Free A Witch Before Dying: A Wishcraft Mystery by Heather Blake Page B

Potions, and Seeker. When I’d waved to him in the Sorcerer’s Stove yesterday, I’d never expected him to stake out my house.
    But…I squinted harder. I couldn’t tell if it was him or not. The man was too far away.
    Whoever he was, he appeared to be watching the house. The Peeper Creeper?
    I shivered, and after rubbing my eyes, I looked again.
    No one was there.
    Whoever it was had moved on. Or maybe he’d been a figment of my overactive imagination.
    I was being paranoid, that was all. It was understandableafter what had happened last night with the person in the woods.
    As a gentle breeze stirred the white curtains, I flopped back onto my bed. I watched the sheers flutter as I breathed in deeply and picked up the hint of sea salt in the air. The Enchanted Village wasn’t too far from Salem’s coastline, but I’d yet to spend a day at the beach—something I needed to change before the weather turned too cool.
    I’d adapted to the salty scent almost immediately. It’s a strong, distinct smell, one that Harper had instantly disliked, but I found it oddly comforting.
    Now, months after moving here, we had both become accustomed to the scent. Harper didn’t even notice it anymore, and I eagerly sought the quiet moments when I could really focus on it. Like now.
    Reaching over, I lifted the window sash just a bit higher, leaned back on my pillows, and breathed in. Tilda tiptoed her way up the empty side of the bed, acting as nonchalant as a prissy Himalayan can. Which wasn’t much.
    I held out my fingers to her. She ignored them. Instead, she oh-so-casually stretched, flattened herself on the mattress, and elongated her body against the side of mine. Then she oh-so-casually batted my stomach with her paw. I dutifully scratched her chin. Tilda wanted affection only on her terms. I knew better than to go against her wishes. Hairballs hacked onto my comforter were a common occurrence when Tilda was displeased.
    I glanced around for Missy and found her on the fluffy dog bed on the floor. Curled into a tight ball, she was sound asleep, her breathing rhythmic and heavy.
    Missy had changed so much in the short time since we moved from Ohio to the village, almost as though she’d gone from puppy to dog during the trip. In Ohio, she’d been feisty, a bit hard to control, and never at a loss fora shoe to chew. Here, all that had changed. She was still energetic, but her frenetic personality had morphed into one that was more mature. At first I thought something was wrong with her and almost made an appointment with a vet. Then I came to my senses. She was just about the perfect dog now. Except for her bouts of being an escape artist. She had the uncanny ability to break out from any enclosure. It had become somewhat of a game over the past couple of months, sort of a canine hide-and-seek.
    I sat up in bed, pulled my hair into a sloppy knot, and reached for the notebook I’d been jotting in before I went to sleep. I intermittently scratched Tilda while reading over my notes…notes on Patrice Keaton’s murder.
    Heaven help me, I was going to investigate this murder.
    Harper was going to be beside herself.
    I supposed I could have turned down Elodie’s request, despite As You Wish’s motto. After all, solving a crime was a far cry from what we normally did for clients. But I didn’t because (and I blame this completely on Harper), with the last murder investigation, my inner Nancy Drew had emerged. I liked being in the thick of things, nosing around and asking questions. Taking this job allowed me to do that more openly.
    I focused on my notebook. I’d written:
    Who was Patrice?
    I tried to figure out how old she was and recalled that Elodie had said her mother had wedding presents from 1985, and Yvonne had mentioned that she and Patrice both got married and had babies right after graduating high school…. I did some mental math. If she were still alive, she’d be in her mid-forties. So young still.
    Why would