Witch Ways (23 page)

Rainbows, wildflowers, silent stars and musical winds

Let peace settle your soul for the magic begins.

And then suddenly I knew where I’d seen the same lettering before. They were in Lauren Silver’ scrapbooks. I closed my eyes, remembering the cold wet afternoon I had spent in Lauren Silver’s house, waiting for Josh and looking at her scrapbook.

Why would all three books have the same lettering? Because three women believed they were witches?

Glancing out the window at the dark night sky, I debated. I didn’t want to walk to Lauren Silver’s in the dark, but I really wanted another look at her scrapbooks. If I could tie a link between Lauren’s murder and the theater, and write about it—I’d get a spot on the newspaper for sure. It would be a way more interesting article than the history of the Thornhill Theater, and somehow I knew there was a connection.

I tapped my pencil on the desk. If Bree’s leg wasn’t broken, I’d make her go with me. Dylan would come with me, but I quickly dismissed him. I thought about Josh, but I panned him as soon as I heard his voice in my head repeat,
“Is your memory really so short?”

I lay back against my pillows and squeezed my eyes shut. If only I could remember what Lauren had said, maybe then I wouldn’t need to go there, sneak into the house, and steal a look at her scrapbooks.

What would happen to them now? What would become of all her things? Did she have any family?

I bounced off my bed and went back to my computer. It didn’t take me long to pull up her obituary in the
Woodinville Observer
.

Lauren Silver, a 48-year-old woman, died in her home at 67 Old Barn Road, Woodinville, Ct.

Ms. Silver starred in numerous Broadway productions, such as
Paint Your Wagon
,
Mousetrap
, and
A Lady in Red
. Silver also had minor roles in
Bold and Beautiful
and
Days of Our Existence
. Before her Broadway career, Ms. Silver was a leading lady at our very own Thornhill Theater.

I read through a few more obituaries. All of them said
so and so is survived by
and then listed family members still living. I glanced over at Amber asleep near my feet. Wishing she could talk and answer my questions, I nudged her with my foot.

She flicked open one eye, glared at me, and with a twitch of her whiskers, went back to sleep.

Staring at the ceiling, I debated some more. Part of me knew returning to Lauren’s house in the dead of the night was stupid. A murderer was on the loose. I had been attacked in the woods just a few days ago.

I could take the dog.

No. Scratch didn’t like to walk downstairs, let alone across town.

I’d have to go alone.

I looked out the window again at the dark night.

No. Going to Lauren’s house would be dumb with a capital D.

I could drop off the scones at Dylan’s house.

Bouncing up, I changed into my pajamas, brushed my teeth, turned off the lights, and went to bed.

Seven hours later, an hour before dawn, I pulled off my pajamas and stepped into a pair of black pants, tugged a black hoodie over my head, shoved my feet into my black boots, and slipped out the back door.

The cold early morning air filled my lungs and drove any thoughts of sleep from my mind. The fading moon hung low over the trees. A breeze teased clouds across the sky. When a truck roared past, I pulled my hoodie a little lower, and tucked in my chin to hide my face. Once I got to the railroad tracks and followed them into the woods, I breathed easier.

Lauren’s house looked exactly as I’d last seen it—same yellow police tape, same blue tarp covering the porch—but this time, I needed to go inside. I jogged across the spotty lawn to the back. Using my sweatshirt like a glove, I tried the door. Of course it would be locked. I glanced at all the windows, and then noticed stairs to a cellar. I followed them.

A rusty chain and lock bolted the wide, double doors, but when I picked up the chain, it broke in my hands. It seemed like an omen and invitation, as if the house wanted me to know Lauren’s real story—who she had loved and why she had died. The doors creaked when I pulled them open, and complained when I let them close behind me.

I followed the cement steps that led to complete darkness. When I reached the bottom, I paused, waiting for my eyes to adjust. I inhaled, trying to ease the knot of nerves in my belly. I listened for human noises—anything that would tell me if I was or wasn’t alone, but I didn’t even hear the sounds of an empty house—the buzz of a refrigerator, the tick of a clock, or a rumbling furnace—making me wonder if the electricity had been shut off. Not that I would turn on a light and send out a smoke signal to tell people I was breaking and entering a crime scene.

Two thoughts ran through my mind. The first had been planted by Josh,
“Is your memory really so short?”
The second was all my own,
“Dumb with a capital D.”
What was I doing here? Looking for the scrapbooks. Why? Was I trying to write a killer newspaper article, or was I trying to find a killer? Or, was it a lot more personal than either of those things?

Maybe I was trying to understand who and what I really was. Was I a witch? An incendiary, as Birdie claimed? Or could I choose who and what I really wanted to be? And if so—what did I want? Who did I want to be?

My thoughts went back to my English class. No one, especially Mr. Krook, would choose to be Mr. Krook. No one wanted to spontaneously combust. But what if you could control it?

But wasn’t that what learning how to be a grownup was all about—learning to control yourself, not giving into impulses and passions, and thinking for yourself—not following every crazy and insane idea like breaking into a murder victim’s home at dawn?

So coming here wasn’t a good idea, but since I was already here, I might as well find what I came for. Across the room, weak natural light came from an open door that led to the stairs. I fumbled through the dark basement, tripping over boxes and towers of magazines and books until I reached the stairwell.

As I climbed out of the basement, the faint light told me dawn couldn’t be too far away. I had to hurry, find the scrapbooks, and get home before Uncle Mitch noticed I was missing. But once I got to the main floor, I knew finding anything would be almost impossible.

All the kitchen cupboards had been opened and the contents spilled out onto the floor. The bedroom, with the dresser drawers open and emptied, and the closet doors gaping, looked about the same—except instead of canned goods and boxes of prepackaged food, there were clothes and cosmetics strewn everywhere. My throat tightened when I spotted the orange parka discarded in the corner. I sat down on the stripped mattress, feeling sick.

Lauren, I decided, didn’t deserve this. Of course, no one did. No one deserved to be murdered and then have their house be torn apart in this awful way. My heart beat faster with a steady resolve. I had to help Lauren, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t even know how to find the scrapbooks.

The last time I’d seen them, Lauren had spread them out on the coffee table. Now, the coffee table lay on its back with its legs pointing toward the ceiling, like Scratch when he wanted a belly rub. I lifted one end of the table to look beneath it. No scrapbooks.

I sat on the sofa and gazed around the room. The books had been knocked off the shelves and were heaped beside the hearth. A black and white photograph of Marilyn Monroe hung in a silver frame above the fireplace mantle, on which a freestanding wooden clock laid facedown.

The words of a song the Hendersons sang floated back to me.

“And it stopped short never to go again when the old man died.”

tick tock, tick tock

now my grandfather’s clock

was too large for the shelf

so it stood ninety years on the floor

it was taller by half than the old man himself

though it weighed not a pennyweight more

now it was bought on the morn

of the day that he was born

and it was always his treasure and pride

but it stopped short never to go again

when the old man died

I went to the clock and set it on its little wood bun feet. The lyrics of the song returned to me.

now rang an alarm

in the dead of the night

an alarm that for years had been dumb

and we that his spirit

was ‘plumming’ for flight

that his hour for departure had come

still that clock kept the time

with a soft and muffled chime

as we solemnly stood by his side

but you know that it stopped short

never to go again

when the old man died
^***

I looked at the time, forever frozen, and wondered if that was when Lauren had died. Suddenly the clock whizzed and struck a high pinging note. Startled, I jumped and bumped into the mantle. The clock pitched forward and fell with a clang. Bending down, I picked it up, and as I did, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. It had to have come from inside the clock. I picked it up and scanned the cursive handwriting.

My darling Lauren,

Soon, everyone will believe I have left Broadway to try my hand at Hollywood. Which is exactly what I wish them to believe. But I want you to know the truth, even though I know the truth will probably make you hate me.

I now bitterly regret my heated arguments with Hugh. If not for those unfortunate violent outburst and empty threats, I could go to the police, explain what happened, and share my life with you. But I fear if I went to the police they would never believe Hugh’s death was accidental. But darling, you must believe it. You must know I would never have intentionally hurt Hugh. He was, at one time, my best friend.

And you mustn’t blame yourself. Yes, we both loved you, but how could you know he would become so delusional? He honestly believed you preferred him to me. He said you only stayed with me for my money. (If only he knew the true state of my finances!) It was a terrible thing to say about you, as if your feelings could be bought with cash by the highest bidder.

We argued. He pushed me. I pushed him. And he fell, hitting his head on the edge of the piano. I stood above him, waiting for him to get up, but he just stared up at me, his eyes frozen, empty and blank.

How I wish I could take you with me! But I can’t risk destroying your life the way I’ve destroyed my own.

Please forget about me. I pray to God you will have a beautiful life. Maybe someday I will see you in the movie theater. I hope so, for I fear that will be the only way I will ever see you again.

Love, Andrew

Who was Andrew?
I wondered. After a glance at the pink and orange sun peeking over the trees, I tucked the letter into the pocket of my hoodie and hurried through the messy room to the basement stairs.

Through the basement, up the cement stairs, out the door—my breath returned to normal when I reached the train tracks. When I got to the station, I saw I wasn’t alone. A cluster of people with suitcases, purses and backpacks stood waiting for the early train. I would have to hurry to get home before Uncle Mitch noticed I was missing.

When I passed the Hendersons’, I heard Bree pounding on a door, yelling at someone to hurry up, the Beatles singing about living in a yellow submarine, and a hairdryer blowing. My own house was still and quiet as I slipped in the door. I padded up the stairs, shed my clothes, and slipped into my bed. I fell into a deep sleep, and dreamed of fire-breathing Munchkins and witches with red shoes.

When I woke, light poured through the open curtains, filling my room with warm midday sun. I bolted upright. Even though my head felt swimmy from oversleeping, I climbed out of bed, picked up Tabitha Fox’s scrapbooks, and spread them out in front of me. Flipping through the pages, I found several photos of Andrew Voltaire.

Thin, small boned and fine featured, he reminded me of someone, and I wondered if maybe I’d seen him on TV or in the movies. I tried to imagine what he would look like now. Would his blond hair be silver? Would his fair skin be red and weather-beaten or gray and wrinkly? Or maybe he’d be one of those forever pretty, ageless people.

Church bells rang out over the town. I imagined the Hendersons piling into their van, singing their songs on their way to church. After I showered and dressed, I ran a comb through my hair and pulled it into a messy bun. I considered makeup, but decided against it. In a few minutes, Dylan would eat a scone and lose all interest in me. He’d probably go back to pretending he didn’t know me, no longer gracing the sophomore zone with his exalted senior presence. And that’s what I wanted, right?

Right.

Uncle Mitch sat at the kitchen table with a bowl of oatmeal, a book of puzzles open in front of him and a pencil in his hand.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling and looking much happier than his usual morning self.

“Does Janette come home today?” I asked.

“I’m going to pick her up in a few minutes. Want to come?”

I shook my head. “I have to return these scrapbooks to a friend.” I put the plate of scones on top of the books.

“Want me to drop you off on the way?” Uncle Mitch asked.

“That’d be great.”

He stood and carried his now empty cereal bowl to the sink. “You’ve become quite the baking queen lately.”

“I know. I need a crown or something.”

“Let me get my keys and we can go.” Uncle Mitch disappeared into his study and returned moments later with this hair carefully combed.