The Goodbye Witch

by Heather Blake

  Fortunately, I was spared from casting the spell myself when Mimi volunteered to do it. The cloak appeared on Glinda’s lap a moment later.

  Nick shook his head in wonder.

  A rooster crowed at the back door and I said, “There’s Archie.”

  Saved by the bird.

  Glinda slowly rose and said, “Thanks for letting me stay warm—and for the cloak.”

  “I’ll see you out,” Nick said.

  As Glinda passed the coffee table, her eyes widened as she spotted Melina’s journal. “Is that—” She bent to pick it up and Missy lunged, her teeth poised to take a nip out of Glinda’s hand.

  Glinda yanked her fingers back, and I grabbed both the journal and Missy. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her tonight.” I wished I knew—so I could encourage it.

  Archie crowed again.

  “You shouldn’t keep him waiting, Glinda,” Ve said. “You know how he gets.”

  “Yes, well.” Glinda looked around, gave Mimi’s arm a squeeze, then said nothing else as she hobbled to the back door.

  “Bye!” Mimi called out.

  Glinda smiled and waved before heading out.

  I watched her walk away and couldn’t help but wish for her to keep walking . . . and never come back.

  Chapter Fifteen

  The moon played peekaboo behind high thin clouds as Nick and I sat on the porch swing. Cold air nipped at my cheeks, my nose. I tugged the edge of my stocking cap lower onto my forehead and burrowed more deeply under the thick blanket Nick and I shared. It was dark—we’d kept the porch light off—and the wind whistled through the quiet evening.

  I snuggled closer to him to share his body heat. “I heard you saved Starla from being arrested this afternoon.” I gave the swing a good push with my foot and sent us swaying.

  “There wasn’t enough evidence to support the suggestion.”

  “Glinda’s suggestion?”

  “I don’t think I can deny that it seems as though she has it out for Starla.”

  “Because of me?”

  He hesitated only slightly before saying, “That’s my guess.”

  I said, “I figured as much. She knows how to hurt me most.” By hurting those I loved.

  He nudged my chin upward. Looking straight into my eyes, he said, “I’m sorry about all this.”

  “All what?”

  He ran a hand down his face. “I brought this on. Instead of distancing myself and my family from Glinda, I allowed her to get close to Mimi. I thought it was a good idea. A way for Mimi to connect with Melina. But now Glinda’s too involved in our lives, and I don’t know how to uninvolve her without hurting Mimi. What a mess.”

  This probably wasn’t an appropriate time to say “I told you so.” I bit the inside of my cheek instead. He had a point about hurting Mimi that I hadn’t thought of. Mimi considered Glinda a friend—to ban the woman from her life now would only confuse her.

  “You can say I told you so,” he said. “It’s all right. I deserve it.”

  “Nah. I said it in my head—that was enough.”

  He laughed softly, leaned in, and kissed me. After a few seconds, I barely even noticed the cold anymore. In fact, it was feeling downright toasty beneath the blanket.

  The sound of flapping broke through my warm and fuzzy fog, and I forced myself away from Nick just as Archie landed on the porch railing.

  He eyed the two of us and fanned himself with his wing. Clearing his throat, he said, “‘You shouldn’t kiss a girl when you’re wearing that gun . . . leaves a bruise!’”

  I narrowed my gaze on my feathered friend. “You’ve just been dying to use that quote, haven’t you?”

  He wagged his wing at me. “Months! The two of you aren’t exactly known for public displays of affection. Do you have an answer for me?”

  I gritted my teeth and looked to Nick for help. There was humor in his eyes as he shrugged.

  Archie laughed, a loud booming noise that sounded a little like thunder. “Give up?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes.”

  “Murder, My Sweet.”

  “Of course!” I said. “It was on the tip of my tongue.”

  “Sure it was.” Smugly, he puffed out. He was a cocky bird. “My apologies at the interruption of your little rendezvous, but I wanted to give you fair warning,” he said, his tone turning serious.

  “Warning about what?” Nick asked.

  Just as the words left his mouth, noise came from the trailhead behind the house, and Glinda appeared, angrily muttering and stomping through the snow. Adrenaline must have softened the ache of her twisted ankle, because her limp was all but gone. She spotted us and headed our way.

  “That,” Archie said before giving us a slight bow. “It is time for me to bid you a good eve.” He flew off.

  Nick glanced at me. “There’s never a dull moment with you around.”

  “Would you want it any other way?”

  His gaze softened. “Never.”

  Glinda pushed open the back gate and stormed along the shoveled pathway toward us. Her cape flew out behind her dramatically.

  I summoned some faux concern. “Glinda, what’s wrong? Did it not go well with the Elder?”

  Steam practically blew from her ears. “You know how it went with the Elder. I don’t know how you tricked her into getting your way, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Everyone around here seems to have fallen under your spell.” Her tone shifted to mocking. “Darcy this and Darcy that. Yuck! You don’t fool me, Darcy Merriweather!”

  I tipped my head and kept my voice calm. “Well, you don’t fool me, either, Glinda Hansel, so I guess we’re even.”

  “Ugh!” she cried, then turned sharply and angrily hobbled off, slamming the gate behind her.

  Nick slid a questioning glance my way. “What was that about?”

  “She’s mad.”

  He laughed, and I loved the way the sound washed over me, flooding me with warmth. “No kidding.”

  “It’s about the Elder,” I explained. “She summoned me earlier. She wants me to be her eyes and ears on Starla’s case.”

  “Because of Craft involvement?”

  I nodded.

  His forehead furrowed in confusion. “Why didn’t she ask Glinda?”

  I explained the Elder’s reasoning. “Looks like Glinda didn’t take the news so well.” We swayed on the swing for a bit, and when he remained silent, I said, “I know this kind of throws a wrench in me staying out of your cases. . . .”

  Smiling, he said, “Actually, it doesn’t. Don’t you see, Darcy? The Elder gave us a gift.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He shifted on the swing to face me head-on. “It’s why Glinda is so mad. It’s not because the Elder asked you and not her. It’s because you can now interfere with this case as much as you want and Glinda can’t object at all because as much as I’m her supervisor on the force, the Elder is her boss where the Craft is concerned, and around here Craft Law trumps mortal protocols. By asking you to look into Starla’s case, the Elder just neutralized any threat Glinda held over us.”

  I perked up. A gift, indeed. “We can work together now? Share information?”

  He nodded, then lifted an eyebrow. “Do you have any information?”

  “Not really. I just . . .” I faced him. “Did you question Kyle’s family?”

  “I tried, but they clammed up and asked for a lawyer. Is there something in particular I should ask them?”

  I gave him a quick rundown of my visit to Wickedly Creative. “They seemed really concerned that he had disappeared. I suspect they knew he was in danger. Now that Kyle is dead I have to wonder if he willingly left his tree house or if he was forced out by someone. But another question is what happened to his belongings? Did you find any fingerprints other than Kyle’s at the tree house?”

  “The tree house had been wiped clean of most fingerprints—a nearly impossible task. Only yours, Harper’s, and a few of Kyle’s remained. Someone went t
hrough a lot of trouble.”

  “But who? His killer? Or his family trying to cover up their presence there?”

  “Good question.”

  But one we didn’t have an answer to yet.

  “Any idea what killed him?” I asked.

  “No, but there was a puncture wound in his thigh.”

  “Puncture?” I had visions of ice picks and really long daggers.

  “An injection site. He also had a sizable wound on his calf, but it wasn’t serious enough to cause a fatality.”

  “An injection site? You think he might have been poisoned?”

  “It looks that way. The ME promised a preliminary report in the next day or two. We’ll know more then.”

  I whistled. Poisoned.

  “It would be a good idea for Starla and Evan to take the polygraph,” he said. “The sooner we can rule them out, the better.”

  I fussed with the blanket and said, “Doesn’t it make more sense to wait to find out for certain how Kyle died in the first place? That injection site could have been . . . recreational.”

  He rested his forehead against mine. “I’d just like to rule them out once and for all.”

  In my mind it still didn’t make sense for Starla to take that polygraph—especially when she wasn’t sure she’d pass it. I changed the subject. “Are you sure you’re okay with me nosing around?” I asked, still not wanting to step on his investigative toes. He cupped my face and kissed me. I lost myself in the moment for a bit before saying, “I take that as a yes?”

  “I guess that means I’ve fallen under your spell, too.”

  It was exactly where I planned to keep him.

  Whether Glinda liked it or not.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Long after Nick, Mimi, and Harper left, I sat on the sofa in the family room with Missy and the flames in the fireplace keeping me company.

  A lamp cast a soft glow over the pages of Melina’s diary as I searched for an answer to how Kyle was able to be invisible. It was in these pages somewhere, and I was determined to find it.

  I held the diary far from Missy, who seemed intent on pawing its pages, and rubbed her ears. Fighting back a yawn, I eyed the mantel clock. It was just before two in the morning. Long past my bedtime.

  Resting the diary on my chest, I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, letting the events of the past couple of days swirl around my mind like a dust storm. Kyle’s reappearance, his death . . .

  As they often did when I was overtired, my thoughts wandered to another death, one that happened a long time ago.

  My mom.

  There were times when I missed her so much my chest ached. This was one of them—it always happened with an approaching birthday. I could easily recall the last birthday I shared with her. I’d turned seven, and there hadn’t been a big party at all, just my parents and me and cake and balloons . . . and love. So much love.

  I could picture the lopsided homemade chocolate cake she’d made, and see the love-struck look in my father’s eyes as he gazed at her, but try as I might, I couldn’t recall her whole face. It swam in and out of focus, even as I could hear her singing an off-key, high-pitched version of “Happy Birthday” to me. The voice was there, imprinted perfectly in my mind, but not what she looked like.

  I’d catch a glimpse of one of her eyes, rimmed in the metallic blue eyeliner from Avon she loved so much, or the delicate freckles that dotted her skin, or the way the corner of her lips curled when she smiled. . . . But I couldn’t ever quite put it together to make one solid picture of her in my mind.

  Not too long ago, I’d shown my sketchbooks to Mimi with all the images of my mother I’d drawn over the years. The bits. The pieces. She’d asked me why I hadn’t drawn a whole picture and it hurt to tell her that it was because I couldn’t remember what she looked like.

  I’d do just about anything to remember.

  Tears leaked from the corners of my eyes as I let the memory of my mother’s voice singing “Happy Birthday” to me play over and over in my head, and sat up with a start when I heard a noise—footsteps.

  “I’m sorry,” Starla said as she sat next to me on the couch. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

  I was about to say I hadn’t been sleeping, but when I glanced at the clock again I saw it was nearly four in the morning. I must have drifted off.

  “Have you been crying?” Starla asked, leaning in to get a good look at my face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” I rubbed my eyes and felt the salty residue left behind by my tears.

  “Oh, right, because crying in your sleep is normal,” she said.

  I smiled at her sarcastic tone. “I’d been thinking about my mom. That’s all. Not a bad thing, just missing her.”

  Starla nodded. “Grief is tricky like that, sneaking up on you when you’re least expecting it.”

  Only, I did expect it this time of year—because of my birthday. But I didn’t want to talk about it, so I said, “Did you get any sleep?”

  “A little.”

  She’d refused another visit from Cherise, and I couldn’t say I blamed her. It had to be disconcerting to lose a half day of your life like that.

  Missy lifted her head and blinked sleepy eyes. Starla ran a hand down the dog’s back and Missy put her head back down. “I can’t seem to turn off my thoughts.”

  “About Kyle?” I asked softly.

  Nodding, her eyes drifted closed. I had the feeling she wanted to talk, but I didn’t want to push her to open up. She’d get there in her own time.

  The mama hen in me just wanted to pull her in my arms and hold her for a little while—here, in her froggy-printed pajamas with her hair pulled back and not a speck of makeup, she looked like a lost little girl.

  You can’t fix everything, I had to remind myself.

  Despite those words echoing in my head, I couldn’t quite help myself from reaching over and taking her hand in mine. I gave it a squeeze. I might not be able to fix what ailed her, but I could make sure she knew I was there for her.

  Her eyes fluttered open and she turned her head to look at me and offered a small smile. She squeezed my hand back.

  She adjusted the blanket and drew her legs onto the couch, tucking them beneath her. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. We were supposed to live happily ever after. I loved him so much. He loved me. I know he did,” she said fiercely, as though I was going to debate it.

  Arguing was the farthest thought from my mind. “How could he not?”

  “Exactly,” she said, her voice cracking. “Exactly. If he loved me, how could he have . . .” She shook her head.

  “I don’t know.” I wish I did, so I could label it. This is why. It would be closure for her, and she desperately needed an explanation.

  Unfortunately, with his death it wasn’t likely she was ever going to get a reason.

  “It was so perfect for a while,” she said with a smile on her face. “He was . . . perfect. Truly, he was. Handsome and funny and smart. He was kind and attentive. Doting. We’d cook dinner together every night because we worked such different hours and wanted to make sure to share at least one meal together. He was a night owl who usually stayed up late painting while I got up early, so he’d leave me a little love note every morning next to my coffee cup complete with a cute little drawing so I’d see it right off. . . .”

  My heart thumped hard in my chest as I listened to her. Heard the love in her voice. Heard the loss.

  “The change in him was subtle at first,” she said. “Skipping dinner and going to his studio earlier at night. A harsh comment here and there. No more love notes in the morning. Then out of the blue he’d return to his normal self. Laughing, playful, loving, and I’d start to believe I was crazy for thinking anything was wrong in the first place. But then the harsh comments became commonplace, and the playful side of him began disappearing altogether. He became angry all the time. Withdrawn. He would hardly look at me, and when he did, there was nothing in
his eyes but uncertainty, like he didn’t know why he was behaving that way.” She looked me straight in the eye. “I was scared at the change, but I didn’t want to tell anyone.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth, and I could see her chin quivering. Finally, she said, “I—I felt like a failure.”

  I squeezed her hand harder. “Oh, Starla.”

  “Our marriage was supposed to be . . . perfect; everyone said so. And it wasn’t. I wasn’t. Obviously.”

  “It wasn’t you,” I said. “It was him. . . .”

  “Was it?” she asked me. “I probably could have been a better wife. . . .”

  My tone was firm. “Stop it. It was him. There is no excuse for what he did.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “He was just so unhappy. I wanted him to be happy, Darcy. Why wasn’t he?”

  Tears filled my eyes. “I don’t know.” I gathered up what courage I had and said softly, “The day you called the police . . . was that the first time he’d hurt you?”

  A teardrop tracked down her cheek as she shook her head. “There were other times.”

  My heart cracked straight in half.

  “Not as badly as that day,” she went on. “A push here, a shove there. I let it go because he never slapped or actually hit me. Wrote it off as his temper. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  No, but saying so now wouldn’t help any.

  “He’d just get so worked up about something. Trivial things, too—the cap left off the toothpaste or it being too cold in the house—and suddenly one of the traits I loved about him most—his fiery passion—I didn’t like so much. My gut instinct said that something was wrong. Inside here.” She tapped her head. “So I suggested he see Cherise.”

  “Did he go?” I wondered about a mental disorder. Depression or schizophrenia. Or maybe I was just grasping at straws, looking for a reason. An excuse for the inexcusable.

  “My suggestion just made him angrier. He didn’t think there was anything wrong with him. The more he objected, the more I began to think that I was the one with the issue, and that I’d been unfairly blaming him. I let it go.”