The Witch and the Dead (6 page)

Rightfully so.

She was scary.

I almost gave him one of my acorns but decided I needed to keep them all for myself. Dorothy at least
liked
Sylar.

She hated me.

My left eyebrow rose as I said, “She didn't really say ‘witch,' did she, Sylar?”

His chubby cheeks reddened. “I was trying to spare your feelings.”

I doubted it. If so, he would have said nothing at all. Dorothy's meanness was rubbing off on him.

Plus, he was probably still angry about losing the village council election to Ve. When she had declared her intent to run for his long-term position of chairman, in one fell swoop she became his adversary and, in turn, so did I. The family ties that bind . . .

“I've known Ve to have a temper,” he said, stroking his chin, “but to kill a man?”

I put my hands on my hips. “When has she had a temper?”

He sputtered. “Do you recall the showdown she had on the green with my beloved Dorothy last spring?”

Oh. Yes. There had been that.

It was a miracle there hadn't been bloodshed.

“Ve didn't
kill
anyone,” I stated firmly, then glanced toward the back room. “May I talk to Dorothy now?”

The sooner I got this over with, the better. This shop made me uncomfortable. Partly because I'd once broken into it and still felt shards of guilt poking my conscience.

And partly because it
felt
like Dorothy in here. It might be Sylar's shop, but it was her lair. It was as though her disagreeable aura surrounded me, even when she wasn't present. It was unnerving, to say the least.

“Certainly. I'll get her.” He strolled toward the doorway at the back of the shop, and I walked over to the display window. What I really wanted was to run through the front door and not look back, but I was pretty sure “chicken” wasn't part of my job description as Craft investigator.

I heard some doors opening and closing from the storage room and figured Dorothy was toying with me, making me wait on purpose.

That was, until I looked out onto the green to see her swishy tush hightailing it down the sidewalk, heading in the opposite direction from where I stood.

I turned and said, “Sylar?”

He stepped out of the back room and wiped his forehead with a tissue. Smoothing his spiky white hair, he said, “Dorothy, uh, seems to have stepped out.”

So I'd seen.

“Where'd she go?” I asked.

“I don't dare presume. A woman's mind is a mysterious creature, and Dorothy's is more puzzling than most.”

Truer words had never been spoken. I didn't understand why she did half the things she did.

“You don't think she's avoiding me, do you?” I asked, sidling back up to the counter where he stood. It certainly seemed that way to me.

“Dorothy avoids no one.”

He had a point, but that didn't explain why Dorothy was practically sprinting down the street in her four-inch heels.

“Besides, why would she?” he added. “What's this about?”

“She probably doesn't want me to ask her about Miles Babbage. Or, more likely, she doesn't want to answer any questions about him.”

“Miles Babbage!” he exclaimed. “Is that who Ve knocked off?”

By the twinkle in his eye when he said Miles' name, he'd already known the suspected identity of the skeleton found. He was poking fun at my expense and also testing my patience.

Dorothy was definitely rubbing off on the man.

I did my best to ignore his gibes.

“We don't know for certain it's him, but it's highly likely.” I bit my lip, wondering how much Sylar knew of Dorothy's past. Finally, I said, “I heard Dorothy used to know him fairly well. Has she mentioned him?”

“If you're speaking of her romance with the man, it's old news, Darcy.”

Relief swept over me. He knew, which meant that maybe he could answer some of my questions. I'd much rather deal with him than Dorothy. “New news, considering the skeleton . . . I'm guessing that whoever put the body in there had some sort of gripe with Ve and wanted her to be blamed for the crime.”

“Someone like Dorothy, perhaps?” he said, his displeasure with me filling his eyes.

I shoved my hands into my pockets. “Their discord
is
quite well-known around the village.”

“Be that as it may, it's a preposterous supposition that Dorothy was involved in the man's death. Ve certainly had motive enough on her own. You might recall that she has quite the track record for taking the easy way out of relationships.”

More poking. Two could play that game. “Well, it's certainly warranted on her part to cut and run if the man had been
cheating
.”

As Sylar had been the week before Ve was to marry him.

Sweat beaded along his hairline as he pressed his hands to his heart. “But for the loving grace of my Dorothy, I could have been that skeleton in Ve's garage . . .”

I couldn't believe he said “loving grace” and “Dorothy” in the same sentence. He wasn't only terrified of her but clearly besotted as well. It was a baffling combination. “Oh please.”

Ve killing Sylar would have been an act of mercy.

Because in my opinion, marriage to Dorothy was a fate worse than death.

Sylar folded his arms on top of his stomach bump. “What does all this have to do with you, Darcy? It's a police matter now.”

I couldn't tell him the truth about my job, so I improvised. “Ve doesn't deserve consideration as a suspect, so I'm doing everything I can to prove her innocence. Just as she and I once did for you . . .” It wasn't that long ago he'd been a suspect in a homicide as well. I let him stew on that for a moment before I said, “I'll come back later when Dorothy's here.”

I was halfway to the front door when he said, “You're barking up the wrong tree, Darcy.”

I looked back at him. I thought I spotted a speck of humility in his features. Maybe Dorothy hadn't quite turned him completely wicked just yet. “What tree should I be looking at, then?”

He dabbed his forehead with the tissue again. “Dorothy's relationship with that man was long over by the time he disappeared. She'd reconciled with her husband more than a year before. They'd renewed their vows and had gone on a lengthy second honeymoon around the world. By the time Miles returned to the village, she was four months pregnant with Glinda. She had no interest in Miles' return.”

For him to know those kinds of details off the top of his head after thirtyish years told me that he and Dorothy had been discussing this very topic quite recently. Perhaps even today. Perhaps only moments before she sprinted out of here.

I waited for him to go on. He clearly knew something he wanted to tell me.

“When I heard the skeleton in Ve's garage might be Miles Babbage, I was reminded of a fight I'd broken up between Miles and another man in the village. It occurred only moments after the man left this very shop, in fact. It seemed as though he stepped out the door and fists began flying. I checked my records, and sure enough the date confirms it was thirty years ago this very week. It was one of the last times anyone saw him
in the village. He married Ve a day later and then disappeared.”

“How do you know that about the marriage?” I asked. “I was under the impression that very few knew of the elopement when it happened.”

“That's very true. But several months later, Ve's petition for divorce became a matter of public record. Abandonment was listed as the grounds for the dissolution, as was the date of the elopement. It was fairly easy to connect the dots.”

That's right. Archie had mentioned that Ve had to put a notice in the paper since Miles wasn't able to be found.

“The divorce notice was all the talk around the village for quite a while. Gossip abounded with theories that Ve and Miles had been drunk as skunks when they eloped, and that once Miles sobered up, he ran for the hills. We all presumed that Miles hadn't returned to the village so he didn't have to face Ve's wrath.”

I winced, imagining Ve's embarrassment with the village chatter. I didn't point out that everyone had thought Miles
ran
off
and not that Ve killed him. I'd known Sylar's earlier bluster about Ve being capable of murder was just that . . . bluster.

I pressed on. “You said you broke up a fight. Who was Miles fighting with?”

“It was Steve Winstead.”

I jerked a thumb over my shoulder, motioning to the shops across the green. “Steve from the Trimmed Wick?”

“Indeed. He didn't own the candle shop back then, however. He was just another starving artist, selling his wares at craft fairs and the like.” He jabbed the air like an out-of-shape boxer. “He and Miles were going at it something terrible. The police were called.”

“Do you know what they were fighting about?”

“It wasn't a
what
, Darcy. It was a
who
. They were fighting over Penelope.”

“Debrowski?” I asked, shocked by the idea that Marcus' mother had been involved with any of this.

“She wasn't married to Oliver at that point, but yes.
That
Penelope.”

“Why were they fighting over her? Anything specific?”

He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I've no idea . . . but I can imagine.”

My mind was spinning. What in the world had Miles been up to? And how did Steve . . . and Penelope . . . and Ve factor into it?

I had a lot of work to do. “Thanks, Sylar.”

He tipped his head in acknowledgment and went back to his computer work. As I headed for the door, I tossed him one last look.

Sylar had spun me a nice, tidy story and had given me more leads to follow . . . but I wasn't ready to discount Dorothy's involvement with that skeleton just yet.

Not after the way she'd booked it out of here.

But now I wondered if she was truly running away from me . . . or from her past.

R
aindrops sprinkled the village as I dashed across the green, debating how in the world to tell Marcus his mother was possibly involved in a murder case.

I wasn't sure, but I knew one thing for certain. That kind of conversation required chocolate. Mini devil's food cupcakes to be exact, and there was no one who made them better than Evan Sullivan. The magic he added to the batter was the secret ingredient that allowed all his treats to deliver an aftertaste of pure contentment.

Contentment sounded really nice right about now.

A cool breeze chased after me as I hurried inside the Gingerbread Shack. I tugged the heavy glass door closed behind me instead of letting it shut on its own. Outside, the low clouds had darkened ominously, and a sudden sense of apprehension sent a shiver through
me, leaving me unsettled. As Harper would say, there was bad juju in the air.

Being inside the bakery alleviated that feeling somewhat. How could it not, with its soothing scents of vanilla and chocolate and a hint of hazelnut? I also caught a whiff of nutmeg and apples, most likely from Evan's seasonal apple pies.

The shop was relatively quiet, with only a few tables full of guests. Large framed close-up photos of cake slices hung on the walls, and white beadboard trim lent a homey feel to the space.

Smiling at the young woman behind the counter, I headed straight for the big glass display case at the rear of the shop. She was another new hire. It was just one more sign that after the tragic death of a former employee, Evan was finally starting to live life again instead of letting life live him. He was still dating FBI agent Scott Abramson and had started taking more time off to enjoy other pastimes.

Like directing a play.

He was an accomplished stage manager, but taking on a bigger role at the playhouse meant relinquishing even more control here at the shop. Which he had done, and it was a joy to see.

My gaze skipped over the rows and rows of tiny confections. The bakery specialized in miniature delights, and Evan's creations never ceased to amaze me. Beyond being delicious, they were beautiful.

Cupcakes took up much of the case. Toffee crunch, triple chocolate chunk, mint swirl, white chocolate espresso, to name a few. Each had a thick swirl of frosting, and some had additional toppings such as shaved chocolate, toasted coconut, and jimmies. There were bite-sized cheesecakes, delicate squares of tiramisu nestled in foil liners, brownies, cookies, and tiny pies.

The choices were endless, but when I was stressed-out, I always picked the same thing.

As I ordered a dozen mini devil's food cupcakes and a cup of coffee, Evan stuck his head out of the kitchen.

“I thought I heard you out here.” He eyed my order and frowned. “Get your coffee and come back here with me.”

“Bossy,” I teased.

“It's what I do best.” He ducked back into the kitchen.

Smiling, I walked over to the coffee station. I filled my paper cup to the brim, set the lid, and grabbed a sleeve. As I took a sip, the warmth seeped deep into my bones. I spared a glance out the front windows and noticed leaves racing down the road as though trying to leave the village as soon as possible. As if they, too, sensed the bad juju and had implemented an emergency evacuation plan.

Fighting the urge to join them, I headed for the kitchen. Behind a long stainless steel worktable, Evan sat on a stool with a mixing bowl on his lap and a wooden spoon in his gloved hand. Even though he had half a dozen stand mixers, he almost always preferred to mix his batters the old-fashioned way. The chocolate in the bowl was thick and creamy and calling my name. I didn't know what it was, but I wanted to take the spoon from Evan's hand and dig in.

I held out my to-go box. “I'll trade you.”

Evan's gaze narrowed. “No way. Do you know how many raw eggs are in here? You'll get salmonella for sure.”

It was not the first time he'd warned me of that particular risk. “I'll take the chance.”

“No. Eat your cupcakes and tell me more about what happened at Ve's today.”

It had been worth a try. Darn him and his health consciousness.

It was warm in the kitchen, so I shrugged out of my coat and sat on a stool on the opposite side of the counter. This small space was a lot like Evan. Neat and tidy and a little bit whimsical. He preferred colorful ceramic mixing bowls to stainless steel, old cooking utensils to new. He often said the vintage items had a magic of their very own. I believed him. “How much do you already know?”

“Starla stopped by a little while ago and filled in most of the blanks. By the way, how about her and Vince?” He grimaced as though stricken by a sudden migraine.

“I know. I feel for her. And him. Mostly her, though. It's a tough situation.”

“I thought he had changed,” Evan said, shaking his head.

“Maybe he did. Just not enough.”

He sighed and stirred the batter with more vigor. “If he hurts her, I'll kill him.”

The thought of Vince causing her any pain made my stomach churn. “I'll help.”

He gave me a firm nod and a quick smile. “Now that we have that settled, is that skeleton really Ve's ex-husband?”

“We don't know for sure yet, but it looks that way.” I moved a large tray of eggs down the counter, set down my pastry box, and took another fortifying sip of coffee. “Miles Babbage.”

“Babbage,” Evan said, enunciating carefully. “Bab-bage.”

“Do you recognize the name?”

“No,” he said. “I just like saying it. Babbage. Bab-bage. Cabbage. Babbage's cabbages.” His voice soared high and dropped low as he kept repeating the name.

I studied him carefully. “Have you been drinking on the job? Making rum balls or something?”

He laughed. “No. It's just an unusual name. I like it.”

“Starla thought she'd heard it before. . . .” I bit into one of my cupcakes and waited for the rich chocolate to work its magic. It didn't take long before my stiff muscles relaxed. The bad juju I'd felt only moments ago suddenly seemed as if it were a distant memory.

“Well, I haven't. I'd have remembered that one.
Bab . . . bage
,” he growled.

I couldn't help smiling. Because he seemed happy. He
was
happy. Which made me all kinds of happy for him. I'd been so worried about him this past spring.

An oven timer dinged and Evan placed the bowl he'd been stirring on the counter behind him—out of my reach. He knew me well, too. Using an oven mitt, he pulled a batch of fudge cookies from the oven and slid the pan onto a tall cooling rack loaded with similar trays.

His movements were swift, precise. The actions of a man who'd done this a million times before. A long white apron was tied around his waist, covering all but the hem of his jeans, and he had on a pale blue T-shirt that matched his eyes and complemented the ginger tones in his short hair.

He reclaimed the batter he'd been mixing and sat back down. “How's the investigation going so far?”

“It's just started, really. I need to find out more about Miles—his history—and that's going to be challenging. He was essentially a transient with no relatives here in the village. I don't know where he stayed while here or if he had any friends other than the lady kind. After I leave here I'm going to see Pepe and Mrs. P. I can only hope they remember something I can use to fill in some blanks.”

The pair of mouse familiars were not only dear
friends but also village historians. If Miles truly was some sort of village Casanova, surely they'd have juicy gossip to share about the man.

I ate another cupcake. “Miles was a ceramic artist and often traveled with the Roving Stones. Since Andreus is supposed to be in the village this weekend visiting Ve, I'm hopeful that he might be a good source, too.”

Evan shuddered at the mention of Andreus' name.

I knew the feeling.

“What's with all Miles' lady friends?” Evan asked. “Starla mentioned something about that.”

I told him about Ve's description of the lecherous man, then leaned in and wiggled my eyebrows. “I don't know how many girlfriends the man had here in the village, but I heard he had an affair with Dorothy Hansel Dewitt.”

He laughed. “Get out!”

“It's apparently true.” I relayed what Archie, then Sylar, had told me about the witch.

Evan whistled low. “I can definitely see Dorothy stashing the guy's body in Ve's garage so Ve would get blamed. That kind of move is right up her alley.”

I agreed, but after what Sylar had just told me about Dorothy having been long reconciled with her husband and pregnant with Glinda when all this took place, it didn't seem likely. She'd moved on from Miles. Or he from her. I wondered who'd done the breaking up in that situation. . . .

“Then,” I added, “Sylar dropped a bombshell about Miles and Steve Winstead fighting in front of Third Eye the day before Ve married Miles. Sylar said the fight was over Marcus' mother, Penelope, who wasn't married to Oliver at the time.”

I wondered when she'd met Oliver, because Marcus was in his late twenties. It couldn't have been too long after all this had happened.

Evan stopped stirring. “Wait. What? Miles was fighting over Penelope the day before he married Ve? Why?”

“I don't have a clue, but Ve said she'd had nothing to do with Miles until the day he showed up at As You Wish to hire her. Had never had any dealings with him and knew him only by reputation. They eloped that afternoon.”

“You're kidding.”

“I wish.”

“She married him the day she met him? Why?”

“It's part of the mystery,” I said, “since she can't remember much about that weekend at all.”

“This is all so bizarre.”

I completely agreed as I ate another cupcake. “How well do you know Penelope?”

He tipped his hand from side to side. “Fairly well. She drops in when she's here in the village. She's . . . quirky, a mix of serious and lighthearted. Enjoys art, nature, photography, books. To look at her from afar, you'd automatically think
soft
. Yet . . . I wouldn't cross her. There's something in her eyes, almost a warning. There's steel beneath that softness. What do you think of her?”

“I've never met her.”

“That's surprising, considering how close Harper and Marcus are.”

“She travels a lot, and apparently she's not a big fan of my family.” I explained what Ve had said about Penelope's jealousy.

He banged the spoon on the side of the bowl and grabbed a scraper. “I can't see jealous. Envious, maybe. It probably stings for her to see your family living the kind of lifestyle she wanted and couldn't have because of her parents' interference. It's easier for her peace of mind to keep her distance from all of you.”

Leave it to Evan to look at the situation rationally.

“And you're going to meet her tomorrow,” he added as he grabbed a brownie pan. “She's in your scenery crew. I thought I told you.”

“No, I'd have remembered that.”

“Oh. Well. Sorry.” He grinned, not looking sorry at all. “She'll be at the scene shop helping paint sets tomorrow afternoon. She and Oliver will be in town until Samhain, so last time she was here she volunteered to help out once she learned I was running things.”

Knowing I'd see her tomorrow gave me time to prepare. I'd see what I could find out about her and Miles beforehand, and hopefully she wouldn't mind answering a few questions after the build session.

“Did you talk to Nick about helping to build the sets?” Evan asked.

“He said he would. Between him and Hank Leduc, those are going to be the best sets the playhouse has ever seen.”

“Hank?”

I waved a hand. “Long story.”

He grabbed my hand and his gaze narrowed on my ring finger. “I don't see anything sparkly yet.”

I pulled out of his grip. “What? My personality isn't shining through?”

With a grin, he said, “What's Nick waiting for? We all know he's had the ring for months.”

Mimi had apparently let that detail slip to a lot of people. “He must have a plan. I'm patient. I can wait.”

“Well,
I'm
running out of patience fast.”

“Good thing he's not thinking about marrying you.”

He laughed. “Our kids would have been so gorgeous, too. It's a shame.”

They would have been. Then I got to thinking about the kids I might have with Nick and my heart went all mushy.

Evan carefully poured his batter into the brownie pan. “And I think the problem is that Nick
doesn't
have a plan.”

“What's that mean?”

“Oh, I can see it,” he said, leaning the scraper against the side of the bowl. “He's probably trying to plan this big to-do. Fireworks or skywriters or something like that.”

I laughed. “Nick's not a skywriter kind of guy, and I wouldn't want him to be.”

“
We
know that, but does he? Because he's waited so long, there's this huge buildup happening. He's probably feeling the pressure to do something big and bold. Do you want me to talk to him? I'll talk to him. I'll do it. Tomorrow afternoon, I'll pull him aside, give him a stern talking-to.”

I had the feeling he'd been talking to Harper. Laughing, I said, “Settle down, Dad. Nick will ask when he's ready.”

“Yeah, well, we'll see.”

I was going to have to keep an eye on Evan, make sure he didn't corner Nick tomorrow. I retied the pastry box and was glad I bought a dozen mini cupcakes. There were nine left, and I had the feeling I'd need the leftovers this weekend. “Speaking of tomorrow . . .”

Evan shook the scraper at me. “You're not trying to back out of helping me with those auditions, are you?”

A speck of batter landed on the top of my hand, and I licked it off. “Oh my God. Can I take that pan home with me?”