Better Witch Next Time Read online

  "505 West 85th Street," I told the cab driver, who was easily accessible thanks to the lack of barrier between the front and back passenger seats.

  "Sure thing, ma'am." The cab slowly pulled away from the curb and merged with traffic, which was always a nightmare in Manhattan, no matter what year you were in. "First time in New York City?" the older gentleman asked. He wore a brown cap that matched the stripes on his button-down shirt.

  "What makes you say that?" I asked, curious more than anything. If something about my appearance gave me away, I wanted to know.

  "Oh nothing, nothing. Just that we get a lot of visitors, that's all." The man was being polite, but I knew that wasn't it, just like I knew I wasn't going to be able to get him to spill it.

  I sat back on the cab's plush bench seat and tried to get my head in the game. You had to be able to acclimate quickly when you time traveled, which is why I always had the same plan. Set up home base, check out the scene of the crime, start sleuthing. When you had only seven days, time was of the utmost value.

  The cab rolled to stop in front of the address, and I rifled through my handbag, for the first time really counting how much money was given to me. Thirty bucks? Thirty bucks! That's it?! I frantically searched the rest of the wallet, coming up with maybe a couple extra dollars in change. Payroll would be hearing from me. I don't know how in the world a case manager would ever think thirty bucks would cut it for a week in New York City.

  "That will be fifty cents, ma'am," the cab driver said politely.

  "Excuse me? How much?"

  "Fifty cents? That is, if that's all right with you."

  "Yes, yes. Of course, that's all right. Here," I said, handing the man a dollar. "Thank you so much."

  Okay, perhaps thirty bucks and some change would be enough. This was definitely New York City in its Golden Age. A time where men wore hats, women wore gloves, and fifty cents got you a cab ride.

  I got out of the cab and stared up at my new residence for the week. It was an impressive white brick building. The kind with a burgundy awning overhead and a matching carpet rolled out in front with a doorman waiting at the ready. On either side of the building stood potted juniper trees trimmed and tucked in ornate planters. The doorman grabbed the door's gold handle with his gloved hand and held it open for me to step inside. "Good morning, ma'am," he said with a nod.

  "Why thank you," I replied. A girl could get used to this kind of living. I walked across the white marble foyer and looked for a sign for the stairs, but instead found the elevator waiting for me with another gentleman ready to greet me and take me on up.

  "Good morning, ma'am," I was greeted once more. The elevator man's name was Henry, according to his name tag, and he too was wearing white gloves. I stood behind him while he closed the accordion-style gate in front of us and requested the second floor. At first, it seemed ridiculous taking an elevator one flight up, but then I remembered the role I was supposed to play. I highly doubted ladies from the Upper West Side were known for taking the stairs. Within a couple of moments, we were one floor up and I was exiting the elevator, thanking Henry for the lift.

  "2 A," I said to myself, finding the door immediately to my right. I took the key out of my handbag and was preparing to open the door when I found it open for me instead.

  "Oh," I said in surprise.

  "And who are you?" A woman in her late fifties stood in the doorway. Her dark hair was twisted and pinned up. A pearl necklace hung from her rather elongated neck, and a matching set of earrings with an oversized cluster of pearls were clipped to her ears. She was dressed as one would expect for someone living in a luxury high-rise, with a cream-colored skirt and matching blazer. The white silk shell she wore matched the color of her porcelain skin.

  "I must have the wrong apartment number. I am looking for..." My words trailed off as I attempted to think up a backstory.

  "Anna Yates?" the woman asked.

  "Yes, that's me," I said, remembering the name on the fake ID I was assigned.

  "You're late." The woman held the door open for me to step inside.

  Late for what? I thought but walked inside any way. As I did, the woman started rattling off instructions and directions, and I struggled to keep up with her.

  "Here is the kitchen, of course."

  I briefly glanced at the kitchen with its pink countertops, white cupboards, and mint-colored rotary phone fixed to the wall.

  "And I'm told you need a room. You'll find the spare bedroom through the kitchen. Over here is the dining room, living room, my husband's office, which you don't need to worry about, and our bedrooms. Mr. Hendricks expects supper every night at seven-thirty. No later. You'll find the weekly menu in the kitchen drawer next to the phone. Stick to the menu. I believe Mary has dinner prepared for tonight, but you're going to have to confirm that. You'll find your uniform and accompanying hat…" The woman looked up disapprovingly at my rather short hair. "…laid out for you on the bed."

  Suddenly I had a feeling that was the difference the cab driver had noticed. My hair. Some might call it a pixie cut or a boyish cut, and I realized how out of town I looked. Was it worth scrambling this woman's brain and working a spell to lengthen it before knocking on the door again?

  Before I could act on that thought, she continued, "You'll work six days a week and you have Sunday off. Payday is on Friday."

  An orange cat came out from the kitchen and meowed quizzically at us. He was fluffier than Agatha and his green eyes were majestic. "That's George. He's no bother," the woman said. George seemed to scoff at the idea of being written off as no significant importance.

  The woman looked at me briefly. "Any questions?"

  A million, I thought. "No, I'm good," I replied.

  "Good. As a reminder, this assignment is temporary. Don't make yourself too comfortable." Again, she looked at me with disdain. I smiled cheerfully in response. It was better than blasting her backwards or jolting her neurons, both of which I was back to debating.

  "Now, I'm late." The woman turned from me in the living room and called out. "Irene? Irene?" Getting no response, she huffed. "Where is that foolish girl? She knows I don't have time for this." She took a pastel pink coat from the coat closet, putting it on over her blazer and belting it at the waist even though the warm weather outside didn't call for one. "Irene?” she called out one more time before rolling her eyes. "I'll have to deal with her later. If you see my daughter, tell her I'd like to speak with her." With that, Mrs. Hendricks walked out the door and left me standing at ground zero.

  Chapter 3

  The calendar in the kitchen told me that today was Monday, June 3, the day Irene Hendricks went missing. However, it appeared that her mother was just starting to wonder where her daughter was. It was just after one o'clock, which meant I should have a few solid hours to search and sleuth before the Hendrickses came home and expected dinner.

  I checked in the fridge and was both relieved and disgusted to find a pre-molded mound of ground beef sitting on the shelf with plastic wrap over it. I'm not inept when it comes to cooking—far from it—but as a vegetarian, I didn't handle raw meat. If you wanted avocado toast or some sweet and spicy soba noodles or tofu prepared in any number of ways, I was your gal. Beef brisket, meatloaf, and pork chops? I didn't even know where to start. In fact, the whole concept of me being transported back in time to serve as the housekeeper, well, that was a disaster just waiting to happen. I was the most undomesticated witch in the history of time travel. I wish I could say that with one snap of my fingers, the house would start cleaning itself like the good fairies had managed in Sleeping Beauty, but domestic affairs still required manual labor such as picking up a broom or maneuvering the vacuum cleaner. Although, I was pretty sure I could make the vacuum zoom across the room haphazardly if I concentrated hard enough.

  Thankfully, the meatloaf wasn't the only thing Mary had left in the fridge. The regular housekeeper had also made a plate of sandwiches, an assortment of cookies, vege
table soup, and two different salads, potato and pasta. I was eternally grateful for the woman since there was now something I could eat.

  I had to put thoughts of making dinner and cleaning the house aside and take every opportunity I had to search the house before the police were called in, which I knew would be soon. Irene's file had said that it seemed Irene had simply walked out of her family's apartment one day and was never heard from again, but that didn't stop me from looking for any sort of struggle.

  I went to her bedroom first to see if anything looked amiss. Not that I would know how it regularly looked, but perhaps a window would have been left open, allowing someone to enter the room, or her bedding would be thrown about, or even broken glass, say from a vanity, might litter the floor. However, when I walked into the room, it looked as ordinary as any young lady's bedroom could be. The bed was made, with a white lace shawl stylistically draped across the end. Both of her windows were locked, but they were accessible by the fire escape. And there wasn't a broken picture frame or mirror to be found.

  There were plenty of pictures of Irene. Photos of her dressed in formal attire (prom perhaps?), her high school graduation portrait, and another one of her with a group of friends—two boys and a girl. I picked up the formal photo and studied Irene. The black and white photo didn't offer up many clues. Her dark hair was curled under, and her light-colored dress was strapless, with a thick sash across the bodice. Her smile was pleasant, but I couldn't say she looked happy. I put down the metal and glass frame and turned my attention to the rest of the room.

  Irene's dresser and closet were both stuffed full of clothes. Seriously, I had never seen so many pastel dresses and hatboxes in my life. If she had packed a bag before hightailing it out of town, I wouldn't have known. I then checked her bathroom. The vanity was full of facial moisturizer, false lashes, and enough lipstick to stock a department store makeup counter. Her room, like the entire apartment, looked tidy and proper, as if someone had cleaned up after the Hendrickses every single day, which is exactly why they employed a housekeeper.

  I was going to have to dig deeper.

  I went back to my handbag on the kitchen table and took out a pair of latex gloves. George, the cat, watched me curiously from under the kitchen table. When I looked over at him, he shut his eyes, feigning sleep. I was fine with that.

  Gloves on, I headed back to Irene's bedroom.

  Slower this time, I went through her dresser drawers, layer by layer, looking for any sort of clue—a key, a letter, even a ticket stub that could point me in the right direction. I went through Irene's closet in much the same fashion, hanger by hanger, hatbox by hatbox, coming up empty before looking under her bed. Finally, I hit pay dirt with the discovery of a hatbox full of just the type of clues I was looking for.

  Letters.

  Some were tucked in envelopes with hearts scrawled on the front, others were written hastily on scraps of paper, simple notes that read, "I miss you" or "I need to see you." I opened one of the envelopes and unfolded the note inside. It read, "To Irene, my love. I hope you don't mind that I address you this way, but that is how I feel. You are my love and I yours and I hope one day we’re able to be together. Yours forever, A."

  The box was full of more letters, all from A, with him professing his love and his desire that he and Irene could one day be together despite what Irene's parents may think. In one letter in particular he wrote, "I know you respect your father, and I hope one day I will be able to as well. If he would only approve of our union and allow me to be in his company, I know I could win his affections over like I have won yours."

  Well then.

  I put the letters back and stood, feeling as if this case wouldn't be so hard after all. The tight knot I always felt in my stomach from the moment I was assigned a case until I solved it loosened a notch. It seemed like this was only a matter of a girl who’d had enough of her family's disapproval and ran away with her boyfriend. No wonder she was never found again. She didn't want to be. And who could blame her with parents who wouldn't understand her for who she was? Or allow her to love whom she chooses? It wasn't the first time that I had tracked a missing person who had decided to up and leave their life for love. Like in those other cases, all that was left for me to do was to perform a scrying spell to track Irene down and convince her to come home. If all else failed, I could always zap her and drag her back with me, or even make her forget A. forever, but I always preferred people returning home on their own free will. More times than not, especially with first loves, the love affairs never worked out. We all know how often young love turned sour, I thought to myself, before letting it go along with the bitterness of my past.

  "Now let's do some magic, shall we?"

  In my experience, scrying spells always worked best when you had an object of the person you were tracking to focus on. The more important the object was to the person, the more energy they imprinted upon it, and the easier it was to find them. Bonus points if the object was made out of metal. Metal was a better conductor of energy, just like always.

  I remembered seeing a jewelry box on Irene's dresser and went back to her room, opening the little wooden drawers and taking out object after object, letting them rest in my hand with my eyes closed until I found the one that felt the warmest and offered up the most energy. When I opened my eyes, I saw a heart-shaped locket with a long gold chain in my hand. I figured it was some love token from the mysterious A., but when I peeked inside the locket, I saw a black-and-white photo of a young woman. It wasn't Irene or her mother, but the family resemblance was there. I wasn't sure who she was, but she had to have been someone important to Irene. Perhaps an aunt?

  I took the locket and walked across the hall to the bathroom. Like the kitchen, the bathroom was styled in mint green, baby pink, and white, though this time the cabinets were painted a milky shade of green, the bathtub and the toilet were baby pink, and the countertops were white. All of the fixtures were gold, including the palm-sized drawer pulls on the bathroom cupboards and drawers. I examined the wall-length mirror with its gold trim and little rose accented tiles and decided that yes, this mirror would do just fine for the spell I was about to perform.

  Witches can scry in a couple of different ways. One required the use of a crystal, like a quartz or amethyst, along with a map. The other was to use a smooth surface, like a mirror or a body of water that you can peer into like a looking glass. That was the method I was going to try first. It required more power, but it would give me a more accurate picture of where Irene was, since I could see her in real time versus just picking up a vague location on a map. Plus, I didn't have a map of New York City on me, something I could've sent Agatha out for if she could've been bothered to join me.

  I held the necklace in my hand and the chain intertwined between my fingers. Taking a couple of deep breaths, I relaxed my body and focused on the threads of energy that were bound to the necklace. In the silence I whispered:

  Power I need, come to me.

  With harm to none, so make it be.

  Irene's energy glowed a soft lilac color, spinning out from the necklace in tiny wisps, thinner than a strand of hair. I followed the threads in my mind as they wove around the apartment, clustering together where she spent the most time—her bedroom, the kitchen, and one of the settees in the living room. There were two, both a golden honey color. There was a distinct absence of Irene's presence through the rest of the house, including her parent's bedroom and her father's study. In my mind, I held onto the threads as they wandered out the apartment's door and down the corridor.

  I held onto that energy and pushed my mind further, urging my power to seek her out like a heat-seeking missile. The images blurred, moving rapidly, down the sidewalk, down the stairway to the subway. I couldn't tell if she was alone or afraid, just that she was on the move and quickly.

  Then I opened my eyes and saw her in the bathroom mirror. I was seeing Irene as she saw herself—young and beautiful—not how she was now or
where she was located.

  Irene's picture came front and center in the mirror. Her skin was ivory white. Her lips were painted a rich red courtesy of one of the dozens of tubes of lipstick she had kept stocked in her bathroom drawer. And her shoulder-length brown hair was curled in the fashion of the day. I couldn't help but bring my hand up to touch the short spikiness on the back of my head and tried not to chastise myself for not thinking that part through. It would've only been a matter of a few words, a quick spell, to lengthen my hair for this assignment. Even a wig would've been smart. Although I preferred a spell. Far less itchy.

  I clutched the necklace tighter in my palm and closed my eyes to strengthen my power and said:

  Scrying secrets come to me.

  Show me Irene so I might see.

  I opened my eyes and watched the image swirl before me, revealing another image of Irene. Her expression was stoic, her makeup was no longer perfect, the lipstick long removed from her lips. Her hair, which had seemed so perfect a minute ago, lay flat and limp on her shoulders. I tried to expand the image to see where she was, but I couldn't. The picture remained cropped in tight, like a headshot.

  And that's when the fog rolled in.

  It started at the edge of the mirror, like a wisp of smoke, until it continued to build up and roll across the glass, clouding the vision.

  "What in the heck is going on?" I squinted and focused my powers to no avail. Someone else was blocking my vision. Someone who was more powerful that I was.

  I attempted to blow the fog back with air, and then physically, pushing against it with my hands, but there was just too much to contain. It spilled over the edges and moved around my palms, making my efforts futile. I needed another spell. Thinking fast, I called up the power of wind saying,