Page 32 of Witch and Tell

“Why not? It seemed like a good afternoon for a walk.”

I raised an eyebrow at his defensive tone. “Obviously, I agree.” Tyrone had said that he and Cliff went “way back.” Did that include way back to Baltimore?

Cliff looked to the right and left. “Nice day.”

Not much I could say to that. “How do you like Wilfred?”

“It’s all right, I guess.” He stepped forward. “I heard you and Tyrone were talking at the tavern.”

Cliff may have warned me off Tyrone, but that didn’t mean I had to follow his every command. Besides, I barely knew the man. I braced myself. “That’s right. You told me to stay away from him.”

“I warned you. Don’t believe anything he says.” Cliff turned to leave.

“Just a moment, please. What, specifically, has Tyrone done that makes him so dangerous?”

Cliff opened his mouth, then closed it and nodded. “I’ve already said too much. I’ll be moving on.”

“One more thing,” I said, before he’d taken more than a few steps. “Are you from Baltimore?”

“Am I what?”

“Baltimore.” I quickly searched for the right way to say it. “I know someone in Wilfred originally from Baltimore, and he thought he recognized an old friend in the crew at the Empress.” Only a slight fib.

He looked at me with curiosity. “What’s your friend’s name?”

“Ian Penclosa,” I said.

Cliff’s expression cleared. “Never heard of him.”

“It’s probably nothing,” I said. “So many new people in town.” New subject. “Are you local?” I knew the answer, but it seemed the polite thing to ask.

He seemed to accept my explanation and let it go. “No. I’m camping in my van. I like the lifestyle.” He smiled that vulnerable smile again. “In the construction business, framers are known as hard workers and hard partiers. I can’t say they’re wrong. I like to travel, see nice places like this.” He took in the landscape— the fir trees, rich smell of pine needles and loam, the Delft blue sky. A song sparrow trilled in the background.

Once again, he turned to leave. We continued on our ways—me to the library, and Cliff, presumably, toward the retreat center and millpond.

I couldn’t say I was getting closer to answers about Ian, but at least I’d eliminated Lise as a suspect. I also received a doubled-down warning against Tyrone. That is, if I could believe either one of them.

* * *

I was used to Lalena coming to the library for regular baths in the old mansion’s mammoth clawfoot tub, but it was rare for me to visit her at home. Tonight she’d invited me to dinner. Both of us were in love with men who were MIA, and both of us felt it deeply. I suspected tonight might end up as a meeting of the Lonely Hearts Club. I wished I had more hope to offer her about Ian, but at least I could proffer one bit of news.

It was early evening when I made my way to the Magnolia Rolling Estates. I kept an eye on Babe Hamilton’s trailer, just behind Lalena’s. The curtains were drawn, and her car was gone. My magic still felt free and full, and books talked to me from the homes I passed—from a farming magazine in one home, hens clucking and a droned list of planting dates; from another home, a historical romance’s orchestral waltz.

Through Lalena’s screen door, I waved the bottle of pinot gris I’d brought.

Lalena, wearing a vintage chemise likely from Babe’s stall at the This-N-That, answered the door. Her chemise would be perfectly safe since Babe—or should I call her Beata?—hadn’t charmed it.

“We’d better not drink all of that,” she said, “not if you’re going to the meeting at the retreat center tonight.”

With that, Rodney let out a mournful meow. I sighed. “Maybe I should have brought two bottles. You’re coming, too, aren’t you?”

“I can’t. I have a communication at seven with Maggie Foster’s grandmother. Maggie can’t find her photo album anywhere and thinks her nana knows where it is.”

Nana Foster had passed away last winter. She’d been known for her prowess at scrapbooking and likely had squirreled away a dozen albums.

“What’s for dinner?” I asked. I didn’t smell anything cooking, and the kitchen counters were bare.

“Hors d’oeuvres.” Lalena opened the refrigerator. “Bean dip, pickle-flavored potato chips, crackers, cheese puffs, hickory smoked almonds, and malted milk balls.” She turned to me. “Is that okay? It’s too hot to cook.”