To Catch a Witch

by Heather Blake

  “I did,” he said. “So help you.” He quickly zipped the garment bag and pushed it into Quinn’s arms. “Whatever you decide, I’m sure Abby would agree with. Go on now, before you’re late for your meeting.”

  Her eyes were filled with confusion and a tinge of fear as she glanced at a fuming Dorothy.

  “Come back if I can be of any more service,” he said, promptly ushering her to the door.

  “I, ah … Thank you.” She lowered her voice, but it still carried. “Do you want me to call the police?”

  He chuckled. “No need. I have this under control.” In a stage whisper, he added, “She’s off her meds right now.”

  “Oh.” Quinn glanced over his shoulder at Dorothy. “Okay, then.” With one last look and a quick wave to Glinda and me, she walked out.

  “Meds?” Dorothy asked, somehow turning the single syllable into three.

  “What other explanation could there be for such an intrusion?” he asked. “Nay, invasion?” His arms flailed. “You come barging in here like a witch gone mad … There is no other explanation I can deduce for such behavior unless you’ve well and truly lost your mind. Which, sadly, has been a long time coming.” He bowed his head. “Let us have a moment to mourn your sanity.”

  Dorothy fisted her hands and let out a guttural cry of frustration, then pointed a finger at him again, then shook her head as if deciding he wasn’t worth the effort. Slowly, she pivoted, aiming her pointed finger—and her sights—on Glinda.

  Uh-oh.

  “What’s going on here, Glinda? Explain,” the finger wagged between Glinda and me, “this.”

  Dorothy’s white-blonde hair framed her florid face, and her bright red lipstick oddly complemented her angry complexion. Beneath a long coat, a skintight dress hugged her hourglass figure, but if she kept hyperventilating the way she was, I was afraid she was going to a wardrobe malfunction of epic proportions, considering the way her enormous breasts were heaving.

  I could feel the tension radiating off Glinda, so I spoke up. “This,” I said, gesturing between us, “is us consulting with Godfrey about my wedding gown. Glinda’s helping me decide on embellishments.” I smiled brightly. “Like, do I really need crystals and beads?”

  Dorothy opened her mouth, then held up a hand and took a deep breath. “Why is Glinda helping you?”

  “It’s what bridesmaids do. Harper and Mimi and Starla have already given their very vocal opinions. Trust me, those three in a room full of chiffon, organza, lace, and cotton is not a good idea. I really need Glinda to be the voice of reason.”

  Godfrey coughed. “Hello? That’s why you have me. There will be no cotton. Mark my words.” He shuddered.

  Dorothy laughed, a high-pitched cackle. “Glinda? As your bridesmaid? I don’t think so.”

  “I do think so,” Glinda said, standing up.

  “Well, I don’t,” Dorothy said, her gaze burning. “No. Nope. No way. Not happening.”

  “You don’t get to decide, Mother,” she said. “And you’re embarrassing me in front of my friends.”

  “Friends?” She scoffed. “Since when?”

  “For a while now,” she said. “You’ve just been too busy fanning the flames of your hatred to see it.”

  “Flames.” Godfrey laughed. “I see what you did there. Good one.”

  Dorothy glanced at Godfrey as though thinking about setting him on fire, then said, “It’s time to leave, Glinda. Let’s go.”

  “Darcy and I aren’t done here.”

  “Oh, you’re done. Come on.”

  Glinda didn’t budge.

  The redness intensified in Dorothy’s plump cheeks, and I thought that maybe her head was about to pop off.

  She stomped in her stilettos. “I. Said. Let’s. Go.”

  I was starting to think perhaps Quinn should have called the police, because it felt as though bloodshed was imminent.

  Slumping in defeat, Glinda turned to me. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Dorothy grabbed her hand and yanked. “No she won’t.”

  Glinda gave me a conspiratorial nod before allowing her mother to tote her out of the store.

  Once the door closed behind them, I said, “What in the world was that about?”

  Godfrey said solemnly, “Battle lines, Darcy. Battle lines.”

  It seemed to me Dorothy had been sketching those lines for a while now, but she’d just set them in stone.

  I walked over to the window and was surprised—and utterly confused—to see Dorothy laughing it up, practically doing a jig, while clapping Glinda on the back. As if being congratulated for a job well done.

  Glinda glanced back, caught me watching, and quickly looked away.

  Battle lines.

  Hmm. Opposition often used spies.

  And just like that, I couldn’t help thinking it was possible Glinda was using me in more than one way.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Stewing about Dorothy and Glinda, I walked along the village square on my way to Ben Bryant’s apartment. So far he’d been ignoring my calls, which put me in the horrible position of having to drop in unannounced. It also made me wonder why he wouldn’t want to get talking with me out of the way. He knew, as a Crafter, that he couldn’t put it off for long. If he didn’t speak with me soon, he’d have to appear before the Elder, where he’d not only have to answer all the questions I’d planned to ask but also face consequences for avoiding me. Which could be as severe as his powers being suspended … or even revoked.

  I paused in front of Balefire, which occupied the retail space below Ben’s apartment. There was a sign on the door that read “Closed for Death in the Family”, but the lights were on, and I saw silhouettes in the storage room at the back of the shop.

  I cupped my eyes and pressed my face to the door. I couldn’t see who was in the storage area, but decided it ultimately didn’t matter. I would need to speak with all the Bryants eventually.

  With the hope that Ben was in there, I knocked on the door and waited. And waited. I knocked more loudly and was rewarded with a perturbed glance from Joe Bryant as he stuck his head out of the storeroom.

  What looked like resignation crossed his face as he strode toward the door, flipped the lock, and let me in.

  “Darcy,” he said. “Wish I could say I was surprised to see you, but I’m not.”

  He was wearing a pair of dark athletic shorts, short-sleeve tee, a ball cap that covered hair cut military-short, and a look that said I wasn’t welcome. My skin tingled at hearing wish, but there was no wish to be granted here. His wish hadn’t been phrased in the proper manner of “I wish that” or “I wish for.”

  I stepped inside. There was a certain scent to the store, a mix of new clothing, rubber, and leather. One half of the store was dedicated to running. Apparel, shoes, nutrition. The other half was for all other sports—a small selection to be sure, but big enough for the basics.

  “Who is it?” Lucinda called from the back room.

  I recognized her voice, with its gravelly sound.

  “Darcy Merriweather,” he said loudly to her. He looked at me. “I’m just on my way out. Anything I can do for you before I leave?”

  “I’ll be right out,” Lucinda yelled back.

  “I do have some questions … about Abby’s death,” I said to Joe. “And about those ledgers.”

  “Can the questions wait?”

  “Until?” I asked.

  He glanced at his watch—one of those big round GPS models—all the Bryants seemed to wear them—then shook his head. “Today is jam-packed. Tomorrow morning might be better. Oh, wait, Aine has a doctor’s appointment in the morning.”

  “How about the afternoon? After the appointment? It would be good if I could speak to Madison as well.”

  He rubbed a hand over his dark beard. “You should call her to set it up.”

  “Maybe you should just pick a time,” I said, meeting his gaze.

  Irritation sparked in his blue eyes. “Three o’clock? Here?”r />
  “I’ll be here.”

  “What did I miss?” Lucinda asked, coming out from the back room.

  “Darcy has questions,” Joe said. “But I need to head out.”

  “Where to?” his mother asked.

  He said, “You know, that thing.”

  That thing. Right. “Before you go,” I said. “One question: How come you weren’t on the starting line when the race went off yesterday morning? Where were you?”

  “Bathroom,” he said, shrugging. “No big deal.”

  “So close to the start of the race?” He was an experienced racer, one who spent nearly half his life perfecting his timing. When to eat breakfast. When to warm-up. Top athletes prized their spot at the starting line and little deterred them from claiming a space.

  His eyes narrowed. “It wouldn’t have been an issue except the portable restrooms were broken. Whose fault is that? Who hired the company?”

  I saw what he was doing—deflecting—and didn’t fall for it. Nor did I throw Vince under the bus, though he deserved it. I also recognized that Joe could have been delayed by the restrooms and wasn’t, oh, tracking down Abby in the woods. I needed to find someone who could verify his whereabouts. “It was the company you chose last year and recommended to Abby to use this year as well.”

  I was about to throw in a question about the ledgers when he said, “I don’t have time for this. I need to get going.” He pulled open the door and practically ran out.

  Without a coat. Without looking back.

  “Quite a rush he’s in,” I said to Lucinda.

  She cracked a smile. “He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. “Really? I never would have guessed. But why?”

  She watched him sprint away. “Part of it is that he’s upset Ben is a suspect in what happened to Abby. The other is that talking about what happened to Abby … makes it real? Know what I mean?”

  “I understand the Abby part, but not about Ben. Talking to me can only help Ben’s case. Unless…”

  “He’s not guilty,” she said adamantly.

  For a second, I saw the fire in her eyes that was often present when she’d raced as a younger woman. A total commitment to a goal. It was clear she fully believed her son was innocent.

  Yet, was he? Sometimes mothers were blinded by motherly love.

  “But,” she said, “I see your point. I’ll talk to Joe.”

  “I’d appreciate that.” I decided to press my luck where her motherly love was concerned. “I don’t suppose you know why Joe was so angry at Abby for taking the accounting ledgers from the store?”

  “It was foolish for her to have taken them,” she said. “There are a stack of invoices on Joe’s desk from vendors who are expecting payments. Without the ledgers, Joe is going to have to delay disbursements. It’s put him in a bad position.”

  “Surely the vendors will understand, after what happened to Abby.”

  “Goodwill only goes so far,” she said. “People have families to feed.”

  I hated that what she said rang true. For some reason, I was ready to pin Abby’s death on Joe. Maybe because of what Quinn had said earlier—he wasn’t a nice person.

  Was that the truth? Or had she been feeding me a line?

  I glanced out the door. Joe was a dot in the distance. “Does Aine really have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow morning?”

  Lucinda shook her head. “No. She doesn’t go back for another month, when her casts are due to be changed.”

  With that, I sided with Quinn’s opinion of Joe. He hadn’t needed to lie to my face. And using his daughter’s medical issues as an excuse? Vile.

  “Is Aine’s treatment working?” I asked.

  “It is. She’ll be up and running in no time. I can’t wait until she’s old enough to start training. But, I need to be patient.” She smiled. “That’s a few years off.”

  I had the feeling Lucinda was already picturing Aine on an Olympic podium. No doubt, Joe and Madison had pictured it too, though I wondered which of Aine’s Crafts was more dominant. Technically, she was a Cross-Crafter, a hybrid. She had both Joe’s Vincicrafting in her as well as Madison’s Terracrafting. One power would outshine the other, but only time would tell which.

  I glanced around. “Is Ben here?”

  “He left for a run about half an hour ago.” She looked at her own monstrous watch. “He should be back soon. I’m free until then if you have any questions for me.”

  “I do. Thanks.”

  She gestured to two chairs near the shoe display. “Have a seat. Coffee? Tea? Water?”

  “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Lucinda sat across from me. She was dressed in workout wear. Sweat-wicking leggings, a zippered sweatshirt left unzipped to show a Balefire training tee underneath, and ankle socks. Her sneakers looked new, but I could see the worn tread when she crossed her legs. Her short hair was pulled back into a tiny ponytail that accented high cheekbones and a wide jaw.

  She was in better shape at sixty-something than I was at half her age.

  I made a mental note to beef up my exercising regime, pronto.

  Looking around, she said, “I thought staying busy in the shop today would keep my mind occupied.”

  I followed her gaze around the store, past the shelves of clothing, bins of socks, the display of hand and ankle weights, jump ropes, foam rollers, and resistance bands.

  Her gaze came back to me. “Busy work. But it feels like Abby is here with me. I see her in every corner, by the register, stocking shoe boxes.”

  Busy work. Like Harper had done with her heartache. “In my experience, there’s no escaping grief.”

  “Sadly, no, there’s not.” She took a deep breath. “What do you want to know?”

  I appreciated that she didn’t try to stall. I pulled a notebook and pen from my tote bag and glanced at the questions I’d been jotting down as they came to me. “I have some general questions and then some that are more specific. Right now, I’m fact-gathering, because nothing makes sense if I look at this case as a whole.”

  “I can barely wrap my head around what happened. It doesn’t seem real.”

  “I guess that leads to my first question. Do you know if Abby had any enemies?”

  “True enemies? Not that I can think of. As a competitive athlete, she had rivals, but she hasn’t been racing much lately. The stress fracture she had years ago never healed quite right, and she’d been dealing with ligament issues lately as well. Her career was winding down. She’d been talking about opening a training center and starting to meet with people to make that happen.”

  Lucinda shook her head again as if realizing Abby’s plans were never going to happen now. I thought about what she’d said about Abby’s rivals. It didn’t make sense for a competitor to want Abby out of the picture if she wasn’t a racing threat anymore.

  “I can’t think of anyone else,” Lucinda said. “Everyone liked Abby.”

  “What about Duncan Cole?” I asked.

  Her lips pursed as though she tasted something sour. “Duncan? What about him?”

  “As you undoubtedly know, he and Abby were a couple before he was let go from Balefire Racing. I heard it wasn’t the smoothest breakup.”

  “It was a mess, that’s what it was. Abby was heartbroken to learn, as we all were, that Duncan had been using illegal performance enhancing drugs. Doping. He denied it, then accused all of us of cheating because we were witches. He caused quite the scene, and we ended up having to memory cleanse him and three customers. It was terrible.”

  So, that had been the ruckus Glinda had heard about. “How did he know about the Craft?”

  “Abby had told him months before the incident, thinking he was the love of her life.” Lucinda scoffed.

  It sounded to me as though Lucinda hadn’t lost much sleep over losing him as a member of the team. “You didn’t like Abby dating him.”

  It wasn’t really a question. Her scoff had told me what I neede
d to know.

  “I’m one of those old-fashioned witches who believe we shouldn’t interdate or intermarry. Even friendships are iffy. But romantic relationships with mortals are almost always a bad idea and often end disastrously for witches.”

  I wanted to argue that love was worth the risk, but she had a point. The majority of relationships between a witch and a mortal ended badly.

  She went on. “Abby never thought Duncan would tell anyone of the Craft, but she also never thought he’d dope. His lab results—and his behavior—proved otherwise. We have strict standards here at Balefire—there’s no room for cheating. Vincicrafters might have a slight advantage being born as natural athletes, but we do not cheat. We work hard. Harder than most, because we want to prove we earn our wins, even if we’re only proving it to ourselves and other witches. We had no choice but to let Duncan go.”

  “How did Abby react to what happened?”

  “She felt doubly betrayed,” Lucinda said. “And broke it off with him. At Abby’s core was a deep sense of right and wrong. She lived her life by rules, and she didn’t waiver if she believed in a cause. She couldn’t wrap her head around his cheating. She was understandably heartbroken. And when he spoke openly and publicly about the Craft, it was a painful lesson for her on who to trust. She should never had told him about the Craft in the first place.”

  It suddenly made sense to me now why Abby hadn’t sensed she was in danger yesterday—she’d lost her powers when she shared the Craft with Duncan.

  If a witch lost his or her powers due to a Craft infraction, other witches might not know, unless that witch openly shared the information. But when a witch lost their powers due to being in a relationship with a mortal, it was usually common knowledge in the village, simply from word of mouth. It helped in the mortal’s transition to a Halfcrafter. Yet I’d heard nothing about Abby losing her abilities. I wondered if that was because Duncan had exited the picture early on.

  “Where is Duncan now?” I asked.

  “He’s gone on to do well on another racing team. He’s not top tier, but he’s up there.”

  “Still doping?”

  “There’s no way to know. I haven’t heard any gossip, so it’s possible he’s not. Perhaps he learned his lesson.”