The Witch and the Dead (7 page)

“Salmonella,” he sang.

I frowned. “
Anyway
, no, I'm not canceling. I'll be there. I was thinking you might want additional help.”

He eyed me dubiously. “Who are you thinking?”

“Someone with impeccable insight into human
nature, who is knowledgeable about the theater, and who isn't afraid to give brutally honest feedback.” I gave him a broad, toothy smile. Batted my eyelashes.

Evan dropped the scraper. “Darcy, you didn't!”

I kept fake smiling.

“Not
Archie
,” he said with a groan.

As I slipped into my coat, I said, “Oh, come on. I kind of promised him he could be part of the play in exchange for info about Miles Babbage. He's a tenacious one, that bird.”

Evan's face puckered like he smelled something bad. “He's something, all right.”

“I think he'd actually be good casting roles.”

He grumbled.

“So, will you let him be an assistant casting director? Pretty please? Please, please, please?”

He mumbled under his breath, then said, “Fine. But he'd better keep his ego in check. I make all final decisions.”

Archie keeping his ego in check was never going to happen, but I wasn't going to jeopardize this moment. I walked over and kissed Evan's cheek. “Thank you.”

He waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. Now, go before I change my mind.”

“I'll tell him you'll pick him up at three thirty,” I said, then made a show of sprinting for the door, dropping my empty coffee cup into the trash along the way.

But as I pulled open the front door, and the rain and bitterly cold wind reminded me of the danger in the air, I wanted nothing more than to go back inside and hide.

I
practically sprinted along the deserted sidewalk, dashing past shop after shop in an effort to stay dry. I slowed only when I reached the Bewitching Boutique, where Pepe and Mrs. P lived in the walls of the sewing room at the rear of the building.

The shop was dark and a
CLOSED
sign hung askew from a chain on the other side of the door. Cupping my face against the glass, I peered inside, hoping to see any kind of light coming from within. There was nothing. According to the hours stenciled on the display window, Godfrey should be here, as it wasn't even yet noon. I tried knocking, but no one appeared, mouse or man.

Questioning Pepe and Mrs. P was going to have to wait.

Pressing on, I set my sights toward Spellbound, at the end of this stretch of shops. Light shone from the windows above the bookshop, so I suspected Harper
had returned from the police station. But as much as I wanted to head straight there, I had another stop to make first.

A moment later, I stood in front of the Trimmed Wick. Here, the lights were on, glowing invitingly like beacons of safety, as the skies outside had turned from a charcoal gray to an inky black.

Inside, Steve Winstead sat at a potter's wheel in a corner of the shop, which some outsiders might find an odd sight in a candle shop, but his specialty was candle-filled pottery. Steve threw, glazed, and fired his own pots, then filled them with his wax creations. It was a popular shop here in the village.

There were several tourists watching his demonstration, and a couple more roaming about the shop. I'd rather question him alone, but I had to make do if I wanted to know why he'd been fighting with Miles Babbage thirty years ago.

The wind practically shoved me inside the shop as I pulled open the door, and everyone's attention turned to me as I made my not so subtle entrance.

Feeling heat rising to my cheeks, I righted myself. I tugged the hem of my coat, tucked my pastry box securely in the crook of my arm, pasted on a smile, and gave a little wave. “Hello.”

I received a chorus of friendly hellos from all but one person. His hands covered in oozing clay, Steve remained oddly silent.

In his fifties, he had thinning ash blond hair and keen blue eyes, and he usually had a smile on his face when we ran into each other.

Not today.

He didn't look happy to see me at all.

I tried not to take it personally.

As he finished his demo, I strolled around the small shop, which had a decidedly rustic, cottagelike feel to
it. Whitewashed wooden paneling covered the walls, and dark, wide, oak planks covered the floor. A robin's-egg blue weathered sideboard had been transformed into the shop's point-of-sale area, which housed the cash register and several smaller displays. Above it, a trio of glass pendant accent lights that appeared to be hand blown hung from the ceiling, casting wide circles of light across the space. More discreet were the pot lights tucked into the ceiling next to thick wooden beams stained the same color as the flooring.

Despite all the various scents used in candle making, the predominant one I smelled in here was sage, which reminded me that I should probably smudge my house before I slept there, just to chase out any unwanted juju. Aunt Ve was planning to lead a more formal blessing at my housewarming next weekend and had been collecting items for that ritual these past couple of weeks.

The older woman ringing up sales kept giving me the side eye as though she suspected I was going to pinch a pot and dash out. I gave her a smile to try to reassure her that I wasn't a shoplifter and continued to wander around, biding my time.

Steve's colorful pots glowed brightly against the distressed white trestle shelving they sat upon. From tiny petaled votive holders and carved pots to skinny vases, coffee mugs, and chubby birds, there was every shape and size candle imaginable.

Steve was a gifted artist, which made perfect sense, as he was a Manicrafter. I'd learned over the past year that that particular Craft was the most common in the village. The number of Manis far outweighed all others. It was believed by some that Manis had been the original Craft of all witches but had branched over time, creating new varieties. It was an interesting theory, because it would suggest that at some basic level all witches were capable of one another's abilities. I wasn't
sure I believed it to be true. If it were, I figured witches would have been granting wishes left and right for generations. But still, I wondered. It was a conversation to have with my mother some other time.

Steve was speaking about using something called a bat to make his work easier, and I half listened as he described the flat disk. He talked easily, knowledgeably. He came from a long line of artisans, but it was his sister's family I knew well. The Chadwicks. Cora Chadwick had once been Starla's mother-in-law (and was currently Glinda's potential one). She and her husband, George, owned Wickedly Creative, an art studio here in the village, where her two surviving sons, Will and Liam, both worked. I wished I was more comfortable around the family, because I'd love to take classes at the studio. But after what had happened last winter, I wasn't sure I ever would be. Oh, we were friendly enough, but there was an awkwardness to every meeting.

Time healed, yes, but there was no set date as to when that process would be complete, when I could look back on what had happened with a twinge rather than an ache.

On a tiered table by the door, handwoven baskets held cellophane-wrapped scented wax spheres in varying shapes and styles. The beautiful creations released their fragrance without melting, rather like a decorative a wax sachet. I was mentally making a shopping list as I waited for Steve to get a free moment. I could easily imagine a family of bird candles and a set of bird's-egg wax spheres on those empty shelves under the stairs. . . .

“I'm guessing you're here to see me.”

I jumped, nearly dropping the sphere I'd been holding. I carefully set it back in its basket, and I swore the woman behind the counter breathed a sigh of relief.

Steve stood at my elbow, wiping clean wet hands on a tea towel. I'd been so lost in thoughts of decorating
my house that I hadn't noticed his demonstration had ended. On a table near his potter's wheel sat a freshly crafted cup with horizontal ridges and an overexaggerated lip, ready for drying. I knew from a pottery class I'd taken back in Ohio that, depending on how fast Steve worked, it could be a week or so before the cup would be ready to fill with wax.

“I am.” There was no point in beating around the bush. He knew who I was and that I worked for the Elder when crime affected Crafters in the village. “It's about Miles Babbage.”

“I figured you'd be by at some point. I just didn't expect it to be so soon.” He motioned with his jaw to follow him. “We can talk out back.”

He led the way down a short hallway that had an emergency exit door at the far end, and I realized this shop had an almost identical footprint to that of the bookshop, just smaller in scale. We passed a small restroom, an office, and a storage room before veering into a tiny windowless break room with an even tinier kitchenette. Steve held out a tall chair at a square pub table, and I set my pastry box on the tabletop and sat.

“Coffee? Tea?” he asked after closing the door tightly.

Trying not to feel claustrophobic, I said, “No, thanks.”

He sat and fixed his gaze on mine. “How did you connect me to Miles so quickly?”

“Sylar Dewitt.”

Steve leaned back and shook his head. “Why were you even talking to Sylar? I thought he was persona non grata after the electi— Oh, wait. Dorothy. You went looking for Dorothy.”

“Yes.” I didn't relay that I hadn't actually spoken to Dorothy at all. Sylar had spilled all these particular beans.

He hooked his elbow over the back of his chair. “She's a good place to start, considering the affair. Did she reveal anything interesting?”

I was beginning to wonder who was questioning whom. I didn't answer, and instead asked, “How did you know Miles?”

Specks of clay had dried on his cheeks, but he didn't seem to notice. Probably a hazard of the trade. Crow's-feet branched out from the corners of his eyes as he frowned and held up his hands. “Potting.”

The scent of coffee lingered in the air. It was a smell I normally loved, but in this tight space it quickly grew overwhelming. “Were you ever a part of the Roving Stones?”

“No. I prefer to have roots. A traveling lifestyle most definitely is not for me. Miles was a familiar face at Wickedly Creative when he was in town. Artists have always been drawn to the place.”

“It was open back then?”

“Sure was. It was nothing like how fancy it is now. It was just an old dairy barn converted into studio space, created mostly out of hopes and dreams.”

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 . . . ?”