Wax (15 page)

“You sound like you're having a stroke.”

“It was
her,
Jill! I swear!”

“That's quite a jump to make, Pops. A jump that, dare I say, is impossible.”

“Well​—”

“And stupid.”

“But​—”

“Aaand impossible.”

Poppy pulled her phone away from her ear and put it on speaker. “Anne-Marie Grosholtz,” she said to Jill, scanning the Wikipedia page on the screen. “Grosholtz was her
maiden
name​—​she was of German descent but born in France​—​so it was a
French-
French accent, not French-Canadian like I thought​—​arrested during the Reign of Terror​—​made death masks of those killed in the French Revolution​—​collected
human heads,
Jill​—married François, had two sons​—​completed many sculpture collections​—​died at the age of eighty-eight​—”

“The key word here being ‘died.'”

“You want proof? I have proof! There's this
message​—”

“Pops, I had a reason for calling. Did you see the news?”

“No. I just woke up.”

“You just woke up? It's after noon.”

“
Don't judge.
What's going on?”

“The police announced that they'll be holding a press conference at three o'clock. They say they have new information about the arson investigation.”

“What?”
Poppy looked from the candle in one hand to her phone in the other. Surely human brains were not built for so much information and danger to be crammed in there all at once. “Do you think it's about me? Did they make any progress on the security footage?”

“I don't know.”

Poppy fumbled for her jeans, putting the Madame Grosholtz business on hold for the moment in the name of self-preservation. All that goodwill she'd built up since
Triple Threat,
the restoration of her reputation​—​it would mean nothing if her mug shot were splashed all over the place. “I have to get out of here before the police arrive. I have to figure out how to clear my name.”

“Are you crazy? Do you know how much worse it'll get if it looks like you're running away? The best thing you can do is cooperate and answer their questions. The
worst
thing you could do is leave the house​—”

“Meet me at Secret Service Way in fifteen minutes!”

∗ ∗ ∗

Against her better judgment, Poppy decided to leave Dud in the questionably capable hands of Owen for the day. Their list of shared interests was growing by the hour: in addition to cereal, they both enjoyed playing with toy cars, jumping on the furniture, playing hide-and-seek, and rolling leftover brownies into shapes that looked hilariously (to them) like dog poo.

“Have fun,” she said, leaving her parents as she'd found them: curled up on the couch drinking kale smoothies, captivated by Dud's perplexing island ways. “Just make sure not to let him leave the house. It's Sunday, which is sacred to Tristaners, because the, uh​—​the island was discovered on a Sunday, and they usually spend the day draping themselves in seaweed to commemorate the occasion. But he should be fine with keeping it sacred . . . at home.”

It would have to do. She mouthed, “Behave,” to Dud and headed for the door.

“We've got some leftover kale you can drape, Dud,” she heard her mother saying as she left. “Would that work?”

∗ ∗ ∗

Secret Service Way had nothing to do with the government agency of the same name. “Service Way” because it was a gravelly back road through the woods that bypassed the town and served as a shortcut to both the Grosholtz Candle Factory and the Paraffin Resort and Spa, and “Secret” because only the employees knew about it.

And their children. And their children's best friends.

Poppy bounced Clementine down the dirt road and came to a stop next to Jill, who was sitting in her mom's parked car. Up ahead, looking like a disoriented outhouse, was one of Paraffin Resort and Spa's patented “personal saunas”​—​a smattering of veritable closets dispersed throughout the woods where one could “be at one with nature” in a “totally private setting” to “sweat out the bad, soak in the good.”

Poppy could soak in a little good herself right about now. She rolled down her window.

“For the record,” Jill told her, “I am only here to prevent you from incriminating yourself further.”

“You think I want to be here? I had to leave Dud with my
parents.
Who knows what kind of a smoking crater my house will be reduced to by the time I get back?”

“And why
are
we here? What is this grand plan of yours?”

“We'll never get close to the crime scene if we go through the front. But if we go around the secret back way . . .” She grinned and stepped on the accelerator, leaving Jill and her reasonable protests in the dust.

Poppy hung a left and steered Clementine onto a smaller, less-used dirt road that wound deeper into the woods, up the small hill next to Mount Cerumen. Jill followed. After a few seconds of uphill driving, the trees began to thin, then clear completely at the top.

The girls got out of their cars. Below them, at the foot of the mountain, sat the Grosholtz Candle Factory, and above them​—​

“Whoa,” said Poppy, craning her neck upward. Her father had taken her here a few times when she was a kid to fly kites, but she'd forgotten how tall the towers were. “The motherships.”

The two shiny white cylindrical storage tanks stood before them, lording over the surrounding pines like teeth that had been knocked out of a giant's mouth. Each at least a hundred feet tall, with metal staircases curved up their walls, they were labeled
GROSHOLTZ CANDLE FACTORY #1
and
GROSHOLTZ CANDLE FACTORY #2
.

“I still haven't heard a valid argument for this plan of yours,” Jill said, joining her. “Why on earth would you want to get
closer
to the crime scene?”

“I don't know yet,” said Poppy. “But there's gotta be something there that'll prove I had nothing to do with this. And that Blake has everything to do with this. And with Madame Grosholtz being made of wax and all, maybe​—​Jill? Jill!”

“What?”

“Why aren't you listening to me?”

“I'm​—” Jill was frowning and sniffing the air. “Do you smell that?”

“Huh?”

“Smell. The air.” She closed her eyes and took a long, luxurious breath.

Poppy did the same​—​and stiffened. “What the heck?”

The air smelled of . . . nothing. No berries. No sandalwood. No coconut-pine-cinnamon-lime. That omnipresent, amalgamated odor that oozed its way into every crevice of Paraffin had dissolved into oblivion and was replaced by a flat, distilled scent.

“What
is
that?” Poppy asked.

“I don't know,” Jill said, giving tank #1 a kick. “But I think it's coming from this.”

Poppy frowned. “I thought these things broke when they got struck by lightning.” She walked up to #1's wall and tentatively put a hand on its surface. The thick metal was warm to the touch, but not so hot that she had to draw her hand back. It felt like an enormous coffee urn.

Poppy tapped her chin as she surveyed the tank's exterior. One spot featured a large gaping hole​—​created by the lightning strike, judging by its seared, jagged edges​—​but it was patched with nothing more than a thick translucent plastic tarp and what appeared to be a tight seal of Tackety Wax. Nearby, a large red button was set into the wall, and as it had been pushed in, Poppy guessed that it controlled the heat.

“I thought these were out of commission forever,” Poppy said, testing the tarp. It barely yielded beneath her touch, but it was clear from the way it bulged that there was some sort of liquid inside. “Why fix them when they've got such better, more advanced wax storage tanks?”

“I dunno,” said Jill. “I found a tank full of wax, and you have a waxy mystery to solve. Do I have to do all the work?”

Just then they heard a car crunching along the gravel of Secret Service Way.

Then it slowed.

Then turned.

And began climbing the road to the tanks.

Poppy inhaled. Was it the police? Or maybe the crazed arsonist, back to finish the job? “What do we do?” she asked Jill. “Hide?”

“They'll still see our cars!”

“So?”

“So your car is the most recognizable car in Vermont!”

“Not to a deranged mountain hermit arsonist who doesn't own a TV!”

While they argued, the car crested the top of the hill, rendering their conversation moot. And the driver turned out to be much worse than a deranged mountain hermit.

Blake got out of his car​—​Poppy didn't know what kind it was, only that it probably cost more than her house​—​and looked at the two girls standing before him. Confusion muddled his face. “What are you doing here?” he asked.

At the sound of his voice, Poppy recoiled. She'd worked hard to get rid of this habit, but it never failed to crop up in his presence, as if he were crumpling her soul like a used-up Post-it. But this time, with her innocence on the line, she managed to scrape up an ounce or two of bravery and stand her ground. “What are
you
doing here?” she shot back.

“Asked you first, Your Porkness. Surprised those stumpy little hooves of yours were able to get up this hill.” Cue the hyena laugh.

But . . . it didn't seem as though his heart was in it. And his eyes weren't narrowed and penetrating and mean the way they usually were. He seemed distracted, his gaze darting around the trees as if he thought he was being watched. As if he was going through the motions of insulting Poppy because that's what he was supposed to do, but in reality he had more important things on his mind.

Out of all the arson-related questions she could have asked next, even Poppy was surprised to hear herself blurt, “Who did you hire to make that sculpture of me?”

Blake glanced anxiously at the tanks. “I didn't.”

He left it at that. And that's when Poppy
knew
something was wrong. Blake Bursaw never, ever missed an opportunity to boast about his reprehensible accomplishments. He hadn't shut up about “Hogwash” for one second since Halloween. But now he wasn't rubbing his wickedness in her face. He wasn't bragging or swaggering​—​it was as if the prank had become an afterthought, only a day later.

“Oh, come on, Blake, I know it was you,” Poppy said. “I saw the video — that was your voice. You obviously​—”

“I didn't hire anyone to sculpt it,” he said, “because it was already sculpted.”

“What?”

But by this point Blake was full-on ignoring her. He walked right past the girls, toward the trees beyond the tanks​—​on a mission, it seemed. “Blake, wait!” Poppy sputtered. “Did you set the fire?”

He didn't answer. He kept walking until he reached the edge of the clearing, then disappeared into the trees.

“Forget about him,” Jill said, pulling on Poppy's sleeve. “Let's get out of here before someone sees us​—”

Before she could properly think it through, Poppy took off running, flying through the trees in an effort to keep Blake in her sights. Dodging branches and taking care not to trip over any tree roots, she soon spotted him up ahead, moving quickly but assuredly down the hill until he burst out of the trees. Moments later, so did Poppy.

She stood there, staring, as the dimensions in her brain reprogrammed themselves. She was looking at the Grosholtz Candle Factory, but from behind​—​an angle she'd never seen it from before. The retail store was in the distance; slightly closer was the warehouse area, a mess of delivery trucks and loading docks. Closest of all was the rear of the factory​—​including the charred ruins of Madame Grosholtz's studio. Bands of bright yellow police tape roped off the perimeter, but they didn't seem to deter Blake, who was confidently striding toward them.

That flutter of yellow snapped Poppy out of her confusion.
Why would he return to the scene of the crime?

And where is everyone?

The rubble was deserted. There wasn't a single police officer, detective, or fire marshal on site.

Blake didn't seem at all surprised by this. He ducked under the caution tape without hesitation.

Poppy shouted his name. He froze in an awkward crouching position.

She hurried down the rest of the hill, blowing past a Paraffin Resort personal sauna in the process​—​then retreating and turning left at the structure instead, as she'd blundered into a patch of thistles. She tried not to think about Madame Grosholtz when she finally stepped onto the warped wooden floor of the studio, but reminders of her were everywhere​—​piles of scorched fabric, the smell of burned lacquer in the air, the sheer cragginess of it all. And wax​—​so much wax, the molten residue of all those beautiful sculptures, colors swirled together, smooth and puddled and hardened on the floor in one big sheet, like a marbled ice-skating rink.

Poppy's breath caught. There, poking up out of the solidified wax​—​

Madame Grosholtz's glasses.

A few feet away: Her heavy black dress. A wad of hair. And a pair of dainty black boots that couldn't have belonged to anyone else.

It was one thing to pull facts from Wikipedia or read what had been written in the stone candle's engraved message. It was quite another to stand atop the proof, to literally walk across the melted remains of a centuries-old wax sculptress.

Poppy did what she could to pull herself together. “Where are the police?” she demanded of Blake. Her distress at Madame Grosholtz's disappearance had nowhere else to go, so it bubbled over and splashed directly onto him. “And what are you doing here?”