The Witch and the Dead (16 page)

Wait. What?

She went on. “Without the power of that amulet the women might not have chosen him as a potential mate, necessarily, but while he was with them, wearing that amulet, no harm was done to them. None at all. And that's not all.”

“There's more?” It was hard to believe there could be.

“Because Miles infused that clay with its power, its magic died when he did. That amulet will lure women no more.”

“I don't understand. I thought amulets retained their charm, even after their creators passed on.”

“Not when the amulet is made of enchanted clay.”

I didn't think I'd ever learn all the ins and outs of the Craft.

“That's good news, I suppose.”

“Very good.”

“But I'm still struggling with the do-no-harm part. The fact that the women wouldn't have chosen him on their own . . . doesn't that factor as harmful? It feels like, I don't know, as though he took them hostage or something.”

“The amulet would have only lured the women to him. It would not have kept them there if they wanted to leave. They retained free will. I can only presume that once the women spent time with him, they chose to stay.”

“You mean on some level, they
wanted
to be with him?”

“That's exactly what I mean. It's not to say that Miles didn't have his motives for the women he chose, rich women, for example. But those women freely gave him what he wanted.”

“I'm having trouble grasping that these women stayed with him willingly. Penelope, for example. She was in love with Steve Winstead when Miles came back to the village. Surely she wasn't looking for someone else to seduce her. . . .”

“Was she in love with Steve?” my mother asked. “Has she said so?”

She hadn't. It had been Steve who'd told me. Had he been lying? Or had he been misled?

I stammered, “But Ve . . . The elopement . . .”

My mother raised her eyebrows, sipped her coffee, and said nothing.

I nearly fell off the swing. “You mean Ve
willingly
eloped with Miles?”

“In light of the revelation about the amulet, I'd say yes. Yes, she did. She's always been rather impulsive, especially when it comes to marriage. And she'd just broken up with another man. Miles showed up at the perfect time for a rebound relationship.”

“Did you tell her all this?”

“Last night.”

“How'd she take it?” I asked.

“Better than I expected. She's now willing to do the memory spell to recall that weekend. She'd like you to be there, so she's waiting until you stop by later.”

I gripped my mug. “For decades Ve believed she hated the man. What do you think she'll do when she realizes she actually
liked
Miles?”

“I don't know,” my mother said. “But we'll soon find out.”

I
was on my way to Wickedly Creative to meet Glinda when I spotted Oliver Debrowski coming out of the Witch's Brew with a cup of coffee in hand.

Ever so slightly, I altered my course and headed his way.

As I stepped up next to him, he didn't slow to a stop or change his stride. He walked with purpose, and I noticed he had an unusual gait, a slight hitch like speed-walkers used. A lot of hip swing and small steps. I almost smiled, thinking of him speed-walking around the village in his power suits.

“Hi. Beautiful morning, isn't it?” I asked.

A dark eyebrow rose as he glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. He adjusted his glasses, kept steady on his course, and said, “Yes, it is.”

I was grateful that we were headed in the direction
of Wickedly Creative, so I wouldn't have to backtrack. I was running a bit late as it was.

He walked like a man on a mission to get away from me, so I knew I didn't have time to beat around the bush. “I heard Marcus is thinking about dropping Ve's case. Do you know if that's true? Because it would be a shame. If this case progresses, Ve will need his help. As he's practically family, there's no one she trusts more.”

“Family?” he scoffed. “Let's not get carried away.”

A knot grew in my stomach, twisting hard. Harper's concern that Marcus' parents were out to break them up suddenly seemed very valid.

“Marcus is family to
us
,” I said.

Oliver glanced at me with what looked like pity, but he said nothing.

It was clear by his expression that he believed Harper and Marcus weren't going to last. Well, I didn't want his pity. He clearly didn't know Harper if he thought she'd give up Marcus without a fight. Truly, it was the Debrowskis who deserved any pity.

There wasn't even a hitch in Oliver's step as he said, “Technically, there is no case involving Ve. There's been no retainer. There's been no crime committed. It is a waste of Marcus' valuable time to continue to engage in the matter.”

“Actually, we don't know yet that there's been no crime committed. Nick should be getting the preliminary report from the ME's office today.”

“I reiterate: Until it is known whether Mr. Babbage was a victim of a homicide, there is no case. Marcus' talents are in high demand. He should not be wasting his time fighting imaginary battles.”

Mr. Babbage. So formal. “Did you know Miles?”

His stride faltered then, but only for a moment. “I knew of him, yes.”

“Did you ever meet him face-to-face? Have a conversation?”
Did you handle the adoption of his illegitimate child? A child born to the woman who was to eventually become your wife?
“A fight? That kind of thing?”

“I struggle to see why this is relevant, but no, I did not. I knew him only from sight and reputation. I've never had a fight in my life.”

There was a hidden “yet” in his voice as he looked my way.

It hinted that I was pressing my luck.

I was. As he said, I really had no business questioning him. So I bluffed. “It's relevant because I'm investigating the case for the Elder, which you know.”

“As I keep saying,” he said, as though I was too dense to understand his previous meaning of “reiterate,” “there is no evidence of a crime. Therefore, there is no ‘case' and nothing to investigate.”

“There was a dead man in my aunt's garage. That's certainly something to investigate—don't you think?”

“Not necessarily.”

“How's that?”

“Any number of reasons. He could have been drunk and went to sleep it off in the corner of the garage, only to die of natural causes. Heart failure. Hypothermia. A stroke. He could have fallen while trying to reach something from a top shelf. There are any number of reasons he could have died in that space, and none of them need investigating.”

I was getting nowhere fast with him. I changed tacks, thinking it was better to be up front with him in my questioning than roundabout. He seemed like the kind of man who abhorred the long way around anything. “Did you broker Vincent Paxton's adoption?”

At that, he came to a sudden stop. Momentum
propelled me forward, and I actually had to double back to him.

His eyes were hard as he glowered at me. “I do not think I need to remind you of attorney-client privilege.”

“I was wondering about that,” I said. “Because Vince can't find any adoption records. None. Nothing sealed. They don't exist. Even private adoptions have proper protocols. Which hints that it was an illegal adoption? Or maybe even a magical one. If that's the case, then is privilege a factor?”

“I think we're done here,” he said as he started walking away once again.

Faster this time. It was amazing how fast he could move taking such tiny strides.

He looked back at me. “I have nothing more to say to you, Darcy. If the Elder wants to speak with me, she can contact me directly.”

I had to jog to keep up. “Vince is looking for his parents. He suspects Miles is his father, which will soon be proven or disproven by a DNA test. But he has no idea who his mother is, except that she's from the village. He thinks she might be a witch as well, which has fostered his Seeking.”

Oliver suddenly darted right, crossing in front of me, his hips working hard. He clicked a key fob. A car parked nearby beeped as it unlocked its doors.

I had no other choice than to ask, “Is it true that Penelope had a relationship with Miles around the time Vince would have been conceived?”

His jaw came up, clenched. He pulled open the driver's door. “Leave Penelope's name out of your mouth. She went through enough with that man when he was alive. She should not have to deal with him when he's dead as well. Leave her out of it.”

He ducked into the car, slammed the door, and
backed out of the parking spot. I'd been expecting him to zoom off, but instead he kept his hands at ten and two as the car crept down the road.

My gaze turned toward the Trimmed Wick's storefront.

Why did it seem that the men in Penelope's life were intent on protecting her?

Why, exactly, did she need protection at all?

*   *   *

Wickedly Creative was a beautiful studio located about half a mile from the village square on old farmland that belonged to George and Cora Chadwick. The property held the couple's rambling farmhouse, a stable, outbuildings, a large garage with an upstairs apartment, and the art studio. I once thought the land felt more like a secluded compound, and I still felt that way.

The recently renovated two-story dairy barn was in itself a work of art, a mix of old and new. Gone were any traditional wooden barn doors, replaced with tall double doors made of steel and glass, with transom windows above and sidelights to the left and right.

In front of those doors stood Glinda. She headed my way when she spotted me. I glanced around for any sign of Nick but didn't see him or his police cruiser, which would have been easy enough to spot. I called it the Bumblebeemobile. It was a black-and-yellow MINI Cooper. There were other colors in use on the village police force, all chosen by Sylar Dewitt when he'd been village council chairman. He believed the cars would be less threatening to tourists.

He'd been right about that.

“George is waiting for us inside,” Glinda said as she met me on the wide walkway. Today her hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. She wore jeans, boots, and a belted sweater. “Is Nick joining you?”

“I thought he'd be here by now.” After all, I was
running late after having chased down Oliver Debrowski.

I pulled my cell phone from my coat pocket and checked for messages. Sure enough, there was one from Nick waiting for me. I'd most likely been pestering Oliver when it had come in.

“Here's a message from Nick from ten minutes ago,” I said. “He's on hold with the ME's office and says not to wait for him. He'll catch up with us when he can.”

As we headed for the doors, Glinda said, “Has he heard anything about Miles Babbage's preliminary cause of death?”

“Not yet. It's probably what he's waiting on hold to hear.” I glanced at her. “So, you knew exactly who Miles Babbage was yesterday, didn't you? Not from your mother but from Vince.”

“Sorry. Vince swore me to silence, but now it seems as though he's telling anyone and everyone. I heard he paid you a visit last night.”

“He came to my house after he couldn't get ahold of Ve. He thinks she is his mother.”

“We both know she's not,” she said. “He didn't steal a hair from your head when he left, did he?”

“Not that I know of.” The thought alone made me uncomfortable. “You're not really going to try to get DNA samples from villagers, are you?”

Groaning, she said, “It's ridiculous. But I'm afraid if I don't string him along a bit, then he's going to go off and start stealing toothbrushes or something.”

He'd pretty much admitted to that last night. “He tried to get Starla to take a test. She thought it was because he was trying to see if she was a witch. Little did we know.”

Glinda pulled open one of the glass doors. “Darcy, I wouldn't rule out the witch notion, either. He
probably figured two birds with one stone. . . . He's obsessed with witchcraft, and I don't say that lightly.”

I was grateful we'd gone inside and had to nix the witch conversation. I felt guilty I couldn't tell her Vince
was
a witch. It wasn't my place, though it certainly seemed like it was.

The studio was buzzing. Weekends were often their busiest hours, filled with classes in just about every art imaginable. People filled dozens of tables on the main level. Some worked with beads, others with fiber. The painting studios were toward the back of the space, walled off with glass. I could see Will Chadwick teaching a class, his students engrossed with their canvases.

The barn's second story was open to the main floor. The lofted space held additional classrooms, including the basket-weaving area, where Glinda worked part-time, and also the metal workshop, where Liam was often in charge.

Mimi was the reason I'd first come to this place, last January. She'd been working on a special gift for my birthday. A charm bracelet. It was still at Ve's, tucked away in the box that held all my favorite things. I wanted to wear it more often, but I feared losing a charm or, worse, the whole bracelet. Instead, I kept it by my bedside, where I saw it every night before going to sleep.

Octagonal skylights let in natural light that filled the space with warmth and energy. I followed Glinda as she weaved through the room. Cora was standing at a far table, watching over students as they repeatedly jabbed a blob of fiber with long-handled needles. She smiled and offered a wave.

I waved back.

I had nothing against George and Cora, but the whole ordeal with their son and Starla had been nothing short of heartbreaking. But seeing Cora's smile relieved some of the tension I'd been feeling.

And I realized it wasn't as uncomfortable to be around them as I'd feared.

Time was working its magic, after all.

“What are they doing?” I asked Glinda, pointing to the table where Cora stood.

“Needle felting. Today they're making a mouse, I believe.”

“One with a red vest that has gold buttons?”

She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “That's a little advanced for the beginner class, though I'd love to see it happen.”

Me, too.

We found George in the classroom adjacent to the painting class. It was a pottery studio, and it looked like a class had just ended. Freshly made lumpy pots and shallow dishes sat on a long table, and he was transferring them to a rolling cart.

“Darcy,” George said, greeting me with a grin. “It's good to see you again. It's been a while.”

A little more of my anxiety evaporated when I saw the kindness in his eyes.

I wanted to joke about always meeting under lousy circumstances, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. “It has,” I said. “Thanks for agreeing to talk to me about Miles.”

“No problem. I hope you don't mind that I talk while I work. Another class is due in here in fifteen minutes.”

“Not at all,” Glinda said. “Do you need help?”

He gave Glinda a kiss on her cheek and I noted the happiness shining in her eyes. The Chadwicks were essentially the normal family she hadn't had. Happy. Stable. Secure. “If you could move these pots to the cart, I'd appreciate it.”

She gave a nod and set about carefully making the transfers, handling each creation as though it was a piece of Tiffany crystal.

“Horrible situation with Miles,” he said to me as he walked over to a long stainless steel counter and started separating chunks of clay.

I trailed behind him and asked, “I know it was a long time ago, but do you remember much about him?”

Pale blue eyes blinked, and he took his time in answering. Finally, he smiled. “I might have lost my trim figure over the years, but my mind is still sharp. I remember those days well.”

He was a big-boned man, and even heavier now than the last time I'd seen him. There was a teddy-bear quality about him with his benevolent eyes, salt-and-pepper beard, and round cheeks that was comforting. Despite the lingering awkwardness of what had happened this past winter, I liked him.

George said, “Miles wasn't naturally outgoing, so he often came off as a loner, and people didn't like that about him. They thought him odd. But others found him charming once they got to know him.”

“And you?”

He set a flat slab of clay next to a potter's wheel. “I liked him well enough. He was creative, funny. But he was also a wounded soul. Those wounds made it impossible for him to stay in one place for very long or to have any kind of meaningful relationship.” George went on. “He'd had a rough childhood, moving around a lot. Never had much schooling. He was a self-taught artist, and a damn good one.”