Better Witch Next Time Page 5

  I leaned across the table and softly said, "Okay … I think we both know that I'm not really a housekeeper. And I can promise you that the Hendrickses are no friends of mine."

  It was against the Agency's rules for me to say exactly who I was—a witch from the future—but that didn't mean I couldn't hint at my otherworldliness.

  The levelness of my voice did more to convey my seriousness than anything else I could have done. Archie sat back, stunned with the realization that something horrible could have in fact happened to his girlfriend.

  "We have to find her," he said.

  "I'm trying to," I replied. "Tell me, has anything odd been going on with Irene lately?" I thought back to Irene's birth name. She was a young woman who possibly had a strong magical heritage. Surely there would be some magical sparks flying by now, if they were ever going to? Especially seeing she was in love. Emotions tended to trigger such things in young witches.

  Archie exhaled, seeming to blow out all of his emotions. "I'm not even sure where to start," he said, bending forward and taking a sip of his untouched Coke. Mine was just about empty by that point, but for the advertised ten cents a glass, I could go for a refill. Archie continued, "It seems like a lot of weird stuff has happened."

  "What kind of stuff are we talking about?" I asked, and I had a feeling I knew where this conversation was headed.

  Archie shook his head, and I knew he was having a hard time believing everything himself. "I don't know … she was having these experiences. Like, she could sense things before they happened. It freaked her out, and she had no idea what was going on. One time, she even said something to Mrs. Hendricks and she didn't want to hear about it at all. In fact, she completely flipped out on Irene and told her to never suggest such nonsense in front of her again. But it kept happening. She just knew things were going to happen and then they did."

  "You mean she could predict the future," I said.

  "Yeah, I guess, if that's even possible. Irene couldn't believe it either, which is when she started searching for answers. Her father has all those scientific books in his study, so we started going through everything we could find looking for answers, and that's when she found out she was adopted."

  "She knows?" That was one thing that I didn't know for sure—if Irene knew her past.

  "Oh, she knows, and her parents know that she knows too. They were furious that she was snooping and discovered her birth certificate. It didn't take much for her to put two and two together, although her parents denied it up and down. Eventually, they couldn't disprove it otherwise and were forced to confess."

  "How did Irene take it?" I said, picking up my glass and signaling the waitress for a refill.

  "She was relieved, I swear to you. She never fit in with her family, you know? She was happy not to be related to them. But then other stuff started happening, and neither one of us could explain it."

  "Like what?" I asked.

  Archie leaned across the table and licked his lips nervously. "She could make fire. Like, with her fingers." He snapped his own fingers together for emphasis.

  I nodded, which wasn't the reaction Archie was expecting.

  "I'm serious! I swear to you. I saw it with my own eyes." He thrusted himself back in the booth and crossed his arms.

  "No, I believe you," I said. "They're called Fire Starters—people who can conjure flames."

  Archie's eyes went wide. "It's a real thing? Like, there's other people like Irene?"

  I wasn't sure if there were other people exactly like her. Usually a witch had only one gift, like me with electricity. Sure, I could use it as a weapon to knock someone out or erase their memory, but it was essentially the same power just being used in two different ways. If Irene was a psychic and a Fire Starter, who knew what other powers she had just waiting to erupt.

  We were both silent when the waitress came back to refill our glasses. I ordered a cheeseburger basket for Archie and onion rings for myself. I wasn't sure when veggie burgers had been invented, but I doubted it was here and now.

  "What about Penny? She's her best friend. What does she think?" Archie asked.

  "She thought Irene was with you." I thought for a minute. "Does Penny know about this?"

  "Oh trust me, she knows," Archie said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "We were leaving here late one night," Archie said, nodding toward the diner's front door. "Penny went to walk out that door, and Irene grabbed her by the arm and threw her back. A second later, a car hopped the curb and would've plowed right into her if Irene hadn't have pushed her. Irene sort of told Penny everything after that. Turns out, it was the best thing that could happen."

  "How's that?" I asked.

  "Penny's a bit of a supernatural expert." Archie left it at that.

  It looked like I needed to take a closer look at Irene's best friend. "She doesn't have any special talents, does she? You know, like Irene does?"

  "Penny? You mean other than applying lipstick?" Archie laughed. "Not that I've ever seen."

  Chapter 7

  The next morning, I hadn't forgotten my plan from the day before to track down Mary. I also was going to stop by Macy's and catch up with Penny and see what sort of supernatural expert she was. Last night, once I was back in the apartment after leaving the diner with Archie, I retrieved the phone book from the kitchen and took it back to my room. A quick search landed me a Mary Petrov who held promise. Her home address listed her as living on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. The name and location were accurate; I just had to hope the rest lined up.

  I couldn't leave yet though. First, I needed to get rid of Mrs. Hendricks. Thankfully, she had plans that included brunch with her girlfriends and an afternoon museum tour, though which museum, I wasn't sure. I hadn't cared enough to ask. I was just tap-dancing with delight that her double feature meant I could hang up this ridiculous uniform for the day. I retied the apron around my back for the tenth time that morning and tried not to count down the minutes until the misses left the building.

  Finally, around nine o'clock, there was a knock at the door. I went to answer it, playing the part of the perfect housekeeper to a tee, something I knew Mrs. Hendricks would fully expect. Heck, the woman even made me put together a refreshment tray to offer her guest when she arrived. I had no idea what went on a refreshment tray but managed to place a couple of Mary's leftover cookies and a pitcher of iced tea on the silver tray, along with a couple of tall glasses with fancy paper straws. All that was missing was the ice. Personally, I wondered why in the world you'd need refreshments when you were headed out to brunch. It must've been a rich-person thing. Or maybe it was a Mrs. Hendricks thing. Probably both.

  I opened the door and was greeted by a rather stout, older woman with thick, curly gray hair. She was dressed head to toe in dark purple and bore an uncanny resemblance to a blueberry.

  "Hello, ma'am, would you please come in," I said, welcoming Mrs. Berry inside.

  The woman didn't address me but instead looked beyond me to where Mrs. Hendricks was now joining us.

  "Madeline, dear," she said, greeting Mrs. Hendricks with a kiss on each cheek. "It's been ages. I'm so happy you're able to go out today."

  "I wouldn't miss it for the world. Here, have a seat. We have time, no?" Mrs. Hendricks replied, leading her guest to the living room.

  "Well, I suppose just a minute," the woman said, handing her purple coat to me without a second glance. I accepted it, and Mrs. Hendricks eyed me as if to say, Refreshments, now.

  "Is Irene here? James wanted me to say hello," the woman asked.

  Mrs. Hendricks didn't miss a beat, even as the blush rose to her cheeks. "Oh, I'm afraid you've missed her. She's reading in the park, but I'll pass on the hello. I'm sure Irene would love to see James soon."

  I remembered the Hendricks' conversation from yesterday morning and realized this must be Mrs. Morgan, although, Mrs. Berry was a more fitting moniker. I had to hand it to her, Mrs. Hendricks could lie with the best
of them. If I were Mrs. Morgan, I would never suspect a thing. Of course, that only made me more suspicious of the woman. What else was she capable of lying about?

  "Is that my Georgie-worgie? Come here, sweetheart," Mrs. Morgan said to George. The cat was sprawled out on the carpet, lying in a sun patch radiating in through the living room window. At Mrs. Morgan's request, he closed his eyes. "Oh, now isn't he just precious! I love cats, as you know. So does James. I told him he must meet George. He's a handsome fellow!" Mrs. Morgan continued with her sweet accolades while George pretended to ignore her. But if he was like every other cat I knew (familiar or not), he was listening and loving every minute of it. Mrs. Hendricks' lips were pulled taut in a strained smile. She obviously didn't share her friend's sentiments.

  The women chatted for thirty minutes over their cookies and tea before finally heading out. Of course, not before requesting that I fetched and assisted them with putting on their coats. I barely waited for the front door to click shut before racing off to my room and changing.

  Macy's was on the way to the Lower East Side, seeing it was more in Midtown and the prospective Mary's apartment was further south. I opted to take the subway this time after discovering fares were only fifteen cents each way and I preferred to save my cash for emergencies—like needing another new pair of pants. I had a feeling this case was going to cut it down to the wire. I couldn't keep wearing the same two outfits, and the extra clothes in the dresser left something to be desired.

  I rode the rails to Herald Square, where I exited and headed up to Macy's. Unfortunately, when I entered and walked into the cosmetic section, Penny wasn't in sight (but her uptight manager was). I played the role of the customer, walking up to another makeup girl and asking if Penny was working.

  "Which Penny?" she asked with a genuine smile.

  "Oh, I don't know her last name. Red hair. Does a heck of a job with the makeovers. Can pick out the perfect shade of lipstick in two seconds flat," I replied with a smile.

  "Oh, that's Penny Adams." The girl leaned across the counter. "She doesn't work here anymore."

  "What? I just saw her here yesterday."

  "I know. Shocked us all when Ms. Finley said she wouldn't be on the floor anymore. Penny loved working here."

  "Any idea what happened?" I asked.

  "No clue. I worked with her last night and she said she'd see me tomorrow. It's not like Penny to just not show. I hope she's okay."

  "Me too," I said, an uneasiness settling in my veins. This case was one dead end after another. I just hoped it wasn't one dead girl after the other.

  I rode the subway further south, having looked at the station map ahead of time and knowing to get off at Grand Street, and planned on walking the rest of the way.

  The Lower East Side was a far cry from the glitz and glam of the New York City I had just left. Lower Manhattan was Old New York. I had thoughts of stopping by to see the iconic World Trade Center Twin Towers, but it was quickly evident that they hadn't been constructed yet (even if some of the other iconic landmarks were—I'm looking at you, Wall Street). It was hard to believe the transformation that took over the tip of Manhattan decade after decade. About the only thing that seemed to stay the same were the street names. The grid-like pattern that ran throughout Manhattan made it easy for me to keep track of where I was at and which way I needed to go. I walked the streets awestruck by the charm of Old New York. Street vendors sold things like shaved ice and pretzels, some stores—like Greiff Wines—had Hebrew writing on the windows, and what in the world was a haberdashery? Most of the buildings appeared to be five or six stories tall. Clotheslines zigzagged between buildings, with the morning's wash hung out to dry. Some buildings had first floor businesses, other were completely residential, like the prospective Mary's place.

  I walked inside the flat-faced, red-bricked building and took the stairs to the third floor. No doorman or elevator here.

  A middle-aged woman opened the door after one knock. Her ash blonde hair was twisted up in a bun. Cornflower blue eyes looked up at me expectantly.

  "Hi, I'm looking for Mary Petrov?" I asked.

  The woman looked concerned. "I'm Mary. Is something the matter?"

  "The same Mary that works as the housekeeper for the Hendrickses?" I asked.

  "Yes, that's me."

  "Really? That's great. Okay." I took a second to compose my thoughts. For some reason, I was expecting Mary to be younger than me, perhaps a woman in her twenties, but this lady was probably ten years older than me, putting her in solidly in her forties. "Sorry, no, nothing's the matter. Well, something is the matter, but I'm hoping you can help me. My name is Anna Yates. I'm covering for you as the housekeeper at the apartment. Can I come in?"

  Mary looked hesitantly over her shoulder and then back to me. "Sure, just give me a minute. My mother's not well, and I'd like to let her know we have company before having you walk in."

  "Oh sure, no problem." I stayed on my side of the door while Mary talked to her mother. She was back in a moment.

  "Come on in. Why don't you join me in the kitchen?" The apartment opened to the living room, which you had to walk through to reach the kitchen in the back. A bedroom and bathroom were to the left.

  Inside the apartment, the lighting was dim. Mary's mother was resting on the couch, a quilted blanket tucked to her chin, a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of her. The black-and-white television, which looked more like a wooden box with two knobs and four legs, was on for her to watch, the volume set low. The old woman offered up a weak smile as we walked past, which I returned as I followed Mary on through to the kitchen.

  The kitchen was something else entirely. Sure, it was small, with little counter space, but it was full of light and life. Miniature clay pots dotted the windowsill, herbs and flowers overflowing the containers. More flowers—daisies—sat in a vase on the kitchen table. On the stove, a stockpot of soup simmered, chicken noodle by the smell of it. I smiled despite my best effort not to. Mary was a kitchen witch, whether she knew it or not.

  What's a kitchen witch? Basically, the Betty Crockers of the witchcraft world. Some people think they're just talented in the kitchen and know how to work the rolling pin, but usually it's more than that. Their homemade soups really do cure colds, their teas are as good as any medicinal tonic, and their desserts really are sweeter. A kitchen witch can instantly turn a house into a home.

  "What's the trouble with the Hendrickses?" Mary asked, setting a special blend of her tea before me. I had never been much of a tea drinker, but the floral aroma drew me in and compelled me to take a sip. It was sweet and light and unlike any other tea I had previously tried. If all tea tasted this wonderful, I would hang up my coffee cup for good, or at least every now and then.

  "It's Irene," I said.

  "Oh no, what now?" Mary took a seat across from me at the little table.

  "The thing is, she hasn't been home. In fact, no one's seen her since Monday. I was hoping she might have said something to you, or that you might have an idea where she may have run off to?" I asked, taking another sip of my tea.

  "Run off to is most likely what she's done. She didn't necessarily get along with her parents and it's only gotten worse as she's gotten older and turned into a young woman." Mary's comment compelled me to ask just how long she had been the Hendrickses' housekeeper.

  "Twenty years this past spring," she replied with pride in her voice. I would be mighty proud of myself too if I had served the Hendrickses for twenty years and hadn't throttled either of them or turned one of them into a toad. Mary's service was commendable, and I told her as much.

  "So you've known Irene her entire life then," I said.

  "Since the day the Hendrickses picked her up," Mary replied.

  "You knew she was adopted?"

  "Of course I knew, but that's not a housekeeper’s secret to tell. Words to live by, if you hope to be in the trade for long." Mary raised her eyebrows.

  I didn't respond to that. Ins
tead, I asked, "You really think she might have just run away?"

  "If I was a betting person, that's where I’d place my money," Mary replied.

  "But her boyfriend … he claims she wouldn't have left without him."

  "Are you talking about Archie? Or was it Isaac or Jeremy?" It was my turn to raise my eyebrows. "Irene wasn't exclusive with any one boy. They all knew how to climb up her fire escape."

  Oh my.

  "Mary dear, may I have some more tea?" Mary's mother's wobbly voice asked from the living room. Mary didn't respond verbally, but instead went to retrieve her mother's cup, returning and pouring out the same tea that she had just served us, but then reaching up in her cupboard to retrieve a couple of dark brown glass bottles. "My advice to you," she said while putting a couple of drops of one medicine and a drop of the other into her mother's tea, "is don't get involved. It's the housekeeper's code of ethics to keep her family's secrets. It's not her place to solve them." Mary had no idea that it was in fact my job to solve this secret, but I wasn't about to tell her that. Instead, I thanked her for her time and her tea and prepared to leave.

  "Oh, and thank you so much for stocking the fridge. It's been a huge help as I learn my way around the place," I said.

  "I'd offer you some soup, but it's Wednesday." Wednesday was breaded pork chops for dinner. "But, I do have a pie you can take. Mr. Hendricks loves strawberry pie."

  "You're gifted in the kitchen, you know that?" I said, taking the pie that would rival that of any New York patisserie.

  Mary blushed. "It's a gift, I guess. Besides, mother will never eat all of this and heaven knows I shouldn't."

  Then I thought of one other thing. "Hey, what do you know about treating gout?"

  Chapter 8

  As I rode the subway back to the Upper West Side, I sat and analyzed what I knew to be true. One, Irene was missing, that was a fact, but whether it was on her own accord or she was taken by someone was still yet to be determined. Mary thought Irene was a runaway, which was very plausible given her relationship with her parents. Of course, Archie believed with his whole heart that Irene wouldn't have left him. I had believed him too, but after talking to Mary and her comment about the other men in Irene's life—well, I wasn't so sure.