “that he knows me well enough to know about Twink. Does that mean he might be a stalker? Or can we rule that out yet?”

  I thought about Pepe’s reaction to the secret admirer. My little mouse friend would have said if the man was a danger to Starla. “I think we can rule out stalker.”

  She clapped. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Reaching into the pumpkin, she pulled out a small star-shaped note and passed it to me.

  I cleared my throat. “‘A date tonight? A future bright.’”

  Harper took the note from my hand and examined it closely. “Handwritten, nice printing. If he’d used block letters, then I’d be worried.”

  “That’s it?” Marcus asked, clearly intrigued. “No mention of when or where?”

  Starla shook her head. “Maybe there’s another jack-o’-lantern coming?”

  “That would be my guess,” I said.

  She rubbed her hands and twirled around. I tried not to be too worried for her. The Beast part of the last clue still had me concerned.

  Twink had settled down with Missy in the dog bed by the door. They looked adorable together, and it reminded me that I needed to put some serious thought into getting another dog to keep her company.

  “What are you working on?” Starla asked Marcus.

  “Finding Tilda,” he said.

  Starla glanced at me. “Does she have one of those GPS tags so you can track her online?”

  I wished. “No.” I explained about Ve and Hot Rod, and how Ve had stuffed Tilda in Hot Rod’s duffel bag so he’d have to bring the cat back—only he didn’t. Starla howled with laughter.

  It was rather amusing. But only because Tilda was fine.

  She said, “Any word from Nick about what happened in the haunted house last night?”

  I shared that he’d called after midnight to let me know that Bertie had survived surgery and was in ICU. Ophelia had needed more than a hundred stitches and was being kept for observation.

  Starla leaned on the counter. “Is anyone else concerned that Harriette might be next?”

  I shook my head.

  “Why not?” Starla asked.

  “Yeah, why?” Harper echoed.

  “Because,” I said, “I think whoever is doing this wants Harriette to be blamed.” I explained about the circumstantial evidence.

  “Who’d do that?” Starla asked.

  It was the million-dollar question. It was someone who not only wanted Harriette to pay for a crime she didn’t commit, but also someone who wanted that Witching Hour spell.

  A stem blooms devoid of light,

  At the darkest time of night,

  When the clock strikes the midnight hour,

  There revealed is the Witching flower.

  Goose bumps rose on my arms as I thought about someone overhearing Fisk and Harriette’s conversation. According to Amy, Fisk had been at the Elysian Fields with his grandmother on Friday, so it had to have been someone connected to the property. Someone who wouldn’t be questioned if seen walking around.

  Like Lydia or Willard. Imogene, Bertie, Ophelia.

  All of them had a desire for the spell. But which one of them would have killed for it? Who had the most to gain?

  The thought reminded me of Harriette’s will.

  I looked at Marcus. “Any chance you can share with us why Harriette wants to change her will? Is she looking to include her fiancé?”

  “Ooh,” Harper said, jumping up and heading for the coffeepot. I turned her around again. “Because if Lydia was going to lose a big chunk of Harriette’s fortune, that might be motive.”

  Marcus said, “I can’t say anything about changes to her will.”

  Harper glared at me with envy as I refilled my mug and added some milk. “If Harriette is blamed for the death of Michael, who gains control of the Elysian Fields? Of her money?”

  We all looked at Marcus. “Her power of attorney,” he said.

  “And who’s that?” I asked.

  “Well, right now, no one since she doesn’t need one. But if she was facing jail time, it would either be me as her attorney, or more than likely . . . it would be Lydia. Harriette signed it over to her once before when Harriette went in for minor surgery. Kind of a just-in-case backup plan.”

  So Lydia would have control over the Elysian Fields, Harriette’s fortune . . . everything.

  Starla said, “But why hurt the Wickeds? Why try to kill them?”

  “I think I can answer that,” I said.

  They all looked at me. “Lydia told me that Harriette left each of the Wickeds her own greenhouse in her will. If Lydia wanted the Elysian Fields all to herself . . . the Wickeds would have to go.”

  Harper shuddered. “You need to call Nick.”

  I picked up the kitchen phone and dialed his cell number. It went to voice mail, and I left him a message asking him to call me back as soon as possible. That it was about what was going on at the Elysian Fields.

  I hung up and looked at Marcus. “Can you at least confirm that Lew Renault is Harriette’s fiancé?”

  “Lewis?” Marcus said, looking confused.

  “We think he might be Harriette’s mysterious fiancé,” I said.

  Starla gasped. “You’re kidding! Her fiancé is real?”

  “Her fiancé is Lew?” Marcus said in disbelief.

  “Maybe. It’s not confirmed yet, but it looks that way.” I studied Marcus. “You didn’t know about Lew?” That didn’t make sense if Harriette was changing her will to include him.

  He shook his head.

  “Then he’s not the one Harriette was adding to her will?”

  Slowly, he shook his head again, probably breaking some ethics codes in doing so. “What made you think that?”

  “Lydia implied that Harriette was adding her fiancé to the will. . . . She overheard a conversation.”

  Overheard a conversation . . . Hmm. Seemed like Lydia had a history of eavesdropping. Had she been the one listening in on Fisk and Harriette?

  “Then who is being added to the will?” Starla asked.

  Marcus looked pained. There was no way he could say without compromising confidentiality.

  I rubbed my temples, watching the way Harper swung her foot back and forth. It reminded me of Amy . . . and her tattoo of a fish. And how Fisk’s car with a fish sticker on it had been seen at Harriette’s house. And how Fisk had been part of growing the Witching Hour roses . . . How Fisk had grown close to his grandmother.

  My jaw dropped, and I stared at Marcus. He didn’t so much as blink.

  “What?” Harper asked, looking between us.

  I said, “Is it Fisk? Is Harriette changing her will to include Fisk?”

  Something flashed in Marcus’s eyes—a silent confirmation.

  Whoa. It was such big news. And I knew for certain one person who wouldn’t like it a bit.

  Lydia.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Fifteen minutes later, I drove toward the Elysian Fields.

  I wanted—I needed—to see Harriette. To warn her. To do something to stop the unfolding tragedy.

  It had started to snow lightly as I wound my way toward Harriette’s. Turning into her driveway, I could sense the bad juju again. Michael could sense it, too, if his increased heart rate was any indication.

  Whump-whump-whump-whump.

  I kept my cell phone by my side, just in case Nick returned my call. He needed to know what was going on.

  As I parked in the gravel lot, I saw one other car there, a silver Mercedes. I glanced from greenhouse to greenhouse and noted movement in two of them—Imogene’s and Harriette’s.

  “Ready?” I asked Michael.

  Yes.

  As I made my way toward Harriette’s greenhouse, I heard a loud
“Psst.” I glanced over and saw Imogene motioning me toward her.

  Once I reached her door, she grabbed my arm and pulled me inside. “Thank goodness you’re here!” Her out-of-control curly white-blond hair had been subdued today by a black headband. “I’ve wanted to leave for hours now, but I don’t dare leave Harriette alone. Are you staying long?”

  “I hadn’t planned to. . . .” I glanced toward Harriette’s greenhouse. I could see her inside, moving around. “How long has she been in there?”

  “All night, I fear. I arrived around five this morning, and she was already inside.” Bell sleeves on an oversized cream tunic flapped as she gestured wildly. “She won’t let me in. She won’t let anyone in.”

  “Why?”

  “She probably fears for her life. Wouldn’t you in her shoes?”

  I didn’t share with Imogene my theory that someone was setting up Harriette. Someone . . . like her own daughter.

  I looked closely at Imogene. Despite working with nature her whole life, her skin was a beautiful creamy white, with delicate crow’s-feet fanning from the corners of her blue eyes, and deep smile lines creasing her cheeks. Her wrinkled beige linen pants confirmed that she’d been here awhile. Pepe would be horrified she wore linen at this time of year, and Godfrey would probably keel over if he could see her navy blue Birkenstock deck-type shoes. I supposed Imogene would also be considered an eccentric villager with her slightly hippie air. She was a throwback and didn’t care a bit.

  “Are you feeling okay?” I asked. “That was quite a scare yesterday.”

  “It was horrible,” she said, her eyes glazing over as if she were remembering every horrifying detail. “But I’m doing all right. Fortunately, I had only sipped the poisoned drink. I’m a sight better than Bertie and Ophelia, I should say. I was the lucky one.”

  As she spoke, another silver sedan pulled into the lot. I watched Willard step out, the snowflakes blending into his white hair as he strode up to Harriette’s greenhouse door. When he punched in a code on the keypad and turned the handle on the knob, Harriette came at him with a rake, pushing him back out.

  “His third time trying to get inside,” Imogene said. “He’s determined; I’ll give him that.”

  Willard threw his hands in the air, and, next thing I knew, he was stomping prissily up the walkway toward Imogene’s door. He burst inside in a whirl of snowflakes and indignation. “She’s lost her mind! How am I supposed to sell roses today at the shop if she won’t let me cut any?”

  He flicked his gaze to me, as if he had no clue who I was—and more than that—as if I were of no importance to him. I’d been dismissed in a blink.

  Imogene patted his shoulder. “Don’t fret so. Take extra orchids today. And I’ll bring some of Bertie’s lilies by your shop later on my way home. Maybe by then Harriette will come to her senses, and I’ll bring roses, too.”

  “I hope so,” he said, snuffing. “I have dozens of Get Well Soon bouquet orders to fill for Bertie and Ophelia. I’ll take as many orchids as you can spare, and please try to work on Harriette. I need those roses. More so than the lilies.” He grumbled something about Harriette not already giving him his own greenhouse.

  He said “lilies” as if they were a pesky weed to be eradicated, and I recalled the snobbery of Floracrafters. Imogene was a Flora, so of course he’d want her orchids over lilies from a Terracrafter. My stomach turned a bit at the arrogance and pretension.

  “I’ll do what I can,” she said, handing him a pair of snips.

  I watched as he walked around, cutting orchids as if they were abundant wildflowers. With each cut, within moments, a new bud immediately appeared. I didn’t think I’d ever tire of watching that magical process happen. “Will they always keep growing back like that?”

  “Hmm?” Imogene asked.

  I motioned to the flowers.

  “Oh, well, no. Every couple of months, they need a renewal spell. Without it, the plants would wither and die.”

  “It’s incredible.”

  Imogene smiled. “I agree.”

  I glanced back at Harriette’s greenhouse. “Where’s Lydia today?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Willard? Where is Lydia? Maybe she can talk Harriette into coming out of that greenhouse.”

  “She’s not feeling well,” he said. “I think it’s the stress of what’s been happening. She’s planning to meet me in a little bit at the store.”

  Again, he flicked a gaze at me as though he resented my presence.

  I was beginning to feel the same toward him. To Imogene, I said, “Have there been any leads on what happened to you, Bertie, and Ophelia?”

  Willard, I noticed, had slowed his clipping considerably. He was eavesdropping. Perhaps it was a marital trait.

  “Sadly, no,” Imogene said. “They’re hoping to find some DNA or somesuch.” She grabbed a broom and swept up some loose soil. “I just cannot imagine who would want to do this to us.”

  “Jealousy breeds malice,” Willard said snidely as he continued to snip beautiful orchids.

  Maybe so, but I didn’t think jealousy was the root of the malice happening around here. But I kept my mouth shut. If Lydia was involved in the murder of Michael and the attempted murders on the Wickeds, then I didn’t want to tip off her husband.

  I walked over to the wall closest to Harriette’s greenhouse. I could see her sitting on a stool, gazing at something I couldn’t see.

  Whump, whump.

  Michael’s presence was next to me, and I could imagine he was watching, too.

  Imogene came up behind me and leaned on her broom. “Is she back to staring?”

  “What is she looking at?”

  “All but one of her Witching Hour roses died recently. She’s become obsessed with that one survivor. She’s afraid someone’s going to break in and steal it.”

  “Is that a valid concern?”

  “Perhaps,” Imogene said, “if it’s the sole survivor, especially in light of the other plants’ perishing.”

  Whump-whump-whump.

  Willard stood rigid on the other side of the worktable. “Whoever poisoned the plants should be shot.”

  I thought the sentiment a little harsh, especially considering what had happened to Bertie.

  “Why would someone poison the plants?” Imogene asked, dismissing Willard’s statement with a wave of her hand. “I don’t believe that’s what happened at all. I think their spell was flawed.”

  Willard turned a shade of pink that matched the orchids he was holding. “If that’s the case, why is one still alive? It was poison. Someone is obviously trying to knock Harriette down a notch.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  His pink blush flushed to a rosy red. “Speculation is pointless.”

  “Is it?” I asked. “Michael Healey is dead. Imogene, Bertie, and Ophelia were attacked. Whoever wants to knock Harriette down a notch might be responsible for those crimes as well.”

  Ignoring me, he pointedly looked at Imogene. “I’m leaving now. I will see you later?”

  Imogene said, “I’ll call you before I leave with the lilies.”

  He nodded once, sharply, and stormed out.

  “Prickly,” I said as he gently placed the orchids in the trunk of his car and zoomed off.

  Imogene swept her pile of soil into a dustpan and dumped it into a garbage can in the corner. She threw me a sly smile. “You have no idea.”

  Oh, I had a fairly good idea.

  “I’m going to give it a whirl with Harriette now.”

  “Good luck,” Imogene said. “I doubt she’ll let you in, so brace yourself for the rejection. I’ll be here until she decides to come out. Seeing her like that makes me nervous. Like there’s something bad in the air. Does that make sense?”

  Bad juju.

  “Perfect sense,” I said. “I’ll do my best to lure her out.”

  As I stepped outside, snow whirled around me. The taillights of Willard’s car faded, and I thought about how he’d r
eacted a few minutes before. How outraged he’d been. How hard he’d tried to convince us that those plants had been poisoned.

  And it suddenly hit me that it wasn’t just Lydia who had a lot to gain by taking control of the Elysian Fields.

  Her husband did, too.

  * * *

  The walkway was becoming slippery with the falling snow. I carefully made my way to the door of Harriette’s greenhouse. She still sat, staring listlessly at the beautiful black rosebush.

  I tapped on the glass, and she lethargically turned her head. If she was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it. In fact, she didn’t reveal any emotion at all.

  She turned back to staring at the flower.

  I knocked louder.

  She ignored me.

  “Harriette,” I said loudly, “I need to talk to you.”

  “Go away,” she said, never taking her eyes off the plant.

  I glanced to my left. Imogene was watching—she gave me a helpless shrug, and I practically heard her say, “I told you so.”

  “It’s important,” I said.

  She ignored me.

  This wasn’t getting me anywhere but frustrated. I was about to give up and just go track down Nick so he could deal with all of this, when I felt Michael touch my hand. The burning sensation crept up my forearm as he lifted it. Unfolding one of my fingers, he jabbed at the electronic keypad next to the door, punching in a code.

  The door to the greenhouse popped loose. I pushed on it before it could lock again and went inside. I glanced over to see if Imogene had been watching, and her mouth was hanging open. I gave her a thumbs-up.

  Harriette scowled as I came in, and I was grateful she hadn’t come after me with a rake. The air inside the greenhouse was warm and humid, the rose scent still as strong as yesterday. Gorgeous roses bloomed all around me in every color of the rainbow. And then there was the black rose. The one plant Michael had resurrected yesterday flourished in a pot on a worktable.

  “How did you get in?” she snapped.

  I didn’t know how to answer that, so I ignored the question. “I need to speak to you, Harriette. It’s important.”