“Certainly.”
I pressed the HOLD button on the phone and hurried to the stairs. Ve was coming down them.
“Ve,” I said.
“Yes, dear?”
“Did you put a stop payment order on Hot Rod’s check?”
Her cheeks immediately flamed. “I may have.”
“Oh, Ve. Why?”
“Did I mention that he was cute?”
I groaned. “He’s on the phone, looking for an explanation.”
“Let me handle this, Darcy, dear.”
Ve brushed past me, practically sashaying.
I followed her. She picked up the phone and said, “Rodney, this is Ve Devaney. I understand there’s a problem?” She listened for a moment. “I am not sure how such a mix-up was made. I’m so very sorry,” she purred. “We must rectify this error at once. Would it be possible for you to stop by the office later today? I’ll gladly cut you another check—or pay you in cash, if you prefer.”
Oh, she was good. Very good.
“Wonderful! I’ll see you then. Good-bye.”
Her smile was wide and triumphant as she turned to face me.
I clapped.
She bowed.
“Any word about Tilda?” I asked.
“Not a thing. I’m sure she’ll turn up soon.” She hurriedly brushed past me.
“Do you know something about Tilda, Ve?”
“What? No. Of course not. I just have faith. You should, too, Darcy.”
Hmm. Ve was up to something.
I heard footsteps on the stairs and turned. Amy, without her cloak and without a glow, was coming down the steps with Missy in her arms, and for a moment, I was stunned silent.
“I know,” Amy said. “It shocked me, too.”
“Wh-what happened?” The bright light was gone, but her hair had turned a shocking blond color—the palest platinum. Her eyebrows, too. She looked like a moon goddess out of a mythology book.
Ve said, “An external manifestation of her grief.”
As if the glow hadn’t been enough.
But it was a sight better than the black-dyed hair she’d had before. “I kind of like it.”
“Me, too,” Amy said.
“I was about to make soup,” I said. “You want some?”
She nodded and Ve gave her an encouraging smile, then disappeared back upstairs.
To continue her conversation with the mystery woman?
As I set about making lunch, I couldn’t help but think back to the conversation I’d overheard. About how Amy had a power someone would kill for.
It had to be about the spell, the black flowers—and being an Illumicrafter.
I just couldn’t piece it together. Not enough information.
Amy sat on the stool, and her bare foot swung back and forth. I caught a peek of color on her foot. A tattoo. “What is that?” I squinted.
She smiled. “A trout.”
“A what?” I leaned down to get a better look.
“A trout.”
Sure enough, it was a trout. I laughed. “Why?”
“Silly joke with Fisk. His name means ‘fish.’ I think it’s cute.”
Ah, young love.
“I thought the fish was a better choice than getting his named tattooed, just in case things don’t work out. I mean, I’m only nineteen. It’s not likely to work out.”
I shrugged. “You never know.” The soup came to a simmer. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why did you dye your hair black in the first place?”
“Ah,” she said. “You think Fisk made me do it.”
“I heard a rumor,” I admitted. “About that, and failing grades . . .”
“It wasn’t Fisk. It was me. I’m just trying to find myself, you know?”
“It took me thirty years,” I said as I set out three bowls and a sleeve of crackers. “And how does Fisk fit into finding yourself?”
“He . . .”
Her face softened, and her eyes turned dewy. Definitely young love.
“He lets me be me. No judgments. No criticisms. He’s sweet and kind and tries in all kinds of little ways to make my life better. He drives me to school so I don’t have to spend hours on public transportation. He gets me my favorite drink from the Witch’s Brew every morning. He’s tolerant when I want to browse bookstores and museums for hours on end, even though those aren’t things he’s into.”
Heck, after hearing that, I wanted to set him up with Harper. “He sounds like a keeper.”
“Do the police really think he had something to do with Michael’s death?” she asked.
I ladled the soup. “Right now they just want to ask some questions. Because he might have information about who did do it. Do you recall anything more about Fisk and Michael’s fight?”
She shook her head. “Not really. I arrived at the tail end of it. They were both so angry with each other. Shouting about what was right and wrong and the moon and Harriette. It was all so confusing. I just wanted them to stop yelling.”
“Harriette?” This was new information.
She nodded. “Fisk had just come from seeing his grandmother at the Elysian Fields, and Michael wasn’t happy about it.”
Wait a sec. Trista had said Fisk didn’t have a relationship with Harriette. “Why did Fisk go see her?”
Something flickered in her eyes, and I had the feeling she revealed something she hadn’t wanted to.
“I’m not sure. He’s been spending time with her lately. I don’t think Michael liked it.”
Whump-whump-whump-whump.
No, apparently Michael didn’t. Fisk’s mother wasn’t going to like it, either, if she found out.
As I dished out the soup, I suddenly found myself thinking about that conversation I overheard between Ve and the mystery woman. About how the woman had failed Michael. And how Amy needed protecting from a power she held within.
I studied Amy as she delicately sipped soup from her spoon.
What power?
As I watched, she flickered. I blinked at the blinding light, and the answer hit me.
Her power was her glow.
The Witching Hour spell could only be cast by an Illumicrafter.
I failed him by not realizing the extent of the danger he was in. I will not fail the girl as well.
The woman’s voice haunted my thoughts and sent my mind churning.
Suddenly, without a doubt, I realized a big truth.
Ve had been speaking to the Elder.
Chapter Nineteen
During lunch I figured out what I needed to do.
I had to talk to the Elder.
If I was going to determine who killed Michael, then I needed to have all the information I could. I just hoped she’d give it to me.
I let Ve know I was going to fish some belongings out of the garage, and I left Missy cuddling with Amy. Michael, too, had stayed inside.
I was happy to see that Archie wasn’t entertaining a group of tourists. One of his bright tail feathers had floated to the ground. I picked it up and twirled it as I moseyed over to his cage. “‘This feather may seem worthless. But it carries with it all my good intentions.’”
He crossed his wings over his chest, tapped his head, then his chin. “You’ve stumped me. I’ve been defeated. I shall never work in this business again.”
“The Joy Luck Club,” I said, enjoying the way he carried on.
He grabbed his heart and fell backward onto the floor of his cage as if mortally wounded. Closing his eyes, he coughed and sputtered a few times. “I shall never recover.”
“Well, that’s too bad, because I need to send a message to the Elder. I suppose I can have Pepe do it. . . .”
He leapt up and brushed himself off. “Don’t you dare!” He hopped closer to me. “Why do you want to see the Elder?”
“I have some questions for her about Michael Healey’s death, and I think she has some answers I need.”
He nodded. “I shall
go at once.”
“Whoa, hold on there, my little feathered friend. There’s something I want to ask you.”
His beady black eyes narrowed. “Like what?”
“Like, do you know who Starla’s secret admirer is?”
“Of course!” He primped and preened.
I leaned in. “Who is it?”
“I cannot say.”
Groaning, I said, “Why?”
“It ruins the joy of the surprise, no?”
“But what about the Beast part of his latest clue? Is he a beast? What’s wrong with him? Is he destined to break her heart?”
“‘Hearts will never be practical until they can be made unbreakable.’”
“That doesn’t help me.” I leaned on the fence. “The Wizard of Oz, by the way.”
“Curse you!” he cried. “I’m going to see the Elder now. My shame and I.” He nudged open his cage door and flew out.
“Tell her I said hi!”
He made a sound like a big wet raspberry and flew out of sight.
I watched him head off over the woods behind the house.
Thinking about Michael and Amy made my stomach hurt as I struggled to put the pieces together. For a change, I couldn’t wait to speak to the Elder.
Shivering, I turned my sights to the garage and my quest to find a winter coat. I went in the side door and was glad to see that the organization I’d done over the summer still remained. Ve hadn’t had a chance to blow through and mess everything up again—yet.
The stuff I’d brought with me from Ohio was stacked neatly on one side of the spacious garage. There were dozens of boxes containing everything from clothes to Troy’s favorite Little League uniform shirt (that I’d denied I had). Pots, pans. Books and knickknacks.
I went immediately to the container I’d labeled WINTER OUTERWEAR, opened it, and pulled out my favorite dark red wool coat. It would need to be dry-cleaned, so I made a mental note to drop it off Monday morning.
I was about to head back into the house when I spotted a plastic tub labeled PERSONAL.
I debated opening it. Most often trips down my memory lane were draining, and I was already feeling emotionally raw, but I couldn’t resist the allure of that box—the allure of peeking at my past. It was a nice diversion from all that was going on around me.
I dragged the box out of its corner and dusted the top. Across the garage, I found a folding chair, cleaned off the seat, and sat down. I opened the tub’s lid and just sat and stared at the contents for a good long minute. My heartbeat had kicked up a notch, and I had to wipe my hands on my pants to rid my palms of moisture.
It was amazing that this one box held so many of my little treasures. My first spelling bee ribbon, a lock of my baby hair. My baby book that only had entries till I was seven, because my father hadn’t thought to keep it up after my mother died. My first fake driver’s license, needed because the state of Ohio refused to give me one because my picture never turned out. Ah, if only I’d known then the reason behind why. Most people had fake licenses with other people’s information on it. Mine had all the proper information, but someone else’s picture. She could be a doppelganger she looked so much like me. Enough to fool anyone at first glance, anyway. I moved aside some of my treasured childhood books, digging past worn copies of Watership Down and Little Women.
I kept digging. There was one thing in particular I was looking for. The one thing that could always comfort me, no matter my emotional state. And right now, I needed a little comforting. I shifted papers and set aside trinkets. Finally, at the bottom of the box was the treasure I sought.
A sketch pad. I lifted the cover and inhaled softly at the images on the paper. I bit the inside of my cheek as I flipped through pages, holding in tears as I looked at the images on the page.
Images of my mother.
I ran my finger along the colored pencil drawings as if I could actually touch my mother’s soft skin.
It was her death that had prompted me to learn how to draw. We’d had no pictures of her in the house at all (of course). My pictures had been pretty terrible when I was only seven. But as I got older, my hand became steadier, and my talent became a way to keep my mother alive.
By the end of high school, I’d filled this sketchbook with images of her. A tear slid down my cheek, and I wiped it away.
I heard a creak and looked up to find Mimi poking her head in the door. “Aunt Ve said to let you know that my dad is on his way over. What’re you doing? Are you crying? Why’re you crying?”
I smiled. Mimi reminded me a lot of Harper.
“I’m just looking at my mom.” I sniffled. “I miss her.”
She left the door open as she came inside. “Your mom? How?”
I held up the sketch pad.
Mimi came running over. “Can I see?” she asked, scooting close to me.
I handed her the book and watched as she flipped pages. Her eyes grew bigger and bigger with each image. She glanced up at me, confusion etched on her face.
“Why is her face different in every picture? In some of these she has your eyes and Harper’s smile. But in others she has Harper’s eyes and your smile.”
I blinked away tears, and my heart ached at the sad truth of the matter. “I couldn’t quite remember her face. It was fuzzy, going in and out of focus, so I drew different versions of her. And even though none of them is an exact replica, they’re close enough that looking at them brings me peace.”
Mimi’s brown eyes immediately filled with tears. “You drew these? Wow,” she breathed, making me feel as if I were Monet. “I wish I could draw.”
She continued to flip through the pages, and as she did so, her bottom lip started to tremble.
I put my arm around her. “Mimi, what’s wrong?”
A tear spilled from her eye and snaked down to her chin. “Am I going to forget what my mom looked like, too? I know my heart will never forget her, but . . .”
“You were older than I was when my mom died. Your memories are stronger.”
She sniffled and nodded, but I could tell she was still worried.
Melina Sawyer had died two years ago, and as a Wishcrafter she couldn’t be photographed, either. Though she had renounced her Craft to marry a mortal, she had still retained all the Wishcraft quirks. Such as no pictures.
On a whim, I said, “Grab a chair.” Rummaging around in my bin, I came out with an additional sketchbook that still had some blank pages and a pack of charcoal pencils.
Mimi set her chair next to mine, so close our knees touched. Her eyes were bright with tears. “How can you draw her when you never met her?”
Dust mites floated on the weak light coming through the window. “I don’t need to meet her. I’ve met you. You’re all I need.”
“Really?”
“It may take some trial and error, but I’m willing to put the effort in if you’re willing.”
“I’m willing!”
“Okay, close your eyes. Picture your mom. A happy memory. Maybe one where she’s laughing.”
Mimi’s chin quivered and it was all I could do not to put my arms around her and hold her tight. I knew what she was experiencing.
“Do you see her?” I asked.
Mimi nodded.
“What shape face does she have? Is it the same as yours? Or more like mine? Or Harper’s?”
“Mine,” she said, “but her chin is a little bit bigger.”
I sketched an oval face with a generous chin. “Her eyes? Like yours?”
“The same shape but hers were smaller. Closer together.”
“Light or dark eyes?”
“Dark,” Mimi said. “Like mine and Dad’s.”
I shaded in irises and asked, “Her nose?”
“Like mine. Long and straight, though hers fit her face and mine’s too big.”
“It is not too big,” I said, nudging her with my elbow. “It’s perfect.”
Time was lost as we sat together, piecing together an image of a woman I
would never know, but to whom I’d always feel grateful. If not for her, her life, her Craft, Nick and Mimi would not be in my life.
We’d covered just about everything but her hair, and already the image on the paper before me revealed a beautiful woman. “Was your mom’s hair curly like yours? Or straight like mine?”
“It was like yours,” Mimi said. “But shorter. Just below her shoulders. I get my curls from my dad’s side of the family.”
I smiled as I drew in hair. “Did she part her hair in the middle? On the side? Did she have bangs?” I realized as I asked that Melina had probably been bald when she died. She had passed so quickly that I doubted her hair had time to regrow after the failed chemotherapy treatments. But as Mimi didn’t mention anything about baldness or a head scarf, I had a feeling the image of her mother she had conjured had come before Melina’s diagnosis.
“On the side, the left side,” Mimi said.
I held the sketch pad at arm’s length. “I think it’s ready. You can open your eyes.”
Mimi’s eyelashes fluttered, and she blinked to focus on the pad. Her chin quivered again, and tears sprang to her eyes. “Her eyelashes were a little longer,” she said thickly.
I sketched in longer lashes.
“And her lips . . . They curved more at the ends, like she was always smiling. And she had a dimple. I forgot her dimple.”
“Which side?” I asked.
“Right,” Mimi said, pointing to her own cheek.
“Here?” I asked, poising the pencil.
“A little lower. There! There!”
I sketched in a dimple, gave it some shading. The tears in Mimi’s eyes spilled over, and she suddenly bounded out of her chair and threw her arms around me. I set the pad down, settled her on my lap, and held her close.
“Thank you,” she said into my ear.
“You’re welcome,” I whispered.
“You . . . gave me back my mom.”
I could feel her tears seeping into the back of my shirt.
“No,” I said, rubbing her back. “I didn’t. Your mom’s always been with you, Mimi. You just shared her with me, that’s all.”
I heard a sound and looked up to find Nick standing in the doorway and Missy sitting at his feet. I hadn’t heard them come in and wondered how long they’d been standing there.
The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy: A Wishcraft Mystery Page 16