Page 28 of Witch and Tell

“She works for you?”

“She’s a volunteer. At least, she was until this afternoon. We mutually agreed she wasn’t a good fit,” I said.

He nodded knowingly. “Got it. You did well to nip this in the bud. Give someone like her a few inches, and she’ll make a grab for it. I’ve had a lot of experience with this sort of thing.”

“Thank you. I’d thought that by talking to her about how she interacted with patrons that I’d settled the matter. Instead, I’d instigated a town meeting.”

“The library is your world, remember. She’s just a visitor.”

The rest of the evening passed quickly. Tyrone was charming dinner company, and it felt good to have a man’s attention to distract me from my failed relationship with Sam. We picked right up from our earlier conversation. He asked more about Ian and about life in Wilfred, and I found myself opening up to him. In turn, I asked him about the challenges of running a construction job, and he regaled me with stories of absent plumbers, “creative” architects, and mouthy drywallers. He said he was almost certain most of his crew was local, but he’d give me a list of subcontractors to see if I could track any of them back to Baltimore.

All this time, I remembered his employee’s warning about him. “I hope you don’t think this is too forward, but earlier this week I heard you arguing with someone in your crew.”

Tyrone pushed his empty bowl to the side. “Cliff.” He shook his head. “I . . . it’s . . . we go way back. This is the last job I’ll work with him. I can’t take his behavior any longer.” He looked me straight in my eyes. “Take my advice and stay away from him.”

“Funny,” I said, my pulse leaping a notch. “That’s what he told me about you.”

Tyrone’s expression froze, and a muscle twitched in his jaw. For a moment, I wondered if he was angry. Then he laughed. “He would say that. It might be that I’ve been successful with the ladies a few times when he’s struck out.”

When we left the tavern, Tyrone opening the door for me, night had fallen. The door closed, shutting off the bar’s country-western music and chatter. Tyrone tucked a hand in the small of my back.

I turned to him to tell him, “Hands off, buddy,” and heard “Hello, Josie” from the parking lot.

There was no mistaking that voice. It was Sam, showing a faint glimmer of a smile. In other words, he wasn’t happy. Despite this, angels might have been sing ing at my elation at seeing him.

I didn’t have time to reply before he disappeared into the café.

Chapter Sixteen

At last, it was my day off. Tyrone Beaudrie had promised to have a list of his crews ready for me by noon. Until then, there wasn’t much I could do, except ponder the meager information I had about Ian’s disappearance and look for Lise. That, and fret about tonight’s meeting about the library.

I set off toward the retreat center, taking the long way through town so I could formulate an approach if I was unlucky enough to run into Wanda. It was a fine morning, and the breeze off the river was refreshingly cool. Rodney scampered ahead as I wandered down the hill and into town.

Walking was a good time to think, and I had a lot to think about. The distance between Sam and me continued to eat at me. He wouldn’t answer my texts, and last night he wouldn’t even make eye contact. I could show up at his house and demand an explanation for why he so suddenly lost interest, but I knew the answer. Once I’d opened up about being a witch, he wanted no part of me. This realization stung. If he wasn’t a big enough man to talk to me about it, I needed to let him go. Yet I couldn’t.

Babe Hamilton—Aunt Beata—also haunted my thoughts. As if reading my mind, Rodney stopped nosing a Douglas fir and examined me. My great aunt, here in Wilfred. Here and deliberately hampering my magic. How had she found me? Buffy and Thor said she hadn’t shown up at the This-N-That yesterday. I felt strong in my power again but feared she was planning another assault.

Then there was this mysterious meeting tonight about library “issues.” Why hadn’t Wanda talked to me before going public? Her growing friendship with Ruth Littlewood concerned me, too. Ruth was a formidable opponent. If they both took a position I didn’t like, such as banning Rodney from the library, I’d face a tough battle. Libraries should be supportive, nurturing spaces, not hotbeds of controversy. As this thought passed through my mind, I saw another poster outside the P.O. Grocery advertising tonight’s meeting.

My wandering led me to the lot behind the church cemetery, where Lyndon and Roz’s house was being built. Just last spring, the lot was a stretch of mud with a dilapidated outhouse covered in blackberry vines— and hosting human bones. All evidence of crime was now replaced with a fresh foundation and the exterior shell of a bungalow-style house. Duke and Desmond were setting a window at the house’s rear.

“Hello, Josie,” Lyndon said. He was kneeling next to a potted tree peony. “Looking good, hey?”

“You’ll have everything closed up well before the rain starts,” I said. “Have you seen Lise Bloom, the woman staying at the retreat center?”

“Nope,” Lyndon said.

Roz leaned out the window opening nearby. “Look,” she said. “My office.”

Rodney jumped to the window ledge. I leaned near him to peer inside at framed-in walls and a concrete floor. It was easy to imagine Roz’s desk against the window and bookshelves along the walls.

“Lyndon is planting a peony tree so I have something to inspire me while I write.” She cast a dreamy glance toward him. Her gaze drifted to Rodney, and her expression snapped to seriousness. “Have you seen the notices around town? About the library meeting?”

“I ran into Wanda last night. I’m not worried about it,” I said with more conviction than I felt.

“I wouldn’t be so cavalier.” Roz crossed her arms and leaned on a wall stud. “I heard her at the café last night. People are listening to her.”

“Do you know what she’s so worked up about?”