Something Wicked, page 10
Normally I might pretend to make it a healthy well-balanced meal by adding a side salad, but I couldn’t be bothered to fake it tonight. Who was I going to impress—the cat? I poured the jarred sauce directly onto the strained pasta, and the extent of my fancy life choices were some nice, petal-shaved parmesan flakes and fresh basil leaves from the little pot Eudora kept in her kitchen window.
Add some fresh ground black pepper and voila, a lazy meal that could almost pass for rustic gourmet if you squinted at it long enough.
I dumped the whole thing into a big pasta bowl and with a glass of wine in tow, Bob and I made our way to the living room.
In spite of the mostly antique wares in the house, Eudora had an incredibly modern entertainment setup in the living room. About a year before she died, she had splurged on one of those fancy TV sets that looked like framed art, so when I walked into the room, it was set to John William Waterhouse’s The Lady of Shalott, the iconic, sad portrait of a heartsick women in her boat, headed to heaven knows where.
Eudora had loved the real painting and had a few other Waterhouse prints stashed around the place, including The Magic Circle, which was so damned witchy it was a wonder I hadn’t figured out the truth about my aunt a lot sooner.
Honestly, I must have known all along, but I think I’d assumed she was one of those hippie “witches” who charged their crystals under a full moon and thought burning some palo santo sticks was the height of enlightenment. Never in a million years had I thought she was a witch witch, who was capable of genuine influence over others.
Instead of thinking too much about what that made me, and whether I should be upset about not getting my letter to Hogwarts as a child, I plopped down on Eudora’s overstuffed crimson velvet sofa and turned on the big TV.
There would be plenty of time to worry about my potential latent magical powers or question whether my new crush might be a murderer.
For now, there was Bob’s Burgers and pasta.
Chapter Twenty-Two
That night I dreamed I was caught in a spider’s web.
I was small, the size of a fly, or maybe the web was as big as my house—it was impossible to tell within the confines of the dream. First, I noticed a sticky feeling under my hands, but as I lifted them to see what I had touched, they wouldn’t budge.
Then as I struggled to get my hand free, my arm became stuck, and the more I moved and thrashed, desperate to get free, the more the web kept me tightly in place. I tried to scream, but my voice was useless and empty. Nothing came out, and there was no one here to help me anyway. I was alone in a void of blackness.
As it became abundantly clear I would not be able to wrench myself free, the web began to vibrate and hum. At first, I thought it was just from my struggling, but soon the sensation began to move closer, and it reminded me of the way you could touch railroad tracks sometimes and feel the movement of a train that was still a long way off.
Something was coming toward me, and it was incredibly big.
I swallowed hard, my heart pounding so loudly the throb of my pulse was the only thing I could hear. The creature came closer and closer, the web beginning to bob and shudder, and then just as the spider was about to emerge from the darkness, I was suddenly standing in the middle of a sidewalk. I could tell I was on a block in Raven Creek, but there were no houses or stores on either side of the sidewalk, just the same inky blackness.
The sound of footsteps on concrete echoed from the darkness, getting louder as they grew nearer. I didn’t know where I was or which way might get me to safety, nor could I tell where the footfalls were coming from.
Without a doubt, I knew that whoever was running toward me was the person who had killed the man behind my store, and if I could just see through the darkness, I would know who it was, once and for all.
Instead of dread, I squinted, urging it to come closer, come closer. An unfamiliar tingling sensation tickled my fingertips, and there was a buzzing sensation at the base of my brain, like I was trying to remember a word or a gesture that might help me part the shadows.
I felt so close to what I needed—if I could just reach out a little further, see a little better, remember the missing words.
Then, from the dark under me, Eudora’s voice said, “You’re not ready for this just yet.”
* * *
I sat bolt upright in bed, panting from the adrenaline of the nightmare and swatting at my arms as if there might be little spiders all over me even now. Spiders freaked me out at the best of times, and it had taken almost my entire adult life to be able to deal with them without the help of a parent or my ex-husband.
Now I was probably going to need therapy before I ever looked at one again.
Yikes.
Talk about a messed-up dream. The eight-legged monster had been a spider, yes, but then it had become something else. At first I thought it had also been the killer, like I knew the answer to the puzzle, and all I’d needed was that last little piece, the glimpse of the monster’s face. But then I heard Eudora’s voice, and it made me wonder if maybe it wasn’t the killer, but rather something else my mind wanted to reveal to me.
All of this was crazy, of course. A dream couldn’t tell me who had killed my would-be thief. That remained a job for the police in spite of my complete and utter lack of willingness to let it go. And a dream couldn’t tell me secrets about myself either.
Could it?
I glanced at the alarm clock on my bedside table, which told me it was shortly after five. I could try to go back to bed for an hour before getting myself ready for the morning pastry pickup, but after that dream I wasn’t really sure I ever wanted to close my eyes again, thank you very much.
Sighing loudly, I kicked off my duvet, regretting it instantly when the cold wall of early morning October air hit me. At least it wasn’t so cold that it suggested the furnace was off again. No, this was just the usual late autumn reminder that I was better off in bed.
I decided the best thing for my nerves and my restless mind would be a good run. I’d been neglecting my fitness routine throughout the course of my move, which meant I’d done little more than pack boxes for the past six weeks. Now that I was settled, it seemed like as good a time as any to get back into my normal rhythm, which usually consisted of a nice three-mile run every morning, followed by a scalding-hot shower and a good cup of coffee.
Every part of that sounded ideal to me right about now.
I rifled through my drawers, trying to remember where I’d stashed my workout apparel, then slipped into some running gear that would protect me from the chill of the morning air but that I wouldn’t melt in. With my shoes on and my earbuds tucked into my ears, I gave a still-sleepy Bob a farewell pat and locked the front door, tucking the key into the zipper on my sleeve.
The sun wasn’t up by the time I hit the sidewalk, but the horizon was turning the light purple hazy shade that indicated sunrise wasn’t far off. Since I wasn’t used to running in Raven Creek yet, I decided to just stick to the nearby residential areas and loop back to Main Street before heading home. I was sure there were some great running trails nearby that would get me into the wilderness, but for now I wanted to stay where I could easily find my way back to the house.
Even though it had been weeks since I’d last been running, I soon found my stride—perhaps a little slower than I was accustomed to—and turned the volume up on my music to keep me motivated on my pace. Daft Punk was my favorite for runs because it was such a consistent drive that I never wanted to slow down.
Fifteen minutes into the run I started to turn toward Main, knowing I probably only had about another fifteen minutes more to go to hit my three-mile goal, and I wanted to be back home when I did. As I turned down Mockingbird, running past all the dark houses, only one or two lights on to indicate other people in town might be starting their day, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.
Someone was standing in the middle of the sidewalk.
It was still dark enough out that I couldn’t make out their face, and they wore a large hat and bulky coat, making it completely impossible to even tell if it was a man or a woman, whether they were fat or thin. The figure was at the end of the block, outside the light of the nearest streetlamp.
I stopped running.
At a different time, in a different place, and with one fewer murders, I might not have even noticed them. I might have assumed it was someone walking to work or taking their dog for a morning potty break.
But not today.
The figure didn’t move, but just stood there in the middle of the sidewalk. They weren’t exactly blocking me, and they weren’t close enough to be actively threatening, but all the same, I was terrified and had no interest in getting any closer to this person.
As I glanced over my shoulder, trying to decide the best direction to run to get away from them while also heading to a more populated area, they started walking toward me. They weren’t running, but the strides were fast and purposeful. I didn’t want to lead this person to where I lived, but turning back and running toward home seemed like the only logical plan, since they were blocking my way to Main Street.
I turned off my music, the stupid, polite-neighbor part of my brain wondering if maybe they were trying to get my attention.
No, they weren’t saying anything; they were just moving toward me quickly enough that I knew I ought to get the heck out of there.
I ran.
I ran without looking back or thinking about anything beyond putting one foot in front of the other and setting a new personal best for getting myself to the safety of my home. Even though I couldn’t hear them behind me, I continued to run at practically my top speed until Lane End House appeared around the bend.
Slowing down just enough that I could recover my key without dropping it, I took the stairs two at a time, unlocked my front door, and threw myself inside, hurriedly locking it behind me.
It was only when I was safely inside and the adrenaline began to fade that the shock and fear really hit. I slumped to the floor in front of the door, pulling my knees against my chest, and took some slow, steadying breaths to try and regain my composure.
Once again, the logical part of my brain tried to tell me I was making too big of a deal out of this, and that there was a good chance one of my new neighbors now thought I was a crazy person for running away from them when they were just going to say hi.
But the part of me who had seen one too many scary movies knew it hadn’t been crazy to run away, and that sticking around to be polite was how well-meaning people got themselves killed.
At the end of the day, someone had been murdered, and I didn’t feel like being the next person on the list.
Chapter Twenty-Three
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Amy announced when I dragged myself into her café an hour later.
Evidently the hot shower and a layer of my most expensive makeup had done nothing to keep me from looking like a shell-shocked scaredy cat. Oh well.
“Whatever the special is today, better make mine a double.”
She smiled, though the concern she’d shown when I walked in hadn’t left her eyes. It seemed like she wanted to ask me more about it, but instead she set to work filling up a paper cup for me.
The café smelled like cinnamon and fresh bread, and just being so close to so many incredible smells was doing wonders to steady my frayed nerves. My two big pastry boxes were already waiting for me on the counter, a large smiley face drawn on the top in black marker.
“I heard that Dierdre came into the shop yesterday and caused quite a scene. I really hope you’re not letting her get to you. She’s a lot of huff and puff, that one, but she won’t actually blow your house down.”
I leaned against the counter with one hip, crossing my arms over my chest and wrapping my thick cardigan around me as I did. Between the oversized sweater and the scents floating around the café, I could almost transmute myself back into being okay.
“I don’t know about her,” I confessed. “Folks make a lot of excuses for people like Dierdre Miller, and then suddenly those same friendly neighbors are being interviewed on the news, saying things like “She was always so quiet and reserved, none of us ever thought she’ d secretly be an axe murderer.”
Amy laughed as she poured steamed milk over my drink. “We might say a lot of things about Dierdre, but quiet and reserved will never be among them. You don’t actually think she had something to do with the murder, do you?”
“Are you going to give me the same lecture that Shoe Store Owen did yesterday?”
Amy set the drink down in front of me. It smelled chocolatey and delightfully full of sugar and coffee. Heaven. I resisted picking it up and sipping it immediately because I didn’t feel like burning my mouth, and also because Amy looked like she might have something to say.
“Owen Talbot?”
“Yeah, are there a lot of Shoe Store Owens running around?”
“No, just the one. What did he say to you?” She seemed genuinely curious, but a little more curious than my comment perhaps warranted.
“He gave me a bit of a lecture on how people in this town are good to each other, and we don’t run around accusing each other of murder—something along those lines.”
“Hmm.”
“Hmm?”
“It’s just funny that Owen would come in at all. I think he’s still pretty mad about what Eudora’s estate lawyer said to him.”
Now this tidbit was news to me. I hadn’t heard anything about Owen before meeting him yesterday. What could he have possibly wanted from Eudora’s lawyer? Did he think he was supposed to be in the will?
Oh goodness, had he and Eudora been … an item?
I somehow couldn’t picture her smooching Owen, even if he was pretty handsome for his age. He was a little too much to be someone I could imagine Eudora with. Their personalities would have clashed from day one.
“When your aunt died, two people were very interested in picking up her lease on the shop, to close it up and start something new. One of them was Dierdre.”
“So, she wanted the house and the shop. Wow, she didn’t waste much time circling the grave, did she?”
Amy gave me a soft smile and continued. “It didn’t matter. I’m sure the lawyer explained this to you, but maybe the importance didn’t sink in at the time. I imagine you were dealing with a lot when you inherited the estate. But Eudora must have added your name to the shop’s lease before she died. The way Main Street leasing agreements work is that the shops can be owned by families in perpetuity for as long as someone in the same family is listed on the lease.
Dierdre probably thought that because Eudora had no children, the lease had restored to the landlord after Eudora died, and she was very interested in getting her hands on the location. It’s a pretty prime space, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“I can see why.” I hadn’t realized Eudora had done that for me. It showed how much faith she had that I would uproot my life and come run her beloved store. I was a bit surprised she hadn’t explained it in her letter, but Amy was right: the lawyer had probably said something when I hadn’t been paying complete attention. “What does that have to do with Owen?”
“Well, Dierdre wasn’t the only person who wanted to get the lease on that shop. The other person was Owen Talbot.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Entering my shop in a daze, I wished Imogen were there to open with me so I could talk to her about what I’d just learned.
Since it seemed like everyone in this town was enmeshed in all the business and personal dealings of those around them, I was willing to bet she already knew about the attempts to undermine Eudora’s lease. Heck, since she’d been the one holding down the fort here since my aunt died, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she had been on the front lines of fending off the commercial vultures.
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense that Owen had wanted to try to lease this unit. He had a business practically next door, and his shop was a heck of a lot smaller than ours. Eudora effectively owned two stores’ worth of space and had made the most of it. Any other retailer on the block would covet having so much room to work with.
I hadn’t loved my interaction with Owen, but I could definitely understand why he might be a little prickly toward me since I had denied him the opportunity to expand his business into a bigger space. Amy made it sound like he bore a bit of a grudge, which definitely showed in his attitude, but aside from being a bit gruff, it wasn’t like he’d threatened to run me out of town or anything.
Maybe I would take a little time this week to stop in at his shop and ask him about the lease request to see what he had to say about it.
Dierdre wanting the shop was more mystifying. I had to admit that in spite of all my chatter about her and all our interactions, I still had no idea what Dierdre did for a living. She struck me as an independently wealthy type who flaunted her money around but didn’t actually do much for her community or hold down a regular job.
That might have been unfair of me, but I had seen her numerous times, in the middle of a workday, just waltzing around downtown like she had nothing but time on her hands. If she had a job, she didn’t seem to be there much, so what did she need a large storefront for?
I set the boxes of pastry on the counter, busying myself with putting them out onto clean platters and filling up the display cabinet. I returned the newly filled canister of Lemon Meringue Pie tea to the shelf and tried to push all these intrusive thoughts out of my mind.
I told myself that when Imogen arrived, I would call Detective Martin and let her know what I’d learned about Dierdre’s connection to the case. I still couldn’t quite decide what to make of her confession session the day before, but if the man had been claiming to know my aunt, the police should know about that so they could look for potential connections.
