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I inhaled sharply. “What do you mean?”
“The trauma around losing her parents, the rumors and the whispers—it was just too much for her.” He pulled his hand over his mouth. “Can we change the subject?”
“Sure,” I said, feeling contrite. “Tell me more about your studio.”
July 29, Monday
I WAS exploring Whisper House, still killing time because my laptop hadn’t yet arrived. In a back hallway, I found a narrow door that I’d assumed was just a closet. But now I realized in the back of the closet was another door, which led to a room.
My heart thudded in my chest as I cast the beam of my flashlight inside. Pieces of furniture sat around the space, and worktables crowded with hand tools. The scents of sawdust and linseed oil tickled my nose. I found a light and illuminated a workshop. The pieces of wood furniture were in different phases of being refinished—some were in need of repair, some were stripped to bare wood, some were half-stained. I ran my hand over a wonderful rocking chair, a child’s cradle, a beautiful side table, all waiting to be restored.
On one of the worktables someone had carved the initials RW, as if to test the sharpness of a chisel that lay nearby.
I realized this was Rose’s workshop. I circled the room, picking up tools and examining cans of wood stain, but I was inexplicably drawn back to the wobbly rocking chair. And just like that, I decided to pick up where Rose had left off.
July 30, Tuesday
AFTER I dropped off the extra eggs at the grocery, I rode my bike to the hardware store to buy the supplies I needed (according to YouTube) to refinish the rocking chair—more sandpaper, mineral spirits, wood glue.
At the hardware store I saw Wayne Blakemore and turned to go in the other direction, but he spotted me.
“Josephine! Hi.”
“Hi, Wayne.”
“There’s been a terrific response to your booksigning. Thirty-two RSVPs and it’s only been up for a couple of days.”
“That’s great news, Wayne, truly.”
“Stop by the bookstore when you can, and I’ll show you the event space. My staff would love to meet you.”
“Yes, I’ll stop by soon. Thanks again.” I turned to go, but he reached out to touch my arm.
“I don’t suppose you’ve had a chance to read my manuscript?”
I broke out in an instant flop sweat. “No,” I said truthfully. I couldn’t bear to tell him that Satan had devoured the manuscript before I’d had a chance to get past page ten. “But I’m sure it’s… very tasty.”
He squinted. “Hm?”
“Juicy,” I amended. “A juicy story.”
His eyes shone. “I hope so. Are you making progress on your manuscript?”
I wasn’t, and my new laptop still hadn’t arrived. “Yes… the pages are piling up.”
In my head.
July 31, Wednesday
I WAS on my way to lock the gate when I heard voices coming from the graveyard. I’d learned to hang back and observe, so I approached as silently as I could, without using my flashlight. Curiously, when I got there, no cars were parked along the road or outside the gate.
By this time, darkness had descended, and the muggy night air was oppressive. Inside the cemetery among the gravestones, a woman dressed in a hooded robe was speaking to a group of about two dozen people who also wore robes. The sinister sight set my hair on end, but I kept telling myself they were simply costumes.
And I was more fascinated than I was frightened.
The leader extended a welcome to new members of the group and explained for the newcomers that Lughnasadh was a traditional Wiccan ritual to celebrate the first harvest of the year, and the ceremony would commence soon.
“But first,” she said, “we need to address an important matter—the selection of a new Grand Witch to replace and avenge the murder of our former leader, Rose Whisper.”
