Some Like It Witchy

by Heather Blake

  “Is he one of the bidders on the Tavistock house?” I asked. “One of the treasure hunters? After all, if his father was the one who stole the diamonds, maybe he told Andreus where they were hiding?”

  Calliope took a sip of coffee, eyeing me over the rim of the mug. “You know I can’t tell you anything about the bidders. However, I’m sure if Andreus knew where the diamonds were that he would have recovered them long before now.”

  Not if they’d been hidden with a magic spell.

  “You can’t verify if he’s a bidder? Not even now? With everything that’s happened?” I pressed.

  “The house is still for sale, Darcy. The deadline for offers is tonight.”

  Finn shuddered at the word deadline.

  Which made me shudder, too.

  “It hasn’t been postponed?” I asked.

  “Not to my knowledge,” Calliope said. “Kent wants the Tavistock house out of his life. The sooner the better.” She wrung her hands. “He, ah, actually turned the sale over to me.”

  “He did?” I asked. “When?”

  “Yeah, when?” Finn asked, standing, too.

  Calliope looked between us. “He stopped by a little while ago to check on me. You,” she said to Finn, “were out picking up soup.”

  Finn said quietly, “You should have told me. That’s good news for you. Your first potential sale.”

  “It’s hard to celebrate,” she said, frowning. “Considering the circumstances.”

  “I’m confused.” I tipped my head. “Are you licensed to sell real estate? I thought you were sending out résumés to museums.” She’d told Cherise and me all about wanting to become an archivist. Had she given up on her dream job?

  “Of course that’s my first love and I would jump at an opportunity if one came along,” she explained, “but several months ago when Kent suggested I take the license exam I decided it was a good idea, given the current job market. A bird in hand . . .” She smiled wanly at Finn.

  Ouch. Her passive-aggressive jab at him made me uncomfortable—but fortunately he didn’t seem to even notice it.

  I wanted to ask Calliope about the possibility that Raina was pregnant, but before I could figure out how to word such an obvious invasion of privacy, Calliope’s phone buzzed from the ottoman. I glanced down and saw Kent’s name appear on the screen. Bending, she pushed the screen to decline the call.

  Facing me, she offered a weak smile. “Thanks again for coming by.” She reached out an arm to guide me to the door.

  Our conversation was obviously over.

  Finn remained behind, staring at the phone, his brows drawn downward in disgust as color drained from his face.

  Seemed Finn didn’t like Kent much.

  As I headed outside, I couldn’t help think about Harper’s earlier suspicions about Calliope.

  And how Finn said Kent was seeing another woman, and then how he had reacted to seeing Kent’s name on his fiancée’s phone.

  Maybe Calliope wasn’t annoyed with Finn because he was smothering.

  Maybe it was because she was having an affair with her boss. . . .

  Chapter Eight

  As I walked back toward the village green, I tried to mentally encapsulate everything I’d learned about this case to keep things straight in my mind.

  Kent. With a divorce imminent, maybe he’d taken the easy way out and simply killed his wife. Or, perhaps he wanted her out of the way because she turned down lucrative business opportunities. His alibi was still a question mark. Was the rumor of him cheating true? If so, with whom? (Calliope?) Because that person would become a suspect as well.

  Calliope. If she was having an affair with Kent, it could be motive for murder. But she knew he was filing for divorce. Why not simply wait it out? But what if her motive came in the form of wanting Raina’s job? Now that I knew Calliope had a real estate license, it was clear that Raina’s death had created a financial opportunity for Calliope. It was an angle to explore, because money was a big motivator.

  Noelle Quinlan. She had much the same motives as Kent. With Raina out of the way, Noelle’s company, Oracle Realty, could thrive. And perhaps Noelle would score the TV job, too.

  Andreus. Had he been searching the house when Raina came in early and found him? Was it possible the amulet in her hand and the letter A on the wall was her way of identifying her killer? Could it be that cut-and-dried, as Nick had implied?

  Quickly, I scooted around a pair of hand-holding tourists and glanced across the green toward the Tavistock house, hoping to see if Nick was still around. I wanted to let him know about Kent having a possible mistress.

  I spotted Nick’s police car, the Bumblebeemobile—a black-and-yellow MINI Cooper, parked at the end of the block. Good. He was still here.

  Halfway across the green, I spotted a scene that stopped me dead in my tracks. A man and a woman in the midst of a heated conversation. She looked determined. He looked like he wanted to flee.

  I didn’t blame him a bit.

  Sighing, I reluctantly altered my course toward them, holding in a groan as I approached.

  I heard the man say, “But you have no real estate experience.”

  “I’m a fast learner,” she cooed as she dug red-tipped nails into his arm, “and I’d look fabulous on TV.”

  Usually, I’d go out of my way to avoid Dorothy Hansel Dewitt but the man she was talking to held something in the crook of his arm that belonged to me.

  “Hi,” I said, stepping up to them with a bright fake smile.

  Scott Whiting looked at me the same way a man adrift in the sea might eye a Coast Guard vessel.

  Dorothy’s gaze fell on me as well, and she looked at me the same way a woman adrift might eye an oil slick.

  I ignored her and focused on Scott. Ruggedly handsome, he looked better suited to be a Scandinavian mountain climber. Medium height with longish dark blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Lean and muscled. Outdoorsy with his plaid shirt, jeans, and low-cut hiking boots. Late thirties. “She obviously likes you,” I said to him.

  I wasn’t referring to Dorothy—though that appeared to be true as well.

  Smiling, he handed Missy over to me. “Found her sitting beneath the window of my room at the Pixie Cottage.”

  Dorothy sniffed. “You should get better control over your dog, Darcy. You wouldn’t want someone to call the dog warden, who might mistake her as a stray and euthanize her.”

  Missy growled a bit, and I rubbed her head. “By someone, you mean you?” I questioned Dorothy. Once upon a time, I would have let her comment go. I’d learned a lot about how to deal with the Hansel family from my time spent with Glinda. Calling them on their rudeness was the best offensive.

  Finally letting go of Scott, Dorothy pushed a hand against her big bosom. A large button that said REELECT SYLAR and had a picture of a thumbs-up in the background was pinned to the strap of her dress. “I would never.”

  She’d do it in a heartbeat, and we both knew it. Glinda hadn’t fallen far from her maternal tree.

  When I first met Dorothy, I’d called her a baby-booming bimbo. After all, she’d been trying to steal Sylar away from my aunt Ve. Little did the pair of them realize that Ve had been more than willing to let him go.

  In her fifties, Dorothy was a petite thing with generous curves. Wavy pale blond hair, big blue eyes. She wore a flirty midlength A-line sundress that accentuated her cleavage and narrow waist.

  I bit my tongue to keep from mentioning the antics of Glinda’s dog, Clarence. I wouldn’t stoop to Dorothy’s level but silently admitted sometimes taking the high road sucked.

  “Thanks for catching her,” I said to Scott. “Again. She is a bit of an escape artist.”

  Another understatement. I was racking them up today.

  “It’s not a problem.” His gaze slid to Dorothy. “Her company is more
enjoyable than most.”

  Though I barely knew him, I decided I liked this man.

  If Dorothy noticed his dig, she didn’t let on. She said, “Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?” She glared at me before batting her eyelashes at Scott. “Please tell me you’ll consider my proposal, Mr. Whiting?”

  Adopting a firm tone, he said, “Mrs. Dewitt, as charming as you may be, I don’t think it’s plausible for you to take over as host for the home show. My audience would be confused. They would expect an experienced broker.”

  She waved a hand. “Nonsense. Don’t underestimate what audiences will adjust to.”

  Truly amused, I glanced at Dorothy. “You want to host the TV show? You’re an optician assistant.”

  Her shoulders drew back, and her eyes narrowed. Her forehead didn’t wrinkle, however. Botox, I’d bet.

  “Manager,” she corrected snidely.

  Ah, so she’d been promoted once she married Sylar. Nepotism at its best.

  “And who knows this village better than I do?” she asked defensively. “I’ve lived here my whole life. And when the new development goes in, I’d be the perfect one to show it off.”

  My eyes widened. “You want the new neighborhood?”

  Granted, Dorothy was married to Sylar, who had staked his whole reelection campaign on the development, but Dorothy was a Crafter. A Broomcrafter. I couldn’t believe she’d openly support the new neighborhood.

  The corner of her eye twitched as she said, “Of course. It’s a wonderful opportunity for village growth.”

  “Said like one of Sylar’s sound bites,” I said, disgusted with her. Her heritage was at stake. The Elder’s meadow.

  She jabbed a finger my way. “Don’t you judge me, Darcy Merriweather. I make my own choices. I’m not some little puppet being played a fool.”

  Missy lurched, snapping her teeth at Dorothy’s finger. I pulled her back before she made contact. Whew. A close one. Because if Missy had broken skin, then I had no doubt Dorothy would have made a call to animal control.

  I held Missy close to my chest and glared at Dorothy. “No,” I said. “You’re just a fool.”

  She had been clearly discussing this matter with Andreus. Both had used the term “puppet” in reference to my work for the Elder. Which made me wonder if Dorothy knew who the Elder was as well.

  Then the most distressing thought crossed my mind. What if Dorothy was the Elder? My stomach roiled, and I kept telling myself it wasn’t possible.

  Even though it was entirely possible.

  Denial at its best.

  Menacingly, Dorothy stepped toward me.

  I tipped my head in a bring-it-on kind of way. I’d clearly reached my breaking point for the day if I was willing to have a catfight with Dorothy in the middle of the village.

  “Ladies,” Scott said, stepping between us. “Perhaps this discussion between you should be revisited another time when cooler heads prevail.”

  I glanced at him, suddenly not liking him so much anymore. I wasn’t a physical person by nature, but tearing Dorothy’s hair out by its dyed roots sounded like the perfect way to kick off my afternoon.

  “Fine,” Dorothy said, stepping back.

  Missy slurped my chin, and I took a step back, too.

  “Now, about that host job,” Dorothy said, ever tenacious.

  “Mrs. Dewitt, really—” Scott began.

  Dorothy cut him off. “You said yourself that Raina was never confirmed as the host. So why not add another name to those under consideration?”

  Scott once again looked like a man who wanted to flee. “Yes, there are others under consideration,” he said. “Qualified candidates.”

  “Noelle Quinlan is not an option,” Dorothy said scathingly. “With her horse face? She’s much better suited to radio.”

  I thought “horse face” was a little harsh. Noelle simply had a long face. With a prominent mouth. And big teeth.

  “And Kent?” Dorothy went on. “He can’t string a pair of words together without adding an um or uh betwixt the two.”

  Scott said, “No decisions have been made yet—and won’t be until the village council votes on the filming permit.”

  Dorothy blinked innocently. “You do know I have an in on the council. . . .”

  “Are you bribing him with me standing here?” I asked, shocked by her audacity. Not to mention that the election was the day before the permit vote. There was a good chance Sylar would not be on the council that day.

  She glanced at me. “Oh, are you still here, Darcy? I hadn’t noticed.”

  I wrinkled my nose. “Actually I’m leaving now.” Before I did rip her hair out. Assault charges wouldn’t look good on my résumé. Although I wanted to speak to Scott about his meeting with Raina this morning, I’d do so later. Without an audience.

  “Ta!” Dorothy finger-waved good-bye.

  Missy growled again.

  Dorothy growled back, cackling as Missy yipped.

  Suddenly a line from The Wizard of Oz’s Wicked Witch played through my head. “I’ll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too.”

  I dared Dorothy to try.

  “Actually, Darcy,” Scott said, “if you don’t mind, I’ll walk you home. There’s something I’d like to speak to you about.”

  I hadn’t planned to go home—I still wanted to find Nick—but this wasn’t an opportunity I could turn down. “Okay,” I said.

  “I’m sure I’ll see you around, Mrs. Dewitt,” he said to a stony-looking Dorothy.

  “Yes,” she said tightly. “Yes, you will.”

  Dorothy wasn’t one to mess with. She was bad to the bone and didn’t blink at breaking rules to get what she wanted. If she had her sights set on that hosting job, Scott definitely hadn’t seen the last of her.

  As Scott waited for me, she gave me the death stare. I’d seen it before, and it didn’t frighten me.

  Much.

  Unable to resist the uncontrollable temptation to one-up her, I said, “Ta!” and gave her a finger wave.

  I solely blamed my bad behavior on the day I’d had.

  As her face slowly infused with color, I knew she would soon seek retribution.

  But right now?

  I didn’t mind stooping to take the low road one little bit.

  Bring it on, indeed.

  Chapter Nine

  I didn’t dare set Missy down as Scott and I walked toward As You Wish. I didn’t trust her not to run off again.

  Sliding a glance at Scott, I said, “Do you have pets?”

  It wasn’t what I wanted to say. I wanted to ask about his morning meeting with Raina, but there were some conversations that needed to be sidled up to, not barged in on with guns blazing.

  He said, “I have a neurotic Chi-Pom-something named Boca.”

  “Unusual name. I like it.”

  “It fit. I found him in an abandoned building in Boca Raton while I was there on a job. And he has a big mouth.”

  I smiled. Boca was the Spanish word for mouth.

  “I couldn’t leave him”—Scott shrugged—“so he came home with me.”

  My estimation of him just went up a notch.

  “Is Boca here with you?” I asked. Maybe that was Missy’s fascination with this man. Perhaps she smelled an unfamiliar dog scent and wanted to further investigate the source. I had to admit, she was a nosy little thing.

  She took after her owner that way.

  “He does travel with me a lot, but not this time. He’s home.”

  “Where is home? Los Angeles?” I asked, stepping off the curb. Across the street, I saw that Ve had been busy in the time I’d been gone. Her A VOTE FOR VE IS A VOTE FOR YE sign now hung from the front porch railing. This was in addition to the lawn signs dotting the front yard and sidewalk.

 
The crowd around the Tavistock house continued to thin now that the medical examiner’s van had gone. News crews lingered, but soon there would be something else that would grab their attention and they would move on as well. Another murder. A robbery. Something. Raina would soon be forgotten by all except those who knew her well.

  I sighed. It was a depressing thought—but one I knew to be true. It’s what had happened each time the village had been marred by a homicide.

  Life went on.

  A fact I believed to be both a blessing and a curse.

  “Actually, no,” Scott said. “I’m assigned to the East Coast, anywhere from Maine to Miami. I live here in Boston, in the North End.”

  I came to a stop and looked at him. “You live just thirty minutes away, yet you’re staying here in the village?” He’d been a guest of the Pixie Cottage for at least a week now.

  “A hazard of the job, unfortunately,” he said. “I’m to immerse myself in the town where I’m working. It adds realism to the show if I actually know the town inside and out. It’s only this way until the show starts filming, however. Then I’m free to come and go with the film crew. And I do go home when I have time.”

  I didn’t see a wedding ring, so I pried some more as we crossed the street. “That must be hard on your everyday life.”

  He knew what I was getting at. “It’s caused more breakups than I care to admit. Fortunately, the last one was amicable. We actually share custody of Boca—that’s who he’s with now. My ex.” He glanced at me, a small smile on his face. “That sounds strange, right? Having shared custody of a dog?”

  Laughing, I said, “Not at all.” I knew all about strange custody agreements for pets. After all, Tilda spent a lot of time with Lew Renault, an Emoticrafter who’d accidentally stolen her once (long story).

  “I travel so much that it’s nice to have someone look after Boca. And Derek’s good about sending me pictures when I’m away.” He pulled out his phone.

  “Derek?” I asked, for clarification.

  “My ex,” he said matter-of-factly as he swiped his screen to show me a snapshot of a handsome man holding a tiny brown fluff ball.