She hoped that London was okay. This weekend was so important to Jane, as it was the first time she’d be using her new teaching studio. Cora supposed if anybody could handle a sick child and a studio full of students, it would be Jane.
Jane was a little off last night—well, they all were. The abduction of a local young woman was scary, especially when it was someone you knew, however vaguely. Cora did not know Gracie well, but Jane did. Jane must be horribly worried about her.
Satisfied with her inspection of the crafting room, Cora proceeded to walk through the dining room where the caterers were setting the table with a brunch buffet. The floral centerpiece on the dining table caught Cora’s eye. Consisting of local wildflowers, it made a spectacular focal point for the table. Cora had learned from their local florists that this part of North Carolina offered one of the longest seasons for wildflowers. She planned to take advantage of it.
Wild columbine, bellflowers, Turk’s-cap lilies, and rhododendron provided orange, purple, and white exuberant colors couched in the greenery. Plates holding gorgeous, delicious-looking food surrounded the flowers. On either end of the table sat huge carved watermelons with cut fresh fruit heaped inside. Platters of chunks of local cheeses beckoned to Cora. Cucumber sandwiches, pasta salad, and miniquiches filled the rest of the platters.
She was called away by the ringing of the doorbell. She expected to see more crafters, but when she opened the door, there stood the man she’d seen the night before in the restaurant. Today, he wore blue jeans and a tie-dye shirt. He still could have used a bath.
“Can I help you?” she asked, hoping to get rid of him as quickly as possible. What could he possibly want with her?
“Hi there,” he said, and handed her a flyer. “I’m starting a new computer repair company. Just thought I’d give you my information, and if you ever need someone . . .” His voice trailed off.
Cora managed a smile. “Well, thank you,” she said, taking the flyer. “I may give you a call.” She turned to go.
“Uh,” he said. “What kind of computer do you have? I could give a free maintenance check.”
“I’m sorry,” Cora said. “I’m a little busy right now. I have a houseful of guests. I’ll call you if we need help.”
His eyes shifted to the floor of the wood porch. “Okay,” he mumbled.
“Good day,” she said. Normally, if someone came to her door like this during a retreat reception, she’d invited them in. But for some reason, she just wanted him to go away. She gently closed the door.
She must be more nervous than she thought. She wanted this retreat to go off without a hitch this time. She didn’t mean to be rude to the man. Perhaps she should invite him in? A pang of embarrassment shot through her, then mild regret. But when she reopened the door to ask him back in, he had already left.
What was wrong with her? Why had she let her nerves get the best of her?
She turned her focus back to the lovely table and her guests. This is what was important right now. She’d deal with this man and his computer business another time. She didn’t want to have to worry about computers right now.
Cora hungered for a simpler time—and that was what she was trying to create for herself and these women. A simple, relaxing weekend, space to breathe, dream, and create. Even for just a few days.
Chapter 9
I can’t make it to brunch, Jane texted Cora. Sorry. I’ve not been able to find a sitter and London is out of sorts. She’s feeling better, but not quite herself.
That was the second time this year, Cora noted, but elementary schools were notorious for attracting germs. Five-year-old London was used to tagging along with her mother while she taught classes. It was not ideal, but since London’s babysitter was missing, what could they do?
Cora showed the text to Ruby, who sat next to her on the couch.
“Oh dear,” Ruby said, shaking her head. “I hope she feels better soon.”
“I have to wonder if she’s just upset because of Gracie,” Cora said.
“It could be,” Ruby said, after a minute. “It’s a scary thing, even for us grown-ups.”
A group of their guests was discussing quilting in another corner of the room, which reminded Cora of her plans for a felt and fiber-arts retreat. She needed to follow up with several of the potential teachers. Quilters and felters were a busy bunch. But she would persist, especially with the felters, as they were practicing an extremely popular craft—one that Cora wanted an opportunity to learn.
The doorbell sounded and Cora rose to answer it. She was surprised when she opened the door to find Detective Brodsky, Paul, and a man in a suit and tie. Brodsky himself never seemed to wear a tie, but today he was wearing a smart jacket.
“Cora,” he said, and nodded.
“Nice to see you, Detective, Paul,” she said, smiling, but wondering what the heck was going on and why they were here. At the same time, she’d much rather deal with Detective Brodsky than the uniformed Officer Glass.
“This is my new partner, Joe Dell,” Brodsky said.
Cora shook the man’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“May we come in?” Brodsky asked.
Cora couldn’t tear her gaze away from Paul—so drained, pale, and his eyes rimmed in red.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “What did you say?”
“May we come in?” Brodsky repeated.
“I have a houseful of teachers and crafters,” she said. “Is there a problem?”
“We should really go inside,” Detective Brodsky said with an apologetic note in his voice. “How’s the paper-arts room? Anybody in there?”
Brodsky had been to Kildare House and therefore knew about the various rooms. An image of the detective and his previous partner, along with several uniformed officers, sitting in the paper-craft room among all the pretty paper and embellishments flashed in Cora’s mind. But that had been about a murder case. Surely there hadn’t been another killing? Her heart began to race. Had they found Gracie?
“Sure,” she said. “Okay. Come on in.”
A few of the crafters raised their heads and watched them as the group walked by the door of the crafting room, but no one spoke.
“What’s up?” Cora said, once they were all seated at a table in the paper-arts room.
“Paul here tells us that he visited with you and Jane yesterday evening at about nine-fifteen,” Brodsky said.
“That’s right,” Cora replied.
“We stopped by Jane’s place and she’s not there,” he explained.
“She’s at the doctor. London had a slight fever this morning. She . . . She might be home by now.”
“Thanks,” said Detective Dell. “We’ll try her again later.”
“Was Paul alone when he visited you?” Brodsky asked.
Cora thought of the detective as being much younger than her, but he wasn’t really. Only five years or so separated them, she reckoned, but there was something boyish about him. “No,” she replied. “His friend, Henry, was with him.”
Paul covered his face with his hands and rubbed it. He breathed loudly, almost as if he was hyperventilating.
“Henry is missing,” Brodsky said.
“What?” Cora’s voice raised. “What’s going on here? Two people are missing? From this small town?”
“Henry is not from Indigo Gap,” Brodsky said. “His family lives right off the Cherokee reservation, outside of our jurisdiction, normally. But we are combining efforts. It seems like he disappeared late last night. We found his car, with the door open, along an Indigo Mountain road.”
“He’s just gone,” Paul said, his voice cracking. “How can it be? And nobody’s found Gracie yet!” he added with a touch of frost.
“We have search crews looking for her,” Brodsky said. “For both of them.”
“What about the FBI?” Paul asked.
“Look,” said Detective Dell. “I told you they don’t get involved unless state lines have been crossed.”
“How can I help?” Cora interjected.
“You just did,” Brodsky said. “You just corroborated Paul’s story.”
“Henry is my best friend. Gracie is my girlfriend. What the hell do you think I’d do to them?” Paul said.
Brodsky shot Cora an expression of despair. His mouth twisted off to the side.
Cora’s mind raced. If two of the three of them had been abducted, was Paul next?
“What are you going to do about Paul?” Cora asked.
“What do you mean?” Brodsky asked.
“Is he in danger? Two of his friends have been abducted. Could he be next?”
Paul sat up straighter, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
“Do you have someone watching him?” Cora persisted.
“Until this moment Paul was a strong person of interest. You gave him part of an alibi. But he still has a couple of hours unaccounted for.”
“I told you I went to bed. I took a couple of sleeping pills. I was home. In my apartment,” Paul said.
“So, you don’t have anybody watching him?” Cora said. She suddenly felt chilled and began to shiver—which is one of the ways stress sometimes hit her. Pings of intuition were pricking at her. Greater danger existed here than what was being acknowledged.
“We don’t have the manpower to watch over him or anybody else,” Brodsky said. “Sorry. And we’re not sure what’s going on here. This is an ongoing investigation. Right now all hands are on deck to find Gracie and now Henry. Our resources are completely strained.”
Cora respected Brodsky and knew he spoke the truth.
“Do you have someone you can stay with, Paul?” Cora said, directing her attention to him.
“That’s a good idea. Just in case,” Detective Dell said.
“I’m not from this area. I don’t have any family here. I’m only here because of Gracie. Just for the summer. I freelance now and I can work from anywhere. I just don’t know anybody. Just Gracie and Henry,” he said.
“I have plenty of room,” Cora heard herself saying, even though her brain was telling her not to get involved. Plus, she had a houseful of women—and given what had happened with Jude Sawyer during the last retreat, she had vowed not to have any more men at her retreats. But Paul wouldn’t really be at the retreat, would he? “Stay here,” she said more insistently.
“Are you sure about this?” Brodsky said, lifting an eyebrow, fully aware of her past, both distant and more recent, plus her anxiety issues.
“Absolutely,” she said. “I can’t turn my back on him. Besides, I may have some work he can help me with. He did a great job painting Jane’s kitchen.”
“I don’t want to impose on you,” Paul said.
“Nonsense,” Cora said. “It’s not an imposition at all. Just go to your place and get your things. You are welcome here until this is all over.”
His eyes met hers and she could see that not many people had been kind to Paul. He was genuinely touched. If she had any cause to doubt that, the next expression that came over his face solidified her feeling, for he glimpsed away in embarrassment. As if he knew she had just caught a glimpse into his heart.
Chapter 10
“Why would you do that?” Jane whispered to Cora. They were sitting in the back of the crafting hall. The paper doll class was up and running, and she didn’t want to interrupt Sheila’s lecture.
“Why not?” Cora whispered back. “Obviously he’s in danger.”
Jane rolled her eyes.
“Paper dolls have a long history,” Sheila said as her daughter handed out more paper. Each crafter had a basket of paper already, along with other embellishments they might use for their paper dolls.
“Did it ever occur to you that he could be the one who abducted those two?” Jane whispered. “We really don’t know him at all!”
Cora bit her lip. She hadn’t thought about that. Not really. She had thought he perhaps knew more than what he was letting on—but not that he would injure his friend and girlfriend. Was there something Jane knew that she wasn’t telling Cora?
“The first manufactured paper doll was Little Fanny, produced by a London company in 1810. The first American paper doll was the Adventures of Little Henry in 1812. In the 1820s, boxed paper doll sets were popular in Europe and exported to America for lucky children. The first celebrity paper doll was a doll portraying the renowned ballerina Marie Taglioni in the 1830s. In 1840, a boxed set was done of another ballerina, Fanny Elssler, as well as of Queen Victoria,” Sheila said. “Ballerinas were popular.”
“If you can find any of those paper dolls today, you’d be in for some money,” Donna said as she handed the last sheet out.
“I bet!” one of the crafters said.
“Even before that, paper dolls were being created in places like Japan,” Sheila went on. “An ancient Japanese purification ceremony dating back to at least AD 900 included a paper figure and a folded paper object that resembled a kimono. How about that? Paper dolls as part of an ancient ritual!”
“I think we might be surprised to find out just exactly what people have used in ancient rituals,” Ruby said, and harrumphed. The other crafters made noises of agreement.
“I bet,” Sheila said, and smiled. “As you know, some of the dolls we design are one of a kind and hand-painted. You’ll note that you have some paint and brushes in your kits. It’s entirely up to you if you want to try to paint the dolls and their clothes, or if you just want to use the paper to create them. We also have some feathers, seashells, and dried flowers. After all, we are making fairy paper dolls. You might even find something on our nature walk that you’ll want to include.”
“Mom and I just saw an exhibit of hand-painted paper dolls at Winterthur Museum in Delaware dating back to the late 1780s,” Donna said. “I loved them because they were handmade. So precious. I mean, the manufactured ones are cool, but not like the handmade dolls.”
“I agree,” Liv said. “I have some of my grandmother’s paper dolls. I just love imagining her making those dolls.”
“The doll we saw was called an English Doll. It was a young female figure, eight inches high, with a wardrobe of underclothes, headdresses, corset, and six complete outfits.” Sheila added, “It was so delicate and lovely.”
Cora turned her attention back to Jane. “It did not occur to me that he could be guilty of abducting his girlfriend and his best friend. That seems kind of paranoid. Do you know something I don’t?”
Jane focused on the paper in front of her. She started cutting out a doll form. She glanced at Cora with her dark blue eyes, bright with concern or fear. Cora couldn’t say which.
“I don’t know him. But I do know he was getting a bit obsessed with Gracie,” she said in a low voice.
The women were chatting amongst themselves now about playing with paper dolls when they were little. The sound of happy conversation filled the room.
“He’s in love with her. Of course he’s obsessed. But she loved him, too, right?”
“I guess so,” Jane replied. As Cora surveyed the crowd of crafters, she noticed a police car parked outside of her window. “It looks like we have company.”
Jane lifted her head up. “Again,” she said, and rolled her eyes.
“I’ll take care of it,” Cora said. “You stay and enjoy the class.”
Cora left the room and headed for the front of the house. When she opened the door, she faced a weeping Paul and two uniformed officers.
“He’s dead!” Paul wailed. “Henry is dead!”
“What?” Cora said. “What’s going on?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Chevalier,” the officer said. “We found Henry’s body about an hour ago.”
“Oh, Paul!” she said, her heart splitting open as he fell into her arms.
“What happened?” she managed to say to the officer.
“It’s an ongoing investigation,” he said.
“He was killed!” Paul said. “Just say it!” he said as he twisted himself
out of Cora’s arms. “What’s going on here that you can’t say a man has been killed?”
The officers grimaced. One shook his head. “We don’t know that for sure.”
They were standing in her foyer, surrounded by the beauty of Kildare House with its gleaming chestnut floors, lace-covered windows, and well-appointed, but slightly funky, furnishings. It all seemed surreal to Cora. How could this be? Henry was just here, less than twenty-four hours ago. Now he was dead.
“We’ll take Paul to his room,” one of the officers said.
“We’ll stay until he falls asleep,” the other one said. “He’s just been given something to calm him down. He’s despondent, as you can tell. We’re trying to track down his folks.”
Just then, Cora realized that Jane was behind her. How long had she been there?
“Certainly, please follow me,” Cora said as she led them up the stairs to the third floor, but first she stopped and regained her breath on the landing, where the stained-glass window of the goddess or saint named Brigid kept counsel. From the moment Cora first saw the window, she knew she wanted this place for her craft retreat and her home. Ornate Celtic knots gleamed in the corners of the window. Brigid held a chalice with a huge flame in one hand and a book in the other hand. Her flowing green robes covered layers of white and gold garments. Crimson, gold, green, and shades of blue glass formed an image of Brigid, whose face conveyed a sense of peace and comfort. Cora whispered a little prayer that the goddess of poetry and crafts would send some safety and healing to Paul.
Chapter 11
“Do you still think that we shouldn’t help him?” Cora leveled at Jane after the police had gone.
Jane gave a long, frustrated sigh. “Look, Cora, I admire your wanting to help. But here we are in the middle of a retreat. And look, at first it was just to give him a place to stay because you thought he was in danger and now, now . . .”
“Now, we pretty much know he’s in danger. If someone abducted Gracie and killed Henry, then could he be next?”
“Precisely. Do we want to get involved in this?” Jane asked. “I mean, we don’t really know him. We don’t really know what’s going on here.”
No Charm Intended Page 4
