A Witch Before Dying: A Wishcraft Mystery

by Heather Blake

  Over Sylar’s shoulder, Dorothy and her white-blond hair could be seen peering out at us. I lifted my eyebrows.

  Sylar followed my gaze. “The morning off. Morning! My apologies. The break-in has me rattled.”

  I was about to protest the words “break-in” when Nick touched my elbow. “So we’re all good here?”

  Sylar clapped him on the shoulder. “Seems so. Nothing is missing from the shop, and I’ll go call Ve right this moment. Thanks for coming so quickly, Nick. It’s nice to have someone competent on the job.” He turned to go.

  “Wait!” I cried.

  He turned around, a bit of panic in his eyes. “Yes, Darcy?”

  “The menu.” I passed it to him.

  He lowered his glasses to the end of his nose and peered at the paper. “Good. Very good. I approve.”

  I bet he did. There could have been mud cakes on that menu and he would have said it was fine. He just wanted to be away from us as soon as humanly possible.

  He thrust the menu back at me and retreated into the shop, leaving the CLOSED sign still hanging on the door as it slammed closed.

  Nick smiled his half smile. “Any reason you gave him the grand inquisition?”

  “Promise not to tell?” I said.

  This time he fully smiled. “Cross my heart.”

  “Sylar neglected to mention that he was playing tonsil hockey with Dorothy behind the shop.” I shuddered at the memory. Some things a girl just didn’t need to see. “He hadn’t been to the doctor at all—he’d been on a walk with her.”

  Nick’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. And that’s not all. There are shredded wedding invitations in the trash. And I don’t know if they’re extras or if the invitations were never mailed in the first place.”

  Nick held up a hand. “Do I want to know why you were snooping in his trash?”

  “It wasn’t snooping. It…it’s a long story. And doesn’t really matter.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “So Sylar is cheating on Ve?”

  “I don’t know if I’d say that. It looks like Dorothy has her sights set on him, though, and he…he’s just weak. Men. Sheesh.”

  He elbowed me. “Hey. Not all men.”

  Suddenly, I felt bashful myself. “You’ll have to convince me of that.”

  He held my gaze. “Maybe I will.”

  My heart was pounding. In a good way.

  “Do you,” he began, but was cut off by his radio. He gave a little shake of his head. “It’s been one of those days.”

  Didn’t I know it.

  “Sawyer here,” he said into his walkie-talkie thingy.

  A voice crackled. “Chief, they need you back at the Keaton house.”

  Nick winced as he asked, “Why?”

  “Report of a robbery.”

  “Be right there,” he answered. To me, he said, “I’ve got to go.”

  “I heard. I’m on my way back there, too.”

  He stepped off the curb. “Guess I’ll see you there.”

  “Guess so.” I rocked on my heels.

  He opened his car door, then looked up at me with that half smile. “Do you want a ride?”

  I smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  On the two-minute drive to Patrice’s house, I called Ve to let her know that Sylar was in fact safe and sound.

  For how long he remained that way was to be determined.

  When Ve found out about what had happened with Dorothy, there was going to be hell to pay.

  I was beginning to think that I shouldn’t tell her…just so there wouldn’t be another murder in the village anytime soon.

  On the phone, Ve sounded relieved to hear the news but somewhat distant. Distracted.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Watching reality TV,” she said. “It’s really quite compelling.”

  I smiled at the thought of her watching some of the more outrageous programs. “I’ll be at the Keaton house for a while. There was a bit of an incident there this morning.”

  Nick cast me a sideways smirk.

  Okay, “a bit” might have been an understatement.

  “I heard.” She tsked. “That poor girl.”

  That’s right—Mrs. P had been with her when I called for help. I told Ve I’d check on her in a while and hung up as Nick parked near Patrice’s house.

  Mrs. P was marching around in her bright pink tracksuit, her hands in the air as if calling for help from the heavens. Elodie and Yvonne sat on the front steps, in almost identical positions. Elodie had her elbows propped on her knees and her head in her hand as she stared forlornly at the lawn. Yvonne had only one elbow on her knee, her hand cupping her chin.

  Mrs. P came to an abrupt stop. “One minute they’re here, the next they’re gone. Couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds that I was in the house.”

  Nick said, “Slow down. What’s gone?”

  “The opals!” Mrs. P said as if we should have known.

  “This is all my fault,” Elodie murmured.

  “Now, now.” Yvonne patted Elodie’s knee. “It’s no one’s fault but the thief’s.”

  Elodie’s hair was mussed, sticking out in lumps and bumps. “We all know who the thief is.”

  “You do?” I asked.

  Nick stepped forward. “Who?”

  “Andreus Woodshall, of course,” Elodie said. “Who else?”

  Mrs. P shivered.

  So did I. The man’s name was popping up with alarming frequency.

  “We don’t know that for certain,” Yvonne said, stretching out her legs.

  Elodie threw her a “be serious” look. “Who else would it be?”

  Yvonne pondered for a moment. “Perhaps you’re right. It was Andreus.”

  Nick looked like he needed a stiff drink. Or a nap. Or both. “Did any of you see him take the opals?”

  All three women shook their heads.

  “Then how can you be sure?” Nick asked.

  Completely serious, Elodie asked, “Who else would it be?”

  I felt like we were talking in circles. I was starting to get dizzy.

  “Maybe you should talk me through what happened,” Nick said.

  Mrs. P said, “I was out here, separating piles. Trash from treasure. Elodie and Yvonne were in the house.” Her voice rose. “I heard a crash from the backyard.”

  “We heard it, too,” Yvonne piped in.

  “So I went a’running. Well”—Mrs. P grinned—“a’fast-walkin’.”

  Which, despite her age, was pretty fast.

  “A flowerpot had been knocked over on the back deck. By the time we got that sorted out and I came back out front, the box of opals was gone.”

  “Just the opals?” Nick asked.

  Mrs. P nodded firmly. “Just.”

  “Which proves that it was Andreus,” Elodie said. She glanced at Yvonne. “He’s not usually so careless. He should have taken some of the other gems, too, just to throw off some suspicion.”

  My head was starting to spin. I sat on the grass.

  Yvonne nodded in agreement. “Sloppy. But desperate times—”

  Nick coughed. “Ladies.”

  They all looked at him.

  “Perhaps a little more clarification?” He had a pencil poised on a notepad. “What’s this about desperate times?”

  “And what do you mean by usually?” I asked. “He’s broken in before?”

  Yvonne said, “Andreus is desperate to get his hands on the Anicula.”

  “And since we’ve had several break-ins over the past eighteen months—whenever the Roving Stones are in town—we assume it’s Andreus. He doesn’t usually take anything, though. He’s just looking for the Anicula.”

  I looked at Yvonne. “So yesterday when we found the front door broken…”

  She shrugged. “I assumed it was Andreus again.”

  That would have been nice to know yesterday. But then again, there hadn’t really been any time to di
scuss the break-in after Patrice’s body had been found.

  “The Anic what?” Nick asked.

  “The Anicula,” I said. “It’s a magical amulet that grants wishes to its owner.” My mind kept replaying Elodie’s statement—the one where she said he breaks in but doesn’t take anything. Could he be the Peeper Creeper?

  Nick went a little pale and looked like he wanted to sit down, too, but resisted. “Amulet?”

  “Actually,” Elodie said, correcting me, “it doesn’t have to be its owner. It will grant wishes to whoever is within its immediate proximity. About six inches.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Yvonne said.

  Elodie glanced at her. “Not many people do. And technically…”

  “What?” Nick asked as if he didn’t really want to know.

  “It’s not an amulet.”

  “It’s not?” Yvonne and I asked at the same time.

  Elodie shook her head. “At one time it was, but then it became too recognizable and was dismantled. Now it’s just a solitary shaped gemstone awaiting a new setting.”

  “Who dismantled it?” Yvonne asked.

  She seemed a little overeager to know, if you asked me.

  “My father,” Elodie said. “A long, long time ago.”

  Nick rubbed the spot between his eyebrows and cut her off. “What does this have to do with the robbery today?” His eyes widened. “Let me guess. The stone is an opal.”

  I drew in a breath. “A black opal?”

  “How’d you know?” Elodie asked.

  “I was at Upala this morning and there were a lot of black opals.”

  “Andreus collects them,” Elodie said, “in hopes that one might just be the magical Anicula.”

  But that made no sense. “Why so many when he knows what he’s looking for?”

  Elodie stretched her legs. “But he doesn’t. He doesn’t know what the Anicula looks like.”

  Well, there blew my plans to ask him about its appearance.

  “How is that possible?” I asked. “Didn’t his family create it?”

  “Long before he was born. Generations,” Elodie said. “He knows the Anicula is a black opal. He knew my mother owned it. When he learned it was stolen, he slowly began acquiring as many black opals as he could, hoping that eventually he’d stumble across the right one.”

  “Then why break in here?” Mrs. P asked. “Why take the opals that were on the grass?”

  Elodie sighed. “Because a part of him doesn’t believe it was stolen. He thinks my mother has it hidden inside the house.”

  Nick said, “The Anicula was stolen? When?”

  “Six months before my mother died,” Elodie said.

  “So,” he said, “as of right now, no one knows where the Anicula is?”

  We all nodded.

  He shook his head in disbelief. “But it is an opal?”

  “It is,” Elodie affirmed. “Did you know that Upala means opal in”—she glanced at Yvonne—“Greek?”

  “Latin,” she said.

  “What does the Anicula opal look like?” Yvonne asked. “Is it big? Little?”

  I eyed her. She was definitely fishing for information. Was she after the Anicula for herself?

  Elodie’s eyes took on a distant look, as if she were remembering something specific from her past. “The last time I saw it, I was little, maybe four or five. But I’ll never forget that day, holding that stone in my hand.” Her voice grew strong. “Feeling the power, even though the opal wasn’t very big.” Her tone shifted, and now it was filled with sorrow. “The Anicula is shaped like a small teardrop. Because, my father said, it brought so much pain to those who abused it.”

  She hadn’t seen the Anicula in twenty years? That didn’t make sense. “I thought your mom wore the Anicula every day,” I said.

  “She did,” Elodie answered. “Tucked inside a velvet pouch.”

  Ah, that made more sense.

  I bit my lip. Most people would think that endless wishes would be a good thing, a great thing. But with that power came responsibility. And that responsibility could turn into something depressive—or egomaniacal.

  I, for one, was very glad my powers were limited.

  “Is it possible the Anicula stone was in with the opals that were stolen?” I asked.

  Mrs. P said, “There weren’t any tear-shaped stones that I saw—most of them were round—so I think it’s safe to say it wasn’t there.”

  Thank goodness.

  “You’ll go talk to Andreus?” Yvonne asked Nick.

  “Yes, I’ll question him. But without an eyewitness or his confession, it doesn’t look good for getting those stones back.”

  Elodie said, “I don’t care about the stones. Or the Anicula. I hate that stone. If he finds it, he can keep it. I never want to see it again.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The mess Elodie had made outside was nothing in comparison to what I discovered inside the house. I hadn’t thought it could be much worse than it had been the day before, but Nick and his team had gone through every box—and left the contents to fall where they may.

  Nick’s team had confiscated the suitcase that Patrice had been found in, but given the time that had elapsed between Patrice disappearing and finding her body—there was little hope that any evidence remained.

  Mrs. P said, “Ve seemed to be feeling a bit better by the time I left her earlier. Could be my presence cheered her right up.”

  “Or you scared the virus right out of her,” Evan joked.

  He had come over to help clean. Unlike Harper and Starla, he had employees to cover the shop when he wasn’t there.

  Mrs. P cackled and gave him a hearty shove. “Oh, you. It was probably the soup. It has healing powers.”

  “Really?” I hoped I didn’t sound naive. It was hard to know what was magical in this village and what wasn’t.

  She winked. “Or it could be the bottle of vodka I brought along.”

  I pushed a box aside to make room for another. Shocked, I said, “You got Ve drunk?”

  “Just a little tipsy.” She sorted through a pile of clothes. “Just enough for her to forget how sick she was feeling.”

  “Until tomorrow when the hangover hits.” Evan would be mortified to know he had a fine sheen of dust covering his reddish blond ’do.

  I was going to have to ply Ve with as much ibuprofen as she could take.

  “Until then,” Mrs. P said, “there’s today. By the time I left, Ve was looking like her old self.”

  “Fit as a fiddle?” I asked, thinking of Sylar and Dorothy in their steamy embrace.

  Mrs. P snapped her fingers. “Exactly.”

  Ve and Sylar’s wedding was Sunday afternoon. The ceremony was to take place on the village green (the Roving Stones would be gone by then), in front of all Ve and Sylar’s friends and family.

  My stomach hurt thinking about it. Was Ve saying “I do” a big mistake?

  True enough, I wasn’t that fond of Sylar. He was a nice man, but I wasn’t sure he was right for Ve. From what I’d seen over the last couple of months, she put more into the relationship than he did. Lots of take and no give on his part.

  I’d been in a similar relationship and it hadn’t turned out well.

  But I had to keep my feelings to myself. Ve was happy and that was all that mattered.

  She was happy, wasn’t she?

  As I made another trip outside to gather an armload of clutter, I thought about what Cherise had said yesterday. Was Ve’s illness a psychological manifestation of her misgivings about marrying Sylar? If vodka could cure her ailments, even temporarily, it would seem likely.

  At this point, I wanted to believe it.

  The other choices weren’t so great.

  Either another Crafter’s recantation spell was counteracting Cherise’s curing spell, or something evil was at work.

  Mental problems had never looked so good.

  No matter what, I was glad Ve was feeling a little better. She was go
ing to need her strength when she found out about Dorothy.

  And I had to tell her. Didn’t I?

  I was debating that when I caught a flash of orange in the bushes. Bending down, I made kissy noises to the tabby and duck-walked closer. The cat’s golden eyes watched me warily. It wore no collar and gave me a hard stare. Suddenly, it bolted and disappeared around the back of the house. If it was a stray, it obviously lived around here somewhere. And if it was a familiar, it wanted to be left alone.

  As I carried another box inside, I was still thinking about Ve and decided to get a little advice from my friends. “Hypothetically, if you two knew a secret that might hurt someone but felt that person should know what’s going on around her, would you tell?”

  “Yes,” Evan said.

  “No.” Mrs. P’s crazy hair didn’t budge as she shook her head.

  I looked between them.

  “What kind of secret?” Evan asked, his eyebrows waggling. “What do you know about whom? Share!”

  “Hypothetically,” I said.

  “Yeah, right.” He tossed a bunch of old newspaper into a black trash bag.

  “I say stay out of it,” Mrs. P said. “The odds of you being caught in the crossfire are too great. Let the people involved work it out themselves.”

  I bit my lip. “What if I said I saw a certain optician’s assistant kiss a certain optician behind his shop just days before he was due to be married?”

  “Oh my goodness,” Mrs. P cried. “You have to tell Ve!”

  “Wait, wait.” Evan held up his hands. “Are we still being hypothetical?”

  I threw him a withering glance.

  He grinned, delighted with this bit of gossip. “Are you saying Dorothy Hansel planted a big one on Sylar?”

  I nodded, wishing I could banish the image from my mind.

  “Did Sylar initiate it?” Evan asked.

  “Not really. But he didn’t exactly push her away.”

  Mrs. P cackled. She had a spot of bright red lipstick on her tooth. “Oh, honey, he’s a man, after all.”

  Evan frowned. “I don’t think you should tell Ve, then. Not yet, at least. Sounds to me like Dorothy is just stirring up trouble. She’s had a thing for Sylar for years. She’s probably desperate to stop the wedding.”

  “Do you think Sylar has a thing for her?” I asked, picking a dust bunny off Evan’s shoulder.