The Witch and the Dead

by Heather Blake

  If anyone else had uttered that line, I would have thought it incredibly cheesy, and though it still was, Steve said it with such earnestness that I could almost feel the hopes and dreams he’d had as a twentysomething.

  “My dream was to eventually open this shop. George and I built a kiln behind Wickedly Creative, and naturally I spent a lot of time there as I created stock to sell at craft fairs and flea markets before I was able to save enough to buy this space.”

  “How long has this place been open?”

  “Twenty-five years, and the fates willing, twenty-five more . . .”

  “Not planning on retiring, then?”

  He shook his head. “Not until the day when I can no longer dig a hole into a creek bed and pull out magic.”

  His devotion was endearing. “You dig your own clay?”

  “Darcy,” he said solemnly, “you can’t buy that kind of enchantment.”

  Studying him, I dropped my voice. “You mean . . . literally enchanted?”

  I was baffled at how clay could be magical, but then I thought about healing mud baths, which had been around for generations.

  “There’s a reason why when my candles are burned, they provide a feeling of peace and tranquility. The heat from the flame warms the pottery, which releases the magic.”

  This village never ceased to amaze me. “Where’s this creek? Here in the village?”

  “It is, but that’s all I’ll say. Only I know its exact location. . . . Well”—anger flashed in his eyes—“and one other person knew.”

  I could guess by his tone. “Miles?”

  “He followed me into the woods one day, curious about my clay source. He’d been fascinated by my pieces. I had to commission a spell over the creek to protect my source from him, and just for added measure, I memory-cleansed him, too, so he didn’t remember the location. That kind of magic could be dangerous in the hands of someone who doesn’t know how to use it properly. Someone who might use it for their own selfish purposes.”

  From what I’d learned of Miles so far, that description could fit him. “Did you two get along otherwise?”

  He shifted his weight, crossed his arms. “Otherwise, we didn’t not get along.”

  “You were civil?” I deciphered.

  “I tolerated him to keep the peace at the studio.”

  “Did you know much about him? Where he was from? His family life? That kind of thing?”

  “He came from somewhere in Maine, was an only child. His mother died when he was quite young. His dad traveled around the country charming women to keep him and Miles housed and fed and clothed. It became a game of sorts. A con. Apparently the young-single-dad angle pays out big. And not that he ever out-and-out said so, but I had the feeling Miles was often lost in the shuffle. Neglected even. I asked him about his broken nose once, and all he said was that his father hadn’t believed in verbal punishments.”

  In one swift moment, I felt an overwhelming surge of sympathy for Miles Babbage. For the little boy he had been. For the man he had become.

  Broken. Haunted.

  His early years certainly explained some of Miles’ womanizing tendencies. Not only had he probably learned his lothario ways from his father, but I suspected that a part of his love-’em-and-leave-’em lifestyle was a form of control. He’d probably had no say-so as a child and was a man intent on being in charge of his own destiny.

  Steve added, “Cora and George might know more about him, since they spent more time with him at the studio.”

  Maybe so, but that meant I’d have to go see Cora and George. I didn’t particularly want to do that if I didn’t have to.

  I pressed on. “What were you and Miles fighting about in front of Third Eye?”

  “What did Sylar tell you?” he asked, trying once again to turn the tables.

  “Why don’t you tell me your side?”

  He shoved his hands into his hair and stared into the distance, at nothing in particular. “He came back.”

  “Miles . . . ?”

  Giving an affirmative nod, he said, “He’d been gone . . . a year. It was his longest absence, and we all made up stories about why he hadn’t returned. That some jealous husband finally did him in. Or he finally snagged a sugar mama with a bottomless purse. Or even that he got hit hitchhiking. Or attacked by bears or a swarm of killer bees. Literally hundreds of theories, each more outlandish than the last. Then one day, he’s here. Back in the village. And he’s not only here; he’s on the prowl.”

  “Looking for Dorothy?” I asked. “To rekindle that relationship?”

  He shook his head. “She was happily back with her husband at that point. Pregnant, I think, too.”

  It was what Sylar had said as well.

  “Miles showed up at the studio. Penelope was there, painting. . . .”

  It didn’t surprise me in the least that she’d been there. Not after Ve’s “free-spirit” comment. Most Colorcrafters were involved in the arts in one way or another.

  “She was . . . there with me.”

  There was something in his voice, something that hinted at a wound so deep that it hadn’t quite healed. “Were you and Penelope . . . ?”

  His fists flexed, squeezed tight again. “We’d been dating, though she was also seeing Dreadfully Dull Debrowski—that’s what I jokingly called him—at the same time to appease her parents.”

  Dreadfully Dull Debrowski. Wait till I told Harper.

  He went on. “They were the strict type who wanted her to obey their every command.”

  I recalled that Ve had said they made Penelope join the law firm . . . or risk being cut off. It seemed so harsh to me. I couldn’t imagine ever doing that to my child.

  “They didn’t like her dating me. Didn’t think I was stable enough, that I could never provide for her if I ‘played in the mud’ for a living. They wanted her to marry Debrowski. He was a lawyer at their law firm and checked every box for quality husband material. Except one issue.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She didn’t love him.”

  “Did she love you?”

  “I thought so. . . .”

  It was almost as though I could hear his deep wound reopening, tearing him apart from the inside out.

  Voices floated down the hall as customers came to and went from the shop. His business was steady. It could be because of the magical clay, but I had the feeling it had a lot to do with the man sitting in front of me and the magic he’d worked making his creations. I’d buy his pieces even if I never burned a single candle. His art was beautiful.

  “I thought so,” he repeated. “Until Miles waltzed into the picture. Penelope was beautiful and rich. I suspect it was only the rich part that he cared about. They’d dated briefly about a year and a half or so before that, but he dropped her to focus on Dorothy Hansel, who’d been even richer. But that fateful day at Wickedly Creative, Dorothy was out of the picture, and Miles turned his charms on Penelope once again. She was instantly smitten. Within a couple of days, she dumped both me and Dreadfully Dull and told me that she was planning to run off and elope with Miles that weekend.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah. She was willing to walk away from everything for him. This village, her parents, her everything.”

  Her roots.

  “So when I bumped into Miles outside Third Eye that day and saw his smug smile . . . I couldn’t walk away.” He clenched his fists tighter. “And I may not have won the war that day, but I won the battle.”

  “How so?”

  There was a mischievous glint in his eye when he said, “Penelope’s parents caught wind of the fight, and that we’d been fighting over her. All hell broke loose. She was forbidden to see Miles and whisked immediately away to a relative’s house down on Cape Cod. The next day, Miles married Ve, then disappeared again.” The glint fa
ded into dark shadows. “The next month, Penelope married Dreadfully Dull.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said quietly.

  “Yeah, well, we all have our heartaches.”

  It was true, but most didn’t carry them around, letting them bleed for thirty years.

  “I do my best to keep my distance from her. She seems happy enough,” he went on. “It’s not the way I wanted my happily ever after to end, but it helps. A little. I’m glad she’s happy. I just wanted her to be happy with me.”

  I was feeling like a sap as he spoke, my chest aching for lost loves. I stood up, picked up my pastry box. “I should go. Thanks for talking to me.”

  He said, “Part of me always expected him to show up again one day. . . . I just never guessed it would be quite this way.”

  There was something in his tone. Something that hinted he wasn’t telling me the whole truth.

  I reached for the door handle. “Just to be clear, you didn’t kill him, did you?”

  Shaking his head, he said, “I’m not grieving the loss, however.”

  “Do you have any ideas who might have wanted him dead?”

  His eyebrows furrowed. “No.”

  Again I sensed he was lying. “No one?”

  “Nope.”

  He was definitely lying. But why?

  We headed down the hall. “I’m just sorry Ve got dragged into all this. She’s a good woman.”

  “That she is,” I said.

  He showed me to the front door, but on the way out he handed me a gorgeous pottery candle in the shape of a stubby wide-mouthed vase. Glazed a creamy yellow and white, it had a small white ceramic bird perched on its rim. “A little magic for your new house.”

  It was perfect. “Thanks, Steve.”

  “Anytime.”

  It was still raining when I headed back outside. As I set off toward Spellbound, my mind whirled.

  Roots, Steve had said.

  Was that why he’d lied to me?

  Because he was protecting his roots, meaning his shop, his livelihood, his magical clay source?

  Or the roots of someone he loved . . . ?

  Chapter Nine

  I rushed into Spellbound, so intent on heading straight upstairs to see if Harper was home that I took only a moment to wave to Angela Curtis before zipping past her. She was busy anyhow, conversing with a pair of customers, so I hoped she’d excuse my rudeness.

  My gaze was firmly set on the back of the shop and the adjoining door that partitioned this retail space from a vestibule and staircase that led up to Harper’s apartment when Angela called out, stopping me.

  “Darcy! Harper’s not up there.”

  In her mid-forties, Angela stood a bit shorter than my height of five foot seven and had razor-cut dark brown hair that skimmed her shoulders. In recent months she’d gone from part-time to full-time status here at the shop. She’d been an invaluable help to Harper.

  Groaning, I reversed course. “Have you heard from her? I thought she’d be back by—”

  I snapped my mouth closed, because it was then that I saw to whom Angela had been speaking.

  Penelope and Oliver Debrowski.

  Oh dear.

  “Darcy.” Penelope’s thin smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. She released her husband’s hand, which she had been holding tightly, and stretched her own toward me for a handshake. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  Angela threw me a horrified glance. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you hadn’t met yet. Darcy, this is Penelope and Oliver Debrowski. Marcus’ parents,” she added. “Penelope and Oliver, this is Darcy Merriweather.”

  “No apology necessary, Angela. We’ve seen each other from afar.” Oliver stuck out his hand as well. “But we have not had the chance to meet face-to-face.”

  I set the pastry box on the counter and shook both their hands. Penelope’s was ice-cold and bony, while Oliver’s was warm and enveloping. “Nice to meet you both.”

  Oliver’s gaze dropped to the candle gripped in my other hand, and the corners of his mouth tightened. Penelope saw it the candle as well, and she swallowed hard before looking up again. She leaned in to her husband, and he wrapped a protective arm around her.

  Tension bloomed in the air, thick and palpable.

  Angela looked at me. It was easy to see the concern in her eyes. I gave her a reassuring half smile. I faced Penelope and Oliver, cleared my throat, and said, “I thought you two weren’t returning to the village until tomorrow morning.” At least that’s what Harper had said this morning.

  A morning that was feeling like a lifetime ago.

  “Our plans changed unexpectedly.” Oliver’s voice was deep and monotone. “We arrived not too long ago.”

  I suspected some would find the nickname Dreadfully Dull accurate. My first impression was that he wasn’t so much dull as socially uncomfortable. And perhaps a bit stodgy. He kept looking at the door as though wanting to leave immediately.

  I wanted the same.

  “We’ve come here for the same reason as you have, Darcy,” Penelope explained. “We’re looking for Harper.”

  Penelope was tall and lithe, and her son, Marcus, favored her quite a bit. They had the same light brown hair, though hers had copper highlights, and the same peridot green eyes. She wore a billowy floor-length black, orange, and white skirt, printed to look like the wings of a monarch butterfly. With it, she wore a starched white shirt with a generous collar left open at the neck. A black capelet coat was thrown over one shoulder. Beaded onyx chandelier earrings brushed her collarbones, and she wore multiple bracelets on each arm, but no necklace.

  I suspected the outfit was a visual representation of the battle within her between her two Crafts. A beautiful war between the creative and conservative. By appearances, it seemed to me the artist within her was proving to be the stronger opponent.

  “Technically,” Oliver cut in, “we’re looking for Marcus. He’s not answering his cell phone. Our assumption is that he’s with Harper.”

  Tall and thick waisted, Oliver appeared to be a clean-cut, type A kind of man. His dark hair was cut just so, his beard immaculately groomed. Dark blue intelligent eyes surveyed the surroundings from beneath trimmed eyebrows. His necktie was perfectly knotted, and his suit fit so impeccably I had the feeling it had been tailored by Godfrey.

  To me, he seemed the type to floss his teeth twice a day, pay his taxes ahead of time, and go to bed exactly at ten every night after checking every door and window to ensure all had been locked.

  I rather liked that about him.

  I appreciated routines and order and imagined he did as well. I couldn’t say I’d have matched him with Penelope, but after thirty years of marriage she had obviously made the right choice among the suitors who’d been pursuing her. I had to remember that sometimes opposites attracted. . . .

  “Marcus always seems to be with Harper,” Penelope said by way of explanation.

  “That’s love for you,” Angela said brightly.

  The Debrowskis gave her matching grim smiles.

  “Yes,” Oliver murmured.

  I supposed I should be grateful these two weren’t trying to break up Harper and Marcus, but I wished they’d welcome Harper’s presence in their son’s life.

  By their looks of utter dismay, that wish wasn’t likely to be granted.

  It confused me that after the way Penelope’s parents had intervened in her love life, she wouldn’t openly support the relationship. Marcus was happy with Harper. He loved her. She loved him. They were a happily ever after away from a fairy-tale ending.

  “Yes, love,” Penelope added faintly.

  Angela shot me a panicky glance, then hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “I’m—I’m just going to check on . . . something. Holler if you need me, Darcy.”

  I watched her fast-walk across
the store, creating as much distance between herself and this uncomfortable situation as possible. I wished I could do the same.

  Penelope lifted an eyebrow and cast a glance around the store. “Your sister has a lovely shop.”

  “Yes.” She truly did. It was a labor of love. Owning this shop had brought Harper out of her somewhat reclusive shell. She’d come to love the village and its people as much as she did the books housed inside the store. Business was booming. Right now, Angela was her only full-time employee, and Mimi was a part-timer. Between the three of them, they kept the store humming, though I knew Harper was starting to think about hiring more help.

  Penelope added, “You did the artwork in the children’s area, yes?”

  I wasn’t sure why she was so chitchatty with me. “I did.”

  After buying the shop, Harper had redecorated it with a Van Gogh Starry Night theme. The walls were painted a vivid blue with swirls of gold and white. From the ceiling, delicate glass stars hung from clear string. When the shop lights hit the glass, it appeared as though the stars were twinkling. Nick had built her several birch-branch bookcases, and Harper had installed a “spooky forest” wall with a dozen tall black bookshelves artfully crafted to resemble Tim Burton–style trees. The spiraling branches of those trees intertwined with one another and spread across the ceiling. Another wall used handcrafted ironwork vines to hold books at unique angles, which wasn’t the most practical bookcase, but it was visually stunning.

  It was all wonderful, but my favorite spot was the children’s nook, and not only because it had been my design. I simply adored seeing little readers enraptured by the colorful space.

  Oliver said, “The cushioned toadstools are a nice touch.”

  His tone was so dry I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic, but after a moment, I realized that he was giving me a true compliment. My first impression of him had been correct—his social skills were lacking. “Thanks. I think so, too.”

  In the nook, I had created a forest mural alive with fairies and elves. Some were unmistakable amid the wooded realm, but most were tucked within the artwork, just waiting for a child to discover all the hiding spots of the magical beings. The toadstools provided comfy child-sized seating for those who wanted to linger over a book or get lost in the magic of the mural.