Some Like It Witchy (2 page)

As Cherise and I sat on the sagging top step to await Raina's arrival, I glanced next door at Terry's house. A curtain suddenly swished closed in an upstairs window—he'd been watching us, and I had to wonder what he thought about possibly living between two ex-wives.

If I were him, I'd consider selling his place.

Immediately.

“Oh, here comes Calliope,” Cherise said, standing up and dusting off her knee-length shorts.

Calliope Harcourt had her head down, reading something on her phone, as she hurried along. When she made an abrupt right turn to come up the walkway, she gasped when she finally looked up and realized she wasn't alone. She dropped a binder she was carrying and laughed as she picked it up. “I should pay more attention. Hello!”

Mid-twenties, Calliope had just earned her master's degree from Boston College, and intelligence shone in blue eyes that slanted downward at their corners. She was a tiny thing—barely five feet tall with an oval face, rectangular glasses, and shiny auburn hair pulled back in a loose bun. Wearing dress pants, a short-sleeved floral-print top, and ballet flats, she looked every bit a bookworm.

When I first met her, Calliope had been working part-time for Sylar Dewitt at his optometry office. It wasn't long after he married the atrocious Dorothy Hansel, one of his optician assistants, that Calliope had started looking for a new job. I didn't blame her. I could only imagine how overbearing Dorothy had become after marrying the boss. Where Dorothy was concerned, walking away was often necessary before something homicidal happened.

Been there, done that.

Kent and Raina had hired Calliope straight off, and she'd been working for them almost a year now, but their time with her was limited. She'd been sending out résumés for her
dream job as a museum archivist for a few months now and it was just a matter of time before she found a position.

“You looked engrossed,” Cherise said, smiling.

“An e-mail from Kent to draw up a contract when I'm through here. He and Raina are running me ragged. Plus, dealing with the TV show details . . .” She smiled, not seeming to be bothered in the least. She glanced around. “Raina asked me to meet her here with papers for you to sign, Ms. Goodwin. Is she inside?”

“She's not here, dear,” Cherise said. “We've been waiting for her to have our walk-through.”

“That's strange.” Confusion filled her eyes, and her eyebrows dipped. “I know she had a morning meeting with Scott Whiting. Maybe it ran late.” She shrugged. “Let's go in. At least you can look around while we wait for her to get here.”

Calliope tucked her binder under her arm and bent to tackle the lockbox on the door. A second later, she had the key in her hand and was slipping it into the door. A one-carat crystal-clear diamond sparkled on her ring finger. Her boyfriend, Finn Reardon, had popped the question last Valentine's Day.

“Go on in,” she said, stepping aside. “I'm going to send Raina a text message to remind her we're waiting, and then I'll be right in.”

My envy level spiked a little as we walked through the door, still wishing this place was mine. Sunlight streamed through the windows, and dust particles danced in the beams. The house had been emptied of furniture and all that remained were the bare bones of the place and a few knickknacks like a clock that no longer worked, a fireplace poker and shovel, and an old footstool.

Although those bare bones were in need of a little TLC, they were . . . extraordinary. The scarred wooden floor, the original hand-carved mantel and fireplace surround. The built-in bookcases. A wide archway led through to the dining
room, which had French doors opening to the spacious backyard.

“The ceiling needs a lot of work,” Cherise said, eyeing it critically.

It did. Water stains looked like rusty clouds. “You'll need to find out where that water came from. My guess is the roof.”

“Undoubtedly. Did you see the rotting shingles?” She fanned herself with her hand. “Central air-conditioning would be nice, too,” she said, adding to the list.

It would. Saunalike, it was hot and humid in the house, and I longed to open the windows to let in some fresh air. Unfortunately, all the sashes had been painted shut. The single-paned windows were one more thing needing updating.

Cherise headed into the kitchen and looked around. “It's beyond repair.”

Old cracked wooden cabinets hung from loose hinges. The white-tiled counter was stained, a lot of the tiles chipped. The linoleum flooring seemed to have been waxed with a layer of grease, which made footing slippery.

Cherise lifted a pale eyebrow. “What would you do in here?”

“Maple cabinets, bronze hardware, a light-colored granite countertop,” I said, lying through my teeth. I didn't want Cherise to know what I'd do—it would be too painful to see it be built in someone else's house. I'd enlarge the window above the kitchen sink, which I'd replace with one in a deep farmhouse style. Soft white cabinets, brushed nickel hardware, and a Carrara marble countertop.

She eyed me suspiciously, and I had the feeling she knew I was lying.

Finally she said, “I was thinking so, too. It would be lovely.”

As she headed for the staircase, Calliope came inside and glanced around. “It sure has potential, doesn't it?”

“It does,” I said softly, trying to hide my longing as I admired the craftsmanship of the banister. “Any more offers come in?”

“A few,” Calliope said, trailing behind me as I climbed the steps. “The deadline is still tonight, however. Best and final.”

“Any hint of how high the bidding has gone?” I asked.

“Sorry. You know I can't say.”

Pesky real estate rules.

Upstairs, Cherise wandered around the master bedroom, chatting with Calliope about the changes she'd like to make, including busting out a wall to add a balcony or a deck.

“Oh, and I'd love to knock this down”—Cherise motioned to the wall dividing the master from the second bedroom—“and create an expansive walk-in closet.” She strode across the room, to the adjoining bath. “Then I'd take out the existing walk-in closet and enlarge the bathroom.”

I walked over to the closet to see how much space it would add to the bath. Pulling open the door, I happily inhaled the scent of the cedar boards that lined the space. As I scooted far enough inside to grab the chain dangling from the light, I stepped in something wet and figured the roof had leaked in here, too. But as the light flashed on, I looked down to find I'd stepped in a large puddle of . . .

I shrieked.

...blood.

A little farther into the space, Raina's body lay curled in a fetal position, her eyes wide and vacant. The blood had come from a gaping wound on the side of her head.

Instantly woozy, I stumbled backward, nearly knocking down Cherise and Calliope as they raced over to see what was going on. I leaned against the doorframe and concentrated on breathing deeply, trying not to pass out. I hated the sight of blood.

Calliope shoved her phone and binder at me and slapped her hands over her mouth. “I think I'm going to be sick.” She ran for the bathroom.

I knew the feeling.

Peeking through one eye, I saw Cherise move in for a closer look. She took hold of Raina's wrist. Looking for a pulse.

Light-headed, I forced myself to look around, to take in the scene. Sunbeams glinted off a golden chain resting in Raina's open palm, and I could see a flash of color from a gemstone amulet.

The hairs rose on the back of my neck again, and I took a closer look at the closet. A few of the cedar panels had been pried loose, but clear as day the letter
A
had been written in blood on one of the wooden boards.

Something wicked . . .

“Do you feel a pulse?” I whispered, not sure I could speak any louder if I tried.

Cherise shook her head and sadness filled her eyes. “We're too late. Raina's dead.”

“I
need new shoes,” I said, staring down at my freshly scrubbed toes. The police had confiscated my sandals as evidence. “Maybe even new feet. Do you have a spell for that, Cherise?”

We sat side by side on As You Wish's porch swing, watching a village police officer cordon off the street. It wasn't Nick. He, as the chief of police, was inside the Tavistock house. A medical examiner's team was on the way. The investigation into Raina's death had begun.

The clothes I'd been wearing were now in the wash (with extra soap and hot water), and I'd changed into comfy khaki-colored linen pants and a light pink T-shirt.

“Shoes?” Cherise asked, her thin pale eyebrows raised in question.

“No. Feet.”

With an oh-geez smile, she patted my hand. “No.”

Missy, my gray-and-white Schnoodle (half schnauzer, half mini poodle) lay between us, her head resting on my thigh. She flicked a glance upward at me, and I swore she was smiling, too.

I hadn't been kidding.

“But the heebies . . .” I shuddered, easily imagining Raina's blood on my feet even after washing them three times. It was like my own version of Lady Macbeth's damned spot.

“Will pass,” Cherise assured.

Maybe. In a few days.

Weeks.

Years.

“You didn't pass out,” she said brightly. “That's something.”

It was. And I hadn't tossed my cookies like poor Calliope, either.

My word. I was getting used to the sight of blood. Of seeing death. What has my life come to?

A colorful red, blue, and yellow blur swooped downward, circled, and landed gracefully on the porch railing, long gray talons clutching the wooden rail. Archie looked at Cherise. “‘The Grim Reaper's visiting with you
.
'”

Horrified, Cherise jerked her head left, then right. Frantically, she said, “What?”

“Ha. Ha,” I said drolly, frowning at him as he laughed. I looked at Cherise. “It's a quote from the movie
Heat
that Archie is using to compare me to the Grim Reaper. And it's not the least bit funny.”

“Ah, right,” Cherise said. “Your movie quote competition.”

Archie and I had been playing a game of trying to stump each other with movie quote trivia since I had moved to the village. It usually made me smile. Not today.

“
I'm
tickled,” Archie said, an amused glint in his tiny
eyes as he watched me. “And certainly you cannot deny you have an affinity for finding dead bodies, Darcy.”

“Affinity?” Cherise questioned.

“Affinity,” he stated firmly, stretching his wings out. From blue tip to blue tip, his wingspan was a few inches shy of four feet long.

I glared at him. “‘You keep using that word.
I do not think it means what you think it means.'”

“You're not even trying,” he accused.
“The Princess Bride.”

I used my big toe to set the swing swaying. “It wasn't meant to stump you,” I said testily as I rubbed Missy's ears. “It was meant to demonstrate your need of a vocabulary lesson.”
Affinity?
No. There was nothing I
enjoyed
about finding dead bodies.

Investigating the crimes I didn't mind so much, if I was being honest. But seeing death up close and personal? It was nothing short of . . . shocking.

His chest puffed, the scarlet feathers nearly standing on end. In his haughtiest voice, he exclaimed, “I beg your pardon!”

He did haughty well.

Pointedly lifting an eyebrow, I crossed my arms. “Consider it begged.”

With an exaggerated show of plumage, he flew over to Cherise's side of the swing and perched on the armrest. His tail was so long it nearly touched the porch decking. In a loud stage whisper, he leaned in close to her ear and said, “Darcy's in ill humor.”

“Can you blame her?” Cherise asked, using the same cheeky undertone. “After all, this is what? The third body she's found in less than a year?”

“Fourth,” he corrected.

Actually, it was the fifth. I didn't plan to correct them, however.

And that wasn't counting all the incidental deaths I'd witnessed. Suspects who'd died. Friends who'd passed from natural causes. Murderers.

Good gosh. Maybe I
was
the Grim Reaper. It was a sobering thought—one I refused to voice. Archie was at his worst when he gloated. “Surely there must be someone else in the village you'd like to harass this morning.”

He cocked his head. “No. Starla, alas, is working and not running things over.”

Cherise chuckled. “It's early yet. Give her time.”

I smiled despite myself. I wasn't sure why—at thirty years old—Starla decided it was high time she learned how to drive. She'd gotten by just fine all this time, having lived in and around cities with public transit her whole life. As a Wishcrafter, she couldn't
legally
get a license because of photo issues; however, like my sister, Harper, and me and Ve and every other Wishcrafter around, she already had a fake ID, procured through the black market. But suddenly she was determined. And her boyfriend, Vincent Paxton—madly in love with her and unaware of the dangers—took on the task. Exactly how she explained to him why she didn't know how to drive but had a license I still didn't know.

What I did know was that Vince was braver than I ever gave him credit for.

Over the past week, Starla had run over countless curbs, sideswiped a tree, and narrowly missed a fire hydrant. Her spatial issues needed work.

A lot of work.

“Besides,” Archie said, his tone shifting from snarky to imperious, “I come not only to harass, but to deliver a message.”

I set my foot flat on the porch, stopping the swing. Missy took advantage and leapt to the ground, hurrying over to the gate to get a better look at what was happening out on the
street. Her tiny tail wiggled as she watched the comings and goings.

Shifting on the bench, I faced my feathered friend head-on. Archie's missives usually came from one person only. The Elder. I, and many others, didn't know her identity (it was top secret), but
every
Crafter knew Archie was her right-hand bird. “Is this about Raina's murder?”

“It is indeed,” he said smugly.

Many months ago, the Elder had given me a job as an investigator. As a protective measure, I was to snoop into criminal offenses that involved elements of the Craft. It was imperative mortals did not learn of our heritage, as the last time it had been uncovered in Salem, it hadn't ended so well for our ancestors.

It's important for me to mention the Elder's job offer hadn't been an
offer
at all. It had been an order.

I was the Craft snoop whether I liked it or not.

Truthfully, I happened to like it. Snooping fed my nosy nature, and solving cases satisfied the fixer in me. I wanted to make everything right at all times. Justice for all. I was a sap that way.

Plus, I enjoyed working cases alongside Nick. Even though he'd grown up mortal, he knew of the witchy world through his ex-wife, Melina, a Wishcrafter. Through marriage Nick had become a Halfcrafter (half mortal, half witch), someone who learned everything about the Craft but had no powers. Knowing the ins and outs of our magical world allowed him to support his Wishcrafter daughter Mimi's quest to discover more about her heritage. Also, as a Halfcrafter, he knew that around this village witch law outranked mortal rules.

Archie bowed. “The Elder relays you are now on the job. Raina's case is yours.”

At his words a spark of excitement and a thrum of justice-driven urgency rushed through me. Since the moment I'd spotted her body lying at my feet, I wanted to know what had
happened to Raina. She'd been a nice woman, and I couldn't begin to fathom why someone would want to hurt her.

“Hot damn,” Cherise exclaimed. “Do you need a sidekick? I'm up for the job. I look great in a leather jumpsuit.”

Archie let out a wolf whistle.

I wanted to scrub my imagination as vigorously as I had my feet.

“I think Harper has first dibs.” My sister was one morbidly curious witch. Though she had no interest whatsoever in Wishcrafting, she geeked out over
CSI
.

Her boyfriend, Lawcrafter Marcus Debrowski, was currently out of town at some sort of law conference that sounded like a snooze to me. Harper, my fiercely independent little sister, had been moping since he left.

She'd fallen hard and fast for him, and though she once swore she'd never marry (I believe she mentioned the term “shackled for life”), I had the feeling she'd be revisiting that decision soon.

A crime scene was definitely going to lift her spirits, and she'd be bugging me for details in no time. And as much as I hated to admit it (because she was a notorious gloater), in the past she'd been helpful to my cases a time or two.

“Where are you going to start?” Cherise kicked the swing into motion again.

Missy trotted along the fence line as I glanced across the street, toward the village green.

Something wicked . . .

Andreus Woodshall was a Charmcrafter who crafted amulets.

Was it merely a coincidence there had been an amulet in Raina's hand?

And the letter
A
written in blood on the wall?

Possibly, but I didn't think so.

It creeped me out to know I was going to have to track him down and talk with him. Talk about heebies.

“I don't know,” I said, trying to avoid bringing up Andreus's name at this point. “I'll probably start with Nick.”

Cherise grinned and elbowed me gently. “Well, sure. If I were you, I'd start there, linger, and go back for seconds.”

Archie woefully said, “Likewise.”

Even as I rolled my eyes, I couldn't stop an embarrassed flush from climbing my neck. As my cheeks heated, I had to (silently) admit lingering with Nick was nothing short of amazing.

Yes, working with him was definitely a bonus.

It completely made up for the lack of salary with the snoop job.

“Kent is another good place to start,” Cherise suggested. “Though he isn't nearly as alluring as Nick, aren't spouses the usual suspects?”

Kent Gallagher. “How long had he and Raina been married?”

Archie tipped his head, beak to the sky, as he pondered. “Nearly seven years, I believe.”

Kent and Raina had been a handsome couple, both in their mid-thirties with magnetic personalities. I knew Raina was a Vitacrafter, but wasn't sure about Kent so I asked.

“A mortal,” Cherise answered.

I raised an eyebrow. “Does he know about the Craft?”

“Clueless,” she said. “Raina didn't want to lose her ability to read clients, so she kept it from him.”

When a Crafter married a mortal, they had two options. To tell or not to tell. In telling, the Crafter forfeited all powers, but children conceived through the union would inherit their magical abilities (as had happened with Nick and Melina). Not telling led to living a life of subterfuge. Lies upon lies. It made for a shaky foundation and most marriages in this vein didn't last long.

So knowing Kent and Raina had been married seven years told me one thing of particular importance.

Raina was an excellent liar.

My gaze shifted to movement in the street. The police officer who'd strung the tape moved it aside to let the medical examiner's van pass. It crept down the road and stopped in front of Terry's house.

The officer in the street was new to the force, replacing my nemesis Glinda Hansel, who'd resigned her position in January under reprehensible circumstances. We'd done our best to stay out of each other's way around the village, but with its size, total avoidance was impossible.

Only last week I'd bumped into her at the Crone's Cupboard, our local grocery store. Awkward didn't begin to cover it. As far as I knew she'd moved on from her crush on Nick and her obsession with me, and was happily making a living using her Broomcrafting talents. I was beyond grateful she wouldn't be assigned to this case.

Bumping into her occasionally, though uncomfortable, was a coexistence I could deal with.

Working side by side with her was . . . not.

“Do you know if Kent and Raina were having any marriage trouble?” I asked, trying to push thoughts of Glinda out of my head. They tended to make me irritable.

“I haven't heard a peep,” Cherise said. She glanced at Archie. “You?”

“It seems there was something.” Tapping his chin with a wing, he was silent for a moment, obviously concentrating. Suddenly, his head came up and his eyes brightened. “Yes, yes. A week or two ago, I witnessed them arguing in front of Spellbound.”

“About?” Cherise asked.

“Too far to eavesdrop properly,” he said, clearly disappointed by the fact. It was one of his favorite pastimes. “Kent was doing most of the shouting, and Raina looked most displeased indeed.”

Across the green, I could barely see the awning of my
sister's bookshop, Spellbound, through the trees. Had she overheard the argument? Knowing her, she probably had—nosiness was a family trait.

I didn't find it unusual that Raina and Kent had been fighting—most couples did. Especially when one of them was trying to hide her witchy heritage. However, most couples didn't usually fight so publicly, especially when business appearances counted a great deal in the real estate profession.

I quickly decided that after checking in with Nick, I'd talk with Harper. And maybe in a day . . . or five . . . I'd go looking for Andreus.

Missy let out a happy yip, and I looked up to find Ve charging toward the gate, a long roll of bulky plastic in her arms. Color had settled high on her plump cheeks, and her coppery hair was coming loose of its twist.

“What a hullaballoo!” she said when she spotted us. “I heard about poor Raina Gallagher. Dear, dear thing.”