The Witch and the Dead (9 page)

I'd heard several mentions that Miles had been gone from the village for a year before his return to the village the weekend he and Ve eloped. Where had he been during that time? Why had he stayed away so long? Everyone I'd spoken to thought the length of absence was unusual.

I said, “You mentioned your friend went out to where Miles had been staying. . . . Do you happen to know where that was? A motel? A campground?”

“Actually, whenever he was in the village, he always
stayed with the Chadwicks. In one of the outbuildings at Wickedly Creative.”

Steve had neglected to mention that little detail to me when he suggested I speak to George and Cora. And no matter how awkward it was bound to be, I saw a trip to Wickedly Creative in my future. I would rather not go alone, simply for peace of mind. I needed reinforcements. The kind that would be able to get George and Cora to talk openly about Miles Babbage.

Fortunately, I knew just the witch to call.

H
arper pulled open the door at the top of the wooden steps before I could even knock. She grabbed my arm and dragged me inside. Working quickly and efficiently, she slammed the door, spun the handle lock, turned the dead bolt, and slid the security chain. “They're not following you, are they?”

“Who?”

“Marcus' parents.”

“No. The last I saw of them, they were in their car. They're off to look for Marcus.”

They wouldn't find him.

I knew this because he was sitting on Harper's sofa. He must have come in the back door, since Angela hadn't mentioned his being here. He gave me a wave, and I smiled back since my hands were full.

Harper slumped against the door with relief. “Oh thank goodness.”

Wind shook the rain-spattered windows. A big storm was brewing. “If you discount their dislike of our family, they're not that bad. I just met them downstairs.”

“Not that bad? Oh, okay.” She crossed her arms with a huff. “I suppose you think Stalin was a humanitarian.”

She was speaking as though their son wasn't sitting on her couch, a pen in one hand as he wrote on a yellow notepad. Marcus looked up while he rubbed the chin of a very chubby orange tabby. Pie, the cat, had his head slightly raised to allow better access to one of his favorite scratching spots.

He said, “A Stalin comparison is a bit much, but they
can
be intense.” His green eyes held a mischievous spark from behind a pair of dark-rimmed glasses.

“Especially when they don't like you,” Harper added.

For a one-bedroom apartment it was spacious. Both the living room and kitchen had more than enough space for one. Or two.

It hadn't escaped my notice that over the past few months, Marcus had been gradually moving in here. I couldn't recall the last time he'd spent a night at his own place, a town house a few streets down.

Bright blue paint filled the living room with warmth and energy, and bookshelves lined two walls, making the room feel more like a library. Harper's taste wasn't eclectic just when it came to books, but also with her choices in decor. Shabby mixed with chic, traditional with modern, vintage with brand-new.

Her living room set didn't match in the least, with one sofa being a seventies-era gold monstrosity; the other, where Marcus sat, was a contemporary sleek faux-leather design.

He rolled his head as though his neck muscles had tensed. “They just need to get to know you better, Harper. They don't trust easily.”

“They've had time,” she argued.

“Not really.” His voice was laced with patience. “With their travels, they barely know you.”

It sounded to my ears as though they'd had this conversation many times.

Harper lifted an eyebrow, turned to me, and said, “Never mind that Penelope has never been fond of our family; she and Oliver really don't like that I have a police record.”

Harper had been arrested for stealing Missy back when we lived in Ohio. It was a long story about pet mills, an inhumane pet shop, and activist Harper taking a stand. Her arrest had shed light on the horrible situation, which eventually shut down all the cruel operations. We got to keep the dog. Missy was short for Miss Demeanor.

I couldn't help smiling. “Well,
technically
, neither do I.” No, I didn't particularly like that Harper had gotten arrested, but I had been proud of her for standing her principled ground.

She pushed away from the door. “This isn't funny. They don't care that I had my reasons. Valid reasons, I might add. To them, I'm nothing but a lawbreaker.”

I studied my sister. This wasn't her usual demeanor. She was a go-get-'em, take-no-prisoners kind of woman. She blazed her own trails, caring little what others thought of her, and focused instead on how she felt about
herself
.

Penelope and Oliver had rattled her.

Hard.

I handed her the pastry box. “Eat one of these.”

She sniffed it. “Devil's food?”

“Of course.”

She hugged the box. “I'm not giving any back.”

By the wild look in her eye, I could tell she needed the nine remaining mini cupcakes more than I did. “Keep them. I know where to get more.”

I shrugged out of my coat and sat on the gold sofa. The chunky wooden coffee table between the two couches was completely covered in old books, stacked four or five high. There were more books on the floor. I picked one up. It was a witchcraft spell book. I peeked at the publication date: 1896. I checked another and another. They were all about witchcraft in one way or another.

“A little light reading?” I asked her.

She already had a cupcake in hand. “What can I say? It's fascinating.”

The bookstore had been opened originally by a family of Spellcrafters. Last June, Harper had found a veritable treasure trove of witchcraft history hidden in the basement, left behind—or abandoned—by those who'd collected the books.

Harper picked up a book from the stack. “Did you know there's a spell that will dust your house for you?”

I looked for any dust bunnies in her apartment—saw none. “Have you tried it out?”

“No, of course not. You know how I feel. . . .”

I knew how she
said
she felt about witchcraft. She'd always been wary of her powers and opted not to use them. But by the looks of all these books . . . I believed that she would come around eventually.

“But
you
should try it, Darcy. Imagine never having to dust again. I'll loan you the book.” She held the hardcover out to me.

Loan
, not give.

The witch in Harper definitely wasn't as buried as she liked to think. I took the book, loving the feel of the worn cover. “Thanks.”

I looked over at Marcus. “Your parents are trying to get in touch with you.”

“I know. I've been screening my calls,” he said. “They've left a dozen messages on my phone.”

“They want him to drop Ve's case.” Harper peeled a wrapper from another cupcake. “They're insisting he walk away and let someone else handle it. Can you believe that?”

Actually, considering what I had learned today, I could. I still hadn't formulated any good way to break the news to Marcus that his mother had been involved with Miles, so instead I asked, “How'd it go this morning at the police station? How's Ve?”

“Ve is oddly calm.” There was a twinkle in Marcus' eyes when he added, “A lot calmer than Harper is about my parents.”

I glanced up at Harper. Her cheeks were pouched, full of cupcake. Licking her fingers, she rolled her eyes at him and dropped down next to me, still hugging the Gingerbread Shack box.

Marcus made another note on the legal pad, then said, “The questioning was fairly basic, considering the skeleton has yet to be identified. Nick worked on the theory that it is Miles and spent most of the time trying to fact gather. Ve didn't know much about Miles at all, so the conversation went nowhere fast. We're all in legal limbo until we get an identification and a cause of death from the medical examiner's office.”

Hope stirred. “So that means she's not going to be charged?”

“Not right now, at least. We have the added benefit of Nick being in charge of the case. He'll take his time, making sure he has an abundance of evidence before taking the matter to the DA. You know the last thing he wants to do is arrest your aunt.”

He'd do it, though, if he had to. And I couldn't hold it against him. It was his job. From an integrity
standpoint, he bent the rules more than he liked in order to accommodate the Craft in a mortal workplace. But when push came to shove, he was a good cop and took his job very seriously.

Harper licked the cream from the top of a cupcake and bumped me with her elbow. “How'd your morning go? Did you learn anything about Miles Babbage?”

My stomach rolled. “Yeah, some.”

“Like what?” she pressed.

“He's from Maine and was an only chi—”

I stopped talking, and we all looked upward at the ceiling as curious sounds floated downward. Footsteps. Tiny footsteps.

There was laughter in his voice as Marcus said, “‘And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.'”

I glanced his way and could easily imagine him sitting in a big chair by a fireplace where three stockings had been hung with care, reading
'Twas the Night Before Christmas
to a little girl who looked a lot like Harper.

My chest tightened a little as I slid a look Harper's way. She was smiling at him, her heart in her eyes, and I had to wonder if she'd pictured the same scene I had.

As the noise above our heads continued, Pie lumbered to his feet. His tail started swishing from side to side in anticipation of the visitors.

“Hello-o-o-o,”
a brash female voice called out. It was followed by a knocking sound near the ceiling light. “Anyone home?”

“We're here!” Harper answered. “Come on in.”

The rustle of tiny feet carried across the ceiling; then the sound faded. A moment later, one of the baseboards popped loose near the kitchen doorway and two mice wiggled through the narrow opening.

One was brown, a rotund little fella with round
eyeglasses. He wore a red vest that had three gold buttons. Its fabric strained ever so slightly over his pudgy stomach. The other mouse was pure white with fur that spiked stylishly between her ears. She wore a sleeveless pink velour dress that hung to the tops of her feet.

They were Pepe and Mrs. P, mouse familiars. Originally from France, Pepe was a Cloakcrafter, a master tailor, and had been a familiar for a couple of hundred years. Mrs. Eugenia Pennywhistle, known affectionately as Mrs. P, originally hailed from the village and had died last January, while in her eighties. She'd been a Vaporcrafter familiar for only ten months.

I considered both of them family.

Pie leaped off the couch, and whiplash-fast Marcus scooped him up again. He cuddled the cat like a baby and Pie settled right down.

Marcus had an uncanny way with cats.

“Has the wicked witch blown by yet?” Mrs. P asked as she scampered over to the gold sofa and climbed up the arm. Her delightful cackling laughter filled the air.

The sound always reminded me of Phyllis Diller's trademark laugh. It was infectious in nature, and I couldn't help smiling at the sound of it.

Pepe followed closely behind her. “By wicked witch, Eugenia is referring to Dorothy Hansel Dewitt. She was raging mightier than dear old Mère Nature when she left the police station only moments ago.”

Mère Nature. Mother Nature. One of the things I adored most about Pepe was his French accent and the way he could manipulate its tone from haughty to tender with the barest change of inflections.

With all the big happenings taking place in the village today, I should have known Pepe and Mrs. P wouldn't have remained at the Bewitching Boutique, twiddling their thumbs. They weren't ones to often let the village gossip come to them. They went to it. Clearly,
they'd been putting their stellar snooping skills to use at the police station.

They sat on the arm of the sofa, close to Harper's elbow, as I asked, “Was Dorothy at the police station to confess her affair with Miles Babbage?”

A bit of cupcake fell from Harper's mouth as it gaped open. “Her
what
?”

Marcus scribbled like crazy as I told them what I knew of Dorothy's affair with Miles—and how she'd run out of Third Eye earlier.

“Well, I'll be. That hussy!” Mrs. P exclaimed as her tail curved behind her.

“You didn't know?” I questioned. It seemed to me she and Pepe knew everything that happened in this village.

“No. This happened before I moved back to the village. Hot dog!” she exclaimed, rubbing her tiny paws together. “I love a good scandal.”

Mrs. P had spent a good chunk of her life living away from the village, after her first husband disavowed his powers and moved his family out of town. They had eventually divorced, and an unfortunate set of circumstances led to an estrangement from her daughter. And, as a consequence, her granddaughter. It had been a troubling family situation, and unfortunately it was one that did not have a happy ending.

“I fully expected Dorothy to confess the acquaintance,” Pepe said, picking up the thread of the conversation, “but
non
, it was not to be. She said nothing of the affair at all.”

With his little feet crossed at the ankles, he sat close to Mrs. P, their arms touching. They weren't technically married, but that label mattered to no one. For all intents and purposes they considered themselves husband and wife.

I shifted sideways to better face the mouse duo. “You knew of the affair, Pepe?”

“Of course,” he replied. “It was the talk of the village at the time. Of how Dorothy abandoned the honorable Joel Hansel and ran off with the village scoundrel.
Quelle horreur!
”

Honorable? It wasn't a word I associated with Dorothy in any way, shape, or form, so I was having trouble imagining she'd married a good, decent man. Or rather, that he'd married
her
.

“Joel was a lovely man,” Mrs. P added. “Such a talented furniture maker. He brought out the best in Dorothy, which was a marvel, considering her acidic personality.”

“Where is Joel Hansel now?” Harper asked.

Marcus jotted more notes. I assumed he had just added the man to his suspect list. As had I. I wanted to know the answer to the question as well. I knew nothing of Dorothy's first husband, the man who was Glinda's father.

Mrs. P's cheeks were a rosy red, thanks to a generous application of rouge. Her love of cosmetics hadn't wavered, even after she'd become a mouse. She said, “Long dead. Fifteen, twenty years now?” She glanced at Pepe for confirmation.