I noticed she wore the same clothes as yesterday. Her hair, snow-white, had started to come loose from its twist. Her small eyes bore a sadness I could hardly bear. Unnaturally pallid skin glistened with moisture.
“Are you feeling well?” I asked, suddenly worried about her heart issues.
“Why are you here, Darcy?”
I carefully stepped closer to her. On the worktable in front of her, I noticed discarded packaging. I read the description for the item, and being my nosy self, I couldn’t help but pick it up.
Viper-quick, Harriette snatched it out of my hands. “Go home.”
I said, “Why do you have a pet-tracking GPS collar?”
All sadness had been erased from her eyes. Now mean snake eyes narrowed on me. “Go. Home.”
Hiss.
Whereas her viper countenance would have sent me running for cover two days ago, for some reason I was no longer scared of her. She was only striking out because her whole world was crumbling around her.
Whump, whump.
Michael was nearby, and his presence also gave me some comfort.
I glanced between hands gripping the GPS packaging and the plants, and it hit me what she had done. “You planted the tracking device in the pot of the plant, didn’t you?”
She didn’t answer.
I went on. “That’s brilliant.” It really was. If the plant was taken from the immediate area, Harriette would receive an alert either on her phone or on her computer. As her BlackBerry was sitting next to the rosebush, I assumed the former. From there, she could track the plant’s location on a map.
She slipped her phone into her pocket and glanced at me. “Please go away.”
“I can’t. Not yet. I think you’re in danger. I think someone’s trying to frame you for Michael’s murder and possibly for the attacks on the Wickeds.”
“I know,” she said.
“Do you know who is doing it?”
“No.”
I didn’t want to bring up my theories about Lydia and Willard. There were some things a mother never needed to hear. As soon as I was done here, however, I would find Nick and make him listen.
For now, I took a stab in the dark. “How many people know that you’ve lost your powers?”
Slowly, she rose. I saw her eye the rake and took a step back.
“How do you know that?” she hissed.
I laid it all on the line. I figured it was the only way I would be able to get her to trust me. “I’m working with the Elder to solve Michael’s murder.”
She sank back down, and even though she looked dejected, her spine was still ramrod straight. “Only the Elder, Lewis, and I know. I didn’t want to tell anyone else, because then they might figure out . . .”
“That the Witching Hour spell wasn’t yours.”
Stubbornly, her chin lifted, and she said, “Bertie, Ophelia, and Imogene had begged me to share the spell with them and were aggrieved when I refused. Lydia chastised me for being selfish and unkind. You see, she had motives as well. Willard wanted to get his fussy little hands on the spell, too.”
“None of them figured out that you couldn’t share the spell because you didn’t know it.”
“Even if I did know it, I wouldn’t have shared it. I couldn’t let any of them know the truth.”
“Why?”
“Because of exactly what happened, Darcy.” Anguish filled her eyes. “Michael is dead.”
Whump-whump-whump.
I studied her, and as her words connected in my brain, I inhaled sharply as a stunning realization hit me like a sucker punch. “You . . . You wouldn’t renounce your award not because you didn’t want to share the prize, but because you were trying to protect Michael. You lost your powers to shield him from harm. You knew what would happen if someone found out he’d cast the spell. You knew someone would kill for that spell—and you were willing to take the hypothetical bullet for him.”
I was shocked to see a tear slip from her eye.
Whump-whump-whump.
“I knew as soon as I saw the very first black rose that his spell could be dangerous to him.”
“Why use the spell at all then?” All this could have been avoided.
“I was . . . selfish. The flowers were ingenious, gorgeous. A huge achievement. Looking back, I should have just done as you said and urged Michael to discard the spell. This is a cutthroat business. Not many realize that, but I did. It’s why I talked him into letting me claim the spell instead. It was foolish of me. So very foolish. If I had known someone would learn he created the spell . . . It is my fault he is dead. No matter how I tried to protect him, he is gone. I will never forgive myself. Not after he lost his life after giving me the greatest gift.”
“The black rose?” I asked.
She scoffed. “Not hardly.”
I thought for a moment, and pieces clicked into place. My heart ached. “Your grandson.”
Another tear fell from her eye. “Fisk would come here sometimes with Michael, at first to help him out around the place, but then . . . I think he was curious about me. Over time, a friendship grew. Over time, love grew. I had my grandson back. Thanks to Michael, I had him back.”
“You planned to have your will changed to include Fisk, right?”
“His talents are incredible. More than I ever dreamed. He deserves his mother’s share of this place—it is rightfully his. Through him I saw how wrong I’d been all these years, labeling others as lesser than I. I lost so much, but through Fisk I saw a way to gain it all back.” She wiped her eyes. “I started helping Bertie and Ophelia more and more, to grow their Terra powers. I wanted to mend the error of my ways. And then . . .”
“Michael was killed.”
“When the first roses disappeared from my greenhouse, I knew that whoever stole them was going to try and breed or clone them, which was something I had tried—and failed—to do myself. These roses are impossible to replicate. Only with the spell could they be created. I knew that placed me in danger, but it was a risk I was willing to shoulder. I never dreamed someone would connect Michael to the roses. No one here even bothered to ask what kind of Craft he had. It was careless of Fisk and me not to make sure we were alone when discussing the roses on Friday. I can only assume the person who heard our conversation is Michael’s killer.”
I silently begged her to wish to know who’d been eavesdropping.
She didn’t. Instead she said, “After I learned Michael had died, the only silver lining I saw was that I could finally let the Witching Hour roses go. I had announced my retirement. The flowers had died. And whoever killed Michael would have realized that the spell was tied to his life and was useless now that he was dead—quite the surprise, I imagine. And whoever else wanted the spell would think it was flawed . . . and no longer covet it. The spell could rest in peace—along with Michael.”
I wanted to argue the peace part, but I knew there was more. “But?”
“One of the plants recovered, and my nightmare began again.”
“Because whoever killed Michael now believes that the plants can somehow be regenerated.”
She nodded sharply. “That person is not going to stop until he or she figures out how. How many people more will die in this quest?” Her hands shook as she reached out and touched a rose petal. “I suspect that whoever was desperate enough to kill him will be desperate enough to steal this plant to try and uncover its secrets. I will catch whoever it is, and for Michael justice will be served.”
“Why do you think this plant is still alive?” I asked.
For the first time, she smiled. “There’s only one way, Darcy. Michael. His spirit must be around here somewhere. Lingering. Do you feel him?”
I nodded.
“I thought you would. Especially since you were the one who found his body. I only hope he can forgive me,” she said, “and that he now realizes I was only trying to help him.”
“I think he probably realizes that now.”
“You think?�
�
Behind her, he flashed once. Yes.
“Absolutely.”
She gazed down at the black rose. “This time, I’m ready for someone to take the rose. This time, I’ll catch who killed Michael.”
“You said you don’t know who that person is, but you must have a suspicion.”
Her beady eyes narrowed. “All I know, Darcy, is that it’s someone who has access to my greenhouse. Someone close to me. Very close.” Her gaze wandered over my shoulder, and she wobbled as she quickly stood up. She grabbed onto me for balance, and I held her up.
I glanced over my shoulder and sighed. Four village police cars had pulled into the gravel parking lot, the lights on the top of the cars flashing.
Whump-whump-whump.
Led by Nick, four police officers stormed up the walkway toward the greenhouse door.
“They’re here to arrest me,” she said.
It looked that way.
“Let them in, Darcy.”
“Let me call Marcus first,” I said. She needed a lawyer.
“No. Go.” She shoved me toward the door, and as I pulled it open, Nick said, “What are you doing here?”
Before I could answer, there was a crash behind me. I spun around and saw Harriette facedown on the ground. I sprinted over to her, and Nick helped me roll her over. To an officer, he said, “Get the EMTs here.”
Harriette’s eyes were wide with fear. “My chest,” she gasped, clutching it.
Nick looked at me. “Heart attack.”
Harriette’s gaze slid to me. “Tell Lewis. Lewis Renault.”
I guessed that confirmed he was her fiancé. “I will,” I promised.
Then she closed her eyes and went deathly still.
Chapter Twenty-six
The snow had subsided by the time I made my way to Divinity Ridge. I probably could have called Lew, but this was the sort of news one ought to deliver in person.
By the time the ambulance had arrived, Nick had restarted Harriette’s heart with CPR. That was the good news.
The bad news was that it didn’t look good for her. Between her age and the stress she was under, a full recovery was unlikely. Imogene, fortunately, had ridden with Harriette to the hospital.
The bad, bad news was that Nick was only waiting for Harriette to pull through before he arrested her. The circumstantial evidence was too much for him to ignore, and though he patiently listened to why I thought she had been framed, he hadn’t changed his mind about Harriette’s arrest.
However, the slightly good news was that he promised me he would keep investigating, questioning both Lydia and Willard further.
I was a nervous wreck as I pulled into the long driveway in front of Lew’s quaint snowcapped cottage. I didn’t see any cars in the driveway, but there were tire tracks coming from a detached garage at the back of the house. Wispy threads of smoke rose from the chimney, and I hoped Lew was home.
Shutting off the engine, I reached for the door just as my cell phone rang. I checked the ID and answered.
“I found him!” Marcus said.
“Hot Rod?”
“The one and only. Sneaky bastard.”
I smiled. “That’s the best news I’ve heard all morning.” I fumbled for a piece of paper and a pencil. “What’s the address?”
“It’s a house, 6680 Divinity Ridge. Do you know where that is?”
My head snapped up, and I stared at the little cottage. “I’m parked in its driveway.”
“What?” he asked. “How?”
“I’ll call you back, Marcus.” I snapped the phone closed and stared at the house; I suddenly noticed movement in the window.
A white and gray Himalayan sat on the sill, flicking her tail. I could sense her bad attitude through the glass.
Tilda.
Stunned, I sat there for a moment. Lewis Renault was Hot Rod Stiffington?
My first thought was that Aunt Ve was going to be seriously disappointed that he was already taken.
My second was that I needed to hear this explanation.
I jumped out and quickly walked up the front walk. Before I could even knock, however, the door opened, and Amy stood there, looking sheepishly at me. “How did you find me here?”
“Actually, I wasn’t looking for you. I was looking for Lew Renault. And I’ve been looking for her for days.” I pointed at Tilda as she sashayed toward me.
“The cat?” Amy said.
Tilda leapt into my arms. I held her close, rubbed her head, and soaked in her purrs. “My cat.”
Amy blinked. “I’m so confused.”
“Can I come in?”
She nodded.
The house was show-worthy neat, with modern, elegant furniture, dark wood floors, and abstract pictures on the walls.
Tilda kept bumping the top of her head against my chin, and she even gave me a tiny kiss. If I hadn’t known better, I would think she had missed me.
I glanced around. “Where’s Fisk?”
“Fisk? I don’t know what you mean. He’s not—”
“Look, Amy. I’m so not in the mood. I know Fisk is hiding out here. I know why he fought with Michael. I know Lewis is Hot Rod Stiffington. And I know Lewis is Harriette’s fiancé. I’m not saying I quite understand all those things, but in light of everything that’s happened lately with Michael, with the Wickeds, with Harriette, I’d really appreciate if you dropped the act and just started telling the truth.”
“I’m right here,” Fisk said, coming out from the kitchen area. I almost smiled—he was just as Evan and Starla had described, right down to the puffy lips and droopy pants. He stood next to Amy, putting his arm around her.
Whump, whump.
Well, I was glad Michael was calm, because I was about to snap.
“Where’s Lew?” I asked. Was he hiding in the closet?
“Just left for the hospital,” Fisk said. “My dad called to let us know what happened to Harriette this morning.”
“Your dad knows you’re here?”
“He didn’t until last night,” Fisk said. “I called him after Amy saw you at the house.”
I launched into questions. “How did Harriette feel about you and your dad becoming competition? Going into business with Michael?” I asked.
“She doesn’t know. I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell her. I think she hopes I’ll take over Elysian Fields one day after she . . .”
Dies.
“And would you?”
He shrugged. “Maybe someday, after Aunt Lydia retires. She works harder than anyone I know, and she deserves to run the place on her own for a while.”
“Are you and Lydia close?” I asked.
“Closer than we used to be. She’s nice to me. Anyway, Mom and Dad are on the way to the hospital to see Grandma.” He sucked in a breath. “I just hope it’s not too late.”
“You should go, too,” I said. There probably wasn’t anyone Harriette would rather see more—and now I understood why Harriette had told me to find Lewis. Because she knew he’d tell Fisk as well.
“I wanted to go, but the police . . . ,” he said.
“The police think Harriette is Michael’s killer. They just want to talk to you. They would let you see your grandmother first, though.”
“They think Harriette killed Michael?” Amy said. “That’s crazy.”
“It’s a long story,” I said, “but the fact is the real killer is still out there.”
I explained to them about the flower Michael had resurrected, and how Harriette was trying to trap the killer. “But we can’t be too careful. Whoever the killer is has the Witching Hour spell, but we don’t know if that person understands that an Illumicrafter is needed to cast it. That means until the killer is caught, Amy is possibly in danger.”
Her eyes went wide, and Fisk tightened his arm around her.
I noticed Tilda had fallen asleep in my arms. “Do you still have the invisibility cloak, Amy?”
She nodded.
“Get it and pu
t it on. Don’t take it off until you get the okay from me or the Elder. Go with Fisk to the hospital. The best thing for you right now is to do as Crafters have been doing for centuries: Hide in the open. Fisk, you need to be vigilant. Whoever killed Michael and attacked the Wickeds probably knows that Amy’s close to you. Stick to her like glue, and always stay where a lot of people can see you.”
He nodded.
Amy dashed upstairs. I glanced at Fisk. “Do you have any idea who could have been eavesdropping on you and your grandmother?”
“None. Just that it had to be someone from the farm.” He scrunched up his nose as if he were trying to hold tears at bay. “And even though I wanted Michael to do a renewal spell to help my grandmother, I also tried to warn him that someone might know he created the spell. I hate like hell that our last words to each other were angry ones.”
Whump-whump-whump.
I said, “It’s never too late to say you’re sorry.”
“Sometimes it is.”
“Not in this case. Is it, Michael?”
He flashed twice. No.
“He says no. Two flashes equal no.”
The phone rang as Fisk’s eyes widened.
“Michael imprinted on me the night he died. He’s with me until his killer is caught. He flashes once for yes, twice for no, three times for I’m sorry, four for thank you. You might want to let Amy know, too.”
I heard Amy answer the phone upstairs.
I was filled with frantic energy. “I’m going to go,” I said. “Michael, you’ll catch up with me later?”
Yes.
Fisk’s eyes were filled with tears as I headed for the door.
“Wait, Darcy!” Amy called.
I turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, but no one visible on them. A phone, however, was floating through the air—coming closer to me.
“It’s for you,” Amy said.
“Me?”
“It’s Lew. He wants to talk to you.”
I took the phone. “Hello?”
“Darcy.”
“Hot Rod.”
“I need to talk to you,” he said. “Can you come to the hospital?”
“What’s this about?”
“Harriette has something for you. She said you’d understand.”
The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy: A Wishcraft Mystery Page 23
