The Witch and the Dead (17 page)

I said, “Steve said Miles' dad was a con man?”

“Only when it came to women. Natural charm, Miles once told me. Women fell at his feet. When Miles turned sixteen, his dad made it known that he'd become more of a hindrance than a help where his con was concerned. Miles left home and never looked back.”

“Harsh,” Glinda said, shaking her head.

“It was probably best for Miles.” George grabbed
another slab of clay. “He suffered at his father's hand for many years.”

Her eyes widened. “His dad was abusive?”

George said, “Let's just say he was a firm believer in corporal punishment.”

Glinda frowned, and I once again felt a rush of sympathy for what Miles had endured as a young boy.

I stepped back as George passed by me, headed to the next potter's wheel. I asked, “Did you know Miles was using a charmed amulet to lure women to him?”

Glinda glanced my way, her eyes wide. “He was?”

“He was,” George confirmed. “As I said, he wasn't naturally outgoing. Wooing took too much energy, and he was awkward at it. What came naturally for his father was a real struggle for himself—until the women got to know him. Then he was as charming as all get-out. He found a way around his awkwardness using the amulet.”

“Was he a con man, too?” Glinda asked.

From what I'd heard, he was. But George shook his head.

“I know some in the village think so, but he never took anything that wasn't offered. That wasn't insisted upon, really. A little money to get to the next town, a hot meal. Nothing over-the-top.”

“But what about his Casanova reputation?” I asked. “Seems like he tended to use women. Love 'em and leave 'em.”

“Maybe so, but like I said, he didn't know how to have a meaningful relationship. I'm not sure he even knew what real love was, but I think he was trying to learn. He broke a lot of hearts, but none were as broken as his own.”

A wounded soul. It seemed an apt description of Miles Babbage.

George continued. “When he came back to the village after being gone for a year, I was a little surprised
when he mentioned that he was ready to settle down and get married. He started looking for the right woman.”

In his world, with that amulet, it was as easily said as done.

“He said he was looking for love, that he wanted to stop living in his father's shadow and start making his own.”

So Miles had gone looking for a wife to love. He'd found Penelope. And when that didn't work out, he'd found Ve.

If he'd been so easily able to jump from one woman to another, I figured he hadn't learned anything about true love in the time he'd spent away from the village. But the fact that he was ready to put down roots told me a lot. He'd been serious about staying here . . . and trying to learn how to truly love someone.

“Do you know if he had any kids?” I asked.

“Kids?” George's bushy eyebrows shot up. “Not that he ever said.”

It was no surprise to hear. If Vince was Miles' son, there was a chance he hadn't even known of Vince's existence. And also a chance he had. Maybe he'd agreed to the adoption. “Any living relatives that you know of?”

He shook his head, then snapped his fingers. “You know, his stuff is still out back if you want to look at it. There's not much to speak of, but you're welcome to see what's there.”

“You kept it all this time?” I asked.

“Miles was a little funny about people touching his things, and we weren't needing the space. We always thought he'd be back. So we left it all there. We did clean up some. Stripped the bed. Put away his supplies. Protected his canvases from dust. That kind of thing, and we still go in from time to time to keep up with the maintenance. But it's all there, including an address
book with some phone numbers. I tried calling a few of them when he hadn't come back after a month or two, but they were mostly old flames. There might be one in there that will help you find a next of kin.”

I thought I might kiss George right then and there. “I'd love to see his things.”

“Glinda, can you take Darcy out?” George asked. “I have a metal sculpture class in ten minutes. It's bunkhouse ten. You can get the key from the office. Just lock up when you're done.”

“Sure.” She crossed to a deep sink to wash her hands.

“Thanks, George,” I said. “And one more question . . . Do you know where Miles got that charmed amulet? Did it look familiar at all?”

“Familiar? Not especially. I don't recall ever getting a good up-close look at it. I assumed Miles got it from one of Charmcrafters at the Roving Stones. That kind of power isn't easy to come by. Why?”

“I don't think it came from one of the Roving Stones. I believe Miles stole some of Steve's creek clay to make that amulet, but I don't understand how he charmed it, necessarily. Do you know—”

I was cut off by an angry voice coming from behind me. “What did you just say?”

Spinning around, I saw Steve Winstead standing in the doorway, fury etched into every line on his face.

“I
t is possible Miles was able to sneak back to the creek site before I cast the protection spell over it,” Steve said as he walked alongside Glinda and me as we headed to bunkhouse number ten.

It turned out that
he
was the instructor for the pottery class George had been prepping. When Steve found out why Glinda and I were there, he volunteered to accompany us to the bunkhouse. I suspected it had nothing to do with escorting us and everything to do with wanting to get a peek at Miles' belongings, as though he was hoping to find a stash of contraband clay that he could reclaim.

Steve went on. “If he did steal it, he's lucky I didn't catch him. I'd have—”

His unfinished sentence hung in the air between us, and Glinda and I left it right where it was. The theft of his magical clay was just one more reason for Steve to
despise Miles. He'd already hated him for stealing Penelope away.

The wind kicked up as we crossed an expanse of wet grass. Glinda seemed to know where she was going, which was good, because to me it didn't seem as though any of these buildings were marked. It appeared as if there were fifteen or so outbuildings and bunkhouses spread out behind Wickedly Creative, nestled into man-made hollows in the woods behind the property. Only the kiln house had a well-worn path that led from the rear door of the studio to its entrance.

Steve said, “I can't know for sure if the amulet was created by the enchanted clay unless I see the amulet, hold it.”

It was going to be
quite
the field trip to the medical examiner's office. “Andreus said the same thing. We're waiting to hear from the ME's office to see if we'll be allowed to get a closer look at that amulet. It'll have to stay with them as evidence, unless a next of kin comes forward to claim Miles' body and belongings.”

“Is there a next of kin?” Steve asked, his eyes desperate.

I slid a look to Glinda. Her forehead had wrinkled and her lips pulled down into a deep frown as she said, “Not that we know of.”

Officially, that was true. It would take weeks, maybe months, for Vince to get paternity test results.

“If it is made of my clay, I want it back. It should be destroyed and returned to its source.”

“Destroy it how?” Glinda asked.

Steve said, “A piece of that size? A sledgehammer will do the job. I'd smash it to dust, then return it to the creek.”

Absently I thought of the broken candle. I shouldn't have thrown away the pieces. They didn't belong in the trash.

I was glad I'd worn a pair of boots today as we sloshed across the damp meadow. “I don't understand how Miles made a seduction charm from your clay. Your pottery infuses its owners with warmth and serenity. Vastly different emotions.”

“The clay emits what it's imbued with. I choose serenity, peace, comfort—those kinds of qualities—for my ceramics. Miles obviously chose desire, allure, appeal. The clay would have the same propensities as my candles. Heat would release the sentiment.”

“But how did he know to do that?” Glinda asked. “He's not a Crafter; it wouldn't be instinctual for him.”

It was a good question.

“I told him,” Steve said. “Not in a Crafter kind of way, but more peer to peer. Potters often infuse their works with emotions and tenderness. Miles must have caught on that my emotions came out in my candles.”

It seemed like a Craft violation to me, but that would have been decided by the Elder back then, and she obviously had deemed it harmless.

“Since Miles wore the amulet around his neck, his body heat might have been enough, but most likely when he was ready to attract a specific woman, he gripped the amulet, warming it quickly in his hand.” Steve glanced at Glinda and me. “No wonder Penelope found him irresistible. She didn't stand a chance against that kind of magic.” His hands curled into fists.

Yet it was Miles' inherent charm that had kept her at his side.

It was a good lesson on not necessarily judging books by their covers.

At this point, I decided not to share this knowledge with Steve. He was already vibrating with anxious energy, and knowing Penelope had freely chosen to stay with Miles might push the man over the edge.

Glinda led the way into the hollow. Once off the
grass, we stepped onto a narrow fieldstone walkway nearly covered in forest detritus. It led to the front door of a tiny slate-shingled house that sat in the clearing, its steeply pitched metallic roof covered in leaves, pine needles, and a layer of moss. Other than the moss, it seemed well tended. In the space between an arched wooden door and a small paned window hung a piece of smooth gray slate from a weathered cord. The stone had the number ten stenciled upon it in crackled white paint.

Glinda unlocked the door and slowly pulled it open. She stuck her hand inside the house and flipped a light switch next to the door.

It was unusual to see a front door swing out rather than in, but as soon as I stepped inside, I saw why. There was no room for it to swing inward.

I wasn't sure what I'd expected when I'd heard “bunkhouse,” but it wasn't this. The only thing bunkish about this space was the lofted bedroom. Otherwise, it could be labeled a small cottage. A teeny-tiny cottage, but one nonetheless.

Natural wood paneling covered the walls. Oak floors creaked beneath our feet. Sheets had been thrown over a sofa that took up most of the living space. A wood-burning stove, a wooden easel, and a maple blanket chest acting as a coffee table took up the rest of that area. A hot plate, a mini fridge, and a two-foot expanse of countertop created what could be called a kitchen at the far corner of the cozy room. A bathroom slightly bigger than what you'd find on an airplane took up the other corner. In a narrow closet, paint supplies and sculpting tools filled the shelf space.

I climbed up a ladder rung to peek into the loft. It held only a bare mattress, not even encased in plastic. No bed frame. No accessories.

It was evident that George and Cora had been keeping up with the cleaning and maintenance. There were
no visible cobwebs or other signs that the bunkhouse had been invaded by nature. Only the stale air, a light coating of dust, and the absence of personal effects and bedding hinted that the place hadn't had a resident in quite some time.

Steve poked around the closet. I assumed he was looking for any leftover clay. “Is this everything?” he asked.

I was wondering if the place had been robbed of Miles' belongings when Glinda pulled back the sheet on the sofa, which was upholstered in an ugly plaid that was better left covered. There was nothing on the dirty cushions, but several canvases peeked out from behind the heavy piece of furniture.

While Glinda tried to wrestle the canvases out from behind the couch, I opened the blanket chest, fully expecting to find the bedding for the bare mattress. Instead, I found a large duffel bag and an overwhelming scent of mothballs.

I pulled out the bag and started digging through it. Miles traveled light. There was a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts, two shirts, and two pairs of nasty-looking socks. No underwear. I wasn't sure if I was grateful or grossed out by the knowledge that he probably didn't wear any.

Grateful, I decided.

The fabrics were stiff with age, and I wished I'd had gloves with me as I made a growing pile on the floor next to me.

I cast my spell and everything, ever hopeful.

No gloves appeared.

Cringing, I continued to look through the bag while Steve helped Glinda move the couch.

George had been right. There was an address book in the duffel bag. I pulled it out as Steve finally freed the canvases.

There appeared to be three of them wrapped
together in plastic. Steve used one of the sculpting tools from the closet to slice through the plastic, and he and Glinda laid out the paintings.

Steve went as white as a ghost.

It didn't take long to see why.

On one of the canvases was a half-finished painting of a nude woman. It was very obviously Penelope. She was sprawled out on a plush rug in front of a wood-burning stove, and if I wasn't mistaken, it was the very stove in this room. The rug, however, was long gone.

It was more of Penelope than I ever needed to see.

Still pale, Steve backed away from the canvas as though it were alive, a snake rearing to strike.

Still holding the address book, I stood up to get a better look at the paintings.

They were stunning. One was of a resplendent rainbow-hued sparrow in an elaborately gilded golden cage. The bird's sorrowful gaze contrasted so dramatically with the painting's bright colors that it suddenly filled me with sadness.

The other was a lovely landscape painting of the road that led into the village. With meticulous brushstrokes, it expertly portrayed the enchantment of the village's entrance. Of the yew trees and branches that lined both sides of the road, twining above the road to create a natural tunnel, the lush flowers and bushes, and the glittery lights and shops in the far distance. It captured the village's whimsy. Its fantasy. Its beauty. Its heart. Its magic.

Glinda said, “Did Miles paint? I thought he was a ceramics artist.”

“Miles didn't paint those,” Steve said, his voice hard.

“Who did?” she asked, eyeing the nude.

I studied the canvases. I felt the one of the village entrance had to have been created by a Crafter. Only a witch could reflect the heart and soul of this village so
beautifully. Then I looked at the bird, at the dichotomy of the painting. The vibrancy. The melancholy. It reflected someone who was torn in half. My gaze slid to the nude, and I took a closer look at the background, at the lightly penciled grid marks, and the answer came to me.

“Penelope did,” I answered. The nude had been a self-portrait. The grid marks told me she'd been painting the portrait from another source, most likely a photograph. They were probably her painting supplies in the closet.

Steve said, “She'd been working on finishing the bird painting the week Miles came back to town that last time.”

Glinda quickly stacked the paintings again, trying to replace the plastic as best she could. I didn't think I'd ever seen her move so fast.

Steve slowly slid down the wall to sit on the floor. He dragged a hand down his face, and his voice was ragged. “How could he have done this to her? I should have known. I should have been able to stop him. This is my fault. It was my clay.”

I turned to offer him some sort of comfort, and the address book slipped out of my hand. It hit the floor and a piece of paper slid out from its pages and disappeared under the couch.

I got down on my knees, put my head close to the floor, and tried to see where the paper had ended up. I couldn't see a thing, and I didn't want to stick my hand into the unknown.

“What was it?” Glinda asked, her tone clearly wondering whether we could just leave it be.

I sat up. “I don't know.”

Glinda looked at Steve, then at me. “We should go.”

He had his forehead resting on top of his bent knees and his arms wrapped around his legs.

I nodded. “I can come back with Nick later.”

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.