The Goodbye Witch

by Heather Blake

  I’d just slipped on my snow boots when the doorbell rang. Missy went running toward the front door, and I hurried down the hallway behind her.

  A shadowy figure stood just beyond the glass door, and as I looked out the window, I saw it was our usual package deliveryman.

  “Down!” I said to Missy, who miraculously settled as I opened the door. “Hi, Sam.”

  Sam was mid- to late fifties, with kind eyes and silver-streaked dark hair. “Good afternoon, Darcy,” he said as he handed me a clipboard, then bent to pet Missy’s head. Standing, he smiled kindly and hefted a big box. “Where do you want it?”

  I pointed at the coffee table. “There’s good. Thanks, Sam.”

  Missy sniffed his feet as he put the package on the table. “Tell your aunt I said hello.”

  “I will,” I promised, trying not to roll my eyes. These two had been flirting for as long as I’d known them.

  I locked the door behind him and eyed the large box, wondering what it was. I found a utility knife and carefully sliced the tape along the top of the box. Lifting the flaps, I peeked inside and found hundreds and hundreds of teardrop crystals. They were beautiful but I had no idea what they were for. I racked my brain, trying to think if any clients had requested something to do with crystals and couldn’t think of a single one.

  Strange. I made a mental note to ask Ve about it when she returned and left the box on the table. Back in the mudroom, I quickly bundled up in a down coat and thick scarf, clipped on Missy’s leash, and headed out the back door.

  Salt crystals crackled beneath my rubber soles as I carefully navigated the snow-crusted back steps. In the hour since Starla had left, thick clouds had moved in and delicate snowflakes floated gracefully to the ground, mesmerizing in their elegance.

  The yard, the whole village really, looked like a winter wonderland. What should have seemed stark—dark outlines of bare trees and shrubs against the crisp whiteness of the snow—was instead breathtaking in its simplistic beauty.

  My eye immediately went to the brightest spot in the landscape, my scarlet macaw neighbor, Archie.

  It was impossible to miss him with his vibrant plumage, the stunning red, blue, and yellow jolting against the pristine background.

  Scooping up Missy, I followed a shoveled path over to Archie’s cage.

  He said, “‘Who told you to walk on my side of the block, who told you to be in my neighborhood?’”

  Archie and I were in constant competition to best each other with our movie quote knowledge. Trying my hardest to place the quote, I bit my lip and searched far-reaching corners of my mind. Finally, I just had to admit defeat. “I’m stumped.”

  “Do the Right Thing,” he said with more than a touch of hauteur. His voice was James Earl Jones deep but infused with an authentic British accent.

  “Show-off.”

  “Do not be envious, Darcy, of my considerable skills. You are but a novice, and I have, as they say, been around the block a time or two.”

  “That’s because you’re old.” I brushed snowflakes from Missy’s fur. “Didn’t you come over on the Mayflower?”

  I was only half kidding. He was old, centuries old, but not quite Mayflower vintage. In his human form, he’d once been a theater actor in merry old England. Currently, he was an outgoing familiar who reveled in all things cinematic. His form allowed him to captivate tourists with his theatrical abilities, them being none the wiser. They simply believed he was a “parrot” with a good memory.

  He was also the Elder’s right-hand bird, her majordomo, her eyes and ears. Her spy, though I wasn’t sure why she needed one since she seemed to know most everything that went on in the village. The Elder, the ruler of all the Crafts, ran the village with an iron fist. I’d once been extremely terrified of her, but now I was only slightly terrified of her. She governed from a magical meadow in the forest, and her identity was kept an utmost secret. Very few were clued in as to who she truly was.

  I was one of the clueless.

  “Ha-ha!” he laughed in exaggeration and flapped his wings. “The Mayflower. Aren’t you quaint?”

  “The quaintest.” Smiling at his dramatics, I felt the heavy weight of the afternoon shift from my shoulders the tiniest bit.

  An outdoor heater stood near his cage, an elaborate iron masterpiece that had its own version of a doggy door so Archie could come and go. The main house, owned by Numbercrafter Terry Goodwin, had icicles hanging from the eaves and every shade drawn. Terry was a reclusive accountant, a dead ringer for Elvis, and except for seeing clients, he often kept to himself. He was also one of Aunt Ve’s (many) ex-husbands and was trying his best to get her to take another trip down the aisle with him.

  So far his best wasn’t good enough, but not for lack of trying. The problem was that Ve seemed to be seduced by falling in love—but not staying in love. Which wasn’t the least bit conducive to a long-term relationship.

  Ve had been on the lookout for her next boyfriend for months now, but she refused to simply cut Terry loose. She liked having a bird in hand, as she often told me.

  Terry had fashioned a lean-to around Archie’s cage to protect it from the elements, and as Missy snuggled into my chest, I had the feeling she wished she shared the shelter.

  Not me. I found the snow magical, and I loved being caught up in its whimsy.

  Archie hopped along his perch closer to me and dropped his voice to not be overheard by any passing tourists. “I hear Kyle Chadwick has returned to the village.”

  “Did you see him?” If he could verify Starla’s account . . .

  “No, not I. Only Miss Starla as far as I’ve ascertained.”

  Missy stiffened in my arms, and I didn’t know whether she was reacting to my uneasiness or if she had picked up something on her own. I rubbed her ears and said, “Nick’s looking into it.”

  Terry opened the back door and called out to Archie to come inside. They did this several times a day during the winter so Archie wouldn’t get too cold. Macaws were naturally tropical birds, but magical macaws could tolerate much more than their mortal counterparts.

  “A moment,” he said to Terry.

  I waved but wasn’t sure Terry had seen me before he ducked backed inside the house.

  Archie’s feathers fluffed out, then settled back down. “I feared Kyle’s return one day.”

  “Well, cross your ancient toes that he hasn’t.”

  “You, Darcy Merriweather, are a sore loser.”

  I cleared my throat. “‘Being a true loser takes years of ineptitude.’”

  Archie twisted his head upside down and peered at me with his small beady eyes. Finally, he cried, “Curses!” In a flutter, he pushed open his cage door and flew out.

  “Father’s Day!” I called after him, laughing.

  Pulling Missy closer up to my face, I could feel a smile stretch my cheeks. Snow crunched beneath my feet as I pushed open the gate and headed toward the village square. But soon my humor at Archie’s antics faded, and the weight of Starla’s plight returned to my shoulders.

  I had to find out as much as I could about Kyle Chadwick.

  And I knew just the mouse who could tell me.

  * * *

  As I crossed the village green, I searched every face I came across as Missy happily examined the snowbanks along the path.

  Young, old, tall, small. It didn’t matter. So intent was I on my task that I nearly jumped out of my skin when someone came up beside me, bumped my shoulder, and said, “Hey, doll.”

  “Mrs. Pennywhistle!” I pressed a hand to my chest and tried to calm the rush of adrenaline coursing through my body.

  Tilting her head back, she laughed, a loud effervescent cackle. At eighty-plus, she was a firecracker of a woman, a Vaporcrafter who had the ability to disappear in the blink of an eye.

  Today, the hood of Mrs. P’s pink track jacket was pulled up over her spiky white hair to protect it from the elements. Red blusher heightened the natural flush on her cheeks from the col
d and matched the artificial color on her lips. There was nothing Mrs. P liked more than her makeup—except maybe her love of velour. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to frighten you. I thought you heard me calling your name.”

  My pulse still throbbed in my ears. “I was a little distracted.”

  “I can see why.”

  Fanning her face with one hand, she motioned to Nick with the other. He stood near the ice rink, speaking with the young woman working at the skate rental booth.

  “He’s a dreamboat. If I were but ten years younger, I’d steal him away from you.”

  Smiling, I eyed her. “You hussy.”

  She laughed again, the distinctive sound carrying in the chilly air. “If the strumpet fits . . .”

  I’d met Mrs. Pennywhistle, fondly known as Mrs. P, just after I moved to the village. We’d been entangled in a murder case and had come out of it with a solid friendship.

  “What’s he doing?” she asked, snowflakes catching on her false eyelashes. “Did someone rob the rink?”

  The news was bound to reach her before long, so I quickly told Mrs. P what had happened to Starla.

  The sparkle in her eyes dimmed. “I’d known Kyle as a kind young man, but I heard he did have a bit of a temper, so I wasn’t completely shocked when I heard what he did to Starla.”

  “A temper? He did?”

  “Sure enough. At one of his art exhibitions he confronted a critic who was panning a painting in front of the whole gallery. There was a fistfight, and Kyle was charged with assault.”

  My eyes widened. “Get out.”

  “It’s as true as I’m standing here. The assault charge was reduced to disorderly conduct, and Kyle was sentenced to community service and an anger management class.”

  I’d never heard any of this. It was the kind of information I needed. I wanted the whole picture of Kyle Chadwick.

  “Does Vince know Kyle is back?” she asked.

  Mrs. P worked for Vince a few days a week at his shop, Lotions and Potions. Mostly she was in charge of making sure he didn’t put anything into his concoctions that would hurt someone, and of keeping an eye on the Seeker. She made a great spy. “Not that I know of.”

  “I should let him know. He cares for Starla a great deal.” She wrung her hands. “This is so upsetting.”

  I agreed. “Do you have a few minutes, Mrs. P? I’m on my way to see Pepe to get a better idea of what transpired two years ago. I’d like your input too.”

  The light came back into her eyes, and she gleefully rubbed her hands together. “Darcy Merriweather, on the case!”

  I glanced at Nick. “Shhh. Let’s keep this on the down low, okay?”

  “Right, right. Gotcha, doll. Let’s go. I have all the time you need. Plus, I love that little Pepe. He’s a charmer.”

  I laughed. “Maybe it’s time we find you a date. As You Wish has done matchmaking before, so I’m sure we can find someone suitable.”

  A mourning dove cooed from a nearby branch as Missy led the way to the Bewitching Boutique, where Pepe worked as a master tailor—and lived in the shop’s walls.

  “Let’s not get carried away.” Mrs. P thumped her chest. “I’m not sure this old ticker can handle falling in love again.”

  “Who said anything about love? It would just be a date. A good time with a man. A little something hot and heavy to keep that blood pumping.”

  Looking off in the distance, she said, “It’s a nice thought and all, but like I said, this ticker . . .”

  I tugged Missy to a stop, and took hold of Mrs. P’s arm. “Are you okay?” One mention of her “ticker” was a joke. Two mentions was cause for concern. And now that I was looking, I saw she looked a little paler than usual (aside from the blush), and that she was moving slower, too. Usually she operated at one speed only: fast-forward. Not today.

  Her eyes softened, and she patted my hand. “I’m old, Darcy. Nothing lasts forever.”

  Unexpectedly, tears sprang to my eyes. “You’re not that old. Eighty is the new sixty, haven’t you heard?”

  “Put those tears away, doll,” she said softly. “The heart doctor tells me I’m too stubborn to let anything keep me down.”

  My breath caught. “You’ve been to a doctor?” This was news. Big news. Serious news. The “ticker” thing hadn’t been a joke at all.

  Giving my hand a squeeze, she said, “Nothing to worry about. Now, let’s go. I’m freezing my wrinkles off out here.”

  But her saying there was nothing to worry about made me worry.

  A lot.

  Chapter Four

  The Bewitching Boutique was a magical place where even the least fashionable witch (like me) could find an outfit that made her feel amazing. That was due to the talents of Cloakcrafters Godfrey Baleaux and of course, Pepe, who’d retained his Cloaking skills even as a familiar. It was quite the sight to see him wield a tiny needle.

  Godfrey poked his head out from behind velvet curtains as Mrs. P, Missy, and I came in. He jumped forward and quickly closed the draperies behind him, holding on to the fabric behind his back. Laughing nervously, his chubby cheeks jiggled. “Three of my favorite ladies!”

  He still hadn’t let go of the velvet curtains. “Are you okay, Godfrey?”

  “Me? Fine! Fit as a fiddle! Why do you ask?”

  I motioned to his hands.

  He chuckled and finally released the fabric. “I do love velvet.”

  Tipping my head, I studied him. He seemed . . . flustered.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” he said enthusiastically. “Have you finally decided to give up your obsession with velour, Eugenia?”

  His tone was light, but his eyes were quite serious.

  Shrugging off her winter coat, she handed it over to him and said, “Never, Godfrey. Never.”

  Holding Mrs. P’s coat with two fingers (it was a polyester blend), Godfrey chuckled under his breath. “Never say never, my dear.”

  Godfrey was perfectly groomed as usual. His beard was kept clipped short, his skin glowed with good health. The only hint of his age (early sixties) came in the silver-gray of his hair, which had been tamed into gentle waves by some type of hair product. He was family—of a sort. He was Aunt Ve’s third husband, the one she once referred to as a Rat Toad Bottom-dweller. They were on much better terms now, however. Friends, even.

  Mrs. P arched a penciled eyebrow. “You will have to strip my velour from my cold dead body, Godfrey Baleaux.” Gently, she slapped his cheek as she headed for the settee.

  “Promise?” he asked.

  “That’s enough talk of dead bodies,” I said, interrupting them. Especially of Mrs. P’s body. I didn’t want to even think about that.

  Godfrey helped me out of my coat and hung both on fancy hooks at the back of the shop. Mrs. P lowered the hood of her track jacket, and white spikes of hair sprang forth as though they’d never been covered.

  Godfrey and I stared. I swear, Mrs. P’s hair was the eighth wonder of the world.

  She patted her head, seemingly oblivious to the awe her jack-in-the-box styling had caused.

  I unclipped Missy’s leash, and she immediately went over to an arched door in the baseboard molding and let out a bark—her version of ringing Pepe’s doorbell, I assumed.

  As I straightened, I noticed something sparkly on Godfrey’s shoulder. I leaned in and picked off a sequin. I handed it to him.

  Smiling brightly, he said, “Hazard of the job.”

  Missy barked again, and the tiny door in the baseboard flew open. Pepe rubbed his eyes and said, “Ferme la bouche!”

  Shut your mouth. It was the classy French way of saying shut up.

  Missy stopped barking and slurped his face, upsetting the glasses from his long nose. He righted the specs, twirled his whiskered mustache, and patted Missy’s nose with his tiny fingers.

  His daily outfit usually consisted of a red vest decked out with three gold buttons. Today he wore a tiny silk smoking jacket, tied around his chubby waist.
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  “Did we wake you?” I asked, eyeing the clock. It was almost three in the afternoon.

  Missy sniffed his tail as he trudged toward us. “Non. I was merely resting.”

  “Are you well?” I glanced between him and Mrs. P. What was going on around here?

  “I am not unwell,” Pepe said dramatically, pressing his hand to his forehead.

  He’d been chumming with Archie far too often, if his theatrics were any indication.

  I shot a glance to Godfrey for an explanation. Thick silver-threaded eyebrows dipped as he said, “This is the week of Pepe’s discontent. I’m surprised you managed to root him from his bed at all.”

  “Ah, yes,” Mrs. P said. “I’d forgotten.”

  “His what?” I asked.

  Pepe sighed.

  I reached down, scooped him up, and set him on the arm of my chair. “What’s going on?”

  Buttons strained on Godfrey’s suit as he sat next to Mrs. P. “This week marks the anniversary of Pepe’s death. He’s always a wee bit melancholy this time of year. He drinks too much and spends his days and nights in bed.”

  Wonderful. Another dismal anniversary.

  “That explains the smell,” Mrs. P said.

  “Madame, I beg your pardon!” Pepe protested, then surreptitiously sniffed his armpits.

  “How long has it been, Pepe, since you bit the dust, so to speak?” Mrs. P asked.

  “I’ve lost count of the years,” he murmured. “They tumble by, one after the other, blending together like the pastel hues of an Impressionist painting.”

  Yep, too much time with Archie.

  “Two hundred and sixteen years,” Godfrey provided, relieving the buttons of their pressure by opening his coat. His big belly spilled out over his lap.

  I could practically hear the buttons’ sigh of relief.

  Pepe threw him a disgusted glance, but didn’t threaten to nip an ankle. Depression had definitely set in.