Ten minutes later, I’d hotfooted it over to Spellbound Books. Harper looked up from drawing on a poster board when I rushed in. The customers in the shop all turned and looked at me. I smiled wanly and tried to pretend that I wasn’t in a tizzy.
“What’s wrong?” Harper asked as I rushed up to the desk.
She’d been working on a book club poster—this one for a tween reading group. I dropped my voice and said, “Nick knows about”—I coughed—“what happened in Ohio. With Missy. You know.” I glanced over my shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping. “I’m sure he’s going to come in and interrogate you.”
She didn’t look the least bit worried. “He already did.”
I gaped. “When?”
“Earlier.” She shrugged. “No big deal. I’ve been thinking about it, and I’d rather people just know. It’s a lot of pressure keeping it secret. Besides, it’s not like I did anything wrong.”
I gaped some more.
“Well,” she amended, “maybe a little wrong. But in the end it was mostly right.” She took her poster to the front of the store and slid it into a freestanding display. It fit perfectly—and looked great. The fonts were perfect to catch the eyes of tweens, and the book Harper had chosen to start the club was a popular one about a magician’s guild.
I trailed after her. “But he thinks you’re the local pickpocket.”
As she gazed up at me, she looked much wiser than I’d ever given her credit for. “You and I both know I’m not. He’ll come around. It’s his job to investigate these things.” She took a step back from the poster and eyed it critically. “Do you think anyone will join?”
How could she be so calm? While I had visions of Nick throwing Harper in jail, she was worried about getting a group of tweens together to read a book. “You’re not worried?”
“About the book club?” she asked. “Of course I am. It’s kind of my pet project and I want to see it succeed. I really want to show Gayle that I’m serious about working here. Maybe she’ll bump me up to full-time.”
I was losing patience. Through clenched teeth, I said, “About Nick.”
“Oh.” She waved her hand in dismissal. “Not at all. Why? Are you?”
Was she just now picking up on that?
She must have finally noticed my panic, because she said, “Why?”
“Because. I don’t want…” I trailed off. I didn’t want Nick to hurt her in any way—not her reputation, not her chance at being part of this community.
And I realized I didn’t want Nick to think badly of her. Because if he did…he might think badly of me.
My anxiety fizzled, replaced now with a touch of embarrassment. Whereas I thought I was being mother-bear protective over Harper, maybe my outrage over Nick investigating her had been about…me?
“Don’t want what?” she asked, a faint smile on her face, as though she had already come to the conclusion I’d just reached.
She’d always been the smart one in the family.
“You like him, don’t you? Really like him.” Her eyes were aglow.
“I don’t know.”
“Darcy’s got a cr-ush,” she sang.
I gave her a little shove. “Stop that.”
She bumped me with her hip. “I’m glad.”
“I’m not.”
“Why not? He’s cute in an old-guy kind of way.”
“He’s not old! Only thirty-five.”
“You reallllly like him.”
I frowned at her. “More than I like you right now. Which isn’t saying much.”
She laughed, and I realized how happy she was. Here. In the village. In this bookshop. With her life. So happy, she was willing to let everyone know her past—and either side with her or judge her. Or even both.
Moving here had been a good thing. A great thing.
“Try not to worry so much, Darcy. Everything will work out.”
I truly wanted to believe her.
“There is just so much stuff,” Mrs. P said.
I’d come prepared with boxes, packing tape, and industrial-strength garbage bags. I had gloves (the irony wasn’t lost on me) and bins to organize what little Alex had left behind.
“Where do we even start?” she asked.
This was why she hired me. To take charge. To take the emotional element out of cleaning the place. “We’ll start with the books.”
This morning Marcus had filed, on Mrs. P’s behalf, a claim with the probate court. He also let us know that everything we packed today had to be inventoried before being stored.
“You’ll need to decide if the object is something you want to keep, whether it’s trash, or if it’s something you want to donate to charity. We’ll separate it all when we store it, so when you get the go-ahead from the court, it will be easy to sort.”
In my opinion there wasn’t much here worthy of keeping. Which was just as well. Mrs. P’s tiny room at the Pixie Cottage couldn’t hold much clutter.
She took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m ready.”
I rolled up my sleeves and started with the books on the top shelves. Most were reference books on how to make lotions, oils, scrubs, and masks. There were also books on making soaps, shower gels, and shampoos. And even more on holistic health and healing and making herbal remedies. “These might be good to donate to the local library.”
“Good idea. These, too,” she said, pointing to four full shelves of witchcraft-themed books. It was as if Alex were a one-woman bookstore.
We worked quietly and quickly, packing small boxes with books. Big boxes would have made the task go faster, but the boxes would have been impossible for us to lift and carry to my car.
Two hours later, we’d made progress. The bookshelves were empty, and Alex’s bedroom had been cleared of everything personal, including clothes that were going to be donated to a local women’s shelter.
Mrs. P went about cleaning up the mess the intruder had left behind, sweeping up shards of vases and soil from overturned potted plants.
I tackled the desk, trying to sort everyday riffraff from the important stuff. Alex didn’t seem to have any sort of filing system—everything from pens and pencils, mail, and magazines was shoved in the desk’s drawers and cubbies. I’d brought along a file box with hanging folders, and with each piece of mail I came across, I either shredded it or put it in a proper file for Mrs. P to go through later. She’d have to make some calls soon and cancel things like Alex’s credit cards, Netflix account, and magazine subscriptions.
An hour into the task, Mrs. P said, “You didn’t happen to find that birth certificate, did you? Not that I care, you know, but…it would be nice to have.” She’d moved on to emptying the kitchen cabinets and was looking at me with hopeful eyes as she wrapped glasses in newspaper.
“Not yet.” Truth be told, I’d been hoping to find the birth certificate as well. “Just lots of legal notices, bills, and copies of invoices for things she’d ordered for the shop.”
I wondered if some of these vendors would take returns. Alex’s apartment was fairly easy to pack up, but her shop was going to take days. I tucked a few of the notices aside to call later.
“Will those lawsuits still be binding?”
“I’m not sure. Her estate might still be held liable. You’ll need to check with Marcus.”
She nodded and went back to packing.
From what I could tell, there wouldn’t be much of an estate. Alex’s personal checkbook showed a balance of just over two thousand dollars, and her shop’s account was barely in the black. It appeared she made just enough to get by every month.
There was nothing of value in the apartment. The decor had been nice, but inexpensive. The artwork was mostly cheap prints set into nicer frames. All told, Mrs. P might be able to get a couple of thousand if she sold the furniture and the kitchen items. I suspected most of Alex’s worth was downstairs in the shop. I just didn’t know if Mrs. P would be able to liquidate all that merchandise—or if she wanted to, consideri
ng the spate of lawsuits sitting in the file box. Maybe Marcus would have some thoughts on that as well.
I kept digging and sorting and as I was reaching into the back of a drawer, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. Alex’s purse was tucked under the desk. It was black, and nearly hidden in the shadows. I pulled it out, hoping that the birth certificate Mrs. P needed was inside.
It was a little creepy going through a dead woman’s purse, I had to admit. Touching the lip balm she’d never use again, looking through receipts, and her wallet. I noticed one of the receipts was from a fancy downtown restaurant, known for its romantic ambiance, the night before she died. The bill came to just over two hundred dollars, and she’d put the tab on her credit card. Whom had she been dining with?
I tucked the credit card slip back into her purse and came across a pocket calendar. I flipped to the night she died, and written in the little square was “Vill Mtg 9:30.” The day before had a notation of “9 p.m.,” and also a symbol that looked like a tweaked eighth note, but the arm of the note was as long as the circle part and the circle was hollow, not shaded in.
I stood up and brought the calendar over to Mrs. P. “Does this symbol mean anything to you?”
She shook her head. “You think it means something?”
“I’m not sure.” I flipped back a few pages. The little symbol appeared a lot. Usually along with a time—usually late at night. “I think this symbol might stand for a person. See here?” I showed her all the other pages, times, and dates. “I found a receipt from a fancy, romantic restaurant the night before she died, the same night she was meeting with this symbol at nine o’clock.”
“Why not just write his name down?” she asked.
I shrugged. “She has a thing about keeping boyfriends secret. Maybe it was a little game with her.”
Sadness filled Mrs. P’s eyes. “There are just so many things I don’t know. I should have known.” Her jaw jutted and her lower lip trembled.
I put my arm around her. “Why don’t we finish up for the day?”
She nodded. “Just let me finish with these glasses.”
“Do you mind if I take this home?” I asked, holding up the calendar. “I want to see if Ve or Harper recognizes the symbol.”
“Take it,” she said, wrapping another glass.
I tucked the calendar in my purse and went to help in the kitchen. Mrs. P had the glasses under control, so I decided to do a quick fridge cleanout, before the perishables rotted. Alex didn’t have much in the fridge. I grabbed a trash bag and started tossing items in. Brown salad, a carton of milk, a half dozen eggs, some old Chinese food. I surveyed and closed the fridge door. I emptied the trash container next to the fridge and noticed that the chrysanthemums had started to brown and wilt. I reached for them.
As I did so, Mrs. P said, “You may want to use your gloves, Darcy. Some people are very sensitive to chrysanthemums.”
I recalled how Harmony Atchison at the Pixie Cottage had said Mrs. P had the greenest thumb around. If anyone would know about plant sensitivities, it would be her. “Sensitivities? Like what?” My eyes widened. “Like this?” I asked, holding up my hands. “I touched these flowers when I was here on Saturday.”
Mrs. P tsked. “Just like that. Chrysanthemums can cause a bad skin reaction, especially after your skin is exposed to sunlight.”
I’d touched the flowers Saturday evening, then hadn’t showered until after my jog on Sunday morning, when it had been bright and sunny. I glanced at my hands. My hives were almost gone, but my skin was still red and irritated. Several jars full of pink lotion and a mortar and pestle sat on the counter. “If these flowers were ground up and put into a lotion, would they cause a reaction?”
“I’d say so, especially if the tubers and leaves were ground as well.”
It all suddenly made sense. “This is probably what’s been causing the rashes around the village. Evan’s going to be relieved that he didn’t cause an epidemic. I wonder why he reacted so badly and I didn’t.”
“Some people are more sensitive than others and some people aren’t sensitive at all, and if he used a large amount of lotion, he would have been more exposed than you. You should wash your hands,” she said.
I washed, grabbed my gloves, and threw all the flowers—cut and dried—away. “Alex couldn’t have known how dangerous these could be.”
“I imagine not. She probably chose them for the color and didn’t investigate the properties thoroughly. She should have consulted a botanist or herbalist, but perhaps she believed she knew what she was doing.”
No wonder she had so many people suing her. “I’m going to take this trash out to the Dumpster. Then we’ll wrap up for the day, okay?”
Looking around, she nodded. “We’ve made good progress.”
We had. “Tomorrow we can bring this stuff to the storage locker, and start with the shop.”
Absently, she nodded as she wrapped another glass. I stepped carefully down the narrow staircase, thinking about those chrysanthemums. Evan had used the lotion, and I had touched the flowers. But how had Vince gotten the rash? Or Ramona?
Was it possible Evan had transferred the lotion to one of his trays? He thought no, but maybe he’d been careless just that once.
Had Alex’s fight with Ramona gotten physical? Had Alex laid chrysanthemum-laced hands on her?
I pushed open the back door and froze when I heard a noise coming from behind the Dumpster. My heart pounded. Probably a squirrel, I told myself, inching forward, the trash bag in front of me like a shield.
Nothing to be worried about.… I was being paranoid.
A loud clunk echoed, and I jumped back. “Who’s there?” I said loudly.
No one answered, and I thought maybe a very large squirrel had gotten into the Dumpster and couldn’t get out. I edged forward and was getting ready to heave the trash bag over the metal rim when suddenly someone jumped out of the Dumpster, nearly landing on me.
I screamed.
Chapter Twenty-six
“Did I scare you?” Harmony Atchison asked, dusting off her jeans.
As Nick had predicted, my scream had been barely a whisper. I was pretty sure I looked terrified, though, because Harmony came over and said, “I’m so sorry! Are you okay? I didn’t realize you were out here. I guess you caught me in the act.”
She stepped forward and dragged a broken window frame that had been propped on the corner of the Dumpster. Her cheeks were aflame. “I hate when people catch me. They always look at me like I’m crazy. Kind of like how you’re looking at me now.”
I finally found my voice. “What is it you’re doing?” I still held the trash bag like a shield. My heart rate was slowly returning to normal.
“I guess you’d call it Dumpster diving. I call it Permanent Article Relocation.”
I smiled at her, though I didn’t get too close. She smelled. “And what do you do with the article once it’s relocated?”
Her eyes lit. “I repurpose it! Picture this,” she said, holding up the window frame. “I’ll paint it white, maybe add a crackle glaze or a distressed finish, then add four legs.” She flipped the frame so it sat horizontally. “Voilà, a beautiful table.”
“Amazing.” My inner Martha Stewart was impressed.
“Sometimes trash really is treasure. It’s just a shame I have to climb into Dumpsters to find it. Blech.”
I glanced between her and the Dumpster, the Dumpster and her, and I suddenly realized where Harmony had been the day she overhead Alex and Ramona fighting. I just needed her to confirm it.
When I asked, she blushed again and nodded. “They had no idea I was there.”
I thought about those chrysanthemums. “Do you know if they got into a catfight?” I made a pawing motion. “Did it get physical?”
She was smiling at my gestures. “As soon as I spotted them, I ducked down. I didn’t hear any slapping or anything, though. I couldn’t really hear anything other than raised voices.”
T
hat explained a few things.
“I did follow up with Marcus Debrowski like you suggested. He thinks it will help Sylar’s case.”
“That’s good news.” For Sylar. Not so much for Ramona. I checked my watch. I had an hour before my appointment with her. Had she already been questioned by the police?
“I’ve got to get this back,” Harmony said, holding up the window frame. “And shower.”
I laughed and tossed the trash bag into the Dumpster. “I’d love to see it when it’s done.”
“Come by anytime.”
I waved good-bye and headed back inside. I found Mrs. P downstairs, in the shop. She was holding the pink witch hat in her hands. “Think anyone would notice if this hat doesn’t show up on the inventory list?”
“Hat?” I said. “What hat? I don’t see any hat in this shop.”
She patted my cheek and looked around. Her attention seemed focused on the plastic bins filled with herbs and roots. Walking over to them, she said, “Alexandra must have known about herbs somewhat. Or else…”
“What?”
“Some of these are extremely dangerous. Poisonous. Can cause rashes, digestive problems, strokes, and even death. If she didn’t know what she was doing, she could have killed someone.”
Thank goodness she hadn’t.
Mrs. P said, “Perhaps she just didn’t know about the chrysanthemum, as it’s so common.”
Unfortunately, we’d never know.
With one final look around, she said, “Let’s go. I have a little girl I want to see.”
I made sure to lock up behind us. As I turned the key, shouts rang out in the alley. “Tell me!” someone yelled.
“Is that Vince?” I asked, squinting.
“Is that Evan?” she countered.
We’d just about reached them when the first punch flew.
Evan ducked and evaded. Vince struck out again. Evan high-kicked him in the stomach. Vince moaned and doubled over.
“Black belt,” Evan said at our stunned glances.
Gayle Chastain came running out the back door of the bookshop. “Stop it right now!” she shouted, getting between the two. “For goodness’ sake, stop acting like children. You’re grown men.”
It Takes a Witch: A Wishcraft Mystery Page 22