I couldn’t believe what I’d gotten myself into. I followed her into the mudroom, where she pulled open the door, stepped out, then abruptly turned around.
“Oh, and, Darcy? If you’re really all that concerned about having proper licensing to snoop around, you might want to see Marcus Debrowski. He can probably help you out.”
Help me…magically. It was something to think about.
Chapter Eight
I barely slept at all and woke up early the next morning with a lot on my mind. Dawn was slipping under my window shade, and now that it was light out and I felt relatively safe from any big bad wolves lurking out there, I unlocked the window and lifted the sash a few inches.
I slipped on my glasses and glanced out over the village green, blinking when I saw a man standing under the birch tree across the street, near Mrs. Pennywhistle’s bench (her favorite sunning spot). His silhouette was in shadow, but he was tall with dark hair. From this distance—I squinted—he looked a little bit like Vincent Paxton, former murder suspect, owner of Lotions and Potions, and Seeker. When I’d waved to him in the Sorcerer’s Stove yesterday, I’d never expected him to stake out my house.
But…I squinted harder. I couldn’t tell if it was him or not. The man was too far away.
Whoever he was, he appeared to be watching the house. The Peeper Creeper?
I shivered, and after rubbing my eyes, I looked again.
No one was there.
Whoever it was had moved on. Or maybe he’d been a figment of my overactive imagination.
I was being paranoid, that was all. It was understandable after what had happened last night with the person in the woods.
As a gentle breeze stirred the white curtains, I flopped back onto my bed. I watched the sheers flutter as I breathed in deeply and picked up the hint of sea salt in the air. The Enchanted Village wasn’t too far from Salem’s coastline, but I’d yet to spend a day at the beach—something I needed to change before the weather turned too cool.
I’d adapted to the salty scent almost immediately. It’s a strong, distinct smell, one that Harper had instantly disliked, but I found it oddly comforting.
Now, months after moving here, we had both become accustomed to the scent. Harper didn’t even notice it anymore, and I eagerly sought the quiet moments when I could really focus on it. Like now.
Reaching over, I lifted the window sash just a bit higher, leaned back on my pillows, and breathed in. Tilda tiptoed her way up the empty side of the bed, acting as nonchalant as a prissy Himalayan can. Which wasn’t much.
I held out my fingers to her. She ignored them. Instead, she oh-so-casually stretched, flattened herself on the mattress, and elongated her body against the side of mine. Then she oh-so-casually batted my stomach with her paw. I dutifully scratched her chin. Tilda wanted affection only on her terms. I knew better than to go against her wishes. Hairballs hacked onto my comforter were a common occurrence when Tilda was displeased.
I glanced around for Missy and found her on the fluffy dog bed on the floor. Curled into a tight ball, she was sound asleep, her breathing rhythmic and heavy.
Missy had changed so much in the short time since we moved from Ohio to the village, almost as though she’d gone from puppy to dog during the trip. In Ohio, she’d been feisty, a bit hard to control, and never at a loss for a shoe to chew. Here, all that had changed. She was still energetic, but her frenetic personality had morphed into one that was more mature. At first I thought something was wrong with her and almost made an appointment with a vet. Then I came to my senses. She was just about the perfect dog now. Except for her bouts of being an escape artist. She had the uncanny ability to break out from any enclosure. It had become somewhat of a game over the past couple of months, sort of a canine hide-and-seek.
I sat up in bed, pulled my hair into a sloppy knot, and reached for the notebook I’d been jotting in before I went to sleep. I intermittently scratched Tilda while reading over my notes…notes on Patrice Keaton’s murder.
Heaven help me, I was going to investigate this murder.
Harper was going to be beside herself.
I supposed I could have turned down Elodie’s request, despite As You Wish’s motto. After all, solving a crime was a far cry from what we normally did for clients. But I didn’t because (and I blame this completely on Harper), with the last murder investigation, my inner Nancy Drew had emerged. I liked being in the thick of things, nosing around and asking questions. Taking this job allowed me to do that more openly.
I focused on my notebook. I’d written:
Who was Patrice?
I tried to figure out how old she was and recalled that Elodie had said her mother had wedding presents from 1985, and Yvonne had mentioned that she and Patrice both got married and had babies right after graduating high school…. I did some mental math. If she were still alive, she’d be in her mid-forties. So young still.
Why would someone want to kill her?
Despite what Elodie believed about the Anicula, there might be other motives for her death. I just had to figure out what they were.
• The Anicula (Mr. Macabre)
• Greed
• Love (Jonathan??? Mr. Macabre?)
• Jealousy (Roger, Yvonne)
I had to admit, I wasn’t very good at investigating yet. First things first. I needed to learn more about Patrice. And the Anicula.
A rooster crowed loudly beneath my window. Smiling, I looked out. Archie was sitting on the porch roof. Displacing Tilda (she hissed, hopped off the bed, and ran for the door—a sure sign I’d pay for my actions later), I opened the window all the way and leaned out.
“We saw your window open,” Archie said in a stage whisper. “And thought you’d be awake.”
If I weren’t, his crowing assured I would be. It had been loud enough to wake the dead.
On Archie’s back, Pepe clung to bright red feathers. “Bonjour, ma chère!”
“Bonjour,” I said cheerfully. Pepe was one of my favorite people—even if he was a mouse. “Do I want to know why the two of you are out so early?”
Archie puffed his chest. “Morning rounds.” He flew up to the window ledge and then into my room. He landed on the bed—his red, blue, and yellow feathers a vibrant contrast to my white comforter. Pepe hopped off his back and gave me a slight bow.
He wasn’t your average mouse. Slightly chubby, he wore a red vest with three small gold buttons, round glasses perched on his tiny nose, and his whiskers were manipulated into a Dali mustache. He’d been a familiar for over two hundred years, and had been with Godfrey Baleaux’s family almost as long. Godfrey owned the Bewitching Boutique and also happened to be my aunt’s third ex-husband (whom she often referred to as a rat-toad bottom dweller).
Pepe lived at the boutique and was one of the best clothing designers and tailors around. He was also the town’s historian, something I desperately needed right now. I hoped he could help me fill in some of the missing pieces in Patrice’s case.
Missy lifted her sleepy head and thumped her tail when she spotted our guests. She leapt onto the bed in one motion and daintily licked Pepe’s face. I pulled her back onto my lap and rubbed her ears.
“Morning rounds?” I asked. “What kind of rounds?”
Archie stiffened, slipping into his role as the Elder’s majordomo. “The Elder is concerned about the security in the village and has issued a task force to regain order.”
I couldn’t help my smile. “And you two are the whole task force?”
“Your humor is unappreciated.” Archie preened. “Pepe and I are more than capable of holding down this fort, so to speak.”
Ah yes, I could see it now. Archie could peck the person while Pepe chomped an ankle.
“But alas,” Pepe said mournfully, “we do not act alone. There are others at the watch. We will prevail in finding this—what did you so eloquently refer to him as last night, ma chère?”
I must have looked confused because Archie supplied th
e answer. “The ‘Peeper Creeper,’ I believe it was.”
The Peeper Creeper. The Peeping Tom. Was he the one in the woods last night? Or had it been, as Evan so kindly surmised, Patrice’s killer? I pushed the thoughts aside. “Does the Elder think the Peeper is a Seeker?”
A Seeker was a mortal who wanted to become a Crafter—a virtual impossibility since the Craft was hereditary. There were ways to be adopted into the Craft family—though marriage, for example—but powers were never included in those unions. So if a Seeker married a Crafter just so they could practice magic, he or she was going to be sadly out of luck.
However, there were ways for mortals to achieve powers. Certain spells could produce magical results—and as it turned out, amulets and charms, as well.
“Unknown,” Archie said, “but we cannot be too careful. Did the village police discover anything last night? We need to report back to the Elder.”
Ah, the real reason for this visit. I explained about the wood shavings.
“Interesting.” Archie flapped his wings.
“What’s this?” Pepe squinted through his glasses at my notebook.
“Just some notes on Patrice Keaton’s murder.”
Archie tsked. “Horrible business, that.”
“Did you know her?” I asked him.
“Of course,” he said. “I know everyone.”
Missy had gone slack in my lap, her head resting on my leg. She hadn’t fallen back to sleep, but I could tell she wasn’t quite ready to wake up.
“Of course you do.” I smiled to appease his ego. “Can either of you tell me anything about her?”
“Like what?” Archie asked.
Pepe was still eyeing the notebook page, as if he was memorizing what I’d written.
“For one, what did she look like?” The only mental image I had of her was of a mummified hand. I’d do just about anything to get that picture out of my head.
Archie held his wing to his forehead in a faux swoon. “A beauty in the vein of Susan Hayward.”
“Non.” Pepe shook his head.
Archie gave him a beady evil eye. “What do you mean, non?”
“Ingrid Bergman. A classic beauty.” He kissed the tips of his paws. “Oui, oui.”
“No, no, no,” Archie cried.
“Shh!” I said in case Ve was still sleeping. “I get the picture. She was a classic beauty.” For the sake of my sanity, I conjured up an image of an older Elodie, a woman who kept up with her looks. This really didn’t jibe with the mess Patrice’s house was in, but for the sake of keeping peace, it would do.
“She was quiet,” Pepe said.
“Very private,” added Archie.
Glancing at my notes, I said, “Is it true Patrice dated Jonathan Wilkens?”
“They dated for approximately nine months,” Archie said.
“Do you know why they broke up?” I asked.
“Jonathan fell in love with someone else,” Pepe said, holding his paw to his heart.
“Zoey?” I asked.
Pepe nodded. “Love at first sight. It’s so romantic, no?”
“Hogwash is more like it,” Archie answered.
“You, mon chère, need to—how do the young persons say?—hook up with someone?”
I laughed.
“You forget,” Pepe continued, “what it is like to be in love.”
“‘Love is a bad habit—it’s much safer to have the measles—they ain’t near as painful.’” Archie quirked an eyebrow at me. After a few beats of silence, he supplied the quote’s answer. “Daddy-Long-Legs. 1919.”
“That movie was a little before my time,” I said.
“Rub it in.” He fluffed his wings.
There had to be a story behind his quote, one of love lost. Maybe one day he’d tell me. I tapped the notebook with the pencil. “How did Patrice take the breakup?”
“Devastated,” Pepe said with mournful eyes.
“’Tis true,” Archie added. “Her heart was broken. She believed they would be married one day.”
“What about Roger Merrick? Anything about him I should know? Besides that he looks like a backwoodsman?”
Archie said, fanning his face with a wing, “If he’s a backwoodsman, he can cut down my tree any day.” He looked at us. “Do not stare like that. He’s a very handsome man under all that hair.”
My estimation of Archie just dropped several notches.
Pepe looked horrified, too. “He’s a Halfcrafter, a former Geocrafter who has been married to Yvonne for over twenty-five years. He and his son work at the Museum of Science.”
I took a wild guess. “A rock and minerals exhibit?”
Pepe laughed. “Oui. They are experts, after all.”
“Have there been any rumors about something going on between Roger and Patrice?”
“No. Was there something going on?” Archie looked ready to latch on to some juicy gossip.
“I’m just speculating,” I said.
“Yvonne would maim him,” Pepe declared.
“Indeed,” Archie agreed. “Since he is not missing any limbs, I don’t believe he has ever strayed.”
But, I thought, that didn’t mean he didn’t want to. It was something to think about. I switched tactics. “Do either of you know about the Anicula?”
Pepe nodded. “It’s a legendary amulet, full of great power.”
Archie added, “Full of great evil.”
“Why do you say so?” I asked.
“It can turn the shy into a braggart; the humble into an egoist; a servant into a god,” Archie said with emotion.
I let his words settle. “You’re saying the power of the amulet changes people in a negative way. The power goes to their head?”
“Some,” Archie answered with a slow blink of his eyes. “The Anicula’s past is fraught with abusers of its magic. The power is too much for most to handle.”
“What about Patrice?” I asked them. “Was it too much for her?”
Pepe said softly, “I heard rumors of misuse.”
“I, too,” Archie added.
Elodie had mentioned the rumors, but she claimed they were false. Was she simply in denial? Or had someone purposefully started the rumors so that when Patrice went missing it would be assumed that the curse was to blame?
I wrote “rumors” in the notebook, then tapped the pencil against my lips.
“Do you really think she was cursed?” I asked them.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Archie said. “If that’s not cursed, I don’t know what is.”
I could have argued that maybe there was a crazed murderer on the loose—and that he or she was the reason Patrice was dead. Not a curse. But I didn’t want to be thinking about crazed murderers.
One more thing, however, needed to be asked. “Do either of you know what the Anicula looks like?”
They looked at each other, then shook their heads.
“Does anyone?”
“Its shape and design are kept in the highest of confidence,” Pepe said, “so no one attempts to steal it.”
“If it were mine, it would be locked away in the safest of places,” Archie said. “Because there are many who would do anything to own that amulet.”
Which left me wondering if that included killing for it.
Chapter Nine
After Pepe and Archie left to continue their rounds, I checked on Ve (who was still feverish and trying to downplay how ill she was), laced up my jogging shoes, and took Missy out for our morning run. The village green was just starting to wake up. Shop owners were cleaning windows, watering flowers, and unfurling awnings. Locals were on their morning walks or stopping in the Witch’s Brew for their morning cups of coffee and warm scones.
It reminded me that Starla was meeting her date for coffee this morning. I glanced at the Roving Stones tents, at the people milling about, and wondered which vendor she had a date with. Starla deserved a little love in her life, so I really hoped it worked out. But I did question what would happen
when the fair moved on to the next city….
It was a beautiful morning with hardly a cloud in the sky. Birds tweeted high in the trees, and dew sparkled on the gorgeous flowers planted around the square. I headed for Mrs. P’s bench under the birch tree to stretch out and wasn’t the least bit surprised to find Mrs. Pennywhistle sitting there enjoying the morning sun. A rolled newspaper was tucked under her leg, and a cardboard coffee cup sat next to her. Its rim was liberally colored in deep red lipstick. Mrs. P loved her cosmetics.
“Good morning, Darcy! How’s Ve this morning? Any better?”
Mrs. P and I had become fast friends after we’d been mixed up in a murder case. She was eighty if a day and was one of the most energetic people I’d ever met. Rarely did she wear anything other than a hot-pink velour tracksuit, and today was no exception. When I’d first met her, she’d reminded me of Phyllis Diller, and that impression hadn’t changed. Her hair stuck out in points, starburst-style, she wore too much makeup, and her laugh was almost identical to the famous comedienne’s. But one thing that was quite unique to Mrs. P was the fact that she was a Vaporcrafter—she had the ability to vaporize into thin air. It was a seriously impressive talent.
“Not better at all. I’m starting to get really worried.” I put my foot on the bench and stretched my calf. Missy was on a mission to sniff every blade of grass in the vicinity.
Worry pulled at the wrinkles around Mrs. P’s eyes. “Wasn’t Cherise supposed to stop by yesterday?”
“She did come by, but so far nothing’s changed. Aunt Ve is still feverish, she’s not eating, and she keeps saying she’s fine. I’m going to call Cherise later on—maybe she can explain.”
“Should I bring over some soup? I make the best turkey and wild rice soup around. Ask anyone.”
I smiled. “That would be wonderful. Lay on the guilt about how hard you worked to make it. Make sure she eats it.”
Mrs. P laughed her outrageous cackle. A few of the Roving Stones vendors looked our way.
The talk of food reminded me that I had my first cooking lesson tonight. I also had to check in with Evan at the Gingerbread Shack to make sure Ve’s wedding cake was on track and pop in at Bewitching Boutique with Harper to try on our maids of honor dresses for final fittings.
A Witch Before Dying: A Wishcraft Mystery Page 7