The longer I lived in the Enchanted Village, the more I realized that not only did magic live here, but also the truly eccentric.
There were some strange, strange people in this neighborhood.
Including eighty-year-old gothic maven Harriette Harkette, who was throwing herself a girls-only birthday party to celebrate the big day. She had hired As You Wish, my aunt Ve’s personal concierge service, to plan the black-and-white-themed party—which was taking place tonight.
Ve shouted to be heard above the thumping music. “Are you sure you hired a stripper, Darcy?” She adjusted the black rose floral arrangement on the refreshments table.
The flowers, named Witching Hour roses, were quite stunning. They were midnight black—Harriette’s favorite color—and had recently won international awards and acclaim from elite rose societies for being the first naturally black flower ever cultivated. However, the roses still seemed a little morbid to me, the dark color reminding me more of a funeral than a celebration.
Trying to ignore Ve’s question, I checked the food platters. There were plenty of hors d’oeuvres, but the birthday cake, the centerpiece, hadn’t yet arrived. I’d give it ten more minutes, then make a call to Evan Sullivan, owner of the local bakery, to see what was holding up the delivery.
A handful of fine lines around Ve’s eyes crinkled as she tipped her head and assessed me shrewdly, complete with a narrowed squint and raised coppery eyebrows. The look was softened only by a few long strands of hair that had escaped her ever-present hair clip and framed her round face. “Darcy? The stripper?”
The open bar, across the room, was stacked three to four deep with women waiting for refills. Suddenly, I wanted to join them but instead gave Ve a saucy look. “Don’t you trust me?”
Appearance-wise, the only thing my aunt and I had in common was our eye color—blue with gold flecks. I was taller, slimmer, with long dark hair and an oval face. But as for personality? Our stubbornness, evasiveness, and sassiness were a perfect match.
“No,” Ve said drily.
She was a smart witch.
The stripper had been a source of contention between us, and I hadn’t exactly followed orders as I should have. There was going to be a stripper, yes, but perhaps not the kind of stripper everyone was expecting. . . .
Ve and I were two of the very many women in the party room of the Cauldron, the village’s pub. I wasn’t sure which was rowdier—the Friday night crowd at the long mahogany bar top or Harriette’s group of nearest and dearest girlfriends.
The floor vibrated beneath my feet, a result of the bass being emitted from the deejay’s enormous speakers. He looked a little scared as he played “I Will Survive” and women sang along at the top of their lungs while giving him dirty looks, he being the sole man in the room. He tried not to make eye contact as he shouldered the anger of every woman-done-wrong on the dance floor. I noticed Harriette’s three best friends (the four women were collectively known as the Wicked Widows–or the Wickeds for short) were singing the loudest, and I suddenly wondered if it was no mistake that they were widowed and not divorced.
But no. That was probably just paranoia whispering in my ear. It had been doing that a lot since the recent murder investigations. Happily, it had been months since I’d been mixed up in a homicide, and personally, I wanted to keep that trend going.
Why this was a girls-only party, I had no idea. Not even Harriette’s mysterious new fiancé had been invited. But that may have been because Harriette had insisted we hire a stripper for the party and not—as everyone in the village suspected—that the fiancé was a figment of Harriette’s eccentric imagination.
The event definitely had more the feel of a bachelorette party than a birthday bash, which made me question whether Harriette had a surprise wedding planned in the near future. Was this birthday celebration only a ruse to throw herself a bachelorette party without coming out and saying so?
The recent announcement of her engagement had set town tongues wagging. At my sister, Harper’s, bookstore, Spellbound Bookshop, a betting pool placed the odds that Harriette had fabricated the existence of the man at three to one. Exactly why she would do such a thing remained a mystery, except she was eccentric, but that seemed to be reason enough.
Dressed head to toe in black, one of Harriette’s two daughters, Lydia, glowered in the corner, her arms crossed tightly. She didn’t appear to be having a good time, but that might have had more to do with the bachelorette-party vibe than anything. Lydia Harkette Wentworth had been quite vocal in her displeasure of her mother’s remarriage—and it showed in every deep-set frown line on her face.
I wondered why she’d even come tonight if she was just going to be a sourpuss. It probably wasn’t to see the stripper.
Adjusting the belt on a black wrap dress that hugged her many curves, Aunt Ve said, “What are you up to, Darcy Merriweather?”
I fussed with the napkins and checked on my dog, Missy, who was watching the dance floor with anxious eyes, carefully guarding her puppy paws from drunken stilettos. “I don’t know what you mean, Ve. I hired a stripper. He’ll be here soon.”
I hadn’t wanted to hire him at all, considering Harriette’s age. A twenty-something gyrating exotic dancer might send her right over the hill and into an early grave.
Ve heartily disagreed, and dare I say it? There had been a gleam in her eye that made me suspect she’d been storing up wads of one-dollar bills for tonight’s big event.
My aunt also qualified as one of the village’s eccentrics.
I set a small dish of water on the floor for Missy. This probably wasn’t the best place for her, but with the crowds in the village for the opening night of the Harvest Festival taking place on the public green, I didn’t dare leave her home alone. She, a small gray and white Schnoodle (she was a mix of a miniature schnauzer and toy poodle), was the Harry Houdini of dogs, able to shed her collar and escape any enclosure, tether, or cage I put her in. I had yet to figure out how she did it. Tonight, she was better off here, with me, where I could keep an eye on her. The last thing I wanted was for some tourist to think she was a stray and wander off with her.
“How soon?” Ve adjusted her fringed purple scarf and looked around as if she hoped the stripper would stroll through the door at that very minute, thrusting this way and that.
I checked my watch. “Soon.”
“Doesn’t he need time to oil himself up?” She patted her head, noticed the escaped tresses, and tucked them back into her fancy clip. “I could help with that.”
“There’s oil involved?” I shuddered. “Wouldn’t that make a big mess? Leave stains?”
“This is not the time to be worrying about laundry.” Ve laughed. “You’ve led a sheltered life, Darcy dear.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” But I couldn’t argue that it was true. Up until I moved to the village in June, I had lived a sheltered life—an unhappy divorcée and the office manager for my father’s dental practice in Ohio, I had spent most of my free time keeping tabs on my slightly felonious sister, Harper, and had absolutely no idea I was a witch. And that Harper was, too.
All that changed with a visit from Aunt Ve after my father died. And before you could say, “Bippity boppity boo,” Harper and I had moved almost a thousand miles to the tourist hot spot of the Enchanted Village, a themed neighborhood of Salem, Massachusetts. A place where magic lived.
Magic, in the form of witches. Or “Crafters” as we’re called around these parts (not that mortals knew we existed). Ve, Harper, and I were Wishcrafters—witches with the ability to grant wishes using a special spell. However, there were limitations to our magic, including dozens of rules and regulations we had to follow—the Wishcraft Laws—which were governed by the Craft’s secret Elder.
I’d been called before the Elder several times in the past few months for violations. I was really hoping to make it through to New Year’s without having to visit with her again. A witch could hope.
I played with long black strands of my dark ponytail as I glanced around at everyone gathered. There was no way to tell mortal from Crafter at first glance—just a telltale eye twitch and village word of mouth. Even after five months of living here, I was still learning who was who, but I knew a good many women in this room had Crafting abilities.
Birthday girl Harriette, a Floracrafter (she’d grown the amazing black roses herself), had yet to arrive.
“It’s not necessarily a good thing,” Ve said, grabbing my hands. “Especially when you don’t know how to throw a party. Alcohol, cake, and a stripper. Done.” She twirled me around in a dizzying move. “Oh, and dancing.”
Missy barked as if in agreement. The traitor.
I smiled. “You brought a wad of one-dollar bills, didn’t you?”
Ve winked. “Of course.”
“What would Terry say?”
Terry Goodwin was her new (and old) love interest. They’d once been married; now they dated casually. Terry was pushing for exclusivity, but Ve was in no rush to be tied down again.
My aunt had monogamy issues.
Ve made a scrunched-up face. “Probably to enjoy myself.”
I rolled my eyes. “Since when are strippers part of a birthday party, anyway?”
“Since Harriette requested one, and we always grant our clients’ wishes. What time is he supposed to arrive?”
“Nine.” It was only eight thirty. I glanced around. The room looked amazing. Black fabric with white rosettes draped the walls, and high pub tables were cloaked with black-and-white floral-printed cloths. White candles decorated with delicate hand-drawn flowers flickered in the dimly lit room. It all looked amazing. Modern. Elegant. And very much like Harriette.
Ve narrowed her eyes. “You’re up to something. I can tell.”
The pulsing music vibrated my vertebrae. “Harriette Harkette is eighty years old. Don’t you think a stripper might send her into cardiac arrest? I really don’t want that on my conscience, do you?”
Ve tipped her head side to side. “Depends on how hot the stripper is.”
“Ve!”
“What?” she asked innocently. “Eighty? Harriette’s lived a good, long life.”
“You’re horrible,” I said with a smile.
Ve wagged a finger. Her nails had been painted black tonight in honor of the party girl.
The—heaven help me—stripper would be arriving soon. The cake, however, was starting to worry me. It should have been here more than an hour ago. I pulled out my cell phone and sent a quick text message to my good friend Evan Sullivan, owner of the Gingerbread Shack, asking how soon till delivery of the beautiful three-tiered cake he’d made.
As I did so, the deejay played a dramatic drumroll, and I looked up as the door to the party room slowly opened.
All smiles, Harriette slinked in. The women, except for Lydia, went wild.
I’d never seen anyone who slinked before, but Harriette did. One long stride after another—she looked ready to launch into a tango at any moment. She threw her arms in the air. “Let the party begin!”
“Staying Alive” started playing, which I thought was the deejay’s form of retribution for all the glares he received during “I Will Survive,” and Harriette speared him with a glowering look.
He pretended to ignore her. Wise man.
In my opinion, Harriette possessed a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde complex. One minute, she was happy as could be, the life of the party, and the next minute . . . viper. I hoped tonight her fangs would stay sheathed.
“Velma! The place looks glorious!” Harriette kissed both of Ve’s cheeks and then mine.
She cast a dubious glance at Missy, who growled low in her throat.
Harriette leaned down and growled right back.
Missy bared her teeth, and I scooped her up before she could take a nip out of Harriette’s bony ankle.
Harriette screamed money. Tall, lithe, gaunt cheeks, long nose, pointed chin. Razor-sharp blue eyes, crisp white hair pulled back into a fancy hairdo. Diamonds dripped from her earlobes and neck. A long black gown hugged her thin frame, and its cuffs and hem were edged in white feathers. A diamond-crusted belt cinched her tiny waist. Sparkling silver peep-toed heels showed off crimson toenails, completing the outrageous outfit.
An enormous yellow diamond glittered on her ring finger, and for the millionth time since learning she was engaged, I wondered about her supposed fiancé.
Louis.
Harriette never revealed his surname, so unless he was of the Cher or Prince mind-set, she was probably keeping it mum on purpose. Which made me instantly suspicious—it was no secret that my bet at Spellbound was definitely in favor of the man being make-believe.
As far as anyone knew, Louis wasn’t from the village, and Harriette revealed frustratingly little about the relationship.
My cell phone buzzed.
“Excuse me,” I said, stepping aside to check the message. I shifted Missy to the crook of my left arm and opened my phone. The display revealed: Michael left an hour and a half ago.
The message was from Evan, responding to the text I had sent him a few minutes ago. I frowned. Where was Michael Healey, the bakery’s deliveryman, then? The Gingerbread Shack was just across the square—it shouldn’t have taken him but five minutes to drop off the cake.
I texted back (not easy when holding an irritated Schnoodle): No sign of him. Or the cake.
“The Wickeds have packed their five-dollar bills, Velma,” Harriette said loudly, eyebrows high, “so I hope the stripper is outstanding. Young, hot, sexy.” She wiggled her hips.
Ve shot me an “I told you so” look.
Which had me extremely worried, and I wondered what constituted “young” to an eighty-year-old. Because it was true I’d hired a stripper, but according to his bio, he was pushing seventy. I suddenly had the feeling the joke wouldn’t go over as well as I hoped. If I didn’t fix this soon, I was sure to see Harriette’s fangs tonight.
I bit my lip and shuddered at the thought.
“Is your fiancé young, Harriette?” Ve asked oh-so casually.
I had to give it to my aunt—she had no qualms about prying into other people’s affairs.
Harriette pursed fire-engine red lips. “Louis is a bit younger than I am, it’s true.”
“How much so?” Ve pressed.
My phone buzzed. EVAN: I can see van in lot.
ME: How? Superhuman vision?
EVAN: Binoculars.
I didn’t even want to know why Evan had binoculars at the bakery.
“Enough to make me feel young again,” Harriette said with a long, drawn-out sigh. She glanced around, and her snake eyes narrowed on the empty spot on the dessert table reserved for the cake. “Has the cake not yet arrived?”
I smelled venom in the air and said quickly, “I’m going to go check on it. I’ll be right back.”
Stepping out would also give me time to walk Missy and figure out how to get a replacement stripper here as quickly as possible.
I pushed my way through the pubgoers and out onto the sidewalk. I clipped on Missy’s leash, set her down, and looked around. The village looked nothing short of incredible. The Harvest Festival was in full swing. A huge bonfire lit one end of the green, and a Ferris wheel anchored the other. In between were booths and carnival rides and even a mock haunted house—all attractions to lure in tourists. But underneath it all, below the surface, something crackled in the air. Magic.
It made me smile. This time of year was special to Crafters. Halloween, which was next weekend, was our biggest holiday celebration.
The square was packed with tourists and villagers alike. The moon, a waxing crescent, hung high in the sky; the night was mild, the fall foliage glorious, and I wished I could enjoy it fully.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t grant my own wishes (one of the Wishcraft Laws), which meant I had to find a young, hot, sexy stripper ASAP.
I nibbled a fingernail and thought about the “entertainment” Web site that had been recommended to me by Evan. I didn’t remember seeing a phone number, but as it was the only local place to hire strippers, once I was done out here, I would borrow Ve’s smartphone (I still had an older model flip phone) to access the site and see if I could reach someone in charge to change my order.
Missy and I dodged a gaggle of window-shoppers as we made our way toward the public parking lot adjacent to the pub. Along the walk, I couldn’t help thinking about single dad Nick Sawyer, and how young (okay, he was thirty-five, but still), hot and sexy he was. Alas, he wasn’t a stripper (I could dream), but the village’s police chief. We’d been dating since the end of summer.
I turned the corner, and sure enough, the Gingerbread Shack’s delivery van was parked at the back of the lot, near the path leading to the Enchanted Trail, a paved walkway that looped behind the square.
As I trotted toward it, I listened as the calliope of the Ghoulousel (a ghost-themed carousel) piped a happy, perky tune to the backdrop of all the other sounds. Bells, whistles. Murmured voices. Squeals from small children. Laughter.
I was enjoying the ambiance until Missy suddenly stopped short.
“What?” I asked her, looking around for anyone hiding in the shadows along the pub’s stone exterior.
She growled.
Not a warning growl, but something primal. Almost fearful.
Goose bumps rose on my arms. I picked her up. “You’re freaking me out, Missy.”
It didn’t help that she was trembling.
The calliope suddenly sounded ominous as I doubled my pace and made it across the parking lot to the van in record time. Cupping my eyes, I peered into the delivery van’s window. On the driver’s seat were a cell phone and sunglasses. An empty lemon-lime sports drink sat in the cup holder, and a fast-food bag rested on the passenger seat. There was no sign of Michael.
Try as I might—I couldn’t see into the back of the van.
The wind kicked up, rustling leaves and bringing a chill to the air. Pinpricks of fear poked my spine as I walked around the van to the rear doors, and Missy started growling again. I held her more tightly and told myself I was being silly, that Michael was just fine, the cake was fine, that everything was fine, fine, fine.
But . . . lately, the village hadn’t been so idyllic. There had been murders here—cases that I’d helped solve.
Maybe that was why I was being so paranoid. I had murder on my mind—never a good thing when creeping around in the dark.
Michael probably just went over to the festival—it was hard to resist its lure. There were caramel apples over there, after all. Lots of them. They certainly tempted me.
In fact, after the stripper arrived, I planned to cut out of Harriette’s party early to meet Nick for a late date that involved one of those apples. We planned to ride the silly rides and play the outrageously priced games until the festival closed up shop for the night.
Swallowing hard, I wrapped my hand around the cold door handle and pulled. Hinges creaked eerily, and I jumped out of the way as if I expected the bogeyman to leap out.
Fortunately, for my sanity, he didn’t.
Inside the back of the van, Harriette’s cake sat proudly, looking beautiful with its black-and-white motif.
There was still no sign of Michael.
My ponytail slashed against my face from a sudden gust of wind. I tucked my hair into the collar of my turtleneck as I tried to figure out how to carry the cake into the pub myself. Missy continued to shake, and I startled when I heard voices on the Enchanted Trail. Old-fashioned gaslights and white twinkle lights strung in the trees illuminated the shortcut path that led from the parking lot to the paved trail as a couple emerged, holding hands and snuggling against each other.
I relaxed a little, trying not to let my anxiety get the better of me, but as the couple passed by, Missy growled and wriggled. I set her down, and she took off toward the trampled dirt path, stretching her leash to its limits.
She beelined for something lying in the brush. Something that suddenly brought back those pinpricks.
A shoe.
A large sneaker.
So out of place that it made me nervous.
Glancing around, I walked slowly toward it. Wind whistled through the trees, echoing eerily above my head. “W-what did you find, Missy?”
Missy half growled, half cried.
My heart beat so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Fine, fine, fine, I sang in my head.
The shoe lay on the edge of the path, upside down in the long grass. I held up my cell phone, using its glow as a flashlight as I looked around the shrubby area.
Missy pulled me deeper into the tall brush, her nose to the ground. Suddenly, she let out a loud yap and started whimpering.
My hand shook as I aimed my cell phone her way. The wind stopped, and the night was deafeningly quiet as the light fell upon my worst nightmare.
A bloody sock-covered foot stuck out from beneath a mound of branches.