The Good, the Bad, and the Witchy: A Wishcraft Mystery by Heather Blake

Author:Heather Blake [Blake, Heather]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: NAL
Published: 2013-03-03T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

Since locating Fisk had already been on my mind, I left Trista with a promise to do my best to find him. I couldn’t help but feel he held the key to solving this whole case.

I’d also spent my last few minutes silently wishing that Trista would just wish to know where he was. It would have made my job so much easier.

But as it was against Wishcraft Laws to solicit wishes, I couldn’t say so aloud. Unfortunately, because Trista hadn’t picked up on my silent pleading, I was going to have to find Fisk the hard way.

My first inclination was to ask Amy if she had any thoughts about where he might be hiding out. It was, in fact, my only inclination, so I hoped she had some suggestions for me.

Even though I’d recently acquired a PI license, I had come about it in a magical way, and hadn’t (yet) put in the necessary requirements.

Which boiled down to the fact that I had no idea what I was doing.

On the front porch of Something Wicked, I buttoned my coat and tucked my hands in my pockets. I glanced at the sky. Dark clouds had moved in, and I could smell rain in the air.

I smiled. I loved rain.

But if the temperature dropped any more, the rain would surely turn to snow. Beautiful, yes, but not good for the festival.

As I headed down the sidewalk, I listened to the wind whistling down the street and suddenly realized how quiet it was.

Deathly quiet.

I kicked up my pace and headed for the village green. As I neared, I could see the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, a crowd, and Evan standing in front of the Gingerbread Shack, taking it all in.

Jogging over to him, I said, “What’s happened now? Not another murder?”

I didn’t see the medical examiner’s van, but it might not have arrived yet.

Evan said, “Someone didn’t like the judgment of the pie contest.”

The pie contest? The one the Wickeds were judging? “What happened?”

“Imogene Millikan became horribly ill shortly after awarding the winner of the pie.” He rolled his eyes. “A plain old apple pie.” Tsking, he added, “How boring. I would have made chocolate raspberry mousse pie, but alas, professional bakers are disqualified. Apple. So boring.”

I hated that my stomach rumbled at a time like this. “Not all of us are as refined as you are.”

His blue eyes gleamed. “More’s the pity.”

“Imogene,” I said, trying to refocus his attention. “What happened to her?”

“No one’s sure. Starla keeps running back and forth to give me updates. The latest rumor is that someone poisoned a pumpkin smoothie Imogene drank after the contest as retaliation for not winning.”

“Seems a little severe.”

“Oh, Darcy. No one is more cutthroat than bakers.”

I wasn’t so sure. Because I wasn’t thinking a frustrated (psychotic) baker had anything to do with Imogene’s being poisoned.

More likely, it was someone who had something to do with what happened to Michael. Which reinforced my growing suspicion that the Wickeds knew more than they were letting on about Michael’s death.

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