It Takes a Witch: A Wishcraft Mystery (24 page)

“I haven’t had the time. Things have been…busy.” She didn’t need to know about my late-­night romp through the woods. I glanced at the Bewitching Boutique across the green. I wanted to stop in and see Pepe. He’d been in the village a long time, and he might know something Godfrey didn’t about the Vaporcrafter family. He might be able to confirm my hunches.…

“For me, too. The dance is coming up fast. Will you help me with the prep?” She blinked long lashes.

“If I say yes, I don’t have to attend, do I?”

“If you don’t want to.”

“Then I’ll definitely help with the setup.”

“Good!” She looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get going. I’m covering for Evan at the bakery today.”

“Did he have any luck with his face?”

“Not so far. Darcy, he looks worse than ever.”

T
echnically, the Bewitching Boutique wasn’t yet open for business, but I could see lights on in the back of the shop. I knocked loudly on the glass door, and after a second, I saw Godfrey’s head pop into the doorway of the back room.

When he spotted me, he smiled and toddled forward to open the door.

“You’ve come to shop,” he said, eyeing my
Tom and Jerry
T-­shirt with amused disdain.

“Not today.”

“For shame.” He
tsk
ed.

“I’ll have you know, vintage tees are quite the hot trend these days.”

He rubbed the fabric of my sleeve between two fingers, made a face like a skunk had just wandered by, and said, “Not in my world.”

He might just cry if I told him I’d bought the shirt at a garage sale. “I actually came in to see Pepe. Is he around?”

“In the back. Come along.”

I followed him into the back room, a workshop with colorful fabrics, scissors, dress forms, and a small corner office.

“Pepe, you have company,” Godfrey said loudly.

A small door in the baseboard opened, and Pepe
came out wearing a tiny towel around his waist. “You do not fool me,” he said, his fogged glasses slowly clearing. “We never have visitors this ear—­ Ay-­eee!” he squealed. “Pardon!” Pivoting, he hurried back in his hole.

Godfrey’s smile stretched across his whole face.

I said, “How do you explain the little doors to the mortals?”

“Ambience, my friend.” He winked. “Ambience.”

A second later, Pepe reappeared, dressed in a tiny pin-­striped suit. He gave a little bow. “How may I be of service,
ma chère
?” He eyed me much the way Godfrey had. “Something a little more…formal perhaps?”

He was adorable. I wanted to take him home. Then I remembered Tilda’s claws. The two might not get along. “I was hoping you could help me identify someone.”

He climbed up the back of a chair, scurried across the table, and sat, his little legs dangling. “Please,
ma chère
.” With a nod of his head, he motioned to the chair.

I sat. “You’ve been in the village a long time.”

“Indeed,” he said with a heavy sigh.

“I assume you know everyone who’s lived here.”

“A good assumption.”

“There was a family who lived here decades ago. Clemson. They were Vaporcrafters.”

Pepe nodded. “I remember the cloak. One of my finest pieces,” he said fondly. “The family, they moved some time ago. Husband, wife, small daughter.”

“Virginia?” I asked.

“Yes. Nice girl despite that she enjoyed pulling my tail. The husband…” He turned up his nose. “I could do without. He was a crankypuss Vaporcraftor, and not at all inclined to accept the Craft into his life—­in fact he downright turned his nose up at it. It was the wife who placed the order for the cloak,” Pepe said.

“Not so.” Godfrey clapped his hands twice. The thick leather-­bound book appeared. “No, no, it says right here it was Isaiah Clemson.” He tapped the page.

Indignantly, Pepe said, “Your book is wrong.” To me, he added, “My memory is impeccable. In those days the women, they ordered everything using their husband’s name. It was as if they did not have identities of their own.”

Godfrey huffed and threw the book into the air. It vanished. “You’re still wondering about the Vaporcrafters, Miss Darcy?”

“I think I know who it is,” I said, “but I wanted to see if Pepe could confirm it. He’s as close to a village historian as I’ve met. Do you recall Mr. Clemson’s wife’s name?”

He twirled his whiskers. “Eugenia.” With a flirtatious smile, he grinned. “As I mentioned, my memory, it is impeccable.”

“Braggart,” Godfrey mumbled.

“Buffoon,” Pepe retorted.

They amused me to no end. “What happened to them? When did they move?”

Pepe looked deep in thought. “Nineteen sixty.”

I played my hunch. “Did Mrs. Clemson ever come back?”

Godfrey shook his head. “Not that I’m aware.”

Pepe grinned slyly. “She did.”

“About thirty years later?”

“Oui.”

“With a new name?”

“You’re very astute,
ma chère
.”

Godfrey’s neck swiveled between the two of us. “What, perchance, am I missing?”

“The hair does not lie,” I said to Godfrey.

“If only you were a mouse,” Pepe said wistfully.

I smiled at him. “Do you recall what became of her daughter?”

“I do not know, for the woman returned only with her new husband.”

“Will someone please tell me what’s going on?” Godfrey asked, his cheeks turning red.

“Where are you going with this,
ma chère
?” Pepe asked, standing.

“Think about that hair. It’s hereditary, is it not?”

Pepe’s eyes widened. “Are you sure?”

“I’m having palpitations,” Godfrey said in a singsong voice. “What will it take to get an answer? Must I have a coronary and die on the spot?”

“I’m fairly certain,” I answered Pepe, then stood. I took hold of Godfrey’s hand. “Please don’t have a heart attack. I’m not up to speed on CPR, and I’m not at all sure Pepe would revive you.”

Pepe chuckled. “I think he would rather stay dead than get mouth-­to-­mouth resuscitation from
moi
.”

Godfrey shuddered. “Then please, my friend, tell me what you’re talking about.”

I could hardly believe I hadn’t seen the resemblance before. “The Vaporcrafter is Mrs. Pennywhistle,” I said. “And if I’m right, her granddaughter was Alexandra Shively.”

I rushed home and once again found the house empty, except for Tilda. She was lurking in the shadows, trying her best to look disinterested.

I went straight to the office, found the number for the Pixie Cottage, and dialed.

“Pixie Cottage, this is Harmony. How may I help you?”

There was hope in her voice I hated to dash. “Hi, Harmony, it’s Darcy Merriweather. Is Mrs. Pennywhistle around?” I wanted to make sure she was home before I trekked over there. I needed to make sure she was all right. Now that I knew for certain Alex had been her granddaughter, it explained why Mrs. P had been so devastated lately. She might be in need of a friend.

“Darcy, no. She went out about ten minutes ago. I’m not sure where, but she sure did look somber. Did you want to leave a message?”

“No, thank you. I’ll check back later.”

I hung up and stared at the computer screen. If Mrs. P was Alex’s grandmother, and she was the one who claimed Alex’s body from the medical examiner’s office…she’d be planning a funeral of some sort, wouldn’t she?

Glancing around, I looked for a phone book, but didn’t see one in all the clutter. One day soon I was going to have to get cleaning in here. The office needed some good organizing. I pulled up a search engine on the computer and looked for local funeral homes. There were several in the area. I picked up the phone and started dialing.

I hit pay dirt on the fourth one. “Hello,” I said. “I’m calling to find out the time of Alexandra Shively’s viewing.”

“I’m sorry,” a monotone man said, “but that visitation is closed to the public.”

“Oh, but Mrs. Pennywhistle told me to call and get the information,” I lied. “She said there would be no problem. I suppose I’ll try to get in touch with her again. In her time of sorrow.” I could lay it on thick when I wanted.

“I suppose if Mrs. Pennywhistle requested you call…” His voice trailed off, and I could almost hear the inner debate he was having with himself. “The viewing is set for today at three p.m. with interment immediately following.”

I thanked him and hung up, not exactly sure what to do with the information now that I had it.

Tilda slunk into the room, took the long way around the desk, and then hopped into my lap and began kneading my thighs. I scratched her ears, her chin, and just under her neck. The purrs began almost instantly.

I looked at her, and she looked at me, her blue eyes half-­closed. “Can you talk?” I asked her. “And if so, why aren’t you talking to me?”

Her eyes drifted closed and she curled up in a small furry ball. I petted her head, laughing at myself. Was I going to talk to every animal I came across now?

I had to decide what to do about Alex’s viewing. My heart was aching for Mrs. P, but I was also curious to know why she hadn’t told anyone Alex was her granddaughter.

And what had caused Mrs. P to storm out of the bookstore the other night, and why had she broken into Lotions and Potions? What was she looking for?

Her break-­in also reminded me that someone else had broken into Alex’s apartment. The man who’d tried to steal her recipe box. Who was he?

Thinking about that break-­in reminded me, once again, of Nick Sawyer and his unfulfilled wish. Starla had filled in a lot of blanks, but hadn’t been able to answer my biggest question. Why hadn’t I been able to grant his wish?

As I was sitting there, my wrist started to itch. Absently, I scratched it. What had brought Nick and Mimi to the village? Did they have family here?

I scratched some more, and did a quick search on Nick Sawyer online. I had to narrow it down to Nick Sawyer, state trooper, to find any information at all. The link I clicked led me to a story of him at his retirement party. He’d retired young, after having been shot several times during a traffic stop gone wrong. My breath caught at the thought of Nick being wounded. Another story linked him to an obituary for his ex-­wife.

It confirmed everything Starla had told me. And gave me one more piece of information: Melina Sawyer had originally been raised in Salem, Massachusetts. Was she from the village? Did Mimi have family here? Was that why Nick moved here?

Maybe Aunt Ve would know. If not, maybe Pepe.

I scratched at my arm again, disturbing Tilda. She gave me a dirty look and hopped down and ran out the door.

“You’re welcome,” I called after her.

Then I looked down and let out a yelp when I finally noticed what I’d been scratching. Huge welts had appeared on my hands, my wrists.

W
as I contagious?

It was a thought I didn’t even want to think.

What was I going to do?

Besides stop scratching. Because I’d practically worn my skin raw. I’d never been so itchy in my life. Was Evan’s whole face like this?

I dashed into the kitchen in search of something to soothe it. Oatmeal, milk. Anything. I settled for a damp rag pressed against my skin. It barely helped. Great.

I needed calamine. Or aloe. Or something.

I was in the mudroom when the front doorbell ding-­donged. Hopping back out of my shoes, I wished I had on long sleeves. One look at my hands, and people were going to run for the hills. Very bad for business.

Then I remembered that we weren’t even open today. Sundays were our only day off.

So who was at the door?

A brief flutter of panic spun through me. What if it was Archie, the macaw, again? Had I done anything to break the Wishcraft Laws today? I nibbled my lip and hurried through the kitchen, down the hallway. I hadn’t thought so. But I hadn’t thought so yesterday, either.

Someone stood on the front porch, his back to me as I peeped through the glass. I opened the door a crack and was shocked when Evan turned around.

His face was absolutely, perfectly clear. Not so much as a mole marred his perfect skin.

“Evan! Your face…”

He beamed. The bright smile stretched wide, pushing the limits of his cheeks.

“What happened? You found the cure, obviously. You look amazing!”

“I didn’t find the cure.”

“Who did?”

He pulled me out onto the porch and gestured to the house next door. Archie was singing Right Said Fred’s “I’m Too Sexy” as Dennis Goodwin sashayed up the walkway, playing it up for the tourists lingering on the sidewalk. “I do my little turn on the catwalk,” crooned Archie as Dennis implemented a spin.

It was nice to see Dennis with a little charm and personality. Up till now I’d thought him a dried-­up clod.

The tourists clapped. Dennis rushed inside the house as Archie catcalled after him.

Evan shook his head. “He’s so dramatic.”

“Dennis?”

“No, Archie. He was once an actor at London’s Adelphi Theatre. Did you know?”

“I didn’t even know he was a familiar until last night.” When I’d been summoned to see the Elder. I left that part out. No need to get into
that
.

“I’m surprised he didn’t tell you. It’s his favorite topic.”

“The theater?”

“Himself. I’m sure you’ll be hearing more from him now that you know his secret. Loves the sound of his own voice.”

“He chose the right form, then.”

Evan nodded. “Rumor is he’s had a wild crush on Dennis for years now. Dennis humors him because he’s such a good companion to Mr. Goodwin. Terry.”

And to think this village looked so sedate, calm, and peaceful the first time I saw it. If only the tourists knew what lurked beneath the surface. “I haven’t met him yet.”

“He’s a hermit, but he does come out every once in a while.
Interesting
guy.”

“Why do people keep calling him that?”

“No reason.” His lip twitched.

Between him and Ve, I was extremely curious about my neighbor.

Archie launched into a Lady Gaga song. Evan winced. “I just wish Archie would shut up once in a while. Sometimes, when the wind is blowing right, I can hear him all the way over at the bakery.”