Ink and Shadows
Page 20
Next to the wardrobe was a brick wall with a PLATFORM 9 ¾ placard. Half of a luggage cart and most of a Gryffindor scarf had been swallowed up by the wall. A white owl perched on the cart handle, its yellow eyes shining in the sunlight.
The portal to Hogwarts was so popular that a line of people waiting to take selfies with the luggage cart blocked the bottom half of Tolkien’s Doors of Durin. The closed doors had silver columns, trees, and runes made of silver glitter.
“Speak, friend, and enter,” Nora said, repeating the riddle Gandalf had to solve in her favorite fantasy series of all time.
The door from Coraline featured sparkling purple text on a field of dark blue. The text read, WHEN YOU’RE SCARED AND YOU STILL DO IT ANYWAY, THAT’S BRAVE.
Finally, there was a tollbooth manned by Tock the dog. Electric blue letters over Tock’s head declared, THERE ARE NO WRONG ROADS.
Deputy Fuentes pointed at the tollbooth. “My little sister loves The Phantom Tollbooth. Man, she must have read it ten times. I have to send her a pic!”
A table piled with books separated each portal, and people gathered around the books like bees attracted to bright, fragrant flowers. People of all ages, genders, and colors—locals and visitors—swarmed the tables and streamed in and out of the bookshop.
Nora smiled. Not because Connie’s efforts to chase people away from Miracle Books had failed. She smiled because so many books were being chosen. So many books were finding readers. Everywhere she looked, she saw people holding books. Hugging them to their chests as if they’d already fallen in love. To Nora, there was no more beautiful sight.
Pulling out her phone, she took a photo of the scene. After sending it to Hester, June, and Estella, she decided to take a second image just for Bobbie. Her plan was to zoom out to capture more of the crowd, but she accidentally hit the reverse button. Her face and a few of the protestors appeared on her screen. One of the protestors was a boy in jeans and a black hoodie.
“Deputy!” Nora swiveled to point at the boy. “That kid in that black hoodie! He’s the one I saw spray-painting Celeste’s door!”
Fuentes reached the boy’s side in a matter of seconds. After issuing some terse commands to the startled teen, he spoke into his radio.
Nora glanced back at the bookstore. Sheldon was undoubtedly in desperate need of help, but Nora had to know why the boy had targeted Celeste, so she edged closer to where he and Fuentes stood.
“She was basically a drug dealer,” the boy spat. “Ask my mom. Ask any of these people!”
The deputy eyed him coldly. “How old are you, son?”
“Sixteen. And I’m not your son.”
A man wearing a flannel shirt and a clerical collar suddenly appeared behind the boy. “Deputy? I’m Morris Knapp. This is my son, Greg. May I ask what’s happened?”
This was Nora’s first view of Connie’s husband, the assistant pastor. He looked just like Vicky, except for his hair. While Vicky’s was a warm shade of brown, her father’s was much darker, like rain-soaked soil.
Fuentes’s gaze softened. “Sir, your son was seen vandalizing private property this morning, and we need to question him about the incident. Deputy Wiggins will be taking him in. As he’s a minor, we’d like you to accompany him.”
Morris stared at his son in disbelief. “Is this true?”
Greg didn’t meet his father’s eyes. Instead, he looked past him and shrugged. “I painted the witch’s door. So what? She’ll be gone soon. Like Mom says, bad influences don’t belong in this town.”
“Like Mom says?” For a moment, Morris was too astonished to continue. Then, he took a deep breath and fixed his son with a stern gaze. “We all answer to a higher authority—your mother included—and no one is worthy of sitting in judgment of their fellow man. Or woman. You’ve committed a crime, Greg. You lashed out at a woman who did nothing to deserve your anger. This goes against everything you’ve been taught. Everything we believe.”
“That you believe. You have no idea what I believe. Or Mom,” Greg cried. “I eavesdropped on her meetings. At first, I thought they’d be lame, but they’re not. She wants to do something to change the world. All you do is talk, talk, talk.”
Morris looked at his son as if he were a stranger.
Deputy Wiggins arrived just as Connie appeared in front of her husband and son.
“What in heaven’s name is happening here? Don’t you lay hands on my son! Don’t you dare!” she shrieked at Wiggins.
In the background, the protestors fell silent, too captivated by the scene to continue shouting.
Ignoring Connie, Wiggins took Greg by the arm and led him to her car.
As Wiggins helped Greg into the back seat, Morris held out a warning finger to his wife. Very calmly, but in a tone that brooked no argument, he said, “You need to go home, Connie. Go home and think about your actions. We’ll talk later, but I can tell you right now that Greg won’t be the only one facing repercussions.”
“Don’t you preach to me about reaping and sowing!” Connie shouted. “I know all about the seed you planted!”
Morris turned his back on her.
As did Nora.
Connie Knapp had just lost the right to run a women’s group focusing on morality. Her supporters had watched Deputy Wiggins haul off her son. They’d also heard Morris Knapp, a respected man of the cloth, admonish his wife for her behavior.
The protestors began to lower their signs. Because they’d followed Connie’s lead, they now shared in her shame and embarrassment. And since they didn’t want their children to end up like the Knapp boy, they made an unspoken decision to disband. The decision was made clear when a woman dumped her sign in the recycling bin. Another woman immediately followed suit.
Nora felt sorry for the women lining up to discard their signs, but she refused to spend another second thinking about them. Inside the bookshop, her customers were waiting. Sheldon was waiting. The books were waiting.
Nora opened the door to the ringing of sleigh bells.
To her, it was the music of coming home.
Chapter 15
If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?
—William Shakespeare
The Secret, Book, and Scone Society usually held their meetings in the bookshop. They’d start off with a potluck supper, chatting away while they ate. Over dessert, they’d talk about that week’s book pick.
Tonight, June, Estella, and Hester had called for an emergency meeting. There would be no dinner, no chitchat, and no literary discussion. There would be offers of comfort. And a scone.
Hester had baked the pastry that afternoon. At the end of her workday, she’d put on a fresh apron and fired up the oven. She’d tuned the radio to the classical station and assembled ingredients on the prep counter. As Schubert’s Piano Sonata in B-flat Major, D.960 filled the kitchen, Hester had mixed and rolled dough, thinking of Nora the whole time.
Once the scone was in the oven, Hester had sat at the counter with a cup of coffee, conjuring an image of her friend. She’d thought about how the tail of Nora’s whiskey-colored braid would stick out of her moped helmet. Of her shirts with bookish sayings. How she accessorized most outfits with a book-print scarf, tote bag, necklace, or pair of socks. Of her burn scars.
Images scrolled through Hester’s mind. Nora standing behind the counter of Miracle Books, shopping in the flea market, and hiking with her treasured walking stick. Nora laughing at a joke or listening intently to a customer’s personal story. Next, Hester pictured her friend stretched out on the sofa. A soft blanket covered her body and a book was propped open on her stomach. Sunlight streamed in through the window, turning the book pages from ivory to gold.
Now, Hester stood in front of that same sofa, offering the small bakery box to Nora. “When I make a comfort scone for a stranger, I do my best to get the flavors right, but it doesn’t always work. Making one for someone I know is much easier. I hope you taste a hug in every bite.”
“But you’re the only one who walks around with a posse of cats. You’re the most unique insomniac in town,” Estella said with a smile. She took the blanket from June and wrapped it around Nora’s shoulders. “I’m not crafty, but I have a treat for you too. Get comfy on the sofa, okay? June’s going to make a cup of tea, and I’m going to refresh a part of you that’s probably feeling like hell.”
Nora snorted. “That would be all of me. Shoulders. Lower back. Feet. Head. Brain.” She paused before adding, “Heart.”
“That’s why we’re here, baby.” June shooed Nora toward the sofa. “Just sit back and let us do our thing.”
Estella filled a plastic washbasin with warm water and carried it into the living room. She sprinkled Epsom salts into the water. “I use lavender-scented salts at the spa, but I know you’re not a lavender fan, so you’re getting green tea. It’ll turn the water a funky color, but it’ll help restore your balance and energy. Come on, get your ten little piggies wet.”
Nora peeled off her socks and slipped her feet into the water. It was hot, but not too hot. The warmth traveled through her feet and into her calves. It felt lovely.
A few minutes later, June placed a steaming mug of tea on the table.
“I feel bad,” said Nora. “You’ve all had long days. You should be taking it easy but you’re here, spoiling me.”
Estella put her hands on her hips. “So you’re done soaking?”
“No,” Nora cried, which made everyone laugh.
June stirred a spoonful of honey into her tea. “Why do women have such a hard time letting people take care of us? It makes no sense because the better we feel, the more we can do. The more we can give. Instead, we take care of everybody else until we’re running on fumes. When are we going to learn that self-care isn’t selfish?”
“I guess I don’t feel worthy of this because I didn’t help Bren,” said Nora. “I couldn’t help Celeste. And when we had dinner with Celeste, you three focused on her needs while I snooped around.”
“We didn’t find Bren’s body, and no one left a page full of weird symbols under our doormat. You’re a part of their story in a way that we’re not, so don’t beat yourself up for trying to figure things out,” said Estella.
“Speaking of that book page, Jasper said that the librarian from New York took it back with her.” Hester pursed her lips. “What was her name?”
Nora curled and uncurled her toes, making eddies in the green water. “Roberta Rabinowitz. She goes by Bobbie. She had a hunch about the Potion Page. Let me explain.”
Nora told her friends about the old paper, the fake ink, and the online forum frequented by collectors of occult books and paraphernalia.
When she was finished, June held up a finger. “Wait a sec. Celeste lived with a bunch of artists. People who could paint and draw. Lazarus Harper worked in the school cafeteria. Who’d know more about sixteenth-century paper? Harper or one of the artists?”
“Lazarus Harper is angry enough to commit a crime, but he didn’t kill Celeste. He spent the night in the drunk tank,” said Hester.
“What about before we saw him in the parking lot?” Nora asked.
Hester tapped her wrist where her watch was hidden under the cuff of her sweater. “Harper kicked off his night by pounding beer with tequila chasers at the biker bar. Plenty of people saw him taking advantage of the happy hour special. When he was feeling no pain, he paid his tab. He tossed the receipt in his truck. It has a time stamp. After that, Harper drove to Soothe. His master plan, inspired by beer and tequila, was to park, grab the baseball bat from behind his seat, and trash Celeste’s store.”
“Damn,” Nora murmured. “What stopped him?”
Hester grinned. “You did. He saw you standing in the parking lot next to June’s running car and got spooked. Instead of breaking glass and stomping on gift baskets, he was breathalyzed and tossed in a cell. He also ’fessed up about sending the threatening postcard to Celeste. He did that after learning that his court case was postponed until further notice. Apparently, he doesn’t remember what he wrote because he was drunk then too.”
Estella smirked. “How convenient.”
“As for trashing Celeste’s store, Harper said that he wanted to get even. The bank took his house last week, so he figured Celeste should lose her store.”
“What about Bren? Could he have been involved in her death?” Nora asked.
Hester’s reply was firm. “No. He spent a week or so in Rocky Mount before driving to Miracle Springs. He was visiting a woman he used to work with. Harper always had a thing for her, but she was married back then. She isn’t now. And because this woman loves posting on social media, there’s a detailed and very public record of her time with Lazarus. Too detailed.”
Estella’s brows rose. “Really? Can you give an example?”
Nora wasn’t interested in the particulars, so she chimed in before Hester could be diverted. “So Harper claims that he only planned to mess with Celeste’s shop? There’s no way that’s true. A man who sends a threatening postcard and drives across the state to smash a woman’s place with a baseball bat is a ticking bomb.”
“Sheriff McCabe said the same thing—that Harper’s anger was escalating. If the lawsuit hadn’t been postponed, he might not have lashed out. But if he hadn’t been arrested last night, who knows what he would have done?” Hester looked at Nora. “There’s really no bright side to anything that’s happened, but Harper did tell the sheriff that he knows the man in charge of Still Waters. Everyone in the community calls him Maestro, but his real name is Wolf Beck.”
“Wolves again,” June cried in disgust.
Nora didn’t respond. She was back in Celeste’s bedroom, on the floor with a dying woman. Celeste’s final words had included Beck’s first name.
Twisting to her right, Nora stretched out her arm but couldn’t reach her laptop without taking her feet out of the water.
“I’ll get it,” Estella said, dropping a towel in Nora’s lap. “It’s time for you to dry off, anyway. But don’t put your socks back on. I’m not done with you yet.”
After drying her feet, Nora opened her laptop. As she ran a search for Wolf Beck, she told her friends that Beck was likely the reason Celeste had moved.
“Something went on at Still Waters, and I think the Potion Page is connected.” Nora stared at the computer screen, her eyes glassy and unfocused. “When I saw Celeste on her bedroom floor, I had no idea what was wrong. All I knew was that she was in pain and couldn’t move. When I asked her what had happened, she told me not to let him get the book. And that he lies.”
Estella sat on the opposite end of the sofa from Nora. She spread a towel over her lap and told Nora to put her feet on the towel. “Was she talking about Wolf?”
“I asked if he’d hurt her and Bren because of this book. She responded by saying ‘wolf’ two times, followed by what sounded like ‘bay.’ She also said, ‘he sells lies’ and ‘not spells.’”
“Do you know what she meant?” Hester asked in a hushed voice.
“I think Celeste owns a very old book, and Wolf wants to use the laid paper from that book to create something else. By filling a bundle of those pages with fake spells, he can pass them off as a genuine, centuries-old grimoire and make a killing.”
Estella massaged the arch of Nora’s left foot, working out the knots and kinks. It felt incredible, but Nora struggled to give herself over to pleasure while talking about Celeste. Sensing this, Estella pressed the pads of her thumbs into Nora’s heel and ordered her to relax.
Hester
was pacing in the kitchen. As she walked, she said, “If the book’s that old, why not just slap it on eBay? Why go through all of this crap? Why take the risk?”
Once again, Nora stopped reading search results to answer. “The book might be damaged. The ink may be completely faded. It might even be an unfinished diary. Paper was precious back then, so the original owner wouldn’t have left any of the pages blank on purpose, but things happen, and diaries are left incomplete. Either way, a diary or damaged book wouldn’t be nearly as valuable as a grimoire.”
“Bren must have had a role in creating the fake spells,” said June. “Why else would she have those symbols tattooed on her neck? And if Wolf is the guy Nora saw at the festival, then he also has these spell book tattoos. Are they a Still Waters thing? Or was it a private thing between Wolf and Bren? Were they lovers? It would explain why Bren was so mad at her mama for moving.”
“But why Miracle Springs?” Nora had asked herself this question a dozen times. “If Celeste was worried about Bren—and this book—then why not move a thousand miles away from the damned Maestro?”
Estella, who was gently pushing on the top of Nora’s foot to stretch her calf muscle, stopped and made a time-out gesture. “Hold on. We need to see a picture of this guy. If he looks like Wolf Blitzer, there’s no way Bren was into him.”
Nora clicked on another link leading to another dead end. “I can’t find a single photo. All I’ve found is a short article on the delay of Harper’s lawsuit. It opens by describing the temporary ban on all civil suits and then goes on to explain why Harper was fired from his job. Wolfgang Beck, thirty-eight, an artist from Pine Hollow, is cited as a key witness. Still Waters isn’t mentioned. Neither is Cecily Leopold. There’s a quote from Harper’s attorney saying that the ban on civil cases is hurting his plaintiff. While Harper waits for the chance to get his job back and to seek compensation for months of lost income, his quality of life continues to deteriorate.”