Some Like It Witchy: A Wishcraft Mystery

by Heather Blake

  “Grief will do that to you,” Lydia said reassuringly, ready to give him a second chance.

  He signed the receipt, tipped his cap to us, and said, “I’ll see you ladies around.”

  I ended up ordering a bouquet of flowers for Ve to be delivered on Election Day, and was surprised to find Kent still outside the shop when I left. His back was to me as he leaned against a lamppost and spoke on the phone.

  I thought he might actually be canceling his plans until I heard him say, “Great. I’ll, um, bring the paperwork. Let’s get this done tonight. See you in half an hour.”

  He hung up, turned, and saw me watching him.

  Without a word, he zipped past me, and I remembered what Mimi had said earlier.

  He was fake. A big pretender.

  Definitely.

  But it was looking more and more like he wasn’t a killer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Enchanted Village Public Library was just as charming as the rest of the area businesses. Tucked into a glen near the edge of the Enchanted Woods, it looked like a building from a Grimm fairy tale with its weathered shaker siding, stained glass, and gingerbread trim.

  I sat at a microfilm machine, zipping through old papers at a record pace. The library closed in fifteen minutes.

  Mimi sat at a table next to me poring over mythology books. “Can you imagine a magic wand that turned men you didn’t like into animals?” she asked, her eyes bright with curiosity. “Poof, you’re a lion. Poof, you’re a pig.”

  I smiled at her. “Imagine all Ve’s exes.”

  She laughed. “Poor Godfrey. I wonder what an actual rat-toad looks like?” She suddenly sobered and lowered her voice even though we were the only ones in this section. “Do you think those men were the first familiars?”

  It was a very good question. “It wouldn’t surprise me,” I said simply. And it wouldn’t.

  “Me neither. I’m going to see what other books I can find,” she said and hurried off.

  I was waiting for Colleen Curtis to bring me the film for the Toil and Trouble from October 1979, which she was having a little trouble finding. In the meantime, she had hooked me up with the Boston Globe.

  I’d already uncovered one fact I hadn’t known.

  Sebastian Woodshall had been in disguise when he stole the Circe diamonds.

  Not just the police uniform, but full makeup as well. I zoomed in the newspaper photo that the museum’s security camera had captured, showing a close-up image of the man in the police uniform walking up to the guard. The picture had been blasted across the media in the hours following the heist. There probably hadn’t been a person in all of New England who didn’t know what the thief looked like.

  Then I glanced at a headshot I’d printed of Sebastian Woodshall, which had been published after he was killed.

  On the surface, the two men didn’t appear to be the same person.

  The police officer had a bulbous nose, chubby cheeks, wrinkled brow, and weak chin.

  Sebastian had obviously passed his good looks on to Andreus. They looked almost identical, both movie-star handsome with high cheekbones, aristocratic nose, smooth brow, and square chin.

  I looked between the two photos of Sebastian. The cop. The headshot.

  No one, not ever, would link the two. The disguise had been that good.

  Sebastian would have gotten away scot-free except for that tipster.

  An hour after the media publicized the shot of the cop who’d stolen the diamonds, the FBI received an anonymous phone call. A female who named names and places.

  The FBI closed in on the Tavistock house, and Sebastian had made a run for it. He’d been shot and killed while resisting arrest. The accounts of searches of the Tavistock house had been widely published. The accomplice, who newspaper sources claim had driven the getaway car, had never been identified. And the diamonds, of course, had never been found.

  Eleta Tavistock had been put through the wringer but there was no evidence linking her to the planning of the crime. The Globe published a photo of her leaving the police station the day after Sebastian was killed, and it appeared as though grief had already taken its toll on her. Though she held her head high, her eyes looked puffy and haunted, her brows drawn low, the corners of her lips turned down. I printed that photo, too. As I looked at it, it was easy to reconcile why this woman had spent the rest of her life holed up in her house, mourning the man she was to marry. She looked . . . hollow. Broken.

  Hearing footsteps I looked up to find Colleen headed my way. “Here’s the one from the Toil and Trouble for that month,” she said, setting a small box on the table. “Sorry it took so long—it was misfiled.”

  “No problem.” I quickly swapped out the films and pushed the FORWARD button on the machine until it landed on the date I was looking for.

  Colleen’s strawberry blond hair was held back by a thick fabric headband. “The Toil and Trouble is the only paper that the library hasn’t fully digitized yet—it’s currently in the works.”

  “How long does that process take?” I asked.

  “A couple of months. Sorry,” she said again.

  “It’s okay. I like it here.” Which was good because I was going to have to come back—I didn’t have enough time to properly sort through the film.

  “Are you looking for something in particular?” Colleen asked.

  “Just some history about the Tavistock house. You know, since Cherise is thinking of buying it. I heard some rumors . . .”

  “The diamonds. Right.”

  I glanced at her as the film loaded. “You know about the diamonds, too?”

  “Oh sure,” she said, propping a hip on the table. “Every couple of months treasure hunters come through to look at the same microfilm you’re viewing. They ask a ton of questions about the Tavistock house and leave, usually never to be seen again. It’s really quite fascinating.”

  Fascinating. It would be if the missing diamonds weren’t cloaked in such heartache.

  “Let me know if you need anything else,” Colleen said.

  “I will. Thanks.”

  With the Toil film loaded, I wasn’t sure what to look for first. Mixed in with normal everyday news, the paper was filled with firsthand accounts of the heist and its fallout. In a hurry, I skimmed, looking for anything pertinent. I jumped from headline to headline, smiling at what was important back in those days.

  A fund-raiser to build the Enchanted Trail.

  Times and dates for the Harvest Festival.

  And, when I pushed the FORWARD button on the machine a little too aggressively, I landed on a headline dated two weeks after the heist. LOCAL WOMAN STILL MISSING.

  Nosy to the core, I couldn’t help but skim the article. Hairdresser Jane Abramson, aged twenty-two, had vanished the night of Harvest Festival after attending with a group of friends. Seemingly a sweet girl, she had no enemies.

  Her family—mother, father, younger brother—was frantic to find her. A picture of the trio accompanied the article and appeared to have been taken at a news conference. Devastation ravaged the faces of her mom and dad, and the young boy, maybe five or six years old, looked absolutely bewildered.

  My fix-it brain wanted to know if she’d ever been found, but I couldn’t investigate that right now—I made a mental note to check online later. I glanced at my watch. Just ten minutes before the library closed.

  I quickly flipped the microfilm back to the time period surrounding the heist.

  The pictures—holy jackpot. There were dozens of them, all regretfully in black and white, but still. It was fascinating to see the Tavistock house in its heyday, and I hoped its new owner would bring it back to its former glory.

  There was another shot of Eleta coming out of the jail, this one with her lawyer. The caption was succinct: Suspect Eleta Tavistock with attorney Felix B
lackburn.

  My gaze quickly skimmed over that, however, and landed on a graveside photo. It looked like half the village had turned out for Sebastian’s funeral, but I could focus on one person only: Andreus.

  Dressed in a dark suit, he stood at the edge of the grave, shovel in hand. The expression on his face looked a lot like Eleta’s.

  Hollow.

  I didn’t much care for the man, but right here, right now, my heart broke for that thirteen-year-old boy.

  I closed my eyes against the sudden memory of my mother’s memorial—we hadn’t had a funeral. I could barely recall details and figured I’d been in some sort of fugue at the time since even the memory spell I knew hadn’t been able to conjure the specifics. Aunt Ve had been there—that I remembered. Everything else was a blur.

  Ve didn’t talk much about my mom at all, and I was reluctant to ask questions, though I longed to know more about her. What had she been like as a child? A teenager? A young woman? She hadn’t married my dad until she was twenty-eight, so there were a lot of missing years I knew nothing about.

  One question led to another and soon I’d forgotten all about the heist and was wondering if the Toil had reported my mom’s death. After all, she’d grown up in the village. Maybe there was an in-depth article . . .

  “Sleeping on the job?” someone said snidely from behind me. “Why am I not surprised? Just what would the Elder say if she knew?”

  I knew the voice. It made me wish I were sleeping, so I didn’t have to deal with her. “Why don’t you go find out and leave me alone?”

  “Touchy,” Glinda said, sitting in the chair next to mine. She nodded to the machine. “Are you almost done with that?”

  “The library closes in five minutes.”

  “So? Five minutes is five minutes.”

  Her beautiful blond hair cascaded over her shoulders. She’d put on a little weight during the past six months, and it had rounded out her sharp features, making her even prettier. As far as I knew, she was still dating artisan Liam Chadwick and working at Wickedly Creative, an art studio. Her new life outside of law enforcement was apparently agreeing with her.

  She was, however, covered in dog hair. That made me feel better.

  Her vibrant blue eyes glowed with good health as her gaze took in the papers I’d printed out. She picked up the photo of Sebastian and stared at it before I snatched it out of her hands.

  “What do you want, Glinda?” I asked.

  “My turn with that microfilm. I think I’ve already said that. You’re losing it, Darcy.”

  Oh, I was about to lose it, all right.

  She nodded toward Sebastian’s picture. “If you’re thinking Andreus had anything to do with Raina’s death, you’re wrong.”

  “Oh?” I asked, trying not to roll my eyes.

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “Are you his alibi?”

  “He was framed.”

  “Very convenient,” I said, goading her because I couldn’t help myself. I’d already considered he may be being framed. “Did he tell you that?”

  “You just never know when to quit, do you?” she said, her tone surprisingly light. “But if you want to waste your time by investigating him, go ahead. You done yet? You can just leave that film right where it is.”

  Eyeing her suspiciously, I said, “Why do you want it?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Why must you—” I broke off as I heard hurried footsteps, and saw Mimi barreling toward us, her nose in a book.

  Oh no.

  “Darcy, look what—” She glanced up, gasped, and stopped short.

  For a brief second, I saw pure happiness flash across her face before she remembered why she wasn’t allowed to see Glinda anymore.

  “Hi, Mimi,” Glinda said softly.

  Mimi opened her mouth only to snap it closed again a second later. She looked at me, then abruptly spun and ran off.

  I gathered my printouts and stood up, ready to give Glinda what for.

  But then I looked at her.

  Tears had filled her eyes, her eyebrows dipped into a V, and her lips pressed together in a deep frown. Her white-knuckled hands clutched the arms of the chair.

  Suddenly, she didn’t look all that pretty anymore.

  She looked . . . grief-stricken.

  Hollow.

  Without a word, I turned and went after Mimi.

  The last thing I wanted was to feel sorry for Glinda Hansel. She had done this to herself. She had no one to blame . . .

  But as I hurried out, I couldn’t help but feel the sting of tears in my eyes, too.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rest of the night had passed in a blur. Mimi refused to discuss Glinda at all and dinner had felt stilted, as we tried to avoid the topic of why Mimi was in a bad mood. Nick and I shelved discussions of the case while we ate, Ve filled us in on the latest election happenings (she had actually found Sy’s Our Guy amusing), and I regaled them with the story about poor Vince and the squirrels.

  By eight, Nick and Mimi had gone home.

  And once again, I’d forgotten to ask him to help me move the cabinet.

  After chitchatting with Ve for a while, I happily grabbed Missy and went to my room for some quiet time. Feeling out of sorts, I turned to the one thing that always put me in a better mood. Drawing.

  I’d been working on one particular drawing for a couple of months now, taking it slowly on purpose because a part of me didn’t want it to be finished.

  With Missy curled on my bed, I went to my art desk, set out my colored pencils, sat on the curved stool, and pulled from my portfolio the sheet of twelve by sixteen toned paper on which I’d been working.

  It was ultimately going to be a Christmas present for Harper.

  A family portrait.

  Taking a deep breath, I silenced my inner critic and stared at the work. I’d sketched the whole drawing already in white pencil, which showed nicely against the gray paper, and I was in the middle of coloring it in.

  I’d taken a lot of artistic license with the picture, obviously, since Harper had never even met our mother. Plus, I had drawn the two of us as we were now, and my parents when I remembered them the happiest.

  A memory I had, thanks to Mimi.

  On my last birthday, she’d gifted me with a memory spell she’d found in Melina’s diary and for the first time in years and years, I’d been able to recall what my mother looked like.

  Closing my eyes, I whispered the spell, repeating it three times, and in an instant, I was six years old, holding my mother’s hand as she walked me to school. It was a beautiful autumn morning, and the sunlight lit her blue-brown eyes as she smiled down at me, the metallic blue eyeliner she loved so much glittering. She’d been petite like Harper—I had apparently inherited my height from my father—but to me at that age, she’d seemed larger than life itself.

  Keeping my eyes shut, I soaked up the details of her, from her long brown hair, heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, and cupid’s bow lips. The way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. The way she smelled—like cinnamon and a hint of syrup because she’d made me French toast that morning for breakfast.

  But most of all, I soaked up the emotion of that moment.

  Of feeling safe. Loved.

  And when she broke into a skip, tugging me along, I smiled at how my younger self had laughed and laughed as I skipped alongside her.

  Joy.

  Blinking, I picked up a pencil and tried to hold on to that feeling of happiness instead of letting the melancholy seep in. Not only for my loss, but also for Harper’s. At all she had missed out on because of a stormy day and a slippery roadway that had sent my pregnant mother’s car sliding off the roadway, killing her almost instantly. Harper had been miraculously saved.

  Oh, how I wish
there’d been two miracles that day.

  In the drawing, I’d put us all on a wooden bench in front of a weeping willow that reminded me of the one that used to be in the backyard at our house in Ohio. My mother had spent hours pushing me in a swing that hung from that tree. On the paper, Dad grinned fondly at Mom, Mom was laughing, Harper was in profile, looking at her with loving eyes, and I was smiling like a fool. It was so realistic that I could practically imagine looking out the window and seeing the scene taking place on the village green.

  I worked carefully, shading the edge of my mother’s jawline. Hers was the last face to finish, because I’d purposely been holding off. It was one thing to see her in my mind but another to see her on paper, in full color, as vibrantly as she’d lived life.

  As I worked, I pushed all thought of the case, the election, and my issues with Glinda from my mind and simply concentrated on my family, letting my heart fill with the love I had for them.

  After an hour, I was about to call it quits for the night when my cell phone rang. I jumped up and grabbed it from my nightstand. Nick.

  He said, “I’m about to take Higgins for a walk. . . .”

  I glanced at sleepy Missy. “Do you want to go for a walk?” I asked her.

  Immediately, she bounded up, her stubby tail wagging. “I’ll meet you out there,” I said to Nick and hung up.

  We did this a couple of times a week—met up on the green when all was quiet and we could just walk and talk.

  As I crept past Ve’s bedroom door, I could hear her soft snores. We were both early-to-bed witches, but lately with the election, she’d been earlier to bed than usual.

  In the mudroom, I clipped on Missy’s leash, slipped on my flip-flops, and unlocked the back door. Archie’s cage was empty, and lights blazed inside Terry’s. Ve hadn’t said any more about her matchmaking scheme, but things between Terry and Cherise definitely seemed to be going as she planned.

  She was going to make an excellent village council chairwoman. Because even though she couldn’t keep a relationship going, the woman could execute a plan like no one’s business.

  Missy and I skirted election signs, crossed the street, and found Nick already headed our way. The warmth of the day had continued past sunset, and I breathed in the balmy night air. The village at night was nothing short of spectacular, with all the twinkle lights woven through trees and shrubs and the soft glow of old-fashioned streetlamps making the streets look like something from a postcard. The night sky was filled with glittery stars, and the moon was the barest hint of a crescent. Crickets chirped a lullaby, and an owl hooted from somewhere in the woods.