Some Like It Witchy (12 page)

My jaw dropped. Apparently, I wasn't the only one doing a little matchmaking around here. “Velma Devany! You want them to get back together?”

Grinning, she said, “That's the plan.”

“Why not just break up with him?”

“It's easier on him if he thinks it was his idea. Men and their fragile egos . . .”

I should have known she'd pull something like this. She'd done it before—when she'd been engaged to Sylar. Her commitment issues ran deep. “And Cherise? How does she factor in?”

“She's never truly gotten over him, so really I'm doing her a favor. I'm altruistic like that.”

I slipped on my flip-flops. “Oh you're something, all right.”

“Go on with you,” she said, shooing me out the door with a smile.

As I headed to pick up Mimi, I couldn't help but recall the conversation I overheard between Ve and the Elder, about the plan they set into motion.

I had the feeling that conversation hadn't been about Terry and Cherise.

No.

I had the feeling they'd been talking about me.

A
s I crossed the green, headed back to the bookshop to pick up Mimi, my thoughts were on Ve and the election. And what would happen if she won.
When
she won—because I was convinced she would. What would happen to As You Wish? She always told me that she was hoping I'd take over the company one day, but I'd believed that would be when she retired in a few years' time. Which would give me plenty of time to learn all the ins and outs, the ups and downs.

If she stepped down after the election . . .

I wasn't ready.

Truth be told, I wasn't sure I'd ever be ready.

Ve was the magic behind the business, as Raina had been behind Magickal Realty. And I had the uneasy feeling I would be sitting in the same boat that Kent Gallagher was in right now. Paddling for dear life to stay afloat.

But . . . at least I'd have a tidy office.

“Ugh!” I said aloud, suddenly recalling those files that had slipped behind the cabinet this morning. I'd forgotten to ask Nick to help me move the heavy piece. I made a mental note to remember tonight when he came for dinner.

Shaking my head, I pressed on, my gaze on Spellbound. Which was why I spotted Kent Gallagher hurrying down the sidewalk, past the bookshop. A few storefronts down, he ducked into the Black Thorn, the local florist.

Funeral flowers, I bet.

I abruptly took a right, instantly deciding to follow him inside. I crossed the street wondering how to strike up a conversation about the murder, his alibi, or his marriage without coming off as crass, but I'd figure something out.

As I passed Lotions and Potions, I peeked inside and stopped dead in my tracks. Vince sat at one of the worktables, his head tilted back, tissues stuck up his nose. Starla stood behind him holding an ice pack to his forehead. Glancing up, she saw me and emphatically waved me inside.

I threw a look to the Black Thorn. It could wait a couple of minutes.

As I pulled open the door, the scent of herbs and spices washed over me, reminding me instantly of Mrs. P. Her granddaughter had once owned this shop, and when Vince bought it, he'd hired Mrs. P to create some of his merchandise, a task at which he was fairly useless.

Because Vince was a mortal.

Not only a mortal, but a Seeker—someone who suspected (but didn't know for certain) that witchcraft was alive and well in the village and longed for it to become part of our culture. However, there were only two ways into the Craft. Being born into it (with full powers) or marrying into it (with no powers).

As far as I knew, Starla didn't have marriage on her mind, so for now she was safe from the troubles that came with marrying a mortal.

What Vince didn't know was that Mrs. P had been pulling double duty while working here—she had also been spying on him. Making sure that as a Seeker he wasn't a threat to the Craft. Since Mrs. P's “death,” Starla had taken over the role of lotion and potion scientist, under Mrs. P's guidance.

Twink, Starla's tiny bichon frise, let out a yap when he spotted me and bounced over. Seriously, he didn't walk. He hopped on all fours. It was the cutest thing ever.

He stepped on my feet as he clamored for my attention,
and I bent down and picked him up. He weighed barely anything. Dark eyes shone with happiness as he licked my chin. “Okay, that's enough of that,” I said to him, putting him back down. Though I had to admit his kisses were much better than those of Nick's Saint Bernard, Higgins. After Higgins's sloppy drool-laced kisses, I usually needed a shower.

“What happened?” I asked, noting that Vince's glasses were on the table, the frames twisted at odd angles.

“Just a little accident,” Starla said.

Vince rolled his eyes.

“Did he trip?” I asked, trying to keep the smile out of my voice. Undoubtedly, this was the result of their driving lesson. Something had clearly gone wrong.

“No, no,” she said, wincing as she lifted the ice pack, revealing a giant knot discoloring the skin on Vince's forehead. She quickly put the ice back on it and flashed a phony smile. “Nothing like that.”

Vince shut his eyes and gave his head the tiniest of shakes.

I leaned close to his face, glad the tissues in his nose weren't visibly bloodied. I'd had enough blood for the day, thankyouverymuch. “You know, I've been spending a lot of time with Cherise lately with this whole house-hunt thing, and I think I've picked up a thing or two.” I steepled my fingers under my chin. “I diagnose head trauma due to an impact. Oh, something like a face being smashed into a dashboard.”

“It wasn't an
impact
,” Starla said haughtily, sweeping a lock of blond hair behind her ear. “It was a sudden stop, smarty-pants. Damn squirrels. They have death wishes, the lot of them.”

Vince grunted.

I wasn't sure whether he was agreeing with her or was contemplating that
he
was the one with the death wish for trying to teach her how to drive in the first place.

I suspected the latter.

“Those bushy tails going this way and that,” she said,
using her free hand to demonstrate the zigzag pattern the suicidal squirrels had apparently taken. “A half dozen at least. They're crazy. Cra-zy.”

I grimaced. “You didn't hit one, did you?”

“No, no. That'd be horrible if one got hurt.” Her bright blue eyes shone with sincerity. “I like squirrels.”

Vince grunted again, which petered out into a moan.

“Are you okay, Vince?” I asked, trying not to laugh. My guess was he'd taken umbrage at the fact that Starla didn't want to hurt a squirrel but was perfectly okay with him getting injured.

Ah, love.

“No,” he mumbled. “I think I need my head examined.”

I couldn't help it. I laughed. He smiled.

Starla stared at us, disapproving.

I murmured, “Sorry.”

Vince grunted yet again, pressing his lips together tightly.

Shoulders back, Starla lifted her chin. “I think he's just fine, but to be on the safe side, Vince thinks he should get an appointment with Cherise.”

“For the head examination or the injuries?” I asked, barely managing to keep a straight face.

“Darcy! This isn't funny.” Starla huffed in annoyance. “We called Cherise's office, but it went to voice mail. Do you have her private cell number? I have it at home but not with me, which is why I motioned you in here in the first place.” She eyed me. “Which I'm now having second thoughts about.”

“You know I'm just teasing you,” I said, pulling out my cell phone to search my contacts. I held the phone out to her. “Here.”

Without a word, she handed the ice pack to me, took the phone, and strode to the cash register station to find a pad of paper. Twink bounced along behind her.

I set the ice on Vince's forehead and patted his shoulder.

He glanced up at me, his big brown eyes wide and full of
apprehension. Whispering, he said, “I didn't see a single squirrel.”

Squishing my lips together, I tried to hold in my laughter, but it bubbled inside me, shaking my chest until it burst out.

Vince started laughing, too, and we both had tears in our eyes when Starla stomped back over to us.

She thrust my phone at me, crossed her arms, and shook her head at us. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing,” I said, gasping for breath.

“For crying out loud!” she said, spinning me around to face the door. Marching me in that direction, she added, “You're not making this better. Out, out you go. I'll see you later. And when you tell me the details of your traumatic day, I promise not to laugh at you.”

“Oh, I don't know,” I said, wiping my eyes. “There were some amusing parts. Like Sy's our guy! And moush. And horse faces.”

“You've lost your mind,” she said, a smile finally cracking her stern expression. “Too many dead bodies. Maybe you should see Cherise about a head examination, Darcy Merriweather.”

Which only made me laugh harder.

Opening the door, Starla fairly shoved me through the opening. She looked left and right down the street. “Be careful of squirrels,” she said, then slammed the door closed behind me.

*   *   *

My lingering humor evaporated the moment I walked through the door of the Black Thorn.

Lydia Harkette Wentworth, a Floracrafter, glanced up from writing down Kent Gallagher's order and smiled when she saw me. “Darcy, good to see you! I'll be with you in a moment.”

The shop was filled with the heady scent of blooms in every color—including black roses that were magically cultivated nearby. I walked over to a display of them and ran a
finger along a dark petal. The Witching Hour roses. Unfortunately, the beautiful flowers brought with them sad memories after they played a role in the murder of Michael Healy last year, and the attempted murder of . . . me.

I tried not to think too hard about the day I'd almost died right here in this very shop and tried to focus on the good that had come out of that case. A mended family. Lydia had never looked happier.

“No problem. I don't mind waiting,” I said, sidling up to the counter and looking at Kent. “My condolences on Raina's passing.”

“Um, thanks,” he murmured. He took off his green tweed cap and ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose I should offer you my sympathies as well. Calliope, ah, told me you were there when Raina was found.”

“Yes, I was,” I said softly, studying him. He looked like your everyday average businessman. Nice slacks, button-down shirt, impeccable haircut. Shiny shoes, classy watch. He didn't look like someone you'd see on a
WANTED
poster, but I'd learned over the course of a year that murderers rarely looked anything other than
normal
. And it was hard to argue that Kent had motive. Lots of it.

Lydia
tsk
ed. “So tragic.”

Kent nodded and pulled his phone out of his pocket to check messages.

“Have you had a chance to plan services?” I asked. If he
was here ordering funeral sprays, then he had to have a date in mind.

“Calliope is handling it for me,” he said. “I'll know more tomorrow.”

I set my jaw. He couldn't even be bothered to plan his wife's funeral?

Lydia tapped an order pad with the tip of a pencil. “Five Augury Circle. Correct?”

“That's right,” he said.

She smiled. “We'll have the bouquet delivered tonight.”

“Augury Circle?” I repeated. It was Calliope and Finn's address.

“Just, um, sending a little pick-me-up to Calliope.” He put his phone away and looked at me. “She's had a difficult day.”

“I know,” I said, unable to keep judgment out of my voice. It was looking more and more like he was having an affair with her. Harper was not going to let me live this down.

He pulled out his wallet and handed a credit card over to Lydia. Leaning in, he looked between us and said, “Truthfully, I'm hoping the flowers will help convince her to stop job hunting and stay on with me. She's a great employee, and excellent saleswoman. I've got big plans in the works, and I need her.” He blinked imploringly at Lydia. “Work is all I have left to keep me sane.”

I wanted to gag at the line he was feeding us, but was intrigued by these big plans he was speaking of.

Lydia
tsk
ed sympathetically. “Perhaps now is not the best time to be thinking of work. Allow yourself to grieve a little.”

Nodding thoughtfully, he said, “It's best I keep busy so I don't have time to think about . . . it.”

It. Raina's death. I grit my teeth.

Since he was so willing to talk about work, I pried a little. “Sometimes it's good to be busy,” I said, not believing
this
was one of those times. “I heard Magickal Realty is vying for the contract for the new development.”

His eyes lit. Bingo.

“I'm very interested,” he said. “And I already have a marketing plan in place.”

Interesting, seeing as how Raina had vetoed the plan. He'd definitely gone behind her back.

“All I need,” he said, flashing a smile, “is the village council to, ah, approve the neighborhood.”

“Don't hold your breath,” Lydia said. “A lot of the town is opposed.”

“We'll see.” He glanced at his watch. “I, uh, have a showing soon. A beautiful beach house. Four bedrooms, two baths, fully updated. Gorgeous.”

Dorothy's earlier words about Kent floated back to me.
He can't string a pair of words together without adding an
um
or
uh
betwixt the two.

She'd been right. I hated that.

“You have a showing right now?” I asked. “Surely, your clients will understand if you postpone . . .”

“I was with them at the home this morning when the call came about Raina,” he said. “I feel as though I owe them an explanation. And,” he said with a hint of a smile, “they're ready to offer on the home. I can't let this opportunity slip by.”

I forgot to ask Nick if Kent's alibi had been confirmed yet.

Compassion waned in Lydia's eyes. “Really, Kent. Take the time to grieve. People will understand if you do, but they won't understand if you don't. You don't want that kind of gossip if you want to save your reputation.”

I wanted to give her a high five.

His anxious gaze flicked between us. “You're right. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“Grief will do that to you,” Lydia said reassuringly, ready to give him a second chance.

He signed the receipt, tipped his cap to us, and said, “I'll see you ladies around.”

I ended up ordering a bouquet of flowers for Ve to be delivered on Election Day, and was surprised to find Kent still
outside the shop when I left. His back was to me as he leaned against a lamppost and spoke on the phone.