It Takes a Witch: A Wishcraft Mystery (15 page)

“How’s he doing?” I asked.

“As well as can be expected. He’s hopeful he’ll be exonerated soon.” A frown crossed her lips. “The evidence against him is pretty damning, but it’s only a matter of time before he’s freed.”

“You’re so sure?”

An eyebrow lifted. “Of course. He’s not a violent man. He’s sweet…and kind. He collects eyeglasses for the needy and then funds trips to third world countries to distribute them. He sponsors a scholarship in his late wife’s name at the local high school.”

I held my tongue from asking about his late wife—now probably wasn’t the best time.

“He loves this village, and the people of this village, and we all love him. His arrest is an outrage, an abomination. He’s a scapegoat, plain and simple.” She took a deep breath. “The whole reason he’s behind bars is because of Chief Leighton and his grudge against Sylar. After this incident, I think the village council will be in favor of removing the chief from his position, don’t you?”

I agreed. If Sylar was cleared of murder, then the chief was probably playing his last game of golf on the village’s dime. And honestly, from all I’d heard, it was time the chief retired. Hopefully, whoever took his place would do a better job. I knew I’d appreciate knowing the village had more of an involved police presence. Especially after what had happened to poor Alex.

The trouble was that Sylar had to be cleared first for any changes to be made. I felt my eyebrows dip as I scrounged for some courage. “Why didn’t Sylar like Alex? Do you know for certain?”

She waved a hand in dismissal, but said, “Alex was difficult to like. It was as if she went out of her way to grate on people, to bring turmoil to the village. Sylar is a peaceful man. He doesn’t like turmoil, which is why he didn’t care for Alex. It’s as simple as that. Nothing nefarious.”

“You really love him, don’t you?”

She shrugged and smiled coyly. “I’m rather hoping he might be husband number five.”

Fussing with the flyers, I said, “Even though he doesn’t believe in witches?”

“Everyone has their flaws.” She winked.

“Do you want me to come with you to visit him?” Rearranging my day would take some doing, but if she wanted my support, I’d be there in a flash.

“You’re sweet for offering, but he’s only allowed one visitor a day. But you can help me find that watch.”

Which would hopefully lead to the real killer. Because Ve had convinced me of Sylar’s innocence. Someone else had hated Alex enough to kill her. Had found Ve’s scarf at the bookshop and taken the opportunity at hand to kill Alex. But who? Obviously someone who’d been at the village meeting…I had to find out. And soon. Before Sylar was convicted of a crime he didn’t commit.

“Can you handle delivering the piñata on your own?” Ve asked.

“No problem.” Though, after working so hard on the piece, I hoped I wouldn’t have to see it smashed to smithereens.

“Oh, Darcy?”

“Yes?”

“The bangs are adorable.”

Smiling, I took a handful of flyers. Missy was curled at Ve’s feet, sleeping, so I decided against bringing her out with me. Which also reminded me that I needed to pick up a new collar for her. Maybe one with a GPS tracker.

Unfortunately, Starla had been right about the village’s thinning crowd. Normally by this time the sightseeing buses had arrived, and tourists were out in full force. But I saw only one flock of little old ladies shuffling along the sidewalk. A news crew had set up in the middle of the green, so I took the scenic route to the Ye Olde Village Gift Shop to find a gift for Evan.

It was the first time I’d been in the store and I could hardly believe my eyes at all the witchcraft paraphernalia. Pointy hats, warty noses, magic wands, even cooking pots and planters in the shape of cauldrons. Black cats,
snakes, goats, rabbits, and toads as cute stuffed animals. There was the usual assortment of souvenir items like magnets, shot glasses, key chains, and spoons. Mixed in were all kinds of touristy kitsch from sunscreen to sweatshirts. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for to bring to Evan, but I was beginning to think I wasn’t going to find it here.

A display of mugs caught my eye, and remembering the conversation with Nick yesterday morning, I wandered closer. A tall swivel display stand held hundreds of mugs. Many with the witch theme, including one with a pointy nose jutting off the ceramic, one a tankard in the shape of a witch hat (the point was hinged), and others with quotes from the Wicked Witch of the West, from
The Wizard of Oz
. I turned the rack. Sure enough, there were more quotation mugs. Mostly ones quoting from
Macbeth
, but I did spot “A Madness Most Discreet.” I scanned the others. “When I saw you, I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew.” “Journeys end in lovers meeting.” “Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.”

My gaze lingered on that last quote. The first line in particular. “Love is a familiar.”
Familiar
. The word was sticking like a thorn in my subconscious. I knew I’d heard it recently, and suddenly I recalled that it was also connected to witchcraft. I couldn’t for the life of me remember when I’d heard it—or what it meant in terms of the Craft.

Looking around, I spotted a bookshelf filled with books on witchcraft. I found a book that had a terminology chapter and ran my finger down the page until I found a listing for “familiar.” My eyes widened as I read. A familiar, also called an imp, is basically a supernatural spirit disguised as an animal, one who aids witches with their magic. If what I read was true, history and literature are full of familiars, from
Macbeth
to
Harry Potter
. Cats, spiders, owls, birds. Chickens, dogs, mice, toads.

Were there really such things? Would Ve tell me? Or wait for me to figure it out on my own?

I roamed around the gift shop, taking everything in, trying to spot one item that screamed Evan’s name. I wound my way to the back of the shop and stopped dead in my tracks. On a rack near the back wall hung a row of capes. Just like the one the intruder had been wearing last night.

But as I drew closer, I saw these capes were made of paper-thin material. Nothing like the dreamy satin cape from the night before.

“May I help you?” a woman asked. She was midforties, with short shaggy dark hair and green eyes behind a pair of rectangular glasses.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’m looking for a cape just like this, but a little fancier. Maybe satin. Do you carry those?”

The woman’s eyes narrowed on me. “Aren’t you one of Velma’s nieces?”

I smiled and nodded. “I’m Darcy Merriweather.”

“Jeannette Dorsey,” she said, shaking my hand. “I’ve heard so much about you. Nice to finally meet you. So you’re looking for a cape?”

I nodded but didn’t explain why. I could tell by the look in the woman’s eye that she suspected—or knew—I was a Crafter. Which probably made her one, too.

“I’m surprised Velma didn’t tell you that for special-order capes you need to go see Godfrey at the Bewitching Boutique.” She leaned in and dropped her voice. “All the Crafters in the village get their capes from him.”

I thanked her, handed her one of Ve’s flyers, and ten minutes later left the shop with a fancy chocolate bar, a thousand-piece puzzle of
Wicked
’s playbill, and the question of whether the Vaporcrafter in Lotions and Potions had special ordered a cape through the Bewitching Boutique.…

O
n my way to purchase a new collar for Missy at the Furry Toadstool, which was next on my to-do list, I decided to pop in on Harper. The bell on the Spellbound Bookshop’s door jingled as I went inside. Harper and Vince Paxton were standing elbow to elbow at the cash register counter. Not a soul other than us was in the store.

“Darcy, good. Maybe you can help your sister out,” Vince said. He had a book open on the counter.

Harper rolled her eyes. “Oh, for the love. Don’t drag Darcy into this.”

“Into what?” I asked, intrigued by their playful tone.

Vince cleared his throat and read from the book. “‘What happens twice in a week, and once in a year, but never in a day?’”

Harper groaned.

“Slow day at work?” I asked her.

“Make him stop.” She grabbed for the riddle book.

“The letter
e
,” Vince said, eyes bright behind his glasses. He snapped the book closed and held it out for Harper to take. “It’s deathly slow, to answer your question.” He winced. “Bad choice of words.”

My gaze immediately went to the back of the shop. The crime-scene tape had been taken off the back door, but the bad-juju feeling lingered.

“I like the bangs,” Harper said. “It’s a start.”

“What is?” Vince asked.

I waved off his question. “Nothing. Just Harper being silly.”

“Not silly. I just think— Oh no,” Harper said. “Look.” She pointed out the picture window.

The news reporter had moved her location to the front of the shop. The camera lights turned on and Harper and I looked at each other and darted out of the shot in case we could be seen through the glass.

I pretended to look at a rack of bookmarks while Harper took the riddle book and put it back on the shelf in the humor section.

“I heard a report on the news this morning about the murder, and it seemed like the network has decided to play up the witch angle of Alexandra’s death,” Vince said. “Apparently they don’t care about setting the witchcraft movement back two hundred years. They’re all about the sensationalism.” He shook his head in disappointment.

My gaze shot to Harper. She was shaking her head without trying to appear obvious. To anyone watching, it looked like she had a tic.

Because saying nothing would seem a little strange, I opted for, “Witchcraft movement? You believe in witches?”

I noticed Harper hung her head.

His eyes widened. “You don’t?”

I shrugged noncommittally and picked up a penguin bookmark and studied it like my life depended on it.

“Darcy!” Vince enthused. “History books are filled with accounts of witchcraft, dating back centuries. Witchcraft is still strong in this day and age. Alive and well, even in this village. I can go on and on with accounts and depictions and—”

I cut him off. “So you think Alexandra was a witch?” I asked. No wonder Harper had hung her head. He didn’t appear to have an off switch. “Do you think that might be why she was killed?”

“I didn’t know her well,” he said just as the door opened, the bell jingling. The reporter strolled in.

That was my cue to leave. I handed Harper one of Aunt Ve’s flyers and told her I’d talk to her later.

I shimmied around the cameraman and out the door as fast as I could. Once outside I blinked against the bright sunshine, seeing spots, and ran smack-dab into someone who’d been lurking at the front of the shop, peeking in the window.

“I’m sorry!” I cried. “So sorry.” I reached out to steady the woman. It was Ramona Todd from the Magic Wand Salon.

“It’s my fault, standing there like that,” Ramona said, straightening her skirt; then she gave me a quick look. “Bangs! I love them!” She came a little closer and inspected. “They’re a little uneven—a do-it-yourself job?”

“Spur of the moment.”

“Most do-it-yourself jobs are.” She handed me her card. “Come over to the salon sometime, and I’ll even them out.”

“I will,” I promised. Then I noticed how she kept looking in the window with a pained expression on her face. “Are you worried about the news crew? The bad press?”

“The what? Oh, no. This will all blow over.”

I stepped up behind her to see what she was staring at. Or whom, rather. Her gaze was intent on Vince. Ah. “You and Vince?” I asked. This would be good information to have so Harper didn’t get too attached.

Ramona quickly shook her head. Color faded from her cheeks. “I have to go, Darcy. I’ll see you soon?”

I didn’t get a chance to reply as she hurried off.

Strange.

With one last glance at Vince talking the reporter’s ear off, I headed on my way.

I had a collar to buy, a rashy man to question, something illuminating to see, and a wombat to deliver.

*   *   *

As I walked, I tried to calculate exactly how far Starla and I had run that morning, and I figured it to be about a lowly quarter mile. Feeling a little pathetic, I upped my pace just a bit and stole a page out of Mrs. Pennywhistle’s speed-walking book.

I scanned the green, looking for her, but her bench, as I’d started calling it in my head, was empty. I made a mental note to check on her, make sure she was okay. She’d been acting so strangely yesterday.

About a block from the Furry Toadstool, I heard hurried footsteps coming up behind me, and suddenly had crazy thoughts that the town pickpocket may have turned into a mugger. I held tightly on to my wristlet and looked back over my shoulder.

Unsteady, my feet tangled together, and I felt myself pitching forward. I let out a yelp and flailed my arms to keep from falling on my face.

Next thing I knew, a pair of strong arms were wrapped around me, holding me tightly.

“I’ve got you,” Nick said as he pulled me backward, upright.

My cheeks heated as I stepped out of his arms. “Thank you.”

“For making you fall?”

It
had
been his fault, but as his touch lingered on my arms, I let the blame slide. “For catching me.”

The bright sunshine made his brown eyes seem more golden. “Anytime.”

I took another step back and told myself to stop smiling. Really, it was downright embarrassing, my natural reaction to him. The last thing I wanted was to give him the wrong impression.

Dark circles colored the skin beneath his eyes. It looked like he hadn’t slept much at all last night. Small wonder after what we’d seen in Lotions and Potions.

“I was just heading to your house when I spotted you
zipping past,” he said. “I was going to leave this on the back porch, but since you’re here…” He pulled forth Missy’s collar and handed it to me. “I found it in my yard, in a hole under the fence. ‘Missy’ is a cute name.”

I didn’t dare tell him what it stood for—“Miss Demeanor”—especially as he was trying to track down a thief. No need to offer Harper up as a suspect on a silver platter.