A Witch Before Dying: A Wishcraft Mystery (3 page)

After all that had happened with that murder case, I wasn’t sure if we were friends or foes. But as he caught my gaze, he tentatively raised his hand in a friendly wave.

Caught off guard, I hesitated slightly before returning the wave. He smiled as if relieved and went back to his burger.

I almost walked into a table, wondering what I had just done. Did I want to be friends with a Seeker? Wasn’t that just asking for trouble? I hurried to catch up to Jonathan as he clumsily wended his way through the maze of tables—I was glad I wasn’t the only one who lacked grace. The silver in his hair glistened under hanging lanterns, and I placed him somewhere in his early sixties.

I saw village lawyer Marcus Debrowski sitting alone at the bar as Jonathan pulled out a chair for me at a little table tucked into a corner reserved for tastings. Marcus smiled when he saw me and hopped off his stool to come say hello.

“Will you be joining Darcy for the tasting?” Jonathan asked him after shaking hands. “There’s plenty.”

Marcus lifted an eyebrow and looked at me. “Will I?”

Smiling, I said, “You will.”

Jonathan said, “Zoey will be out in a moment with your starters.”

Zoey Wilkens had been Jonathan’s executive chef—
and wife—for almost two years now. There were mumblings in the village that she’d been granted the executive chef title only because she’d married Jonathan, but I’d tasted her food. She was a talented chef in her own right.

As Marcus sat, he said, “What are we tasting?”

Marcus was a Lawcrafter, and in his late twenties was already the best lawyer in the village. He had represented Ve’s fiancé, Sylar, a couple of months ago when Sylar had been accused of murder. Thankfully, he’d been cleared of that crime.

The scents in the air had my stomach rumbling. Sautéing garlic and onions, something else that hinted of spice. “Ve’s wedding menu. I’m glad you’re here, especially since I don’t like fish, and half of Ve’s menu is seafood.”

With Marcus’s dark brown hair, inquisitive light green eyes, and slim build, he looked a lot like your average lawyer next door. He was buttoned-up, slicked back, smooth, and suave. He gave me a mock-serious smile. “So you’re using me?”

“Definitely.”

“I’m okay with that. Seafood is my favorite.” He took off his suit coat and placed his napkin in his lap. “How come Ve’s not testing her own menu?”

I explained about the flu.

“Bad timing,” he said.

I smiled. The statement seemed to be a general consensus.

He sipped from a multifaceted water goblet and said, “Will Ve and Sylar postpone the wedding until she’s well?”

“They’re trying not to. Cherise Goodwin is coming by today to see Ve.”

“Ah,” he said, understanding immediately. “Under Cherise’s care, Ve will be on her feet in no time.”

We were dancing around the fact that Cherise was a
Crafter. The Craft wasn’t something we often talked about aloud. Too dangerous. If a mortal overheard, we would be in danger of losing our powers. Not that there was anyone around, but a Crafter could never be too careful.

“Did you send in your RSVP for the wedding?” I asked. “Because if not, I’m tasked to track you down and find out if you’re coming. Ve’s orders.”

He laughed and put his hands in the air in surrender. “Sent mine in last week.”

I wondered if he was bringing a date. He’d had his sights set on Harper for the past couple of months, but she wasn’t showing much interest. For shame. He was a nice guy. And exactly what she needed in her life. Her last boyfriend, a state policeman, had fizzled before a relationship even began when he revealed that he’d never read
To Kill a Mockingbird
. There wasn’t a worse sin in Harper’s mind. She was currently single and looking, and I wished she would look Marcus’s way.

Unfortunately, again, I couldn’t grant my own wishes.

Zoey burst through the swinging doors next to us and set down a platter covered in appetizers.

I’d been taken aback the first time I met her. Only because of her age. She was mid-twenties at most, which was quite a big gap between her and Jonathan. She had a wonderful smile, and although she wasn’t what most would consider conventionally pretty, I particularly liked her dozens of freckles, her blue-gray eyes, and her short, sassy light blond hairstyle. Her hooked nose and strong chin gave her face character, uniqueness. She pointed to the pear tartlet and said, “I hope you enjoy this one in particular. You’ll be learning how to make it tomorrow night.” She then rushed back through the swinging door, an energetic whirlwind in a white chef’s coat.

Marcus raised his eyebrows at me. “You signed up for the cooking class, too?”

“I couldn’t resist,” I said, trying not to think of my mile-long to-do list and how I really didn’t have the time to spare. Especially not if Patrice Keaton’s house was as bad as Elodie was making it out to be.

“What do you know about the disappearance of Patrice Keaton?” I asked Marcus as I filled my plate with appetizers.

I was trying not to think about salmonella, E. coli, or Listeria when a stuffed apricot slipped from Marcus’s fingers and landed with a splat on the table. His face had gone as pale as the crème fraîche on the salmon cucumber cups. “Where’d you hear that name?” he said softly, looking around as if afraid to be overheard.

I dropped my voice, too, just because he was making me so nervous. “Her daughter, Elodie, hired As You Wish to clean out Patrice’s house. She’s planning on selling it.”

Letting out a deep breath, he said, “You may want to turn down the job.”

What was with all the warnings? “What am I missing? What happened to Patrice?”

He looked around. “Stop saying her name!”

“You’re freaking me out!” I could barely eat the tomato, bacon, and cheese crostini I was holding.

“You should be freaked.”

“Why? What happened to her?”

“No one knows,” he said.

“You’re not telling me everything,” I accused. “Spill it.”

Again, he glanced around and lowered his voice. “Mortal version or Crafter?”

“Either. Both.”

Leaning toward me, he motioned for me to meet him halfway. I bent my head in, and my dark hair fell forward onto the table. I swept it back before it touched the food.

“Mortal version is that the last anyone saw of her, she’d been here, at the Stove. She had a fight with her date and left, never to be seen again. Her purse was found at her house, along with her keys and cell phone. She simply vanished.”

“Who was her boyfriend?”

He sighed. “Andreus Woodshall.”

“I don’t know him.”

“Be glad.”

It felt like part of the crostini had wedged in my throat. “Was he questioned?”

“Of course, but there was no evidence of any crime. It’s hard to charge someone without evidence.”

I put the crostini down. Between this news and the food poisoning worries, my stomach was rolling. “And the other version of what happened to her?” The Crafter version.

His light eyes held dark foreboding. “That the Anicula amulet led to her demise.”

“The Anicula amulet?”

His Adam’s apple bobbed. “It is a powerful, highly sought-after amulet that grants its owner—mortal or Crafter—unlimited wishes. It’s kind of like Aladdin’s lamp, only better, because there are no stipulations other than it is to be used for good, not evil.”

Do no harm
. It was the Crafting way of life.

“Rumor is that she had abused the powers of the amulet and was punished for it.”

“Abused how?”

“Wishing harm,” he said.

“On who?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Rumors don’t come with a deposition.”

I frowned at him. “Did the rumors offer any speculation on the kind of harm?”

“No. It had to have been bad, though, as the Anicula
doesn’t have many stipulations. You can pretty much wish for anything, even matters of love, life, and death.”

I whispered, “Really?” Those things weren’t possible for me, as a Wishcrafter. Some things were out of our hands. All Wishcrafters had to abide by certain laws and rules, the Wishcraft Laws, including the biggies of never revealing our power to mortals; not interfering with life and death; and the fact that we can’t grant our own wishes—or the wishes of other Wishcrafters. Broken rules meant harsh consequences. I’d already been called before the Craft’s Elder (who governed all the Craft laws) twice and reprimanded for infractions. I was hoping to stay on her good side for a while.

I used to be able to grant other Crafters’ wishes immediately. But after the situation a few months ago where my powers had been somewhat abused by another Crafter, the Elder had created an amendment to the Wishcraft Law stating that no wishes would be granted to another Crafter without approval from the Elder.

Since the amendment, I’d yet to experience a wish from another Crafter, but the Elder had informed all Wishcrafters that she would somehow (magically, I assumed) hear the wish as it was made and either approve it immediately or summon the Crafter to discuss the wish at hand in more detail.

Marcus nodded solemnly. “Which is why the Anicula is the amulet coveted by Wishcrafters most of all.”

I tipped my head. “I don’t understand. Why Wishcrafters specifically?”

“Darcy, using the Anicula is the only way Wishcrafters can grant their own wishes.”

I let that sink in—the gift, the potential repercussions.

Marcus said, “If the Anicula’s owner is not pure of heart, or abuses the power”—he glanced around— “the owner becomes cursed.”

It took me a second to get his meaning. “So you think an amulet is the reason behind Patrice’s disappearance? What do you think happened to her exactly? I mean”—I poked a crab puff—“where is she?”

Beads of sweat formed along his hairline. “If you ask me, Darcy, she’s as good as dead.”

P
atrice Keaton’s house stood at the end of Incantation Circle, near the Enchanted Trail, a path that circled around the village and twined through the Enchanted Woods. The house was a small Cape Cod with clapboard trim, its blue paint slightly faded, the window boxes full of blooming flowers, the lawn and landscape lovingly tended.

It didn’t look like the house of someone who’d been missing for eighteen months.

I’d come by to see if Elodie’s warnings held any weight, but as I looked around I had my doubts. The knot in my stomach loosened, unraveled. This job wasn’t going to be so bad after all. The only hint that something might be off with this charming little house was the drawn drapes. What, exactly, lurked behind them? Was she really an extreme hoarder? Or had Elodie been exaggerating?

I’d have to wait to see, as Elodie hadn’t arrived yet. I’d walked over to Patrice’s with my dog, Miss Demeanor, better known as Missy. She was the product of a dog-snatching, one that had landed my sister, Harper, in lockup and charged with a misdemeanor herself. The judge had let her off easy since her actions had helped reveal illegal activity by the pet shop owners and uncovered
the operations of a horrible puppy mill—which had been Harper’s intent all along. When all was said and done (and fines paid), Missy had been ours to keep.

Missy was a Schnoodle, half mini schnauzer, half teacup poodle. She was quite small, even for being less than a year old. Her light gray and white curly coat was freshly trimmed and her dark eyes gleamed as she barked at an orange tabby that streaked by.

I glanced at my watch. Elodie was late. I strolled with Missy around the house and noticed that all the curtains had been pulled tight. An air-conditioner hummed loudly, and a white picket fence separated the yard from its only neighbor. The trees in the woods rustled in the breeze, their leaves a brilliant green against the blue sky. Squirrels scampered and birds flitted from branch to branch. It was a peaceful yard, a nature lover’s retreat, and I felt myself relaxing even more.

A small deck extended from the back door, leading to a tidy flower garden and shed designed to match the house. The shed door was ajar, and I couldn’t help but peek inside.

Hinges creaked loudly as I pulled the door fully open. Disbelieving, I kept blinking, hoping the image before me would change. It didn’t. The entire space, except for a spot right near the door, was crammed with boxes. Floor to ceiling. Not so much as a dandelion fluff could fit between the cracks. Missy backed away from the door, using her leash to tug me along, toward the front of the house.

Goose bumps rose along my arms as we walked, and that knot was back, tight, twisting my stomach.

Was the house filled with that kind of clutter?

Standing on my tiptoes, I tried peeking through a side window, but the shade had been pulled all the way down. Someone didn’t want people looking inside. If the interior looked anything like the shed, I could understand why.

When we reached the front yard, I was surprised to see a bright yellow village police car in the driveway.

And even more surprised to see who was leaning against its hood.

Nick Sawyer.

Missy started dancing, jigging back and forth. She yapped happily until I let her go, and she bounded over to Nick.

He bent down to rub under her chin, but she pulled away as though looking for someone else.

“Sorry, Mimi’s not with me today,” he said to the dog.

Mimi was Nick’s twelve-year-old daughter, and Missy had taken an extreme liking to both of them.

Me too. Maybe a little too much. After my divorce, I’d sworn off men, but Nick had certainly dented the armor around my heart.

Confused, I looked at him and then at the yellow four-door MINI Cooper. “I thought you turned down the job offer?”

After the murder that occurred two months ago, it had become obvious that the village police force needed a complete overhaul. The police chief had been forced to retire and Sylar Dewitt, the village council chairman (or as Harper liked to call him, the grand hoo-ha), had offered Nick, a security expert and a former Rhode Island state trooper, the job.

“Sylar is persistent. He finally made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. That”—he smiled—“and Mimi insisted.”

I knew he’d had some concerns about taking the job and how it would affect his daughter. As a state trooper, he’d once been shot in the line of duty and his former wife, Melina, had demanded he quit his job in fear of him losing his life.