"I'm afraid we don't have much for serious artists," she said. "You might have better luck buying supplies online. That's what I do."
"Do you paint?" Dad asked.
She shrugged. "A little."
"Landscapes? People? Abstract or figurative? Oils? Watercolors? Acrylics?"
"Oh, some of everything. How about you?"
In a few moments, they were talking art. I wandered around the store looking at sheets of decals. a display of artsy rubber stamps and colored ink pads, sprays of fake flowers, and plasticine clay. Soon bored, I returned to the counter just in time to hear the woman say, "You live in the castle? The one with the tower? I've always been fascinated by that place."
"Thaddeus Mostyn was my great-uncle." Dad said. "I'm his only heir."
"Was he as strange as people say?" The woman leaned across the counter, waiting for Dad to answer.
He shrugged. "He was definitely eccentric—but brilliant."
"He painted, didn't he? Fantastical things in the style of Arthur Rackham."
"Yes. Moura Winters knows a man who collects that sort of thing. She can arrange a sale, if I'm interested."
At the mention of Moura's name, the woman drew back slightly. "The owner of the Dark Side of the Moon?"
Dad nodded. "I don't know much about antiques. Moura's been very helpful."
"I bet she has." the woman said.
I tugged Dad's sleeve. "How about that ice cream? I'm hungry."
Dad paid for a set of watercolors, a few brushes, and a tablet. "Good luck with your painting," he said to the woman.
She smiled her nice smile. "You'll have to bring your work in and show it to me sometime," she said. "The local coffee shop displays paintings. New show every month. My name's Rosie. I help choose what they hang."
Dad nodded. "Thanks, Rosie. Maybe I'll do that."
As we left, I glanced over my shoulder. Rosie smiled at me and raised her hand in a sort of wave. But it was Dad she was looking at.
The ice cream parlor turned out to be a Dairy Queen. While we were waiting for our order, I said, "That woman was flirting with you."
Dad laughed. "Don't be silly. She was just friendly, that's all."
The only grocery store in Mingo was small and dingy compared to the big suburban chains back home. I was bored in less than five minutes.
Leaving Dad to select things for dinner, I took a walk. The morning was already hot, but the streets were quiet and shady. I passed two churches, a hardware store, a beauty shop, and a video-rental store. The faded posters in its windows were from movies I'd already seen.
At the end of the block, I glimpsed a sign for the Dark Side of the Moon hanging above the door of a narrow brick house. Ready to run if I saw Moura, I ducked behind a tree across the street from the shop. Despite my dislike of the woman. I wanted to learn all I could about her. For Dad's sake, I told myself. To protect him from making a big mistake.
From my hiding place, I studied the antiques arranged artfully in the window. Porcelain vases, crystal goblets, and ornamental figurines sat atop a dark chest. On one side was a fancy carved chair fit for a king's throne, and on the other was an ancient baby carriage holding a doll with a pretty china face. Judging by the shop's stained-glass sign and its display of perfect objects, Moura was after serious collectors, not people trying to furnish a house with cheap used furniture.
While I stood there spying, a little bell jangled and the shop's door opened. A tall, slim man stepped out. His hair was silver, and so was his neatly trimmed beard and mustache. He wore a dark suit and white shirt, a red tie knotted tightly under his collar. Altogether he made the same impression Moura made—handsome, but scary somehow.
Moura followed the man outside. Today she wore stylish black slacks and a crimson T-shirt. Despite the bright sunlight, she wasn't wearing her tinted glasses. Her hair, with its curious silver streaks, hung loose and long and straight. No matter how much time I spent blow-drying and brushing my hair, I'd never come close to achieving that sort of perfection.
There was no sign of Cadoc.
Moura and the man stood on the steps for a few minutes talking. Neither of them laughed or smiled. Moura gestured fiercely, and the man nodded, his face stern. When he turned to leave, she followed him down the sidewalk.
"Ciril," she called in that low, soft voice I detested.
He paused and waited for her. They were much closer to me now. Fearful of being seen, I flattened myself behind the tree.
"While you're viewing the paintings tomorrow," Moura said, "I'll get the trap somehow. Though she denies it, the girl has it. She's a bad liar."
The trap—it was clear Moura meant the witch catcher. Well, she wouldn't get her hands on it. And neither would that man. The witch catcher was mine. I'd found it. And I was keeping it.
"You should have searched the tower while the house was empty." Ciril spoke like a classy English actor, the kind you see in old movies—Laurence Olivier or someone like that. But distinguished as his voice sounded, it had a chilling quality.
"You know I couldn't enter," Moura said, touching his arm. "The door was sealed against me."
Ciril considered her for a moment. "Excuses, excuses." He brushed her hand from his sleeve. "You disappoint me. Moura."
"But, Ciril—"
The man tightened his grip on his briefcase. "Make the appointment for tomorrow morning at ten. I'll see you then."
He turned his back on her and strode away, his face angry. I held my breath, fearing he'd cross the street and see me, but he got into a luxurious silver car that was parked at the curb. Moura stood on the sidewalk and watched the car pull away. The expression on her face was unreadable, but certainly not happy. Turning abruptly, she retreated to her shop. The bell jangled as the door slammed shut behind her.
I stayed where I was for a few more minutes. If Moura looked out her window and saw me, she'd know I'd been eavesdropping. But what had I heard? Moura wanted the witch catcher—I already knew that. So apparently did Ciril. Badly enough to steal it.
But why had she said the door was sealed against her? What did that mean? Despite the warm sunlight, I shivered. Moura, Ciril, Cadoc, the talk of witches and evil spirits and sealed doors, the eerie paintings in the tower, the gloomy house—something strange was going on, but I had no idea what. Except that it involved the witch catcher.
When a delivery truck pulled up in front of the shop, blocking Moura's view of the street, I dashed back to the grocery store. Dad was in the parking lot, pushing his shopping cart toward our van. "Where have you been, Jen?"
"Just walking around." I gestured at the neighborhood.
"Did you see Moura's shop?"
"Yes, but I didn't go in."
"Why not? She would have been delighted to show you her doll collection."
"I outgrew dolls in fifth grade, Dad. And I never have liked antique stores. They're dark and smelly and full of dead people's stuff."
"Not Moura's shop. She has museum-quality furniture."
I shrugged. "Rich or poor, the people who owned that furniture are dead." I watched Dad unlock the van. "Besides, she had a man with her. They seemed to have a lot to say to each other."
Dad looked at me sharply. "He must have been a customer."
"I think he was more than that." I felt ashamed of myself, but I kept talking, deliberately putting doubts in Dad's head. "He was very distinguished-looking, handsome like an old-fashioned movie star. They acted like they'd known each other a long time."
Dad frowned, but all he said was, "Help me load the groceries into the van, Jen."
"You sure bought a lot of food," I said.
He smiled a little sheepishly. "I want to cook a spectacular meal for Moura," he confessed.
Dad spent most of the afternoon preparing a feast to impress Queen Moura. A salad of field greens, beef Wellington, baby carrots, rice pilaf, freshly baked bread, a bottle of red wine from Great-Uncle Thaddeus's cellar, and an amazing pie made with fresh strawberries
and real whipped cream. For a while I hung around, talking and trying to help, but Dad finally shooed me away. "You know what they say about chefs," he said.
"Too many spoil the witch's brew," I whispered to myself.
I went outside and sat on the back steps. Tink looked up drowsily from his nap in the sun and purred like a furry little motor. I scratched the soft yellow fur under his chin, but my mind was on the witch catcher. Why was a pretty glass globe so important to Moura and Ciril? What was so special about it?
Dad poked his head out the door. "It's after five. Why don't you go and change for dinner, Jen?"
I stared at him. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?"
"Nothing, normally," Dad said. "But we have a special guest tonight—that means a coat and tie for me and a dress for you."
"What's so special about Moura Winters?" I should have stopped with that, but I went on to say, "I don't even like her, if you want to know the truth."
Dad looked hurt. "I don't understand you, Jen. Moura's a fine, intelligent woman—just the sort to take an interest in you and give you some guidance."
"She's the last person on earth I'd turn to for guidance." I scooped up Tink and got to my feet. Once I'd said I didn't like Moura, the rest of my thoughts came tumbling out. "As far as I can tell, all that woman wants are Great-Uncle Thaddeus's things. Once she makes a bundle selling them to some rich client, you'll never see Moura Winters again."
Dad grabbed my arm to keep me from running past him. "That's a terrible thing to say Jen, and completely unfounded."
"When I was near her shop this morning," I said, "I heard her tell that man about the witch catcher. He said she should have taken it before we moved in, and she said she would have but the tower was sealed against her."
Dad looked puzzled. "That makes absolutely no sense, Jen. You must have misunderstood." He leaned closer to study my face. "Were you spying on Moura?"
"I just happened to see her and the man talking," I said. "Ciril—that's his name. They didn't see me, and I didn't think I should interrupt them, so—"
"So you eavesdropped again." He shook his head crossly. "This is real life, Jen, not a Nancy Drew mystery. I thought you outgrew playing detective around the same time you outgrew dolls."
My face flushed red-hot. It was true. When we were ten, my friends and I had read a zillion Nancy Drew books and then spent a whole summer spying on our neighbors in hopes of solving a mystery, like our favorite girl detective. Maybe Mr. Eliot had a counterfeit money press in his garage, perhaps Mrs. Miller kept a kidnapped baby in the basement, possibly Mr. Palestro robbed banks, and so on. The trouble was, we never proved any of these things. School started, and we eventually forgot our detective game.
"This is different," I protested. "I heard Moura say she'd get the witch catcher—even if I had it."
Dad gave me a disgusted look. "That's enough, Jen. Go upstairs and put on a dress. Moura will be here in less than an hour."
"Don't say I didn't warn you about her," I muttered.
Safe in my room. I opened the closet door and peeked behind the stack of boxes. The witch catcher lay where I'd left it. in a nest of old sweatshirts. Carefully, I heaped a few T-shirts on top of it and pushed the whole pile farther back into the darkest corner.
Sure that Moura would never find the globe, I pulled my one and only dress off a hanger and shut the closet door. I shed my shorts and T-shirt and dropped the dress over my head. Just as I feared, I'd grown since fifth-grade graduation. The flowered cotton looked hopelessly out-of-date. The waist was too high and the skirt too short. In my opinion, I'd looked much better in the clothes lying on the floor, but I supposed Dad would send me up to change again if I went down in anything but a dress. What did it matter how I looked, anyway? I didn't care what Moura thought about me.
While I combed my hair. I heard Dad come upstairs, whistling. It pained me to hear how happy he sounded. If only I could convince him Moura was unworthy of his love.
But I had an awful feeling it was too late. I'd tried to warn him about Moura and Ciril and their plans to get the witch catcher. And what had happened? Instead of believing me, his own daughter, he'd accused me of spying and playing Nancy Drew detective games, as if I were still ten years old.
Well. Dad would learn the truth about Moura someday. He'd be sorry then that he hadn't listened to me.
6
AT SIX O'CLOCK, the doorbell rang. Moura was punctual, I had to say that much for her. And alone. The dreadful Cadoc must have been left in town to protect the Dark Side of the Moon.
Dad seated Moura in the living room for a drink before dinner. While they sipped their wine. I watched her. As usual, she wore red and black, a sleeveless dress this time with skinny shoulder straps and a long skirt, made from a gauzy black and red print fabric. Around her neck was the same pendant she'd worn before.
Moura turned to me with a smile. "What a sweet little dress, Jen. You look adorable."
I sipped my ginger ale and stared at the floor. What twelve-year-old girl wants to look adorable? It was enough to make me throw up. Plus I knew she didn't mean a word of it. She was just trying to make a good impression on my father by showing him she cared about me.
Dad tapped my knee. "Jen, Moura just paid you a compliment. What do you say?"
"Thanks," I muttered, without looking at her or Dad. Did they both have to speak to me as if I were a little kid?
"Jen's always been shy" Dad apologized to Moura. He might just as well have said I was subnormal.
"Ah, well," Moura said as if I were of no importance anyway. "I must tell you, Hugh, that my client, Ciril Ashbourne, is anxious to see the paintings and some of the furniture. Would it be convenient for me to bring him here tomorrow at ten?"
At the mention of Ciril Ashbourne's name, Dad shot me a look as if to say, "There, didn't I tell you? You saw Moura with a client, not a rival."
To Moura, Dad said, "Of course. I'd be happy to show him the paintings." He offered Moura more wine, but she shook her head.
"One glass is my limit." She smiled. "I have to drive, you know."
The conversation meandered on, taking one boring turn after another. They talked about the advantages of living in the country compared with those of the city. Better air, low crime, no rush-hour traffic in the country, but no good restaurants, no theater, no decent libraries, and so on. When they'd beaten that subject to death, they moved to politics. Here Dad did most of the talking. While he aired his views on the importance of the environment, gun control, and free speech, Moura said nothing. She just smiled and nodded from time to time as if she agreed with his liberal views. I was tempted to ask her a question to see if she'd listened to a word Dad had said, but I was in enough trouble already.
At last it was time to move to the dining room. Moura looked suitably impressed by the fresh flowers Dad had bought for a centerpiece. I lit the candles, and she admired the silver Dad had made me polish.
"Kirk Repousse," she said admiringly, running her long nails over the knife handle's delicate floral pattern. "While your great-uncle's parents were alive, this house was the scene of marvelous dinnerparties, Hugh. Couples arrived in carriages. The women wore long, shimmering gowns with bustles, and the men dressed in tails. So formal. So elegant. Dancing in the ballroom, the rooms lit by candles in crystal chandeliers—" She broke off to take a sip of water.
"I suppose you remember it all," I said sarcastically, earning a frown from Dad.
"Of course not," Moura replied, her voice as pleasant as ever. "My grandmother used to tell me stories about this house. She was the Mostyns' maid when she was no older than you, Jen. In those days, children often went into service at the age of twelve."
She smiled at me, but her pale eyes were humorless. No doubt she wished she could get rid of me that easily. "Aren't you the lucky one?" she said in that low voice of hers. "Nothing to do all day but explore this fascinating old place. Why, there's no telling what a bright-eyed girl might find tucked awa
y somewhere."
"No," I said, returning her bright, empty smile. "There's just no telling."
Dad began serving the beef Wellington, and the subject changed to the meal, which was indeed delicious. If Dad could win Moura by feeding her, he would soon have her heart. If she had one, that is.
By the time we'd eaten the strawberry pie, my too-small dress felt even smaller and tighter. I would have liked to steal away to my room, change into comfortable clothes, and read till I fell asleep, but I'd promised Dad I'd clean up. Feeling like Moura's grandmother the housemaid, I cleared the table and began washing the dishes.
While I slaved at the sink, Dad and Moura returned to the living room to finish off dinner with coffee and liqueur served in teeny glasses. Every now and then I heard Dad laugh.
As soon as I finished the dishes, I tiptoed down the hall and stood in the shadows outside the living room door. Once you acquire detective skills, you never lose them.
"I'm afraid Jen doesn't care for me," Moura said, as if this were a great sorrow to her.
Dad sighed. "She's had me all to herself since she was two years old," he said slowly. "It's hard for her to share me, I guess."
"Yes," Moura said, "I thought that might be it. I suppose I'll have to win her over somehow. Perhaps if I spent more time with her. Just the two of us. Maybe I could take her shopping in Charles Town."
"That's a wonderful idea," Dad said. "Jen used to go shopping with her friends' mothers, but now they're a day's drive from here. When school starts in the fall, she'll make new friends, but until then she's on her own with nobody but the cat and me for company."
I grimaced. There was Dad, up to his old tricks, thinking he knew what I wanted, when I couldn't imagine anything worse than spending a day shopping with Moura.
"Jen has a secretive side, doesn't she?" Moura went on. "I'm positive she knows exactly where that witch catcher is, but for some reason she won't admit it."
Witch Catcher Page 4
