It Takes a Witch: A Wishcraft Mystery (28 page)

There was nothing of value in the apartment. The decor had been nice, but inexpensive. The artwork was mostly cheap prints set into nicer frames. All told, Mrs. P might be able to get a couple of thousand if she sold the furniture and the kitchen items. I suspected most of Alex’s worth was downstairs in the shop. I just didn’t know if Mrs. P would be able to liquidate all that merchandise—­or if she wanted to, considering the spate of lawsuits sitting in the file box. Maybe Marcus would have some thoughts on that as well.

I kept digging and sorting and as I was reaching into
the back of a drawer, I noticed something I hadn’t seen before. Alex’s purse was tucked under the desk. It was black, and nearly hidden in the shadows. I pulled it out, hoping that the birth certificate Mrs. P needed was inside.

It was a little creepy going through a dead woman’s purse, I had to admit. Touching the lip balm she’d never use again, looking through receipts, and her wallet. I noticed one of the receipts was from a fancy downtown restaurant, known for its romantic ambiance, the night before she died. The bill came to just over two hundred dollars, and she’d put the tab on her credit card. Whom had she been dining with?

I tucked the credit card slip back into her purse and came across a pocket calendar. I flipped to the night she died, and written in the little square was “Vill Mtg 9:30.” The day before had a notation of “9 p.m.,” and also a symbol that looked like a tweaked eighth note, but the arm of the note was as long as the circle part and the circle was hollow, not shaded in.

I stood up and brought the calendar over to Mrs. P. “Does this symbol mean anything to you?”

She shook her head. “You think it means something?”

“I’m not sure.” I flipped back a few pages. The little symbol appeared a lot. Usually along with a time—­usually late at night. “I think this symbol might stand for a person. See here?” I showed her all the other pages, times, and dates. “I found a receipt from a fancy, romantic restaurant the night before she died, the same night she was meeting with this symbol at nine o’clock.”

“Why not just write his name down?” she asked.

I shrugged. “She has a thing about keeping boyfriends secret. Maybe it was a little game with her.”

Sadness filled Mrs. P’s eyes. “There are just so many things I don’t know. I should have known.” Her jaw jutted and her lower lip trembled.

I put my arm around her. “Why don’t we finish up for the day?”

She nodded. “Just let me finish with these glasses.”

“Do you mind if I take this home?” I asked, holding up the calendar. “I want to see if Ve or Harper recognizes the symbol.”

“Take it,” she said, wrapping another glass.

I tucked the calendar in my purse and went to help in the kitchen. Mrs. P had the glasses under control, so I decided to do a quick fridge cleanout, before the perishables rotted. Alex didn’t have much in the fridge. I grabbed a trash bag and started tossing items in. Brown salad, a carton of milk, a half dozen eggs, some old Chinese food. I surveyed and closed the fridge door. I emptied the trash container next to the fridge and noticed that the chrysanthemums had started to brown and wilt. I reached for them.

As I did so, Mrs. P said, “You may want to use your gloves, Darcy. Some people are very sensitive to chrysanthemums.”

I recalled how Harmony Atchison at the Pixie Cottage had said Mrs. P had the greenest thumb around. If anyone would know about plant sensitivities, it would be her. “Sensitivities? Like what?” My eyes widened. “Like this?” I asked, holding up my hands. “I touched these flowers when I was here on Saturday.”

Mrs. P
tsk
ed. “Just like that. Chrysanthemums can cause a bad skin reaction, especially after your skin is exposed to sunlight.”

I’d touched the flowers Saturday evening, then hadn’t showered until after my jog on Sunday morning, when it had been bright and sunny. I glanced at my hands. My hives were almost gone, but my skin was still red and irritated. Several jars full of pink lotion and a mortar and pestle sat on the counter. “If these flowers were ground up and put into a lotion, would they cause a reaction?”

“I’d say so, especially if the tubers and leaves were ground as well.”

It all suddenly made sense. “This is probably what’s
been causing the rashes around the village. Evan’s going to be relieved that he didn’t cause an epidemic. I wonder why he reacted so badly and I didn’t.”

“Some people are more sensitive than others and some people aren’t sensitive at all, and if he used a large amount of lotion, he would have been more exposed than you. You should wash your hands,” she said.

I washed, grabbed my gloves, and threw all the flowers—­cut and dried—­away. “Alex couldn’t have known how dangerous these could be.”

“I imagine not. She probably chose them for the color and didn’t investigate the properties thoroughly. She should have consulted a botanist or herbalist, but perhaps she believed she knew what she was doing.”

No wonder she had so many people suing her. “I’m going to take this trash out to the Dumpster. Then we’ll wrap up for the day, okay?”

Looking around, she nodded. “We’ve made good progress.”

We had. “Tomorrow we can bring this stuff to the storage locker, and start with the shop.”

Absently, she nodded as she wrapped another glass. I stepped carefully down the narrow staircase, thinking about those chrysanthemums. Evan had used the lotion, and I had touched the flowers. But how had Vince gotten the rash? Or Ramona?

Was it possible Evan had transferred the lotion to one of his trays? He thought no, but maybe he’d been careless just that once.

Had Alex’s fight with Ramona gotten physical? Had Alex laid chrysanthemum-­laced hands on her?

I pushed open the back door and froze when I heard a noise coming from behind the Dumpster. My heart pounded. Probably a squirrel, I told myself, inching forward, the trash bag in front of me like a shield.

Nothing to be worried about.… I was being paranoid.

A loud clunk echoed, and I jumped back. “Who’s there?” I said loudly.

No one answered, and I thought maybe a very large squirrel had gotten into the Dumpster and couldn’t get out. I edged forward and was getting ready to heave the trash bag over the metal rim when suddenly someone jumped out of the Dumpster, nearly landing on me.

I screamed.

“D
id I scare you?” Harmony Atchison asked, dusting off her jeans.

As Nick had predicted, my scream had been barely a whisper. I was pretty sure I looked terrified, though, because Harmony came over and said, “I’m so sorry! Are you okay? I didn’t realize you were out here. I guess you caught me in the act.”

She stepped forward and dragged a broken window frame that had been propped on the corner of the Dumpster. Her cheeks were aflame. “I hate when people catch me. They always look at me like I’m crazy. Kind of like how you’re looking at me now.”

I finally found my voice. “What is it you’re doing?” I still held the trash bag like a shield. My heart rate was slowly returning to normal.

“I guess you’d call it Dumpster diving. I call it Permanent Article Relocation.”

I smiled at her, though I didn’t get too close. She smelled. “And what do you do with the article once it’s relocated?”

Her eyes lit. “I repurpose it! Picture this,” she said, holding up the window frame. “I’ll paint it white, maybe add a crackle glaze or a distressed finish, then add four legs.” She flipped the frame so it sat horizontally. “Voilà, a beautiful table.”

“Amazing.” My inner Martha Stewart was impressed.

“Sometimes trash really is treasure. It’s just a shame I have to climb into Dumpsters to find it. Blech.”

I glanced between her and the Dumpster, the Dumpster and her, and I suddenly realized where Harmony had been the day she overhead Alex and Ramona fighting. I just needed her to confirm it.

When I asked, she blushed again and nodded. “They had no idea I was there.”

I thought about those chrysanthemums. “Do you know if they got into a catfight?” I made a pawing motion. “Did it get physical?”

She was smiling at my gestures. “As soon as I spotted them, I ducked down. I didn’t hear any slapping or anything, though. I couldn’t really hear anything other than raised voices.”

That explained a few things.

“I did follow up with Marcus Debrowski like you suggested. He thinks it will help Sylar’s case.”

“That’s good news.” For Sylar. Not so much for Ramona. I checked my watch. I had an hour before my appointment with her. Had she already been questioned by the police?

“I’ve got to get this back,” Harmony said, holding up the window frame. “And shower.”

I laughed and tossed the trash bag into the Dumpster. “I’d love to see it when it’s done.”

“Come by anytime.”

I waved good-­bye and headed back inside. I found Mrs. P downstairs, in the shop. She was holding the pink witch hat in her hands. “Think anyone would notice if this hat doesn’t show up on the inventory list?”

“Hat?” I said. “What hat? I don’t see any hat in this shop.”

She patted my cheek and looked around. Her attention seemed focused on the plastic bins filled with herbs
and roots. Walking over to them, she said, “Alexandra must have known about herbs somewhat. Or else…”

“What?”

“Some of these are extremely dangerous. Poisonous. Can cause rashes, digestive problems, strokes, and even death. If she didn’t know what she was doing, she could have killed someone.”

Thank goodness she hadn’t.

Mrs. P said, “Perhaps she just didn’t know about the chrysanthemum, as it’s so common.”

Unfortunately, we’d never know.

With one final look around, she said, “Let’s go. I have a little girl I want to see.”

I made sure to lock up behind us. As I turned the key, shouts rang out in the alley. “Tell me!” someone yelled.

“Is that Vince?” I asked, squinting.

“Is that Evan?” she countered.

We’d just about reached them when the first punch flew.

Evan ducked and evaded. Vince struck out again. Evan high-­kicked him in the stomach. Vince moaned and doubled over.

“Black belt,” Evan said at our stunned glances.

Gayle Chastain came running out the back door of the bookshop. “Stop it right now!” she shouted, getting between the two. “For goodness’ sake, stop acting like children. You’re grown men.”

“At least one of us is,” Evan said.

Vince had recovered and struck out again. Evan was light on his feet, though, and the punch didn’t connect.

Gayle twisted Vince’s ear. “I said stop!”

Vince didn’t look happy. “All right. Fine.”

“What’s this about?” Mrs. P asked.

“Evan brought the scourge into the bookshop with his infected little cakes,” Vince sneered, “and now he won’t even tell me how he cleared up his rash.”

“‘Infected little cakes’?” Evan stepped forward, fists raised, but Mrs. P stopped him with a glare. “I’ll sue you for libel if you spread that around!”

“Like you spread around your rash?”

“I’m calling Marcus immediately,” Evan said.

“Not if I call him first,” Vince sneered.

Gayle looked like she wanted to ground both and send them to their rooms without dinner. “Enough.”

Everyone went silent, though anger pulsed in the air.

“Now,” Gayle said calmly, turning to look at Evan. “Evan, your face looks great. What treatment did you get?” She swiveled to Vince. “Because I know Vince has been suffering and is looking for relief, and truly, I’d be relieved if I knew those cakes weren’t the source of the rash.”

Evan pasted on a phony smile. “As I was telling Vince, the rash cleared up on its own; it was never contagious, so you have no reason to worry.”

He sounded convincing enough that I would have believed him if I hadn’t known the truth about how his rash had cleared.

“He’s lying,” Vince said.

Evan rolled his eyes.

“Come here. Let me see your rash,” Mrs. P said to Vince.

He reluctantly rolled up his sleeves and held his arms out for inspection.

She
tsk
ed and nodded.

“What?” Gayle asked. “Do you know what it is? What the cure is?”

Mrs. P looked at me. “Looks like classic dermatitis caused by the chrysanthemum.” She turned her attention to Vince. “Have you been using Alex’s lotions?”

He stammered. “I—­no. I barely knew Alex.” Color rose on his cheeks. “And why would I use a frilly pink lotion?”

“Vince?” I said.

“Yeah?”

“How did you know the lotion was pink?”

His brow furrowed. “Lucky guess. Look, I don’t need this kind of aggravation.” He stomped back into the bookshop.

Evan raised his eyebrows. “That was interesting.”

Rather telling, I thought. Vince had obviously had contact with that lotion. How did he get it? And why was he denying it?

“Is there a treatment for the dermatitis, Mrs. P?” Gayle asked.

“Usually, it goes away on its own after a few days. It depends on how allergic the person is to the chrysanthemum. Sometimes a doctor needs to get involved and stronger medications are needed.”

“Mine’s almost gone,” I said, showing my hands. “And the cortisone cream helped with the itching.”

“I’ll let Vince know,” Gayle said. “And Evan, I suggest we let time cool things down. I don’t think there’s any need to get lawyers involved.”

Evan nodded.

Gayle went back inside the shop and closed the door behind her. I looked between Mrs. P and Evan. “Someone needs to clear something up for me.”

“What’s that?” Mrs. P asked.

“Is Marcus the
only
lawyer in the village?”

“Pretty much,” Evan said. “Why?”

It seemed to me that if that was the case, then he was privy to a lot of people’s secrets.

The Magic Wand Salon was housed in an adorable storybook cottage. With its shingled exterior, steep-­pitched slate roof, and huge stone chimney next to the door, I felt like Hansel and Gretel might come skipping along at any moment.

Despite the outside looking like it was built in eighteenth-­century England, when I pulled open the
arched doorway, I stepped into a modern world. A sleek display case held shampoos and hair creams, brushes, and expensive flatirons and hair dryers. A young woman stood at the black granite reception desk, a welcome smile on her face.