The Witch and the Dead (8 page)

His fists flexed, squeezed tight again. “We'd been dating, though she was also seeing Dreadfully Dull Debrowski—that's what I jokingly called him—at the same time to appease her parents.”

Dreadfully Dull Debrowski.
Wait till I told Harper.

He went on. “They were the strict type who wanted her to obey their every command.”

I recalled that Ve had said they made Penelope join the law firm . . . or risk being cut off. It seemed so harsh to me. I couldn't imagine ever doing that to my child.

“They didn't like her dating me. Didn't think I was
stable enough, that I could never provide for her if I ‘played in the mud' for a living. They wanted her to marry Debrowski. He was a lawyer at their law firm and checked every box for quality husband material. Except one issue.”

“What's that?”

“She didn't love him.”

“Did she love you?”

“I thought so. . . .”

It was almost as though I could hear his deep wound reopening, tearing him apart from the inside out.

Voices floated down the hall as customers came to and went from the shop. His business was steady. It could be because of the magical clay, but I had the feeling it had a lot to do with the man sitting in front of me and the magic he'd worked making his creations. I'd buy his pieces even if I never burned a single candle. His art was beautiful.

“I thought so,” he repeated. “Until Miles waltzed into the picture. Penelope was beautiful and rich. I suspect it was only the rich part that he cared about. They'd dated briefly about a year and a half or so before that, but he dropped her to focus on Dorothy Hansel, who'd been even richer. But that fateful day at Wickedly Creative, Dorothy was out of the picture, and Miles turned his charms on Penelope once again. She was instantly smitten. Within a couple of days, she dumped both me and Dreadfully Dull and told me that she was planning to run off and elope with Miles that weekend.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. She was willing to walk away from everything for him. This village, her parents, her everything.”

Her roots.

“So when I bumped into Miles outside Third Eye that day and saw his smug smile . . . I couldn't walk
away.” He clenched his fists tighter. “And I may not have won the war that day, but I won the battle.”

“How so?”

There was a mischievous glint in his eye when he said, “Penelope's parents caught wind of the fight, and that we'd been fighting over
her
. All hell broke loose. She was forbidden to see Miles and whisked immediately away to a relative's house down on Cape Cod. The next day, Miles married Ve, then disappeared again.” The glint faded into dark shadows. “The next month, Penelope married Dreadfully Dull.”

“I'm sorry,” I said quietly.

“Yeah, well, we all have our heartaches.”

It was true, but most didn't carry them around, letting them bleed for thirty years.

“I do my best to keep my distance from her. She seems happy enough,” he went on. “It's not the way I wanted my happily ever after to end, but it helps. A little. I'm glad she's happy. I just wanted her to be happy with me.”

I was feeling like a sap as he spoke, my chest aching for lost loves. I stood up, picked up my pastry box. “I should go. Thanks for talking to me.”

He said, “Part of me always expected him to show up again one day. . . . I just never guessed it would be quite this way.”

There was something in his tone. Something that hinted he wasn't telling me the whole truth.

I reached for the door handle. “Just to be clear, you didn't kill him, did you?”

Shaking his head, he said, “I'm not grieving the loss, however.”

“Do you have any ideas who might have wanted him dead?”

His eyebrows furrowed. “No.”

Again I sensed he was lying. “No one?”

“Nope.”

He was definitely lying. But why?

We headed down the hall. “I'm just sorry Ve got dragged into all this. She's a good woman.”

“That she is,” I said.

He showed me to the front door, but on the way out he handed me a gorgeous pottery candle in the shape of a stubby wide-mouthed vase. Glazed a creamy yellow and white, it had a small white ceramic bird perched on its rim. “A little magic for your new house.”

It was perfect. “Thanks, Steve.”

“Anytime.”

It was still raining when I headed back outside. As I set off toward Spellbound, my mind whirled.

Roots,
Steve had said.

Was that why he'd lied to me?

Because he was protecting
his
roots, meaning his shop, his livelihood, his magical clay source?

Or the roots of someone he loved . . . ?

I
rushed into Spellbound, so intent on heading straight upstairs to see if Harper was home that I took only a moment to wave to Angela Curtis before zipping past her. She was busy anyhow, conversing with a pair of customers, so I hoped she'd excuse my rudeness.

My gaze was firmly set on the back of the shop and the adjoining door that partitioned this retail space from a vestibule and staircase that led up to Harper's apartment when Angela called out, stopping me.

“Darcy! Harper's not up there.”

In her mid-forties, Angela stood a bit shorter than my height of five foot seven and had razor-cut dark brown hair that skimmed her shoulders. In recent months she'd gone from part-time to full-time status here at the shop. She'd been an invaluable help to Harper.

Groaning, I reversed course. “Have you heard from her? I thought she'd be back by—”

I snapped my mouth closed, because it was then that I saw to whom Angela had been speaking.

Penelope and Oliver Debrowski.

Oh dear.

“Darcy.” Penelope's thin smile didn't quite reach her eyes. She released her husband's hand, which she had been holding tightly, and stretched her own toward me for a handshake. “It's nice to finally meet you.”

Angela threw me a horrified glance. “I'm so sorry. I didn't realize you hadn't met yet. Darcy, this is Penelope and Oliver Debrowski. Marcus'
parents
,” she added. “Penelope and Oliver, this is Darcy Merriweather.”

“No apology necessary, Angela. We've seen each other from afar.” Oliver stuck out his hand as well. “But we have not had the chance to meet face-to-face.”

I set the pastry box on the counter and shook both their hands. Penelope's was ice-cold and bony, while Oliver's was warm and enveloping. “Nice to meet you both.”

Oliver's gaze dropped to the candle gripped in my other hand, and the corners of his mouth tightened. Penelope saw it the candle as well, and she swallowed hard before looking up again. She leaned in to her husband, and he wrapped a protective arm around her.

Tension bloomed in the air, thick and palpable.

Angela looked at me. It was easy to see the concern in her eyes. I gave her a reassuring half smile. I faced Penelope and Oliver, cleared my throat, and said, “I thought you two weren't returning to the village until tomorrow morning.” At least that's what Harper had said this morning.

A morning that was feeling like a lifetime ago.

“Our plans changed unexpectedly.” Oliver's voice was deep and monotone. “We arrived not too long ago.”

I suspected some would find the nickname Dreadfully Dull accurate. My first impression was that he wasn't so much
dull
as socially uncomfortable. And perhaps a bit stodgy. He kept looking at the door as though wanting to leave immediately.

I wanted the same.

“We've come here for the same reason as you have, Darcy,” Penelope explained. “We're looking for Harper.”

Penelope was tall and lithe, and her son, Marcus, favored her quite a bit. They had the same light brown hair, though hers had copper highlights, and the same peridot green eyes. She wore a billowy floor-length black, orange, and white skirt, printed to look like the wings of a monarch butterfly. With it, she wore a starched white shirt with a generous collar left open at the neck. A black capelet coat was thrown over one shoulder. Beaded onyx chandelier earrings brushed her collarbones, and she wore multiple bracelets on each arm, but no necklace.

I suspected the outfit was a visual representation of the battle within her between her two Crafts. A beautiful war between the creative and conservative. By appearances, it seemed to me the artist within her was proving to be the stronger opponent.

“Technically,” Oliver cut in, “we're looking for Marcus. He's not answering his cell phone. Our assumption is that he's with Harper.”

Tall and thick waisted, Oliver appeared to be a clean-cut, type A kind of man. His dark hair was cut just so, his beard immaculately groomed. Dark blue intelligent eyes surveyed the surroundings from beneath trimmed eyebrows. His necktie was perfectly knotted, and his suit fit so impeccably I had the feeling it had been tailored by Godfrey.

To me, he seemed the type to floss his teeth twice a
day, pay his taxes ahead of time, and go to bed exactly at ten every night after checking every door and window to ensure all had been locked.

I rather liked that about him.

I appreciated routines and order and imagined he did as well. I couldn't say I'd have matched him with Penelope, but after thirty years of marriage she had obviously made the right choice among the suitors who'd been pursuing her. I had to remember that sometimes opposites attracted. . . .

“Marcus
always
seems to be with Harper,” Penelope said by way of explanation.

“That's love for you,” Angela said brightly.

The Debrowskis gave her matching grim smiles.

“Yes,” Oliver murmured.

I supposed I should be grateful these two weren't trying to break up Harper and Marcus, but I wished they'd welcome Harper's presence in their son's life.

By their looks of utter dismay, that wish wasn't likely to be granted.

It confused me that after the way Penelope's parents had intervened in her love life, she wouldn't openly support the relationship. Marcus was happy with Harper. He loved her. She loved him. They were a happily ever after away from a fairy-tale ending.

“Yes,
love
,” Penelope added faintly.

Angela shot me a panicky glance, then hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “I'm—I'm just going to check on . . . something. Holler if you need me, Darcy.”

I watched her fast-walk across the store, creating as much distance between herself and this uncomfortable situation as possible. I wished I could do the same.

Penelope lifted an eyebrow and cast a glance around the store. “Your sister has a lovely shop.”

“Yes.” She truly did. It was a labor of love. Owning
this shop had brought Harper out of her somewhat reclusive shell. She'd come to love the village and its people as much as she did the books housed inside the store. Business was booming. Right now, Angela was her only full-time employee, and Mimi was a part-timer. Between the three of them, they kept the store humming, though I knew Harper was starting to think about hiring more help.

Penelope added, “You did the artwork in the children's area, yes?”

I wasn't sure why she was so chitchatty with me. “I did.”

After buying the shop, Harper had redecorated it with a Van Gogh
Starry Night
theme
.
The walls were painted a vivid blue with swirls of gold and white. From the ceiling, delicate glass stars hung from clear string. When the shop lights hit the glass, it appeared as though the stars were twinkling. Nick had built her several birch-branch bookcases, and Harper had installed a “spooky forest” wall with a dozen tall black bookshelves artfully crafted to resemble Tim Burton–style trees. The spiraling branches of those trees intertwined with one another and spread across the ceiling. Another wall used handcrafted ironwork vines to hold books at unique angles, which wasn't the most practical bookcase, but it was visually stunning.

It was all wonderful, but my favorite spot was the children's nook, and not only because it had been my design. I simply adored seeing little readers enraptured by the colorful space.

Oliver said, “The cushioned toadstools are a nice touch.”

His tone was so dry I wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic, but after a moment, I realized that he was giving me a true compliment. My first impression of
him had been correct—his social skills were lacking. “Thanks. I think so, too.”

In the nook, I had created a forest mural alive with fairies and elves. Some were unmistakable amid the wooded realm, but most were tucked within the artwork, just waiting for a child to discover all the hiding spots of the magical beings. The toadstools provided comfy child-sized seating for those who wanted to linger over a book or get lost in the magic of the mural.

“I heard you paint as well,” I said to Penelope. “Evan Sullivan said you're helping with sets for the play?”

Oliver let out a bit of a huff, but Penelope smiled at him and patted his hand. “I dabble more than paint these days. I enjoy it too much to give it up, though I probably should, which is why I signed up to help paint scenery.”

I tried to imagine a Colorcrafter denying her creative pull and couldn't fathom it. If Penelope didn't “dabble,” she'd probably go stir-crazy.

“I've even managed to convince Oliver to volunteer as well,” she added.

“Painting?” I asked. He seemed the type to freak out about paint under his fingernails, never mind on his clothes.

“Set building.” It was said with a roll of his eyes before he looked upon his wife with adoration. “It is a testament to my love of this woman that I agreed at all.”

He smiled at her and for a moment their gazes held.

She might not have loved him once, but she certainly did now. There was no denying the devotion in her eyes.

For some reason, it only made me feel worse for Steve Winstead.

And Harper. If nothing else, they should like her because she looked at Marcus the same way they gazed at each other.

Oliver checked his watch. “We should go. Perhaps
Marcus has returned to his office. Darcy, if you see him, will you tell him to call us? It is quite important.”

“Sure.” I decided to test the waters, but I had to be careful. As much as I wanted information about Penelope and Miles' relationship, I had to keep in mind that these people standing in front of me might be Harper's in-laws one day. Finally, I said, “The last I heard Marcus and Harper were at the police station with my aunt Ve, so you might want to check there first. I'm not sure if you know that a skeleton was found in her garage this morning.”

Both nodded, but neither said a word about Miles or any kind of relationship Penelope might have had with the man.

“We should go,” Penelope said abruptly.

Oliver nodded. With hasty good-byes, they rushed out of the shop. He sheltered her with his body as they headed into the rain.

As I watched them get into a fancy sedan parked down the road, it was clear I'd struck a nerve with Marcus' mother when I mentioned the skeleton.

Angela came and stood next to me as soon as the two left the shop. “What was all that tension about? I was drowning in it.”

“They don't like Harper.”

Her eyes widened. “What? Why?”

Angela and her partner, Harmony Atchison, who owned the Pixie Cottage, had become good friends. At one time I suspected Harmony was a witch, but now I believed the couple—and Angela's daughter, Colleen—were mortals.

Angela had a fondness for literary-quote T-shirts, and today she wore one printed with the line
IN A HOLE IN THE GROUND THERE LIVED A HOBBIT.

“I think they'd prefer Marcus to marry someone with a law degree.”

“I see,” she said icily. “It seems to me that
their
degrees certainly didn't help them, because clearly they're idiots.”

I smiled and grabbed my cupcakes. Since Harper wasn't here, I'd head back to Ve's and try to make sense of the morning. “Clearly.”

“Let me guess,” Angela said, eyeing the Gingerbread Shack box. “Devil's food cupcakes.”

“A dozen of them,” I said, nodding. “Or, there was a dozen . . . before I ate three of them. It's been quite the day already.”

“I'd have bought two dozen if I were you. I've been hearing the rumors all morning about Ve and that skeleton. Harper got back fifteen minutes ago from the police station, but she went straight upstairs before I could get any real scoop.”

“Wait. What? She's here?”

Angela laughed. “Yeah, she saw Penelope and Oliver parking their car and went running. Told me to tell them she wasn't here. Now I understand why.”

I didn't blame my sister in the least.

Angela straightened a pile of books. “How's Ve doing? I hated hearing she was being questioned.”

I leaned on the counter and watched a toddler wobble about the children's area, her chubby arms full of board books. “Confused. We all are.”

“Understandable.” She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “For Miles Babbage to show up after all these years . . . And the way he did? It's shocking.”

I straightened. “Did you know Miles?”

A sheepish look crossed her face. “Kind of.”

“You were what, thirteen, back then? Fourteen?”

“Fourteen,” she said. “And best friends with a sixteen-year-old girl who found him utterly charming.” She rolled her eyes at that. “She'd drag me to the Roving Stones fairs to see him every time he was in town.”

“You didn't find him charming?”

“He wasn't my type, if you know what I mean. But . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“What?”

“There was something about him. I mean, it was strange. Because you'd approach him thinking he was just an everyday, average kind of guy, but then he'd talk. . . . And within minutes, you'd start to think that he was the best thing that ever happened to the village. My friend threw herself at him.”

It was as Ve had described, that Pied Piper mentality. “Did he take her up on it?”

It was a nauseating thought. After all, Mimi was just a couple of years younger than that girl had been.

“To his credit, no. Not even when she snuck out to where he was staying in the middle of the night, intent on seducing the man . . .”

Horrified at what she was saying, I held up a hand. “She did not.”

“Oh, she did. But every time she did it, he'd round her up and walk her home. She eagerly awaited his visits to the village. It about killed her the time he stayed away for a year. No one knew about his marriage—and divorce—to Ve until long after the fact. We all thought Miles had left as usual . . . and simply decided not to come back.”