The Witch and the Dead

by Heather Blake

  I set my hands on the floor to push off as I stood up. It was then that I noticed the stain on the foot of the blanket chest. Leaning in, I took a closer look. My gaze rose up the side of the chest, to the corner. I cocked my head, looking beneath the edge.

  “Do you have a flashlight?” I asked Glinda.

  “Not on me,” she said. “What do you see?”

  “I think it’s a bloodstain.” I felt a little woozy just saying the words. I didn’t like the sight of blood, even dried.

  Steve’s head snapped up. “Blood?”

  Glinda dropped down next to me, edging close to the table. “It looks like it.”

  Steve knee-walked over to us. “I don’t know. Could be paint.”

  “Could be,” Glinda said, sounding like she didn’t believe it at all. She pushed my leg, and I moved aside. “There’s a stain on the floor, too. It’s hard to see unless you’re looking for it.”

  I jumped backward, away from it, as though I’d just been told I was sitting on a fire-ant hill.

  “Help me move this couch,” she said to Steve.

  Together, they lifted the couch, moving it at a ninety-degree angle from where it had been. Dust balls scattered, and I reached over to grab the folded paper that had fallen from the address book.

  Glinda knelt down and traced the stain on the floor with her finger. As she had said, it was easy to see once one was looking for it. Whatever it was, blood or paint, at some point in time it had flowed from the table and pooled beneath the sofa.

  “We need to get this area tested to see if this is blood,” Glinda said.

  Steve had his hands on his hips. “Someone probably knocked over some paint. No big deal.”

  We both looked up at him with narrowed gazes. No big deal? A possible bloodstain of this size? Had the dust gone to his head?

  In mock surrender, he held up his hands. “You can do what you want, but this is an artist’s retreat. Makes sense that stain is paint.”

  Normally, I’d agree with him. It did make sense, especially with the easel right next to the couch. Except Miles was dead. And this had been his retreat.

  Glinda slid me a what’s-going-on-with-him glance as she stood.

  It was reassuring that she also noticed how hard Steve was pushing the paint theory, as though he didn’t want to know the truth of the matter.

  Or perhaps . . . it was because he already knew the truth.

  Was he protecting himself?

  Or someone else?

  Someone like Penelope?

  Again.

  “What is that? A love note?” Glinda asked, nodding to the paper in my hand.

  I’d been so entranced by the floor stains that I hadn’t looked. It didn’t feel like notepaper, which would have been heavier in weight and bigger in size and different in texture. I unfolded the paper and read what was printed on it three times before I fully understood what I was looking at.

  Glinda sidled up to me to read over my shoulder. She whistled low. “It looks like Oliver Debrowski has some explaining to do.”

  It did. Because in my hand, I held a copy of a cashier’s check. It had been made out to Miles Babbage for one hundred thousand dollars. It had Oliver’s business card stapled to it.

  On the surface, it reeked of a bribe, which would have been ingenious of Oliver. An easy way to get Miles to leave town without Penelope.

  But when I looked more closely at the check, the date that had been printed on it caught my eye.

  It was dated just thirty-one years ago . . . on October second, the day after Vincent Paxton had been born.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “‘They barely speak anymore. They’re like strangers.’”

  Archie’s deep voice greeted me as I strode through the side gate at Ve’s house. Between the rain yesterday and the wind today, the climbing roses were nearly bare of their petals. The color of the leaves on the trees beyond the back fence had deepened overnight, promising that autumn had well and truly arrived.

  As I approached his cage, Archie gave me a woeful look and blinked pitifully.

  I said, “The Sixth Sense.”

  “Drat!” he cried, throwing his wings in the air.

  The bright colors of his feathers, the brilliant red, blue, and yellow, reminded me of Penelope’s painting in the bunkhouse, which then reminded me of the stain on the floor.

  I hoped it was paint.

  “And,” I added, “I moved only yesterday. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours. Hardly stranger status just yet, so I’m not sure why you chose that particular quote.”

  “’Tis just a matter of time until we drift apart. Your house is so far away. I barely see you anymore.”

  “I’m literally on the other side of this yard.”

  Dramatically, he lifted a wing to cover his face as though he couldn’t bear to look at me. “If only we could spend more time together. If only there were an upcoming event in which we could both participate . . .” He peeked out at me, a glimmer in his dark eye.

  Ah. I saw where he was going with this. On an ordinary day, I would have seen right through his acting straight off the bat. Today, however, my mind was occupied with thoughts of Miles and Steve and Penelope.

  And bloodstains.

  I’d called Nick about those stains, and he’d told us to leave everything where it was—including the cashier’s check receipt and the address book—to not touch anything else, and to lock up. He was waiting on yet another infernal call back from the ME’s office. After that, he’d then have to go speak with George and Cora to get their official permission to send a team into the bunkhouse. Without probable cause, he wouldn’t have been able to get a warrant to go in on his own, so going through the Chadwicks was the path of least resistance.

  For a while I’d waited for him to arrive at Wickedly Creative, but after an hour I decided I couldn’t take Steve Winstead’s anxiety any longer and left Glinda to deal with him. She was practically family, with his being Liam’s uncle, so I didn’t feel too badly about my defection.

  I was sure she’d forgive me.

  I’d send her some cookies.

  “Not to worry, Archie,” I said to him. “I talked to Evan. He’s giving you one of the best roles there is.”

  He practically bounced on his perch. “Do tell! Is it Max? I have a soft spot for him.”

  “Well, nothing quite so . . . visible. You would be rather difficult to costume—don’t you think?”

  “Darcy Merriweather, are you gaslighting me?” He cleared his throat. “‘I knew from the first moment I saw you that you were dangerous to me.’”

  I didn’t bother to identify the quote from the movie Gaslight. It hadn’t been a trivia challenge on his part. Just more dramatics. “Not in the least. Like I said, you’re going to have one of the best roles. One of the most important.”

  He hopped closer, stuck his face through the iron bars of his cage. “What, pray tell, is that? As the theater custodian? Am I to pick up wayward popcorn after theatergoers have departed? Will you have me cleaning chimneys, mopping floors, mending dresses, and talking to mice, too?” He tapped his chin with a wing tip. “Hmm. Perhaps the latter was not the best reference. . . .”

  I smiled. He and Pepe were the best of friends. “You do enjoy popcorn.”

  “Inconsequential!” he squawked.

  Laughing, I said, “Don’t worry, Cinderella. You’ve been assigned the role of assistant casting director.”

  The wind ruffled his feathers as he cocked his head. “I’m listening.”

  “You’re going to help Evan conduct auditions, which will make good use of your excellent critiquing skills.”

  “Go on.”

  “You’ll get,” I said in a stage whisper, “the chance to see Dorothy Hansel Dewitt audition for the role of Maria.”

  Slowl
y, he nodded. “I’m intrigued. Why, might I inquire, is my title as an assistant only? No one judges others more spectacularly than I. I should be the lead casting director.”

  “I think a role as a casting assistant is pretty darn good. Especially after you conveniently forgot to mention to me yesterday that following Dorothy’s affair with Miles she reconciled with her husband, Joel, renewed her vows with him, and had come back to the village after their lengthy second honeymoon pregnant with Glinda. . . .”

  “Yes.” He coughed. “I see your point. I suppose the role will do. For now.”

  Ve’s back door opened and she popped her head out. “Darcy! I thought I heard your voice. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  I told Archie that Evan would pick him up at three thirty, said my good-byes, and headed for the house.

  Ve waited for me at the back door. “I was just wondering when you’d stop by.”

  “I called but it went straight to voice mail.”

  “I had to turn off my phones for a while. People keep calling, wondering if the news that I have a son is true! It’s driving me crazy. Well, crazier.”

  Archie called out. “If you’re handing out cigars, I’d be more than happy to take one off your hands.”

  She laughed and waved him off.

  I tried to picture him with a cigar sticking out of his beak, and I knew I had to sketch the image. Which reminded me that I needed to retrieve the box that held my sketchbook and other favorite things from upstairs before I left. It was, after all, one of the reasons why I was here.

  The other reason was to see what Ve remembered about her marriage to Miles with use of the memory spell. With its help, hopefully Ve would be able to fully accept what had happened that weekend and then put it behind her.

  Ve gave me a kiss on my cheek and a tight hug, as though I was a long-lost relative she hadn’t seen in years. I couldn’t help smiling and holding her back just as tightly.

  I’d missed her just as much as she apparently had me in the less than twenty-four hours that I’d been gone.

  Maybe the length of time didn’t warrant stranger status, as I’d mentioned to Archie, but it was long enough to feel a loved one’s absence.

  Pulling away, she patted my cheek. Today she was dressed in a batik tunic top in deep reds and browns that picked up the bronze tones in her hair. She’d paired it with jeans that were cuffed at the ankle and flats.

  As I stepped into the kitchen, I was surprised to see Marcus sitting at the peninsula. He had a plate of shortbread cookies in front of him.

  Ve had been baking again.

  Tilda sat on his lap, looking like she’d just won the lottery as he ran a hand over her fur.

  His way with cats never ceased to amaze me.

  Andreus sat there, too, puzzling over the crossword in today’s Toil and Trouble. He glanced up at me. “Five letters, the word ‘storm’ is the clue.”

  Squinting, I searched my brain as I slid onto the empty stool between the two men. Ve handed me a plate with shortbread cookies and a cup of coffee. “Rains? Rages? Winds? Chaos?” I offered.

  “None fit.” He shook his head, then sighed and waved his hand over the paper, his fingers spreading out as though he’d just sprinkled invisible water onto the page.

  It was the same motion Godfrey had used yesterday on my coat.

  My eyes widened as letters slowly filled the tiny squares.

  Andreus tsked. “Ah, furor.”

  My jaw dropped. “How’d you do that?”

  He patted my hand. “You’ve much to learn still, Darcy.”

  I looked at Marcus. “Can you do that?”

  He waved his hand over his plate of cookies, did the finger thing, and suddenly his cookies appeared on my plate.

  Stunned, I said, “Is that some form of the Special Delivery Spell?”

  I’d learned of the spell and its ability to transfer objects this past winter, except that spell came with a flash. Literally.

  “It’s not a spell at all,” Marcus replied. “It’s a manifestation of the magic inside us. You’ll eventually learn how to handle your own. It takes time.”

  I stared at Ve. “You’ve been holding out on me!”

  She laughed. “As Marcus said, it takes time. You’ve already tapped into some of your inner talents, hiding Melina’s journal the way you do.”

  I realized she was right. I did. I hadn’t truly thought there was more I could do. There was still so much to learn about this Craft. And its people.

  I grabbed a cookie and ate it.

  “Hey!” Marcus said. “That was mine.”

  “Finder’s keepers.” I chewed, swallowed, then looked at Ve. “Has Vince stopped by here?”

  “He came by earlier,” she said, “with some sort of DNA test kit.”

  I thought my mother would be here, but Marcus’ presence had probably squashed that plan. He didn’t yet know that she was the Elder. And I wasn’t sure he would ever be told, which suddenly struck me as odd. After all, my mother had allowed me to tell Nick and Mimi, so why hadn’t Harper been allowed to tell Marcus?

  It was something to ask her the next time I saw her.

  Though . . . I supposed it was possible she was still here somewhere. As Elder, she could use any form she pleased. From gnat to bee, lion to rhinoceros.

  A rhino in the village would certainly be something to see.

  I glanced around for any sign of her presence. There wasn’t so much as a fly to be seen, though for some reason I felt like she was here. I’d come to learn I could sense her presence and wondered if it had something to do with what she’d told me this morning. How Crafters had magic within them. Perhaps we could use it to fill in crossword puzzles . . . and feel it within one another as well. It might explain why Vince had been drawn first to Alex Shively, then to Starla.

  Kindred spirits.

  No, kindred witches.

  “Did you take the test?” Marcus asked Ve.

  “Yes,” Ve said. “The Elder assured me that the best way to handle Vince is to give him what he wanted. She also said that no trace of the Craft would show on the test. I do feel badly for the boy. He seemed crushed that I didn’t claim him.”

  As far as mothers went, Ve would have been a good one. I could understand why Vince had been deflated. I reached over to scratch Tilda’s head, and her tiny pink tongue darted out and licked my hand. I wasn’t sure I’d ever received a kitty kiss from the cranky cat.

  She must have missed me as well. Either that, or Marcus’ petting had sent her into a state of euphoria.

  I chose to believe she missed me.

  “Any news from Nick this morning?” Andreus asked me.

  “Not that I know of. But Glinda and I found something interesting at Wickedly Creative.”

  I debated whether to tell them everything, mostly because Marcus was here. But I finally relented. If I were in his position, I’d want to know all the details. As Glinda had warned me yesterday, forewarned was forearmed. If Marcus was going to stay on this case, he needed to know everything, even if his parents were involved.

  Especially because his parents were involved.

  I told them about the bloodstains, the receipt for the cashier’s check, and Penelope’s paintings, though I did leave out the mention of the nude specifically.

  “What was the check for, do you think?” Ve asked. “Did Oliver bribe Miles to leave town to get him away from Penelope? If so, smart man.”

  Marcus winced a bit.

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “It was dated the day after Vince was born. I think Oliver handled Vince’s adoption. The money was probably a payout to Miles for severing his parental rights.”

  It was a lot of money. Someone had deep pockets.

  Someone like Penelope’s parents?

  “Then Oliver most likely knows w
ho Vince’s mother is,” Andreus said.

  “If he knows”—Marcus reached for a cookie from my plate—“he would never tell. Even if the adoption wasn’t legal by mortal standards, he’s still bound by privilege.”

  By mortal standards. He obviously knew the Craft was involved somehow, but did he know Vince was a witch? I wasn’t sure. Instead, I asked him, “So you knew about the adoption? And that it was illegal?”

  He took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “Vince mentioned the adoption to me a long time ago, trying to convince me to get my father to talk about it. As a courtesy, I asked my father. He declined to speak to Vince about it, but mentioned to me that it had been an extremely private adoption. Strings were pulled since a friend was involved.”

  “Oliver didn’t say who the friend was?” Ve asked.

  I was dying to know if the friend had been Penelope. It made sense. Perfect sense.

  Marcus checked his watch and said, “He said nothing more at all. That was the end of it. I need to go soon. I have things I need to do.”

  “Yes, yes,” Ve said after a moment. “I think we’re all more than ready to get the memory spell over and done with, yes?”

  I had high hopes the spell would shed a lot of light on that weekend and what had happened with Miles.

  “I’ve asked Marcus here just in case I see anything that might implicate me. This moment is covered under attorney-client privilege, and you two”—she pointed at Andreus and me—“are simply sworn to secrecy.”

  Andreus crossed his heart and then poked me with his elbow until I did, too.

  “All right,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Mind blank; conscious spark; lost memories; return to me.”

  She repeated the spell two more times to cast it properly. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and Marcus, Andreus, and I all leaned toward her, waiting on the edges of our seats.

  Ve frowned deeply, her eyebrows pulled low, her lips tight.

  “Well?” Andreus asked.

  She held out a finger and cast the spell again. After a moment, she shook her head and her eyes opened. “I recall opening the door to find Miles on the front porch, and then nothing else until the next night. There’s nothing there.”