It Takes a Witch: A Wishcraft Mystery

by Heather Blake

  Again his forehead wrinkled. I was beginning to recognize that he did this when he was disturbed. “Did they let you claim her?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Why not? Is there some sort of legal process that has to happen?” I couldn’t imagine the medical examiner just gave bodies away to anyone who asked.

  “There is, but, Darcy, this is the strangest part. Her body had already been claimed. By her next of kin.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  With a Tupperware full of soup in one hand, and a gift bag in the other, I hurried down Fairy Hollow Lane as I searched for Evan and Starla’s address along the charming row of brownstones.

  I could hardly believe what Nick had told me. Alexandra had a next of kin. Her story about being an orphan was just that—a story.

  Unfortunately, the attendants at the medical examiner’s office would not give Nick the name of the person. I doubted he’d let the matter drop until he found out exactly who it had been who claimed the body. I also suspected he’d let the police know of this latest development.

  The sudden appearance of Alex’s next of kin and my cynical side had me wondering if the ME’s office went through an extensive process to verify that sort of thing. If it was anything like what I went through after my father died, it would be easy to deceive the ME’s office. They probably had a similar form to the one I’d filled out and signed, having me verify only through my signature that I was, in fact, the next of kin. No ID check.

  So, in fact, anyone could have claimed Alex’s body, by simply claiming to be a relative. Especially if the person knew Alex was alone in the world. I wondered how much money she had. Or if she had a will. Or like Mimi wondered as well—what happened to all the stock in her storeroom? Would all those things go to this newfound relative?

  If so, that might be motivation for murder.

  There had to be a way to find out who the person was who claimed the body.

  A thought struck. When I claimed my father’s body, I had to list what funeral home to have him taken to. Alexandra’s next of kin would probably have had to do the same. It was another thing to look into.

  I found Evan’s address and followed a walkway lined on each side with flowers bursting with color toward the door. Before I could even ring the doorbell, the red front door swung open and a hand reached out and grabbed me, pulling me inside.

  “Darcy, you have to help me. I’m desperate. I’m a Man on the Edge.” Evan hid in the shadows behind the door. Twink pranced around my feet, and I reached down and gave his head a pat.

  I tugged Evan forward into the light and gasped at what I saw. Chicken soup was not going to help him in the least.

  Huge welts covered his face. His eyes were almost swollen closed. Chipmunk cheeks puffed out, and worst of all, the rash looked to be spreading down his neck.

  “You have to go to the ER,” I proclaimed.

  “I can’t. I don’t think modern medicine can help me. I don’t even know what was in Alexandra’s lotion—how can it be counteracted? I need to find her formula.”

  It pained me to look at him. “How are you going to do that?”

  “Break into her shop, that’s how. Will you help me? I can barely see.”

  I set the gift bag and soup onto a console table by the door. “Was it you in the shop last night?”

  He looked down at his feet. My heartbeat kicked up a notch. Was Evan the Vaporcrafter?

  “I know Starla told you we were watching a movie, but she was covering for me.” He smiled. At least I thought it was a smile. It was hard to tell with all the swelling. “She was trying to protect me.”

  I understood the need, the overwhelming need, to protect a sibling.

  “But she didn’t have to worry. It wasn’t me in the shop last night. Someone beat me to it.”

  I must have had a “Please explain” look on my face because he went on.

  “I’d planned to break in and search Alexandra’s files. I dressed all in black, stuck to the shadows in the alley. By the time I reached Lotions and Potions, I saw someone there, using a crowbar to crack open the back door.”

  “Did you see who it was?” Twink barked, which was more like a squeak, and I picked him up.

  Evan shook his head. “It was too far away, it was too dark, and like I said, I can’t see very well right now. The person wore a cloak with a hood and was short. Shorter than me.”

  He was about five feet eight or so, give or take an inch. I filed that away.

  “I waited in the shadows for the person to leave. Then I saw you and Nick Sawyer creeping around the building. I didn’t wait around. I accidentally kicked an aluminum can and thought I’d die right on the spot. I ran all the way home.”

  That noise I’d heard in the alley last night had been Evan. It made sense, and his story held a ring of truth.

  “So, will you please help me, Darcy?”

  I was trying my best to think of a way to get into the shop without actually breaking and entering. Was there any way to gain access? Who could let us in? Alex’s landlord, perhaps, though I doubted that was legal—and most people, including me, frowned on breaking the law. But as I looked at Evan’s face, I knew I had to do something. Fast. If the swelling reached his throat, he could possibly die.

  “Why me?” I asked. I barely knew him.

  He glanced at me, a guilty look in his eye. “I can’t ask Starla. I’d never forgive myself if she got into trouble.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “But you’re willing to risk me getting into trouble?”

  “That sounds harsh, doesn’t it?”

  “A tad,” I said, trying not to laugh.

  “I’m desperate, remember? Honestly, Darcy, from the moment I met you, I knew you to be someone who goes out of her way to help others. You’re a nurturer. I need nurturing.”

  He blinked at me, trying to be charming. The welts made it look more pathetic than anything.

  Truth was, I did want to help him. My heart broke for him, this situation he was in. It seemed so unfair. He was suffering, his business was suffering, and his life was potentially in danger.

  “Do you still have the lotion?” I asked. “Maybe we can get it analyzed. What did it look like?”

  He fidgeted. “It was pink. Smelled good. I’d show it to you, but I don’t have the tube anymore. I, ah, lost it.”

  I narrowed my eyes on him. “Lost it? Where?”

  “I don’t know. If I did, it wouldn’t be lost.”

  He had a point.

  “Why do I feel like you’re not telling me everything?”

  Scratching, he said, “I don’t know. Will you help?”

  I knew I had to try. Could I possibly get him to wish himself well? There had to be a way around the law that governed against soliciting wishes, a sneaky way of coercing him to say what I wanted.

  I thought about it for a second and finally said, “I bet you wish you hadn’t used that lotion.”

  He sat on the bottom step of a wooden staircase. He gave me a look I had trouble deciphering—it looked a lot like sympathy for some reason. “I wish a lot of things. I wish my face didn’t look like this. I wish I hadn’t used that lotion. At this point, I wish I’d never met Alexandra Shively.”

  Relief flowed through me. I turned my head and mouthed “I wish I might, I wish I may, grant these wishes without delay.” I blinked twice. Expectantly, I turned to Evan.

  Nothing had happened.

  In fact, he looked worse.

  Twink licked my hand, as if offering condolences.

  Why hadn’t the wish worked? Evan’s wishes had to have been pure of heart—the kind of passion in his voice when he made them couldn’t be faked.

  Had the wishes not been granted because I’d tricked him into making them?

  Guilt flowed and a knot twisted in my stomach as I sat down next to him on the step.

  “I have to get into that shop, Darcy.”

  I bit my lip. “There might be another way.”

  �
�What?” he asked, hope in his eyes.

  “What are you doing later on?”

  “Hiding in the house.”

  Smiling, I said, “I have to run errands now, but I’ll pick you up at three thirty.” He’d have to stay in the car when I dropped the wombat off at Jake’s party, but we could go straight to Cherise Goodwin’s afterward. I couldn’t imagine Cherise would deny my request to cure Evan—especially after she saw him.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To drop off a wombat and then beg a favor.”

  He smiled (I think), and said, “You lead an interesting life, Darcy Merriweather.”

  I reached for his hand and squeezed it. I was slightly embarrassed at the tears filling my eyes. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me.”

  “Honey, you need to get out more.”

  I was laughing as the front door flew open. Starla burst in, breathing hard. “Oh, thank goodness you’re still here, Darcy! I thought I’d missed you.”

  Twink barked and I set him on the floor. He hopped over to Starla, who hung her camera on a coatrack, kicked off her shoes, and rubbed her hands together eagerly.

  “Are you ready?” she asked me as she scooped up Twink.

  She was scaring me. “Ready for what?”

  “Oh, you’ll see. You’ll really see. It really is illuminating.”

  I wasn’t sure what to expect as we followed Starla up the stairs and into a spare bedroom that had been turned into an office.

  Starla gestured me inside. I looked back at Evan, who leaned against the doorway, grinning (I think).

  “This is my studio.” Starla dropped into her leather desk chair, set Twink on her lap, and cleared a screen saver from the computer on the desk.

  The room was warm and inviting, decorated in light blues. Framed photos covered the walls. People, flowers, architecture. Starla had a great eye for capturing an intriguing shot.

  On the desk sat a stack of photos. The picture Starla had taken of Mrs. Pennywhistle yesterday sat on the top. I picked it up as Starla clicked through folders on her PC.

  The photo was striking, captivating. Mrs. P was clearly lost in her thoughts, and the camera captured sheer anguish in her eyes. My heart broke just looking at her, and I decided a quick trip to the Pixie Cottage on the way home was in need, even though it would throw my schedule out of whack.

  Starla was humming as she clicked away.

  A sudden thought hit. “Did you get a picture of the pickpocket?” Maybe after our talk this morning, she’d gone through her shots from yesterday and found an image with the pickpocket in action.

  “Nope. Here. Look at this.” She clicked a few buttons and the image on the screen enlarged.

  I blinked. It was the shot, a close-up, she’d taken of me and Nick yesterday afternoon. Nick looked gorgeous as usual and as he stared my way, I saw a softness in his eyes that I’d never noticed before. The image of me was simply a white starburst.

  “I’ve never looked better,” I joked, my palms starting to sweat.

  “I was quite surprised when I loaded this image,” Starla said. “This kind of result doesn’t happen often.”

  “Maybe the sun was hitting me wrong?” I tried.

  Starla looked at Evan, happiness surrounding her like a glow. “She’s cute. Isn’t she cute?”

  My palms really started to sweat. What was going on? And how did I get out of it?

  “Adorable,” Evan said, nodding.

  Starla opened a desk drawer and pulled out a photo album. “Here.”

  I took it.

  “Open it,” Starla urged.

  I opened it. Mesmerized, I flipped page after page. A crib with a sunburst in the middle. A prom picture with a line of dolled-up girls, except for a starburst to the right of the frame. A group shot on the green, a sunburst catching a Frisbee.

  Starla stood. “I imagine you have a lot of similar pictures. You and Harper.”

  I glanced at her, then Evan, as realization dawned. And I suddenly also knew why Evan’s wish hadn’t been granted. Because Wishcrafters can’t grant each other’s wishes.

  “I— You—” I couldn’t say it aloud. If I did, and I was wrong, I’d lose my powers forever.

  Starla nodded, but she wasn’t talking, either.

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, I’ll say it. Hello,” he said, dipping his head. “I’m Evan Sullivan, and I’m a Cross-Crafter, half Bakecrafter…and half Wishcrafter.”

  “Wishcrafter just like you,” Starla added, her smile dazzling.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mrs. P’s picture haunted me as I hurried through the back alley that ran behind Spellbound and Lotions and Potions on my way to the Pixie Cottage. I felt an overwhelming need to make sure Mrs. Pennywhistle was okay.

  I emerged from the alley on the other side of the square. The Pixie Cottage took up a corner lot and looked like it had been plucked out of a Grimm’s fairy tale and set in the village. “Charming” wasn’t strong enough a word. It was a large stone bungalow with lush gardens, an inviting wraparound porch, and beautiful ivy creeping up the chimney.

  A whimsical sign with Pixie Cottage written in a looping font hung from a post in front of a white picket fence. A NO VACANCY notice dangled from a hook beneath the sign. The gate squeaked as I pushed it open. Butterflies flitted about, and a bee buzzed by my ear.

  My step was light as I followed the flagstone path to the arched wooden door. I pushed down on the handle and went inside. A woman I didn’t recognize was on the phone behind a whitewashed registration desk. She smiled when she saw me and held up an I’ll-be-right-with-you finger. I took a moment to look around. The registration area opened into a large living room with a stacked stone fireplace.

  Light streamed in through large arched windows, highlighting dark wooden floors, pale sofas, lavender armchairs with lightly checkered ottomans. All the tables in the room appeared to be made out of twigs. The room was darling, and absolutely perfect for a pixie.

  I tried not to eavesdrop on the conversation going on behind me. The woman, late thirties, early forties, looked more like a librarian than a hotel clerk. Her hair was swept back and held with a large clip, and a pair of glasses was perched on top of her head.

  “Are you sure you won’t reconsider?” she was saying. She listened to the person on the other end, then added, “The village is really quite safe.” A pause. “I see. No, I understand. Thank you for calling.”

  She hung up and rose, offering me her hand. “I’m Harmony Atchison. You’re Darcy, aren’t you?”

  “Word gets around,” I said.

  “It’s a small village.” She wore a flowing bohemian-style skirt and a pristine white peasant blouse. Frowning at the phone, she added, “Which is sometimes unfortunate.”

  “Cancellations?” I asked.

  Nodding, she tidied a stack of papers. “As if the murder wasn’t bad enough, now these thefts…For the first time in the five years since I’ve taken over, the Pixie Cottage will have vacancies during the week of the Midsummer Dance.”

  I tipped my head. What did she mean she’d taken over?

  “You don’t happen to need a reservation?” she asked hopefully.

  “Sadly, no, though I love the inn. It’s absolutely charming.”

  Her smile seemed to light her from inside out. “It was in sad disrepair when I bought it.”

  “It’s beautiful,” I murmured. “But I’m a little confused. I thought Mrs. Pennywhistle lived here? That she owned the cottage?”

  Sitting on the edge of the desk, Harmony said, “Mrs. P still lives here. Room number four. Her favorite. I bought this place five years ago from her. She just couldn’t keep up with it on her own after Mr. P died. Debts mounted. It was a tough decision she made to sell it, and even at its fixer-upper bargain price, it was still out of my price range.” Her eyes grew misty. “Mrs. P agreed to cut her price as long as she could live here free of charge. It was truly a bargain in my favor, and it still is.
She’s a sweet woman, a ball of energy. She helps me more than she knows, especially with the gardens. Greenest thumb I’ve ever seen.”

  I recalled what Mrs. P had said yesterday, about her being a poor old woman. How much had she discounted the cottage? “She’s a sweetheart,” I said. “Her laugh is the best, isn’t it?”

  “Contagious,” she agreed.

  “Is she around by any chance? I wanted to check on her.”

  A touch of sadness swept over her face. “She’s been a touch…out of it lately, hasn’t she? She’s taking Alexandra Shively’s death quite hard. I’ve never seen her so melancholy. The murder was quite shocking, especially for the old-timers in the village. That kind of thing just doesn’t happen here. They’re taking it personally.”

  “I think it’s quite shocking for everyone,” I said softly, thinking of Aunt Ve.

  “You’re right about that, though Alex…” She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t gossip so much.” She grinned. “Sometimes I just can’t help myself. How is Velma holding up?”

  I wondered what she was going to say about Alex. Probably nothing I hadn’t heard in the past few days. That she was not well liked. Outspoken. Misleading.

  “Holding steady. She’s offering a reward for Alex’s missing watch.” I pulled a flyer out of my bag and handed it to her. “She’s hoping that finding it will help clear Sylar’s name.”

  Harmony glanced at the flyer. “Foolish business, arresting Sylar. The man is a cuddly teddy bear who’d have moral issues swatting a mosquito.”

  “You’ve known him long?” I really didn’t know much about him, except what I’d read in the papers and learned from Ve this morning. Sixty-eight years old. Widower. Optometrist. Lived in the village for thirty years. Village council hoo-ha.

  “Years and years. I’ve lived in this village my whole life. His wife was one of my favorite teachers when I was in school. He was devastated—the whole village was—when she passed away.”

  This news had me studying Harmony carefully. If there was one thing I’d learned in the two weeks I’d been in the village, it’s that if you’ve lived here your whole life, then you’re most likely a Crafter. Was she?