A Witch Before Dying: A Wishcraft Mystery

by Heather Blake

  Ve had chosen a beautiful three-tiered chocolate fondant-covered wedding cake decorated with colorful sugar flowers. The cake was in good hands with Evan.

  I said my good-byes, reminded Mimi about a cover for her mom’s diary, and headed toward Sylar’s shop across the green, taking the Enchanted Trail around the square since I didn’t want to cut through the Roving Stones’ tents.

  Thankfully the path was well traveled and someone was always in sight, or I might have been worried about big bad wolves in the woods.

  Though a thick tree line separated the path from the backs of village businesses, I could still see the outline of the shops that surrounded the square. I was behind the Sorcerer’s Stove when I heard a loud crash and two people taking part in a restrained argument.

  I couldn’t make out who the voices belonged to, but it was clearly a man and a woman. Curious (okay, nosy), I hurried to an intersection in the trail. A wooden arrow with “Sorcerer’s Stove” engraved on it pointed to a narrow dirt path. It would lead me to the back entrance of the restaurant. I tiptoed carefully as I tried to pick out words—or see who was doing the arguing.

  As the path widened and opened to a small garden behind the restaurant, I took a good look around. Nothing seemed amiss. Butterflies flirted with flowers, birds chirped, bees buzzed. All had quieted. Then, suddenly, I jumped at another loud bang. It sounded like the lid of the Dumpster being slammed closed. I glanced toward the six-foot L-shaped fence that blocked the Dumpster from public view. The voices started up again, and I heard a man say, “The police will never find out, so please stop worrying.”

  I crept closer. It sounded like Jonathan, but I couldn’t be sure.

  “Tally ho, Darcy!” Archie swooped by.

  “Shhh!” I said, Mimi’s earlier concerns about being overheard fresh in my thoughts. I waved him toward the tree line and out of sight of anyone who might be watching.

  Pepe clung to the macaw’s back as he landed on a low-hanging branch. “Ma chère, what’s wrong?”

  I quickly filled them in. “Are you two out patrolling?”

  “Indeed,” Archie said.

  Pepe dusted off his tiny red vest and readjusted his glasses. “The Creeper is still at large.”

  This sentence, said in Pepe’s French accent, made me smile.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the Dumpster. The voices had suddenly faded. Had the couple gone back inside? Or had they overheard Archie’s approach?

  “Could you do me a favor, Archie? Could you see if there’s anyone over by the Dumpster?”

  “I will check,” Archie said. “Pepe, do you wish to come along?”

  Pepe declined and hopped onto the branch. He wobbled and I scooped him up in my palms. “Merci.” He bowed.

  “You’re welcome.” I set him on my shoulder—one of his favorite lookouts.

  Archie saluted with his wing, then flew off, a bright red dot in the blue sky.

  “You think something is amiss, ma chère?” Pepe asked.

  “I heard arguing a few minutes ago.” I was going to make up some excuse about investigating Patrice’s murder and how Jonathan might be involved, but ended up shrugging. “I’m being nosy.”

  Pepe laughed. “It is not a crime.”

  “Thankfully, because it’s becoming a habit.”

  “Thankfully,” he echoed, “because if not for your inquisitiveness, a murderer might still be roaming free and innocent people locked away.”

  He was referring to the murder that had happened a few months ago. I smiled. “Inquisitiveness. I like that word. Thanks, Pepe.”

  He bowed again as Archie’s squawk pierced the air.

  “What’s he saying?” I asked, trying to make out the high-pitched words. He sounded distraught.

  “I’m unsure,” Pepe said.

  Archie flew circles over the Dumpster, his voice repeating the same phrase. I moved closer to try and make out his words. Finally, my brain registered what he was saying.

  Squawk. “Man down, man down.” Squawk. “Man down, man down!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I broke into a run. Pepe clung to my collar. The first thing I saw when I cleared the fence surrounding the Dumpster was a man crumpled facedown on the ground.

  I tossed aside my purse and Upala bag and dropped to my knees to roll the body over. I gasped when I saw Jonathan’s pale face. I did a quick check for blood and found none. He had no visible injuries at all.

  Archie landed on the Dumpster. “Is he dead?”

  “Must you be so morbid?” Pepe asked.

  “It’s a fairly obvious question to ask,” Archie retorted.

  “He’s breathing,” I said, relieved. His pulse was strong under my fingertips, but he didn’t look well at all. Sallow skin, hollow eyes, sunken cheeks. His skin was cool and clammy. “Jonathan!” Placing my hand on his chest, I gave him a little shake.

  After a long second, his eyes fluttered open and he moaned. Blinking at me as if trying to focus, he said, “Darcy?”

  I had pulled out my cell phone. “I’m calling an ambulance. Don’t move, okay?” I didn’t know whether he had a head injury I couldn’t see. I didn’t want to take any chances.

  Completely disobeying me, he sat up and put a hand on the phone. “No. I’m okay.”

  I noticed his hand shook slightly. “I’m not sure your definition of ‘okay’ and mine are one and the same, Jonathan.”

  He smiled wanly. “Be that as it may, I’m fine.”

  “I’m not sure your definition of ‘fine’ and—”

  He raised his hand, cutting me off. “No ambulance.”

  I let out a frustrated breath. “You could have a head injury.”

  “My head is much too hard for that.”

  “In more ways than one,” I mused.

  Pepe said, “Perhaps a house call from Cherise Goodwin?”

  Jonathan looked at the little mouse as if just noticing he was there. “A good idea, Pepe.” He stood shakily, nodded to Archie as well, and said, “I will do just that.”

  “What happened?” I rose, too. “Did someone knock you out?”

  He laughed. “What? No. What makes you think so?”

  “I heard you arguing with someone,” I said, bluffing. I had no idea if he’d been one of the people in the disagreement, but hoped I could flush out the truth.

  His eyes narrowed, and he glanced around. “Overheard, you say?”

  Suddenly, I felt as though I’d done something terribly wrong. “Not what was said, per se.” Except that bit about the police never finding out. “Just voices raised in anger.”

  Slowly, he nodded. “I see.” After a beat, he added, “It was of no concern. Zoey and I were disagreeing about a business matter with the restaurant.”

  Ah. Zoey.

  Had she knocked him out? I gave him another once-over. Not a mark on the man, except for a few pebbles from the ground.

  By the stony set of his jaw, I knew I wasn’t going to get anything else out of him. I couldn’t help but wonder what “business matter” the police would be interested in. And if it had nothing to do with the restaurant at all, it meant he was lying to me.

  Why would he do that?

  Was he hiding something that hit a little closer to home?

  Like the murder of his ex-girlfriend?

  Pepe cleared his throat. “If I might inquire, why were you on the ground?”

  Inquisitiveness. Apparently, it was contagious.

  Swiping his forehead with a handkerchief, Jonathan said, “It must be the heat.”

  We all looked skyward. Sure, the sun was out, but it was a mild day. Skeptical, I looked back at him.

  “Or,” he said, shifting on his feet, “perhaps I’ve caught the same illness as your aunt. Is she feeling better?”

  Even though he truly looked ill, I could tell he was lying. His darting gaze and his fidgeting gave him away. But why? “Not really.”

  “That’s too bad. Well, it’s been nice to—”

  H
e was cut off by the shriek of a nearby siren’s wail. And another. They grew louder, closer.

  Had someone else seen Jonathan and called an ambulance?

  But no, the sirens passed the restaurant and soon faded into a faint bleat.

  I peeked down the street. “I wonder what’s going on.”

  “Leave it to me.” Archie flew off, circled above the restaurant, then came back in a hurry. “Two village police cars are racing down Incantation Circle. There looks to be something amiss at Patrice Keaton’s house.”

  All I could imagine was that someone had uncovered another dead body in the mess at Patrice’s.

  I hurriedly hobbled down the trail, emerged at the corner of the square, and rushed toward Patrice’s quaint blue house.

  Checking with Sylar about the wedding menu was going to have to wait a little bit longer.

  Ahead, in front of Patrice’s, I could see a crowd gathered and two village police cars (neither were Nick’s Bumblebee) with their lights flashing. Above me, I caught a flash of red as Archie and Pepe took in the scene from the sky.

  As I neared, I could hear someone shouting. I skirted the edge of the crowd and stood on my tiptoes to get a glimpse of what was going on.

  It was Elodie. And by the looks of the lawn and the sound of the yelling, she was in the middle of a hissy fit.

  I spotted Yvonne near the front of the crowd and worked my way through to her. “What’s going on?”

  Yvonne had her hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes. “Grief, I think.”

  I remembered what Elodie had said the night before, about how she’d already grieved. This, I thought, might be a manifestation of another stage. Anger.

  A pile of goods—boxes, a toaster, clothes, magazines, anything and everything—was mounded on the lawn. Elodie appeared in the doorway, shouted something about stupid, stupid records, and tossed another box out. Pristine LPs spilled out onto the grass.

  “Has anyone tried to stop her?” I asked, taking in the gawking crowd.

  “She won’t listen. We’re waiting for Connor to get here. She’ll listen to him.” Across the crowd, I saw a very hairy Roger Merrick talking to Glinda Hansel. She was taking notes. He was staring at me. I got the shivvies and looked away.

  “Does she have any friends we can call in the meantime?” I asked.

  “Not really,” Yvonne said. “Elodie is a lot like her mother was. Very private. She was close to Zoey Wilkens growing up, but Zoey has been so busy since getting married—they don’t see much of each other anymore.”

  Plus, I imagined it was hard to be friends with someone who was married to the person who broke your mother’s heart.

  Elodie stepped into the doorway, cursed a blue streak about pumpernickel, and tossed a boxed Cuisinart bread maker into the pile.

  “This is so sad,” Yvonne said.

  Elodie went back into the house. Through the open drapes I could see movement among the clutter mountains. I noticed that all the police tape had been removed from the door, the yard. Had Nick finished his investigation so soon? I would have thought that with all those boxes it would take forever to process everything.

  Another box came flying out. It split, and a dozen or so plastic bins fell out. Each looked to contain gems. Or maybe they were beads. It was hard to tell from this distance until one of the plastic lids popped open and dozens of opals rolled out, glistening in the sunshine. There had to be thousands of dollars’ worth of opals lying in the grass.

  I recalled what Elodie had said about her mother’s clutter. How there were treasures mixed in with the trash. She hadn’t been kidding.

  Suddenly the hair rose at the back of my neck again, and I could feel someone watching me. I glanced at Roger, but he had his back to me as he continued his conversation with Glinda.

  On tiptoes, I looked around as goose bumps rose on my arms. My gaze skipped from face to face. Some I recognized; some I didn’t. My eyes widened as I saw Vincent Paxton. He cautiously waved.

  I wasn’t sure what to make of him. Why was he being overtly friendly these days? There seemed to be no maliciousness in his eyes, and I felt no agitation when I looked at him. No one else seemed to be the least bit interested in me. Until…there. A man in the back of the crowd. I could see only part of his face—the rest was hidden by a woman in front of him. A tall man. With dark silver-streaked hair. As soon as I spotted him, he ducked away. But my goose bumps remained.

  I started to go after him, but Yvonne had latched on to my arm. “Here comes Connor,” she said, her voice tremulous.

  True enough, Connor sprinted down the street. He ignored the crowd, the police, his father. His sights were set on one person only. Elodie, who had emerged from the house with an armful of, of all things, wooden hangers.

  She was about to toss them when Connor shouted, “Elodie.”

  Frozen in place, she stared at her fiancé as he approached. He was breathing hard by the time he reached the bottom of the front steps.

  Elodie stood on the landing, staring down at him.

  “Elodie, baby,” he said softly. He held out his arms.

  Her bottom lip trembled and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Come on,” Connor coaxed.

  She dropped the hangers, rushed down the steps and into his arms. Where she burst into tears.

  “It’s okay,” he said, rubbing her back. He carefully led her back up the steps and into the house. Away from prying eyes.

  I had a lump in my throat the size of an orange. At least it felt that way. I was suddenly seven years old again, school clothes shopping with my less-than-enthused father and a newborn Harper. He was frazzled, and I knew he’d rather be anywhere else. I’d thrown a temper tantrum over not wanting his choice of a red plaid skirt. I’d cried, kicked, screamed.

  He let me. Then he gathered me in his arms and my anger dissolved into anguished sobs.

  Because he’d known it hadn’t been about the skirt at all.

  It had been about my mother not being there.

  I still had that skirt somewhere, packed away in a box in Ve’s garage. It had been one of the few times I’d felt my father and I were on the same wavelength. That he understood my grief. That I understood his.

  The air stirred around me, snapping me out of my memories. I turned and found Nick standing next to me, quietly watching.

  He reached out and gently touched my arm. “Are you okay?” he asked softly.

  I realized there were tears in my eyes. I quickly swiped them away. “Yeah.”

  He nodded. After a few seconds, he said, “Everything okay here now?”

  Yvonne said, “I hope so.”

  I thought she would have rushed right inside the house. I was impressed by her restraint, but noticed how she was fidgeting. It was killing her to stay out here.

  “I think everything will be fine now that Connor’s here,” I said.

  “Are there any leads on the case, Nick?” Yvonne asked pointedly. “I think it would help Elodie to know her mother’s killer is behind bars.”

  Nick’s dark eyes gave nothing away as he looked at her. “We’re working on it.”

  “Any clues in the house?” Yvonne asked. She was practically rubbing her hands together, looking for a juicy tidbit.

  “I can’t comment on an ongoing case, Mrs. Merrick.”

  She pouted.

  I was pouting inwardly, too. I wanted to know what Nick had learned.

  The crowd slowly dispersed, and as it did so, I noticed that Jonathan and Zoey stood across the street, holding hands, taking everything in.

  What had they been fighting about? What would the police never find out? What was wrong with Jonathan?

  I rubbed my temples. I was getting a headache.

  Suddenly, a man boomed, “Come to revisit the scene of your crime, Wilkens?”

  Next to me, Yvonne murmured, “Oh no.”

  Roger Merrick advanced on Jonathan, who didn’t budge an inch.

  I was impressed, because if I’
d seen Roger coming at me like that, I’d be sprinting down the street.

  Yvonne grabbed Nick’s arm and thrust him forward. “Stop him before he does something stupid.”

  Nick darted off.

  I rubbed my arms, still feeling like someone was watching me with malicious intent. I glanced around again. There weren’t many people left. The police officers, Yvonne, Roger, Jonathan, Zoey, and Connor and Elodie in the house. I scanned the woods, but didn’t see anyone.

  A flash of orange caught my eye, and I saw the tabby cat peeking out from under a front bush. It blinked at me lazily, and I wondered if it lived nearby. I wondered, too, if it was a familiar—but there was no way of knowing on sight. The animal would have to speak for me to be sure.

  “Have you come to confess?” Roger shouted.

  Nick jumped in front of him just before he reached Jonathan, sandwiching himself in between the two men.

  Jonathan tucked Zoey behind him. Her eyes were wide and frightened.

  Yvonne and I inched closer as Glinda ran over, her hand on her gun, and motioned for Zoey to come to her. She went to Glinda’s side, and they looked almost identical from behind except for the clothing. Same height, same hair color. I’d take them for sisters, except from the front they looked absolutely nothing alike. Glinda was angelically pretty, while Zoey was what some would call a plain Jane. With her unusual looks, if she was about a foot taller, she would be on runways in Paris where couture models weren’t necessarily the prettiest but rather striking and memorable. But here in the Enchanted Village, she blended in. Especially next to the striking Glinda.

  “You’re demented,” Jonathan said. He hadn’t shouted it, which seemed to make Roger more angry.

  Roger strained against Nick’s outstretched arms. “You deny your role in her death?”

  “Her death,” Jonathan said calmly, “was not at my hands.”

  “That’s not what I said,” Roger growled.

  Nick seemed inclined to let them keep talking—as long as it didn’t become physical.

  “Perhaps, Roger, you doth protest too much.” Jonathan took a step closer to the furry beast. He no longer seemed like an ill man, but one who had the strength of ten men. “A reflection of your own guilt in this situation?”