The Witch and the Dead

by Heather Blake

  His movements were swift, precise. The actions of a man who’d done this a million times before. A long white apron was tied around his waist, covering all but the hem of his jeans, and he had on a pale blue T-shirt that matched his eyes and complemented the ginger tones in his short hair.

  He reclaimed the batter he’d been mixing and sat back down. “How’s the investigation going so far?”

  “It’s just started, really. I need to find out more about Miles—his history—and that’s going to be challenging. He was essentially a transient with no relatives here in the village. I don’t know where he stayed while here or if he had any friends other than the lady kind. After I leave here I’m going to see Pepe and Mrs. P. I can only hope they remember something I can use to fill in some blanks.”

  The pair of mouse familiars were not only dear friends but also village historians. If Miles truly was some sort of village Casanova, surely they’d have juicy gossip to share about the man.

  I ate another cupcake. “Miles was a ceramic artist and often traveled with the Roving Stones. Since Andreus is supposed to be in the village this weekend visiting Ve, I’m hopeful that he might be a good source, too.”

  Evan shuddered at the mention of Andreus’ name.

  I knew the feeling.

  “What’s with all Miles’ lady friends?” Evan asked. “Starla mentioned something about that.”

  I told him about Ve’s description of the lecherous man, then leaned in and wiggled my eyebrows. “I don’t know how many girlfriends the man had here in the village, but I heard he had an affair with Dorothy Hansel Dewitt.”

  He laughed. “Get out!”

  “It’s apparently true.” I relayed what Archie, then Sylar, had told me about the witch.

  Evan whistled low. “I can definitely see Dorothy stashing the guy’s body in Ve’s garage so Ve would get blamed. That kind of move is right up her alley.”

  I agreed, but after what Sylar had just told me about Dorothy having been long reconciled with her husband and pregnant with Glinda when all this took place, it didn’t seem likely. She’d moved on from Miles. Or he from her. I wondered who’d done the breaking up in that situation. . . .

  “Then,” I added, “Sylar dropped a bombshell about Miles and Steve Winstead fighting in front of Third Eye the day before Ve married Miles. Sylar said the fight was over Marcus’ mother, Penelope, who wasn’t married to Oliver at the time.”

  I wondered when she’d met Oliver, because Marcus was in his late twenties. It couldn’t have been too long after all this had happened.

  Evan stopped stirring. “Wait. What? Miles was fighting over Penelope the day before he married Ve? Why?”

  “I don’t have a clue, but Ve said she’d had nothing to do with Miles until the day he showed up at As You Wish to hire her. Had never had any dealings with him and knew him only by reputation. They eloped that afternoon.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish.”

  “She married him the day she met him? Why?”

  “It’s part of the mystery,” I said, “since she can’t remember much about that weekend at all.”

  “This is all so bizarre.”

  I completely agreed as I ate another cupcake. “How well do you know Penelope?”

  He tipped his hand from side to side. “Fairly well. She drops in when she’s here in the village. She’s . . . quirky, a mix of serious and lighthearted. Enjoys art, nature, photography, books. To look at her from afar, you’d automatically think soft. Yet . . . I wouldn’t cross her. There’s something in her eyes, almost a warning. There’s steel beneath that softness. What do you think of her?”

  “I’ve never met her.”

  “That’s surprising, considering how close Harper and Marcus are.”

  “She travels a lot, and apparently she’s not a big fan of my family.” I explained what Ve had said about Penelope’s jealousy.

  He banged the spoon on the side of the bowl and grabbed a scraper. “I can’t see jealous. Envious, maybe. It probably stings for her to see your family living the kind of lifestyle she wanted and couldn’t have because of her parents’ interference. It’s easier for her peace of mind to keep her distance from all of you.”

  Leave it to Evan to look at the situation rationally.

  “And you’re going to meet her tomorrow,” he added as he grabbed a brownie pan. “She’s in your scenery crew. I thought I told you.”

  “No, I’d have remembered that.”

  “Oh. Well. Sorry.” He grinned, not looking sorry at all. “She’ll be at the scene shop helping paint sets tomorrow afternoon. She and Oliver will be in town until Samhain, so last time she was here she volunteered to help out once she learned I was running things.”

  Knowing I’d see her tomorrow gave me time to prepare. I’d see what I could find out about her and Miles beforehand, and hopefully she wouldn’t mind answering a few questions after the build session.

  “Did you talk to Nick about helping to build the sets?” Evan asked.

  “He said he would. Between him and Hank Leduc, those are going to be the best sets the playhouse has ever seen.”

  “Hank?”

  I waved a hand. “Long story.”

  He grabbed my hand and his gaze narrowed on my ring finger. “I don’t see anything sparkly yet.”

  I pulled out of his grip. “What? My personality isn’t shining through?”

  With a grin, he said, “What’s Nick waiting for? We all know he’s had the ring for months.”

  Mimi had apparently let that detail slip to a lot of people. “He must have a plan. I’m patient. I can wait.”

  “Well, I’m running out of patience fast.”

  “Good thing he’s not thinking about marrying you.”

  He laughed. “Our kids would have been so gorgeous, too. It’s a shame.”

  They would have been. Then I got to thinking about the kids I might have with Nick and my heart went all mushy.

  Evan carefully poured his batter into the brownie pan. “And I think the problem is that Nick doesn’t have a plan.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Oh, I can see it,” he said, leaning the scraper against the side of the bowl. “He’s probably trying to plan this big to-do. Fireworks or skywriters or something like that.”

  I laughed. “Nick’s not a skywriter kind of guy, and I wouldn’t want him to be.”

  “We know that, but does he? Because he’s waited so long, there’s this huge buildup happening. He’s probably feeling the pressure to do something big and bold. Do you want me to talk to him? I’ll talk to him. I’ll do it. Tomorrow afternoon, I’ll pull him aside, give him a stern talking-to.”

  I had the feeling he’d been talking to Harper. Laughing, I said, “Settle down, Dad. Nick will ask when he’s ready.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see.”

  I was going to have to keep an eye on Evan, make sure he didn’t corner Nick tomorrow. I retied the pastry box and was glad I bought a dozen mini cupcakes. There were nine left, and I had the feeling I’d need the leftovers this weekend. “Speaking of tomorrow . . .”

  Evan shook the scraper at me. “You’re not trying to back out of helping me with those auditions, are you?”

  A speck of batter landed on the top of my hand, and I licked it off. “Oh my God. Can I take that pan home with me?”

  “Salmonella,” he sang.

  I frowned. “Anyway, no, I’m not canceling. I’ll be there. I was thinking you might want additional help.”

  He eyed me dubiously. “Who are you thinking?”

  “Someone with impeccable insight into human nature, who is knowledgeable about the theater, and who isn’t afraid to give brutally honest feedback.” I gave him a broad, toothy smile. Batted my eyelashes.

  Evan dropped the scraper. “Da
rcy, you didn’t!”

  I kept fake smiling.

  “Not Archie,” he said with a groan.

  As I slipped into my coat, I said, “Oh, come on. I kind of promised him he could be part of the play in exchange for info about Miles Babbage. He’s a tenacious one, that bird.”

  Evan’s face puckered like he smelled something bad. “He’s something, all right.”

  “I think he’d actually be good casting roles.”

  He grumbled.

  “So, will you let him be an assistant casting director? Pretty please? Please, please, please?”

  He mumbled under his breath, then said, “Fine. But he’d better keep his ego in check. I make all final decisions.”

  Archie keeping his ego in check was never going to happen, but I wasn’t going to jeopardize this moment. I walked over and kissed Evan’s cheek. “Thank you.”

  He waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Now, go before I change my mind.”

  “I’ll tell him you’ll pick him up at three thirty,” I said, then made a show of sprinting for the door, dropping my empty coffee cup into the trash along the way.

  But as I pulled open the front door, and the rain and bitterly cold wind reminded me of the danger in the air, I wanted nothing more than to go back inside and hide.

  Chapter Eight

  I practically sprinted along the deserted sidewalk, dashing past shop after shop in an effort to stay dry. I slowed only when I reached the Bewitching Boutique, where Pepe and Mrs. P lived in the walls of the sewing room at the rear of the building.

  The shop was dark and a CLOSED sign hung askew from a chain on the other side of the door. Cupping my face against the glass, I peered inside, hoping to see any kind of light coming from within. There was nothing. According to the hours stenciled on the display window, Godfrey should be here, as it wasn’t even yet noon. I tried knocking, but no one appeared, mouse or man.

  Questioning Pepe and Mrs. P was going to have to wait.

  Pressing on, I set my sights toward Spellbound, at the end of this stretch of shops. Light shone from the windows above the bookshop, so I suspected Harper had returned from the police station. But as much as I wanted to head straight there, I had another stop to make first.

  A moment later, I stood in front of the Trimmed Wick. Here, the lights were on, glowing invitingly like beacons of safety, as the skies outside had turned from a charcoal gray to an inky black.

  Inside, Steve Winstead sat at a potter’s wheel in a corner of the shop, which some outsiders might find an odd sight in a candle shop, but his specialty was candle-filled pottery. Steve threw, glazed, and fired his own pots, then filled them with his wax creations. It was a popular shop here in the village.

  There were several tourists watching his demonstration, and a couple more roaming about the shop. I’d rather question him alone, but I had to make do if I wanted to know why he’d been fighting with Miles Babbage thirty years ago.

  The wind practically shoved me inside the shop as I pulled open the door, and everyone’s attention turned to me as I made my not so subtle entrance.

  Feeling heat rising to my cheeks, I righted myself. I tugged the hem of my coat, tucked my pastry box securely in the crook of my arm, pasted on a smile, and gave a little wave. “Hello.”

  I received a chorus of friendly hellos from all but one person. His hands covered in oozing clay, Steve remained oddly silent.

  In his fifties, he had thinning ash blond hair and keen blue eyes, and he usually had a smile on his face when we ran into each other.

  Not today.

  He didn’t look happy to see me at all.

  I tried not to take it personally.

  As he finished his demo, I strolled around the small shop, which had a decidedly rustic, cottagelike feel to it. Whitewashed wooden paneling covered the walls, and dark, wide, oak planks covered the floor. A robin’s-egg blue weathered sideboard had been transformed into the shop’s point-of-sale area, which housed the cash register and several smaller displays. Above it, a trio of glass pendant accent lights that appeared to be hand blown hung from the ceiling, casting wide circles of light across the space. More discreet were the pot lights tucked into the ceiling next to thick wooden beams stained the same color as the flooring.

  Despite all the various scents used in candle making, the predominant one I smelled in here was sage, which reminded me that I should probably smudge my house before I slept there, just to chase out any unwanted juju. Aunt Ve was planning to lead a more formal blessing at my housewarming next weekend and had been collecting items for that ritual these past couple of weeks.

  The older woman ringing up sales kept giving me the side eye as though she suspected I was going to pinch a pot and dash out. I gave her a smile to try to reassure her that I wasn’t a shoplifter and continued to wander around, biding my time.

  Steve’s colorful pots glowed brightly against the distressed white trestle shelving they sat upon. From tiny petaled votive holders and carved pots to skinny vases, coffee mugs, and chubby birds, there was every shape and size candle imaginable.

  Steve was a gifted artist, which made perfect sense, as he was a Manicrafter. I’d learned over the past year that that particular Craft was the most common in the village. The number of Manis far outweighed all others. It was believed by some that Manis had been the original Craft of all witches but had branched over time, creating new varieties. It was an interesting theory, because it would suggest that at some basic level all witches were capable of one another’s abilities. I wasn’t sure I believed it to be true. If it were, I figured witches would have been granting wishes left and right for generations. But still, I wondered. It was a conversation to have with my mother some other time.

  Steve was speaking about using something called a bat to make his work easier, and I half listened as he described the flat disk. He talked easily, knowledgeably. He came from a long line of artisans, but it was his sister’s family I knew well. The Chadwicks. Cora Chadwick had once been Starla’s mother-in-law (and was currently Glinda’s potential one). She and her husband, George, owned Wickedly Creative, an art studio here in the village, where her two surviving sons, Will and Liam, both worked. I wished I was more comfortable around the family, because I’d love to take classes at the studio. But after what had happened last winter, I wasn’t sure I ever would be. Oh, we were friendly enough, but there was an awkwardness to every meeting.

  Time healed, yes, but there was no set date as to when that process would be complete, when I could look back on what had happened with a twinge rather than an ache.

  On a tiered table by the door, handwoven baskets held cellophane-wrapped scented wax spheres in varying shapes and styles. The beautiful creations released their fragrance without melting, rather like a decorative a wax sachet. I was mentally making a shopping list as I waited for Steve to get a free moment. I could easily imagine a family of bird candles and a set of bird’s-egg wax spheres on those empty shelves under the stairs. . . .

  “I’m guessing you’re here to see me.”

  I jumped, nearly dropping the sphere I’d been holding. I carefully set it back in its basket, and I swore the woman behind the counter breathed a sigh of relief.

  Steve stood at my elbow, wiping clean wet hands on a tea towel. I’d been so lost in thoughts of decorating my house that I hadn’t noticed his demonstration had ended. On a table near his potter’s wheel sat a freshly crafted cup with horizontal ridges and an overexaggerated lip, ready for drying. I knew from a pottery class I’d taken back in Ohio that, depending on how fast Steve worked, it could be a week or so before the cup would be ready to fill with wax.

  “I am.” There was no point in beating around the bush. He knew who I was and that I worked for the Elder when crime affected Crafters in the village. “It’s about Miles Babbage.”

  “I figured you’d be by at some point. I just didn�
��t expect it to be so soon.” He motioned with his jaw to follow him. “We can talk out back.”

  He led the way down a short hallway that had an emergency exit door at the far end, and I realized this shop had an almost identical footprint to that of the bookshop, just smaller in scale. We passed a small restroom, an office, and a storage room before veering into a tiny windowless break room with an even tinier kitchenette. Steve held out a tall chair at a square pub table, and I set my pastry box on the tabletop and sat.

  “Coffee? Tea?” he asked after closing the door tightly.

  Trying not to feel claustrophobic, I said, “No, thanks.”

  He sat and fixed his gaze on mine. “How did you connect me to Miles so quickly?”

  “Sylar Dewitt.”

  Steve leaned back and shook his head. “Why were you even talking to Sylar? I thought he was persona non grata after the electi— Oh, wait. Dorothy. You went looking for Dorothy.”

  “Yes.” I didn’t relay that I hadn’t actually spoken to Dorothy at all. Sylar had spilled all these particular beans.

  He hooked his elbow over the back of his chair. “She’s a good place to start, considering the affair. Did she reveal anything interesting?”

  I was beginning to wonder who was questioning whom. I didn’t answer, and instead asked, “How did you know Miles?”

  Specks of clay had dried on his cheeks, but he didn’t seem to notice. Probably a hazard of the trade. Crow’s-feet branched out from the corners of his eyes as he frowned and held up his hands. “Potting.”

  The scent of coffee lingered in the air. It was a smell I normally loved, but in this tight space it quickly grew overwhelming. “Were you ever a part of the Roving Stones?”

  “No. I prefer to have roots. A traveling lifestyle most definitely is not for me. Miles was a familiar face at Wickedly Creative when he was in town. Artists have always been drawn to the place.”

  “It was open back then?”

  “Sure was. It was nothing like how fancy it is now. It was just an old dairy barn converted into studio space, created mostly out of hopes and dreams.”