The Witch and the Dead (20 page)

A
n hour into the set build and it felt more like we were on the set of a soap opera. Animosity hummed in tandem with the power saw. Uneasiness punctuated the air with each
pop
of the nail gun.

The
Sound of Music
movie soundtrack played in the background. Evan believed it would provide inspiration as we worked, but I thought it might be adding to the disharmony.

Mimi kept sending me worried glances as she painted a faux stained-glass window onto muslin for the convent scenes. I'd already sketched the piece and labeled it. All she had to do was paint by number. I sent her reassuring smiles as I worked next to her, painting an exact replica of her window on my own sheet of muslin.

I wished Nick was here. He was supposed to be, but
he'd been sidetracked by a call from the medical examiner's office, whose preliminary report was finally complete. It was being faxed to Nick's office, so he had headed off to the police station instead of coming here with me.

I hoped he'd walk through the door at any moment, not because I wanted to know what he'd learned from the report, but because I wanted him here if a fight broke out.

At the moment, it was unclear who the fight would be between.

It could be Vince and Oliver. The two were giving each other a wide berth and the evil eye.

Or Oliver and Steve Winstead. Oliver had looked like a vein was about to pop in his forehead when Steve walked into the scene shop, declaring he was there to help with the sets.

Despite the fact that no one had asked for his assistance.

So far he hadn't done much other than try to get time alone with Penelope, but Oliver kept heading off the advances.

Then there was Starla and Vince. She had, in fact, broken up with Vince last night. She said she had taken it harder than he had, especially when she learned he'd been keeping his search for his biological parents from her.

She insisted he'd taken it well, but his glowering said otherwise. He'd probably just been trying to act brave in front of her. I wished he'd backed out of coming today, but I'd never known him not to honor his word.

He looked like he hadn't slept a wink, and I couldn't imagine what he was feeling today. Between Miles' death and the breakup . . . it was a lot to bear.

I sighed, wishing it had turned out differently for
him and Starla. I had to keep telling myself some things weren't meant to be.

It turned out that I hadn't needed to worry about any lingering uneasiness between Glinda and Starla this afternoon, because Glinda had been a no-show. It was so unusual for her to be late that I'd called to check on her. The call had gone straight to voice mail.

Mimi said, “Maybe you should take the nail gun away from Vince. Give him a paintbrush instead.”

Vince was glaring at Hank Leduc, who seemed to be the only one in the room who hadn't picked up on any tension.

Probably because he was too busy staring at Starla.

I could tell she was at war with herself, wanting to enjoy Hank's attention but feeling horrible about Vince. She was doing her best to keep busy.

It probably hadn't been wise to allow Vince use of the nail gun, but he was whipping out framing for the canvas stretchers faster than Steve could transport them from one side of the scene shop to the other, where Starla then stapled canvas to the pine strapping.

Pop, pop, pop.

Vince tended to discharge the nail gun in threes.

“Very nice,” Steve said to Mimi on one of those trips across the space. Then he bent down to me and whispered, “You might want to give Penelope some guidance.” More loudly, he said, “I would do it, but I can't get past her
guard dog
.”

Oliver looked over at him like he wished he'd been holding that nail gun instead of Vince. I'd assigned Oliver to be Hank's assistant. Currently, he was connecting a spindle to a railing. I was mighty glad he had only a screwdriver in hand.

I glanced over at Penelope and frowned. After seeing her paintings at the bunkhouse this morning, I'd
given her the job of creating the mountain scene. It was a challenging piece, and though she'd tried to resist taking on such a big responsibility, I'd insisted.

Now I wished I hadn't.

Her mountains looked like lumpy clouds. I set down my paintbrush and told Mimi I'd be right back.

Pop, pop, pop.

My shoulders stiffened at the noise. It was getting on my last nerve.

Penelope saw me coming and said, “I'm having trouble with the canvas.”

An understatement if I'd ever heard one. “It can be tricky,” I reassured her, though I was lying though my teeth. Any advanced painter should have had no trouble with the material.

She certainly looked the role of an artist. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun; paint flecks dotted her cheeks. She wore an old pair of paint-splattered jeans and a loose sweatshirt, its collar cut out. I liked this version of her much better than the one I had met in the bookshop yesterday.

I asked, “Do you want me to create some guidelines?”

She nodded and handed over a paintbrush. “Thank you. It was probably a mistake to come here today. My mind is preoccupied. I can't focus on my work.”

I set about outlining mountain shapes in the background and a hilly expanse in the forefront, taking extra care to get the perspective of the scene just right. It was a good time to speak to her, to see what she would tell me about Miles Babbage. “I saw some of your paintings this morning. They're lovely.”

“My paintings?” She tipped her head. “Where did you see them?”

“At Wickedly Creative. They were in one of the bunkhouses. The one Miles used when he stayed in the village.”

She glanced over her shoulder, searching the room. She was looking for Oliver, I realized, but he wasn't to be seen. He'd probably stepped out to use the restroom.

“One was of the village entrance, the other of a bird in a cage. The third wasn't completed.”

I hadn't needed to tell her it was the nude. Her fast blush told me she knew well enough.

“When was the last time you saw Miles?” I asked. “Do you remember?”

Again, she looked around. “This isn't a good time to be talking about this.”

“Penelope, it's never going to be a good time.”

“You should let it be.”

“You know I can't do that.” I dipped the paintbrush. “Did you see him after he and Steve had that fight in front of Third Eye?”

Resigned, she sighed. “No. The last I saw him was the night before that. We had plans to run off to elope the next day. Then Miles and Steve had that fight, my parents found out, and I was sent off to stay with an aunt down the Cape.” Her eyes moistened, but no tears formed. She glanced away. “I never saw Miles again.”

Steve must have noticed Oliver's absence as well, because he bustled over. “Penelope,” he began.

She rubbed her temples. “Not now, Steve.”

“We need to talk,” he said, reaching for her hands.

She folded them across her chest. “I'm busy.” She picked up a spare paintbrush, dipped it in green paint, and attempted to create a line of pine trees dividing the mountains from the grassy area of the picture.

The strokes were wrong. Too broad. And she'd used too much paint. They weren't Bob Ross happy little trees but rather gelatinous green blobs with no discernible definition.

Oliver's voice came from behind us. He said, “You heard her plain and clear, Steve. She's busy. Back off.”

Steve pulled his shoulders back. “Stay out of this, Oliver. It's between me and Penelope.”

Oliver stepped closer. “I don't think so.”

“She needs to know the truth.”

I looked around. Everyone else had stopped working.

It was definitely a soap opera in here.

“What truth is that?” Oliver asked. “She chose me over you. The end.”

“No,” Steve said, his tone cold and hard. “She chose Miles over me. Then her parents made her marry you. And she wouldn't have chosen Miles except he'd been controlling her with an amulet.”

“What amulet?” Vince asked.

Oh jeez. We were going to have to memory-cleanse him before this day was through.

“Stay out of this,” Oliver said to him.

“You can't tell me what to do,” Vince said. “You're not my
father
.”

Pop, pop, pop.

I said loudly, “Maybe we ought to take a break.”

Everyone ignored me.

Steve kept trying to reason with Penelope. There was a plea in his voice as he said, “Don't you see, Penelope? It all would have been different if not for that amulet. You would still be with
me
.”

She closed her eyes, sighed. “I knew about the amulet, Steve.”

“You did?” I asked.

“What amulet?” Vince asked again.

No one answered him.

“Miles told me after I agreed to leave town with him,” Penelope said. “It didn't matter. I still wanted to be with him. It turned out, however, that he hadn't wanted to wait for me.” She faced Steve. “Now, please . . . It's been thirty years. Please let it go.”

She turned her back on him and started attacking the canvas with green blobs again.

The whole thing was going to need to be repainted.

“I can't let it go,” Steve said. “I love you.”

Gasps rippled through the room. Mimi's eyes were as wide as saucers.

Tears filled Penelope's eyes. “I love Oliver. Please, please, Steve, let it go.”

“Fine,” he said stubbornly. “I'll let it go for now.”

“Let it go forever,” she said. “It's over. It's been over for a long time. I never wanted to hurt you. . . .
Please
,” she begged. “Just go.”

He glanced around, saw the sympathetic glances everyone was giving him, then turned and left.

Penelope watched him leave with tears in her eyes.

“We should go, too,” Oliver said to Penelope. His color was high, and he looked about to come undone. “It's ridiculous that we came in the first place.”

“It is not,” she said, sighing. “You know how I feel about the arts.”

It sounded like an argument they'd had a time or two.

He dragged a hand down his beard. “Be that as it may, we have no business being here. You can't even p—” He broke off as her face drained of all color. “I'm sorry,” he said quickly.

Tears spilled from her eyes as she set down her paintbrush, pivoted, and said, “I need some air.” She walked out.

I glanced at Oliver, at the painting, then back at Oliver. . . .

“You can't even p—”

Paint.

He'd been about to say “paint.”

As realization hit, I lowered my voice. “She's lost her abilities, hasn't she?”

He didn't answer as he turned to follow his wife out of the room.

Fortunately for me, he'd said all I'd needed to hear.

There were several ways to lose your abilities, but the most common was to tell a mortal of your gift. Suddenly and instinctively I knew she'd told Miles.

I watched Oliver go, and as he flew out of the doorway, he nearly knocked over Glinda as she came inside.

“Sorry I'm late,” she said to the room, then hotfooted it over to me. “What'd I just miss?”

I closed the paints Penelope had been using. “Long story.”

She eyed the canvas. “Are those green sheep?”

I cracked a smile. They did look like green sheep. “Also a long story. Are you all right? I tried calling. . . .”

She didn't look all right. Her eyes were rimmed in red as though she'd been crying.

“Family emergency,” she said, her voice sounding funny. “I had to talk to my mother.”

I put my hand on her arm. “You're worrying me.”

“Glinda!” Mimi rushed over to us. “We were worried about you.”

Glinda smiled and said to me, “She's becoming your mini-me.”

It might have been the best compliment I'd ever received.

She put her arm around Mimi. “I'm okay.”

“Really?” Mimi asked, concern etching her gaze. “Because you don't look okay. You look like you've been crying. Did you have a fight with Liam? Oh no! Did you break up with him like Starla broke up with Vince? You were so happy with him.”

“Mimi,” Glinda said, smiling. “Take a breath!”

Mimi sucked in some air.

“Liam and I are fine. I
am
happy with him. It wasn't that. Starla and Vince broke up?” Glinda looked to me for explanation.

Yet again I said, “Long story.”

Mimi said, “Then what happened? Is it Clarence? Did he run away again?”

Only Mimi could get away with peppering her with these kinds of questions. But I was glad she was asking, because I was curious as well.

Pop, pop, pop.

Glinda's gaze whipped to Vince and that nail gun. She swallowed hard. “Clarence is fine. Everything's fine. I just got some surprising news in the mail.”

Vince picked up a length of pine, eyed it, made a cut with a jigsaw, then set it in place on the frame he was working on.

Pop, pop, pop.

“Who knew Vince was so good at building things?” Mimi said. “I'm glad you're here now.” She gave Glinda another hug and went back to her painting.

She was right about Vince. Who knew? I'd never known him to build a single thing. He'd especially taken right to that nail gun. Men and power tools. It was like it was natural instinct.

Some women had natural instincts for it, too. I was reminded of Glinda and what she'd told me yesterday, of how she was
“really handy with power tools.”

Of course the Broomcrafting helped.

The Broomcrafting . . .

My head snapped up. Wait.

I looked between her and Vince, Vince and her.