Some Like It Witchy (6 page)

Nick shook his head. “Nothing good, I imagine.”

It was a complication I didn't need in this case . . . or my life.

Nick's deep brown gaze searched my face. “Are you doing okay? Rough morning.”

The day so far had been nothing short of a nightmare, but here, now, with him? All was okay in my world. It had taken so long for me to get to this point. My heart had broken after my disastrous marriage, and I never thought I'd love again. I'd been okay with that. I had friends. Family. A new job. A new life.

Then I met Nick. He'd picked up those broken pieces. And put them back where they belonged. I loved him with a fierceness that I couldn't quite explain.

I let myself get lost in his eyes for a moment, soaking up the concern . . . and the love I saw there.

“Yeah, it was,” I said. “I'm okay. I'm just . . . Well, you know.”

There was no need to describe to him the emotions that came with finding a dead body. Of knowing someone had deliberately taken a life. He'd worked most of his adult life in some sort of law enforcement. He knew how it felt, the mix of sadness and anger.

“Unfortunately,” he said, pulling me in for a hug.

I held on just a little longer than usual. “Plus, Andreus . . .”

Letting me go, Nick threw a glance in the direction Andreus had gone. “That's understandable.”

I looked back toward the Tavistock house. “Any leads? Suspects?”

Nick nudged me with his elbow. “I should be asking you. I heard you asking Andreus about his alibi. If you're investigating, it means there's Crafting involved.”

“You didn't happen to find a bunch of diamonds when you searched the house, did you?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

“Diamonds?” Confusion filled his eyes.

I quickly explained about Circe's diamonds, Andreus's father's involvement with the heist, and the treasure hunters.

Nick pushed his palms into his eyes. “The Circe Heist? My God. No, no diamonds were found, but that does help explain loose paneling in the closet and the bloody pry bar in the backyard.”

“Pry bar?”

“It appears to be the murder weapon.”

I winced and told him of my working theories. Of how I suspected someone was after the diamonds . . . or lying in wait for Raina and using the diamonds as a cover.

“Did you question Kent yet?” I asked. “When I saw him earlier, he didn't seem too upset about the death of his wife.”

“He tried to muster some grief, but I saw right through it. With a little pressure, he admitted he filed for divorce a
couple of days ago. Irreconcilable differences. He hadn't even told Raina yet.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Apparently, they'd been having relationship trouble for a while.”

“It's not really surprising, considering.” I told him what I knew of their mortal-Crafter marriage and how Harper had overheard their heated argument last week. “They certainly kept their issues quiet, though. There hadn't even been a whisper of trouble until that fight.”

“Raina's death makes his life a whole lot easier, doesn't it?” Nick said.

No divorce battle. No division of assets. “It does. We need to find out what happens to the agency. From what Harper overheard, it was Raina's business. Did she have provisions in place for Kent to inherit it if something happened to her?”

“Kent's coming in later with his lawyer, and I'll get more answers.”

“Did he have an alibi?”

“Claimed he was with clients during the time frame Raina was murdered. I still need to verify it, however.”

“What was the time frame?” I asked.

“The ME on the scene placed it between nine thirty and ten.”

I hated thinking that it was possible Raina was being killed while Cherise and I were sitting outside waiting for her. “One thing . . . Raina was notoriously early for appointments. Anyone who knew her well would know that.”

“Like Kent?” he asked.

“You might want to talk to Noelle Quinlan as well.”

His eyebrows shot up in question.

“As Raina's biggest rival, she has a lot to gain from Raina's death.” I shrugged. “And as a colleague, she'd know Raina's habit of arriving early, too. I'm sure she's scheduled many appointments with her.”

“But would either of them know about the diamonds to use a burglary as a cover-up?” he asked.

“Apparently, most of the village knows about the diamonds. As real estate agents, they have to know the history of the house.”

I glanced at my watch.

“Where are you off to?” he asked.

“I need to pry information from Evan about Raina. Then I have to stop by Calliope's to return some of her things. And I need to find out more about the Circe Heist. Ve and Cherise were fairly tight-lipped.”

He smiled, knowing what I had planned. “Pepe?”

“And Mrs. P. If they don't know anything, then no one knows anything.”

“I'd like to know more about this amulet, too,” he said, holding it up. “What was it for? Why did Raina have it?”

“It doesn't seem as though Andreus is going to answer that question,” I said. He didn't seem to want to answer
anything
. Even though I hated asking for help, I might have to ask the Elder to speak with him. She and I were on good terms these days. Peaceful. Harmonious. As long as I did exactly what she said, we got along swimmingly. It had been months since I'd been to talk to her.

I kind of missed her. Not that I'd say so.

“And why was it in Raina's hand?” I asked, thinking out loud. “Was it placed in her hand by the killer to throw us off track and put our attention on Andreus?”

“You think someone's framing him?” Nick asked.

“I don't know,” I said. “But doesn't it just seem a little too cut-and-dried for Raina to have Andreus's amulet in her hand and his initial on the wall?”

“Sometimes cases are cut-and-dried, Darcy.”

“Around here?”

“I see what you mean. But if the killer chose him specifically to frame, why? Because of the link to the diamonds?”

“Undoubtedly. And we can't rule out that he planted the
amulet himself to throw off suspicion. Make it appear that he's being framed.”

Nick nodded. “I can see him doing that.”

Me, too. Easily. I nodded toward the baggie in his hand. “Can you send me a photo of the amulet before you put it in the evidence locker? Andreus isn't the only one in this village who's a Charmcrafter. I might be able to get answers from someone else.”

“Good idea.” He glanced toward the Tavistock house. “I need to get back. I'd like to get the crime scene cleared before school lets out. You know how Mimi gets. She'll be hanging on the fence if I'm still in there.”

“She'll still be hanging on the fence whether you're there or not.”

He laughed. “You're probably right. She'll be as immersed in this case as we are by supper time.”

“That long?” I teased. Once Mimi caught wind of what happened, she was going to ask every question that came to mind. She was a mini-Harper that way. Nick had long since given up on trying to quell her interest in police work. And having just turned thirteen, she was old enough to know what was going on—with some of the gorier details left out.

“I'll ask Harper to keep her busy this afternoon,” I said. “That should help a bit.”

Relief flashed in his eyes. “Thanks.”

“Before you go . . .” His mention of hanging on the fence reminded me of Cherise, and how she'd latched onto that finial that morning. “Will the investigation stall the sale of the home?”

He said, “Not necessarily. As long as we're still allowed access inside if need be. I'll see you later?”

I nodded.

He gave me a quick kiss before weaving into the crowd.

I took a long look at the Tavistock house and felt that
familiar pull toward it, as though it was supposed to be mine. I wished it were.

Just like I wished it could reveal the secrets it held.

W
alking into the Gingerbread Shack was a pleasant assault on my senses. At first it was the happy sound of the jingle bells greeting me at the door. Then a heady mix of spices and vanilla and chocolate enveloped me, and I greedily breathed it in like an asthmatic would a life-saving inhaler. Letting the scentsational magic of this shop seep into my very being.

“I'll be right out,” Evan called from the kitchen.

“Take your time,” I said. “It's only me.”

After the death last year of one of his employees, Michael Healy, Evan had been hesitant to hire on more help, but he desperately needed it. More often than not, the front counter was left unmanned while Evan worked in the kitchen.

Which was clearly not an issue right now, as the shop was empty. Most everyone in the village was still across the green, their nosiness parked at the curb in front of the Tavistock house. However, there were many days a line formed out the Gingerbread Shack's door, and those were the times he had trouble keeping up.

Although he was half Wishcrafter, Evan's predominate Craft was Bakecrafting. Confections created with ordinary ingredients were made extraordinary by Evan's heritage. The treats he made were nothing short of heavenly, but it was his secret ingredient that kept his customers coming back.

Magic.

Allowing him to make the perfect bite, which filled its eater with a sense of contentment.

It was no wonder his shop was one of the most successful in the village.

“I was hoping you'd come by,” Evan said, still in the kitchen. “I'm dying of curiosity about what happened this morning.”

Dying.

I shuddered at his word choice.

I tried to play it off. “Oh, you know. All in a day's work.”

Finding dead bodies was becoming commonplace.

And the fact that that notion didn't disturb me as much as it once would have was slightly disturbing.

Baking pans clanged. “You're going to get a reputation, Darcy Merriweather.” His voice held a hint of humor.

“Archie's already called me the Grim Reaper this morning. It's bound to spread.”

He laughed. “He'll commission T-shirts soon, the crazy old bird.”

Archie and Evan had a bit of a love-hate relationship. They loved to hate each other.

“If he does,” I said, “I'll make sure he saves one for you.”

“A size medium. I've been working out.”

He wasn't fooling me. He hadn't been working out. He'd been
working
. Long days. Long nights. And losing weight because of it, despite being surrounded by treats all the time.

My gaze zipped to the bakery case, and I headed for it as though a moth drawn to a flame. Who could blame me? The Gingerbread Shack was a novelty bakery specializing in delectable mini desserts. Cake bites were Evan's biggest claim to fame, and they sat in perfect rows inside the case, each seemingly saying “Pick me!” Devil's food bites, cheesecake, vanilla, piña colada, brownie, German chocolate . . . Each coated in flavorful icings and dipped in varying chocolates that were then fancily decorated. Some with piped swirls or chopped nuts or toasted coconut or a dusting of cinnamon or
crushed candies. There was no limit to the combinations because there was no limit to Evan's imagination.

Sharing the case with the cake bites were the petit fours, triple chocolate mini mousse cakes, mini cupcakes, macaroons, and tiny tarts and cheesecakes. My mouth began to water.

Evan zipped out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron hanging low on his slim hips. His jeans sagged a bit, another reminder he'd lost weight recently—and he hadn't really had much to spare in the first place. Once, he was a naturally slim man who'd carried a bit of a paunch, a hazard of his job.

That paunch was now gone.

Flour dusted his fair cheeks and his ginger-blond hair. Blue eyes flared wide with frenetic energy as he bustled behind the counter, grabbing a cardboard coffee cup. He handed it to me and set out a plate. Reaching into the bakery case, he pulled out two mini devil's food cupcakes. My favorite. “Spill. Tell me everything about the morning.”

I studied him carefully. “How much coffee have you had today?”

“Not enough. Despite this lull, it's been crazy around here.” He slid the plate over to me.

“I'll need a dozen mixed cake bites to go, too.”

“Sure thing.” He quickly boxed the order.

I planned to give the treats to Calliope, hoping they'd loosen her tongue about the goings-on in Raina's life. A little enticement never hurt anyone.

Evan slid the box across the counter, and I pulled out my wallet.

“Darcy.”

“Evan,” I returned with a smile, mimicking his exasperated tone.

He never wanted to charge me, and I always insisted on paying. We'd been doing this same song and dance for nearly a year. I slid a twenty-dollar bill across the counter. He had a
living to make, and because I was here so often, my orders would quickly go from friendly freebies to mooching.

“You should hire some more help,” I said for what was probably the hundredth time.

“Soon,” he said, jabbing cash register keys.

We'd been doing
this
song and dance since last Halloween, when a murderer had, in one moment of pure evil, taken the life of a young man. In that act, however, the killer had given something to Evan.

Fear.

Even though he never said so, Evan had been more traumatized by Michael's murder than he let on. Mostly because the young man hadn't only been an employee but also a friend.

In the months since the murder, it had become clear Evan was afraid to grow close to anyone else.

He closed ranks around his nearest and dearest, not letting anyone else in and edging others out. Throwing himself into his job, he'd become even more of a workaholic. Once sociable, he was now a homebody. Early to bed, early to rise.

Rinse. Repeat.

The stress of it all showed on his face, in the purplish coloring beneath his cobalt blue eyes that now had fine lines stretching from their outer corners. In the hollowness of once round cheeks. In the smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

He handed my change to me, and I dropped some of it in the tip jar.

“How soon will you hire someone?” I pressed, heading for the coffee carafes.

With rushed yet fluid motions, he quickly wiped down the countertops with a dishcloth. “I'm not sure. I don't really have the time right now. Summer's always busy with the increase in tourism and weddings and parties. . . .”

I filled my cup, set the lid, and turned to him. I arched an eyebrow. “Seems to me it would be less busy for you if you hired some more help in addition to your two current part-timers.”

He stopped wiping. “You're not going to let this go, are you, Darcy?”

“You need help. And I want to help by finding you help.”

“That's a lot of help.” A smile stretched across his face.

I gave him a wry grin. “It's what I do.”

“I thought you were cutting back on the help thing.” He pressed his hands to his chest. “I wouldn't want to be the cause of your regression. You've been making some real progress. Like when you didn't butt in when Starla was flipping out over wallpaper choices. You stepped back and let her choose on her own. It was the wrong choice,” he said, shaking his head. “But that wasn't your fault.”

Although the twins used to live together, when they opted to sell their brownstone, they decided it was finally time to get places of their own. Starla had bought a cottage, and Evan moved into the recently vacated apartment he owned above his bakery. To say that Starla had thrown herself into home decorating wholeheartedly was a vast understatement. And Evan was right—the wallpaper choice hadn't been what I would have picked, but Starla liked it and that was all that mattered.

“And how you haven't said a word about her bad driving. That's impressive. Surely you could do a better job teaching her than Vince.”

He was wrong there—that was a job I definitely did not want to tackle. I'd taught Harper how to drive. It had been experience enough to last me a lifetime. But if Evan wanted to think I was backing off on purpose, I'd let him.

Because, okay, it was true that I had a bit of a fix-it complex. A deep-seated need to help others, even when they hadn't asked for it. It started at seven years old when my mother died, and I'd been determined that Harper, a newborn, wouldn't feel as though she was lacking any motherly love.

I'd been working on helping only when asked, but when it came to Evan—or anyone I loved—I knew I couldn't help stepping in on matters that were truly important. “Oh, I don't mind a little regression.”

Wiping his hands on his apron, he said, “I'm fine.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I don't need help.”

Darn redheaded stubbornness. “Right. When was the last time you went out to dinner? Went shopping? Went out on a date?”

“I do those things.”

“When?”

“All the time.”

“When?” I pressed.

“I'm fine,” he repeated instead of answering.

“If by fine you mean slowly killing yourself, then, yeah, you're dandy.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don't be so dramatic, Darcy.”

If there was a quicker way to ignite a woman's temper than telling her she was dramatic, I'd like to know it.

As heat shot into my cheeks, I squared my shoulders, lifted my chin, and steeled myself for a fight. I was about to let him have it—because someone clearly needed to—when the bell on the door jangled, and a family of four came in. Twin toddler girls raced to the bakery case, pressing their
plump faces to the glass. They bounced in anticipation, squealing at the delights before them.

Putting my anger on hold, I sat at a bistro table and watched as a harried Evan pasted a smile on his face while the family ordered. Midway through, a timer went off in the kitchen and he had to excuse himself to take care of it.

When he didn't return quickly, one of the toddlers began to fuss, her voice ratcheting up into a sharp whine.

I stuck a whole mini cupcake into my mouth and chewed slowly, letting the treat soothe my nerves. My anger slowly melted away with the chocolate.

The whine turned into a cry.

A friend would have gotten up from her cushy stool and helped Evan out. Finish taking the order or assisted in the kitchen.

But I was a
best
friend.

And, in my oh so humble opinion, he needed to learn a lesson.

As I waited for him to return, I glanced out the window and stiffened when I saw Vincent's car turn the corner, jump the curb, and straighten out again. Starla had her hands at ten and two and was leaning forward, her chin nearly atop the steering wheel. Vince had his hands glued to the dashboard and a look of pure terror on his face.

Good God. I shook my head at the sight and fervently sent up thanks that she hadn't asked me to teach her to drive. I wouldn't have been able to say no.

It was another issue I was working on.

Evan finally returned, finished the order, and waved as the family walked out the door. As soon as they were out of eyeshot, he grabbed a spray bottle of sanitizer and quickly cleaned the glass on the bakery case, erasing tiny finger and nose prints. He rubbed so hard I suspected he was also trying to erase some bad memories as well. Unfortunately, those weren't so easy to get rid of.

When he finished, he wiped his hands and sat on the stool
next to me, letting out a deep breath. Finally, he looked up at me.

I smiled broadly and batted my eyelashes.

“All right. Fine,” he said in a rush as he waved his white towel in the air. “I surrender. Before you launch into a full-blown Operation Fix Evan, you can set up some interviews.”

It was his way of apologizing. Which I accepted immediately by saying, “Operation Fix Evan does have a nice ring to it. Now, about your love life . . .”

Thunking his head on the tabletop, he said, “Give you an inch. . . .”

“All right, fine. I'll leave that part to you.”

“Thank you.”

“For now.”

He shook his head. “Enough about me. Tell me about this morning. I can't believe Raina's dead. She was so . . . alive. Has Nick learned anything yet?”

“It was surreal,” I said, filling him in about finding Raina and all I knew up to this point. “Did you know about the village's connection to the diamond heist?”

“I've heard rumors, but I didn't know there was a Craft connection.”

It didn't surprise me. He and Starla hadn't grown up here. Their parents divorced early on, and their mother had moved them out of the village. It wasn't until their grandfather bequeathed them the bakery almost five years ago that they returned.

I dropped my voice. “Seems Crafters don't like to talk about it because of the link to Circe.”

“Ve said the diamonds give people unlimited power? What does that mean exactly?”

“I don't know,” I said. “She said it's similar to the Elder's powers.”

At the mention of the Elder, Andreus's earlier words surfaced in my head, haunting me.

“Most of us in the village know who she is. Except you
don't know, do you? Poor thing. Left in the dark. One has to wonder why.”

I rubbed an imaginary spot on the table. “Do you know who she is? Her identity?”

“Who? The Elder?”

I nodded. I couldn't believe I'd even asked. That I allowed Andreus's taunts to fester inside my head.

“No, do you?” Eagerly, he leaned in. “Did you find out who it was? Is it Cherise?”

“No, I don't know.” Then I added, “Cherise? What makes you think it's her?”

He shrugged. “I don't know exactly. She just seems the Elder type. Wise but bossy.”

Cherise. Hmm. Was it possible? Was that why the Elder's voice always sounded oddly familiar?