Gone With the Witch

by Heather Blake

  Because Godfrey was one of the judges for this contest, that’s why. I hadn’t wanted any link between my booth and his shop, so no one could accuse him of playing favorites. He knew I was working undercover, but we needed to keep up pretenses that I was just another contestant.

  I’d been up most of the night hand-painting quotes about eyes onto eight canvases of varying sizes. I’d taken all of them over to Nick’s wood workshop earlier this morning for his help in bracketing the canvases together to form one big collage that he’d mounted on a wooden stand. It was a freestanding piece, about six feet tall and four feet across.

  Among many other quotes, I had used Henry David Thoreau’s “It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see,” Roald Dahl’s “Above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you,” Gandhi’s “An eye for an eye only makes the whole world blind,” and “Eyes that do not cry, do not see,” which was a Swedish proverb.

  Each saying was written on a canvas painted with an animal’s face shown in profile with the focus being on its eye. I’d used the animals in my life as inspiration. Missy, Tilda, Higgins, Pie, Archie, Pepe, Mrs. P, and Twink.

  “Darcy, how lovely!” a woman’s voice said from behind me. “Your paintings are darling. These should be in a gallery, or at the very least, allow me to sell them on your behalf at the shop.”

  I turned and found one of the Extravaganza’s judges, Reggie Beeson, studying my display.

  In her mid-seventies, Reggie had fair skin, blue eyes, henna-colored hair, apple cheeks, a narrow chin, and a beautiful smile, which had lost none of its luster, even though the right side of it drooped slightly, a result of the stroke she’d suffered last winter.

  Although she was doing quite well with her recovery, her health was one of the reasons why she had recently decided to close up the Furry Toadstool to move to Florida to live with an elderly friend of her family who was in need of a companion. She was due to leave in a little over a week, and the village was going to sorely miss her—and also the pet shop as well. It was practically a landmark in the village, one of the oldest businesses in the square. There was a big block party happening the following weekend, a kickoff to summer planned by the village council, and it was the perfect time for all Reggie’s friends to have the chance to say good-bye. I had the feeling it was going to be a bittersweet affair.

  She stepped closer to my paintings, seemingly studying my brushstrokes. “Absolutely beautiful.”

  “Thanks,” I said, unable to stop my grin.

  “Told you,” Harper said as she wandered back to her table.

  “Would you consider selling?” Reggie asked as she balanced her weight on a pink cane decorated in zebra stripes. Wrinkles pulled at the corners of her eyes. “My customers would love them.”

  “Aren’t you closing up shop soon?” I asked.

  “One week,” she said on a bit of a wistful sigh as she bent to pat Missy. “But these drawings will sell quickly, long before the doors close for good.”

  Reggie had kept the Furry Toadstool open longer than anyone had ever anticipated—she should have retired long ago. Aunt Ve suspected Reggie had kept the shop running as a tribute to her late husband, Samuel. Reggie had been a self-proclaimed spinster when she met Zoacrafter Samuel Beeson and fell in love at first sight. When he’d died more than a decade ago, Reggie inherited the shop. She had stepped in to fill his role, and had quickly become the heart of the store.

  Missy, I noticed, perked up at Reggie’s attention. The little dog wagged her stubby tail and drank in the affection that flowed naturally from Reggie—not because she was a Zoacrafter, a witch who had a magical way with animals like Samuel, but simply because she adored animals. Reggie had been a mortal when she married Samuel, but when he told her of his Craft, she’d become a Halfcrafter.

  Missy’s ebullience at seeing the woman might also be because Reggie always carried dog treats with her. Reggie didn’t disappoint—she slipped her hand into her pocket and pulled out a treat. Missy lapped it up.

  Reggie faced me. “What do you say, Darcy? Will you let me sell them? My commission will be minimal, I promise.”

  I looked at the paintings. “Maybe. Let me think about it.”

  “Just don’t think too long.” With a smile, Reggie glanced at her watch. “I need to check in at the judges’ booth, but you know where to find me, Darcy.”

  Reggie limped away, and I smiled as I heard a dog bark upstairs at the front entry of the Wisp. It was a loud baritone woof that carried through the whole building.

  Higgins.

  I’d recognize that voice anywhere.

  If the big Saint Bernard was here, that meant Mimi and Nick had finally arrived, too.

  I’d bet they had glitter. . . . Mimi had gone all out for her display. In fact, she might be the one who’d depleted the village of all its sparkly notions.

  “They are good enough to sell,” Harper said, returning to my side. “I’ll buy the one of Pie.”

  “I’ll give you the one of Pie, no charge.”

  “How’re you supposed to make money on your art if you give it away?”

  “I don’t create the art to make money,” I said, meaning it.

  “In that case, you could give the money to me.” She blinked innocently.

  “You’re doing okay on your own.” Harper’s ideas often exceeded her budget, but her budget had recently expanded, thanks to that trust fund our mother had left me. I’d done everything possible to fairly share that money with Harper, who hadn’t been born when the trust was created. The trust had just paid off the mortgage on Harper’s bookshop, which would now hopefully start turning a nice profit without the burden of an enormous overhead.

  “I can always use more,” she muttered. “Who couldn’t?”

  Ignoring her, I walked over to Missy’s pen to check on her. With her head on her front paws, she lay in her doggy bed, watching Harper and me with a look of pure disgust in her eyes. Except for her time with Reggie, she’d been mopey since we arrived. Not even Higgins’ arrival had lifted her spirits, and she loved that big slobbery dog.

  Poor thing.

  “What has you down? Is it this pen?” I asked her. She had never been fond of being fenced in. I patted her curly-topped head. “It’s only for one day. Not even. Six, seven hours . . .”

  Lifting an eyebrow, she glared at me.

  There were some days she was just so humanlike that I could easily imagine that she was a familiar. Maybe she was. Who knew?

  The Elder, that’s who.

  Perhaps she’d tell me if I asked especially nicely.

  Or maybe I’d inhaled too many paint fumes.

  “Darcy!” a shrill voice called out, and Missy whimpered.

  I almost whimpered, too.

  “Six, seven hours,” I repeated to Missy with a smile and scratch under her chin before I stood and found Ivy Teasdale rushing toward me, a lanyard bobbing on her chest as if it were playing a game of hopscotch, a clipboard grasped tightly in her hand. Her pink-tipped hair had been pulled back into a tight knot, and she wore neon green sneakers with her tailored black suit.

  “Hi, Ivy,” I said, trying to keep the weariness out of my voice. “You know my sister, Harper?”

  “Yes, of course.” Her gaze flicked from Harper, then back to me in a flash. “Where’s the rest of your decor, Darcy?”

  “There is no more,” I said with a shrug. “This is it.”

  Confusion dripped from her words. “What do you mean, no more?”

  It felt as though the temperature had dropped a good twenty degrees from Ivy’s icy glare, and I was glad I’d worn a cardigan over my vintage Tweety Bird T-shirt.

  “Where’s the tulle? The lace? The ribbons? The animal print?” Ivy awkwardly tucked the clipboard under her armpit and made frantic jazz hands. “The pizzazz!”

 
Harper’s eyes went wide with horror. “Oh my God, you weren’t kidding about the jazz hands.”

  Ivy shot her an annoyed look, then faced me and dropped her voice. “You need to be the best of the best, Darcy. Nothing else will do to get on you-know-who’s radar. You don’t have much time before she . . .” Ivy’s gaze settled on something over my shoulder, and then she pasted on a phony smile.

  I glanced over my shoulder.

  Not a something, after all. A someone.

  Ivy said, “Natasha! So good to see you again!”

  Natasha wore a billowy long white dress with braided halter straps, gold sandals, and about a dozen gold chains of varying lengths around her neck. Although the outfit should have swallowed her petite frame, it didn’t. Instead she looked nothing but glamorous.

  I was suddenly regretting my choice of jeans and T-shirt.

  As Ivy brushed past me to greet the reigning Extravaganza champion, she whispered, “Do not blow it, Darcy.”

  Harper came to stand at my elbow. “Why’d you take this job again?”

  “No job too big or too small, remember?”

  “That’s a stupid motto.”

  Missy barked as though agreeing.

  I was beginning to think so, too, as I said, “Be that as it may, I—”

  I broke off, too stunned at the sight before me to finish my sentence.

  “What?” Harper asked, then gasped as she followed my gaze.

  A bare-chested muscular man stood at the end of the aisle and began to beat a tambourine against his thick thigh. He wore nothing but a tiny swath of white cloth across his hips that barely covered all his manly bits and a black shoulder-length headdress, banded at the temples with thin gold fabric.

  Harper grabbed my arm. “Holy Mr. Tambourine Man. Tell me I’m hallucinating.”

  “If you are, I am, too,” I said.

  Behind him, two other men dressed identically to the first carried a palanquin, one of those fancy bedlike conveyances that Egyptian royalty had used, down the wide aisle. People parted as though Moses himself were on board. The rectangular litter looked hand-carved and was painted a vibrant gold. It had a dome roof and thick purple velvet curtains.

  Harper and I watched in awe as the men marched methodically toward Natasha’s booth.

  Ivy turned toward me, frowning while doing the jazz-hand thing, and turned back toward the spectacle.

  Pizzazz. Right.

  Natasha had pizzazz up the wazoo.

  While Mr. Tambourine Man kept the beat going, the other men set the carrier on top of the table draped with silken cloths and, with a flourish, drew back the curtains to reveal Titania sitting majestically on a velvet purple cushion. The cat wore a gold headdress, and one of the men held a jeweled leash, attached to a golden collar.

  And damn if that cat didn’t look like a queen with her stately demeanor, sitting perfectly still, her tail curved around her body. Her amber eyes were bright and intelligent as she surveyed her kingdom.

  The tambourine finished with a flourish, and all three men retreated, one behind the table, the other two separated on each side.

  The people around us—the contestants not entered in the same category—burst into applause.

  “I am hallucinating.” Harper rubbed her eyes.

  “My theme,” Natasha said loudly and dramatically, “is ancient Egypt. Today Titania will be playing the role of Cleocatra.” She bowed in the direction of the cat.

  More applause erupted, and I felt a little queasy.

  Harper looked at the ribbon in her hand and tossed it over her shoulder. “Why bother? Pie doesn’t stand a chance against that.”

  “You’re not even entered in the same category,” I pointed out.

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “That’s the spirit,” I teased her.

  “She has naked men,” Harper said. “Naked. Men.”

  I looked at the guys, their hands clasped behind their backs. They appeared here to stay.

  “Half-naked,” I corrected.

  “The loincloths hardly count. Did you see their chest muscles? I think one just waved at me.”

  “One of the guys?”

  “One of the pectorals. Mr. Nipples, the one on the left, has quite the talent with that particular muscle.”

  Mr. Tambourine Man. Mr. Nipples. It was going to be a long day.

  “Darcy,” Natasha said, striding across the aisle once the applause died down and Ivy had fled. “I didn’t know you had registered Missy in the competition. Hello, Harper.” Bright blue eye shadow and long fake lashes highlighted her dark eyes as she glanced up at me.

  “That was some entrance,” Harper said, sending curious glances toward the muscled men.

  “Well, you know. I have a reputation to uphold. Titania and I are going for a four-peat.” She cut her gaze to Missy, who was also staring at the faux-Egyptian men, ears perked. “What category are you entered in?”

  “Easy on the Eyes,” I said as breezily as I could.

  Something flickered in Natasha’s gaze, and her face froze. “I see.” Cracking a thin smile, she walked over to my display. Dryly, she added over her bare shoulder, “Pun intended.”

  “Oh.” I faked a laugh. “Funny.”

  Harper made faces behind her back.

  “Interesting,” Natasha said of my art, the same way one might comment on hearing of a great-aunt’s trip to the dentist. “Sometimes simplest is best.”

  “Are the beefcakes sticking around all day?” Harper asked abruptly. “They’re making me uncomfortable. One of them won’t stop winking at me.”

  “That’s not a wink,” Natasha said with a staccato laugh. “He’s allergic to cats and his itchy eyes are driving him crazy.”

  “Oh,” Harper said, redness climbing up her neck. “That makes me feel better. But if Mr. Blinky is allergic, why’s he here?”

  “His name is Chip. And because I asked,” Natasha said with a sly smile. “They’re all staying. Private security.”

  “Private security?” I asked, testing the waters. “For what?”

  “My cat is quite valuable,” Natasha said with a haughty tone. “I need to ensure that Titania’s protected at all times. . . .” She glanced at Missy. “Titania is not just some common pet. She’s an award-winning purebred.”

  Harper smiled sweetly.

  Too sweetly.

  She’d gone into fight mode.

  I quickly linked arms with her to prevent her from accidentally shoving Natasha. Harper rarely got physical when angry, but Natasha was testing those limits.

  “As a matter of fact,” Natasha said, “Titania has an audition with an animal talent agency next week in Hollywood. She’s going to be famous. Her grand-prize win today will look fabulous on her résumé.”

  Harper chuckled mirthlessly. “Let me guess. She’s going to be a catactress.” Looking at me, my sister wore a puzzled expression, despite her eyes flashing with mischief. “A cactress? A cactor?”

  With pursed lips, Natasha stared at Harper for a long moment, and then she smiled. Thin. Brittle. Evil.

  It chilled me to my bones.

  “Yes. Well, good luck today, Darcy.” Natasha spun around, her dress flaring out behind her. “You’ll need it.”

  Competition changes people. Trust me.

  Ivy had been right about that.

  And I was beginning to suspect that she’d been right about Natasha sabotaging Titania’s competition as well.

  Chapter Four

  Hours later, it was becoming clear that Lady Catherine, Marigold Coe’s whippet, was stealing the show right out from under Titania’s regal nose.

  The dog, named after Pride and Prejudice’s Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had been entered in the Crankypuss group, and her name and the category were both entirely appropriate. When her big br
own eyes narrowed as she looked down her long snout at passersby, she always appeared to be most seriously displeased, a trait shared with the literary character.

  In my opinion, the Jane Austen connection to the gorgeous dog sealed her place as the favorite to win the Extravaganza. That, and the fact that she was one of the sweetest dogs in the village. The contrast between her docile demeanor and her imperious appearance had stolen the hearts of the crowd gathered around her.

  She was the Grumpy Cat of the dog world.

  It was hours yet before the winners would be chosen, but the judges with their matching clipboards were spending a lot of time at Lady Catherine’s booth with big smiles on their faces. They weren’t alone. A sizable group of spectators surrounded them. They couldn’t seem to get enough of the dog’s innate hauteur.

  The event photographer was having a field day, darting around to take pictures from every angle. Nearby, Starla was snapping her photos for the Toil and Trouble. Even she seemed charmed by Lady Catherine despite the fact that her own dog was a competitor.

  Marigold stood proudly by her pet, beaming at the attention the dog was receiving.

  No one could have predicted such an upset.

  Especially Natasha.

  Across the aisle from me, there was most certainly not a smile on Natasha’s lips. In fact, it appeared as though she could barely contain a scowl as she eyed Lady Catherine’s growing crowd.

  I made a mental note to pay close attention to Natasha’s dealings with Marigold, because if anyone was now at risk for an unfortunate accident, it was Marigold. Again.

  I truly hoped she stayed away from the curved staircase.

  As I turned my attention back to my own display, I couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride. Come to find out, I hadn’t needed glittery or golden or half-naked pizzazz to attract attention. People had been swarming my booth to visit with Missy and see my paintings, and several had asked if I took commissions—they wanted portraits painted of their beloved pets.