Page 59 of Witch and Tell

“No time to chat now!” Lalena grabbed my arm. “Come on, Mom. You’ll love what they’re doing to our old movie theater.” I waved to Patty, who had changed course to return to the café to spread the news.

“You’re going to have to have a good story after this for why the wedding isn’t coming off,” I said under my breath.

“Who said it isn’t?” Lalena said. Ian remained silent, but he smiled.

At the Empress, two workers were on scaffolding, prying up strips of siding. I glanced at Ian, who paused on the sidewalk to examine the men. He gave me a subtle shake of the head.

Orson ambled over, a mug of coffee in hand. “Nice, eh?” He winked at me and stuck out his free hand. “Don’t believe I’ve met you. I’m Orson, owner of the soon-to-be Empress Brewpub.”

I didn’t want to speak, and it turned out I didn’t have to. Lalena was enjoying herself. “This is Ian’s mom, Escalade. We’ve told her so much about the Empress. Could we go inside and have a peek? Ian wants to talk to you about books for the brewpub, too.”

Orson’s eyes were glued on me. “I’d love to show you and the little lady around, but it’s a work site. Dangerous.”

If only he knew how dangerous it might be. I forced what I hoped was a smile of appeal.

“Please?” Lalena asked. “I’m sure you have extra hard hats.”

Ian finally spoke. “Mom loves a good construction site.”

Orson relented, giving us hard hats from a stack near the door and pointing out the ramp Ian could use where wheelbarrows of construction materials went in and out. He looked at his phone. “I have to take this call. Ian, we can talk books later. See you soon, I hope, Escalade.”

Inside, the Empress was cooler and smelled of sawdust and damp plaster. I’d been here over the spring, before Orson conceived his plan of converting the theater. Then it had been a time capsule of the 1970s, complete with moldy movie posters and rotting popcorn still in the snack bar. Today the theater was busy with workers. The ticket booth still stood, but the grand light fixtures were shrouded and walls open to the studs. The carpets had been ripped out, and a stack of lumber occupied much of the lobby.

Again, I glanced at Ian. He surveyed the half dozen workers toting materials here and there, and again he shook his head.

We advanced to the theater’s heart, the former viewing room. Here I knew most of the work would be taking place. The seats would need ripped out, for one, and the floor leveled. Orson had told us the brewing equipment would be on the stage, and the seating area would become a dining room and bar.

The viewing room hummed with activity. A stack of Sheetrock was being wheeled in with a forklift, and a framing crew worked on one side of the room. Ian was challenged to wheel his chair around the chaos. All told, perhaps a dozen people wielded saws and nail guns, or moved materials. Ian scanned them but showed no sign of recognition.

It was a bust. With no connection to Ian’s old world, I had nothing to go on. No potential murderer, which left me as the prime suspect. How long would it be before someone recognized me? I couldn’t hide out forever.

“Let’s go,” I said. Before I turned for the door, I halted. There, stacked on piping, was a bundle of zip ties exactly like the one Sam said had killed Tyrone.

My head ached. Maybe I should turn myself in now. Maybe it would make my sentence lighter. Did I have any hope of getting out of this?

Outside, the sun felt doubly strong. Someone would recognize me. I stood out too much not to draw attention in a small town like Wilfred.

Ian’s chair rolled to a stop. “Over there,” he said under his breath. His face had gone white. “You told me he was dead.”

Cliff Montgomery emerged from a dusty panel van in the vacant lot next to the Empress. He tugged from a can of Red Bull and squinted against the sun.

“The framer?” I asked.

“That’s him. That’s Byron.”

Chapter Thirty-two

Back at Ian’s trailer, I ripped the sunglasses from my face. “Get your laptop,” I told him.

It had been torture to pretend to stroll nonchalantly back to the Magnolia Rolling Estates when all I’d wanted to do was race to a computer and log into the library’s periodicals database to search Byron’s name. Both he and Tyrone had come to Wilfred for a reason. Either they’d sought Wilfred specifically or, more likely, were on the run from somewhere else.

“He’s here,” Ian said, unable to hide sheer panic. “I should have never come back. We need to leave. Lalena, you’re not safe, either.”

“The sooner he’s in jail,” Lalena said, “the sooner we’re all safe. Especially Josie.”

She was a good friend. If I survived the next few days, I’d make sure the library’s bathtub was always stocked with high-end bubble bath.

“I feel like an idiot for believing Tyrone was Byron,” I said. “Obviously Tyrone was his name, or the medical examiner wouldn’t have been able to make an I.D.”