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Some Like it Witchy (Wishcraft Mystery, 5)

 
9781494557508: Some Like it Witchy (Wishcraft Mystery, 5)
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The Enchanted Village is abuzz when the old Tavistock house finally goes up for sale. Darcy's friend Curecrafter Cherise Goodwin is hoping she will have the winning bid on the home, but Darcy can't shake the feeling that something bad is about to happen-and her magical instincts are usually right.

Sure enough, while Darcy and Cherise are looking at the property, they discover real estate agent Raina Gallagher stone-cold dead on the floor. Clutched in her hand is a gemstone amulet and, on the wall above her, a large red A. While Raina had no shortage of enemies, there's also a dark legend about the house itself. To track down the killer, Darcy must unlock the secrets of both the deceased and the estate-and she'll need to act fast, because revenge is a deal that never closes . . .

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About the Author:
Heather Blake is a pseudonym of Heather Webber, the bestselling author of more than a dozen novels, including the Nina Quinn Mysteries and the Lucy Valentine books. Heather has been nominated twice for an Agatha Award. She currently lives in the Cincinnati area with her family.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

PRAISE FOR HEATHER BLAKE’S WISHCRAFT MYSTERY SERIES

OTHER MYSTERIES BY HEATHER BLAKE

OBSIDIAN

For baby J
with so much love, little one.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Chapter One

Something wicked this way came.

It blew into the Enchanted Village as surely as the warm breeze that rustled oak leaves barely unfurled from tightly wound buds.

Villagers had been coaxed out of their homes by an early mid-May heat wave to bask in the warmth after a long arduous winter. Flowers bloomed, morning dew glistened on vibrant green grass, and sunshine beamed down.

It should have been bliss, but as I stepped off the front porch at As You Wish—my aunt Ve’s personal concierge business where I both worked and lived—and scanned the village square, I couldn’t shake an uneasiness that had the baby-fine hair at the back of my neck standing on end.

My companion, Curecrafter Cherise Goodwin, paused in her descent of the steps to look at me, concern etched in her eyes. “Something wrong, Darcy?”

Wind suddenly gusted, carrying bad juju along with the sweet scent of lilac from colorful bushes dotting the landscape.

There was evil in the air, whirling around as surely as the magic that made this village so special.

Long strands of dark hair flew across my face. “‘Something wicked this way comes,’” I said, properly quoting Shakespeare’s Macbeth. Looking around, I tried to see something, anything, that would explain the feeling.

The Enchanted Village, a themed touristy neighborhood of Salem, Massachusetts, was truly magical, filled with Crafters, witches who’d lived on this land for hundreds of years. As a fairly new Wishcrafter—a witch who could grant wishes using a special spell—I believed it to be the most extraordinary place in the whole world. I’d moved here almost a year ago from Ohio, and now I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

Being enchanted, however, didn’t mean this village was immune to wickedness. There’d been several murders here over the past eleven months. Cases I helped solve. I’d become accustomed to trusting my instincts, and right now I couldn’t shake a strong sense of foreboding.

In her fifties, Cherise knew this village inside and out—and as a Crafter she knew not to dismiss seemingly random feelings outright. She had the decency to wait a few seconds.

“Nonsense!” She came down the steps and linked arms with me. “It’s a glorious day. A more flawless one I couldn’t have conjured even with the best weather spell out there. Breathe deeply, Darcy. Raise your face to the sun. Take it all in. It’s the perfect day to buy a house, don’t you think?”

If Cinderella’s fairy godmother had a cool hip sister, it would be Cherise. She had a kind round face, flawless skin, and razor-sharp eyes. A silver-blond bob accented a pointy chin, and chunky earrings tugged at her lobes. She was one of the first Crafters I met after moving in with my aunt Ve last June, and though our friendship started off a bit rough when a wish-gone-wrong made her daughter-in-law and granddaughter disappear (temporarily, thank goodness), we’d grown closer over time. Which was why we were together now.

Cherise had hired me through As You Wish to help her house hunt within the village. Years ago, she’d moved out of the neighborhood, closer to the Salem coastline, and was now at the point in her life when she wanted to come home, so to speak. She was looking for the perfect place to set up a home-based business. Though every Crafter in the village knew her as a Curecrafter, a healing witch, mortals knew her as a naturopath. Her talents were in high demand.

“You really don’t feel it?” I asked, rubbing my arms to get rid of the goose bumps. Squinting against the sunshine, I scoped out the village green. Tourists wandered around, browsing shops, picnicking, and enjoying the walking paths twining in and around the square.

Cherise let out a sigh. “No. Maybe you’re nervous about the upcoming election?”

My aunt Ve was running for village council chairman against her former fiancé, Sylar Dewitt. She’d thrown her name on the ballot as a last-minute decision when Sylar, a mortal, declared he was in favor of a proposal to allow a section of the Enchanted Woods to be razed so fifty new homes could be built. Representing most of us Crafters, Ve took a stand. The woods were . . . sacred. Magical. The section designated for the new neighborhood included the mystical meadow belonging to the Elder, the governess of the Craft. The land had to be saved. There was no other option.

Ve had been running around like a crazy witch the last couple of months, but Election Day was finally approaching. Next Tuesday the madness would be over, and next Wednesday would be the council vote that would decide the fate of the neighborhood proposal.

“No,” I said. “It’s not that.”

“Perhaps you meant, something witchy this way comes.” She laughed at her own joke. “After all, the Roving Stones are due to return this weekend. I know there’s a history between you and Andreus Woodshall.”

The village green, empty right now except for the picnickers, would start filling with numerous tents and booths tomorrow in preparation of opening to the weekend crowds. The Roving Stones was a traveling rock and mineral show that made stops in the village a few times a year. The last time the show was in town its director, Charmcrafter Andreus Woodshall (nicknamed Mr. Macabre), who specialized in black opals, and I had been mixed up in a murder case. We hadn’t exactly parted as friends. “Maybe,” I said. It seemed the most plausible reason. If anyone carried around bad juju, it was Andreus.

“Would you like a calming spell?” Cherise asked, eagerly rubbing her hands together. “Serenity is at my fingertips. Om.

Her exuberance made me smile. “Thank you, but I’ll be okay.” I didn’t like to take advantage of my friends’ abilities. Often. “I’ll just keep an eye out.”

“For what?”

“No clue.”

Tipping her head back, she laughed. “Let’s focus on the positive. Let’s look at the Tavistock house and decide once and for all if I should increase my bid. Come, come.”

The village’s real estate market hadn’t suffered from the recent crash that shook most of the country. Sales remained strong—one of the reasons Sylar claimed the village needed more housing. Even so, the response to the sale of the Tavistock house—calling it a “fixer-upper” was putting it mildly—had astonished me. In the two weeks it had been on the market, there had been so much interest that a bidding war had broken out. Last night, the real estate agent listing the house, Raina Gallagher, had contacted all interested buyers and told them to bring their best offer to the table by midnight tonight. A final decision would be made in the morning.

To make matters more exciting, the transaction was being overseen by a national TV producer who wanted to set a house-hunting show in the village, so the whole venture had turned into a job interview of sorts for Raina. She was the front-running choice for hosting the show, and it made sense. With her short jet-black hair and dark eyes, she was exotically pretty and also vivacious and outgoing. The life of the party. Not to mention she was a Vitacrafter, a witch who was able to read people’s energy, which made her extremely good at her job.

We were due to meet Raina at ten a.m. to have another walk-through of the property, and we were running late. Fortunately, Cherise and I didn’t have far to travel. One lone residence stood between As You Wish and the Tavistock house. The sandwiched home belonged to Terry Goodwin, who happened to be the ex-husband of both Cherise and Aunt Ve. The elusive Elvis look-alike and my aunt had rekindled their love affair last fall, but their relationship was fizzling more than igniting. As a Numbercrafter who worked as an accountant, Terry had been swamped during tax season and had little time for dating, and now Ve had her election to deal with, and Terry wasn’t exactly a supporter. He thought she was busy enough as it was and that running for office would further strain their relationship.

His stance hadn’t been a popular one with Ve, and they’d had a couple of arguments about it already. I had the feeling Ve was using her campaign as an excuse to distance herself from him. Because at the heart of the matter was the fact that Ve had commitment issues. Big ones.

Archie, a scarlet macaw who lived with Terry, sat in his elaborate cage in Terry’s side yard, regaling a group of tourists with a dramatic reading of the opening text crawl of Star Wars (the original).

There was little Archie enjoyed more than being dramatic.

“‘Pursued by the Empire’s sinister agents,’” he intoned, his deep voice rich with a rising and falling British accent.

Enraptured tourists looked on with awe. I waved to Archie as we passed by, and he winked at me. The tourists didn’t know Archie wasn’t just a parrot with a good memory—he was a familiar, a Crafter spirit who had chosen to take on an animal’s form.

Once upon a time he’d worked as a London stage actor. He clearly hadn’t lost an ounce of his theatrics.

Cherise slowed to a stop in front of her dream house, and leaned on the wrought iron fence that enclosed a weed-infested yard.

The old Tavistock place.

Over the years the large bungalow had been maintained only enough to appease village ordinances. The prior owner, Eleta Tavistock, a Geocrafter who’d lived in this house her whole life—seventy-four years—had been agoraphobic, never once leaving the house in all the time I’d lived here.

Her unusual behavior fostered a rumor that she had also cursed the house itself to keep people out. I had the sneaking suspicion Eleta herself had spread that gossip so people would leave her alone.

Apparently others shared my suspicion, if the bids on the home were any indication. There was no lack of potential buyers.

I personally had never met Eleta, but I’d felt a great sense of sadness after her death two months ago because her lone living relative, a distant cousin, had no interest in Eleta or her funeral. Only a handful of villagers had attended her services.

The cousin had opted to sell the house, and it had taken a bit of time to go through proper probate procedures until now here we stood.

Cherise’s hand curled possessively around a bulbous finial as though she already owned it. “It needs some work, I admit. But I think it’s a good investment. Don’t you?”

The two-story Craftsmanesque bungalow had three gables, one centered on the second floor, and two smaller ones that flanked it on the lower level. The front porch sagged, and a rotting pergola to the right of the house had collapsed under the weight of out-of-control wisteria vines. A few of the stacked stones on the front porch columns had long crumbled, and the blue-stained clapboard facade desperately needed new paint and repair. Overgrown shrubs and a large oak tree in the front yard practically begged for a good pruning. A wooden post with a dangling Magickal Realty FOR SALE sign cast a long shadow across an uneven brick walkway invaded by grass.

I wrinkled my nose. “Don’t you think the cottage on Maypole Lane is a better choice? The location isn’t as good, true, but it’s cheaper and it needs only minimal renovations.”

The sun made Cherise’s eyes sparkle. “Darcy, you’re not trying to talk me out of this house so you can have it for yourself, are you?”

I had to confess to a pang of envy. Something about this house had drawn me in the moment I found out it was for sale. It was a visceral connection. One I couldn’t quite explain. I’d love to own it, to put my stamp on it, and bring it back to its original glory. “You know I do love it, but it’s simply not for me.”

Though I wished it were. I really did, which was all kinds of silly. My life was . . . settled.

I couldn’t really imagine moving out of As You Wish, leaving behind all the things that were starting to feel like home. Then there was village police chief Nick Sawyer to think about. Our relationship had never been better. We’ve been dating for almost a year, and it was becoming clear it may be time to take the next step, and he and his daughter, Mimi, already had a lovely house a couple of blocks away. Having two homes was a complication we didn’t need to take on.

But this house . . . I sighed. It felt like it was supposed to be mine.

“And hardly a realistic possibility,” I added, trying to talk myself out of the impossible. Though I had a decent inheritance from my late father, it wasn’t near the money I’d need for a house like this. “I don’t have your kind of resources, Miss Moneybags.”

She laughed again, and squeezed my arm. “If I get it, I promise to take good care of it.”

If I couldn’t have the home, then Cherise was a great choice. She would honor the character, the history. But it was a big if. The other buyers didn’t seem to be backing down.

“Let’s go have another look, shall we?” Cherise finally let go of that poor finial, and I followed her to the front door. She knocked, then tried the knob.

“Locked,” she said, glancing at her watch. “It’s unusual for Raina to be late. She’s always early.”

“I’m sure she’ll be here soon. It’s a busy time of year for her.” The spring housing market had exploded. Magickal Realty, owned by Raina and her husband, Kent, had dozens of listings in and around the village. “And don’t forget Scott Whiting is following her around, asking every question under the sun.”

Scott Whiting was the producer in charge of the home show that had its sights set on filming in the village.

“True enough,” she said, grinning. “What a hoot it would be to have a show taped here, no?”

“Maybe,” I reasoned. “But some things around here aren’t easily explained.” Like how Wishcrafters showed up on film as bright white starbursts.

“True, true,” Cherise said, nodding as though just considering those kinds of issues.

Currently, there were two obstacles that stood in the way of the show starting production. The first was that a special filming permit needed approval from the village council—which was also going to be voted on at the next village council meeting—and second was that Scott Whiting had to definitively decide on a host for the show.

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, Calli...

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  • PublisherTantor Audio
  • Publication date2015
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