Free Wicked Witch Murder by Leslie Meier Page A

cute.”
    â€œMy poor tomato plants are treading water,” said Lucy, attempting a joke. “Where’s Ted? Resting up after the fire?”
    â€œNo rest for the wicked,” said Phyllis. “Press conference at the police station.”
    â€œAbout the fire?” asked Lucy, switching on her PC.
    â€œYour guess is as good as mine,” said Phyllis.
    But when Ted came in an hour later, dressed like the Gorton’s fisherman in bright yellow rain gear, it turned out the press conference hadn’t been about the fire after all.
    â€œThe state police identified the burned guy,” he said, carefully placing a handful of rain-splotched papers on Phyllis’s counter.
    â€œWho was he?” asked Phyllis, dabbing at the mess with a paper towel.
    â€œName of Malcolm Malebranche. He was a magician, worked at kids’ birthday parties, stuff like that.”
    â€œMalebranche, that’s an unusual name,” said Lucy. She knew she’d heard it before but couldn’t quite remember when.
    Ted wasn’t looking good; Lucy figured he was still tired from covering the fire. Being out there in all that smoke couldn’t be good for a person. It was no wonder he had a nasty little cough and looked a little green about the gills.
    â€œIt’s really horrible,” he was saying, swallowing hard.
    Lucy and Phyllis were all ears. “Yeah?” prompted Phyllis.
    Ted sat down on one of the chairs in the reception area, by Phyllis’s counter. “The medical examiner says he was burned alive.”
    Phyllis’s thin, pencil-line eyebrows shot up. “What did you say?”
    â€œHe was burned alive,” repeated Ted.
    Lucy had heard him the first time, and she was struggling to understand how something like that could happen.
    â€œThe ME thinks it might have been some sort of magic trick gone wrong, a Houdini-style escape that didn’t work, something like that.”
    â€œHe must’ve been really dumb to try something like that,” said Phyllis.
    â€œNobody’s that dumb,” said Lucy, suddenly remembering where she’d heard the name. It was in the car, with Diana. She’d remembered something Lord Malebranche had told her. Diana knew him, and from the way she referred to him, Lucy suspected he was also a witch—and she wondered if his death was really a tragic accident or something more sinister.
    â€œI’ll be back,” said Lucy, pulling on her boots. “I’ve got a lead I need to follow up on.”
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    When she got to the house, she found the girls in the kitchen, making chocolate chip cookies for Diana. The kitchen smelled wonderful, rich and chocolatey, and Libby, the Labrador, was keeping an eye on the proceedings, ready to lick up any spills.
    â€œDon’t give her too many cookies or she’ll get sick,” warned Lucy, slipping off her rain gear and grabbing a cookie from the wire tray as she headed for the stairs. The cookie was at that perfect stage when the chocolate chips were still warm and gooey and the dough was crispy, but she didn’t really enjoy it, because her mind was already on the conversation she was going to have with Diana. Swallowing the last bit, she knocked on the door.
    â€œDiana, it’s me, Lucy,” she said.
    â€œCome in.” Diana’s voice was thin and reedy.
    When she opened the door, she found Diana in a cotton T-shirt and underpants, lying on the bed with the covers thrown back. The poison ivy rash was peaking, and the large pink blotches that spotted her body were blistered and oozing. She looked so miserable that Lucy found her defenses crumbling.
    â€œIs there anything I can do for you?” she asked.
    â€œThe girls are taking good care of me,” said Diana. An inflamed patch near her mouth made speaking difficult; another had nearly closed her left eye. “They keep bringing me cold drinks and things to eat.”
    â€œIt will