The Witch and the Dead (24 page)

“Why?” she asked. “I need to take responsibility for what happened.”

“The thing is,” Nick said, “I don't think you had anything to do with Miles' death, not physically anyway.”

The breeze ruffled her bangs as her forehead furrowed. “I don't understand. It's my fault he fell and hit his head. . . .”

“That might be true, but his official cause of death
is strangulation.” He explained the medical examiner's findings and what it all meant.

“I don't understand,” she finally said, shaking her head.

“You said he was alive when you left the bunkhouse . . . ,” Nick began.

“He was, but . . .” She stared at Nick for a long moment, then suddenly stood up. “I need to go.”

Although she didn't run, she moved at a fast clip across the village green. We watched as she knocked on the door of the Trimmed Wick. The shop wasn't due to open for another couple of hours, so it was no surprise no one answered the knock. After a moment, she turned away and rushed off in the direction of her house.

I said, “She was looking for Steve, but he's probably at Wickedly Creative. He teaches a morning class there on the weekends.”

Nick nodded. “I want to talk to him, too, and also check the bunkhouse for that knife. Do you want to come with me?”

I jumped up. “Did you even have to ask?”

He laughed. “Well, go get changed. If we hurry, we'll be back before Mimi gets up.”

F
ifteen minutes later, we walked behind Wickedly Creative, traipsing through the grass on the way to the bunkhouse.

We'd had no luck tracking down Steve Winstead; George and Cora weren't expecting him at the studio for another fifteen minutes. We decided to bide our time by looking at the bunkhouse.

Nick had changed into his uniform, but he wanted to question Steve informally before bringing him to the police station.

I kept thinking about that wish Penelope almost made about Miles never coming into her life.

If he hadn't, there was a chance Steve would have had his happily ever after, after all.

And it was likely she wouldn't have married Oliver. There would be no Marcus.

Destiny.

My mother had spoken of it, referring to Vince. But it was applicable here, too.

This had been Penelope's journey, and altering it with a wish would have drastically changed the lives of so many.

Including Harper's.

I shuddered at the thought of her not having Marcus in her life and wondered if the wish would have even been allowed by the Elder.

She said we weren't to interfere with destiny. . . .

“You okay?” Nick asked, stopping to look at me.

“I'm all right.” I looked down. “This case is getting to me a little bit.”

“Me, too.”

We started walking again, and as we strode through a clump of clover, I stopped again. The clover . . .

“What is it?” Nick asked.

“I think I know how we can find that amulet.” I pointed downward.

“You want to look for a four-leaf clover?”

I laughed. “Not the clover specifically. Harper's spell. It's how she found our clover. She said it could be used to find lost objects, right? We use that spell, Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo, we know who has the amulet.”

He said dryly, “Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo?”

“Sorry.
Cinderella
's been on my mind since Archie complained about cleaning up popcorn.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “I'm not sure I want to know that story.”

“Oh, but it's a good one. Lots of theatrics.”

Grinning, he said, “With Archie, I wouldn't expect it any other way. You can tell me later. We'll stop by Spellbound on the way home to see Harper about that spell.”

Home.

I liked the sound of that very much.

Nick took down the yellow police tape crisscrossing the door of the bunkhouse, handed me a pair of gloves, and pulled open the door.

The bunkhouse didn't look all that different from the day before except it was a lot dustier. Fingerprint powder. I imagined after thirty years it had been quite the task to collect all of them.

Penelope's paintings had been unwrapped once again, and I was grateful it was the bird painting facing out from the stack.

I poked around a bit but didn't see anything I hadn't yesterday. I watched Nick over his shoulder as he sorted through ceramics tools. He held up the only one that looked as though it could do damage to someone. It was spotless. If it ever had blood on it, it had been thoroughly cleaned.

I heard a soft tap at the front door and turned to see Marcus stick his head in the doorway.

“Marcus, hi,” I said, instantly worried about his pasty appearance. He didn't look well at all.

“Sorry to bother you,” he said solemnly.

Nick leaned out of the bathroom. “Something wrong?”

Marcus' voice sounded as though it was being dragged over hot coals. “I just left my mom at my office. She said she thought I'd be able to find you here since she told you about the knife she used . . . that night.”

Anguish shone in his eyes, and I knew that if Harper could see him right here, right now, she would have understood why he'd stayed the night with his parents.

“She's still planning on going to the police station this afternoon,” he told Nick. “She wants the truth out, no matter what that truth turns out to be. She said she owed that much to Vince, since it looks like Miles was his father. Do you think she'll face any charges?”

Nick said, “I'm not sure. The case isn't close to being closed yet.”

Marcus nodded. “I'll be representing her, so I'll be with her as well.”

Nick nodded, and I wondered if this meant Ve was off the hook altogether. I hoped so.

Marcus cleared his throat and looked around. “My mother wanted to see if I could take her paintings home . . . before they're stowed away in an evidence locker.”

Nick looked like he was battling his inner policeman. Finally he said, “Go ahead. If I need them again, I know where to find them.”

“Thanks, Nick.”

As he crouched to gather them up, I nearly jumped out of my skin when the front door suddenly slammed closed.

Had the wind slammed it? I didn't think so. There was no wind today.

That slamming was quickly followed by another sound, a loud clunking. Very unnatural clunking.

Marcus rushed to the door. Pushed. “It's stuck.”

Nick gave it a shove as well, but it remained shut. He then ran at the door, kicked it. It didn't budge.

“Maybe if we all try at once?” I said, trying not to panic because suddenly the bad juju in the air was suffocating.

I jumped again when something hurtled through the kitchen window. A rock. It was quickly followed by a bottle that smashed when it hit the closet door. The scent of paint thinner filled the air.

Another rocked hurtled through the window, this one wrapped in a cloth that was on fire.

The kitchen ignited instantly.

Now I panicked.

All three of us rammed the door. Using shoulders, kicking. Anything we could think of. It wouldn't budge.

Smoke plumed, easily filling the small room.

The kitchen window was the only possible way out.

“Stay here and keep low,” Nick said, edging that way. “I'm going to jump out the window and get this door open.”

Coughing, I pulled him back. “No, don't go.”

“Darcy, I have to.”

Tears gathered in my eyes. I knew it was the only way, but I didn't want to let go of him. I tried not to think of Mimi. Or Harper. Or anyone. I finally nodded. “Be careful.”

“Wait, wait!” Marcus called.

“What is it?” Nick asked.

In the growing darkness, I saw Marcus flash a smile. “I wish we were outside.”

I could have kissed him then and there.
“Wish I might, wish I may, grant this wish without delay.”
I cast the spell by blinking twice, and suddenly we were outside, huddled together behind the bunkhouse.

“My mother's paintings!” Marcus surged to his feet and ran for the front door.

Nick went after him. “Marcus! Stop!”

I followed them, wishing he'd just
wished
for the paintings. As I rounded the front of the bunkhouse, I noticed people had started running out of the studio, rushing toward the fire. George was leading the pack.

Neither Nick nor Marcus was at the front of the small cottage. The front door was open wide and a couple of thick branches were on the ground. I realized they'd been used to brace the door, locking us inside.

“Nick!” I yelled into the building.

A moment later, he stumbled out, half carrying Marcus. Marcus had a tight grip on the soot-covered
paintings. Two of them, at least. The nude had been left behind.

Covered in soot himself, Nick pulled me into a hug. It was then, as I looked over his shoulder, that I saw a figure step out from behind a tree in the woods. A chill went down my spine.

Dressed all in black, the man had some sort of towel draped over his head like a monk's hood. He knew immediately that he'd been spotted.

I grabbed Nick's hand and pulled. “There's someone in the woods.”

Nick squinted and then sprinted into action. I followed him. “Who was it?” Nick yelled over his shoulder. “Could you see?”

I hurdled a log. “No. Just that it was a man. He's hiding his face with a towel.”

The man ran ahead of us, getting away even though it didn't appear as though he was even moving that fast. I could hear the sound of water and realized we were near a creek. Swollen with rainwater, it appeared suddenly as we crested a hill. It had flooded the area, cutting off any effective means of escape.

The darkly dressed man doubled back, tried to forge deeper into the brush. He tripped and fell.

Nick surged after him. He, too, fell hard. He let out a gut-wrenching moan. I caught up to him and bent down. Breathing hard, I said, “Are you okay?”

Pain filled his eyes. “My ankle . . .”

I took a look at his left ankle and felt woozy. It had already ballooned, looking like he had a baseball under his skin. I tried to give him a reassuring smile. “It's nothing Cherise can't fix.”

“I wish she was here.”

“Me, too,” I said. My gaze went to the man, who was not even ten feet away. It felt like a mile. The forest was
thick with undergrowth. He stumbled again before gaining his feet. When he spotted a path not covered in water, he darted to the right. I stood up to go after him.

Nick tugged me back down. “Let him go.”

“I can't. He tried to kill you in that fire.”

“He tried to kill
you
, too, and I'm not going to let him have a second chance to do it again.”

Anger built in me, that this person was going to get away with trying to kill us. My fury grew and grew until my skin practically sizzled with it. The man looked back as though wondering why he was no longer being followed, and I pounced on his hesitation.

I shot my arm out, made a circular motion with my hand. Three circles, counterclockwise. Just like Marcus and Andreus had done in Aunt Ve's kitchen. Then I made a fist and shot my fingers straight out.

A log lifted off the ground, tripping the man.

He fell with a jarring grunt, followed by a long moan.

I did the finger thing again, and a branch came down on his head for good measure.

Nick's eyes had gone wide. “Uh, Darcy?”

I kept an eye on the fallen man. “Yeah?

“How'd you do that?” he asked, doing his own version of the finger move.

I kissed him quickly and stood up. “Old witches
can
learn new tricks. Andreus and Marcus taught me yesterday. Do you have your handcuffs on you?”

Wordlessly he handed them over. I rushed over to the form writhing on the forest floor and quickly pulled the man's hands behind his back and snapped the cuffs on him. I then tugged him into a sitting position.

The towel had fallen from the man's head, but I'd already known his identity.

I'd known the moment he'd darted to his right, as I'd seen him do the same maneuver just yesterday, cutting me off in order to get to his car.

Oliver Debrowski stared at me, his eyes filled with remorse beneath a cut over his left eyebrow. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I didn't know what else to do.”

I sat on the log I'd used to trip him, trying to catch my breath. When I heard a noise behind me, I turned to find Nick hobbling this way, using a branch as a makeshift crutch.

Quickly, he patted Oliver down, and when he got to his sock, he hesitated. A moment later, he pulled forth Miles' amulet. With a heavy sigh, Nick handed it to me.

I felt ashamed of Oliver and sorry for him at the same time.

He knew of the amulet's power because Penelope had told him during the ride home from Cape Cod, and he'd undoubtedly believed that for the past thirty years, that amulet was the only thing keeping his wife by his side.

He'd been wrong. So wrong.

“You tried to kill your own son?” Nick said, his disbelief loud and clear in his outraged tone. “Why would you do that?”

“Marcus?” Oliver blustered. “What are you talking about? I'd never hurt a hair on his head!”

“He was in the bunkhouse with us,” I said as calmly as I could. “He came to pick up Penelope's paintings.”

The color drained from Oliver's face, and he swayed. For a moment there, I thought he was going to pass out, but he soon steadied.

“Is he okay?” he whispered.

“He'll be fine,” I said. At least he would be physically. Mentally, I wasn't so sure. Not after he found out what his father had done.

“No thanks to you,” Nick snapped.

Oliver hung his head. “I didn't see him go in. I didn't know he was in there,” he repeated.

As though that excused the behavior.

“It was you who strangled Miles, wasn't it?” I asked, having put two and two together after seeing that amulet.

His head snapped up. “How'd you . . .” He trailed off; then his eyes widened. “Does Penelope know Miles was strangled?”

“You haven't spoken to her since she paid us a visit this morning?” I asked.

His face drained of all remaining color. “No, I only saw her speaking with you in front of your house. Then I followed you both here. She knows . . . the truth?”

Nick said, “She thinks Steve killed Miles.”

I had thought so, too. I sent silent apologies to him. “How'd you even come across Miles that night?”

It had to have been that night, sometime between when Penelope fled the bunkhouse and when Steve went back to it. According to Steve's account, the place had been spotless when he'd returned, no sign of any blood at all.

“I followed Penelope there. I didn't trust Miles and wanted to make sure she would be okay. I was watching and listening at the kitchen window and heard everything that happened inside. His denial of being engaged to her, her anger. Everything. After Penelope ran out, I went inside. . . . Miles was holding a washcloth to his head and cursing up a storm. He didn't even question why I was there. He just kept cursing and telling me Penelope was crazy.”

Miles had most likely known who Oliver was because of Penelope. The memory-cleanse wouldn't have erased that knowledge. Not questioning
why
Oliver was there had been a mistake for which Miles had paid dearly.