The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy: A Wishcraft Mystery

by Heather Blake

  Whump-whump-whump.

  “See what happens when you hang around with me? It’s a glamorous life, being up close and personal to dirt and trash,” I said to him. “Next time you might want to imprint on someone else.”

  He flashed twice. No.

  “Aww,” I whispered. And suddenly, I teared up. Right there in the alley, behind the Dumpsters, and it wasn’t from the horrible sour smell. Suddenly, I realized I was going to miss Michael when he finally moved on.

  Letting out a breath, I sat on my haunches. Tried to catch my breath. Control the tears. Keep in check the grief that I’d been holding in since seeing a bloody sock on a path two nights ago.

  I felt a hot nudge on my arm.

  “I’m okay,” I said, trying to keep it together.

  No.

  “Are you calling me a liar?” I teased.

  Yes.

  “I just . . . I just realized that I’ve kind of grown used to your being with me, that’s all. And that when you’re gone . . . you’re really gone. No more seeing you at the bakery. No more extra cake pops. No more big smile.” My eyes stung and welled with tears. “I’m . . . sad.”

  Yes.

  “You, too?” I asked.

  Yes.

  “You’ll be happier when you move on,” I said. “And when you’re not hanging around with me.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You will,” I reassured him. I flicked a pebble. “Are you scared?”

  Yes.

  “Do you think you’ll become a familiar?”

  He didn’t answer.

  I translated his lack of response as uncertainty. “I wish I could give you a hug.”

  Suddenly, I felt warmth drape over the back of my neck and felt a tug. After a minute, he let go.

  I supposed it was time I did, too.

  “Thank you,” I said softly. I sniffled and pulled myself together. “Are you ready to find out who did this to you?”

  Yes.

  “Okay, then. Try to stay quiet, will you?” I said with a sad smile as I crept along the fence line. “You’re so darn loud. Sheesh.”

  He gave me a playful push.

  I didn’t even mind.

  I let out a deep breath and dashed to the next Dumpster, ducking behind it. As I neared the back door to the Black Thorn, I watched as Willard once again came outside, went to the backseat of the car, and carried something back into the shop.

  “I can’t see what he’s carrying. Can you?” I whispered. Amy’s invisibility cloak would be really handy right now.

  No.

  “I’m going closer.”

  No.

  “I have to.”

  I didn’t wait for him to argue. I duck-walked as quickly as my thighs could tolerate to the side of the car. I pressed my back against the passenger door panel and slowly rose up. I whipped around to peek into the car.

  There was nothing amiss in the front seats—no black rosebush buckled in place or anything that incriminating. Except . . . I squinted. Something was sticking out from beneath the front seat. I threw a glance at the back door of the shop. It was closed.

  My heart beat in my throat as I lifted the door handle. I felt it give and let out a breath of relief. I gently eased it open—just far enough for me to reach a hand inside.

  Whump-whump-whump.

  I was already nervous enough without his anxiety added in. I finally grasped what I’d been looking for and pulled it out. I carefully closed the car door, so the map light would go out. Then I stared at what was in my hand, and my adrenaline kicked up a notch.

  It was a fake beard, the kind Santa might wear. Or a homicidal wizard. I realized I was holding a big clue—evidence that Willard had been the wizard who shot Bertie and tried to kill Ophelia.

  I heard the door to the shop swing open, and I froze, barely daring to breathe. He still had a gun. He hadn’t thought twice about shooting Bertie, and if he found me here, he wouldn’t think twice about shooting me. Especially not after this morning, when I seemed to get on his last nerve.

  The driver’s side back door of the car opened, and I could hear Willard grunt. The door then slammed shut, and I heard footsteps shuffle away.

  I let out a breath. I tucked the fake beard into my shirt and lifted myself up again to peer in the backseat. What I saw threw me for a loop.

  Roses. Dozens of them. A few lilies, too, but not many.

  My mind spun.

  It was still spinning when the back door of the shop opened and Willard came back out. He stopped short, taking in my deer-in-the-headlights expression. “Darcy?” he said.

  I slowly stood, felt my knees wobble, and leaned on the car. “Hi,” I said.

  “What are you doing here? Explain yourself right this instant.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  What was I doing here? I was freaking out, that was what. “I—uh . . .”

  I could barely focus. My mind churned.

  I thought about what Harper had said earlier: Maybe this is more like And Then There Were None.

  She’d been right. She’d been so right. Because all I kept hearing in my head, as if it were stuck on repeat, was a snippet of conversation from earlier today.

  I’ll bring some of Bertie’s lilies by your shop later on my way home. Maybe by then Harriette will come to her senses, and I’ll bring roses, too.

  Surely Harper would gloat when she found out.

  “This isn’t your car, is it?” I said to Willard.

  “No.” He gave me an odd look. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Pop the trunk.”

  “Pardon?” he said.

  “Quick! Pop open the trunk.”

  He hesitated.

  “Do it!” I said in a harsh whisper.

  My tone snapped him into action. He pulled open the driver’s door and released the latch for the trunk. He met me there as I lifted it up.

  In the trunk, nestled in a box, was a black rosebush.

  Willard gasped. “Is that . . .”

  “Yes,” I said. “It is.”

  I pulled out my phone and dialed 9-1-1. I’d just pushed the last digit when the back door of the shop opened. Imogene came strolling out, chatting with Lydia. I quickly slipped my phone back into my pocket, leaving it on.

  Both women stopped short when they saw us.

  “Darcy!” Lydia said. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  I swallowed hard. “I’m, ah, surprised to see you as well. I thought you’d be at the hospital.”

  Lydia tipped her head. “Hospital? Why?”

  “You don’t know?” I said.

  “Know what?”

  “Your mother had a heart attack about two hours ago. She’s in surgery right now.”

  Lydia’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. “What? You’re joking. Clearly, you’re joking.”

  “No one called you?” I asked. “Imogene rode with her to the hospital. . . .”

  Lydia’s gaze snapped to Imogene. “I don’t have my cell phone with me, and the shop’s phone goes to voice mail when we’re not open. . . . Is it true, Imogene?”

  “Yes,” she said drolly.

  “Oh my God!” Lydia cried. “We have to go. Is she okay? Willard! Come on. Imogene, will you drive us?”

  Imogene narrowed her eyes on me. “You couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

  Lydia looked among the three of us. “What is going on? We need to get to the hospital.”

  Willard reached into the trunk, pulled out the Witching Hour rose, and set the pot on the roof of the car. “What’s this doing in your trunk, Imogene?”

  Imogene glared. In a quick movement, she pulled a small gun from her coat pocket and waved it at the three of us. “No one’s going anywhere but back inside. Come on, all of you. I have to figure out what to do with you.”

  Whump-whump-whump.

  “Now!” she demanded as she grabbed the rosebush and tucked it into the crook of her arm.

  I followed Willard, who grabbed hold o
f Lydia on our way in. Imogene followed behind us, and she kept jabbing the gun into my back.

  Whump-whump-whump-whump.

  The back hallway led into a large workroom. A wide table took up most of the space, and on it were a couple of dozen roses that Willard had already brought inside.

  Imogene set the black rose on the tabletop. “First,” she said, “give me your cell phones.”

  Lydia said, “Mine’s at home. I don’t usually carry it with me on Sundays.”

  Willard said, “I don’t own one.”

  Imogene looked at me. I pulled a phone from my pocket and handed it over. Imogene dropped it on the floor and smashed it with her Birkenstock sneaker.

  Harriette probably wouldn’t appreciate the loss of her BlackBerry.

  But I was quite happy my own phone was still in my pocket, dialed into the police.

  “What’s in your other pocket, Darcy?”

  Crap. I pulled out my cell and handed it over. She stomped on that one, too. There went my link to the police, but I hoped between Harper’s and my calls that the police were on their way.

  Imogene paced back and forth, as the three of us huddled together against the worktable. Behind her was a wall filled with colorful ribbons. The picture it created didn’t jibe in my mind; the happy colors didn’t fit the mood.

  I had to say something, do something. Buy us some time. “You should go, Imogene. Hop in your car and drive. By the time we call the police, you’ll be long gone.”

  “I’ll say, since you’ll all be dead,” she snapped.

  “Oh,” Willard moaned. He swayed, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he fainted dead away.

  “Why am I not surprised?” Imogene murmured.

  Lydia dropped down to slap Willard’s cheeks. “Will! Honey!”

  “Leave him,” Imogene snapped. “Stand up.”

  Willard lay in an unprissy heap on the floor. He would have been so embarrassed if he could have seen himself.

  Lydia stood back up. “Imogene? It was you? You killed Michael? Attacked Bertie and Ophelia?”

  “Oh, shut up, Lydia. I’m so sick of you.”

  It looked like Imogene was getting an itchy finger. I tried to distract her. “If Harriette’s in the hospital, who are you going to blame for our murders?” I asked. Keep her talking; keep her mind occupied. . . .

  “Oh, it’ll be easy enough to blame either Lydia or Willard,” Imogene said. “One of them snapped over the stress of Harriette’s being charged with murder and commits a double murder and a suicide. Sorry, Darcy, but your death will be explained as being an unfortunate case of wrong place, wrong time.”

  Huh. She didn’t seem the least bit contrite to me.

  Whump-whump-whump.

  “Why?” Lydia pleaded.

  “Shut. Up,” Imogene said.

  “Really, Imogene,” I said, pushing my luck. “You could at least give an explanation.”

  She aimed the gun at me. “Well, you seem to have it all figured out. Why don’t you tell us?”

  I had enough of a theory to bluff my way through it. “Fine,” I said. Keep talking. Buy time. “Long story long, Imogene wanted the Witching Hour spell. Maybe she wanted to make millions—”

  Redness bloomed on Imogene’s neck and cheeks as she cut me off. “I don’t need millions. I have millions.”

  “Then why?” Lydia cried. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Imogene welled up as well, and I realized her motive might run a lot deeper than money.

  “Harriette had you!” she shouted. “And Trista. Bertie had her son. Ophelia has Jacob. All I have is my damn orchids! If I could have created a black orchid, it could have been my legacy.”

  I recalled what she’d said about her regret at never having kids. I hadn’t suspected it wasn’t just regret but a . . . wound.

  “But no, Harriette wouldn’t share the damn spell,” Imogene seethed. “I was so angry. Who does she think she is, anyway? Miss High-and-Mighty Floracrafter. I can see her keeping it from Bertie and Ophelia, but me? I’m a Floracrafter, too. She should have shared without a second thought.”

  Putting the pieces together, I said to Lydia, “Imogene started stealing roses to try and extract the DNA from the plant, see if she could replicate the spell somehow. But nothing worked, did it, Imogene?”

  “Damn things kept dying.”

  “What Imogene didn’t realize then was that it wasn’t Harriette’s spell to share,” I said to Lydia as if we were having a regular old conversation. “Harriette didn’t even know the spell.”

  “What do you mean?” Lydia sniffled. “Of course it was Mother’s spell.”

  “No,” I said softly. “It was Michael Healey’s spell. Something Imogene found out on Friday after she overheard a conversation your mother had with Fisk.”

  More tears flowed down Lydia’s face. “That can’t possibly be true.”

  “It is,” I said simply.

  “Imagine my surprise,” Imogene said, “when I came across them whispering in the woods behind the greenhouses. Ironically, I’d just stolen two of the plants from Harriette’s greenhouse when I heard Fisk telling Harriette that Michael refused to come back to cast a renewal spell on the Witching Hour roses. I realized then that it was Michael’s spell.”

  “And that was when she decided to get the spell from him.” A lump formed in my throat. “And when he told it to her, to spare his life, she killed him anyway.”

  Whump-whump-whump.

  “And his death wasn’t spur of the moment, a snap decision after hearing the conversation,” I said. “It had been planned, quickly planned, yes, but still. Somewhere in Imogene’s twisted mind, she decided that she wanted revenge on the Wickeds. Mostly on Harriette. She plotted Michael’s murder to look like all the Wickeds might have had a hand in it, but the one person she really wanted to frame was Harriette.”

  Imogene shrugged. “I don’t have much faith in the ability of the police department.”

  “Meanwhile,” I said, “in order to carry out her plan to frame Harriette, Imogene poisoned herself yesterday at the festival. Just enough to cause discomfort but not really harm her. A diversionary tactic to throw suspicion off herself.” Just like Aunt Ve had done with Tilda, and how the killer in And Then There Were None had gotten away with it. “Then last night, dressed as a wizard, she followed Bertie and Ophelia into the haunted house at the festival.”

  “You tried to kill them!” Lydia cried. “How could you?”

  “Easily. I hate them. I hate Harriette. I hate you. I hate him,” she said, pointing the gun at Willard. “None of you ever appreciated the important things in life. Bertie fights with Ophelia. Harriette hasn’t spoken to Trista in years and treats you like a servant. They don’t deserve the things they have. Not to mention that I should be the one in control of the Elysian Fields. But Harriette, she was so selfish. It was always her way or no way. And we were supposed to be grateful for what little she gave us. Ophelia and Bertie were always kissing up, and then recently, Harriette started showing a softer side to them. Sharing more with them. Giving more. It made me sick. You all make me sick!”

  I rolled my eyes and went fishing to figure out how much Imogene knew about the spell. “And the sad fact is that Imogene killed Michael for nothing. Because his spell won’t work for anyone other than himself. I’m sure she’s had no luck with it at all. Have you, Imogene?”

  Fury tightened the lines of her face. “I will figure it out, unlock the spell’s secrets. I am, and always have been, a superior Floracrafter. I plan to take this last plant and dissect it top to bottom. It’s just a matter of time before I have the ability to turn my orchids black.”

  Hope bubbled that she had no clue how the spell actually worked. She couldn’t possibly know about the new moon angle . . . especially if she still thought she could get clues from the plant itself. Now I just needed to figure out if she knew Michael had been an Illumicrafter—and how that played into the spell. “No, you won’t. The spell
is ineffective now that Michael is dead. It’s why all the black roses died when he did, including the ones you stole.”

  Whump-whump-whump-whump.

  Surprise filled her eyes; then she narrowed them in suspicion. “Then why is there still one black rosebush alive?”

  I let out the breath I was holding. She had no clue about Michael’s glow being a key to the spell. She was so wrapped up in her sense of superiority that she didn’t believe another Craft could have anything to do with how the spell worked.

  Behind her, on the worktable, I saw a flash of movement. A long tail.

  Reinforcements, I realized.

  I almost let out a cry of relief when I saw Pepe peek out from behind a roll of floral tape. He made a circle motion above his head and pointed outside. Then, using two fingers, he made a walking motion. And then he made the universal charade for a gun.

  I was apparently fluent in mouse sign language. The police were outside, surrounding the building, guns drawn.

  I’d never been more grateful in all my life.

  I bluffed. “It’s a fake. It’s dyed. It was planted in the greenhouse by the police to see if the killer would try to steal it. And . . . you did. It has a tracking device in it. The police are probably outside right now.”

  She swung the gun in my direction. “You’re lying.”

  “Check for yourself.”

  Carefully, she removed the rosebush from its pot and slowly lifted out the GPS tracker. Her eyes were wide as she studied it.

  At that moment, someone shouted, “Police! Come out with your hands up.”

  I thought it might have been Nick, but I wasn’t sure. “Told you so.”

  Lydia whimpered in relief.

  Hatred filled Imogene’s eyes. Her arm came up and leveled the gun on me. And as if in slow motion, I saw her finger pull the trigger of the gun.

  A blast of heat enveloped me, and it felt as though I had plunged into quicksand. I couldn’t move; I couldn’t breathe. I saw the bullet meant for me suddenly stop moving forward. It was suspended in midair. Hanging, motionless.

  It, too, had been mired.

  But it wasn’t quicksand.

  It was Michael.

  Imogene’s mouth dropped open. I was burning up as I watched Pepe launch himself at her, digging his teeth into her rear end. It would have been funny if I could laugh. If I could take a breath. Spots swam before my eyes at the loss of oxygen.