I whipped my head back to the driver’s side seat. Were there two of him? No. Just one very speedy Bentley. I hadn’t even heard him move.
Maybe he was right.
Maybe everything would be different now.
Chapter 7
RESIDENCE OF TEMPERANCE KRINKLE
Our nuisance call was a sweet old widow named Temperance Krinkle. She plied us with cookies and tea, and assured us she wasn’t wasting our time, even though it was becoming more clear by the minute that she definitely was. At least being plied with cookies and tea wasn’t a bad way to waste some time.
Temperance Krinkle was ninety-three, with a round face, rosy cheeks, and a mass of curly white hair. The lenses on her eyeglasses were different prescriptions, which gave the illusion that one of her green eyes was twice the size of the other. She spoke with a charming English accent, and while she’d lived in Wisteria for eighty years, she spoke of life in her old village with wistful clarity. Sometimes she imagined an alternate life for herself, she said, one in which her mother’s psychic premonitions hadn’t inspired the family to emigrate overseas before the start of World War II.
Temperance’s mother, Matilda, was always drawing and scribbling in journals like a woman possessed. When the Spanish Civil War began in 1936, Matilda declared that it was a sign; one of her prophecies was coming true. It was time for the family to make a new home in a better place. It took a few years to make arrangements, and then they left England, hoping to make a fresh start in a town that was young in comparison to their old village.
I became so caught up in the woman’s story, I barely remembered to eat my gingersnaps, which were delicious and homemade. The tea was an herbal blend, which Temperance apologized for, saying she didn’t keep caffeinated tea in the house because it was bad for her nerves. The way she talked about black tea made it sound like the mere presence of caffeinated tea bags in the house might keep her up at night. I didn’t press for details.
After the woman’s oral history reached her early twenties, and the issue of the family business, she excused herself.
Bentley murmured, “She says her mother had psychic premonitions. Do you suppose it’s true?”
“They did leave their village just in the nick of time before it was turned to rubble during the Blitz. If you consider three years just in the nick of time.”
“I’m not sure I would consider that the nick of time.” He picked up a gingersnap, tapped off the crumbs, then set it back down. “Do you believe in prophecies?”
I took a big breath before answering, because it was a big question. “If prophecies are real, that would mean we don’t have free will. And I’d rather believe in free will.”
“So, you choose not to believe in prophecies?” He raised an eyebrow. “Like how some people choose to believe the earth is flat?”
I blinked rapidly. “Oh, the earth is very flat. Have you not looked around outside? It’s flat, flat, flat. Do you know about the wall?”
“Yes,” he said dryly. “I’m familiar with the theory that the earth is a flat disc, and Antarctica is an ice wall around the perimeter.”
In a serious tone, I replied, “The ice wall keeps the boats from sailing off the edge.” I smiled. “Detective, I could carry on this conversation all day. My work at the library brings me into regular contact with all the local crackpots. I’m fully up to date on the popular conspiracies. Do you know about Planet X? Of course you don’t. Nobody does. Because Planet X doesn’t exist.” I winked. “That’s what NASA wants us to believe.”
“Keep going,” he said. “This is all quite amusing coming from the mouth of a woman who flies around town on a broomstick.”
That was when Temperance Krinkle returned with more cookies and tea.
Bentley leaned back and widened his shoulders in the manner of someone forcefully changing the topic of conversation. “Mrs. Krinkle, are you a world traveler?” He gestured to the artwork on the wall. The large pieces of art were neither paintings nor prints, but glued-together jigsaw puzzles depicting great monuments around the world.
“Not yet, but soon, I should think,” the woman said excitedly in her English accent. “There are so many places I’d rather like to see.” She turned and stroked the nearest puzzle, which showed pyramids, bright and rust-colored against a saturated blue sky. “I expect Egypt shall be first.”
While she focused on the puzzle, Bentley and I exchanged a look. Egypt shall be first?
The woman was in her nineties. Most people her age were joking about not buying green bananas, and here she was talking about embarking on a world tour? Aside from the physical demands, international travel wasn’t cheap. I knew you couldn’t judge a book by its cover, but the people I knew who glued jigsaw puzzles together to make art for their walls did not have international travel money.
“Now, about the issue of the store,” Temperance Krinkle said, returning to the anecdote she’d been telling. “My sister and I did take over the hardware store when our father passed, as it turned out. However, because there was already another hardware store in Wisteria, we decided to turn ours into a haberdashery. That’s an English word, in case you don’t know. It refers to the small items used in sewing, such as buttons, zippers, and thread. All of the little, wee things.” She held her wrinkled hands up, the palms a half inch apart. “Oh, how we both loved the smallest items, my sister and I. But we also had our disagreements, as sisters do. She felt the new store should be called Wisteria Haberdashery, but I told her people around here wouldn’t understand what that meant, and that we should call it Wisteria Notions.” She paused, then asked, “Can you imagine what we did to resolve this dilemma?”
Bentley answered flatly, “You put up two different signs over the storefront’s two doors, and let people choose.”
The old woman gasped. “How did you know?”
Bentley glanced over at me, looking mildly embarrassed, then said, “I have an interest in local history.” He’d taken up that interest during the stressful time period after which he’d become suspicious about the strange things happening in Wisteria, but before he had gotten proof he wasn’t simply going crazy.
Temperance Krinkle smiled. “If you are, indeed, a local historian, then you already know that my sister and I kept both names for many years, until such a time as we had to close, sadly, due to the changing times. People today no longer need notions, because everything comes fully finished from the store. Such a pity. And then, just when an item such as a garment or a shoe is starting to show some character, rather than repairing it, they throw it away and get a new one that is of even lower quality.”
Bentley gave me a look, as if to ask, Is this exactly as much fun as you hoped it would be?
I smiled, as if to say, Yes, this is fun. This woman is like a great historical novel begging to be read.
The old woman went on. “I also have a bit of an interest in history, Detective. In fact, I’ve been learning about genealogy.” She pointed to an old but still humming laptop that sat charging on the sideboard next to a stack of papers and an old-looking, leather-bound book. “I’ve recently connected with a distant cousin who lives overseas, in an English village. His name is Cole, and he has the most wonderful ideas about our family tree.” She giggled and covered her mouth. “But I shouldn’t talk about such things. After all, a family’s secrets are kept hidden for a reason.”
My gaze lingered on the book, and my fingers twitched. I couldn’t read the tiny words on the spine, but I wanted to grab that book and crack it open. Being a librarian wasn’t something I could turn off completely on the weekend.
Bentley spoke again, less patiently this time. “Mrs. Krinkle, if it’s all right with you, I’d like to discuss the matter about which you called the police department. Over the phone, you said you knew something about a missing person?”
The white-haired woman looked at her watch, then gave us a sweet smile. “That’s right. A missing person. She’s a woman with two young boys.” She purse
d her wrinkled lips. “But I’m afraid I don’t know her name.”
Bentley gave me another look. I gave him a small shrug. It was a nuisance call, all right, but at least the cookies, tea, and conversation had been pleasant enough.
In the silence, Temperance Krinkle reached across the table and stroked one finger across the top of my hand. I was startled, but didn’t jerk my hand away. Her fingertip felt dry and smooth, more like a pink eraser than a finger.
She looked straight at me, with her one magnified green eye that looked twice the size of the other, and asked, “Tell me, dear, are you friends with the Gilberts?”
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t know any Gilberts.”
“Are you sure? They’re a very old family who have lived here for many generations. Everyone knows a Gilbert.”
“I’m not from around here. I’m new in town, just like Bentley. I got here in March, and I’ve been busy with work ever since.” Busy with work, and magic, and all sorts of things.
“Oh,” she said, sounding disappointed. “Then it wasn’t you I saw last month—no, back in May, it was—at Queenie Gilbert’s memorial. I could have sworn you were there. Not many women have your beautiful fine features and stunning red hair.”
I grinned at Bentley. This visit hadn’t been a waste of time at all.
The woman murmured, “I could have sworn you were there.”
“You must be thinking of Zara’s aunt,” Bentley said. “The two are what you English folks would call the spitting image of each other. You’d think someone put Zinnia Riddle in a copy machine and made a duplicate.”
“A younger duplicate,” I said. “Much younger. And more fun.”
Temperance Krinkle rubbed her chin, which was covered in a soft-looking white fuzz. “That must be it. My old eyes are not what they used to be.” She waved her finger at me. “But I can still spot a stunning woman, and both you and your aunt are very special, indeed.”
I fanned my face with my hand. “Why, thank you. Now, as much as I’d love to sit in your charming dining room all day, eating gingersnaps and getting accurate compliments, we should probably get on the case of this missing woman you called about. If she’s a mother, her children must be missing her. Is there anything you can tell us that might be helpful? If not her name, then maybe a detailed description? Or the location where she was last seen?”
Mrs. Krinkle pushed her chair back and stood. “The location question is easy,” she said. “She was last seen in my attic. I’ll take you there now.”
She turned and led the way out of the dining room.
Bentley looked at me.
I mimed both of us being stabbed by a giant knife in the attic.
Bentley stared at me, wide-eyed.
I mimed both of us being shot at point-blank range.
Bentley shook his head, then nodded for me to follow him up to the attic.
I mimed calling for backup on the radio.
He stopped and said, “We’ll go for lunch soon enough, Zara. Do you ever stop eating?”
“This is the radio,” I said, holding up the mimed object in my hand. “As in, should we call for backup?”
“Backup to go into a sweet old widow’s attic? What’s she going to do? Bore us to death with more stories? I’ll take my chances. Come on.”
I held up both hands. “All right, but if she does anything alarming, promise you’ll bite her on the neck.”
He grimaced, pretended to gag, then turned and led the way.
Chapter 8
As I followed Bentley up the creaky, narrow, seldom-used attic stairs, I silently cast a threat-detection spell. Bentley had his backup, and I had mine.
The spell was the magical equivalent of entering a scary, dark room and calling out, “Hello? Is anyone there?” It didn’t detect much, but it was better than nothing. The spell would highlight the most basic traps or monsters.
In fact, as the spell spread out in its wave, it highlighted the form of Detective Bentley with an eerie red glow. Monster detected.
He paused on the steps and peered back at me. “Did you say something?” He narrowed his silver eyes. “Or do something?”
“Nothing to be concerned about.” I waved him onward. The red glow would only be visible to me, the caster.
My head popped above the floor of the attic, and I immediately saw another object glowing. It was an oversized metal chair. I guess it was either a rustic throne or a fancy garden chair. It glowed amethyst.
Neither Bentley nor Krinkle showed any sign of having seen the glow on the chair.
When an object glowed amethyst after a threat-detection spell, it meant the object had magical properties. If the properties were strong, it was called an? Animus. My aunt had demonstrated the spell on a special writing pen she wouldn’t let me touch. This chair’s glow was less than one-quarter the brightness I’d seen on the pen.
If an object had magical properties, that didn’t mean the object itself was good or bad. But any object could be used in good or bad ways—like the jinxed table that Maisy Nix had stuck my hands to.
Krinkle flipped a light switch, and multiple strings of festive patio lanterns flickered on, lighting the dusty attic. The edges of the space were lined with storage boxes, of the type you’d expect to find in an attic. In the center of the room were two ping-pong tables next to each other, holding up a miniature town.
“This is neat,” Bentley exclaimed, looking over the miniature town. “It’s so lifelike!”
Krinkle let out a knowing chuckle. “Even the most mature man turns into a little boy when he sees a train set.” She leaned over the table and clicked something. “Wait until you see this.”
A model train emerged from a cave, and noisily wound its way through what appeared to be a scale replica of the town of Wisteria, albeit a version that was over a hundred years old. The buildings were old fashioned, and the space where the City Hall building would eventually be constructed was still an untouched patch of forest.
I leaned over the town, looking for what any woman in my kitten heels would have looked for: my own house.
And there it was, standing on its corner, painted a cheerful shade of red.
Bentley, who’d apparently forgotten our search for the missing woman who was last seen in the attic, said, “This model should be on display somewhere.”
“In a museum,” I said.
“Or somewhere nicer than a museum,” he said. “This model is amazing. Someone worked very hard on this.”
“My husband built the whole thing,” Krinkle said. “I helped with a few details, learning as I went, but he was the one who spent many a happy hour up here. Do you really think it’s amazing?”
“It’s the finest town I’ve ever seen,” Bentley said. He couldn’t take his eyes off it. Krinkle was right about the toy houses bringing out the little boy in him.
Krinkle said, “Some of our friends felt my husband should have made a contemporary version, even updating it as new buildings sprang up. But my husband, rest his soul, stuck to his vision. He wanted to hold onto a time period that represented the best of our beloved town, back when it was more wholesome and pure.”
Wholesome and pure? Bentley and I exchanged a look across the model. He flashed his eyes at me, as if to warn me not to ask the old woman what she meant by pure.
“What do you mean by pure?” I asked.
Bentley slapped his hand to his forehead.
“Before television, of course,” she said. “Television, the internet, video games, Polaroid pictures.”
“Right.” I didn’t point out that Polaroid pictures had been replaced by the powerful cameras everyone carried around as part of their phones.
We talked about the model for a while, with Krinkle pointing out town landmarks, and Bentley admiring the detailed craftsmanship. They reset the train and ran it through its whole course several times.
Eventually, begrudgingly, Bentley brought the conversation back around to the missing person
s report.
“She didn’t go missing from this town model, if that’s what you’re implying,” Krinkle said, sounding offended.
“Of course not,” Bentley said. “That would be crazy. You’re a fine, upstanding citizen, Mrs. Krinkle, and you wouldn’t waste police time looking for a tiny wooden model.”
“Of course not,” she repeated, indignant. “The woman didn’t disappear from the town model. All of those people are glued down, and they’re so small you can barely tell if they’re male or female.” Krinkle stepped back from the two ping-pong tables, and turned toward a dark corner of the attic. “She went missing from this house over here.”
Krinkle whipped a dust sheet off another model. This one was on a larger scale, and only a single house. It was a classic dollhouse, with one wall missing so that all the rooms were visible.
Bentley and I joined her in the dark corner to get a closer look. Mrs. Krinkle was not playing with a full deck of cards, so to speak, but if the dollhouse was as well crafted as the town, we both wanted to see it.
The house had three bedrooms and two bathrooms over three levels. Unlike the town model, the house was contemporary. Inside it were scale model furniture as well as three dolls. There was a man—the father, presumably—and two small children. The father stood by the front door, as though greeting a visitor. Deeper inside the house, one child sat at the dining room table, next to a stack of books. He appeared to be doing homework. The other child stood in the kitchen, rummaging in the refrigerator, which had a working hinge on the door. Upstairs in the master bedroom, there were female clothes shown in the closet—not actual clothes, but a drawing of dresses and feminine outfits, glued to the closet wall. There was no female doll present.
“You’re right,” I said to Krinkle in a professional tone. I was, after all, a “special consultant” who worked with the detective. “The mother has gone missing.”
Bentley gave the dollhouse a serious inspection, poking his finger into dark spaces and opening the doors with hinges. “Ma’am, I can’t promise it will be a top priority, but I will look into the matter of your missing person.” He managed to keep a straight face.
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